The Problem With Baby Showers

I don't like baby showers.

Maybe it's the pastel colors that put me in a bad mood, or the fact that I actually have to talk to people (small talk makes me feel stabby). Yet this past Sunday afternoon found me hanging out around the punch bowl while women shared stories about their episiotomies and near-death birthing experiences while the pregnant guest of honor opened a constant stream of pastel-wrapped baby paraphernalia.

How many hooded baby towels does one kid need?

Sure the tiny footed pajamas with smiling animal faces are cute. But babies grow fast and the pile of newborn clothes that mom-to-be racked up looked like Mount McKinley (excuse me... Denali). Chances are good that sweet baby might wear the $30 outfit that Aunt Bertha bought once before it is outgrown... for about forty minutes before diaper blowout lands it in the laundry.

Let's be honest. Most baby shower gifts are a waste of money.

The bottle warmers and Diaper Genies and shopping cart covers will end up being more trouble than they are worth. Baby will probably end up loving ONE of the dozens of blankets that she received, so the rest will just take up drawer space, constantly getting in the way. Heck... that tricked-out stroller and solid wood crib are liable to become nothing more than handy storage facilities for the metric ton of soft stuffed animals and noisy toys that Baby won't have time to play with... because she's too busy snuggled up happily next to mom or playing with empty boxes and cheap plastic cups.

The biggest reason I don't like baby showers is that, in spite of all the expensive gifts and sappy greeting cards, moms just don't get what they really need for life with a brand new baby.

Expectant mothers don't need wipe warmers and baby powder nearly as much as they need for the women at the punch bowl announcing their birthing war stories to just shut up. The last thing a woman staring down the barrel of labor and birth needs is to hear about fetal distress and failure to progress and emergency c-sections. The thought of how that growing human inside of her has to make his way out is scary enough without all of the gory details. Instead, she needs to hear about how knowledge is power, especially in the birthing room, that the right support team can help prevent a lot of trauma and unnecessary intervention, that yes, it's a lot of hard painful work, but that the most exhilarating feeling in the world comes at the end when that tiny person you're meeting for the first time, yet you've known forever, is draped across your chest.

Pregnant moms also don't need to be bombarded with stories of breastfeeding failures, of cracked nipples, and slow weight gain. Instead they need to be encouraged. They need to know that most women can breastfeed under almost any set of circumstances. They need to know that even though breastfeeding is a natural process, it doesn't always come naturally. Having difficulty doesn't mean you're a failure. It means you are human. But new mothers also need to know that there is help out there. They need a ready list of lactation consultants and La Leche League Leaders and mothers who've been there and are willing to lend support and encouragement, not hand them a bottle of formula or a heaping dose of criticism.

They need to know that postpartum depression is real. It doesn't mean you're a horrible mother. It means you need the loving hands of others to help you to the light that is at the end of the tunnel. The light that is sometimes hard to see when you're up to your neck in sleepless nights and colicky scream fests.

Motherhood isn't all frills and pretty packages and soft pink layettes. New mothers need hot meals delivered with no strings attached, hands to wash dishes and fold laundry, ears that will listen without judgement (or giving unwanted advice), arms to hold a fussy baby so she can just brush her teeth, someone to tell her she's doing a good job even when she feels like she isn't. They need errands run and groceries bought and floors swept while she tries to figure out her life's new rhythm. She needs to know that she is awesome, that generations of women before her made it through, that babies do eventually sleep through the night, that the dust bunnies can wait but her baby shouldn't have to.

She needs to know that there are days she will feel pulled to the end of her rope, but that's normal and it's okay. She needs to know that all mothers struggle to find their stride, that all mothers make mistakes, sometimes really, really big ones. But most things are okay in the end. What seems like a big deal today probably won't even be remembered come that baby's graduation day.

She needs these things more than she needs dozens of tiny baby-sized washcloths or heirloom-quality silver baby rattles.

She doesn't need perfectly wrapped presents. What she really needs is support. She needs pats on the back and hands extended to help.

Those just aren't gifts that are easily packaged in ribbons and bows.

Where will all of those women be when that new mom is in the trenches covered in spit-up, smelling like sweat, losing her sanity? I hope they don't run for the hills.

Me? I like to slip my phone number inside of my baby gift and honestly hope that she uses it when she needs someone. My availability is the real gift.

But it's way easier to just buy an expensive present than to be present, to be a meaningful specific in someone's life. Of course, that isn't usually discussed around the punch bowl.

