If you had asked me before that day whether I respected her, I would have quickly answered “Yes, of course!” But I would have been lying (misunderstanding the question, anyway). What I observed in that parenting class for the first time was not just my baby — it was a whole person with her own mind, a mind I wanted to become intimately acquainted with, and human needs no different than mine or yours. Maybe other parents figure this out right away, but I didn’t.

Without that moment of clarity, I’m not sure when I would have seen beyond the needy infant to the person — possibly when she began walking, saying recognizable words, or at least communicating to me by pointing or gesturing.  Intellectually, I knew she was all there, but not to the extent that I would think to put myself in her shoes (or booties) and treat her the way I would wish to be treated.

One of the most profound lessons I’ve learned since becoming a mom– reinforced by observing hundreds of other parents and babies interact — is that there is a self-fulfilling prophecy to the way we view our babies. If we believe them to be helpless, dependent, needy (albeit lovely) creatures, their behavior will confirm those beliefs. Alternatively, if we see our infants as capable, intelligent, responsive people ready to participate in life, initiate activity, receive and return our efforts to communicate with them, then we find that they are all of those things. 

I am not suggesting that we treat infants as small adults. They need a baby’s life, but they deserve the same level of human respect that we give to adults. Here are some examples of baby care that reflect the way I like to be treated:

Tell me what’s going on. If I had a stroke that made me as dependent as an infant  (I couldn’t take care of my own needs or express myself), I would hope to be warned before I was being touched, lifted, fed, sponged, rinsed, dressed, given a shot, etc.  I would want to know everything that was going on in my immediate world, especially if it directly related to my body. I would want to be invited to participate to the extent I was capable (i.e., given an opportunity to hold the spoon myself.)

At first it feels awkward talking to someone who does not talk back, but we quickly get used to it. Babies begin to understand our respectful intention to include them much earlier than we might believe. And they communicate earlier if we open the door. 

Give me attention. Babies need undivided attention from loved ones, just like you and I do, especially when we are joined physically (as in breastfeeding.)  Several minutes of real attention in intervals each day is more fulfilling than hours and hours of empty physical contact. Stuck sitting in the car next to my husband while he talks on the phone for an extended period of time makes me feel invisible, not important, loved or appreciated.

When someone touches me, especially when it’s intimate (as in a baby’s doctor’s appointment, bath or diaper change), I want to be included in what is going on, encouraged to pay attention, not asked to look elsewhere and ignore what’s happening.

Hear me, don’t just fix me. Relationship counselors teach it, and it applies to our babies too. I want my feelings heard, not fixed. Please don’t ‘shush’ and pacify all my cries, sticking something in my mouth just to stop my tears. I want to be able to try to tell you what I need, before you assume it. Sometimes I just want to cry in your arms and have it be okay with you. Relax. It feels comforting to have you here, calmly listening and trying to understand. 

Let me create and initiate my own activities. I like tagging along on adventures with the people I love sometimes, but I also crave time to initiate activity that I choose. Give me a quiet, safe place where I am not hemmed in, so I can move my body and have uninterrupted thoughts and daydreams. I need time to figure out the way my marvelous hands work, and why there are things like breezes that I feel but cannot see. What I’m doing may not look like much, but I’m actually very busy. (And when I am deeply involved in something, please don’t interrupt me to change my diaper.)

I love knowing that you are nearby in case I need you, or within shouting distance, but please don’t get me in the habit of following you all the time when there is so much I could be experiencing for myself. Notice the things I like to do.  Let me show you the interesting person I am.

Trust me with the truth. You don’t have to smile at me when you’re upset. Be honest with me. Be yourself, so that I can be myself, too. We have lots to learn about each other. It won’t always be perfect together, but it will be real. And when you are worrying and projecting about the future, I’ll tug you back into the moment. Promise.

An infant changes everything, and while preparation is comforting, no one can predict how they will react until the moment arrives. Generally, after a few of showerless days and sleepless nights, good intentions and the best laid plans are shelved. Survival becomes the goal. Forget normalcy.  Sooner than later we realize that life à trios will not be the fantasy concocted during ‘Expecting Mommy’ classes and dreamy late night conversations with our wives over baby-naming books. 

We stand at a precipice — exhausted, dazed and confused — with only a couple of clear choices. For some, it means a personal surrender and a profound change of consciousness. This is often the jumping off place to adulthood. Others struggle to preserve elements of their carefree pre-natal lives. This can mean trying to train the infant to adapt to their lifestyle – the way it was before the blessed event – by adjusting sleep and eating schedules to accommodate adult social events; or abandoning their child to a bi-lingual, CPR-trained, background-checked stranger to sneak off to Baja for a long weekend.

Me, I took the plunge, opted for surrender. 

