Last Monday, Jude and I attended our first Bugs class at the Little Gym for babies 4-10 months. We arrived promptly at eleven, kicked our shoes off and sat down on a mat along with other bugs and buggets. The instructor looked like an over-exaggerated characture of Shirley Temple with her hair in tiny bouncing ringlets. I could sense an aura of neuroticism as she shifted disjointedly from activity to activity; music blasting, babies crawling, drooling, cooing and crying all over the place.
We clapped sticks together, counted to ten in Spanish then did shoulder exercises to “improve their dexterity.” I wondered how all this commotion would really benefit my son.
At one point she sprang up and demanded, “Now take your little bugs and flip them over your shins so they dangle upside down!” Already over-stimulated, my bug spewed regurgitated breast milk all over the mats when he was flipped and dangled.
Shirley Temple immediately snapped her fingers, indicating to the whitish fluid as a timid, pimply assistant cleaned up the mess with a bottle of greenish spray.
Luckily, I started talking to another woman who had a little boy named Austin just a few months older than Jude. I assumed she was his mother, so I was surprised to learn she was a nanny.
“Oh, more than half of us are just the nannies,” she told me, gesturing to the other women and their babies.
I was slightly disappointed, especially because I hoped to befriend some of the women who I assumed were young moms like myself.
One lady named Debi and I struck up a conversation and at the end we exchanged numbers. Her daughter, who wore a cute pink dress, is eight months old.
We confided in each other how the first three months were treacherous, but how after the fourth month mark life improves greatly. I have no idea what music she likes, whether she likes salty or sweet, whether she’s horrified with gas prices at $4.19/gallon, where she grew up or what college she attended. All that matters is that we both have babies. That’s enough to forge a bond these days.
Just as I was about to leave the facility, Shirley Temple approaches me.
“I was observing your son and I think his neck is misaligned. You may want to speak to your pediatrician,” she advises.
I’m ready to snap back that after observing her face, I think her features are all misaligned, but she scampers off to answer the ringing phone.
That day I study Jude’s head and neck. I do notice a slight slant when he’s looking forward, but I had always assumed that he took after me, with my head at the one o’clock position in pictures.
On Tuesday I brought Jude to the pediatrician, who is now eight months pregnant and swollen like a tick, for shots and to vent about the audacity of the Bugs instructor.
She places him on his tummy and calls to him in different parts of the room. He cranes his neck to follow her voice, smiling from ear to ear.
Her prognosis? He may have torticollis, which is when a baby’s neck muscles are not all equal in strength, resulting in the off-kilter noggin.
After a bit of googling, I learned that with physical therapy the condition can be remedied, plus it’s important for the baby to spend about half of his waking hours on his belly to strengthen the neck muscles.
I was horrified when I clicked on “images” and tiny shots popped up of babies wearing helmets specially crafted to their heads to help improve balance. Imagining Jude with one of those clunky things attached to his skull nearly brought me to tears.
Determined to ameliorate the problem, Matt and I now do “Scooby exercises” where Jude stays on his belly and we shake a rattle on one side then on the other once he’s cranked his head around. Either it’ll help him or contribute to a future tick disorder.
On the upside, yesterday was Mother’s Day. Previously a day that evoked lingering sadness for me, it now ranks as highly as birthdays. Thanks to Laurel, who emailed Matt to suggest the present, he gave me a beautiful locket necklace. Not one for corny jewelry presents, this is what I always wished for. On one side are Jude’s initials then the other has his date of birth. Inside is a picture of Jude on one side and the other is of my smiling mom when I was a baby.
With the present came a flower balloon and a card from “Jude” that enumerated all the reasons why he loves me such as, “I love you because you read books to me (I’m educated),” and “I love you MOST OF ALL because you nourish me with BIG BOOB.”
Throughout the day I received texts, phone calls and letters wishing me a happy mother’s day. For the first time in my life I truly comprehend the expressions, “Only a face a mother could love” and “Go home and thank your Mother.”
Maybe it’s just instinct, but I know that I’ll always do everything in my power to make sure Jude is a happy, well-adjusted person. Motherhood is definitely challenging because most of the time it’s a thankless job and only you are the sole judge of yourself. There’s no boss to please; it’s all up to you whether you leave your baby crying in a crib all day or sacrifice to provide him/her with the best opportunities and shower him with love. It’s not like you’ll get fired or receive a promotion either way.
I once read that if a mother were to be compensated yearly for the amount of work she must do if staying at home with the kids, she would be paid over $100,000 at minimum wage. We’re talking being paid the same rate as the burger flippers at McDonalds, and still the amount would come out to a staggering amount.
In fact, last night my neighbor confided in me that she quit her job teaching middle school math to take a nannying job in Greenwich for $80,000/year. She will be working 12 hour days, from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. Monday through Friday so, hypothetically, if my math doesn’t fail me, at that rate if she would make around $200,000 a year as a full-time mom for this family.
I only bring this up because I believe that motherhood is so undervalued. Although I want to return to work, I know it’s in part because I don’t feel I have enough purpose in my life simply caring for Jude. I say I want to get back into the workforce, but I have a feeling that once back I’ll miss spending my days with Jude, sometimes wondering where the day went when all I did was breastfeed, change diapers, read books to him and make dinner.
As a mom, you’re on call 24/7, there’s no shutting off the cell phone or calling it a day to grab a beer at the bar. Yet there’s a sense of satisfaction and indescribably pride I experience watching Jude, so plump, jolly and delicious.
Tomorrow, to grandmother’s house we go!