I’ve spent the last two years immersed, for a large part, in the world of babies and the world of parenting. A world where concerns are shared, and deeply felt, by parents looking to do everything in their power right by their children. Wanting to look after them, to nourish them, to keep them healthy, safe and happy.
Parents that I know are from all around the world and all walks of life. But there are few to no barriers in communication when it comes to the root of what we care about. The expressions might be different but the desire is the same at its heart. We want to keep our children well. In the earliest days the want is nothing short of obsession for how to keep these little people alive.
Being a parent, and becoming a carer of people, has given me a lot of lessons in tolerance. Babies and children don’t act on cue according to the imagined scheduling of their parents, because they have their own wants and needs. And the tolerance learned from being a parent extends to others around, because we all have our own wants and needs. So at what point is it that people’s lives become dispensable?
It is unfathomable to me, that this world that I live in, in which I see people with the same concerns and cares all around me, is the same world in which it is somehow acceptable for war to be declared, and the large scale destruction of human life instigated. You might say that it is not acceptable, that a huge majority is up in arms, yet the fact is that it is happening and I just can’t believe that it is allowed to happen in this same world.
I’ve read the articles and I’ve taken in the notes on the history. These things don’t help me to understand why anyone could want for this to happen. And they don’t help me to accept these actions as a move, albeit regrettable, as though part of some elaborate game. Russia has been banned from some football, some olympics, are you fucking joking me? Life is not a game.
Imagine if, when we were expecting a child, that the main question people would ask was… say… are you hoping for a blonde or a brunette? Are you going to find out the hair colour in advance, they would ask, or are you going wait for it to be a surprise?!
If, for some reason, we as a society felt that this one trait was the most defining thing, there’d be tests available too of course. Science would have figured out a way to find out in utero what hair colour the baby was likely to have. And then we’d be able to start imagining our lives ahead with this little blonde or brunette in it. We could start shopping and decorating accordingly.
We would have these clearly defined notions, deeply seeded in our consciousness, of what blondes and brunettes are like. If it mattered so much, it would probably be because we had somehow gotten to a point where our society was built on these notions.
Blondes are more bubbly and social and chatty, we would know, it would just be common fact. So all of those jobs, like presenting and tour guiding and negotiating would all be owned by blondes. It would be the natural order of things. Brunettes on the other hand, as everybody knows, are more serious and quiet and intellectual. They would be our accountants, our scientists and our philosophers. The world would thus be split.
If you were expecting a blonde baby, you’d probably decorate the room with yellows and cartoons. You’d buy lots of dolls and musical instruments. For a brunette, more dulcet tones would be appropriate, an avocado green perhaps. You’d stock the shelves with books and building blocks.
For even the most woke among us it would be impossible to be without some deeply embedded preconditions. We’d have grown up seeing the world this way, seeing blondes centre stage and talking, seeing brunettes working industriously behind the scenes. It would be the reality of the world around us, so we naturally would see the future for our little ones panning out accordingly.
Clothes shops would be separated into blonde and brunette sections, and so, we’d most often go with the grain in our own shopping habits. Our friends would pass us on the clothes of their appropriately hair coloured child. To give us the other, well, it might be just a bit weird or challenging. Probably best and smoothest to stick with the norm.
When a birthday present needed to be bought, we’d think about the hair colour of the child in question, and ask amazon what the best gift for a blonde/brunette child aged 7 would be. Amazon would duly reestablish the status quo and an uncontroversial gift would be bought – easy peasy.
Out in the world, in nursery and in school, our little ones would meet this division of character by hair colour. They would be assigned to their category and learn what they are supposed to be. They’d be inducted into their clubs. Their natural will to survive and thrive would guide them into doubling down and framing their identities through reinforcing those traits that ensure their place in their team.
How many children do you have? Oh I have three – two blondes and one brunette. Though I do worry a bit about one of my blondes, bley seem to have some very quiet tendencies, you know, sort of brun-ish. It’s probably just a phase, bley adore bleir older brunther.
We would imagine the activities that our kids would be interested in. Oh a little blonde, we’d think, it will be so much fun seeing blem taking drama classes. We’ll sing together! If it’s a brunette, well, my brunband is very excited to have a pal to talk about the intricacies of trains with.
Ok, ok, this has been fun, but of course we know that the world is not split according to hair colour. When a blonde author emerges they are not told that blondes can’t be writers. And brunettes are welcomed onto the centre of all sorts of stages. In this society, this actual real one, from within which I am writing this blog post, we don’t determine so much based on hair colour. What we do is determine all this and more based on which genitalia our babies are born with.
