Friday's column: Don't underestimate the role of mother's-best-friend
Baby Charlotte was born one month ago today. And, though I occupy no formal position in her life, I do expect to have a front-row seat for much of it. Charley's mother is my best friend, which is the sort of thing that sounds all goofy and sixth-grade when you say it, but takes on a certain reverence at times like these. Because the role of mother's-best-friend is a serious deal.
Like everyone else in the circle of Charley's family and friends, I fuss and coo over her and recognize her obvious superiority over other babies her age. Charley, for example, is a committed urban-dweller and sleeps best when a jackhammer pounds away in the distance. She disdains the proto-SUV stylings of the modern stroller and prefers the smaller environmental footprint left by being carried around her Brooklyn neighborhood in a Baby Bjorn. She also prefers to avoid clothing that smacks of condescension, like hats with pom poms.
But, as easy as it is for me to fall in love with a baby possessed of such discriminating aesthetic standards, my role, during my first visit since her birth, has less to do with Charley and more to do with her mildly sleep-deprived and occasionally overwhelmed mother.
When I showed up on Tuesday, Charley was having an uncharacteristically fussy day. I didn't have a lot to offer in the way of actual baby-related expertise -- she howled with the same why-don't-you-people-understand-me frustration when I held her as when her mother did -- but I was able to make an important contribution: logistical support for an excursion to a local cafe for fancy coffee drinks.
Ground rules for MBFs
Fancy coffee drinks, like prayer, don't necessarily have any scientifically demonstrable health benefits. But they do offer a comfort to the soul. And fancy coffee drinks, like manicure and massage appointments, represent an important aspect of mother's-best-friend territory. Unlike, say, Charley's father, grandparents and aunts, I do not feel the need to ask a lot questions about her health, development, care and feeding. Instead, I simply affirm that she is thriving and give her mother a high-five for keeping her alive for this long.
"Looks like you're doing a great job," I tell Charley's mother. Because Charley is growing and healthy and beautiful.
This, her mother and I can agree in the private bubble created by our late-afternoon lattes, is nothing short of miraculous since, a few short months ago, neither of us knew the first thing about parenthood. Now, I'm still clueless, but my best friend knows how to do things like swaddle a restless infant and extract snot from a tiny, congested nose. These feats are all the more impressive, I believe, because they are being performed by someone who would not generally characterize herself as the nurturing type.
While others ask questions -- What are you going to do for child care? How long are you going to nurse her? -- I offer affirmations.
As her mother's-best-friend, I reserve the right to buy expensive, impractical gifts for Charley. I also have some responsibility for Charley's education in shoe shopping, dating and the selection of a college major. But, mostly, it is my place to always be on her mother's side, to declare that impossible-to-follow child-rearing advice should be ignored, and to be an advocate for the occasional adults-only vacation or any other form of parental self-care that might become available.
'It's not logical'
But being here with Charley's mom is not an entirely selfless act. It is also a reconnaissance trip. I am a spy in the house of parenthood.
Because lots of people will happily share their baby stories -- generally of the "48 hours of labor, all quickly forgotten in the first joyful moment I held her" variety -- with you, but only your best friends will tell you the unvarnished truth.
So, in moments of quiet, I pick up my cell phone and call my husband to report on what I've learned.
"Believe it or not," I tell him, "if the baby doesn't sleep much during the day, she tends to sleep less at night, too."
This, he points out, is totally counter to logic.
"I know," I say, "but apparently it's in all the baby books."
One of those books -- clutched at desperately for guidance, but hated for its smug sureness -- has informed Charley's mom that her daughter's sleep habits are "not logical, but biological."
For Charley's mom, there isn't time to think too hard about this little piece of Zen-like wisdom.
For those of us who still haven't crossed the border into parent-land, it's enough to make our heads spin.
We ask ourselves, "Could we possibly be ready to take on responsibility for another human life?"
Is anyone, ever?
