If there’s something more heavenly and contagious than a baby’s giggle, I sure don’t know what it is. I’ve seen extremely cerebral and highly reserved men reduced to blubbering imbeciles with their goo goo gaga baby babble. Their entire demeanor softens when a gorgeous little rosebud mouth blows bubbles into their stern stoic faces. I longed for that drooling all over my cheeks, so 46 years ago I gave birth to my firstborn.

Immediately I was thrown into a perpetual state of anxiety for fear I might be doing something wrong. Something wrong? How about everything wrong? I blame the pediatrician for contributing endless stress to my already near non-existing parenting skills.

“By the time they’re five years old, it’s all over,” he warned. “The dye is cast.”

“You mean to tell me that after that I can put my maternal duties on automatic pilot?”

“You don’t get off that easily,” he shrugged. “I’m just saying that most of the damage is done by that time, and the scars are forever ingrained into their fragile irreversible psyche.”

“And for THIS I have to pay you?” I cried.
“You’re damn lucky I’m not charging you double. Most babies just get a check-up, a shot and a pat on their little rumps, but you always look like something the baby dragged in, so I thought I should throw in a little free psychiatric advice.”

“I’ve never been a parent before, “ I whimpered.

“It’s the hardest, most demanding job on earth, but if you do it right, it’s the most rewarding.”

“How do you know if you’re doing things correctly,” I asked.

“You don’t, but some people are just naturals.” I didn’t appreciate the way he cocked his one eyebrow up and scrutinized my face as if to say, “Don’t get your hopes up, young lady, you’re not one of them.”

“Will you think less of me if I tell you that every night I practically fall head-first into the crib to see if my precious baby girl is still breathing?”

“She’ll be breathing a hell of a lot longer than you if you don’t lighten up and relax.”

All that dialogue transpired many years ago, and while I still remain a neurotic mother, my firstborn PhD. daughter has evolved into a brilliant, solid, well-adjusted human being. My eyes welled with tears when she told me I had inspired her. “Me?” I gasped, pretending to be humble.

“Of course, Mother. I looked at you and decided what not to become.” She swung her arms around me, which is against her character, with me anyway, and sincerely laughed as if to say, “Lighten up, Mother, and relax, I was only kidding.”

“Mother, why do you want to write about me?” she asked. “I haven’t changed the world.”
“Honey, nobody is really expecting us to change the world. If we could all just make the journey for others a little more bearable, a little lighter, we’ll be a success.”

“And your next attempt is?” she devilishly grinned.

I think I liked her better when she was blowing bubbles all over my face.

To read more of Karen’s previously published articles, please visit www.homegrownharvard.blogspot.com

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