Recently (like last night), against my better judgment, I responded to a fellow blogger’s call for opinions on letting an infant cry it out.
My view (in a nutshell) is: I hate cry it out. I think it’s cruel. I think it’s wrong to expect a baby to sleep all night, and as a parent, it’s just not how I roll.
Agree or disagree; I don’t really care. All I know is that the choice not to parent that way totally jibs with all of the other parenting decisions that Chris and I have made. It’s who we are, it’s how we are, and we’re good, thanks.
So I was pretty perturbed when another commenter, a blogger I don’t read, and, as far as I know, doesn’t read me, insinuated that I am a martyr for being such a chump as to tend to my 5-month old when she’s hungry, or uncomfortable, or simply needs me at 3 a.m.
Wait, wait, wait… I forgot, first she called me out for ‘admitting’ that my 5-month old doesn’t sleep through the night, as though it were a crime. (Though I’m not sure who the criminal is, me or the baby.)
Ok, so on to the real point: Now, I’m not religious, but comforting my crying baby seems like pretty fucking low standards for martyrdom. I mean, if that’s all it takes, than what does a non-medicated homebirth get me? What does a c-section get me?
If I’m going to be considered for such a title, at least make me break a sacrificial sweat. A few ideas for your canonical consideration:
- I once gave away a ticket to a Grateful Dead show because I had been miracled, and my boyfriend had not. That night, Phil sang Unbroken Chain.
- When I was twelve, I was a junior bridesmaid in my cousin’s wedding. I had to wear this:
- I was in Italy on my honeymoon 6 years ago, and I did not buy any shoes.
- A few nights ago, Chris asked me to make him tea, just as Survivor was starting. And not just a regular ol’ minty teabag, mind you – fancy stuff that had to be put in a tea ball and steeped. I still have no idea how the first immunity challenge was won.
- Oh yeah, hey, I once had to leave my family and the joy of being 8 months pregnant at home to go say goodbye to my father, who was dying of pancreatic cancer. That was a bit tougher than rolling over and feeding my baby at midnight.
So if I’m going to be called a martyr, at least make it for the right reasons, because trust me, doing any of the things I mention above was way more sacrificial than doing the things that I consider simply, mothering.