Walk Like A Man

This is a companion piece to a similarly-themed article on Pete’s site, which, all things being equal, should be published at roughly the same time. We have not read each other’s entries before publishing, and have taken care not to discuss them.

Slowly but surely, Bernard is learning to walk. He really is no longer a baby, and I’m now a Toddler-Feeding Weirdo^[1]. He looks so pleased with himself when he has staggered across the room, but as yet he isn’t motivated to walk instead of super-fast crawling.

And finally, he has his first set of eight teeth. Let the molars commence! Teething is hardly a developmental milestone, yet there are still people who manage to convey disapproval that he has been so slow to colonise his mouth with sharp little fangs. I accept the fact that there will always be people ready to disapprove of my parenting and his development, but it seems a bit harsh to consider the wee bairn retarded just because his mouth is empty.

Meanwhile, of 11 antenatal friends, five are pregnant and one more had her second baby on Friday. I can understand wanting to get back into it while still in the Baby Zone, when you still have all the equipment (except I don’t, because as soon as Bernard stops needing it, I sell or give it away), and all the knowledge acquired on that terrifyingly steep learning curve of the last year & a bit. And of course before you get re-accustomed to sleeping for more than four hours at a time, should that ever happen.^[2]

In fact, for me, the biggest reason why I would have another child would be for the chance to do it right. Now that sounds all wrong; what I’m trying to say is that from my current position on this never-ending learning curve, I would be able to enjoy mothering a newborn so much more. I do feel as though I missed out on something that probably only fortunate mothers of placid happy babies with good latches ever get. In fact this something probably doesn’t even exist, but I do know that I would do things differently if I had the chance again – just because I know now not to worry so much. I know what details I can safely let go of.

But it’s all theory, of course. Who’s to say that a second child would be any better at opening his mouth wide enough to feed comfortably from the word go? Who’s to say he wouldn’t be an even more intermittent sleeper than Bernard? Who’s to say I would get such a relatively easy, straightforward birth a second time?^[3] So I say, let’s quit while we’re ahead! We have a healthy, happy child, who learns to do things in his own good time, and quite within acceptable parameters. For every “problem” there is a whole bucket of mitigating joy, like his cheeky look as he finds he suddenly has access to his grandfather’s laptop, and we’re too busy photographing him to stop him from getting his sticky paws all over the screen.

Finally, I do subscribe to the argument that it would be unethical for me, on this overpopulated planet, to have more than one child. I don’t presume to judge families of more than one child; ethical decisions are very personal, and that’s why I say it would be unethical for me. Maybe by the time I’m 40, and Pete’s had a promotion or three, I’ll change my mind.

1. this is the technical term for one such as I who obstinately insists on continuing to breastfeed despite the best advice of Bernard’s great grandmother [↩]
2. Bernard has slept through on the last two Fridays. No idea what’s special about Friday, unless it’s just that I’ve consumed enough booze not to be wakened by his crying, which I suspect would be somewhat bad of me. [↩]
3. I know that I would want a homebirth, that’s for sure. After reading this, I remain convinced that Reynolds, with the best of intentions, is wrong on this. [↩]