But, you might say, there really are differences between boys and girls. You might know, you would tell me, because you see it all around you and in your own life. But how much of those differences are created through the ways that we reinforce preconceived notions, and how much is innate? According to Parenting Beyond Pink and Blue, the reading of which has been the inspiration for this post, the best analysis shows that very very little difference between the sexes is innate in children.
Picture a big fat pie. It’s bursting with delicious contents, and at the edge there is the tasty crust. All of those delicious contents include all of that great juice of life that each of us brings in our own, uniquely individual characters and personalities. Scrum-didilly-umptious! In one side of the crusts, defined by some characteristics, there is a higher portion of boys. On the other side, a higher portion of girls. That’s it. Inside the pie, where most of us live, is all the variety and range of being that each of us has.
What I find most interesting in all of this is to understand better the predicament that we find ourselves in today – those of my generation, my peers and particularly my peers that are and will be parents. The fact of the matter is that we have been brought up in a society that attributes certain things to girls and certain things to boys. We’ve been placed in separate camps from very young ages, we’ve been treated differently, and we’ve been taught different things.
Here we are and here I am. A mother of 37 years of age, in a time where we have apparent equality in many things, but at a time where women have been raised to be better at and to manage all that is entailed within emotional labour. It is part of our gender construct. This construct and the effort that it entails is an important thing to increase awareness of in the workplace. When it comes to the home, and once children are introduced, is where the matter really explodes.
Women have been raised to be aware of and look after the needs of others. Perhaps unsurprisingly, having a kid brings a whole lot of looking after work into the fray. All of the monitoring emotions, watching for cues, and planning planning planning to have the right things in the right place at the right time. It turns out we were raised for this shit. Even those of us, like me, who have often denied many of the tropes of femininity that didn’t seem to resonate. It looks like this one’s gone real deep.
Meanwhile our male counterparts have been raised with a more singular focus. Be kind and good, sure, the good ones, the ones many of us have married and had children with, for example, have been raised like that. But while being good and kind, mainly, know what you want and get it, make it happen. It can be a bit jarring, to be trying to go about your business, and to be confronted with the neediness of others. Suddenly a whole new mentality is needed.
You can’t just decide, ooh I’d like a hotdog, then make a hotdog, and eat a hotdog. Life doesn’t work that way anymore. Now you gotta think, when will they be hungry, when will they need me to get them down to sleep, and what would they like to eat. If you’re eating a hotdog at a bad time, and they obviously come looking for a bite (as of course they would), then you’re disrupting their routine. If you’re eating a hotdog and they’re begging for your attention, because they’re tired and they need you to get them off to sleep for their nap, come on dude what are you doing eating a hotdog at nap time?! I know you’re thinking, whimpering now, I just wanted to eat a hotdog in peace! Well, tough titties man, it’s time to get with the programme. The only way you’re eating that hotdog in peace is when you work around the needs of others.
The most frustrating thing of it all is that because men have not been raised to be aware of the emotional labour, like women have, that they don’t even then notice it. They hear their wife singing at bedtime, and they assume she’s doing it for her! So they don’t see the effort, and they don’t learn from her how to do to it themselves
Yes, it’s quite the predicament and it does run deep. The best thing we can do is to talk about it. Keep building our vocabulary. Highlight the effort and make sure that it is recognised. And lo, oh yes, invite others to take on some of the responsibility. Yes indeed, it’s time to get womansplaining.
This post was inspired by what I learned from Parenting Beyond Pink and Blue; how to raise your kids free of gender stereotypes by Christia Spears Brown.
Yer man said something interesting the other day. You know the chap, the pope, they call him, isn’t it. Innit, I’m getting all London n all.
Well, that fella said that people are not having enough children these days for his liking. He said this is a great shame. He said this is a sign of cultural degradation in our world, that we’re weakening, that we can only handle relationships with puppies, but not little humans. Interesting stuff!
I can’t say that I’m privy to his particular spreadsheets. I don’t know what numbers exactly he is referring to when he’s expressing this concern. I can only presume that he’s speaking about what’s happening in the Christian world, wherever that is. So what is happening in the western world that could be behind this shift in proliferation?
In 1970 Germaine Greer wrote about the impossibility of being a mother in a society of nuclear family shaped households. She had a point. At that moment in time, in the western world, we had firmly settled into a way of living that meant that families, in the sense of parents and children, would live in defined spaces separated unto ourselves. Very much, you’ll observe, the way we still live today – young families live, for the most part, and by ideal, in their own home.
