Too Many People, Not Enough Bees

As of today there are now 7 billion people on this planet.

I can still remember the news that the Earth's population had grown to 6 billion—it was October of 1999 (don't worry, I had to look that up). That's 1 billion additional people on the planet in the span of just twelve years. In the United States alone there are an estimated 484 births per hour, and only 288 deaths—an additional 196 people every sixty minutes, or 1.6+ million per year. And in the US the rate of growth is considered slow.  (check out "The World at Seven Billion" by the BBC)

When I was pregnant, Sam and I actually talked about over population. We talked about the fact that our plan to have only one child would make a positive difference. We wouldn't be adding to the problem by having many babies; we wouldn't even be maintaining the status quo by leaving two new bodies in the space we will someday vacate. We would be providing a solution: one small step for humankind.

We also talked about plenty of other reasons that having only one made sense. Starting this baby process as late as we did, with our modest financial reality and our tiny house, one baby fits. We don't want to be under diaperland house arrest forever. We want to resume the more social and active lives we used to have and we really want to travel with our kid. In our estimation, these things will be easier to do with just one. And, our limited resources will be dedicated to her, not spread thin among many. With more than one kid, we don't think we'd ever be able to afford to go anywhere as a family, or do anything, and no one would ever be able to go to college, that's for damn sure.

When we really started to formulate our argument, we addressed the inevitable opposition by anticipating The Sibling argument: I have one and she's incredibly important in my life, but when we were kids she was kind of a pain in my neck (Amy, you'll forgive me, right?). She wanted to sleep in my bed all the time and she made funny noises with her mouth when she slept. When she got older I told her no one would ever want to sleep with her because of those crazy lip-smacking sounds (Then I married someone who does the same thing. It's karma, I know). Sam has siblings too—a bunch of them! He's the youngest of four and he has wonderful relationships with his brother and two sisters. But, Sam and I also both grew up loving our family dogs, so we agreed that it would be feasible to have only one kid if we made sure she would always have a dog.

So we had our one baby. And we were ready to feel satisfied, like we reached our destination: good jobs, nice house, dogs, and baby. Family? Check!

But then, the world started crowding in again: When are you going to have another? Have you started trying yet? You are going to make sure she has a sibling, right? Of course you'll have a second! You have to have another one! Let me tell you about my kids…I just couldn't imagine life without #2!

Well, of course you can't imagine life without #2 because #2 has a name and a personality. And #2 exists and talks and hopefully now and then says or does something that makes you love him or her. But, that doesn't mean it makes any sense for me to have another one, just because your #2 is right for you.

I get frustrated when people ask me questions that are based on their own assumptions, because whether I care about their opinions or not, sometimes I find it's impossible not to doubt myself. And even though I don't like it when people do that to me, sometimes I too get so caught up in my own point of view that I ask stupid questions as well : Recently I tracked down two moms I know who are mothers of "onlies." Both have daughters--very hip, very smart, very lovely daughters. I went to them feeling vulnerable and asked each one for a pep talk: "Please tell me all of the reasons that you think having only one kid makes sense. I need some ammo so I can fight back." Of course, I don't know their stories either…maybe these two moms wanted more than one and couldn't? I'm genuinely sorry to those two moms for my own insensitivity! And I'm genuinely grateful that they didn't tell me I was an insensitive moron, and instead they told me things like this: having one is wonderful, it's just us, we're a team, the bond we each have with our child is a gift.

Sam was in on the conversation too, as were their husbands. The husbands were a bit more direct: "Tell people to mind their own damn business!" Maybe they were trying to tell me that? I admit, I was caught up in my own concerns at that moment. Nevertheless, their advice was good, for me and for lots of other people who ask too many questions.

As the talk about babies continued, one of the moms said this: "If having a baby doesn't change you, nothing will."

I've been thinking about that ever since. And I often find myself taking stock of the many ways I've changed. When I try to explain it, all I can come up with is this: I feel like a kinder, gentler me. I feel like a better human being. I feel, well, softer, less edgy. I could be kidding myself, of course, but either way, I like the new me better. If having a baby doesn't change you, nothing will. Wouldn't it be sad to never change? Thank god for Quinn! She's the only thing in my almost-forty years that has truly, in one definitive move, changed me.

