It’s been six months since our family unit went “nuclear.” (Isn’t it odd how that term is used once you add a child to the equation?) This is our first child, and I have nothing I can compare this experience to, but people constantly assure me that this is a special time that should be cherished. Parents everywhere remember these early days of wonder with great fondness. Which is funny, considering that most of this so-called magical time is spent hoping the baby will go to sleep:
• “I need to put this laundry away. Aren’t you tired yet?”
• “It’s 3 am. You are killing me!”
• “Why won’t you take a nap? Daddy wants to watch ‘American Ninja Warrior.’ ”
There’s a balancing act between providing loving attention to your squirming, little gremlin and trying to get anything done. Don’t get me wrong — the time you spend with your baby is unlike anything else. It’s filled with some of the happiest and funniest moments you can imagine, but also with some of the most taxing and draining times you’ll ever experience. Not surprisingly, when your life at home is filled with these ups and downs, all it takes is going out for a walk in the neighborhood to make you sensitive to the fact that the rest of the world also has mixed reactions towards babies.
My wife and I (along with our nuclear baby), live in Park Slope, Brooklyn, which is reputed to be the progressive-minded “stroller capital” of the United States. In this neighborhood babies are raised on a diet of kombucha, organic kale, and “The Daily Show.” Here, everything is tailored to children, from restaurants to parks to barber shops. In Park Slope, no one is too young for yoga: we have mom and baby yoga, pre-natal yoga — I bet you can even find fertility-boosting, pre-conception yoga.
We’ve also got a baby backlash. In certain circles it’s fashionable to sneer at the child-centric culture of Park Slope. Shortly before our baby was born, I overheard a couple of 20-somethings on Fifth Avenue saying there are no good bars around here.
“Like I want to sit next to someone’s stroller when I’m having a drink,” I heard one say.
It’s strange that New York City is supposed to be so inclusive and diverse, and yet people just want to stereotype anyone who’s not exactly like them. Anyway, I can only hope those two are able to find a suitable drinking establishment in a more youth-centric Brooklyn neighborhood, like Bushwick, before the clientele there outgrows their ironic moustaches and jumps on the baby-bandwagon, too.
Now, opinions are one thing, but outward hostility is something else. A few weeks ago I was walking with my little baby Bea snuggled against my chest in her carrier. I was the last of a thinly-stretched group of pedestrians crossing the street, causing a man in a big sports utility vehicle to have to wait before making the turn. I could have ceded my right of way and let him go first, but I would’ve missed the light myself. As I crossed he yelled out, “That’s OK, you go ahead! You’ve got a BAAA-BYYY!”
I’m not disparaging all sports utility vehicle drivers, but this fellow in his pointlessly large vehicle was, as the kids say, a total jerk-face. I’m guessing he already had a chip on his shoulder about the neighborhood, and in classic jerk-face fashion, he bent the facts to affirm his bias — I was the narcissistic Park Slope parent who doesn’t care about anyone else.
Jokes about stereotypes can be harmless fun, but when you treat real people poorly based on pre-conceived notions, things start to get ugly. That was the first time I had been pre-judged on account of being a parent, and it made me angry. After a minute, though, that gave way to a sense of pride. In fact, it made me want to go and buy a case of kombucha.
And that brings us, happily, to an episode on the other end of the spectrum.
I was on line at the grocery store a few weeks ago, and little Bea was getting fussy. I turned her around in her carrier so she could look outwards, which she usually likes. I tried taking her out of her carrier and holding her up in the air — Space Baby! — but to no avail. I gave her a bottle, but she was not having it. By the time I arrived at the checkout, little Bea was in big hysterics, and the potent mix of parental exasperation at her torment, plus the dreadful fear that dozens of people hated me at that instant — for not knowing how to handle her, for not taking her outside, or for simply having the gall to be there in the first place — verged on overwhelming.
“Do you want me to hold her?” asked the woman behind the register.
In spite of my surprise I didn’t hesitate. “Yes, please.”
I handed Bea over, and instantly she looked puzzled and stopped screaming. Then she looked at me and her little cheeks lit up and she gave me her big toothless cartoon smile.
Some people can’t hide their indignation that your baby hasn’t yet mastered the nuances of socially acceptable behavior, but the overwhelming responses from people I meet are ones of support and joy. There’s a small part of me that has never gotten over the adolescent notion that I don’t quite fit in, that I’ll always remain something of an outsider, but when I have little Bea dangling in front of me, breaking the ice with her glowing, exuberant grin, complete strangers become like family. Lately, I’ve felt a kind of acceptance from the world that I didn’t know existed. If the ups and downs of parenting result in a payoff like that after only six months, then I’ll gladly suffer all the jerk-faces in the world to see what’s coming next.
Tim Perrins is a part-time stay-at-home dad who lives with his wife and their brand-new tiny human in Park Slope, Brooklyn. More of his thoughts about babies and other things that confuse him can be found at www.RevoltOfTheImbeciles.blogspot.com.
