Last night, JP was frightened by the various things that go bump in the night and refused to go to sleep. After several hours of comforting him, singing songs, removing myriad frightening objects–books, toys, the vacuum cleaner I left there earlier in the day–I left him get in bed with me.
Before anyone jumps the gun, this isn’t a post about the perils/virtues of co-sleeping (btw–I totally object to the term “The Family Bed,” which I think should be banned along with many other vague, awkward euphemisms: significant other, visually challenged, etc). The more you obsess about things like sleeping policy, I think, the more things go awry . I wasn’t allowed into my parents’ bed as a kid, except when I was–and usually crying, nightmares, or something else was involved. Tomorrow night, JP goes back to his own bed.
What did get me was that when we got in bed, JP asked for his Curious George doll (check), asked if Frankie the dog would be joining us in bed (yes), if Henry the cat would (off and on), if my girlfriend would (no, out of town on business), if Mommy would (no!), and…wait for it…if Mommy’s girlfriend would.
Theorem: A child, S, can survive to adulthood if and only if her immediate environment is rid of all potential dangers (sharp edges, hard surfaces, electrical outlets, tripwires, venomous snakes).
Discussion: From about the time S was starting to motivate, her mother and I realized we’d have to rein her in somehow. As Christopher is only just learning, the head bonks that come with mobility occur with terrifying regularity. S’s first major one was a tumble from a hotel bed, resulting in a resonant bonk against the leg of a chair; her mother wouldn’t let her nap all day, for fear she’d sustained a traumatic brain injury. She hadn’t.
And so we followed the Department of Homeland Security’s lead—we installed a fence in our living room. Made of flimsy wood, it arced around a cushioned playmat and our sofa, giving S enough space to roll, then crawl, then stumble without risk to life and limb. Sure there were occasional spills—when she was learning to climb off the couch, for instance—but she survived. She’s even spent whole hours in the windowsill, hiding behind the curtains in a never-ending game of peekaboo, not quite aware that only a few millimeters of glass separate her from a multi-story plunge.
Now, at a year old, S is starting to walk—and to resent her prison, which is actually larger than some New York apartments. In short, she screams if placed inside, even if one of her parents or nannies joins her to play with various squawking electronic toys. And frankly, she’s not gonna learn to walk if she can only take a few steps at a time. Something must be done.
Proof: We will attempt to prove the theorem by contradiction—that is, by assuming its opposite, that a young child can survive a non-childproofed apartment. To that end, we have given S an open-ended furlough, removing her prison walls and exposing her to dangers such as: the kitchen! the dining table! the baseboard heaters!
Right this very minute, she’s crawling around behind my back, inspecting the carpet mat (mmm, delicious!) and dragging chairs across the floor, virtually daring them to topple onto her. I see cords she can pull, a freestanding glass-fronted medicine cabinet she can teeter, a length of coaxial cable she can fashion into a makeshift noose with her burgeoning executive functions. What will I do about these threats?
Nothing. Well, I’ll watch her closely, of course, and instruct her with a strong-voiced NO when she attempts to set foot in the kitchen or bathroom, and if she insists on doing what she’s not supposed to, I’ll pick her up and play with her in a safer corner of the apartment.
And, two days in, she’s still alive! Human babies are a surprisingly hardy lot, capable of surviving numerous head bonks (note to Chris: get the head bonk out of the way in the morning, if possible, so you can look forward to a bonk-free afternoon and evening) and much, much worse. If S can’t make it through childhood in the mostly low-rise, carnivore-free, perpetually monitored environment we’ve provided for her, then her chances as an adult can’t be very good either.
QED? Not quite, I guess, since I seem to have proved the opposite. We won’t know fully, of course, for another 17 or 18 years, but I’ll invoke here another shaky mathematical process—proof by induction. If it worked yesterday and it worked today, it’ll work tomorrow! QED!
Now, some people may think I’m a bad parent for putting little S at risk. And some people may applaud my attitude. But I think we can all agree on this: It’s a good I never became a mathematician.
Well, it wasn’t technically today — it was a few days ago. But it was a doozy.
