C ONCEPTS SUCH as being in harmony with your baby, mutual trust, and sensitivity are hard to describe on paper, but seeing them in action will inspire you to develop these qualities in your own relationship with your child. If you’re practicing attachment parenting, support from more experienced parents is invaluable. Watching them interact with their children gives you a model to follow and also reassures new parents that they are on the right path.
We can’t package live, experienced parents in this book, but we can give you the next best thing: stories that attached parents have shared with us. We hope that as you read the testimonials in this chapter, you will see something of yourself somewhere and find the support you need to trust your own intuition as you build your own attachment.
I never intended to be a parent. My teaching career was on a roll, I owned five horses, all needing constant attention, my husband and I were in the process of building a house and horse barns, and I wanted to get my writing career back on track.
Three months into this process, I discovered I was pregnant. Actually I was quite happy about it. Like all expectant mothers, I had dreams of the nursery and the crib and the matching decor. I had illusions of a cooing baby playing quietly in her crib as I went about my daily life undisturbed. I was ready to hand her off to my husband or mother while I spent my evenings training horses. Maternity leave would be a paid vacation.
Then Bridget arrived.
In an instant I questioned every plan I had ever had about being a parent—and a mother. How could I ever leave my baby? What sort of absurd idea did I have in the first place about putting her in a dark room all by herself at night? A stroller? I wanted to be close to my baby all the time. Hence, an AP mother was born—without even knowing there was such a term as attachment parenting or even a Dr. Sears!
I love breastfeeding—even in the middle of the night. Unless you’ve been there, there are no words to describe the incredible closeness and bond between a mother and a nursing child. How many times have I had women tell me that they nursed for only a month and then stopped because they just didn’t like it? How often have I encountered the looks of disbelief when I venture forth my intention to nurse Bridget for at least a year? I cannot fathom wanting to give up something that no one but a breastfeeding mother can experience. I look down at my three-month-old daughter as I sit here typing one-handed. She is nestled against me nursing, with one hand softly caressing the exposed skin of my upper breast. She frequently breaks away to glance up at me, eyes shining as she smiles wide with unabashed contentment and love. How could a mother not want this?
And how could a mother not want the first image of each day to be the shining, happy face of her baby? The highlight of my mornings is to find Bridget already awake and eagerly anticipating her mommy’s first stirrings. We meet face to face, and her tiny features crinkle with joy. She wriggles excitedly as she cuddles up and buries her little fists in my hair. If ever I could have only one memory to take with me on this long road of life, Bridget’s morning welcomings are all I would need.
On outings I wear my baby in a sling as one might wear a fine fashion accessory—proudly. People are intrigued and often comment about the baby in the kangaroo pouch. They want to ask questions. “How old is she?” “How does she sit in there?” And most commonly, “Where did you get that thing? I wish I had had one when my baby was little. Your daughter looks so happy!” Yes, she is happy. She is close to me while safely interacting with the world. Of course, she can’t say these things; instead, she smiles broadly and excitedly shakes her chicken rattle. I think it’s unfortunate that a sling is foreign to so many people. But having it makes me accessible, and that accessibility provides me the opportunity to show people a positive way of parenting that is so common in most parts of the world yet so absent in the hands-off world of parenting in America.
I suppose, by definition, I am an attached mommy. But I wouldn’t describe myself that way. Instead, I’d say I am in love. I am wildly, passionately, and head-over-heels in love with a three-month-old baby named Bridget Genevieve.
The first few weeks after Isabel’s birth, I kept trying to put her down for naps and at night without me, just to allow myself time to eat, take a shower, or write a thank-you note. I had read about wearing your baby and about sleep sharing and had been very impressed by these concepts. But I did not know how to wear Isabel, and I was insecure about sleeping with her. I was surrounded by well-meaning relatives who knew only about the “putting baby down” method of parenting. My mother kept wanting to take Isabel for rides in her stroller, and my mother-in-law kept trying to lay her down on the couch or in her stroller outside. She said to me once, “I thought she might be getting tired of being held.”
At her one-month checkup I told Dr. Sears that Isabel would not lie down without me. He laughed and said, “Sure, she knows what’s good.” It began to dawn on me: This man really believes this stuff; he really believes in keeping your baby just as close as you can. As for my complaint that I could not get anything done and that I was exhausted, he suggested that I lie down with her twice a day for naps. He added that over time I would learn how to do things with her in the sling.
