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Who Do You Love?
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Candid Camera
When our dinner companion walked my husband and me home, I figured he was enjoying the damp air and chill of early spring. When he invited himself upstairs, I guessed he wanted to continue regaling us with stories of his unusual travel interests (he prefers staying at home, but if pressed will visit places he feels are most like the United States; unaccountably, Sweden is one of these hotspots). Once inside, his unfortunate agenda was revealed. We were forced to watch this fellow's home movies of his young child doing the things that young children will do: crawl, laugh, take a step, look drunk.
The videos lasted an eternity, and while standing there, struggling to compose my smile, I had a real urge to tuck Felix under my arm and hop out the window. I'm only on the second floor; I could easily limp to a bar and fortify myself until the coast was clear. It was raining, though.
What is it about classic demonstrations of parental adoration that brings such a reptilian chill to my heart? (And here I am thinking of my reaction to extended home movies, incessant bragging about the precociousness of children born to mothers who didn't have epidurals, competitive comparisons of developmental milestones, long stories without punchlines about the baby's daily routine, and detailed discussions with people who are not close friends, relatives or medical professionals about excrement.) These are all quotidian obsessions, universal points of pride. The absolute, unquestionable joy I feel when my child smiles for me is, I'm sure, felt by most parents with their own children, and I would never begrudge anyone (not even my husband) the pleasure of documenting his or her baby. But I find watching the home videos of strangers' kids is like watching bad sex scenes: they're embarrassing and stultifying.*
There is also something uncomfortable about the short-cut to intimacy that comes from being presented with so much information at once. Not only was I a captive audience member watching this fellow's child walking (at normal speed and in slow motion), the video also gave him a point of entry to talk about the merits of fatherhood, his home decorating skills, his bold plans for the designs his future houses. Conversation ceased to exist. The evening turned into a one-man show, with visual aids, punctuated with the occasional "That's great," or "He's so cute" from the supporting players.
Where does this urge to show everything, present everything come from? In many, it seems to be born along with the child, though I have to say, I don't have these tendencies. I actually have the opposite problem of being completely tongue-tied when people ask me about my son and am beginning to dread my stumbling stock answer: "He's doing well. He's big." How is it that absolutely nothing interesting about him comes to mind when I can spend pre-dawn hours finding him utterly amusing?
Felix catapulted me forward into a new kind of life where there are lots of new people and new kinds of communication. There is no question in my mind that my dinner companion would have restrained himself from showing his home movies if my husband and I did not have a baby ourselves. I know that things are different, but in many ways I am not. I am still the same girl I was a year ago, before Felix was a hint of a glint in anyone's eye. I would love to be comfortable and entertained by the monologues of strangers about their children. It would be good if I could be extremely invested in the parenting theories and techniques of others. I would certainly be more relaxed if I didn't get twinges of anger and impatience when faced with relentless bragging about children I don't know. But I am afraid that if I do come to embrace these things, I will have become something I hate. Is there a middle ground where I can appreciate without capitulating? If there is a way to be myself and not-myself at the same time, I would love to be able to manage that because I do want to be part of a community, and I want my son to feel comfortable in the world, but I can't bear to watch endless home movies.
posted by Elise at 4:29 PM
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