Authors: Alex McCord,Simon van Kempen
Little Kids, Big City: Tales from a Real House in New York City (With Lessons on Life and Love for Your Own Concrete Jungle) (14 page)
BOOK: Little Kids, Big City: Tales from a Real House in New York City (With Lessons on Life and Love for Your Own Concrete Jungle)
10.11Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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Chapter 8
Don’t Listen to the Well-Meaning Morons
The 1,001 Things We’re Doing Wrong
“You’re pregnant? When are you guys moving home and will it be Dallas, Kansas or Australia?” - A Midwestern transplant who always shuddered at the idea of anyone raising kids in the city and who has since moved to Indiana.
You might not like the city, pal, but it IS home for us. We wouldn’t dream of leaving!
“My daughter is perfect. Her table manners are excellent, she never speaks unless spoken to and we’ve always had white sofas at home since she was a child, with no staining.”
- A woman with one preteen daughter, no sons.
Your daughter sounds boring. I wouldn’t want my sons to date her.
“You’re not bringing
that
in here are you?” - A snarling host at a normally child-friendly restaurant.
that
in here are you?” - A snarling host at a normally child-friendly restaurant.
If by
that
you mean the stroller, no, I’m going to fold it up and put it in the coat check. If you mean the baby, perhaps you should work somewhere else. I know in the city particularly there are lots of people who don’t like kids and think the stroller brigade has taken over the neighborhood, but all I want is a bowl of pasta. I promise I won’t bring my breasts out.
that
you mean the stroller, no, I’m going to fold it up and put it in the coat check. If you mean the baby, perhaps you should work somewhere else. I know in the city particularly there are lots of people who don’t like kids and think the stroller brigade has taken over the neighborhood, but all I want is a bowl of pasta. I promise I won’t bring my breasts out.
“My children have to adapt to my life, not the other way around.” - A pregnant mother-to-be.
The last time I saw her, with her five-month-old, she’d cut her hair off and spent the entire evening doing everything she said she’d never do.
“I cannot believe you are outside your house with a 48-hour-old baby.” - A father of five, who I’m not sure has ever changed a diaper.
Pardon me, but where else should I be? If none of us are sleeping, why not take a walk?
“Don’t take your baby on the subway. He needs earplugs or his eardrums will burst.” - A crazy old bat on the subway with badly applied red lipstick, who carried a huge handbag, probably containing supplies for every possible contingency she could imagine.
I should have asked her whether
she
was wearing earplugs.
she
was wearing earplugs.
“Why are you outside?” - A bagel seller in Montreal, in February.
I’m hungry and the stroller is well protected under the plastic cover. Johan is warm and cozy, the others are asleep in the hotel and I’m going stir-crazy. Is that enough, or should I buy my bagel from someone else?
“Why isn’t your baby wearing a hat? Where is his hat?” - A heavyset Russian woman sitting next to us on a flight to London, when the temperature inside the aircraft was stiflingly hot.
If we were in Russia, I’d wear a hat, too. But we’re not. We’re on an airplane and it’s bloody hot.
“Did you know your child has a runny nose?” - A lady in line at a coffee shop.
Wow, I had no idea. I have one, too. Thanks for being too polite to point that out.
“Excuse me, your baby is crying.” - Someone said to Simon as they peered into the stroller to try and determine the cause of said noise.
You don’t say! Do you think, you stupid idiot, that I don’t hear that? Do you think I think it’s just loud music? Do you think I don’t want him to stop and that I like it???
“Take your baby out of the car seat! Put his chest on your skin! Skin to skin contact is best!” - A benevolent grandma to Simon on a bitterly cold day on the subway.
That may well be, but it’s impractical on the subway, particularly when both Simon and François were wearing coats and getting off at the next stop.
“Babies can’t ride camels.” - A skeptical Sherpa in the desert.
OK, I’ll go along with that one. We tried and François was not amused.
“You flew with your baby at 13 days old? What kind of a parent are you?” - A newlywed who said in the same breath that she was waiting to be told by her husband when the time was right to start a family.
One who travels and takes my baby with me.
“Your child probably has ADHD—you should get him tested.” - A generally mouthy woman with no boys.