In 1970, as Ms. Greer all too well highlighted, women had a lot of problems. Once married, women were absolutely and definitively expected to play a particular role. In Ireland, at that time, women who married had to leave their jobs. By law, you see. So to marry at that time, which of course implied becoming a devoted mother, was to pin women right down to their domestic role.
But not anymore, you say. “All that has surely changed now!”, my own mother not so long ago commented to me. I grant you, Mam, that a lot has changed. In the western world, women have access to every opportunity that men do. There are real problems with harassment, with bias, with violence. But there are no longer any lawful barriers, and in theory it is all there for the taking. Great stuff!
Now that that’s solved, and women can have all the jobs, just remind me again of who exactly is doing the parenting of these proposed children? Speaking as a person that spent six years and unsurmounted effort to have children, and for whom it has really meant the world to do so, it is most certainly a choice that I wouldn’t recommend for anyone to take on lightly!
But you know what, forgive me, I must have missed something. While women were being “invited” into the world of work, clearly an eye was taken on all that they were managing before. Aha, clever legislation was put in place to support the shift of that work. Surely. I mean, otherwise it would make no sense, make no sense at all.
The states in the Christian world will have thought about good support for childcare. They will have thought about good facilitation, for bright and constructive people to be able to contribute, while raising physically and mentally well families. Surely.
Who’s taking care of these children you want us to have? With what time and what means?
Gender equality in parenting is only the start of it. It’s the part that a lot of us can play a part in. From there, a lot a lot a lot of legislation needs to change.
I’m someone who longed to have children, I fought really hard to make it happen and I fucking love it. But I have days, you know. Look, I can see how hard it can be. How much it can be. When I think about doing this alone?
Not all women are born mums. To the same extent that not all men are born dads. Well, now women have some of the same stature as men do, with our current system, it’s not a great wonder to me that fewer of us would choose to have babies.
The joke is that we have one each. Two babies born at the same time, and Andrew and I raising one of them each. It’s not quite the truth, (we are a team of four). But it is true enough that certain bonds have been formed through the way things panned out in those early weeks and months. One of our daughters calls out more often for her dada, and one more often for her mama.
What’s really more interesting to me is the want that (feck it) Andrew’s daughter apparently experiences. This is something very foreign to me. It probably says a lot about me as a person, but I never experienced a great want for anything or for anyone that I can really recall. While Andrew’s girl forms attachments filled with such earnest desire, that it’s really something.
She found a bottle of vanilla essence once and my goodness did she love that bottle. She held on to it in her little tight fist from first thing that morning right through to bringing it to bed that night. She LOVED it. More recently, she has formed attachments with passing dogs, who’s owners have been kind enough to stop to let the kids admire them. “Dog-geeee” she has wailed, when the time has come to split ways, full blown tears coursing from her eyes.
I think about this a lot at the moment. How is this desire for things and animals and people going to develop as she grows, becomes a bigger kid, and a teenager. I have no idea, but I want to continue to work on how I can best help her to deal with the strength of these feelings she has. I imagine it will be a life’s work.
Our other daughter – my girl, if you like – doesn’t exhibit the same sorts of feelings. She often grabs things from her sister’s hands, seemingly mainly because her sister has been so intent on them more than out of a want of her own, and soon tosses them aside forgotten. (Oh look, the fun never stops round our house.)
Over the last three weeks we have been staying at my in-laws with the girls sleeping in a strange room, they’ve had hand foot & mouth disease, been growing canine teeth, and discovering the power of the word “no!”. Which is all just to say that they haven’t been settling as well as they usually do at night. Even my one, normally such an independent sleeper, has been insistent on some company while she drifts off.
She does ask for mama often, but when it comes to it I think I’m pretty interchangeable with dad for the purpose. It’s not quite the same for our other girl. When she is just about asleep she sometimes gets the notion that she needs to be with her dada, and I simply will not do. “Da-daaaa”, she wails, and there’s those tears again.
“Ah, she wants her mama”. People say it all the time. When baby makes strange or fusses we like to believe that they need to be with mum. It’s a damaging assumption, not just in the moment itself, where mum can’t catch a break before baby is lumped back into her arms. But also in the broader context and the standard of a state of being that this sets.
Mothers would be lead to believe that they’re completely abnormal if their baby doesn’t yearn for them. And so, they see what they want to see. They believe it to be the case, even when it might not be. Or, worse again, they make it be the case when it needn’t have been. When these societal pressures are created and reinforced so frequently, the cycle continues to perpetuate accordingly.
