Mommy Wars

So.  Any time somebody talks to you about their own life, and you have a parallel experience, you gotta listen to their story and react to it and care about it, rather than just waiting for your chance to tell your story.  Like everybody else, sometimes I’m better at this than other times.  For example when my sister-in-law, who is pregnant, tells me about her latest discomfort, my selfish inner monologue (let’s call her Stacy) is all “OMG, when I was pregnant, I had that too except for me it was my pinky finger and the only thing that helped it was apple juice spiked with Tabasco.”  But the little nagging voice of reason (let’s call her Maude) slaps back the loudmouth, then politely steps to the fore and says “Oh really?  And how is that going for you?”  It’s just what you do.  Now if the person you are talking to is a generous conversationalist, s/he will give you an “in” so you can take your turn.  In the sister-in-law example, she will often say “How did you handle soandso in your seventh month?” and then let Stacy wobble on for hours about yoga and centering meditation and, when all else fails, chocolate cake.

So.  Re: the baby, being an effusive new mom, I could talk about him all day.  Maude is working double time to make sure that I don’t dominate all conversations with detailed lists of the last time he pooped and the hours he woke up last night and the clothes he already grew out of.  When I’m talking to a fellow new mom, however, or even an “old” mom, I get super excited about being able to discuss our shared experience of giving birth and sleep deprivation and the extra belly skin, do you flop it over the waistband or do you bisect it? etc. etc.  And I am genuinely interested in their experiences as well.  Tell me your birth story in all its gory detail, hour by blessed hour – I will listen with bated breath!  How much did your baby weigh at his one month checkup, I’m all ears!  Is her potty training going well, I want to know!  It’s like, this whole new world of babyland has opened up, and it’s a world I’ve always wanted to be a part of, and I don’t know, maybe being fellow moms we all know that we love to gush on about our kids and maybe we give each other permission to gush a little more about this topic than normal polite conversation would usually allow?  Or something?  Is this the rule?

So all of this setup is pointing to the little problem I’m having, which is: mommy wars.  You tell me your kid weighed 6 pounds 10 oz at birth, and my knee jerk response is “Oh really?  Jack was 8-3.  How long was your labor?”  I’m not attempting to imply that Jack is better because he was 8-3.  Or that I’m tougher because I pushed out an 8 pounder.  I don’t want to know the length of your labor to see if I “beat” you – I’m not even sure which is better, a short labor (my body is a perfect baby-delivering machine) or a long labor (I am a tough birth warrior who made it through 40 hours of hell.)  Just – you told me yours, now I tell you mine, now we know each other a little better and we can move on to how many poops they had in their first week or whatever.  You know?  But I guess I’m afraid that every time I share a fun fact about my infant with another mother of an infant, she is feeling like I’m trying to one-up her.  If we’re being honest here, I one-up people all the time, but in the baby game, it doesn’t occur to me.  I love all preshuss babeez, and I admire all women who bore them (or adopted them, or are their adoring aunts or godmothers or whatevs).  Regardless of the details.  Now tell me all the details!  And listen to my details!

I hate that so many women are so sensitive about the subject of their children that we can’t even talk to each other about it (John in my blogroll would call this validation theory.)  And sometimes it’s bossy women being all judge-alicious and outspoken, or the passive aggressive women who imply, always imply, and then deny that they said anything nasty at all.  But sometimes it’s women being too sensitive and reading criticism where criticism ain’t, and I wish we could all just suck it up a little bit and share openly without having to walk on eggshells.

Am I right?  Or am I being too sensitive myself?  I mostly have experienced this online rather than in person – any time a woman posts about baby stuff, she’ll get a ream of comments, and someone will take issue with one of the comments, and then comments upon comments upon ridiculous out of proportion argument that requires a follow up post and blah.  I don’t have enough readers to stimulate a mommy war here, but I see them a lot in the more popular weblogs, and I translate that to real life.  Then I’m paralyzed when faced with a new mom in the flesh, and I just don’t say anything at all because I’m remembering Justin’sMommy87 who ripped HappyMommy23 a new one for mentioning that she breastfed for a year and thus implied that Justin’sMommy87 was a bad Mommy for using organic soy formula from birth.

OK.  So.  Deep breath.  And, Stacy would like to say something:

I am breastfeeding my kid solely and hope to continue for 6 months, at which point I will wean him off, definitely before a year.  He keeps me up all night and I let him sleep in my bed even though I “don’t believe” in co-sleeping and I am fairly sure that this is the reason he wakes up so much.  I don’t worry too much about germs or buying organic stuff or even about Bisphenol A – I think the world assaults him on all sides with germs and toxins and he’s going to have to learn to deal with it from Day One, and I’m going to have to deal with not being able to prevent that.  He was 8 pounds, 3 ounces, born after 12 hours of labor during which I did not receive drugs even though I had planned on it.  I had a midwife, not a doctor, but gave birth in a hospital, not at home, and this is how I’d like to do it in the future.   I work a corporate job, but plan to cut back to part time once my husband finishes up his degree and takes over the bacon-bringing-home reins.  Jack is 14 pounds 3 ounces now, in the 90^th percentile for his age, and I’m very proud of that but I’d be just as proud if he was in the 25^th percentile.  He pooped three times yesterday, woke up twice last night, and today I have to pack up like seven more onesies that don’t fit him anymore.

The End.

Now, says Maude – you tell me yours.