Suburban Turmoil
By the time my first child was 4 months old, I was pretty sure I was going to fall down and die if I didn’t have a martini, or several, ASAP. Preferably in a place where the music was loud (conversation is so overrated), the lighting was low (the better to conceal my slowly deflating mummy tummy) and four-month-old babies were strictly prohibited.
I hatched a foolproof martini-swilling plan that hinged on a woman named Rhonda. She was part of a moms’ group I’d been attending and lived just five minutes away.
“Rhonda,” I bubbled after calling her. “I have this great idea. If you’ll watch Baby for a few hours one night, then I’ll keep Jacob for a few hours on another night. That way, we don’t have to take our chances with babysitters and we can both get in some quality Virago time with our husbands.”
“Um,” Rhonda exhaled through her nose. “We don’t actually believe in leaving Jacob with anyone else. So, thanks anyway.”
“Oookay,” I said, muttering a “beeyatch” for good measure as I hung up the phone.
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In retrospect, I should’ve known my bright idea was doomed from the start. At our mommy meetings, Rhonda and her friends always huddled together, murmuring mysterious terms like co-sleeping and family planning. They breastfed their babies with an air of importance, proudly whipping out their boobs like they were front row tickets to a Pixies reunion tour.
The Rhondettes practiced various forms of “attachment parenting,” a philosophy advocating almost constant physical contact between mother and infant. Ideally, an attachment baby rides around in a body sling, sleeps in his parents’ bed and has a stay-at-home mom. Cribs, strollers, bottles and sitters all are on the shit list of many AP moms. And from the looks on the Rhondettes’ faces, so was I.
Once I quit the group, the subject of attachment parenting gave me the same vaguely nauseated feeling I get when I see Vic Lineweaver campaigning. But now that I’m older, wiser and writing for the Scene, I decided it was high time I put my AP theory (i.e., attachment mom equals high-strung harpy) to the test.
Since Attachment Parenting International is headquartered right here in Nashville, it took me only a few weeks to convince a few hardcore AP mothers to join me for an informational playgroup. To my surprise, the women I met were totally cool and open about their beliefs. They admitted there are plenty of Rhondas in the AP world (hell, let’s be honest—there are plenty of Rhondas everywhere) but insisted they were trying to quash that kind of judgmental behavior.
As we talked, I realized that my child rearing techniques were more in line with attachment parenting than I’d thought. I believed in positive discipline, too, and I didn’t bother with strict feeding and nap schedules. Perhaps I qualified as a semi-attached parent, my baby metaphorically dangling from my body like a cheap fanny pack on a tourist at Tootsie’s. But I really perked up about my attachment prospects when it was revealed that one of the moms was friendly with Alison Krauss.
“She even got Alison to sing at our API benefit last week, and it was wonderful,” one mom gushed. “Alison is a great mom.”
Was it possible that if I went AP, Alison and I would end up sharing martini nights out? I also imagined us, the Paris and Britney of Nashville, having coffee at Bongo Java or watching our kids play at Dragon Park as paparazzi leaned out from behind trees to snap our pictures. I’d always be sure to wear my best underwear too, just in case someone was sporting a pesky telephoto lens.
There was just one hitch.
“I can understand why some women are all for attachment parenting,” I said to the other moms. “But I can’t see a whole lot of husbands getting on board.”
Seriously, how many men out there would happily agree to give up their bed, their boozy date nights and their wife’s rack for two or three years, minimum?
The attachment moms named a few sensitive Stuart Smalley types they knew. “Some guys definitely have a problem adjusting, though,” one mom admitted. “Like that guy in Michigan who went up on the roof of his house and said he wasn’t coming down until his kids started sleeping in their own beds.”
She wasn’t exaggerating. Back in March, James Wilson garnered nationwide news coverage when he set up a tent on his rooftop and proclaimed that the “family bed” was interfering with his sex life. “I’m speaking on behalf of all of the husbands in this nation that suffer in silence,” he told a local television station.
After the moms had left, I poked around on the Internet for attachment fathering support. While there were tons of forums and articles for moms, all I could turn up for dads were a few silly-looking pictures of men wearing baby slings and an article advising guys to read every day to their unborn child. I also found an interesting study claiming dads were anthropologically justified in letting the kids use their nipples as pacifiers.
I wondered how this news would go over with Hubs.
“I was thinking,” I said that night as we watched TV, “maybe when the baby is born, you can let him nurse on your nipples if I’m out somewhere.”
Hubs looked at me sideways. “Does this have to do with your attachment parenting deal?” “Maybe.” I’d been outed. After a moment, I continued.
“OK, nursing may be sort of extreme. But I do think you should read a book to my belly every day, so you can bond with the new baby.”
“Forget it.”
“Why not?” I pouted.
“Because I wouldn’t read a book to a two-hour-old baby, so why would I read to an unborn one?”
He had a point.
And yet, so do I. I can’t wait to see his face when I start telling people I’m married, but unattached, thanks to my husband.