From what I see, not every baby yearns. Some can be quite content in themselves for the most part. Of course they need their parents, but it might not transpire as a longing for them. And those that do yearn, might be just as likely to yearn for dad as for mum.
Like many couples that I know, Andrew and I headed towards parenthood with ideas and intentions of equality fairly well assumed. We have been equal in our relationship in every way up until now. Why would anything be different?
The first major challenge, of course, that we and many others faced is parental leave. I got some, Andrew did not. And so, naturally, being with the babies all day while he was not, I learned more about how to care for them and kept up with their changing needs.
The other challenge to equality in parenting that we faced is one that each and every one of us can influence in our daily lives. It is the pervading use, instead of the word parent, or carer, of the word mum.
I have come to hate the overuse of the term so much that I sometimes forget that I actually am this thing, a mum. When someone makes a comment about being a mum, and my scorpion brain reacts expecting them to be making a statement that could just be made about parents, I sometimes have to remind myself that it is true that I am a mum. Even if I might often prefer the word parent.
It’s about more than just a word. Groups are set up, often through WhatsApp or facebook. It might be that these groups get set up for a group of women that are on maternity leave. Or it might be that these groups are set up as general support for parents. Sticking the word mum on it, as so often is what happens, has an impact.
Stick the word mum on a group, and you are telling female parents that it is their responsibility to take on the bulk of the parenting work. Stick the word mum on it and you tell dads that they are not welcome.
Parenting, while of course wonderful and gratifying and awesome, is also really hard work. Made much much harder if living with a partner who is unable, somehow, to contribute to that work.
Loads of groups are set up, beautiful, creative, well intended groups, to help with just that – to help with the hardship that comes with parenting. And here again, so often, it is “mums”. Can’t we see that this is perpetuating the problem?
A lot of shops and businesses get set up with “mums” in the name. It is because, I’ve heard some say, that is what makes up 95% of their customers – it’s the simple fact. That may well be. But if they want to expand their business to a new and broadening group of involved dads, perhaps they should think about a rebrand!
In a heterosexual relationship, dads have their female partners to lean on. “I didn’t manage to pick up that thing today” they might say, “because that shop is just for mums”. Maybe said with a lazy shrug. Maybe said with genuine embarrassment. Either way, seeing the guy go into mumsworld would be much easier if it was called parentsworld.
If you think about a family with two dads, it becomes even clearer how overuse of the word mum is not only perpetuating gender inequality in parenting, but is also creating an exclusive culture. Are gay dads only supposed to talk to other gay dads about parenting? Or are they supposed to act as honourary women to get into the women’s group? Yikes.
No one should have to declare their sexuality in the context of expressing an interest in parenting. Any parent or carer that expresses an interest should be welcomed with open arms to get involved. Wouldn’t that be made all the easier if these spaces and places were named in a more gender neutral way.
It goes further again than those groups, networks and businesses. It is in everyday usage too. “We mums”, someone said to me in a work context recently, “we tend to take on everything.” (I’ve learned to tidy up my reactions quite quickly these days, over zoom barely perceptible at all.)
It’s true that we don’t ever hear about the plight of working dads. It’s all baked into our common assumptions that they are simply not as burdened with the child care as a working mum would be. These may be assumptions that, yes, we see played out before us very often. But when we continue to speak only about that visible majority, the minority is stifled and when it’s a minority that would benefit us all to see grow, then let’s give it a little air.
There are some things that truly do only pertain to women. Bodily stuff, of course. And the reality of being in relationships in the reality of today’s world – yes, that all needs its place.
Very often people say something to me about mums, and I reply just gently replacing the word with parents instead. Shops that sell baby clothes and paraphernalia being called Mothercare – why? These are the things that I’m taking about, the instances where the word could easily be replaced by parents.
So as we head towards 2022, and wave 2021 bye bye, if you’re looking for the easiest New Years resolution ever, simply challenge yourself to stop saying “mums” if you could say “parents” instead. It’s a small thing, but it’s important. Parenting is a huge part of our world, and it’s one where gender inequality is at its most palpable. We can all change that a little bit. #takeithome
Ok in reality I see men in the playground all the time. In fact, on Saturday and Sundays, I often see so many dads in the playground with their little ones that I wonder if my work here is done – what am I even writing about this stuff for? We’ve done it!