Our son is just barely old enough to not-quite-crawl: He can roll around and push himself back and forth a little. Up till now, my wife and I have been in the habit of plunking him into the center of our double bed, two good turns away from all the edges, when we need a moment to get something done
You can pretty much guess what happened. I turned my back for 90 seconds, as I was putting away some freshly folded laundry. And as I stood there, sorting my stupid socks, I heard a thump and a cry. He had landed on his forehead (his head!) and had a big red welt to prove it. It’s the first time I have ever caused him pain, I think, I hope. And by the time I got to daycare an hour later, I was sure that a SWAT team from Child Protective Services would descend and lock me up any moment. By that time, I was thinking that I might deserve it.
When I walked in, our caregiver immediately noticed, and I explained that he’d fallen and hit his head. And she said, as warmly and breezily as I could’ve asked for at that moment, “Oh, that’s gonna happen.” A little advice, reader: If you want real-world information at a moment like that, the person to ask is a woman who changes twenty diapers a day.
(Followup: He’s fine. Of course he’s fine. But we’re done with that middle-of-the-bed thing till junior high. And tonight’s batch of clean laundry got put away after he went to bed.)
Last week’s volley aimed at the Parent Coaching industry got a lot of responses, some on the site, some by email. It wasn’t the most diplomatic post I’ve ever written (parent coaching “seems like bullshit”! The Parent Coaching Institute offers “pseudo-degrees”!). But for the most part, the aggrieved parent coaches out there took the upper hand, and were far more measured. If they can keep their cool and equanimity in the face of petulant teenagers or preschoolers that well, then I’m going to guess they are pretty good at what they do.
Now, to the comments:
This came from parent coach Rhonda Moscowitz:
My first reaction as I read your article was that it was written by someone who hadn’t bothered to get any information–clearly not by a journalist. What a shock to read your your credentials on the About page! Worse than that, I am a fan of Matt Gross’s The Frugal Traveler.
First off, let me say that you are right. There is nothing worse than being a fan of the Frugal Traveler. I curse the day I started to love that man’s recession-friendly travel advice.
To the substance of your point, Rhonda: true, I am a journalist, but I would hope that what we do here at DadWagon is a little different. A magazine article is in many ways a closed feedback loop. The conversation ends once it goes through its last edit and is printed. You hear plenty from readers, but you rarely get to revisit a topic because of something they said. One of the joys of blogging is that it can be a bit more Socratic than that: I put some ideas out there, and by the magic of the tubes you guys come to me with your own thoughts on it. Cool.
It’s clear that the Parent Coaches of the world are used to having to defend what they do. As this 2005 Times article points out, they exist in a space between layman advice-giver and a psychologist or family therapist. That is, of course, something to be celebrated. A lot of families need help but don’t have $150 an hour or don’t have an issue that’s serious enough for family therapy.
But that brings me to a basic question that came up when I was talking, as I have been all weekend, about professional Parent Coaching: why do we need it now if we’ve gotten along without it for the last 10,000 years?
I suppose it’s a comment on today’s dissolving webs of friends and family that we’ve had to professionalize the giving and receiving of advice about parenting. Either we’re not being offered that guidance from our elders or peers, or we don’t want them to get involved. Either way, many people are left to seek out parent help in the way that, as commenter Lee Gentemann put it, we would a mechanic. I can’t help but find that a little sad. But, to be fair, it’s no sadder than paying a stranger to watch and care for and love your infant while you’re at work. That’s just the way we live these days.
PCI grad Barbara Bushey and other commenters made the case that PCI is the most rigorous credential out there for Parent Coaches. I have no reason not to believe that. It’s obviously the biggest name out there, which is why I singled it out. But it’s healthy to be skeptical of all commercial enterprises that spring up around parenting. Other than personal beauty, is there a richer or more easily exploited vein of anxiety than parenting? Quackery abounds, as DaddyTypes has been showing in his lovely contiguous beatdowns of BabyPlus.
So I would have liked some more concrete information about what exactly is taught at PCI and what’s passed on to parents. I will definitely take up PCI founder Gloria deGaetano’s generous offer for more written information. And I’ll raise the ante a bit: if there’s a New York-area Parent Coach who feels strongly enough about their profession that they want to come out and meet my kids or the kids of one of the other DadWagoners, and tell us what Parent Coaching can offer, I’d love to hear from you.
Last week’s