The couple downstairs from us have just had a baby.
"It's great," the proud father said. "He doesn't cry at all."
The baby was all of one day old and it was all I could do not to smile. "That'll come," I couldn't help saying.
"No, I don't think it will," our neighbor contradicted. "I think it's just his nature. He's very placid."
Bless him. I said the exact same thing myself once and I vaguely remember being infuriated by the amused and knowing looks people gave me. People who had real, seasoned children instead of newborn babies.
When you decide to have a baby, you join one of the biggest clubs in the world. For most of us new members, learning how to be parents is a fiddly, exhausting business with a steep learning curve. Half the world seems to know how to do it better, seems more efficient, secure and successful. And they're just itching to tell you all about it, too.
When I look back on our first day with a new baby, I marvel at the extent of our ignorance. I recall how we longed to recognized as full-fledged members of the club. To be appreciated for our efforts and applauded for choosing the path we had taken. So I congratulated our neighbor and I hope I didn't look too cynical at what he said about his baby having a placid nature.
We've come almost full circle now, my husband and I: we have just celebrated our eldest's 17th birthday. Cliche that it is, the past seventeen years have gone by so fast, we can hardly get over it. We both clearly remember when we were expecting her -- the sense of joy and anticipation.
Our washing machine broke down only a week before our daughter was due, and we were anxious to get it fixed in time. The repairman was a dour fellow who did his job well. "That's done then," he told us, washing his hands. "Ought to work fine now."
We were relieved to hear this and we told him so. "I guess it's obvious we're having a baby," my husband said proudly as I stood there next to him, positively sumoesque.
The man glanced at me briefly and nodded. "You're in for it," he muttered darkly.
"You have children, then?" my husband asked, despite himself.
"Oh aye," said the man. "Teenagers. And I wish they'd never been born."
He said this with such conviction that we were stunned. We didn't get it: we couldn't wait to be parents, couldn't wait to hold our new baby in our arms and get on with the business of raising her. Why were so many parents so negative about their children? Every day we heard parents snapping at their children in supermarkets, yelling at them on the streets. The people who lived just behind us, an otherwise pleasant couple, were forever screaming at their toddlers: two-year-old twins. Why?
In another couple of years, we were beginning to understand why. Kids don't necessarily do what you tell them to do no matter how well you phrase it. We found ourselves sounding a lot like our neighbors and had even come to respect them for their admirable patience. One feisty toddler can be a headache a minute when you're trying to mow the lawn: two in one go doesn't bear thinking about. And seventeen years after our repairman's passionate and negative declaration, we have come to understand what he must have been wrestling with too. We've been there, and it isn't pretty. No doubt we have more to come, too, as our youngest wades her way through adolescent angst, and all we can do is support each other through it and hope for the best. What else can we do?
No matter how frustrated we get, though, we won't let on to our neighbors. They've just joined the club and they need all the encouragement they can get.