For God’s sake, lady, just because a five-year-old doesn’t look you in the eye, hold still and shake your hand doesn’t mean he needs medication. He’s five. Get a grip.
Alex
In my opinion, child-rearing is something you figure out as you go along, and it’s really subjective and instinctual. As long as the kids are safe, what goes on is really up to the parents. Everyone has different levels of tolerance for children and the noises, messes and situations they bring, and I remind myself of this often, particularly when my own head whips around at the sound of a wailing baby. Sometimes I feel like I should offer to help, other times ignore it or occasionally think about sending the afflicted parents over a round of drinks. It’s exacerbated in the city because we’re all in such close contact with one another. In a suburban area you can retreat to the inside of your house or car and not have much interaction with anyone. In the city you are forced to deal with people just to go about your daily business, and when you walk to the supermarket, get on the bus or the subway or try to hail a cab, people will see you and your children. Not only will they see whatever heaven or hell you might be enduring at the moment, they will be close enough to offer running commentary, and in New York particularly no one is afraid to tell you what they think you’re doing wrong. There are so many neurotic, short-tempered people in this city, and often they came from somewhere else and have dreamy, bucolic memories of growing up playing in fields, far removed from places where children are tempted to lick the credit card machines in the back of taxis.
The thing is, everyone—and I mean everyone—will offer an opinion about what they think you should be doing better as a parent. This is especially unhelpful when offered by someone without youngsters in tow. If they don’t have a two-year-old boy right now, chances are they don’t know or don’t remember what it’s like to tell one why he can’t jump onto the subway tracks while you soothe the six-week-old strapped to your chest. When I hear people make comments about my parenting skills or my boys, I first take a look at who is talking. If it’s someone with a couple of young children, I will listen more readily than if it’s a childless woman or someone with an older only child. At one point, we lived in a nine-unit co-op apartment building, and there were two newborn babies in the building, one of whom was François. People in the building liked to gossip about us even before the birth, as they thought we weren’t team players. They didn’t like it that we insisted on getting city permits for building work instead of hiring Lefty the unlicensed handyman who looked like he’d just walked off the set of
The Sopranos
, didn’t like the way we did our 2002 renovation, didn’t like anything about us, really. I was amazed, however, to go up the stairs one night and overhear a group of the women discussing my parenting! They felt I was too strong and stringent with sleep training, which made me laugh because if anything, we were constantly getting up each night for a while. I overheard one say, “I’m not saying she’s not a good parent… but,” and at that point I had to laugh at myself for eavesdropping, turned around and continued up the stairs. None of those women had ever had a baby, whether it was by choice, they weren’t ready yet or weren’t able to. To them, any cry whatsoever probably signified World War III. I decided to let the jackals cackle and go on about my business.
The Sopranos
, didn’t like the way we did our 2002 renovation, didn’t like anything about us, really. I was amazed, however, to go up the stairs one night and overhear a group of the women discussing my parenting! They felt I was too strong and stringent with sleep training, which made me laugh because if anything, we were constantly getting up each night for a while. I overheard one say, “I’m not saying she’s not a good parent… but,” and at that point I had to laugh at myself for eavesdropping, turned around and continued up the stairs. None of those women had ever had a baby, whether it was by choice, they weren’t ready yet or weren’t able to. To them, any cry whatsoever probably signified World War III. I decided to let the jackals cackle and go on about my business.
Anytime I want to slap an annoying parent I remind myself that they are in the same boat as me—they are trying to do the best they can for their children, and are often worn out, feel they aren’t putting in a full day either at work or at home and feel overwhelmed. Guess who the easiest target might be to vent frustration? Other parents, of course. How many times have we been on the playground and witnessed a mother, father or caregiver snipe at another, often for little reason at all. Recently I heard a mother at the playground threaten her son with skipping a birthday party if he didn’t share a plastic car. A nearby nanny smirked, “Good luck sticking to that, honey.” I have to admit, I agreed with the nanny on that one. One of my biggest challenges is to set consequences that are major enough but easily enforceable. My other challenge is to not jump on that same judgmental soapbox. Last year I went with a friend and all our children (four in total) to work on a Father’s Day project for our husbands. There was a mom at another table who wore all black and told her hyperactive daughter that they had to have a family meeting to decide what to do next. The type of woman who might ask her daughter to “process her feelings” about which color to choose. The type of woman who wanted make a big huge hairy deal about
including
her daughter in the decision-making process and “negotiating” the next best step for the family to take in the pottery shop. Pardon me while I shoot myself. Judgy Wudgy was a bear. Judgy Wudgy did not care. But seriously, around so many breakables and so much permanent paint my instinct was to do whatever was in my power to keep our four kids at the table and not demolishing things we’d have to pay for or painting their neighbors. I didn’t feel the need to call a meeting about it.
