I look at first-time parents and remember how difficult it seemed when we had one, then two babies. Scott and I laugh at how easy it was, and wonder why we didn't realize how easy it was at the time. Golda and Ruby were good babies, but it was so hard! Ptolemy and Tziporah have been so easy! While there are practical reasons for that, such as having a bunch of people fighting to care for them all the time, the real reason is much simpler: We don't parent this batch of babies. We have lost our will.
Example: When Golda was a baby, the books said never to put her to bed with a bottle, so we didn't. The books said she should be weaned at 12 months, so she was. This time around, I've read all the books, but the memory of their advice is hazy. It was a long time ago. Tziporah is two, and she goes to bed with a bottle. Then she wakes up during the night demanding "more baba." She hardly eats during the day, so she's hungry during the night, which works pretty well for me because I have much more free time at 2 am than I do during the day.
Yes, I realize this is alarming, and that we should probably do something about it. So this week, we steeled ourselves to put an end to the nocturnal baba preparations and deliveries. I think the catalyst was when I stopped the microwave 8 seconds early, eager to climb back into bed, and Tziporah rejected the bottle, like a little Anna Wintour. "I like it warmed up, Mama." Our little gourmand would just have to learn to sleep through the night. This happened to be the night that Ruby got home from camp at 1:30 in the morning. So I had been asleep for an hour when Ruby came home full of camp tales. Seconds after we all settled down to sleep again, Tziporah called, "I need more baba!" I gently reminded her that we're not doing babas anymore and smugly climbed back into bed. I did that approximately 78 times, although the smugness turned to resolve, then annoyance. At 4:30 in the morning, Tziporah was whimpering softly in her crib, "My mama's being mean to me! My mama's being mean to me!" Funny and sad! But we made it through the night, and I was confident we had turned the corner.
Nope.
The second night, we lasted until about 3 in the morning, same routine, until we finally came to our senses/threw in the towel. Depending on your perspective, you could either say we gave up, or we got smart. I'm willing to concede that we lost this battle. By that point in the grueling War of the Baba, I was willing to put anything in that bottle. Pure chocolate, liquid gold, a little whiskey. Whatever it took to make Tziporah happy. Fortunately, all it took was a little milk, warmed in the microwave for exactly 30 seconds, and served with her zebra blankie, tassel side to her face. She was out within seconds.
Now, remind me again why we tried to parent her?
Example: When Golda was a baby, the books said never to put her to bed with a bottle, so we didn't. The books said she should be weaned at 12 months, so she was. This time around, I've read all the books, but the memory of their advice is hazy. It was a long time ago. Tziporah is two, and she goes to bed with a bottle. Then she wakes up during the night demanding "more baba." She hardly eats during the day, so she's hungry during the night, which works pretty well for me because I have much more free time at 2 am than I do during the day.
Yes, I realize this is alarming, and that we should probably do something about it. So this week, we steeled ourselves to put an end to the nocturnal baba preparations and deliveries. I think the catalyst was when I stopped the microwave 8 seconds early, eager to climb back into bed, and Tziporah rejected the bottle, like a little Anna Wintour. "I like it warmed up, Mama." Our little gourmand would just have to learn to sleep through the night. This happened to be the night that Ruby got home from camp at 1:30 in the morning. So I had been asleep for an hour when Ruby came home full of camp tales. Seconds after we all settled down to sleep again, Tziporah called, "I need more baba!" I gently reminded her that we're not doing babas anymore and smugly climbed back into bed. I did that approximately 78 times, although the smugness turned to resolve, then annoyance. At 4:30 in the morning, Tziporah was whimpering softly in her crib, "My mama's being mean to me! My mama's being mean to me!" Funny and sad! But we made it through the night, and I was confident we had turned the corner.
Nope.
The second night, we lasted until about 3 in the morning, same routine, until we finally came to our senses/threw in the towel. Depending on your perspective, you could either say we gave up, or we got smart. I'm willing to concede that we lost this battle. By that point in the grueling War of the Baba, I was willing to put anything in that bottle. Pure chocolate, liquid gold, a little whiskey. Whatever it took to make Tziporah happy. Fortunately, all it took was a little milk, warmed in the microwave for exactly 30 seconds, and served with her zebra blankie, tassel side to her face. She was out within seconds.
Now, remind me again why we tried to parent her?
1 comment:
I get this.
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