Imaginary conversations & Cribsheet
When the judgment you fear arrives on your doorstep
This morning, Nick and I spent a handful of lovely minutes reading together in his office. His office is also our guest room, and the cozy brown futon was already pulled out because we pull it out every night for the dogs, complete with pillows and a white noise machine (we are absolutely those dog parents).
He sat in his office chair with his legs propped up on the futon, and I sat opposite him, my legs crossed over his. One dog hopped up and curled into my side while our other dog stretched out on the rug underneath his legs. The office faces east and south so the rising sun filled the whole room, making us all glow. It was a very cozy affair.
Part of what made this special is that a pocket of calm like that can be rare on a Monday morning. The other part is that we’re actually reading the same book at the same time at the same pace. It’s called Cribsheet: A Data-Driven Guide to Better, More Relaxed Parenting, from Birth to Preschool by Emily Oster (love it).
This comes on the heels of me finishing Matrescence: On the Metamorphosis of Pregnancy, Childbirth, and Motherhood by Lucy Jones (love it), and Nick starting The New Dad’s Playbook: Gearing Up for the Biggest Game of Your Life by Benjamin Watson (this one had too many religious undertones for agnostics like ourselves, so we struggled to find it relatable and shelved it before we got through the first chapter; could be great for other folks though).
We’re not pregnant or expecting, by the way. Not even close actually. My IUD and I have been happy together for almost as long as Nick and I have; next to my dogs, she’s my favorite purchase to date, and I don’t have plans to bid her adieu for several months.
So…why on earth are we reading parenting books?
It’s a fair question. I have a lot of imaginary conversations where I explain myself: because I love to learn (curiosity over everything! research until we drop! pro/con lists as an extreme sport!); because Nick and I want to be on the same page; because of the inherent bonding that comes from talking about being a team while raising a family, because information is empowerment, because we want to make informed decisions, blah, blah, blah.
Then I remembered that no one really cares about your life choices as much as you think they might – and not in a bad way. Just in a no-one-scrutinizes-your-decisions-like-you-do kind of way.
And then it happened.
I was recently told that someone did pass the judgment (along to a mutual friend rather than to me directly, as it tends to happen) that I’d been mentally preparing for. The fodder for all of my imaginary defenses, the Thing I Was Worried People Would Think: that we’re being a little…intense about our whole approach to having kids.
Too intense. Going overboard with all of this preemptive research. Too much too early for people who are so far from pregnancy. Overthinking. Wasting energy.
It was probably an offhanded comment, spoken and forgotten in the span of seconds, likely not even meant with malice. I took the news of this small judgment in stride, which of course means I’ve been spiraling over it for the past week.
Because the books aren’t even half of it.
There is an area in our garage dedicated to baby gear – we started accumulating it when our friends started having kids (so they wouldn’t have to pack up half of their house to bring their littles to our house). Nick’s brother and his wife are having a baby soon, so we’ve amped this up even more. I have a bassinet, a pack n’ play, two strollers, a car seat, a play mat, a walker, a high chair. When my mom friends give away baby things, I snag them without hesitation.
“For my nieces and nephews,” I say. But also perhaps for us someday, I think. Two birds, one stone carseat. The stuff is free or cheap, and we have the space. Why not?
But now we’re the people who read baby books and horde baby gear.
I also got set up at our local birthing center a month ago; had an intake appointment and everything. We talked about our timeline, my ‘08 PCOS diagnosis, my future IUD removal, hormonal shifts to expect, vitamin supplements to look into, books they recommend. I told her about the books I was already reading, the supplements I was already taking, the research on hormones I’d already done. The midwife said she “wasn’t used to someone being this prepared” and that a majority of her clients “haven’t considered half of these things.” But…were those…compliments?
Because now we’re the people who read baby books and horde baby gear and get established early (too early?) at birthing centers.
See, it’s not just the books and the gear and the midwives: it’s the timing. It’s that we don’t need to do any of these things yet (or possibly ever, fertility being the wild card that it is). Only intensive, overly-prepared, energy wasting, high strung overthinkers do things like that.
(At this point I would like to note that there was no “we” in this off-handed judgment call about “going overboard.” We -Nick and I- are not being intense: only I am being intense. It is assumed that I [as the woman in our cis, heterosexual marriage] am the one who is “high strung”, clearly dragging my poor, helpless husband down the road of “over-preparation” because he couldn’t possibly be interested in knowing these things about parenthood himself.
There’s no way he could be the one who suggested we read a parenting book together (which he was) or gratefully encourage my collection of free or cheap baby gear (which he does), and it’s simply impossible that he could be the one who wanted a baby years before I came around to the idea (which is true).
Let’s retire the absurdly annoying rhetoric that men have no interest in the process of pregnancy, birth, and parenting. It’s stunts them, villainizes and overburdens women, and shuts LGBTQIA+ couples out of the conversation. It is outdated and we are tired.)
My spiral is tapering now, and I know this because I know my spirals well. First there’s the adrenaline jolt, which is almost immediately smothered by my desire to seem cool and unbothered. Then we move on to the slow burn phase where this doesn’t work at all, and my “cool and unbothered” facade burns away entirely, revealing a white hot flame of anger underneath. Despite the heat, this is actually the easiest place for me to stay; I used to get stuck here a lot. I’d relish the fire, thinking that it made me powerful, even though I could barely see for all the smoke.
