Minding the Gap

Big generational gaps run in my family. My grandmother was the youngest of 7 and was raised alongside her nieces and nephews. She was more of a contemporary of her niece -- her best friend and enemy -- than of her brothers or sisters.

My grandfather had a child out of wedlock who was my age. My father had a son in his second marriage who is younger than my daughter. Jade's "Uncle Cameron" is two years her junior. And Jade is much older than her cousins, my sisters' kids. She's more like an aunt to them than a first cousin.

So the pattern continues. It must be our family's floral print. A generation out of sync with other limbs on the family tree.

And like my dad, who was 50 when Cameron was born, I'll be "old" when Jericho is hitting his stride as a teenager and young adult. With Jade, I was a cool mom, at least according to her friends. With Jericho, I'll be the age of some of his friends' grandparents.

That's a sobering thought. And it was sobering to think that, when Jade was born, my own mother was 47. At the time, not ready to be a grandmother, but she grew into the role. She's now a young 72, but it's scary to think that I'll be about her age when Jericho is Jade's age.

Time and age are relative. That's going to be my mantra.

Just like I had to pay extra attention to my health when pregnant with Jericho, due to my age and other health problems. I'll have to keep myself healthy so I can see this kid into adulthood and beyond.

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.

Hey You, Back Off of My Kid

One of the most annoying things about being pregnant is the inexplicable erasure of certain boundaries. I worked in the courts while pregnant and saw a lot of people everyday, especially during daily rides in a packed elevator to the 10th floor. If I had a nickel for every time someone -- a total stranger -- asked a personal question about my body, my due date, or my family history, I would have a nice nest egg for Jericho's college fund. At first I didn't mind it. Not from older ladies who were polite and certainly meant well. "When are you due?" they would ask. "Looks like you're carrying a boy. Your belly looks just like a football (or basketball)." That was fine, even kind of sweet. But after the 100th time, it got old.

And I never liked the men who would say things like, "Wow! Looks like you're ready to pop!" Or the lawyer who gave me a running history of his sex life with "pregnant women," namely his wife, due to the fact that they have 7 kids. Or the coworkers who would shout across the hall, "Oh my God!" and point to my belly as I got huge. Or posit, "You look really uncomfortable."

"Back the fuck off!" I wanted to say so many times, but didn't. Instead, I just smiled and attempted to extract myself from the scrutiny as quickly a possible. I guess because childbearing is such a powerful experience -- and one that so many people share -- the impulse to ask about it overcomes social barriers.

I had done the same with other pregnant women, in the past, saying something that I thought was interesting or original about her growing belly or my own experience being pregnant (the first time, back in the '80s). I now realize that any comment one can make is completely unoriginal, and that a pregnant woman has probably already heard versions of it 10 times that very day. I will keep my mouth shut in the future. Hear this loud and clear: The best gift you can give a pregnant woman is to say nothing about her belly. JUST IGNORE IT, and give the poor woman some peace.

Now that Jericho is out, I still get comments. But the social boundaries seem to be reestablishing themselves. "How old is your baby?" is the one most often heard. People also tend to ask, "Is it your first?"

I don't know why people ask this. They asked it when I was pregnant as well. Do I look like a first-time mother at 46? And this question always put me in a tizzy because I never know how to answer it.

Sometimes, I just say, "No, it's my second." That seems to satisfy them. But most times, I feel the need to add, in the interest of full disclosure, "No it's my second, but the first was a long time ago." Why do I need to say this? I don't know. I should just let it go. But I can't seem to.

Maybe I think I owe it to them. Maybe I have a deep-seated desire to be a carnival sideshow. I don't know. But once I disclose that I do have another child, but that child is now 24 and one-half years old, that usually stops the conversation.

Blog Worthy

I have mixed feelings about blogs. I read them, but, deep down, I have always found bloggers to be either pathetic or arrogant. You're pathetic if you spend hours and hours blogging about a TV show or celebrity culture. I mean, c'mon. Get a life. You're arrogant if you blog about yourself, or your obsessions. I mean, c'mon. Who really cares?

That's why I never thought of blogging before. Now, mind you, I read both of the above-types of blogs and often enjoy them and find them entertaining. I just couldn't see myself joining the blogosphere. Too much of a snob, I guess.

But now I feel I have an issue that jumps my own psychological hurdles or modesty/prudery or whatever you want to call it. I have been given the gift of living two lifetimes, as it were. I have two children -- only two -- spaced nearly a quarter-century apart. My daughter was born in 1985. 1985, when the first Back to the Future movie came out! 1985, when nobody had ever heard of Bill Clinton! 1985, a year that saw the first inklings of hair metal!


It was definitely another era.

So now, back in the second decade of the Aughts (a time only dimly conceived when my daughter was born -- remember the obsessive references to 1984 and Y2K as the century drew to a close?), as my daughter was approaching her 25th birthday, I found that I was pregnant (much to my surprise) at the age of 45. My husband and I were shocked. In March, I gave birth (without complications) to a bouncing baby boy named Jericho.

In the '80s, a time when I diapered my daughter using cloth diapers and DIAPER PINS, I essentially lived life off the grid as a single mom in the backwoods of Northern California and Oregon. Today, I am a married urban professional in a big city. I am a different person. I am living a different life. Are my children being raised by different people?

I feel the need to sort out these questions, which is why I have done the cliched 21st Century thing and started a blog. Few women get to (or would want to?) live this situation. Men do. But having the opportunity to raise children in essentially two different eras, without overlap, is both confusing and interesting.

I feel it is also blogworthy. I hope you do as well.