Several times in the past year, friends both in cyberspace and in “real” life have asked me the same question: Do I ever pause to consider the impact that this blog will have on Heloise, and any other children with whom we may be blessed, when they are older? Though it’s been a quarter century and more since I was a teen, I’ve been working around them continually almost since I stopped being one. And though there are some surprising exceptions, the general rule continues to be true: most teens, particularly at the onset of puberty, go through a stage where they are acutely embarrassed by their parents. Call it the “please drop me off a block from school” phenomenon — it’s a rare fourteen year-old who wants his or her friends to know much detail about his or her parents’ lives.
I write and speak openly about my past and my present. Compared to the degree of disclosure now common among teens on social networking sites (both in terms of words and images), what I’ve shared here is pretty tame. Of course, I write as an adult — and though I have plenty of youthful indiscretions in my past, I cannot claim the excuse of youth when it comes to explaining my reasons for choosing to be so candid about certain aspects of my life on this blog.
I cannot protect my daughter entirely from future embarrassment. No doubt there will come a time when how I dress, or walk, or even breathe will be a source of intense annoyance to her; I know adolescents well enough to know that that those moments of deep disgust with her parents (perhaps particularly her father) will be brief albeit (probably) intense. And no doubt she’ll wince when and if (realistically, just when) she reads what I’ve written and continue to write about my life and my past.
I remember vividly a conversation I had with my father not long after I had lost my virginity. I was seventeen, and he was fifty. He was in Carmel visiting us for the weekend (when my parents divorced, my mother took my brother and me to the Monterey Peninsula while Dad stayed in Santa Barbara, where he remained until his death.) Papa and I took one of our long walks and talked about many things, mostly about my new girlfriend. Dad remarked, as we strolled on San Carlos Avenue, that I was younger than he had been when he lost his virginity; “I was nineteen and in the RAF”, he said. It was the first time he had ever mentioned his own sexual life to me, and I felt that familiar mix of revulsion and curiosity so common to adolescents when a parent begins to offer what my cousin Dinah calls an “over-share”. He told me a little about the “girl from the village”, how they had met and so forth, and I listened with eagerness and trepidation, not knowing how much I wanted to know, afraid of hearing more than I wanted but fascinated by my father’s sudden burst of almost uncharacteristic candor.
We walked on for a few more moments in silence, and then Dad asked “Were the lights on or off?” I said something like “Jesus, Dad, what a question!” I told him that the lights had been off but the television had been on (videos on MTV). My father seemed puzzled and asserted that he preferred the lights on. And that was the last we said of the subject; indeed, in the remaining 21 years of his life, we never had a similar conversation again. But what I’ve noticed, as I play through my memories of my father in my head, is that the embarrassment I felt discussing sex with my father has faded completely. What remains is the recollection of a precious glimpse into his youth, of what life in England in the early 1950s might have been like for this bookish, gentle, funny young man doing his national service before heading off to university. What remains after the awkwardness is the memory of intergenerational intimacy, tinged as it was with the mutual incomprehension that comes with an age gap and a different cultural vocabulary.
To put it simply, what made me cringe when I was seventeen is now a fond and precious recollection. And it is in that light that I think about my daughter’s future reaction to my own writing, so full as it is of stories about my past. There will be a time, I am sure of it, when Heloise will wish very much that her father had not been quite so forthright, so inclined to what my generation often calls “TMI” (too much information). But I also suspect, based upon my memories of my father, that when she is older still, what once seemed so embarrassing will become considerably less so. Though our culture does do its damndest to turn adolescence into a quarter-century process (at least for men, and not an insignificant number of women), psychic puberty does end. And as far as I’m concerned, psychic puberty ends when we cease to blame our parents for our own adult mistakes, when we absolve them of responsibility for the outcome of our lives, and when we no longer cringe when we contemplate them in all their lovely, flawed, perfect humanness.
What humiliates and infuriates at fifteen becomes the happy recollection at forty; the story I shared above is hardly the only such instance. And it is a good reminder to parents and children alike about the need to balance both candor and respect for boundaries, and to forgive generously when that balance becomes skewed, as it inevitably will.
