Ode to Clinton Hill

I was asked recently what single parenting resource I most have most valued in my nine years as a mother.  I considered all of the usual influences. 

I adore our pediatrician and have found him to be empowering in his non-alarmist approach.  Your child's just sick.  Children get sick.  Give him medicine if it makes you feel like you've done something, but otherwise, it's just okay for a little boy to be sick. 

Our pediatrician pointed me to Dr. Spock.  But only to the first sentence of his book:  you know more than you think you do.  I liked that, but as a brand new mom with cracked nipples and hemorrhoids, it was a bit vague for me. 

For awhile I clung to the wisdom of Dr. Sears who made the family bed seem like such a normal occurrence but then started to feel inadequate since he has, like, seventeen children.

I value the wisdom of friends--especially the wealthy suburban Connecticut pal who told me to never spend more than ten dollars on a birthday gift for a child's friend.  You can get a lot of bang for the buck and you won't end up in the poor house during the more intense birthday weekends. 

Another pal recommended I buy two dozen cloth diapers and wash them several times before my son was born.  We used them as burp clothes, portable changing tables, extra-absorbent layers, and some are still knocking around the house as regular house rags. 

My mother's you could step off a bus and get killed tomorrow, so why suffer today? line has helped me worry less and live a more fulfilling (filled with oreos, more like) day-to-day life. 

And I love what another neighborhood mom told me once.  Ahh. Parenting.  The days go on forever and the years fly by.  A wonderful perspective-keeper in the midst of some of those never-ending late afternoons.

But my single greatest resource?  That's hard to pin down.  Would it be a cop-out to say that I think it's my Brooklyn neighborhood, Clinton Hill?  With the one exception of the ten dollar limit per birthday pal, I could draw a circle around this neighborhood, probably around Underwood Playground itself, and announce with certainty that the most important influences on my parenting lie firmly within it.  Clinton Hill is my parenting guide.

Throngs of baby-wearers mingle with clusters of nannies.  Guilt-ridden full-time workers make up for lost time by chasing their kids around Underwood early on weekend mornings.  An exasperated fellow-mother works to pry a toddler's fingers off the climbing equipment, one-by-one-by-one-by-one in front of benchfuls of sympathetic moms.  Tons of parents, loads of people to talk to.  An ongoing, boozeless cocktail party with one common theme.  And in the midst of all the chatter I've found nonjudgemental acceptance of a sort that's hard to imagine finding anywhere else.

Of course people have strong opinions here.  It's just that they vary widely and I can always find footing for a choice I'm making.  When the ice cream truck pulls up to Underwood's gate, several parents hold back and continue to push baby carrots on their youngsters.  They disapprove of the sugar, of the bribe, of the cost, whatever.  But you know what?  There's always someone else in the line with me, someone else fishing around for two dollars and shrugging off the ice cream treat as an inevitable part of childhood.   We've got all types.

When I've left the cozy crib of Clinton Hill I've been shocked at some of the intolerance I've found.  At a summer barbecue that looked like it could have been ripped out of a J. Crew catalog, I was made to feel awkward for breastfeeding my ten-month old son.  I can't believe you're STILL nursing him.  Eventually I hid inside the house.  These women were open about having been eager to make it to the six-week mark so they could resume a drinking life, and it's easy to believe that, if they were my neighbors and my only mom-pals, I might've followed right along with that.

And in more decidedly liberal necks of the woods I've been shamed for hiring a nanny. Ye Olde Why even have kids if someone else is going to raise them? phrase was trotted out, and again, it's hard to imagine that if I were surrounded by these dedicated SAHMs I'd be the one tripping off to work.  I've just never been the one to take an unpopular stand on something.  It's not in my nature.

Most of the moms I know have enough backbone to stand up to such nonsense.  Melinda loved to feed me hissing-style comebacks for the non-nursing New Englanders, but I couldn't imagine ever dispensing any of them in that company.  Since through their disapproving eyes I felt as ridiculously exposed as they thought I was.   

I know myself well enough to know that if I lived somewhere where there was only one way to put a child to bed I'd be subscribing to that method.  I would just be jumping through that one big unchallenged hoop with everyone else.  And I know I should work on this flaw in my character, but I've been too-damned busy raising my three kids to be able to spend much time on it.

Before my son was born my husband and I bought a baby monitor and a crib--two things we just assumed we needed.  Then when our son was born, we didn't give the crib a moment's thought.  It just didn't seem right.  And because we just brought the baby everywhere the baby monitor just collected dust.  As if we'd ever be in a different room, let alone another level in our house!  Ha!  Of course the decision to keep the baby in bed with us wasn't something we invented, I'd started to hear bits about that right before he was born.  It seemed bizarre in theory, but perfect in practice.  It was the first decision I remember making that seemed to come straight from my own heart.  I'm fortunate that so many others were able to follow.

The variety of parenting approaches in the neighborhood combined with the open-mind it took to choose to raise a child here ten years ago led to a world of new ideas and of simultaneous acceptance.  I could dot around the playground and find a like-minded mom on just about any issue where I felt I needed support.   A veritable smorgasbord of parenting choices.  I'll take an uncircumcised son and an extra helping of television, please.  I'll wear my baby in a sling, nurse him for two years, AND leave him with an undocumented Caribbean nanny so I can hop on the subway and go to work.  I'll make all my own baby-food from scratch, and then introduce Doritos the second I think the kid can handle the sharp corners.  I'll do attachment parenting and run out for a movie, once a week.  I'll allow all my kids in bed with me at once AND I'll make sure they have all the required vaccinations (and I won't even look up what Thimerosal is).

I feel so fortunate to be raising my kids in a plugged-in neighborhood of off-beat artists, professional parents, loving babysitters, and colorful kids.  I'm thankful every day for this corner of Brooklyn--for being surrounded by so many different yet accepting people.  Thanks to the variety of parents and ideas I've come across on the playground I've been able to special order from a large menu of parenting choices, and, lo and behold, I've become exactly the mother I was meant to be.  One who, as Spock predicted, really does know more than she thought she knew.  By listening to everyone else, I learned to listen to myself.  Clinton Hill helped me discover the mom I've become.