The Clues: Part One

Sometimes, people say things to me like,  “I had no idea what it was going to be like to be a parent until I actually had a baby.”

Well, yeah. 

There are no parenting simulation programs (and carrying around a bag of sugar is nothing like having an actual baby, by the way. Neither is having a dog. Sorry. But did you push your dog out of your vaj? And yes, I do realize this is a good argument for getting a dog instead of having a kid.) 

A friend considering having a child recently asked me to give her a clue or two. "What's it like to be a parent?" She asked. "How can I know if I'm going to like it?" 

The truth: there’s no way to know for sure how you are (or are not) going to feel the moment you give birth. Or the moment after. Or the moment after that. (How about now? Do you feel it now? That’s because you have no idea what you’re supposed to be feeling.)

Not to sound all Smug Mummy and been-there-done-that-ish, but the feeling that comes with being a parent is one you can only get by actually being a parent. It's sort of like jumping out of a plane.  (Except that if you’re a woman, just before you jump out of the plane you have to lie down, spread your legs and start screaming until they drug you. At which point, if you said previously that you didn't want any drugs--because you had no idea it was going to hurt so eff-bombing much--they'll start reminding you about your birth plan and telling you drugs aren't what you really want. But yes they are.)

So at first, after my friend asked for clues, I thought,  no way, there are no clues. This is not a Nancy Drew novel! But then I really thought about it. And realized there are lots of clues, which means I probably should have seen it all coming ...

Welcome to my three part series! Clues About What Parenting Might Possibly Be Like. It's a service piece. You're welcome.

Clue # 1: The part where you have to pee on a stick.

The home pregnancy test-on-a-stick. The one you urinate on. And obsess over. And, possibly—at least in my case—then keep in a plastic baggie in your underwear drawer until the day you can bring yourself to throw it away. Which by the way will be never! You might see it as a foul, old, dried-pee covered stick. I see my two sticks, with their bright pink lines—now admittedly slightly yellowed by the presence of the aforementioned dried urine—as poignant reminders of two moments in which my life changed forever. Moments when I became aware, for the first time, of the existence of people I had never needed in order to live my life before, but, from the second I knew of them, suddenly needed more than anything. (I feel the need to apologize here. I’ve read a lot of articles and blogs and books about the ambivalence of motherhood, and I’m not judging: I get that some people don’t feel that desperate, all-consuming love right away. Or ever. The fact that I did and do feel it sometimes makes me feel guilty and apologetic. But honestly, I don’t think the Instant Mother Love I felt makes me a better mother. Sometimes I wonder if it makes me a faulty one, because it immobilizes me all too often, and has, over the years, morphed into something that feels a bit obsessive at times. Yes, I'm one of those moms.)

(And, incidentally, moments after I realized how much I needed these two small people, and felt the Instant Mother Love, I also realized I was somehow responsible for keeping them safe and happy and healthy and well-rounded and sane and … holy. feck.)

Back to the pee sticks. I carried my first one on the subway all the way downtown to my mom’s office (in my handbag; I didn’t actually carry it in my hand on the subway), to use as a prop when telling her she was going to be a Nana. (I don’t know why I thought I needed a prop. I also brought dollhouse furniture. Seriously.)

Disgusting, right? A pee stick. (And dollhouse furniture. That's just weird.) 

But there it is, the clue:  Things that you once found disgusting will become things that you love. Example: A stick that you just peed on is no longer a stick that you just peed on.

Just as, conversely, several months down the line (they say it’s nine but it’s actually closer to ten and feels like a minimum of twelve), the small person covered in the stickiest, scariest, most disgusting substance on earth—it’s called meconium; you can’t possibly know how it’s going to feel to wipe this off a baby’s bum until you have to do it so it’s best not to think about it now—is not just a small person covered in sticky, nine-month-old poo. This is your small person covered in sticky, nine-month old old poo. Your very own person,  screaming a scream that will cause a biological reaction in you that will alternately incite feelings of love and protectiveness, or push you into a pit of exhaustion so deep you'll feel forever changed. (You're not. You'll get over it, even if it is the kind of exhaustion that made Macbeth go insane.) 

Stay tuned for Clue # 2....