That is until I remember alllll of the other things. All the rest of what I see around me. Women overburdened by childcare responsibilities combined with their paying jobs. Women overburdened with the running of their households. And the fact that what I see at the weekends may actually be the piece of relief that they are given, rather than the norm. It may present quite an illusory image to the outside world of the usual running of that family.
Anyway, today, all joking aside, a man came into the playground on his own. As in, all on his own. He walked confidently into the playground. I thought maybe he was taking a shortcut through, until he hopped up onto a broad sort of see-saw thing, and while facing towards my girl, commented on the weather.
I felt my brain leaping to associations. A man in the playground. At the moment he had come in, so too had a woman with a little kid, through a different gate. It was possible that they were together, I told myself. How foolish of me to become quickly fearful of this guy when he’s probably a dad with his partner and kid. How ridiculous, in the context of someone who wants to fight for gender equality in parenting, to see a man here and to jump to silly conclusions.
I looked around to clock where Andrew was. He was outside the playground, in the park with the child who likes to go for long wanders, while I was with the child who’s keen to master all of the playground equipment. Sadly, this dude did not appear to be here with that other family either.
We have a choice of playgrounds around us. A wonderful, city park one. A fantastic one in a rather affluent area, where the toddler fashion at the weekend is out of this world. Today, due to our mornings plans, we were in the small playground in the rougher park near us.
It’s a park in which I regularly see people likely dealing drugs, and the odd few people drinking on park benches. But that doesn’t matter when you’re there for the play. In the playground, while the fashion may not be to die for, the people there are just good folks caring for their kids.
I was now getting worried about this guy. Clear now that he was not with any child, bouncing stood up on the see-saw, just hanging out in the playground by himself. My little compartmentalist brain moved things into the “officially not happy about this” box. He didn’t look like he was drunk or coming up or coming down or manic or any of those things. He seemed quite calm. But whatever this guy’s deal was, hanging out as an adult alone in a playground is something that it’s ok to not be ok with.
So I bristled and started to look at this chap in a way that I felt did not mask my displeasure at his idle presence. I felt myself, again, looking to identify Andrew’s location. I started to imagine, as you do, now that I had initiated alert and protect mode, what I would do if this dude was to make one wrong move.
A first idea that I had was that I could call Andrew over swiftly. Andrew is a big man, and in an utterly superficial way, that can have a quick impact. If this guy, to hyperbolise the situation entirely, was here to prey upon a child alone with only her mother, the appearance of a great big dad would likely draw short shrift to the power that he imagined himself likely to have.
Then I thought better of that idea. I felt it in myself that that was a lazy option, made available today because Andrew happened to be here, which is not always the case. It wasn’t good enough. I may not have the superficial advantages of Andrew’s gender and size, but I am perfectly capable of getting this guy to fuck right off should I need to. I refocused in on what I would do, if this guy took one step out of turn.
It might be a controversial opinion. It’s a tricky one, because of course women are often victimised. The power of oppression should never be underestimated. But I am not oppressed and I have never felt oppressed for being female. When it is the case that there is no oppressing force I believe that it is possible for women to shake off an illusion of weakness and step into their strength.
I listened to a podcast not so long ago debating the issue of transgender people participating in sports and the gender categorisation. It’s an interesting and challenging topic. On the one hand, transgender women are women. On the other hand is the idea that women’s sport, at a moment when it is only beginning to rise, would suffer when transgender women were allowed to participate.
It’s not an easy one to answer and the experts involved have spent years analysing the various factors. In the summary that I heard the one thing that I felt was not explored enough was the psychological impact on an expression of strength that growing up as female could have.
Could it be that growing up as female, and constantly told that we are the weaker sex, puts limits on the strength that we then reach? When I think of some female athletes specifically it is hard to imagine that this could be the case. It would probably be heinously insulting to them to suggest it. I just wonder what that lifetime of being told of certain limits really does.
Back in the playground and imagining scenarios playing out. I would stress that this was not the same as being all alone in a dark place. This was the daytime and with some other families around. If this guy had said something sinister, and I had reacted by calling Andrew over, I would have been the victim. In the new turn of events, having beckoned a man, I would now have been waiting for a number of moments for him to arrive while I what? Although with some upper hand, I would have been weakened in status while I waited for him to arrive. And god forbid he should not hear or should misunderstand me!
And what about the next time? No, I knew that in the moment I had to strap that mantel on and be the one to protect my children. I didn’t know what I was going to say or how I was going to say it, but I knew that I would make it very clear that I was not someone to fuck with. Because that’s who I would have to be for my girls.
There’s a lot of talk these days about the phenomenon, experienced by many women, of losing their identity after having a baby. Women lose their sense of who they are.