With our new regimen of naps together, walks in the sling, and sleep sharing at night, Isabel calmed down considerably. Each week she seemed a little more peaceful, more alert and happy. At two months old, she still liked being held most of the time, but she rarely fussed. Now she only cries at night when she’s ready for bed. When I place her on the bed and then lie down next to her, fiddling with my clothes to offer her the breast, she gets this big, sloppy grin on her face. She is joyous, and I know, “Yeah, this is the right thing.”
It seems that when I try to limit what I give Isabel, whether because I’m distracted or tired or out of some vague sense that perhaps so much indulgence is not good, baby care becomes more difficult. Isabel is unhappy, and I feel put upon. When I allow Isabel to be physically close to me and allow my own body to be her comfort and home, she becomes calmer and easier to care for. She relates to me more, and I feel more connected to her.
People on the street ask me, “Is she a good baby?” I find this question perplexing. By this they mean, “Does she sleep through the night?” and “Does she let you lay her down?” I never know what to answer, because if Isabel were sleeping alone, or left alone much, I’m sure she would not be a “good baby.” Her world would be chaotic and painful. She would kick and scream bloody murder. She would not be the contented and delighted baby she is now. So I will have to keep thinking about how to answer that question.
My wife and I have been attachment parenting our son for all of his nearly four years of life. But true confessions here: I was a detached dad from Conor’s birth until he was about three months old. The responsibility of fatherhood hit me over the head like a ton of wet diapers. Conor was beautiful, but he was also colicky, was only happy with his mom (I told myself), needed to be carried all the time, wouldn’t sleep alone, wouldn’t sleep much at all, and needed someone, it seemed, every moment of the day and night. He was the epitome of the high-need baby. So I did what guys know how to do best: I went into escape mode. “Let’s face it,” I would assure myself, “Mom does it best.”
I remember one day very well when Conor was about three months old. It was a turning point for me, a threshold moment of attachment parenting. It was time for my wife to return to work, so I was on duty. (We had arranged our working lives to avoid day care.) Conor was inconsolable. He had been crying his eyes out for fifteen minutes, his little body shuddering, his face soaked in tears. I thought I was going to have a nervous breakdown. Instead, I put him in his bouncy chair, smiled into his eyes, and started bouncing him. For some reason, it worked. He suddenly stopped crying, and the most beautiful smile I had ever seen spread over his glistening face. This smile was for me and me alone. He had offered me a gift of himself—the only thing a little baby has to give. The years following that moment have been filled with opening Conor’s gifts to me. Sometimes they’re wrapped in that tough packing tape; other times it’s just cellophane. And sometime I’m all thumbs. But every time, the gift is worth the effort.
I am a university professor. I worked hard to complete my doctoral degree and hoped to complete it quickly so that I would still be young enough to have a family. I did not realize then how strongly I would feel about attachment parenting and the benefits my baby and I would enjoy from being together for so much of his young life.
My university provides for three weeks of maternity leave. Even before my son was born, I knew this was not enough time. Fortunately, my husband, who is in the same field as I am, agreed to cover my courses for about six weeks after our son was born. Still, I was working, preparing classes, grading papers, and completing articles for publication during most of this time—all the while breastfeeding my son, holding him, and carrying him in a sling.
After six weeks at home, it was time to return to the classroom. I was very concerned that I would find myself swept up in the routine and that I would miss precious moments with my son while finding it difficult to pump milk for him and keep everything going. Since I could not leave my job to stay at home with my son, I decided instead to try bringing him with me.
Much to my surprise, everyone in my department was very helpful. I moved to a bigger office. My mother agreed to come with me and the baby, to care for him while I was teaching or meeting with students.
My mother and my son had a wonderful time together. I reminded her frequently she was there to make it possible for my son to be with his mama whenever he felt he needed her. So, with no pacifiers or other distractions, my son and I were together whenever either one of us felt a need for the other. When he wanted to nurse, he came with me to class, nursing in a sling as I taught. I remember after a meeting with the chair of the department, a secretary stepped up to me to get a close peek at the baby. As she peered over my shoulder, she said suddenly and quietly, “Is he eating?” When I nodded, she left the room, and when she saw me later, she asked with great interest, “How did you do that? I thought he was sleeping!” I told her that nursing clothes had come a long way since she had breastfed her own children a generation earlier.
