A Word of Advice

We had our first child in September 2013, a boy. Louis. From day one, Louis had a gaze that could look deep into your soul. When my friend Leslie met him for the first time, just a few days after he came home from the hospital, she told me in a whisper, “I feel like he knows all my secrets.” Louis will do that to you. He will make you feel seen and known from the minute you encounter him. And he will offer you insight into your own life that you’ve never had. He once told me, “you think your job as a mom is to worry about me. But really it’s just to love me for who I am.” He was four at the time. As our first, Louis has been our guinea pig his whole life. When he was born, Matt was in grad school at night and was often gone sixteen hours a day. I was simultaneously in love with this little creature I grew from a poppy seed and overwhelmed by the new tether that held me at home. I had myself convinced it was my job and mine alone to keep him alive. Forget that his body was designed to ward off disease and recover from minor scrapes and bumps. I lived each day as if my sole mission was to keep this tiny, pink person’s lungs filled with air. There is nothing people like offering first-time moms more than unsolicited advice. From the moment my belly swelled with signs of new life, well-intentioned people would approach me with their best parenting tidbits and warnings. “It goes so fast, just you wait. I blinked and mine was fourteen.” “My sister has the best swaddles. You need the Amazon link. You’ll want to stock up” “When the time comes, text me and I’ll tell you all about baby-led weaning. No more purees.” “Every stage is amazing except age three. Age three is miserable. I drank a lot of wine when Declan was three.” At first, I was a sponge. I soaked it all up and even had a three-ring binder with sections for each facet of parenting. One divider read, “feeding,” another “shot records,” and yet another bore the jaunty title “seasonal fun.” It was chock full of all kinds of ideas for projects to do with young children throughout the year, from pumpkin spice playdough to math ideas using plastic Easter Eggs. Before Louis was born, I was so optimistic that I would be the best prepared mother of all time. Between my copious notes, teaching degree, and the sage words of wisdom from every woman in the Target checkout line, I was a pro. And then Louis came into the world, all chunky thighs and fiery red hair and he cried all. the. time. He woke up crying several times a night. He cried whenever I set him down. He cried when his sock fell off. He cried when he was hungry or wet or hot or getting a bath or any time I turned my back to reheat my coffee in the microwave. And it lasted for weeks. Endless weeks. I remember calling my mom one night while Matt was still in class. I had tried everything I could think of. Swaddling, feeding, changing, going for a walk, singing. And the red-faced wails continued on and on until well after the sun set. I just wanted to talk to my mom, hear about her day and the family dog and what she made for dinner and anything else that had nothing to do with a baby. But I had to hang up because I couldn’t hear above the wails.

Everyone and their mama had an idea of what to do with Louis. Elevate his mattress. Cluster feed. Pump and give him a bottle. Try a new swaddle. Make shushing noises and swing him back and forth. And nothing helped. He still cried nonstop. I was eager to bond with my baby, to delight in him. Heck, to enjoy some seasonal fun, as promised in my three-ring binder. After week three of trying anything I could think of, Louis was still fussy as ever. One night, I let Matt put him to bed and, anxious for a break, I climbed into a hot, steamy shower. When I got out, all I heard was silence. A heavy quiet tingled in the night air. Louis was sound asleep. Silent in his room by himself. Matt bound into the bathroom, anxious to tell me the new trick he tried, one I never would have guessed if I lived to be a hundred. Saxophone music. Of all things, saxophone music got him to stop crying. Matt had played him a song called Blues Walk by Lou Donelson. The low, lonesome tone took Louis from panicking mess to calm and drowsy in seconds. We chalked it up to a fluke evening and would have left it at that until the next morning when, once again, little Louis was screaming and hollering. Matt turned on another saxophone solo, this time St. Thomas by Sonny Rollins. Louis immediately calmed and nudged his head into the crook of my arm. Worked like a charm. This continued for months. We even set up an Amazon Echo in his room and would play jazz saxophone to put him to sleep. Life changed. Louis started to thrive. I caught my breath and felt human again. All because that quirky little baby went crazy for the sax. Where was this info when the ladies in the Target lines were dishing out tips and tricks?

Learning to soothe Louis with jazz music taught me something indispensable. No matter what books and relatives and random strangers say, each child is different. They will find their own way to slog through and your role as their parents is to be open to finding what makes them tick. What motivates them? Angers them? Excites them? Sure, some things are universally adored by children (I’m looking at you, bubbles and ceiling fans!) But tune in to your child’s needs and let that dictate your behavior.

Parenting Louis now is much the same as parenting him as a baby. He has wildly huge emotions for such a little person. His fears and dreams are supersized. He sees the world differently than anyone I’ve ever met and he’s eager to make an impact. The child raised $1,000 for his PTA by selling homemade bracelets last year. He seeks out the lonely and befriends them. He can spell “Wilt Chamberlain” aloud and perfectly in about six seconds. He gives better advice than just about anyone. And being his mother is far from typical. I know everyone thinks their child is smart. But let me tell you, Louis is beyond that. This year, we had him tested to try and understand him better. And he ranked in the 98th percentile or above in every academic category. But with that great big brain, we see enormous feelings, some very painful and raw. No parenting book could prepare me for the questions he’s asking about life and death and the fragility of the human condition. My job isn’t to build a three-ring binder with tips and tricks (although I do have one for all of his important school forms.) The answers are found in listening to what he has to say, in paying attention to what makes him laugh and what triggers anxiety. In giving him the tools and margin to tell me what he’s thinking. Even at age eight, most of his fears and worries are too big to be fixed by telling Alexa what song to play. But I’ve learned that I need to turn down advice from strangers and well-meaning friends and tune in to myself and my son. And maybe Sonny Rollins from time to time.