We understand this because, of course, having a baby brings massive changes to our lives. But what do we really mean by this thing of losing identity? What actually causes this to happen, and should we be so acceptant of it as par for course of becoming a mother?
When I was three years old and went to playschool for the first time, the school were surprised to report that I was pretty familiar with my numbers already. My family wracked their brains as to where I could have got this from? Until they realised that, oh, it must be from my exposure to their poker games.
What I’m trying to say is that I’m a bit of a gambler. And when I was approaching my maternity leave, I took the risky decision to completely separate myself from work. There are a lot of specifics that put me in a position to be able to do so. That said, all in, I knew that it was a bit of a risk and a bit of a gamble.
I wanted, after 15 years of dedicated full time working, to see who I would be when I did take that step away. I was very aware of the vital role to my self esteem that work plays for me. But it happened to be a good time for me, mentally, to take that bit of a gamble. In other words, I approached maternity leave like a sabbatical. Which is really, by the way, not what it is meant for.
Being a bit older, I had a good understanding of myself, and was able to plan some mitigations against the risk. I committed to doing some charity related work, which I thought would give me some mental focus. And I dusted off some old creative hobbies.
Sod the washing up or, heaven forfend, the hoovering! If two babies were miraculously asleep at once, I was going to snatch that twenty minutes to work on something of my own. So I contributed to the bit of work, I painted, I wrote, and to be honest when the girls were awake I read if I could with some of those projects still in mind.
These things helped to preserve my mental health. It didn’t require a huge amount. I might be caring for my babies for 11 hours of the day without a break at times. But the time snatched in the evening, and being able to think about that project throughout the day, even while my hands were full, meant the world to me.
I managed to get out for a meal with a friend one evening, when the girls were maybe 7 months old, and lockdown restrictions were eased. The waiter complimented my ordering skills and I cried. One thing I hadn’t banked on through this entire experience was my need for positive reinforcement!
Generally speaking it is often the case that a woman goes from working full time in her productive job to nothing. Busy, of course, with her new baby, but nothing wanted of her outside of that. A void of space presented to her, apparently to help her to adjust to her new life. Of being a mum, and completely unseen. Is it any wonder that this change can hit hard.
Post-partum depression does not effect the same numbers of women or men equally from country to country. There are discernible trends to be observed that see higher proportions of people suffering with post-partum mental health issues in some countries over others. This is not a necessary biproduct of having a baby. This is societal and it is cultural.
May I have a drum roll please for one of the countries that has the lowest recorded rates of post-partum depression among new mothers and it is… badumdumdumdumdumdum…. The Netherlands!
What I read about the Netherlands is that there is often more involvement from grandparents in the daily lives of new parents. And, moreover in my opinion, more involvement of dads. It seems that there, the expectancy is not for women to drop entirely out of the workforce in her maternity, but for her to work reduced hours, perhaps, while her baby’s father does the same.
It doesn’t have to be for everyone. I know, I hear you, women who are much more sensible than I am and who don’t hinge their well-being on these external outputs. Some women can and of course should remain perfectly happy to take to the full time parenting role. As might many men.
What might it look like in our society to say, when little ones come into the world, that we expect and prepare for any parent to switch to a reduced hour working week for a time. That when a woman or a man, equally, when a baby is born, will work less hours in order to care for their infant.
When a woman has a baby we tell her that it’s ok for her to be gone. Essentially, that we really don’t need her. We’ll get on just fine. It’s all well meaning, in the main.
Well, why not say that the same applies for all? For all, we will expect a reduced presence at work. If we are willing to so easily accept that 100% of a woman’s time can be let off unmissed, can’t we by the same token say that 50% of each a woman and a mans time could be thought of in the same way? It doesn’t sound so radical to me.
I often write here about how different our two little girls are and have been from day dot. It’s been such an incredible joy and a gift to pay witness to.
One of the best examples is in how they sleep. Oh, babies and sleep. How babies sleep or don’t sleep can be the crux of the pain of early parenting. And we have been treated to two very different little types of sleepers.
One of our girls has pretty much always put herself down for naps and bedtime all by herself. At some point, early on, she decided that 7pm was bedtime. A belted cry and we were told, it’s time to put her to bed. And once we did, provided she had her bunny, she would settle herself down for the night. I know, right.
The other has been quite a different story. The only way she has ever slept, for a nap or for the night, has either been in motion in the buggy or in her parent’s arms. At 19 months and counting, this is still the way it is.