My son came with me to work for the first eighteen months of his life. For the last six months of this period, as he was beginning to walk and my mother found it hard to keep up with him, my husband rearranged his schedule so that he could come to work with us. In the last few months, they found wonderful activities to share at home while I taught. I am currently working as much as possible from home. I am also taking advantage of technology, using cyberspace as an extension of my classroom, so I can keep in touch with my students and their needs throughout the semester. If this arrangement does not work well in the next few years, I can always work at a virtual university until my son is older!
Although I became a parent only twenty-one months ago, I had worked with young people for most my life and felt confident that I could raise a child in a humane and respectful way. Our daughter, Amae, has been treated as a full member of this family since birth. We have always spoken to her as though she could understand everything we said, telling her gently what was going to happen next. She was walked for hours in a sling by both my husband and me, nursed on cue day and night, and always slept with one or both of us. We felt we were doing everything right.
What we didn’t anticipate and weren’t prepared for was sleep deprivation. Amae is a very aware, very wise, very connected child who had woken and nursed every two hours since birth. I could count on one hand the nights I had had more than four hours of sleep in a row, and the nights I had awakened more frequently—like every twenty minutes—were much more common. This incredible, lovable child often woke from deep sleep screaming or crying, leaving us with raw nerves. She had cranky, sometimes very depressed parents. Our family learned the hard way that you cannot make anyone sleep.
We tried everything we could think of: a calm predictable bedtime routine; visits to various doctors; voracious reading on the subject. The answers were all the same: Amae was healthy, and she just needed to cry it out. We were unwilling to do this, but our family life was disintegrating into chaos.
In a tearful conversation, my husband suggested we try to night-wean—that is, not allow Amae to nurse at night. He would sleep with Amae, while I slept in another room. I felt heartbroken. I was worried that somehow this change would hurt Amae. Mostly, I hated that we would be abandoning the style of parenting we believed in passionately.
Over the days that followed, I began to think that there must be a way to go about this that would be consistent with our commitment to attachment parenting. We came up with the following plan:
We wrote the book, and I drew illustrations. We read it to Amae during the day rather than at bedtime, so that she wouldn’t associate the stress with going to sleep. Amae cried when we read the book, but she had both of us there, acknowledging her feelings in a calm, no-pressure atmosphere. We felt this helped her prepare emotionally for the change, and we believe she did most of her crying about it while we were all together reading the book.
When we embarked on our first no-nursing night, Amae cried on and off for fifteen minutes while her Dada spoke softly to her; then she draped herself over him and fell asleep. She quickly began sleeping longer stretches—six to eight continuous hours without waking. She now sleeps until 8:00, where before she would wake at 5:30 or 6:00. We are down to one, maybe two night wakings, which are very peaceful. Amae laughs when she hears the alarm go off, says “Nurse!” when she sees me, then does just that before falling back asleep.
Now that Michael is nearly three and a half years old, we are seeing the results of early attachment parenting in how easy it is to discipline him. We knew in those early days that the way we cared for Michael would pay off. We just didn’t know exactly how much.
When “we” were pregnant with Michael, we were elated. Because I was exposed to DES when my mother was pregnant, I was at high risk for infertility, miscarriage, early labor, and other problems. So to hear that a baby was coming was such a miracle! I bonded with him during my pregnancy. My husband spoke nightly to my bulging abdomen, as if the baby were right in his arms. Many times when I told him that the baby was pressing on a nerve, he would say, “Baby, please move. You’re getting on Mommy’s nerves.” Every time my husband spoke to the baby, the baby would respond by moving. We were amazed at how aware Michael was of his father’s presence even then. He also moved to music, especially Handel’s Messiah. (He still loves music and even plays guitar.)
Michael was born a few weeks premature. I had an emergency cesarean due to a breech presentation and early labor. Because I couldn’t hold him by myself right away, my husband nestled Michael’s head into my shoulder and then kissed and hugged him while talking to him as he had when I was pregnant. Once we were home, he told me: “You take care of the baby, and I’ll take care of you.” He already felt so close to Michael that he ended up taking care of both of us. He changed diapers and walked baby through the house. (I almost had to push him out the door to get him to go back to work.)
