My own brand of Mommy Crazy

I won’t lie to you.  I used to judge her for it.  When I heard that my aunt had the baby’s car seat installed by the police every time she removed it and put it back in, I thought she was crazy.  I was sure she was being overly anal and obsessive, and I wondered what else was going on that I didn’t know about.  Most of all, I was confident that I would never be *that* kind of mother.

Then I had a baby, and I learned that we all have that one thing – if we’re lucky.  Some of us have many, many things.

One of my friends is obsessed with organic pacifiers.  Another mother is constantly worrying that her daughter isn’t getting enough tummy time.  Then there is the couple that wants to make sure their son see all of the Baby Einstein videos… and the list goes on and on.

Yes, I have mine too.  It’s SIDS – Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.  It’s definitely something all parents should be aware of, but I think I take my “awareness” to a new level.  I’ve read all the checklists multiple times.  I’m breastfeeding the baby, and she sleeps in a crib with a new, firm mattress and NOTHING else.  No bumpers, no toys, no blankets, NOTHING.  We keep the room warm, but not too warm.  After I read this article, we immediately put a fan in her bedroom.  We put her down with a pacifier every night.  She is never exposed to cigarette smoke.  She doesn’t nap on our bed or the couch or any other soft surface, and when she does fall asleep in her car seat, I make sure that the blankets on her don’t go anywhere near her face.  When the baby is sleeping, I’m on SIDS patrol.

The truth is, I’m on SIDS patrol almost all the time, including when we are visiting friends who have babies, or when I’m looking at pictures of other babies’ cribs.  Oh no, I’ll cluck to myself, look at those bumpers and that teddy bear – that crib is a death trap.  What?  They put a blanket on their sleeping son?  What kind of negligent parents are they?  They let the child sleep in the bed with them??  Haven’t they read the warnings, the studies, the lists of risk factors?  The might as well light up in front of the kid as far as I’m concerned.  I notice all of it, and my first reaction is generally horror.

Horror, followed closely by a twinge of jealousy.  The reality is that regardless of where they sleep, most babies don’t die of SIDS.  My daughter’s risk level may be even lower because she was born full term, is healthy, and is breast-fed.  There is definitely a part of me that knows I could be a little less obsessive about this particular issue, and I do feel a bit envious of my friends who feel comfortable co-sleeping, or putting the baby down for a nap on the bed.  I wish I could do it, but I can’t.  I just can’t.

So, instead of worrying about worrying less about SIDS, I let myself worry about it.  I’m mostly ok with the twitchy discomfort I feel every time I see a bumper in a crib or a blanket on a sleeping baby, because I know that I’m relaxed about other things, and that my friends have their own obsession, their own SIDS.  We all have something, right?

Good Morning!

I woke up at 5:15 am to sound of baby crying coming from the monitor.  Looking at the clock, I was disappointed to see it was only 5:15, but glad it wasn’t 3:30.  As she wasn’t wailing, I stayed  in bed trying to ignore it (”it” being the baby, mind you).  After several minutes, and a few grunted promptings from Josh, I threw my legs over the side of the bed, felt around for my slippers, and stumbled (literally) into the bathroom to pee.  Just as I was washing my hands, the crying abruptly stopped.  I stood in the doorway of our bedroom, confused in my fatigue, prompting Josh to mumble “go to sleep”.  I got back in bed, straightened the blankets, and had just settled myself into my pillows, when Josh said into the darkness, “Do you think she’s ok?

Well, shit.

I had thought she was ok.  More accurately, the anxious worries that so often contaminate my thoughts hadn’t arrived yet that morning.  But with that simple question, they flooded in.  Was she dead?  Did she go quiet all of a sudden because of a heart attack?  Do babies have heart attacks?  I had no idea.  It was likely SIDS.  It was definitely SIDS.  How the hell could it be SIDS – we were so damned careful!  I read every list of SIDS risk factors and recommendations I could find, and implemented all of them.  I’m nursing the baby.  We put her to sleep with a pacifier.   The baby sleeps on her back.  There are no bumpers, blankets, or toys in her crib.  Her mattress is new and firm, and the fitted sheet is stretched tightly over it.  The room is warm but not too warm.  We even have a fan in the room.  I ticked off the checklist in my mind.  It didn’t help.  I imagined having to call 911, the ambulance pulling into the driveway – would I remember to unlock the door for the paramedics?  Would I stay with F, or go downstairs to unlock the door?  Would I trip over Josh’s shoes at the bottom of the stairs?  Should we start leaving the front door unlocked at night just in case we have to call 911?  That seemed like a bad idea, but we do live in a safe city, so I wasn’t sure.  What about during the day, when I am home alone with F?  I usually leave the front door locked, but maybe…

After several minutes of these mental ruminations, I knew there was no way I was going back to sleep.  I tossed off the blankets, threw my feet over the side of the bed, and pulled open the drawer on my bedside table to find my eye drops.  Yes, that’s right.  I was mentally welcoming the paramedics into my house to tend to my dead or dying baby, yet felt as though I could take a moment to put in some eye drops before going to make sure she was still breathing.  The funny thing is, I was fully aware of the idiocy of the situation in the moment, but I couldn’t stop myself.  I *had* to check on that baby, even though some part of my brain clearly knew she was fine, or at least fine enough for me to moisten my tired eyes.  In my exhaustion, I almost walked head-on in to her door.  I turned the antique door knob carefully and slowly, stood in the doorway, and strained through the darkness for any sign of movement.  I saw nothing.  I walked softly over to the crib, and stood over F.  I was tempted to put my hand on her chest, to feel the rise and fall of her breathing, but I was scared of waking her up.  After a moment, I was fairly certain I saw her head move. That was enough for me.  I went back to bed.

I finally got myself settled again, blankets straightened, pillows fluffed, when I started thinking about all the things I could be doing while I’m awake and the baby isn’t.  Laundry.  Oh, the laundry.  Not only is F’s hamper full, but the blanket on her carseat is covered in coffee stains (walk to Starbucks yesterday), and then there is the plastic bag.  The dreaded plastic bag of daycare.  When I get that plastic bag full of F’s clothes at the end of the day, I know there was an explosion.  And apparently this most recent explosion was… tremendous. Poop in such great quantities as to garner the attention of even our seasoned daycare providers, and to merit extended conversations about where could she possibly keep it all, and whether I really should be eating so many lentils for dinner?  (Apparently I should not.)   I really should get out of bed, gather up F’s laundry from around the house, and take it to the basement.  But then it occurred to me that F’s hamper is in her room, and I wasn’t going to risk going in there twice.  I rolled over to go to sleep.

As I rolled over, I felt something wet across my chest.  Fuck.  F’s crying had caused me to leak, and my pajama top was soaked through.  “Damn.  The crying made me leak,” I said.
“You’re such a cliche,” Josh grunted.  “Go feed her.”