A small note here that sleep, and sleep routines, is an area where advice is very often sought and very often doled out. This blog is absolutely not about giving any parenting advice, as I am absolutely no expert, and I realise that I expose myself to judgement in sharing how we do, but hey ho. Judge away if you like.
This is just the state of play as we have found it. We have one fantastic sleeper, and one child who simply loves company so much that she can’t bear to drift off to the land of nod without generous accompaniment.
I have asked myself whether it is wrong to treat them differently, and have concluded that since I very much want them to be their own individuals that it is not. So we are now in a phase where we gently steer the one towards bed, while the other stays up a for a bit longer. It works pretty well for us.
Then tonight, oh betrayal of betrayals, the sleeper wouldn’t sleep. Normally quick to get into the idea and settle herself down, she most unusually wasn’t having it. She was a bit wired, she wanted to play, she insisted on company.
It’s moments like these that serve as a good reminder of just how much we take her easy behaviour for granted. We’ve come to terms with one bad sleeper, but two at once and we’re thrown right out. She’s due a couple of needy nights, no doubt.
So I spent about three hours this evening basically standing by her cot. Rubbing her back. Giving her the odd giggle. Trying to let her fizz her energy while not getting any more excited – tricky that.
It’s difficult when you have other stuff to do, to give your time over like this to another. When you have work to do, deadlines to meet. Or work that you’d really like to do, creatively, for yourself or others.
It’s difficult especially when this caring is not shared. I have no complaints tonight, my husband was busy all the while with the usual non sleeper. I was thankful we were one on one, which is a common phrase in our family that equals some relief.
All that said, I looked at my daughter and realised that if this was what she needed all the time, if she just needed me to be there constantly, then that is what I would do. I would make the decision to pack in all my other interests and employments to be a constant carer to either of my daughters should that be what they needed.
Knowing that, doesn’t that make all of my this here vitrionics about equality in parenting seem a little bit, well, selfish? Shouldn’t I just shut my gob and get on with the privilege of doing the job that I have been gifted to do?
Maybe. Those thousands of heroic individuals who do devote their lives entirely to others could obviously speak better to what it is and what it means than I. If they had the time.
All I think is that it shouldn’t always be women. Because that default whips a whole big bunch of people out from other sectors of life where we could really benefit from a bit more balance.
I worried about this a litle while I was pregnant, but thankfully a baby is not like a plant. I have cared about my plants. I’ve really wanted them to live. And yet, I haven’t quite remembered to feed and water them when they needed. I’ve let them die.
The good news is that a baby won’t let you do that. When they are born they are new and you are also new, to being the one to care for them. So there is some stuff that happens. That makes you rise to the challenge.
They cry. They wail. They scream. One of those. All of those. It looks like there are lots of different ways. I have a limited sample size of two to go by. Of that two, one squawled, she trusted no-one and felt that nothing was going to happen unless she made her needs painfully clear. The other was more content, but would look with puppy dog eyes, welling, growing larger than her head somehow, when something was amiss and it was time to be fed already.
We were pushed to action. Either technique would work just fine. The little human would stir us into action.
Of course there are other things at play apart from the process through which a baby forces you to change into their carer. There is the witchcraft, the hormones, the magic, the love. Whatever it is that makes you absolutely adore this new little person. The only option is to lean in and relish it. And you become willing and eager to do what is required. As you rightly should.
For all of that love, I challenge you, wouldn’t it have been possible, in those first early weeks, for you to sleep through a night without getting up for that 2am feed? In those moments when you hit exhaustion, might you have somehow yet forgotten that 3 hours had passed and it was that time again? Despite the greatness of the love, you still depended, didn’t you, on those consistent reminders from baby.
That’s normal. We were only learning. The love itself, important as it is, doesn’t help you to know what to do. It makes you keen to figure out what to do and frustrated when you get it wrong (to put it mildly). But it doesn’t inform the knowledge, the know how. For that, you need something more.
On one occasion, the squawler was squawling, and so I was preparing to feed her. I remember looking at her and thinking, “OK! I’ve got the message, I’m preparing to feed you, you can quiet down.” But, I realised, had she quietened down I might actually have stopped preparing to feed her. “Oh. She’s alright now,” I might have thought, “whatever it was has passed”.
So they have to be relentless. We need them to be in order to really get the message and to understand what we need to do. Eventually we learn. Then we don’t need the relentless cries, in fact, we might just get so well trained that we start to prepare the feed before the moment hits, oh glory. And she, in turn, will learn to trust us as she gets to know that we can be depended upon for the required results. It all just gets, gradually but surely, calmer as the work becomes second nature.
