Catch-22

I had a great weekend with Baby Z and John. We packed it full of activities (which I was mildly anxious about) and Baby Z handled it with zeal and poise (read: no breakdowns). On Sunday afternoon, we went to a Children’s Arts Fair and got a glimpse of the “with Kids” side of life. Although Baby Z was too young to make an endangered species out of pebbles, we all enjoyed watching all the squeals and sunburns.

We sat down for lunch on an outdoor patio with a spectacular view of the ocean. While John was walking Baby Z around to distract him from the fact he wasn’t getting a nap just yet, I breathed in the ocean air and warm breeze and vowed that I would simply enjoy this moment and not get upset later when the repercussions hit.

I’m talking about the Catch-22 I’ve been experiencing every since Baby Z joined our little household. It goes something like this:
1. Mommy is going crazy being in house all the time.
2. Mommy decides to go out despite looming dread that things will go wrong with Baby Z.
3. Baby Z either: a) tries out his new high-pitched scream in a crowded restaurant, or b) behaves like an angel to settle Mom into a relieved feeling of accomplishment until- SLAM- the day-after nap apocalypse begins.
4. Mommy vows to never go out again.

This pattern repeats itself just often enough to make me think hard about every outing lasting longer than an hour. It is very easy to sink into Pavlovian submission and confine myself to the house until Baby Z is 18. I tell myself I can’t live life by what might happen. I think to myself: I feel strong enough (today) to handle the repercussions (of tomorrow). But when the fallout occurs, I curse myself for trying to have coffee with the girls or letting John talk me into that fair (of course it’s all his fault!).

If I dig deep into the root of my fear, it comes down to mostly my own and other people’s opinions of me. Breakdowns in public make me hyper-conscious of the opinions of others. The curious well-meaning looks (Is that a baby?) look to me like probing stares of judgment (What kind of Mom is she?). As much as I intellectually understand that being a good Mom does not mean your baby never cries, I can’t seem to emotionally convince myself of that. Whether the crying occurs in public or at home during his afternoon nap, I feel his cries like daggers shredding my confidence and peace of mind. Am I really doing the right thing? Is he going to recover from this? Have I ruined his napping pattern forever?

Thankfully, the napping catastrophes really never last more than a day or two. Both Baby Z and I always do get through it (not to mention my longsuffering husband). And that magical amnesia of parenting always does kick in enough to make me willing to venture out again. If I could just bottle that assured confidence after weathering a two-day storm and make it into a little life vest for the next baby hurricane that comes my way.