I came to motherhood late, which means I spent many years – most of my life – putting myself first. I’ve always been single, and independent, so I’ve had to take care of myself. But I’ve also been able to indulge myself. To eat what I wanted, when I wanted. To go out. To read. To sleep in. To exercise. To travel. To change my schedule at the drop of a hat. To save money and to spend money. Years and years – okay, decades – of worrying only about myself, my happiness, my comfort, my success.
A baby changes all that. A baby means I come second. A baby and a preschooler mean I come third. And advice columnists and Weight Watchers leaders can say all they want about putting yourself first, it is logistically impossible for a single mother to put herself first when she has two small children. When we leave the house, I have to get them dressed first. When we get to the car, they have to be buckled in first. When we’re all hungry, they eat first. When we go to the pool, and get out, and we’re all cold, they get wrapped in the towel first. When we’re all tired, they sleep first. When we all have to pee, the preschooler goes first (well, maybe the baby goes first, but, Huggies be praised, who can tell?).
Putting the children first has become part of our culture. We want these little beings to be happy, to be loved, to feel secure and safe and supported. It’s our job as parents, and it feels good to know what our children like, what makes them smile, what we can do to ease their way through the day a little bit.
Spring has come here, and the streets are full of little kids again, unbundled from their strollers and ready to play. Last week I watched a little girl and her mother crossing a busy street near my house. The girl looked to be about two years old, in pigtails and tights, pink and grey. She was pushing a stuffed animal in a miniature baby carriage, and her mom was walking along beside. When they came to the light to cross the street, the mom motioned to the pedestrian button, and lifted the little girl up to push it. In this case, the light had already changed, and mom and child were actually running out of time to cross the street. But it didn’t matter. The mom lifted the child anyway to push the button, and then carried both the child and her baby buggy across the street, setting them down again on the other side and continuing on their way. It’s a key rule of parenting little ones: if there is a button to be pushed, the child gets to push it. Whether it makes sense, or not. They come first.
And so it is that I don’t come first anymore. Not in elevators, where there are buttons to be pushed. Not if there is a toilet to be flushed or a tap to be turned off. In ways big and small, I don’t come first any more. Neither does the housework. Or the garden. Or even the job. All the decisions, all the time, all of the money, all of the resources and the routines get filtered first through what the kids need, and what is possible and impossible to do while two small children are looking on. And having waited as long as I did to have children, and having had to try so very hard to have them, I’ve felt it is only right to put my children’s needs before any of my own.
Except. Maybe it’s not always true. Three years in, I’m starting to get what people say about putting yourself first. I’m starting to question the way things are done around my house. Part of it is the oxygen-on-an-airplane thing – you can’t take care of others if you don’t take care of yourself. But there is another, more controversial part, that says it may be time to stop putting the children first, culturally. There is a backlash in some circles over this new generation of children who have never been denied. Who expect to get everything first. Who expect the ripest strawberry, the pink ribbon to twirl at ballet, a present at other kids’ birthdays. Playgrounds full of children who expect to go down the slide first. Who expect to be listened to, and praised, and supported, at all times. Who have never waited to have their cup refilled, their nose wiped, their book read. I just read a column from a stay-at-home mom who had planned to be the best stay at home mom EVER, but now reflects, five years in, that she wishes she had spent less time spooning homemade baby food into ice cube trays, and just bought the jarred stuff. And it got me thinking. Sure, the kids have to come first, logistically, most of the time. But do I have to come last, spiritually? Emotionally?
I have a friend who just confessed that she never eats with her children. She either eats earlier, or later – anytime she can eat alone, without interruption, in peace. When they are eating, she is there: serving, refilling, helping, wiping. But she doesn’t even try to eat her own meal then, because the constant demands and needs of her 3 year old twin boys will ruin it for her. I know where she’s coming from – we’re both single mothers, and our own space, whether for eating or peeing, is rare. In a sense, she is putting herself first by reserving her own mealtime. But I’m trying to do it another way. To put myself first, little by little, right in front of my children. To say to them: sometimes you go first, but sometimes I do. I realised it was sinking in this week, when my 3 year old dropped some food during a meal, and said to me, reassuringly: “We can get it later, when you’re all finished.” Yes, I said. That’s right. She is learning to wait for a refill, wait for a snack, wait to get dressed until I have my shower. I want to be able to eat with my children AND eat in peace.
I realize there are mothers-in-law out there who tried to tell us this years ago. Put the baby DOWN, they’d say, or you’ll spoil him. Who were appalled when we admitted we’d gone to the bathroom while holding the baby, lest we upset her by putting her down after we’d just gotten her calmed down. Who told us to treat the first baby like a second child – not to respond immediately, not to crumple to the baby’s whims, not to rearrange our life’s routines around the demands of a 10-pound dictator. And I know mothers who have always had a weekly night out without children, who put their children in daycare even when they have a day off work, who do sleep training at 4 months old and roll their eyes at on-demand breastfeeding of infants. I admit I judged these people as selfish, uncaring, cold. Why have children if you don’t enjoy them, I thought?
My beliefs are evolving, and still rocking from one extreme to the other, depending on the day and my energy level. I’m discovering that parenting and childcare, like so many things, is not a true-or-false enterprise, and not even one of multiple choice. Parenting decisions are all essay questions, I’ve decided, filled with ifs and buts, and maybes. Sometimes we are led by the child, and we lift them up to press the buttons of life, just to give them the satisfaction – the illusion – of control. And sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we take their hands, and pull them across the street, pedestrian button unpushed, because we need to hurry, we need to get somewhere, we need to get out of the way. Sometimes it’s not about who goes first, it’s just about getting there at all.