As a new parent of a new (well, four and half month old) baby, it's surprising the number of topics I suddenly feel qualified to comment on. Pregnancy, for example. I've done it exactly once, but I was paying attention most of the time. Ditto for vaginal childbirth, and the various degrees of sleep deprivation that follow. I wouldn't say that I'm an expert on these things in general, or that I could speak for every woman's experience. But I do know myself, and I know my baby.
Back when I was a research scientist, I was an expert on a very, very narrow body of knowledge. So narrow, in fact, that maybe only a few dozen people in the world had any substantial interest in my findings for their own sake. That's how it is in science, and people still publish papers and discuss their findings and manage to hobnob with the other aficionados.
When it comes to parenting, yes I'm the expert on my little kid. But the discoveries I make about him probably don't apply to anyone else at all.
Take, for example, this marvelous little high-pitched cough he does. It started as a waking-up sound, but he has begun using it when awake as a "Give me attention" signal.
I get up and go to the kitchen. "Cough!"--as in, "Ahem, mama, I need you to watch me while I chew on this little toy."
I fix some lunch. "Cough! Cough!" ("You should be out here by now.")
It's cute; it's fun to talk about, but how useful is it to anyone else? This is probably the only baby in the world that makes this particular sound to mean this particular thing. It's incredible that a person this young has come up with his own signal for something. But you couldn't hope to write a research article called "A sound produced by young humans to attract parental attention".
Not only is the truth not universal, what is true for a particular kid also changes. Extremely unscientific, that. Sometime last week, around the time he started sitting, and probably getting all full of himself, the carefully-engineered nap time routine that once knocked my son cold every time suddenly ceased to be effective. I'm still looking for a new routine, but I suspect that the kid just doesn't need as much sleep as he used to. Gone are the days of multiple two-hour naps. I should have enjoyed them more.
When you're a scientist, being an expert on something confers prestige. Now, it brings a different kind of satisfaction. When I know how to respond to my son's needs, when it seems that we are actually understanding one another--even if he's in pain and there's nothing I can do--that's more real to me than a paper in Nature.
A mother navigates by intuition and the expertise born of long hours of patient study. What we do is certainly not a science. But it is an Art.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Holding a Baby's Joy--and a Baby's Pain
Sometimes living a simple life is as simple as watching what a child needs.
Yesterday we stood in a long line on the linoleum of a midcentury post office watching the lone clerk. Four o'clock in the afternoon is a trying time for babies and adults. My little guy, on the verge of fussing, kept himself busy by smiling at whomever would meet his eyes. When the adults looked at me questioningly, I encouraged them to engage with the baby. Keeping everyone a little happier, I thought.
There was another baby there, also five months old, crying like a little animal. This is the sound that grates on your heart. He needed to be held, clear as words. His papa looked into the stroller and told him he was OK. The baby opined otherwise. When was finally picked up, he quieted and looked around with satisfied little eyes. He had all he needed. But then, it was time to go, and back to the stroller. The man said, "You don't have a choice, buddy. You don't have a choice," over and over to his son as the little boy cried across the glossy lobby and out the door.
I smelled the hair of the little boy riding on my chest. Mumbled the Jizo mantra to his scalp. How difficult to be a baby, to suffer and cry so much, even in the best of situations.
OM KA KA KABI SAN MA E SOWA KA
I wanted to lecture that man: You DO have a choice to hold your baby, I wanted to say. My goodness, all babies are cranky at 4pm. But it's OK to baby a baby! Hold your son now, while he'll still let you. You have years to guide him into the man you imagine you want him to be.You can't possibly spoil him now.
But they went on their way, and I still don't know what, if anything I should have done. A new father, with a new son. Perhaps caught up in some idea of toughness and competence. Perhaps not: my assumptions spilled forth as fast as my unwanted advice. I can only take this scene for what it teaches me about myself: the crying, the compassion, the fierce defense of babyness.
Today, with a newfound tenderness for my wiggling little boy, I take us up the stone steps, up up to Portland's Japanese Garden. The baby cranes his neck to see the koi, who glide through patches of bright and dark water--golden, and painted. Clouds of bugs are busy above. The air sings with water rushing and trickling; and the sound of rake on gravel.
Over our heads, a squirrel works a hundred-foot fir tree. Cones plummet down, one every few seconds. We watch from a safe distance.
In this place, it is easy to feel what the baby needs. The baby needs to look at the waterfall and to observe the gardeners raking the gravel. When he is finished he looks up into your face.
What do I know now? We as parents will somehow guide these little creatures into the full light of their humanity. In due time, they show us how to lead them, if we'll listen. At five years, you can teach restraint, proper behavior, manners. But at five months, it's simple: hold your baby.
Yesterday we stood in a long line on the linoleum of a midcentury post office watching the lone clerk. Four o'clock in the afternoon is a trying time for babies and adults. My little guy, on the verge of fussing, kept himself busy by smiling at whomever would meet his eyes. When the adults looked at me questioningly, I encouraged them to engage with the baby. Keeping everyone a little happier, I thought.
