My first pregnancy coincided, almost perfectly, with my last year of graduate school. Cate was due on May 22 and I was scheduled to deliver the final defense of my doctoral dissertation on May 11. Having heard repeatedly that “first babies are never early” I thought this timeline perfectly appropriate. Wouldn’t it be nice, I thought, to have the entire dissertation wrapped up a full week before the baby’s arrival?
I had a grant that year, which allowed me to devote my time entirely to the dissertation and ensured that I would not be distracted by preparing lectures, holding office hours or grading papers. In short, it allowed me to watch a fair amount of daytime television.
My working model, although not one I would recommend to others trying to finish their dissertations under the looming deadline of childbirth, was to spend several days procrastinating and watching mindless television and then work frantically for two days until I could no longer stand thinking about “the narrative strategies of foreign entrepreneurs in Poland.” (Not the most productive work cycle but, hey, I graduated).
During my procrastinate-and-then-work-like-a-maniac cycle, I became fascinated by TLC’s hit show “Bringing Home Baby.” BHB, for those of you who haven’t seen it, follows new parents in the first 48 hours after the birth of their child. The first 25 minutes of each 30-minute episode are devoted to everything that can, and does, cause their vision of newborn bliss to go slightly askew. Inconsolable babies. Feeding issues. Maladjusted pets. Failure to install the carseat correctly. No batteries for the bouncy seat.
I found this incompetence reassuring. Comforting, in fact. I had no qualms about childbirth itself. I planned to ask for an epidural the moment I was admitted to the hospital and, really, there was nothing I could do to stop, slow or alter the process. One way or another, this baby would be born.
I was terrified, however, of actually leaving the hospital with the baby. I was terrified of the moment when the nurse would enter our hospital room and say, “You’re free to leave. Good luck figuring out what to do with this baby for the rest of your life.” I could hardly imagine how we would get through the first 18 hours, let alone 18 years, with a tiny little person who was utterly dependent on us for, well, everything.
In the final five minutes of each BHB episode the camera crew returns, six months later, to “check-in” on the new family. These scenes invariably include chubby babies drooling and grinning happily at their adoring parents while the threesome lounges in a park, picnic basket and Labrador retriever at their side.
I found these scenes of domestic bliss reassuring. Comforting, in fact. If all of these people could muddle through the first six months, then there was hope for me.
In the end (or was it really the beginning?) Cate arrived four weeks early, approximately twelve hours after I submitted the final draft of my dissertation to my advisors. We left the hospital 48 hours later with a sleeping Cate tucked into the Graco Snugride for the trip home. She slept the entire way although I could barely look at her. I was terrified that she would wake up, begin crying, and I wouldn’t be able to get her to stop.
We arrived home and gingerly set the infant seat inside her crib. Then I went into the kitchen, sat down at the kitchen table and cried, overwhelmed by the weight of being entirely responsible for another human being. I cried because it was entirely possible that we would ruin her life.
Although I vividly remember collapsing in tears at the kitchen table, I honestly can’t recall what prompted me to get up from the table, which I must have done at some point or I’d still be there.
And here I am. Four years and three babies later.
There is still a lot I don’t know. There is still a lot I have to learn. I still worry that I might do or say something that will result in my children spending years in therapy. I often second-guess things I’ve said or how I’ve handled certain situations. I have already braced myself for the moment when my incorrigible teenager screams, “You’re ruining my life.”
Then I look at my kids and see that they are (for the most part) lovely, imaginative, and caring little people. And so on the days that I’m filled with self-doubt I take comfort in the fact that they're probably going to turn out all right, perhaps not because of my parenting skills but in spite of them.