Years of work on my self-awareness and emotional regulation eventually taught me that as long as you don’t feed them, fires eventually burn themselves out. And what I’m typically left with then is some form of clarity. Most times she joined by a combination of sadness or insecurity or fear, though oddly enough I find that it’s usually a relief to encounter them. I’d rather name those feelings than continue to burn alive while I hide from them.
Once clarity arrives (with or without her friends), re-grounding begins. My return to me – not who that person thinks I am, or how I think I should be. It sounds enlightened, but it’s a rocky process I’m better at on some days than others. At the very least, it’s a process I’m familiar with now, which makes it less daunting to experience.
So the spiral ramped and peaked and fizzled, and what I’m left with is this:
Because nobody writes about their approach to parenthood the way I seem to experience mine, I have questioned myself. This is why I spiraled when I was called intense: because secretly, I was worried I agreed.
Except…I really don’t think we’re doing this too early. I don’t think reading books and having parenting conversations and stocking up on free baby gear is going overboard. More than anything, I’m curious as to why people think we need to wait until we’ve only got roughly 36-38 weeks to figure all of this out.
Why do we need to wait for a plus sign on a wand to read up on the mechanics of pregnancy? To dig into the exceptionally powerful identity shift that motherhood initiates? To have conversations with our partner about parental leave, and what feeding times will look like, and childcare options, and the ways our lives will change, and the things we do or don’t want to give up when that happens?
Why do we need to wait until there’s a nine-month countdown timer to find doctors or midwives that we like? To educate ourselves on the variety of birthing options out there? To say “yes” when a friend asks if you want her changing table before she gives it away? To discuss how we’ll support one another when we’re half crazed with sleep depravation?
Maybe it’s consumerism: companies want us to feel pressed for time so that we buy everything new, afraid that if we wait for quality secondhand items, the baby will arrive before we can get what we need…?
Maybe it’s emotional: what if we do all of this research, visit these midwives, have these discussions with our partners, store bassinets…and then can’t get pregnant? Will it hurt that much more because we prepared that much earlier? Will the comedown from hope and anticipation like that shatter us into twice as many pieces?
Or is it just that we’ve haven’t been taught to think that way (my way)? In school, I barely learned about my own reproductive system, much less about the thought and intention we could put into the concept of parenting. Nine months is enough, is what I was taught. And for some folks, maybe it is. But what an odd (and short) standard for the biggest life shift you’ll experience, you know?
You’ll figure it out, is what they said. And I don’t doubt that. The unknowables in parenting are infinite, and figuring it out as you go is an unavoidable part of both the chaos and the fun. There is no “completely prepared” in parenting; Nick and I may read books and talk to midwives, but we are under no illusion that research (or anything else for that matter) will truly, fully ready us for the nuances of birthing and raising a human, other than birthing and raising them.
The way Nick and I have chosen to do this? It doesn’t feel intense to me…it feels the opposite of intense. There is no rush, no feeling of immediacy, no countdown timer, no looming deadline. There are no pregnancy hormones to contend with while we figure out logistics. There is no mad dash to see if the birthing center has openings. There is no last-minute-emotional-scramble to “come to terms” with the reality of our decision, because I’ve been talking to my therapist about it for years and we touch base on where I’m at with it every month.
And I need that – I need to slow roll into this next phase of life. The last time I did this, I was unprepared. Everything was a scramble, everything was tinged with immediacy, everything was awash in unrecognizable hormones. I didn’t read a single parenting-related book back then; there was no point, really. I shut the door firmly on the idea of me as a parent so I could do what needed to be done. So I could go through with the adoption.
That door has been open for a while now – since Nick and I got together. For a while I ignored it. Or raged at it. Or imagined people were trying to push me through it (not entirely false). Mostly I was afraid of what I’d find inside. Me as a parent – what does that even look like? Who is she? Did I avoid her for a reason? Do I even want to know her? Will I like her? Will she be good at it? Who will she become?
I’m not sure. I won’t know until I know, and by then, it will probably be time to change again.
But I figured, just in case she and I meet someday…I’ll take the free stroller. I’ll read the matrescence books. I’ll have the midwife lined up. Nick and I will keep talking about the parents and partners we want to be. We will continue to read and collect and learn and converse. Like my spirals, it seems, the more familiar we are with the process, the less daunting it feels. Being intentional feels empowering.
And so we read Cribsheet…leisurely, 10 or so pages at a time, in small pockets of calm on a Monday morning. Our own version of baby steps.
Just in case. Just in case. Just in case.
I am in your boat. I was working on a career shift, reading about the experience of motherhood, and figuring out what our community village would look like long before we became parents... I think our approach makes a lot more sense than the "wait and figure it out" approach, given that it is one of the biggest changes people ever go through in life! It's a luxury to learn and understand it at your pace (and save a boatload on random baby stuff :) ). Thanks for sharing - you make me feel less alone in it all.
you have more personal depth of anyone I know