There was another baby there, also five months old, crying like a little animal. This is the sound that grates on your heart. He needed to be held, clear as words. His papa looked into the stroller and told him he was OK. The baby opined otherwise. When was finally picked up, he quieted and looked around with satisfied little eyes. He had all he needed. But then, it was time to go, and back to the stroller. The man said, "You don't have a choice, buddy. You don't have a choice," over and over to his son as the little boy cried across the glossy lobby and out the door.
I smelled the hair of the little boy riding on my chest. Mumbled the Jizo mantra to his scalp. How difficult to be a baby, to suffer and cry so much, even in the best of situations.
OM KA KA KABI SAN MA E SOWA KA
I wanted to lecture that man: You DO have a choice to hold your baby, I wanted to say. My goodness, all babies are cranky at 4pm. But it's OK to baby a baby! Hold your son now, while he'll still let you. You have years to guide him into the man you imagine you want him to be.You can't possibly spoil him now.
But they went on their way, and I still don't know what, if anything I should have done. A new father, with a new son. Perhaps caught up in some idea of toughness and competence. Perhaps not: my assumptions spilled forth as fast as my unwanted advice. I can only take this scene for what it teaches me about myself: the crying, the compassion, the fierce defense of babyness.
Today, with a newfound tenderness for my wiggling little boy, I take us up the stone steps, up up to Portland's Japanese Garden. The baby cranes his neck to see the koi, who glide through patches of bright and dark water--golden, and painted. Clouds of bugs are busy above. The air sings with water rushing and trickling; and the sound of rake on gravel.
Over our heads, a squirrel works a hundred-foot fir tree. Cones plummet down, one every few seconds. We watch from a safe distance.
In this place, it is easy to feel what the baby needs. The baby needs to look at the waterfall and to observe the gardeners raking the gravel. When he is finished he looks up into your face.
What do I know now? We as parents will somehow guide these little creatures into the full light of their humanity. In due time, they show us how to lead them, if we'll listen. At five years, you can teach restraint, proper behavior, manners. But at five months, it's simple: hold your baby.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Introduction
I came to parenthood by way of Zen practice, temple residency, a stint as a teacher, and a sudden and wonderful meeting with an old friend who soon became my husband. The two of us came together for many reasons, some explicitly known, some dimly felt.
One of the ideas that we shared, practiced and aspired to was the notion of "nothing extra." Deeper even than belief, we felt--we knew somewhere deep down, that a life lived simply with a minimum of "stuff," was best. We felt that a quiet life, focusing on the essentials, is best. We had both lived with very little, and we knew how much was Enough.
We lived together very happily for the first few months in my 300-square-foot studio apartment, sleeping on a mat we unfolded onto the floor at night. My husband took a leave from work to do some remodeling on our new flat, a fifty-year-old one-bedroom apartment in a vibrant old Portland neighborhood. When I moved in, I was in my mid-thirties, pregnant, and the owner of my first "real" bed!
Becoming a parent has very tangibly been part of the spiritual journey. I am opening this blog as a forum to share ideas, to mull over the practical and the abstract aspects of this vast new territory, and to inspire others in their own parenting.
This is not a exhortative blog, but it is an effort to explore "nothing extra." You won't catch me boasting about how I can raise my son with nothing but a piece of string and paperclip. (At least I certainly hope not. That would be irritating to read, and choke hazard to boot!) If my choices are not your choices, all can still be well in the world. But I hope to point out the choices we are making, whether we recognize them or not.
Some food for thought, then, to share in the comment section, or just ponder on your own. Can your parenting philosophy be summed up in a few words? What are your deepest hopes for your child(ren)? What does it mean to be a parent in this world of ours? I'll be working on my own responses to these questions, and more, as this work unfolds.
One of the ideas that we shared, practiced and aspired to was the notion of "nothing extra." Deeper even than belief, we felt--we knew somewhere deep down, that a life lived simply with a minimum of "stuff," was best. We felt that a quiet life, focusing on the essentials, is best. We had both lived with very little, and we knew how much was Enough.
We lived together very happily for the first few months in my 300-square-foot studio apartment, sleeping on a mat we unfolded onto the floor at night. My husband took a leave from work to do some remodeling on our new flat, a fifty-year-old one-bedroom apartment in a vibrant old Portland neighborhood. When I moved in, I was in my mid-thirties, pregnant, and the owner of my first "real" bed!
Becoming a parent has very tangibly been part of the spiritual journey. I am opening this blog as a forum to share ideas, to mull over the practical and the abstract aspects of this vast new territory, and to inspire others in their own parenting.
This is not a exhortative blog, but it is an effort to explore "nothing extra." You won't catch me boasting about how I can raise my son with nothing but a piece of string and paperclip. (At least I certainly hope not. That would be irritating to read, and choke hazard to boot!) If my choices are not your choices, all can still be well in the world. But I hope to point out the choices we are making, whether we recognize them or not.
Some food for thought, then, to share in the comment section, or just ponder on your own. Can your parenting philosophy be summed up in a few words? What are your deepest hopes for your child(ren)? What does it mean to be a parent in this world of ours? I'll be working on my own responses to these questions, and more, as this work unfolds.
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