I take your point, Hugo, and I agree, but way to generalize from a single instance of a single dyad. Lovely story though, and thank you for sharing that.
And damn you for reminding me that California exists, while I am stuck in this frozen hell they call the Midwest.
I actually really appreciate this blog post. I’ve found that a lot of what used to embarrass me about my mother stemmed mostly from the fact that I was starting to view her as a person, not just a parent. Now, while I’m not eager for her to share a ton more information (not because I think it’s gross to hear about her sex life or views on things like masturbation, but because I’m not anxious to hear any sort of information about her boyfriend in particular–THAT’S still weird), I’m glad that these subjects no longer embarrass us to talk about.
Of course, my older brother, who is much, much too parent-y when it comes to my sister and me, refuses to let us talk about anything remotely “inappropriate” and tells us off for it. It’s annoying.
The sort of humiliation that sticks is the bad kind. Not the, “OMG, my mom tried to connect with my friends by talking about her favorite music!” kind, but the, “OMG, at my Bat Mitzvah, in front of all my friends and family, my dad thought it was totally hilarious to tell the story about how he got me to stop crying in the car by stopping it, taking me out of it, and telling me that he was going to leave me on the side of the road, when we were on a cross-country trip” kind.
There were so many things my parents didn’t tell me about their early lives that would have been helpful for me to know (in fact, some things — like an aunt’s suicide — were changed to something innocuous or, like my Dad’s first marriage, never mentioned)…their lives appeared so morally unconflicted that I couldn’t bring them any of my problems/questions/uneasiness (didn’t help that Mom was pretty judgemental and both parents simply appeared not hear questions they didn’t want to address). I made a lot of mistakes that a little knowledge might have avoided. I’d have preferred a little embarrassment to being totally clueless.
We kids heard about Dad’s first marriage when I was 40-something. That’s a long time to keep that secret. Had I known I wouldn’t be cast off by my family being divorced, I might not have stayed in a crummy marriage for 20 years.
You can’t run your life by catering too much to adolescents. We can all (those of us who are no longer adolescent, that is) remember the things that were so vitally important to us then, and laugh, or squirm, about it now. Anyway, they’re going to be embarrassed about us whatever we do, so we might as well ignore the situation.
As Mark Twain (allegedly) said:
“When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.”
I’m a teenager. I was never that embarrassed by my parents when I was younger (I guess that was because I never really got the idea I should be), but I’ve noticed a bit in the few years it’s started to show a little. I do think, though, that John is right- Parents should not change too much to cater to teens. Teens are brats sometimes.
Plus, the more parents try to be their child’s ‘best friend’, the less sense of authority they have over them. This is what I’ve seen. My parents can be embarrassing sometimes, and they know it (I’m sure they have a lot of fun doing it too) but they don’t try too hard to be ‘cool’, because I love them and they love me, but they’re not like my mates at school. (To quote a favourite line of my mother’s: “I’m not your girlfriend.”)
Embarrassment and humiliation are two different things, the former (but never the latter) should be part of the process of growing up. In my opinion, getting embarrassed and learning to deal with that is a humbling experience that teaches one not to take themselves so seriously. As Phira said- it’s the really bad humiliation that sticks. Not the small stuff.
That’s fantastic… However, there are many different situations. In fact, my situation is very different. I am a college educated construction worker that has always been the one to keep up the house. I not only replaced all of the windows, doors, casing and much, much more in this house but, I do most of the everyday cleaning.
I too had a single hard working mother who showed me how to run a clean household. Yes I am a clean organized person but, I’m not a neat-freak. My wife on the other hand, likes piles of things. Piles of magazines, cups, clothes, dishes, you name it and she’ll pile it. We also have different levels of time management and efficiency. I move much faster. I’m always analyzing how I can be more efficient. She on the other hand has one speed (medium low).
A fact I’ve accepted because I love her so much. She has also shown me how to relax a bit (when appropriate).
I had my first child while in college and, I’ve honed my skills as a single weekend Dad for the past nine years.