And so here's the problem: if having her in my life is this good and this important and makes me this happy, wouldn't having two or three or seven of her just multiply my happiness accordingly?

I used to have very clear ideas about things--about myself, and other people, and the world in general. And while some things are a lot more clear than they ever were before, some things are less clear, like the plan to have only one. I'm not saying we're pulling the goalie because we're not. It's just that some days it is a struggle for me to be rational, and to hold onto the many good reasons our original plan makes sense. I want to do what's smart and responsible and right for us. But right feels a bit nebulous on the days when I'm laughing out loud because I taught Quinn how to touch her nose and now she anticipates my question by the time I get to "where's your..."...and she jams her finger into a nostril, or sometimes in her eye. 

Still, at 7 billion and counting, I'm afraid to think of what the world could be like when Quinn's trying to make these decisions for herself. I hope there's enough food to feed her, and fuel to keep her warm, if in fact there is still such a thing as winter. And I also hope she'll have found things to do in life that make her feel useful, and I hope she'll live somewhere she feels safe and happy, and that she'll have the company of someone who is kind and loving. I hope I'll have the intelligence and the restraint to let her interpret those things as she will when the time comes. And I hope I won't muddle her thoughts with pressure to do things the way I've chosen to do them. 

And I really hope someday I'll stop looking for the next thing I'm supposed to do and just be happy where I am…someday I hope my brain will stop buzzing and I'll know how to just be.

Humpty Dumpty

Soon after Quinn's first birthday, something bad happened. Our sweet daughter--who 95% of the time during the first year of her life, went to sleep quietly each night in her crib, after a warm bottle and a brief snuggle in the rocking chair--was kidnapped. In her place, someone left another baby who looked a lot like her…but this baby cried, a lot. And this baby did not sleep.

The timing of this exchange was uncanny for a few reasons.

The first reason is that I had just been spending a lot of time marking her first birthday by thinking about just how totally perfect and wonderful she was, and how I was completely in love.

The second reason is that it was at the beginning of a two-week vacation that we were very much looking forward to, and during which we had imagined we would accomplish many great things.

The third reason is that she timed this metamorphosis to take place on a night when we had friends over for dinner. When I put her to bed and she started crying, I returned to the table, apologized, and hoped she'd sort it out. Five minutes turned into ten which turned into forty-five. Our friends said things like, "Don't worry! It's not bothering us." That's nice, I first thought to myself and then said out loud, but it is bothering me! Sure I felt bad that the background music to our meal was screaming, but also I felt bad that Quinn was so upset.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for a little tough love now and then. I've been practicing it on Sam for years. I was happy to let her "cry it out" because in doing so I would be able to demonstrate, to myself and Sam and our friends, that I am still very much in control in my relationship with Quinn. That it's my way or the highway, you know? Well, that's all a lie. All I wanted to do was go up there and hold her. But, I waited. I gave it what I thought was a valiant effort: I let her cry for four solid hours. The problem was that she didn't get it out. She cried, but she never quit. I quit. I quit dinner, I quit pretending, I quit dishes, I quit trying to be a good host. I just left the table, went upstairs, picked her up and felt very very bad for having made her go through such an ordeal. She feel asleep instantly on my shoulder. A little while later, when I made it to my own bed to lie down, I knew why she had been screaming: nasal drip, an angry sore throat, a pounding head. I was sick and so was she. She had passed her first birthday without ever getting sick…ever as in not once, but this was the onset of her first cold.

That was the beginning of what felt like a very long road. Keep in mind that Sam and I had no experience dealing with a bad sleeper. We had no solutions and no stamina. All we had was each other: to yell at, snap at, insult…two stuffed dolls just waiting for the pins.

