My husband tried talking to me about having another baby one morning when the first one was about six months old. I was on my third cup of coffee, still staring lifelessly at the Today show, my eyes dark with exhaustion because, you know, this was my 182nd straight night of no sleep.
I blinked at him until he came into focus. He wanted me to get pregnant? Pshh. Your turn. It’s the 2000s, dude.
What kind of inequitable fool was I living with?
It actually took a few seconds to realize that oh, I’m not on the set of Junior.
Then I slunk back against the cushion and listened to my baby whine. That was his I-want-to-nurse-right-right-now whine. He looked up at me with big eyes like, “Well? Get on with it!” And I thought: wow, babies so aren’t feminists.
They don’t care how many hours you logged in the library in grad school. They couldn’t care less that you’re up for a promotion. They don’t give a damn about your self-actualization, your saggy butt, or that novel you never had a chance to finish.
They want you available 24/7, and if you could also serve some nice warm breast milk with a patient smile: that’d be great.
Wah. Hold me. Wah. Feed me. Wah. Woman, I know you aren’t going to make a phone call when I’m awake and want attention!
I’ve read the articles about “opting out,” which is a dumb way to say “take care of your own kid.” That term “opting out” implies that when you bring a tiny helpless human into the world, you have the option to do anything other than care for it. It implies that you’re not living up to your potential because you are raising your own child. It’s not like you can ignore a baby. If you or your partner aren’t doing it, you’re paying damn good money for it to be done by someone else.
There’s nothing optional about caring for a baby.
On the other hand, if you’re a woman of a certain age (and, that age could be, like, 29) and you’re used to being a professional and feeling intellectually stimulated and wearing dry-clean only clothes, catching glimpses of your tired eyes and straggly pony tail in the mirror as you change yet another poopy diaper can make you wonder: am I doing something wrong? Am I not honoring the bras that were burned by my foremothers?
Should I be trying harder professionally? But isn’t it also important for me to raise this sweet little nugget of a per—hush, honey. Mommy’s thinking. Oh sorry. Did I put your diaper on backwards? There, darling. Anyway. What was I saying?
Oh yeah. There’s never been a better time to be female (at least in the right circumstances in the West). The world is at least 77% our oyster. I grew up believing this. I spent a lot of years focusing on and building my opportunities. And I’ve been smacked in the face by how demanding a baby is! They haven’t evolved at all. They still need care 24/7 (sadly, some take that 24 part to heart). And it is still crucial for their brain, social, cognitive, etc, development for you to be there with the snuggles.
Yeah, you. Or in this case, me. I can’t help but feel there isn’t a substitution for a mommy or a daddy. A warm body isn’t going to cut it. I’m the one that manufactured, gave birth to, and wanted that child. Do I want to totally outsource the care of my kid? Doesn’t that mean I’m shirking my parental duties?
Of course, sometimes when I’m blending food or folding clothes or heating up his dinner, I think: I’m not doing anything special. Surely somebody else could do this and I could spend my time doing something a little more challenging. Or stimulating. Otherwise, what was the point of going to school?
Sigh.
So, since having one of my own, I’ve learned that babies aren’t feminists. And now I wonder: am I? Can I believe that being a stay-at-home-parent (could be dad too!) is important enough to actually do and still be a feminist? Is eschewing professional opportunity in favor of child-care somehow slack on my part?
Maybe I could come up with an answer if I wasn’t so tired….
Q: Anyone else in a mental pickle? How do you handle it?