Tiger Babies Strike Back (14 page)

I still think back to those early days when I was a new mom and figuring out how things were supposed to work. That was almost a decade ago, and when I'm lying in bed next to Lucy now, I am glad we are still close. The other night, she reached across my chest and gave me a squeeze.

“I like your boobies, Mommy,” she said, patting them. And at that moment, that was all the cultural reassurance I needed.

17

“I had never seen anything like it,” my husband said. “You were in the recovery room and your mom and I looked through the glass partition and saw the baby swaddled there in the tray. Your mom looked at Lucy with
tears
streaming down her face. She was
crying
. It kind of freaked me out.”

Who knew that a blob of joy with thighs like biscuit dough could move my mom to tears? While Rolf counted Lucy's fingers and toes out loud, my mom's face was reportedly, yes, leaking spontaneous tears of happiness.

Of all the family photos in my parents' house, there is only one of my mother as a child. She is standing knock-kneed on an army base in Hong Kong, the expression on her face confused at best. She is about three years old and is grimacing in distress, even as she is held in place by her mother. My grandfather stands confidently alongside them in his U.S. military uniform.

My mother arrived in this country speaking only Chinese and was placed in a lower grade for her age because of her lack of English. Her parents struggled to find housing and work, as she and her older sister navigated their new school and all the different faces and customs they encountered. Money was tight, the foods were unfamiliar, and I can only imagine that my mother did not have a happy-go-lucky childhood.

From the moment my baby was born, my mother expressed such delight in her that at first I was taken aback. For my whole life, my mother never acted giddy, or even a little bit goofy, and there she was, making faces, playing peekaboo, singing, and gently tickling Baby Lucy. Through my daughter's infancy and toddlerhood, my mom held and comforted her, chased and played with her. My mom became both the kid she never got to be and a young mother once again. It seemed that all the things she didn't have time to do with me were made right in this second chance with her granddaughter. My mom could be silly! Who knew?

And I guess this is as good a time as any to say that during those first years of Baby Lucy's life, my mom totally saved my ass. My mother was my rock. Other than my spouse, I trusted no one else to feed, bathe, and take care of my daughter. Up to that point, I had viewed my mother to be pragmatic to a fault, but all her practical know-how in cleaning, measuring, diaper changing, clothes washing, and snot wiping came to my rescue when I was a sleep-deprived know-nothing.

I was adept at many things in life, like how to organize an office of fifty people, how not to get pickpocketed on the bus, how to walk into popular restaurants and get seated quickly even without a reservation, and other urban survival skills. But for some reason I had never had any experience with babies. I didn't have younger siblings or infants around in my household so I had never even changed one diaper before I had Lucy.

People might think a new mother just magically “knows what to do.” And all I've got to say to that is, ha ha ha ha. In various jobs I've held for pay, I attended seminars to familiarize myself with computer programs and trained with my superiors to learn the ins and outs of becoming a team leader. However, never in my life had anyone ever clued me in about cradle cap, pinkeye, ear gunk, or cleaning milk out from under a baby's neck. So thankfully, here was my mom, having not been around an infant in several decades, but nonetheless, she was, in fact, the Blob Whisperer. As if she had cared for us babies only yesterday, she miraculously could read the subtle nuances in infant gurgles, hiccups, and squeaks.

I cannot overestimate how comforting it was to have someone around whom I could trust to keep my baby alive. I was in that hysterical, new-mom headspace where I would wake up in the night and hold a small mirror up to the baby's mouth to make sure she was still breathing. The only thing that quelled my all-consuming anxiety was knowing that I could take Lucy to my mother for a few hours in the morning, and she would be safe while I tried to catch some sleep.

My mom accompanied me to the baby's doctor appointments and played bad cop to my good cop when it was time to get shots. She didn't lose her mind like I did when Lucy wailed in fear. Someone had to not be the basket case, and that was my mom. I had never fully understood that being the person who gets things done is a crucial yet unsung position in life. Her pragmatism allowed me to be a mess. Her strength allowed me to flail around like a depressed, weepy, stressed-out mammal in milk-stained clothes. Until I could gather my marbles and come to grips with the fact that my college education and urban life skills meant practically nothing in this new endeavor, my mom was there keeping the baby clean, fed, washed, and happy.