This is her first (she used to cry about wanting one at least every couple of weeks). She had a C-section and this has slowed her recovery a bit. Now we are on month 1 and, I was hoping she would move more often with some sense of urgency. Hmmm…. I still
care for our baby 12-18 hrs. a day. She sleeps or pumps breast milk.
Part of it may be p.p. depression but, certainly not all.
I know she’s frustrated by several things:
1) When I hold our daughter, she does not fuss or cry.
She can’t seem to comfort her.
2)The breast feeding is not going well.
3)She feels guilty that I’m doing a lot of work but, continues to be irritable with me. Even saying -”You know I need more sleep than you”.
4)Both of us have only been out of the house a couple of times (besides a diaper or formula run). When I express a need to get out for a while, she’s fine with it until I am close to leaving.
Then, she say’s she needs to get out too. I am very understanding and always offer right then and there to switch and care for her if she needs to go out. Her follow up statement is ” No, you always take care of her and I don’t want you to resent me”.
Don’t get me wrong, I have made frustrated comments myself
I’ve said things like; “You need to spend time with her to build a relationship with her.” “If the breast feeding thing is too painful pump it into a bottle and give it a rest. We have formula.”
And the classic “You wanted a baby reeaally bad remember?”
But, after 4 hours of sleep, I’ve woken up to care for her for another 12 hrs. I like to think I’m a patient person. I try my best but, I have my limits.
I am also a man. I need to get out, get dirty, destroy, and create. I can feel the Testosterone building. I need an outlet. For the entire time I’ve known her, she’s enjoyed relaxing in the house.
I, can only do that for so long and am an outdoors person(plus I’ve gained 12 lbs).
Is there anyway to remedy this situation without saying “For crying out loud, you’re her mom, suck it up!?
I will have to go back to work soon. Please God, let me go back to work.
The other side of the coin…
Mr. Mom, I don’t know what thread you meant to comment on, but this one doesn’t seem to be it. With that said:
My wife on the other hand, likes piles of things. Piles of magazines, cups, clothes, dishes, you name it and she’ll pile it. We also have different levels of time management and efficiency.
That sounds like attention deficit disorder to me. Here is a website that describes women with ADD; it’s mainly thought of as a “boy thing” so most women don’t get diagnosed (we tend to learn compensatory strategies, which fall through during times of great change—like say, first time parenthood). “Strategic piles” is what I revert to if I don’t have a dedicated out-of-the-way place for something, or if I’m afraid I’ll forget something (translation: the pile stays in my visual field, hence in my mind). I had absolutely no idea how to organize jacksh*t (except for “put it in a pile with other like stuff”) until reading books on organizing and…learning how to use a computer, and seeing the file graphics—how files were organized in the system. Folks with ADD tend to be very visually-oriented, and need organizing systems that with with, not against, that tendency. I liked the book “Organizing Solutions for People with Attention Deficit Disorder” and the “Home Organizing Workbook” & “Personal Organizing Workbook” by Chronicle Books. There’s a new one out, “Organize Now” that structures everything in weekly assignments (along with quarterly, half-year, and yearly reminders of things-to-do), and “One Year to an Organized Life” is also pretty good.
(stop laughing, people. those books really helped me, ‘cuz when I became a parent, my tenuous hold on organizational skills really fell to sh*t.)
(It’s probably also worth saying that since this is a stressful time for you both, she may not react real well to you bringing home an armload of these books and saying, “Here. You need to read these.” Since you’re already treading lightly, you may as well continue! Just saying—it may benefit you to understand her (probable) thinking style, and adjust some of your organizing strategies to a form she can work with—since that seems to be your forte.)
She had a C-section and this has slowed her recovery a bit.
Gee, ya think?
Now we are on month 1 and, I was hoping she would move more often with some sense of urgency.
Mr. Mom, I had an emergency C-section and gave birth three months before I was supposed to (she’s 10 now, and doing fine). I was a real gym rat and in good physical shape, but I didn’t even begin to start feeling physically like myself again until six weeks later. It was eight weeks before I was starting to get back into a normal routine of sedentary behavior. Part of it was the blood loss, but another part was where the surgery took place—I’d never had any surgery before (or even stitches!), and….never really realized how much it would impact me. Your wife just had major surgery on her core. It is going to affect her strength and stamina for some time. Combine that with breastfeeding, and yeah, it takes a piece out of you. At the same time, breastfeeding will aid her physical recovery. But, it does make you sleepy.