Each night we'd try to soothe Quinn into a happy place so she'd go to bed. Each night as soon as we approached the crib, she'd start screaming and holding on for dear life. Some nights we just admitted defeat from the start and one of us would set up in the chair, prepared to hold her until she was asleep. If she was deeply asleep, we might be able to sneak her into the crib and tiptoe out. To be sure, we'd sit in the chair for an hour or more, listening to her snore. The chair squeaked when you tried to get out of it, but if you froze halfway up, and tried not to move, she might stir and then settle again. Or, she might not. And then you'd start over again. The worst torture was on the nights when you'd successfully get her up out of the chair, over the side of the crib, down out of your arms, and onto the mattress still asleep...only to have her scream the moment you slipped silently out of the room.

Other nights, when no one was here to witness it, we tried the cry-it-out routine again. I've read some books about this. I've read about how the first night or two can be really hard on the parents. I've read about how some babies will even cry for an hour or, would you believe it, two!?! I've never read about any babies who cried for ten hours straight and only quit then because their parents had already caved…but that's what my baby did, more than once. I'm worried about the future, I'm not going to lie; we're about 0-5 against her—things don't look good.

At some point in that sleepless blur I read something about a period of separation anxiety that generally happens right around the first birthday, a time when the baby realizes for real who her parents are and who her parents are not. And, if you're doing things right, the baby insists on you and rejects those who are not you. As I thought about it, I realized she was doing that more and more. The book said that this phase can also interrupt a baby's sleep—babies who once went to bed willingly might resist, and babies who could put themselves back to sleep when they woke up in the night no longer could. The book said the sleep interruption might last up to three weeks.

For three weeks, Sam and I learned to dread Quinn's bedtime. The closer we got to having to put her to bed, the closer we got to the torturous screams. The evening hours, which used to be ours, were gone. We either took turns staying awake to hold her so she could sleep, or we both writhed in misery listening to her scream. A couple of times, out of total desperation, we just brought her to our bed where she'd sleep peacefully and we wouldn't sleep much at all for fear of suffocating her. I would have gladly done that every night if someone could have told me that it was, in fact, just a phase and it would end. We wrestled nightly with whether to hold her and comfort her and let her sleep close by, or whether in doing so we were turning our once good and independent sleeper into a bad one who would never again sleep without our help. The evening hours were confusing and interminable. The daytime hours…well, I don't know what the daytime hours were like because I don't remember them…except for the bickering, I remember that.

We started to think we'd never get our baby back. And that we'd never be able to go out again, because how could we possibly leave her with a babysitter or, for that matter, leave a babysitter with her? We worried our friends would no longer want to be friends…no one would ever come over again. We started to worry that our marriage wouldn't survive…okay, I started to worry about that; Sam's not quite so dramatic. But for sure we started to think we couldn't handle it. And then it stopped—right at the end of three weeks.

By then, of course, all of our immune systems were shot and so we've spent this last week taking turns going to the doctor's office. Three weeks after Quinn had her first cold, she had her first fever. It was horrifying—she was hot to the touch all over—hot like a right out of the oven baked potato. And she was lethargic. I started to believe there could be nothing worse than a lethargic, feverish baby, until I woke up one day to a lethargic, feverish baby with hives all over her legs. The doctor said she had "a raging and inflamed ear infection." I've got a sinus infection and a rash on my neck where a new necklace used to be. Sam's got symptoms too: when he tried my new Neti Pot to flush out his nose, the water went in one nostril and came shooting out his mouth. I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure your plumbing is not supposed to work that way.

It's all okay…I'm starting to feel sure we're going to make it because we're sleeping again and frankly, right now, that's all that matters…that and the fact that she's not lethargic anymore. Tonight I watched her figure out how to put one of her small stacking cups inside a larger one. She's mastered disassembling things, but until now hasn't put them back together again. Tonight she put the small green cup inside the larger yellow one, and she swirled it around so it would make noise. And, when the small cup flew out of the larger one, she doubled over laughing…and then she did it again and again. Now, two hours after I put her to bed, she's still sleeping and I'm still smiling with the sound of her laughter in my ears, thankful it's all been put back together.