A New Mother Trusts Her Instincts--Most of the Time

There are two kinds of new mothers: Those who think they know what’s best for their children by virtue of the fact that they are the mother, and those who know they don’t know anything and aren’t afraid to admit it.

The first spout old wives’ tales as gospel: Putting cereal in a bottle makes a newborn sleep better, putting shoes on an infant’s feet will make her walk sooner, and so on. These people have a certainty about life that is enviable, even if it is dangerous.

Their children are usually raised to the tune of the four most annoying words in the English language: “Because I said so.”

The second believe something to be fact only if Dr. Spock or Penelope Leach has written about it, or if their pediatrician tells them so. They possess well-thumbed reference books and worried expressions, and preface instructions to their children with: “Now, you may sue me later for this, but. . . . “

Nearly five months into motherhood, I guess I’m a know-nothing. I try to follow my instincts and generally think I know what’s best. Sometimes, though, my confidence falters. . . .

Recently, on one of those beautiful, crisp January days, I was walking downtown with my baby. We were coming to the office to pick up some papers, and had parked about half a block away.

I had dressed my daughter with an eye to impressing my colleagues with her extraordinary and precocious hipness. One of the few messages from the outside world that had pierced our domestic bubble was this grunge fashion trend involving denim and plaid. I guess we wanted to show off. No, I wanted to show off.

I had carefully bundled her into a long-sleeved white T-shirt, chambray work shirt, madras plaid jumper and denim jacket over red leggings and socks. Look out Nirvana and Pearl Jam. (We will leave for later a meditation on the insanity of trying to dress a squirmy infant in miniature adult clothes.)

As I walked down Spring Street, I held my little fashion plate close, her fuzzy head tucked under my chin. A woman walking in the opposite direction veered near me. I began puffing up for the compliment I knew she was going to offer. But she had a worried look on her face. She said--no, pleaded as though her heart were breaking--”Can’t you please put something on your baby’s head?”

My happy, bursting heart sank. I walked a few steps and stopped for the light. Inside, a point/counterpoint of anger and doubt raged: Is she right? How dare she? What if she’s right? Maybe I could knock her down and run for it. What if my baby comes down with pneumonia?

Just in case, I grabbed a cotton diaper from my pocket and put it on her head. She looked ridiculous, like some penitent who’d lost her marbles on the way to confession.

I glanced back, and there was our Nosy Samaritan, standing across the street, looking back at me. She smiled broadly and stuck her thumbs up. “Thank you!” she yelled. “Thank you!”

Thank this , lady.

*

When a woman is pregnant, she can assume that all kinds of unbidden advice will come her way. It’s the universality of procreation--all humankind feels it has a stake in your pregnancy.

But what you assume to be a condition with a natural term limit--nine months--turns out to be permanent. If you think a pregnant woman is subjected to an unusual amount of advice, wait till you hear the kindly suggestions heaped on an inexperienced mother with babe in arms.

If the mother is a Know-It-All, she may laugh off intrusive comments, or at least snarl a self-righteous reply. But the mother who knows her limits is vulnerable. I walked into the office that day shaking, both with shame and anger.

It’s not like I’d flown to Mexico and left my baby home alone with a refrigerator full of formula!

I was still feeling defensive a couple weeks later when we visited our pediatrician. We love this guy. He has a good sense of humor, spends plenty of time with us and kisses my daughter’s toes. It doesn’t get any better than that, doctor-wise.

At the end of the check-up, seeking reassurance I am not a bad mother, I told him this story.

“Hmmm,” he said, furrowing his brow. “Was the diaper dirty?”

I laughed and shook my head.

“Did you whip out your Uzi and mow her down?”

Nah. Left it at home.

He kindly explained what a Know-It-All mom would take for granted--if my child’s hands and face are not cold to the touch, she is plenty warm. I had not jeopardized her little life.

“Don’t you think it’s incredibly rude for someone to do that?” I asked, fishing for sympathy.

“I don’t think it’s so awful,” he replied. “I mean, it’s kind of neat that instead of someone mugging you on the streets of downtown Los Angeles, someone was looking out for the welfare of your child.”

Right. I knew that.