What worked for me: (1)co-sleeping. I got one of those criblets that attaches to the bed, so when my daughter woke up in the middle of the night, I was right next to her—I didn’t need to get up and move major muscle groups getting her and putting her back (and thus having a hard time getting back to sleep). In fact, with her right next to the bed, I woke up before she started fussing—I could hear her moving/making sounds before any crying started. That helped, too.
(2)a boppy pillow. Makes breastfeeding easy, comfy, and provides a good place for the baby to sleep when you both crash out in the easy chair. I hear they work pretty well for dads who bottle-feed, too.
(3)a nipple shield. My daughter spent the first six months of her life in the hospital. Because of her medical problems, she was NPO a lot. She ended up with “nipple confusion”, and using a nipple shield helped the breastfeeding return to normal. Since you guys are switching between breast and bottle, you might try a nipple shield. If the breastfeeding difficulties are unrelated to that, a session with a BF coach might help (if your wife wants to continue, which your post suggests she does). If her nipples are sore and she’s using a hospital-grade breast pump, turn down the volume! They told me to use the highest setting I could at the hospital, which to me read as “full tilt”. At first, it wasn’t too bad. After a week and a half, it was killing me. I turned the volume down, and got more production with no pain.
Hope that helps. Oh—one more thing. Paper plates and carry out. Yes, it is possible to eat healthy carryout. I’m a big proponent of home-cooking, and truly love to cook—but I also had to recognize my limitations, and hence ate a lot more carryout that first year. Home cooking means home clean-up too. Let the deli roast the chicken for awhile, and spend some quality time away from the sink.
For Mr. Mom –
Call in all the back-up resources you can. There’s a reason that a woman is considered medically “disabled” for 6 weeks after a vaginal delivery and 8 weeks after a C-section. You need some grandparents/friends/neighbors who are willing to pitch in to get some chores done for you or help your wife while you go out and take care of yourself. Being left alone with a tiny infant that you don’t feel capable of caring for is scary – and especially scary for your wife when her emotions are all over the map and her body is physically depleted. You seem to have done a great job so far picking up the slack, but there is only so much you can do as one person. You need another person, and you need help. Either so that you can be there for your wife emotionally because you are stretched less thin yourself, or so that someone else can help her through the emotional roller coaster while you hold down the fort on other fronts. This is more than a one-person job. If you don’t have any support people you can call in, and you can afford it, consider a post-partum doula. There’s a reason it exists as a job. You do need help, but your wife is not capable right now of providing it. Find someone who can help both of you.
Mr. Mom, your wife did all the work for the first 8 or 9 months or so. Not just most of it, not just more than you, all of it. At the end of doing all. the. work, they cut her belly open with a knife and took out the baby she made.
So if you feel like you’re doing most of the work right now, keep right on doing it. It’s your turn. In seven or eight months, you’ll begin to approach parity with your wife. Then, if you still have to do most of the work after that, then you may have something to complain about.
I disagree with the harshness of sophonisba’s post but… agree with part of the sentiment. I know that Mr.Mom’s story made me think of myself, I’m not someone who wants a baby “reeeally badly” but I do plan to have children. At the same time I have deeply ambivalent and to be frank negative feelings towards pregnancy and labor. I love the idea of adoption but that will probably not be an option for various reasons. I do not look forward to having my body be hijacked and out of control and tired and etc. I really really really do not look forward to labor and think it’s kind of a huge deal. There is no way for my husband to take that burden – so I expect him to really appreciate me for doing it and to take the burdens that he can take on. Now, my guy wants children probably more than I do so I don’t know how much that plays into expectations or whether it’s even fair to let that have any effect but I will not get pregnant till I have repeated commitments from him on this subject. None of this is to suggest that it’s fair or good for you to be worked to the bone here. You both need and deserve support. However, your desire to escape the situation by going to work… is maybe not ideal.