Ignorance Is Bliss

When I gave birth to my daughter, Jade, in 1985, I was young and dumb. I wasn't dumb so much as clueless. My bible was Spiritual Midwifery, a great book in its way, but hardly a how-to of child rearing. But there's something to be said for a clean slate, or a blank mind not cluttered with unnecessary facts. I was a very confident mother.

Mind you, I spent most of my time breastfeeding. When people would wonder how many times per day my daughter fed, I would say, "Once." That would be once, from sun up til sun down, and also from sun down til sun up. No matter that there would be the occasional projectile vomiting episode. My baby was chubby, happy, and secure.

I never read any books on child raising or babies. I just went by instinct, and, for the most part, my instincts were pretty good. It didn't matter that when I was seven months pregnant, we lived in a cabin in the mountains of Northern California with a dry well -- so no plumbing or water. I would pee in a bucket in the middle of the night and walk down the mountain in 110-degree heat and dive into the irrigation ditch to cool off. Jade had about three onesies, a doll, and a crib. I washed her diapers at the laundry mat. We lived for a while in a homeless shelter when we first got to Oregon. I collected Welfare for the first year of her life. Yes, I doubted my ability to navigate relationships with men and to empower myself as a woman, but I never doubted myself as a mother. The proof was in my perfect, smiling little girl. She proved me right.

Flash forward a quarter century. Today, I am a confident professional. My clients trust me with their freedom. I am in a loving and happy marriage with a wonderful man. We live in a house with water and we are economically secure. But I am a bit of a basket case with this motherhood thing. Today, I spent an hour examining Jericho's dry scalp, wondering if I should take him to the doctor. Saturday, I freaked out at a party because his eye was goopy. I peruse random books on child rearing given to me by my husband's uncle Barry. I have boxes and boxes of baby clothes and every infant gadget, even a Beeba baby-food maker. Yet I still wander the house in a fog of sleep deprivation and self doubt.

Perhaps, it's because I hold myself to higher standards now that I feel so insecure. Or maybe the stakes are higher, because his birth was such a miracle. It all feels so ... precarious. Or maybe it's because I'm surrounded by so much more information now, from that dreaded Internet, and "helpful" hints, from friends and relatives. When I had Jade, I was the only one I knew with a kid. Now everyone I know is an expert with advice to dispense.

Knowledge is relative. With Jade, it was as if I was alone on a deserted island among the wild beasts. In that context, I excelled. Today, I am raising Jericho among a host of competitive high-intensity moms and former moms. In that context, I am mediocre. But the proof will be in the pudding. By any measure, Jericho will have a hard act to follow. But maybe he'll decide that it's not his job to validate me as a mom, which would probably be OK.