including
her daughter in the decision-making process and “negotiating” the next best step for the family to take in the pottery shop. Pardon me while I shoot myself. Judgy Wudgy was a bear. Judgy Wudgy did not care. But seriously, around so many breakables and so much permanent paint my instinct was to do whatever was in my power to keep our four kids at the table and not demolishing things we’d have to pay for or painting their neighbors. I didn’t feel the need to call a meeting about it.
Releasing frustration can happen in person or online. There are many websites out in cyberspace that cater to new parents, some of which are interactive discussion boards, and the dialogue can be downright scathing. One I used to surf regularly was Urban Baby. Back in 2003 when I was pregnant with François, I logged on and was amazed. After I sifted through the acronyms (DCs = Darling Children, DS and DD = Darling Son or Daughter, CIO = Cry It Out and on and on), I was shocked to see the aggression put forth. One poster asked a question about formula and mentioned in her post that she did not want to breast-feed. Several people responded that she was a horrible mother for not wanting to nurse, one even suggesting that women who did not want to nurse should have their children taken away from them. Huh? I thought people logged on to these websites for support, not to be told they’re idiots who can’t parent their children properly. Case in point, one comment: “I am a Stay at Home Dad and need advice. When did you toss the pacifier?” Response #1: “Stay at Home Dads are pathetic.” Response #2: “Six months, loser. If you stay home, why don’t you know this?” Response #3: “If you don’t know that, time to man up and get a job.” Come on, people, that’s just rude. There’s lots of discussion about crying it out, the process of leaving your child in the crib to settle themselves, usually throughout the night but sometimes during naps, too. Ferberizing is another term, named for a Dr. Ferber who wrote a book about it. Anyone who posts on a message board who is in favor of CIO thinks the opposition is too airy-fairy and permissive. Those against CIO think the others are abusive parents. We stopped somewhere in the middle and realize that it’s a highly personal decision—we wouldn’t condemn a mom or dad for leaping out of bed at every peep during the night, or from walking away at 8 p.m. and not coming back until 6 a.m. regardless of the screams. If they want to hit either sleep training extreme, fine—it’s not hurting me and I feel no need to suggest in an online forum they’re either killing themselves and their relationship or somehow harming their child.
Three Boys Sleeping
Simon
These forums most seem to satisfy the insecure mom (IM) or occasionally dear husband (DH), who gladly attack the original poster (OP) as a way to make them feel better about their own deficiencies and insecurities as parents. I am amazed at the number of seemingly intelligent moms who populate these sites and the vitriol that they happily unleash on fellow moms. They say that hell has no fury like a woman scorned, whereas for the 21st century surely hell no longer hath fury, as it’s all been hurled at the belittled and scorned Internet mom.
Alex
Ultimately, I think we all have to realize that there is no one right way to parent children. Not only that, styles of parenting that work can change from sibling to sibling. Johan will take a nap if he’s led to a quiet place and told he needs one. He will only put on the shirt you want him to in the morning when bribed with bagels. François, on the other hand, doesn’t ever, ever want to sleep, but will happily try on not only his shirts but anyone else’s as well. While Johan is a pickier eater than François, he will busily clean up his toys in order to make room for a new project. François usually needs to be shocked with a cattle prod (or at least the threat of a time-out) in order to straighten up the minefields he creates in his room. Oh, and guess what else? Sometimes the kids flip-flop—one night François simply kissed us good night and nodded off, while Johan screamed, cried and insisted on his door being open and the hallway light left on. Inconsistency, thy name is child.
BOOK: Little Kids, Big City: Tales from a Real House in New York City (With Lessons on Life and Love for Your Own Concrete Jungle)
10.11Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
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