"We believe you're the best parent for your child."
When I first read those words, I blinked hard, and read them again. My six-week old daughter lay in my arms, and I remember sitting up straight, and taking my hand off the mouse. I touched my little girl's nose, and smiled.
My eyes returned to the monitor. "We believe you're the best parent for your child."
"Huh," I thought. "Am I?"
The first few weeks at home with my newborn daughter were a blow to my ego. I had read all the books and magazines. I took the classes offered by my hospital, and I had a nursery full of baby clothes and educational toys. It was pretty clear to me that I was going to be the best mother ever. EVER.
Then I brought my baby home.
I put on a brave face through sleep deprivation, through breastfeeding struggles, through well-meant advice offered by well-meaning loved ones that contradicted my idealized parenting experience. As I struggled through a horrible thrush infection, I kept my upper lip stiff. I was prepared to nurse my baby until she was a year, and if I was in horrific pain the entire year, it wouldn't matter, because it was the plan. My plan. The plan made by the best mother ever.
A moment came where I stood next to my infant daughter's crib, sobbing with my head on the side of her crib rather than picking her up. My breasts were so sore that I had to carefully lift her and center her between my breasts to carry her. Any movement was excruciating, yet I insisted that it would be fine. I was fine. FINE. That day, sobbing along with my baby, I knew I needed to let go of my idealistic visions and start learning to mother in the real world.
I called the lactation consultant at the hospital, and after my appointment, I came home with orders to pump for a week to allow my infection to heal, and then breastfeeding should be fine. I did, and it was, but for a week, I surfed the internet, and pumped. And pumped, and surfed the internet. I stumbled across a little site, just launched. From their front page, the words jumped out at me. "We believe you're the best parent for your child."
Amazing how an anonymous vote of confidence on the internet could mean so much to my fragile ego. I took a shuddering breath and let the bravado go. I was in pain, exhausted, slightly hysterical and completely irrational. But these people obviously thought I was capable of parenting my own child, in the best way FOR MY CHILD. Never mind the fact that everyone in my life had been telling me the same thing for weeks. What did they know? They had never set out to be the best mother ever. They had lower standards, which could not be applied to the likes of me. Reading this simple sentiment on the homepage of One Hot Mama was what Oprah calls "a lightbulb moment."
I sat there with my mouth moving, reading over and over. (I was sleep deprived, cut me some slack. Heh.)
" I, Jenny, am already, I already am the BEST parent for my own child. This child right here. My own child, which I am struggling to parent, but still, I know her better than anyone, so I guess I am the best at reading her and knowing what she needs...the best. I'm the best mother! For this here child! Maybe not the best ever, but in her ever, I'm the best. Woo hoo!"
I told my sleeping daughter, "Hey! I'm your best mama." She farted and sighed in her sleep. I stage-whispered to my husband, "Hey! I'm the best mama for our baby!" He rolled his eyes. "We're attachment parents!" I stage-whispered to no one in particular. "Woo hoo!"
I clicked over into the discussion boards, and met a circle of friends that is with me still, seven years later. I've had the privilege of watching my fellow mothers grow in confidence as our families grow in size. The original babies from seven years ago have been joined by many siblings. I wonder if parents that are attracted to attachment parenting practices tend to be larger than average? I was recently asked if I had always planned on having such a large family. "Is three kids large?" I asked.
Looking around at my local friends, my family with three children is a rarity. Two children is most common, with single children only slightly less so. In fact, watching me wrangle my three houligans in public parks and malls is probably keeping many local families from adding a third to the equation. That being said, I am friends with many mothers with families larger than mine. My questioner was surprised that I could name more than two or three families with five or more children. "The internet," I explained. "We don't all live in the same town."
While the years spent posting on discussion boards were truly wonderful, the community remained constant. The general philosophy of parenting was similar. Now that my youngest is three, I find I have less interest in whether I am "AP" or not. I've developed my own parenting style, for better or worse. My style is very much a product of my own temperment, my children's personalities, and the wisdom from my wonderful online friends. From that first visit, these women were my ace up my sleeve. I could always count on the Hot Mamas for a teething remedy, to know what to do when my toddler refused to eat, to encourage me as I approached my due date, to provide a laugh after a rough day. This shared wisdom, sometimes advice, sometimes an anecdote, provided a sense of security, an archive of information from in-the-trenches mothers who had been there and done that.
Mommyblogging expands on this sense of community. Far from a homogenous group of mothers, the bloggers documenting motherhood online are changing the way I see myself. I feel the disappointment of watching a pre-teen lose a school election. I see myself in a new mother's chatty posts about her new baby. I hear the echos of my own voice in the weary posts of an overdue pregnant woman. I catch glimpses of my future as I read the poignant words of mothers watching their grown children soar outside their nest.
Beyond the mechanics of raising a family, in blogging about her family, the woman is revealed. Sometimes I see myself. More often, I see a stranger. Our experiences as women inform our parenting. We want to raise our children differently than our parents did. We want to do it the same. We want to do it better. Pride, fear, longing and joy bubble up from these blogs. I devour all these experiences, and add them to my archives of been-there, done-that parenting knowledge.
It may not make me a better parent, but it comforts me to know that other mothers struggle. Other mothers laugh and cry at the wrong times. Other mothers parent differently, and they are the best mothers for their own children. Rather than judging, I always seem to find something useful and beautiful to take away from these little snapshots of other's lives.
The good, the bad, the ugly and the amazingly beautiful...all of it just a click away.