Because Michael was so sleepy and immature, breastfeeding was difficult. A lot of people suggested “everyone would understand if we gave up,” but we refused. I worked with a professional lactation consultant, and with the relentless support of my husband, we succeeded. (We even won an essay contest with a description of our incredible against-all-odds breastfeeding experience.)
It was my husband who insisted we respond to Michael’s cries at night. We would always go to him, but my heart would ache when I would put him back in the crib and he would cry. Something didn’t feel right, but I didn’t know what to do. Child psychology courses I had taken in college and various reading materials had stressed the need for baby to learn independence and self-comforting skills. My husband saw things more clearly than I did and said that was ridiculous. He was the one who said, “Let him sleep with us.” We did (supported by the advice in Dr. Sears’s books, of course!).
When I think back, I remember how even when Michael was in the bassinet by our bed, I longed to have him closer. It was absurd, but I would sleep with my arm (aching) over the edge of the bassinet around him all night to let him know I was right there, although it never occurred to me to put him in bed next to me.
People were amazed at how well rested we all were. Amazingly, we sold my parents on the idea of sharing sleep, and they were never critical, perhaps because they had never read anything at all on the subject. They simply saw how secure Michael was.
Our son’s first year felt like Parenting 101: the basics. Just as you need some math classes before you can take physics, we are finding that the foundation of attachment parenting in infancy prepared us for Parenting 102, the second year, and Parenting 103, the third. If we hadn’t learned to know Michael in infancy, we would be failing desperately. There are always new issues as he grows, new “cries” of frustration and growth.
Here’s an example. One night my husband returned home late from work, as he had all week. We put on one of Michael’s favorite videos, The Sound of Music, and sat down to watch it together. Michael is incredibly communicative for a three-year-old, with an extensive vocabulary. However, there are days when he can’t seem to say what he needs and wants to say.
After a few minutes of the movie, Michael said angrily, “Turn it off!” We were surprised and said, “But you love this music. What’s wrong?” He replied, “Turn it off!” He proceeded to toss some toys around. I suggested, “Why don’t you go on the couch and sit with Daddy to watch the movie.” He said, “No, I don’t want a Daddy.” My husband and I looked at each other puzzled. We knew we had to find out what this irrational, yet substantial, “cry” meant. If we continued to watch the movie, we would selfishly be ignoring what Michael was trying to tell us. And because we know him, we knew his behavior was more than him just wanting his way. We had to respond to him, not to his words. But we were getting frustrated. Suddenly we both noticed that Michael was on the verge of a tantrum. He was lying next to my husband on the floor, kicking the couch, as if wanting Dad to tell him to stop (anything to get Dad’s attention). So, my husband said, “How would you like to help Daddy calibrate his level?” (My husband’s work is with tools.) Michael’s whole face lit up. I said, “I thought you didn’t want a daddy.” He replied, “I do want a daddy. I want my daddy to be with me.” My husband had worked late every night that week, and this was the first night he had come home when Michael was still awake. How could Michael possibly say, “Excuse me, Daddy, would you mind watching the movie another time? I haven’t seen you all week and I really need some time with you.” Michael knew that sitting next to his dad on the couch wouldn’t give him the one-on-one time that he so longed for.
We were amazed at how the evening changed because we invested time in “responding to his cries.” Had we not looked beyond Michael’s behavior that night (and many times since), we would have failed to communicate to him how much we care.
My ten-year-old son, John, went with me as part of a community-outreach program to visit a geriatric home. We had made Valentines to give to the elderly people who lived there. When we were there, I noticed that John seemed to be able to relate better than the other kids to the people he met. Most kids were taken aback by the older peoples’ disabilities and frailties and found it hard to see beyond this. John, on the other hand, showed a great deal of compassion for them. He went out of his way to help the older people, for example, by reaching out and helping them with walking. He showed that he was paying attention to the human beings inside these aging bodies. Later, he spoke about what a wonderful heart one of these patients had, how kind another was, and how another one had such a great sense of humor. The disabled physical forms did not seem to bother him or take up his attention, whereas that was what most of the other kids talked about. They were stuck on the outside appearance and couldn’t see beyond this to appreciate what was going on inside of these people.