Motherhood and Entitlement (or 12 Places You Can Change A Diaper Without A Changing Table)

It's not particularly surprising that I found myself at a restaurant this weekend. It was Father's Day, and what self-respecting father doesn't exploit his loving family for a good steak dinner on his one special day a year? While not nearly as busy as Mother's Day, the local restaurant scene was hoppin' with all sorts of dads and their kids of various ages, some footing the bill while others were just doing their part to wrack it up.

With so many holiday diners, it's not surprising that the line for the restaurant ladies' room grew to considerable length (as opposed to the men's room. I swear sometimes I wonder if men actually use the bathroom).

There was a mother with an infant in line for the restrooms. She was with a large party, including a mother with a toddler that seriously had to be rushed to the bathroom every 5 minutes. Both women had been waiting a while, one jiggling the baby on her hip while the other watched her toddler performing a stirring rendition of The Potty Dance, when a restaurant employee suggested to the toddler's mother that she might try the men's room which was unoccupied (since men never seem to use the bathroom). As the toddler's dance steps became more persistent, she went for it. Holding the men's room door open, the mother balancing the infant said, "I'm coming in, too. Is there a changing table in there?"

"Nope" called the toddler's mother over her shoulder as her son's footwork reached Riverdance proportions.

The young mother sighed a long sigh of exasperation as if to say, "Where's Ashton Kutcher when you need him?"

"Is there one in there?" she asked the restaurant employee, gesturing toward the occupied women's restroom.

For her part, the employee was incredibly courteous and apologetic and perhaps even empathetic to the young woman's dirty diaper plight. "No, ma'am. I'm sorry."

"Then where am I supposed to change this baby?" The woman's voice rose in pitch with each successive word, until it was almost a screech on the word "baby". She extended the baby toward the employee as if to hand it to her, like it was no longer her responsibility but the restaurant's, since they obviously didn't care about her needs.

The employee made herself busy, while the frazzled mother with the stinky child stormed back to her table to loudly complain to her relatives about the restaurant's lack of concern over her child's messy bottom (and the obvious needs of mothers and their young children).

This is where I count my blessings that my children have long been out of diapers while simultaneously shaking my head at the naivete of the angry and exasperated mother.

You see, young mother, the restaurant doesn't owe you a changing table.

If you were expecting facilities more accommodating to the needs of babies and parents, you might have looked somewhere that caters to families, not a restaurant that swathes their tables in white linen and lacks a kid's menu and free crayons. You are free to choose to patronize establishments that cater to your needs. You do not have to demand that those that cater to perhaps a different crowd meet your needs simply because you chose to be there.

Newsflash: Some restaurants (as well as other places of business) are not particularly kid-friendly. That's their right. Perhaps you should reconsider spending your dollars at those places if their lack of baby-related amenities offends you. You do not, however, have the right to demand that those establishments cater to you or your baby's needs.

Here's something else to consider: as sweet and darling and precious as your baby definitely is, they might not want her there. The restaurant, as well as the people who chose to patronize them, might be hoping that the restaurant's lack of diaper-changing amenities might persuade you to leave your often loud and disruptive infant at home. I know it's a shocker, but sometimes people prefer to dine without children screeching over the ambiance music.

Source: Kevin Phillips

Let me remind you however, it wasn't all that long ago that the baby changing tables you feel so entitled to use rarely (if ever) existed in public spaces. And yet... women still left their homes with babies and diaper bags in tow, and they met their baby's needs in spite of it.

This motherhood thing is an adapt-or-perish kind of situation, a survival-of-the-fittest mental game. You're a mother now... you gave birth to a human being through one of the messiest physical processes known to humankind (Or if you adopted, you survived the mental and emotional trauma of the whole draining process and you deserve your own kudos) and now that little helpless human is depending on you to figure things out, to meet his needs even when it isn't convenient or easy. Sometimes there just isn't going to be the support you think should be there, sometimes not from your family, or the government, or the businesses you frequent. But you know what? You still have to meet that kid's needs anyway.

As I stood there in line for the ladies' room and watched this uncomfortable exchange, I could think of a dozen places to change that baby, and none of them involved any intervention from the restaurant. Back when I was changing baby diapers (for miles in the snow, barefooted, uphill both ways), when changing stations were rare, I had to use good old-fashioned ingenuity.

In some ways, I think it made me a better mother. Maybe we're coddling moms nowadays, making them too soft. Maybe we're making things too easy for them. When they feel entitled to a changing table and storm off to grouse about it, leaving their child to sit in a soiled nappy, as they whine and complain, instead of rolling up their sleeves and just getting the deed done... it makes me wonder what kind of mothers we're producing. Are they too reliant on what others provide for them and their child instead of standing in their power as a mother, taking charge, and meeting their child's needs even in the face of adversity.

