I have been wanting to go back to my chiropractor since Owen was born but the sixty some odd blocks between my house and his office seem insurmountable. For one, there are no elevators on the subway stop on my end which means that taking a stroller is a no-go and their hours never seemed to coincide with with Owen's happy awake time. But yesterday, Owen had an early nap and it seemed like there was a perfect window to head up there. So I strapped him in the ergo and headed out the door. After a block when it seemed like he shifted from his initial, "Oh God, what are you doing to me!!!" caterwauling, into the comfortable rhythm of our walk I called and said, "Do you happen to have an appointment in half an hour for someone who may or may not make it there?" When you have a cantankerous infant, making it out the door is really no guarantee that you will actually make it to your destination.
I did indeed make it. So big deal, it only took me three months to get there. My body was in desperate need of adjustment. After pretty much every part of my body was moved back into place, Owen was in urgent need of feeding again. So I fed him, in a chair with excellent lumbar support, promised to return again sometime in the next year, and headed for home.
As I stepped out the door, I was greeted by a deliciously pleasant breeze, a treat after several days of excessive humidity and heat. I hate heat. My body is made for Spring and Fall. It resists extremes. And apparently my little guy has inherited a hate for heat because if I take him out when it is too hot, he inevitably turns into a ball of tortured rage, reacting to the sun much like a Gremlin when you sprinkle water on them. One moment he he is cute and cuddly and the next. . well you saw the film. (Well, if you are old like me you saw it.) But the day was beautiful, so I decided to walk. I figured even conservatively I had at least an hour. So I could stroll for about thirty minutes, get on the subway wherever I was, and have AMPLE time to get home to feed the succubus again.
I was wrong.
After about thirty minutes Owen woke up screaming bloody murder. He was not fooled by the breeze. He was hot, and annoyed. If you do not know the mechanics of the Ergo, it is one of the many carriers wherein your baby is cuddled up against your chest, held there by fabric. They are supposed to love this: being close to you, hearing your heart-beat like they did in the womb, smelling your wonderful mommy smell. But the downside is there is basically zero air circulation between you and them, and when it's summer what this means is overheating and sweat. And let's face it, in the womb, there is a pool, and in Manhattan, there is concrete, metal, and steam grating.
So Owen starts screaming. I figure if I get him in the subway he will cool down, calm down, and we will get home where our air conditioned apartment awaits. It won't be that bad.
I was wrong.
We get into the subway, he continues to scream. Actually at this point he is screaming so hard he is choking and shaking and looks for all purposes like he is one step away from death. I try to undo the Ergo and give him a little air, while trying not to drop him on the subway platform where if the fall to the hard concrete does not kill him, surely the warm germ cesspool will, attacking his not yet three month immune system.
The air does not calm him. I try to see if I can manage to nurse him, while clutching onto my unbuckled Ergo, and hiding behind a pole at the end of the platform. I finally maneuver his mouth somewhere near my nipple by hunching over and hauling him up. This is clearly not what he wants. The train comes and I get on it, not realizing I have left both of the hooks to my nursing tank undone. .whatever. I get on the subway and stand for a minute until someone finally offers my their seat. And all the while I am offering a running commentary to Owen. And I realize part of the commentary is for Owen and part of the commentary is for my circumstantial audience. It is for all the people out there who are undoubtedly judging me for having this screaming baby who I must be abusing or something because why else would he sound like I am forcing him to watch Sarah Palin's " Wild Alaska" on repeat? So I say things like, "Oh honey, we'll be home soon. Oh, you're having a hard day. Oh, I love you." And it's not like I don't mean this (though there are moments I have loved him more), or that I would not be talking to him if I was at home on my own, but I acutely aware of my audience. It is the same thing when I'm speed-walking down the street with him in his stroller as he screams from is assuredly horrible gnawing hunger because I'm just not up to nursing him standing up outside of some Duane Reade. So I tell him, and everyone else within earshot, "We'll be home soon honey. You'll get milkies in a minute my love." (yes, I sometimes say milkies, what of it?)
I know that everyone knows that babies cry but there is something about the continual publicness of it in New York City that makes you feel like you are always' mommy on stage' if you are being judged for a reality show. But I am the clip that makes people revel in a stage of Schadenfreude instead of hope and elation. Thus, the running commentary is my way of making everyone realize that I am a contestant with talent who is just having a bad day rather than the one who really just should have realized that, "so you think you can dance?" wasn't an off-hand rhetorical question.
And several of my new mom friends admitted they do the same thing, that they feel they have to offer color commentary or their children's breakdowns. And I wonder why we do this. I don't really care so much about the outside world. It's not like I have him at the opera or something where the whole environment really contraindicates a crying baby.. it's the subway for crying out loud - a place of general rudeness, noise, stench etc. People have sex on the subway without apologizing, people go to the bathroom, eat buckets of chicken, clip their fingernails, listen to really loud music, preach about the evils of almost anything. I once had a man tell me I looked like a Jew and he was sorry I was going to hell, and another man preach about the evils of miscegenation (yes in 2011) while swaying over my my group of friends, two couples of which were inter-racial. So do I really have to apologize just because my baby is over-heated and over-tired and happens to be screaming at the top of his lungs? And the answer is of course not. What I need to do is get over being worried about other people judging if I am a good mom or not.
And I'm sure, a therapist would tell me that it's really me judging me but luckily I'm too busy to make it there on the subway so I don't need to self-reflect too much. Maybe in another three months .