I had always considered my mother to be short-tempered and difficult, and I thought of myself as someone who was affable and accommodating. Weirdly, though, now our roles were reversing. My mom transformed into a more pleasant person as she reveled in Lucy's innocence and sweetness. Meanwhile, I was the one becoming a cranky pants as I dealt with my changing body, new responsibilities, and the realization that old freedoms that I had taken for granted were now suddenly ripped away, never to be seen again.

During my daughter's earliest years, my mother and I spent more time together than we had in two decades. In that time, she became younger and I became older. She reconnected with the playfulness of youth, and I began to understand that becoming an adult meant putting someone else's needs before my own for every meal, shower, snack, clothing change, and need to pee. It was a major learning curve to always think to wash someone else's hands before my own, fix a twisted sock, roll up a sleeve, cut a piece of meat, find a sequin lost in the carpet, or handle any such earthshaking minutiae before even taking a sip of water for myself.

I did not magically “know what to do.” As an adult, growing up continues to be a learning process as I help someone else to grow up. I am grateful that in my early years of motherhood, I had someone in my corner helping to do all the unsung, mundane, immediately crucial work of keeping my daughter fed, comfortable, and thriving.

My mom and I are not exactly chummy best friends. But she was my rock when I needed one. And like I said, she certainly saved my ass. And I will never forget that.

18

I hadn't fully understood the importance of having a group of friends until I had a baby and started to spend time with other moms. Up until then, I'd had solid friendships with individuals, having forged bonds through school or a mutual love of art and writing. However, when the baby bomb detonated, it created total chaos in my body, brain, and living room.

I am not sure if motherhood levels the playing field or obliterates it as would an underground nuclear explosion. Dirt, weeds, small animals, uprooted trees, and all manner of flying detritus rain down on your head, or at least that's what it feels like. The needs of your deflated body, demanding family, and cuddly, perhaps colicky baby are a whole new minefield that you must navigate. And where once you could walk a straight line to get somewhere, you might suddenly find that the ground has now somehow turned to Jell-O. As a new parent you search for solid footing, only to encounter sinkholes filled with Marshmallow Fluff.

I didn't find immediate camaraderie on playgrounds or in moms' groups. In fact, my first foray into fellow-parent bonding didn't work out so well at all. When Lucy was three years old, I enrolled her in the same tiny tots program I had attended as a child. I hoped that we, as mother and child, would have two tons of fun. I assumed I'd feel at least a little bit like I belonged since, after all, I had attended the place myself, back in the 1970s. Of course, I wouldn't have expected any of the old teachers to still be there, but I at least thought the other parents would be
nice
. But dang if the social hierarchy wasn't bursting with mompetitors with poopie personalities. My childhood playground had now become a gathering spot for Mean Girls with Strollers.

There was a preexisting superclique of redheaded gals, and as they all chatted in a tight circle, I did occasionally rescue some of their boys who were upside down in the sandbox and couldn't right themselves. Or sometimes the boys got stranded on the rickety play bridge, dangling helplessly by their ankles while their moms remained oblivious. I tried to be helpful. I wanted to be liked so much that I even tried to interject into conversation that my husband was a redhead, as if they'd accept me into their group by hair color proxy. But they weren't interested. Not even when I offered to share my organic fake Oreos.

Nor was it a love connection between our offspring. Lucy observed the other children from a safe distance, and when I asked if she wanted to join the other kids, she observed the
Lord of the Flies
melee by the play structure and uttered one scathing word, “Cooties.”

There were also two Asian moms at this tiny tots, but they kept to themselves and didn't talk to anyone, not even to each other. Not that they should have immediately been friends because of their ethnicity, but in my petty, competitive mind I hoped and schemed about forming a Super Asian Mom clique that might topple the dynasty of excluding redheads. That was my revenge fantasy, anyway. But when I smiled at them from across the circle as we all sang “The Wheels on the Bus,” neither Asian gal smiled back. They both did the little hand movements with looks of complete boredom on their faces. Meanwhile, I tried to at least feign enthusiasm for the sake of my kid.

I unsuccessfully attempted to suspend judgment as I watched the Asian woman with the cropped hair constantly check her phone and the one with the glasses as she frantically texted. They should have been doing the swish-swish-swish motion with their hands, and the swirly wheel thing with their fingers. I wanted to say, “Come on, ladies! This time, with feeling!”