In the early days babies are so tiny. Which means they need feeding very very regularly. I can barely even remember now, so buried into my psyche it’s become, was it every 2, every 3 hours? So every 3 hours, around the clock, feeding is to happen. It is because they are so small that the frequency is needed, and as they get bigger, they take bigger portions less often.
It would be harder the other way round though, wouldn’t it. It would be hard for us to get successfully trained in as parents if at the start the feeds were infrequent. It would be much harder to learn the rhythms of what we need to do. And it would be really hard if from that starting point we had to increase the frequency. We’d be comfy, and this thing would be niggling at us to do just a bit just a bit just a bit more all the time.
Far better to start off running, and gradually get to enjoy slowing down a bit, than to start off easy and try to build up to a faster gait. There must be some resonance with our human nature, mustn’t there. Successfully keeping children alive is literally the one thing that has got us to this point as a species. People try to introduce change through many different techniques and methods. If we’re looking for what will play well across human psychology, I suspect the babies have it.
All of the big change management theories have some element of reward baked in. And when it comes to babies, well, how much time have you got? The rewards are obviously ceaseless, but even to take an element of the feeding example in isolation you can see.
From squawling relentlessly, or looking utterly betrayed, to dozing contentedly, the reward is immense. After a few weeks, you are treated to satisfied smiles, and true and honest love beaming up at you. In my world these days, after eating some wholesome food, I am treated to two happy energised children running up and down the corridor and making each other giggle. Truly delightful.
And that is the other thing. It changes. Because it has to. It is obvious to us that children have to grow. And that need for change therefore is part of who we are and how we work as people. As humans, we need things to change and to evolve. Otherwise we would get bored, we’d become forgetful, we’d forget why we care. We know this is true, we can see it in examples in work all the time. We need change (which is why, incidentally, we should not be shy about evolving the gender norms as they are currently viewed around parenting).
Yes, when it comes to change management, babies have simply got it all worked out. Relentless and frequent, painful reminders to start, easing up over time. They provide delightful rewards, which evolve and grow. Before you know it, they’ve turned someone who could never keep a plant alive into a parent of a fed and watered thriving child. When you think about it, it’s sort of marvelous.
Women are not magic.
It is often the case that women are the subjects of this process of change. And if you’re outside the process looking in, you are not subject to that change, nor is it easy to keep up with its evolving nature. The only way to learn is to be subject to the process too. It has absolutely nothing to do with a parent’s gender.
It goes back to the very beginning. I didn’t manage to breastfeed her and before we knew it we were regularly feeding our daughters, side by side, and alliances were being formed.
Having twins was an incredible initiation into parenthood for two utterly clueless adults. It quickly became apparent that they were two very different little people. One was quite content to go to sleep by herself and in her own cot, for example. The other required a lot more holding.
Now that they are swaggering nicely into toddlerhood, I appreciate those cuddles that she still looks for very, very much. It is so gorgeous to get those little squeezes all throughout the day. But when they were tiny babies that need for constant holding was challenging for me. It probably suited Andrew’s natural inclinations slightly better.
Now, when Andrew leaves the room, she is absolutely devastated. If he calls down the stairs to say something to me, she hears his voice and then he doesn’t appear, she can’t take it. Why would he be in the house, she seems to think, and not be here with me?!
The other morning, while I was having breakfast with the girls, Andrew went up to have a shower. She clung, wailing, to the stair gate at the bottom of the stairs for the next 20 minutes. Inconsolable and impossible to distract. I leave the room all the time and nothing.
I can’t be sad about this. When her dad leaves and she gets upset she is absolutely heartbroken. I can’t want to create those feelings in her! And it would be hard for me too, trying to have some time to myself or get some work done, to hear that expression of pain.
At our wedding, my dad began his speech saying “I first met Liz when she was about 4 years old”. It was a very funny opener. Because, of course, my parents were together throughout my early years. But my dad would not have been involved with all of that.
Despite that, I know how much he means to me. He was a hugely important influence throughout my childhood, especially as I was getting bigger. It’s a bit unfair really, to my mum who put in all those hours, that I should care for him so much as well.
It means that I know that not being her favourite right now won’t matter in the long run. And I do see how much she loves me besides. Plus, let’s face it, this is all easy for me to say when we have two.
It doesn’t always have to be mum. That creates an unfair impediment for anything she wants to achieve outside of her family. And if it’s not mum sometimes, that might just be fine.