I wanted to waltz over to that mom and just show her how it's done. I wanted to take that wriggling, fussy baby and change his diaper. I wanted to tell that mother, so caught up in her shock at the inadequacy of a restaurant bathroom, to Just. Snap. Out. Of . It. Be a problem-solver. Think outside of the box of social constructs.

What did our ancestors do before celebrity crusades demanding public changing tables? Did they whine and complain? Did they get angry?

No.

You know what they did?

They changed their babies.

It wasn't easy or convenient, but when has parenthood been either one of those things?

Just in case that mother is reading, and through her frustrated tears she still isn't sure what to do with a soiled baby and a serious lack of diaper-changing convenience, here is the list of possible alternatives to the restaurant changing station (which in some cases you might not want to use anyway... how often do you think they clean those things? That's your baby's pristine bottom you're placing on that germ-ridden surface.) Here are a dozen places that you can change a baby in a pinch.

1. Your lap. If you haven't mastered the lap change, you need to start practicing. It's one of the essential skills of motherhood. It's definitely easier when they are small and less wiggly, but still doable when they are older. If the baby won't fit on your knees, try crossing your legs to resemble the number four. This one is a little easier because it keeps the baby from repeatedly kicking you in the stomach causing you to upchuck the expensive meal you just consumed. You can even do this at the dinner table if you're feeling daring, but your fellow diners would probably appreciate it if you did this one in the bathroom. The wafting aroma of a dirty diaper does not pair well with chardonnay.

2. Someone else's lap. If you can't handle the physical demands of the diaper change while controlling a squirmy baby, employ someone else's lap. This is a great job for the dad who might not be pulling his weight in the child care arena. Or you can ask you mother-in-law. She's always asking to hold the baby anyway.

3. The bathroom counter. It's really not all that different from a changing table. It just lacks a safety belt, so keep one hand on Junior at all times. It might be nice (although not entirely necessary) if you wipe up any diaper spillage from the surface before returning to your meal.

4. The toilet. But only if it has a lid. You don't want your baby going for a swim so soon after a meal. It could cause cramping. But if the toilet has a lid, just cover with a blanket or a changing pad and voila! You have a surface that gets the job done.

5. The floor. Although certainly not living up to the ultimate standards of sanitation, it is an option. If you carry a changing pad in your diaper bag, does it really matter what surface it covers? Baby is never going to touch the actual floor. You may need a few diaper wipes to clean off your knees when all is said and done. Still, Baby's butt will be fresh and clean.

6. A chair. If you want to make the restaurant reconsider their no-changing-table stance, this might be your best option. Once enough babies' fannies are flashing the entire establishment's patronage, they will be tripping over themselves to provide a more discreet option for your diaper-changing pleasure.

7. The backseat of your car. This one can be hard on your back but may offer the most privacy. It also has some handy safety features other options lack because there are fewer ways for an active baby to escape. Be sure not to leave the used diaper in the vehicle when you're finished... unless you enjoy the lingering smell of fermented excrement in your vehicle's interior.

8. The front seat of your car. In the event that the back seat is overly occupied by bulky car seats, this is a reminder that the front seat works just as well.

9. The trunk. It may sound weird, but this might be one of the better options. Baby can roll all over the place and he's not going to plummet to his death. Just don't forget him in there. The last thing you want at a random traffic stop is a body in the trunk of your car.

10. The hood of your car. In case you're in the mood for a little exhibitionism, the hood of a small economy car could double as a changing table. It's a little harder if you happen to drive a truck or an SUV (unless you're freakishly tall. In that case, carry on!). As a word of caution, wait until the engine has cooled before placing your infant on the hood. Baked infant is not usually a welcome addition to any restaurant's menu. You may also want to avoid this option if it's mid-summer in the South.

11. The table. If you're having difficulty finding a sufficiently flat surface for that necessary diaper change, there's always your table. Scoot aside the cutlery and the crystal ware, place the beef bourguignon and fois gras out of your little princess's reach, and have at it. You can even use the table cloth in place of a wipe (I mean if you're going to cross the line you might as well barrel right on past it). Ignore the horrified gasps and gags of disgust coming from fellow diners. A mother's got to do what a mother's got to do.

12. Go diaper free. Totally fed up with your options? Just snatch off that nappy and let it all hang loose. No changing table required. Sure some people might lose their appetite at the sight of freely flapping baby genitals, but you can just call them prudes. Diapers are for the inhibited. You just have to be quick on the draw with that empty wine glass should Junior need to relieve himself during the dessert course. But it's a good test of your parenting reflexes.