I attribute John’s compassion to my attachment-parenting practices. I’m grateful for having the opportunity to guide him in establishing values and having compassion for others.
Imagine my surprise to find I’m suddenly the shortest member of my family! My three breastfed babies have disappeared, and in their place I find three independent adults (well, three almost adults: one out of college, one in college, and one still at home in high school). My oldest is an artist and a teacher, living many miles from home, successfully patching together an assortment of jobs to support himself while pursuing the creative urges that many in my generation set aside when we reached what we thought was the age of adult responsibility. Number two, my only daughter, is finishing up a semester in London, where she learned she can navigate the Tube, shop for and cook a three-course dinner for four, and plan a spur-of-the-moment weekend in Paris all on her own, without Mom to hold her hand. But it’s my youngest I want to talk about, Mr. fifteen-year-old six-foot-tall high school student. I may have to stand on tippie-toes to kiss him now, but he’ll always be my baby—the one who shared my bed, who nursed past age three, who benefited from all my trial-and-error experiences mothering his older siblings, the last warm bundle to hold my nipple so gently between his teeth as he paused from nursing to smile up at me.
Recently David’s school had a program for sophomores and their parents to prepare us for the fast-approaching moment when our kids will be driving, age sixteen in this state. The program was mandatory. David didn’t want to go, and to tell the truth, neither did I, having been through this twice before with no problems. But I believe in obeying the rules, so that’s how I found myself sitting next to fidgety David in the auditorium one Wednesday evening, listening to a “family educator,” a well-intentioned young woman who isn’t yet a mother, telling us that she’d brought us together to address our fears about our children becoming drivers.
But wait. I don’t belong here. I’m not afraid. Really. I trust David to drive as carefully as any sixteen-year-old can. I trust him not to drink and drive. I trust him to obey the law. I trusted his big brother and sister before him, and my trust was rewarded with safe driving and responsible, law-abiding behavior. Now I will trust David. But first, I have to trust myself—to know my child and to judge what situations are or are not safe and appropriate for him, just as I once trusted myself to know when he was ready for weaning, for potty training, for nursery school, for riding a bike. If I don’t think he’s ready for the responsibility of driving, I won’t take him for the test. When I decide he’s ready, and he passes the test, I’ll gladly hand over the keys, trusting him to live up to my expectations.
And that’s when I started thinking about nursing, right there in the high school auditorium, surrounded by blue-jeaned kids shifting restlessly in their seats, tapping their oversize sneakers, girls flipping back their hair, boys fingering hopefully for stubble on their chins. I knew that it was breastfeeding—and La Leche League in particular—that had prepared me for this moment. Back when I trusted my baby to tell me his needs, and I trusted myself to fulfill his needs—those most basic needs for nourishment and life—I was preparing for the time when I’d have to trust him to grow up, and I’d have to trust myself to let him.
So when the young “family educator” advised us parents to hide the car keys, so that our new drivers wouldn’t be tempted to sneak away with the car and break all our rules, I patted David on the knee, and we got up and left. I knew I’d be giving David his own set of car keys as soon as he passed the driving test, just as I’d done for his older brother and sister. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not planning to just close my eyes and set him free. It’s just that I trust him to know that along with the keys come rules and responsibilities: ask permission before you take the car; tell me where you’re going; tell me what time you’ll be home; if I say come home sooner, do; if I say don’t go, don’t; of course, no drinking and driving under the influence or no handing those keys over to any of your friends. Most important: If you’re ever in trouble—even if you’ve broken any of the above rules—call me!
No matter how good a parent you try to be, you never know how things will turn out. You might still end up with children whose problems cause you heartache. But I have to believe that the reason I’ve been so richly rewarded as I’ve watched all three of my children grow up is at least in small part because I’ve always trusted them.
Oh, and by the way, remember all those times I trusted three-year-old David to hold my nipple ever so gently between his teeth while we nursed? Well, he did bite me once, and I used a tip I’d learned from La Leche League: I just hugged him closer, so he had to open his mouth for air. He never bit me again. One more thing. I hope when that “family educator” has children of her own someday, she’ll find her way to breastfeeding, and she’ll discover—as did I—that we can learn as much from our children as we can teach them as long as we trust them.