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Parenthood is a high-choice state of being. At every stage, there's a huge abundance of theory washing around about how to deal with the day-to-day practicalities of caring for one's spawn. For every fervently held conviction about how a given situation should be handled, there is - oh, believe me - an equally strong, diametrically opposed conviction.
Someone on Radio Faugh yesterday afternoon (there are advantages to being ill) delineated a central distinction among the writers of parenting manuals: In the red corner, Dr Spock, who says, "You know more than you think you do" and "Trust yourself"; in the blue corner, Gina Ford - described with some accuracy as the Margaret Thatcher of parenting theory - who says instead, "Trust me - you don't necessarily know what's best for your baby; he [sic] needs strict training". I incline to the former view.
I think I'm moving slowly from a phase of confusion to a phase of greater confidence and equilibrium. I'm aware that in some respects, the choices I'll favour as time goes on will set me apart from the mainstream. Most obviously, the choice not to feed Oisín formula has evidently seemed quite radical (sometimes even threatening) in certain quarters. Indeed, at times during the early weeks of his life, "choice" had to be repackaged as "stubborn refusal". Now that he's nine and a half months old, not too far off walking and talking, I expect that the pressure to wean him will mount. And I find that I have no intention of weaning until at least one of us wants to. I don't have a squick reaction to walking, talking, shoe-wearing sucklers, so if he wants to be one, I've no problem with that.
I went to a La Leche League meeting this week for the first time, thus branding myself as a rabid, scary, militant, hippy breastfeeder. To my slight surprise (I'd been expecting to feel a bit bombarded), I felt right at home. We sat in a circle and talked about how good and lovely and wholesome and empowering breastfeeding is, while some small children (with greater evening stamina than Oisín's) played or fed or dozed, and then we ate cake and chatted. It was really nice.
And that's the point, as far as I can see: there are so many different schools of thought on how to be a good parent that it makes no sense to ride into battle with the opposing forces at every turn. Within responsible limits (and that's a fuzzy concept, of course: I don't really know where I'd position the limits in many areas ... although I reckon I'd start with peer-reviewed research), the best move is surely to find a community of people who think you're doing the right thing, and fraternise ... wait, sororise ... no, [m|p]aternise with them. At the very least, it'll give you somewhere to stand when the opposing forces come and find you.
Support. It's magic.
Someone on Radio Faugh yesterday afternoon (there are advantages to being ill) delineated a central distinction among the writers of parenting manuals: In the red corner, Dr Spock, who says, "You know more than you think you do" and "Trust yourself"; in the blue corner, Gina Ford - described with some accuracy as the Margaret Thatcher of parenting theory - who says instead, "Trust me - you don't necessarily know what's best for your baby; he [sic] needs strict training". I incline to the former view.
I think I'm moving slowly from a phase of confusion to a phase of greater confidence and equilibrium. I'm aware that in some respects, the choices I'll favour as time goes on will set me apart from the mainstream. Most obviously, the choice not to feed Oisín formula has evidently seemed quite radical (sometimes even threatening) in certain quarters. Indeed, at times during the early weeks of his life, "choice" had to be repackaged as "stubborn refusal". Now that he's nine and a half months old, not too far off walking and talking, I expect that the pressure to wean him will mount. And I find that I have no intention of weaning until at least one of us wants to. I don't have a squick reaction to walking, talking, shoe-wearing sucklers, so if he wants to be one, I've no problem with that.
I went to a La Leche League meeting this week for the first time, thus branding myself as a rabid, scary, militant, hippy breastfeeder. To my slight surprise (I'd been expecting to feel a bit bombarded), I felt right at home. We sat in a circle and talked about how good and lovely and wholesome and empowering breastfeeding is, while some small children (with greater evening stamina than Oisín's) played or fed or dozed, and then we ate cake and chatted. It was really nice.
And that's the point, as far as I can see: there are so many different schools of thought on how to be a good parent that it makes no sense to ride into battle with the opposing forces at every turn. Within responsible limits (and that's a fuzzy concept, of course: I don't really know where I'd position the limits in many areas ... although I reckon I'd start with peer-reviewed research), the best move is surely to find a community of people who think you're doing the right thing, and fraternise ... wait, sororise ... no, [m|p]aternise with them. At the very least, it'll give you somewhere to stand when the opposing forces come and find you.
Support. It's magic.