Why I Can't Hold Your Baby

You came in with your newborn wrapped snug in a blanket. Of course you are proud, and happy, and drunk in love with her (Quite possibly induced by a severe lack of sleep). She's beautiful. She's precious. She's the essence of innocence and sweetness and she's pretty darned cute to boot. She's everything a newborn baby should be.

Of course you thought I would want to hold her. Who wouldn't want to hold this tiny little creature of perfection? Especially me. I must love babies, having had four of my own. I apparently exude an air of confident maternity or something. But when you attempted to pass that sweet pink bundle to me, I had to decline.

It's not because I'm afraid I'll drop her or break her or anything. I'm a professional when it comes to holding babies (I had four of my own, and they are all still physically intact. No guarantees on their emotional states). I could carry your infant two miles through a minefield in hurricane force winds one-handed, and I wouldn't drop her. I'm just that good.

It's nothing personal. She is wonderful. She even looks a little less like a wrinkly, grumpy old man than the standard issue newborns, so you should be proud that your genetics created that wriggling beauty. And I do love babies. They really are awesome... and I say that without an ounce of my usual sarcasm.

There's nothing wrong with your baby. There's something wrong with me.

I have four wonderful kids, and I've managed to survive sleepless nights, and potty-training, and stomach bugs, and teething, and four simultaneous cases of the croup. I've survived countless toddler tantrums, and broken heirlooms, and toppled Christmas trees. I've survived trips to the emergency room, birds & bees discussions, and sibling fist fights. They've screamed. They've stomped. They've slammed doors.

I've made it through most of the really hard stuff. My youngest is eleven. She's been sleeping through the night for quite some time. She's potty-trained. She's on her way to self-sufficiency. She even managed to fix her own pancakes for breakfast this morning sans help from her mom.

I really don't want any more kids.

Most days I'm trying to keep my head above the laundry that constantly flows over the edge of the hamper and across the laundry room floor (which I think is brown, but I haven't seen it in a while). I'm surviving teen angst and eye rolls and the questioning of authority and pre-algebra homework. I'm struggling to keep them fed and the bills paid (we aren't exactly rolling in dough over here). Right now my counter is covered with dirty dishes, my minivan has an aroma that is difficult to categorize (but seems like a sad combination of fermented apple juice, sweaty socks, and moldy french fries), and the dogs just cleaned up some soup that someone slopped all over the dining room rug... So I've pretty much got it all together.

I feel like I have a very slippery and precarious hold on my sanity. Sometimes I lose it and yell, at myself, random objects, my kids, the post lady. Sometimes I think I have no business having the four kids that I have. Because it's hard. It's really hard.

Plus I'm forty-one years old. While my body is still capable of growing and birthing and raising a baby. It's not as young as it used to be. My hair is going grey and my skin is starting to wrinkle and my knees are kind of creaky. I have no business having any more kids.

I really don't want any more kids.

I won't have any more kids.

I won't have more kids, but as my body gets older and my biological clock ticks rapidly down to zero, when Mother Nature will forever slam that door shut for me, I don't want it to be over. The thought of never having another baby placed in my arms, squalling and wet and new, of never looking into the blank page of possibilities that every newborn holds, of never meeting for the first time the tiny person that I've known forever... It's more than I can bear.

I will never again hear the first time a little one says "Mama" and know that they are calling ME. I will never again  have a child softly pat my cheek as they nurse at my breast. I will never again have chubby arms reach for me as they take their first steps.

And I want it. I want it so very badly.

Because mine are walking away from me. In tiny ways every year. They don't need me. I can't hold them anymore. I wouldn't want to hold them back, and yet I want to. I have always pushed them toward independence... encouraging their first words, their first foods, their first steps. And yet we mothers are like our own worst enemies. Even as we are pushing them from our nest, we are mourning the loss of our babies. Motherhood is so very bittersweet. I miss them, my beautiful babies with feather-soft skin and peach-fuzz hair and tiny pearl-shaped toes.

But I really don't want any more kids.

So you see, I can't hold your baby. I can't smell her fresh newborn smell or feel the way her body molds to my body or watch her little fingers furl and unfurl as they reach toward me. I can't feel her solid, grounding weight in my arms because it just might be enough. Her 7 pounds 10 ounces might just be enough to tip the precarious balance of my emotional scales. My weak and creaky knees might just crumble under her weight.

So you hold her. And hold this moment that passes so quickly. Hold her tight (But not too tightly because babies crush easily).

I won't hold her.

I can't hold her.

Because I really don't want any more kids.