An infant’s needs are simple (albeit persistent and all-consuming), but we are products of a self-possessed, what-about-me? culture. It’s how we were raised — to do our own thing, take it easy, protect our space, get what’s ours and, above all, be happy (an entirely American obsession, by the way. Most of the world does not spend a whole lot of time wondering ‘Am I happy?’). But when an infant needs us – for anything and everything to survive – well, he needs us. It doesn’t matter how we feel at that moment, or whether it’s convenient, or that we’re tired or haven’t been to the gym in three weeks. And it sucks when we can’t watch Letterman in bed because the wife’s nursing. What about me?   

So, this sudden, relentless demand for self-sacrifice (and the self-pity and resentment it spawns) is an unfamiliar and oppressive experience. And we all handle it differently. But I only learned just how demanding real parenting can be when my wife (that would be Janet) embraced the philosophy and practice of Infant Educaring.

Initially, it meant spending more time (my time) accomplishing duties I could have whipped off in seconds, like a bath or changing a diaper. I learned that these chores constituted ‘valuable, intimate, together time’. We weren’t finished until my infant decided we were finished, and I would receive a non-verbal cue when it was time to move on. And, low and behold… 

As my first daughter got older and slept less, parenting meant sacrificing still more time – observing her mostly — just being present.  At first, these new demands tested my patience. I had work to do, places to go, people to see. Again, total surrender was the key, and eventually I looked forward to these otherwise mundane moments together and found joy in the pure connection I was making as a father.

But as our daughter became a toddler, and we met other couples who parented according to the whims of conventional wisdom and personal convenience, it turned out my real test as a parent was one of strength. Obviously, I’m not talking about mere physical strength. No, this is the real stuff — the strength not to gag my daughter with a pacifier when she cried; not to put her on slides or swings before she was physically capable of doing it herself; not to let her sit in front of the TV with friends when the parents wanted some grow-up time; and the strength to step in the way of a well-meaning adult to say “no, thank you” or “please, don’t”. 

This policy of infant/toddler protectionism does not endear you to other parents no matter how gently or pleasantly you present your case. Your friends feel judged because you decline invitations to certain activities (like a John Carpenter Film Festival for five-year olds), and strangers might judge you to be cruel.  Imagine: you’re at the playground, and there is a line-up of parents lifting their toddlers onto a slide. Your child is standing by watching, pointing to the top of the slide. The other parents are confused, some dumbfounded as you kneel beside your daughter in the dirt and calmly acknowledge her desire without fulfilling it. (BTW, if the reader is confused by this behavior, please see Janet’s post, Don’t Stand Me Up,  for explanation.)

I have been there, and I can tell you it does take backbone to endure the judgmental stares of other parents, especially if you have any doubts that what you’re doing (or not doing) is best for your child. I mean, it’s a slide, right? What’s the harm?

And how do you ask a friend or relative to please not grab your child and tickle her without her permission? Or convince the doctor that your 4-year old understands the mechanics of a check-up, that she doesn’t need to be distracted by baby-talk or a stand-up comedy routine. 

I could go on, but you get the point: this parenting thing – especially the RIE method of parenting – is not just a collection of philosophical talking points. It needs to be practiced in the real world with extreme conviction, follow-through and consistency by both parents. So, it is not for sissies.

I was lucky to have an in-house role model who was strong enough to lead when I didn’t have the stomach to make waves. I was more apt to go with the flow, rationalizing that if the So-and-So’s were doing it, it must be okay.  Janet showed a single-minded strength of purpose that at first made me queasy, but which I came to admire more than she will ever know. Her early efforts on behalf of our kids – a lone voice advocating and practicing respect for our children (and others) — were nothing less than heroic. Gradually, through Janet’s modeling, I have absorbed much of the Educaring philosophy and became less squeamish about asserting myself against the pressures of conventional parenting practices. Ultimately, I have found my own strength in the pure truths of Magda Gerber’s teaching. I finally developed a parenting backbone.

 Please share your comments with Mike.

Mike agreed to respond to a question from Andrea in my Comments section regarding the post Don’t Stand Me Up, where I encourage allowing children to develop gross motor skills naturally, independent of adult manipulation.

Andrea wrote: 

“Yes! This is exactly what I have always known in my heart. Leave the childen alone to figure it out for themselves. The animal kingdom has many lessons for us, but we ignore them.  

Question? How do I deal with my husband? He’s a very normal male type and wants to raise our 2 year old in a ‘manly’ way. It’s all about his physical development, and my husband thinks he can advance our son’s coordination by teaching him to walk — like that is possible. It is very frustrating, and I don’t want to argue, if you know what I mean. It makes him happy. What do you think?” – Andrea

Mike’s Response:

Andrea – I hope you won’t feel slighted hearing from a student rather than the teacher, but you can be sure that anything I write has been carefully vetted by Janet. Very. Carefully.   

A couple of caveats: 1) All I know about parenting I learned through clumsy experience or from Janet through osmosis. So, I am no expert in the art of fathering; 2) I would never presume to negotiate another couple’s parenting differences.

That said, I can speak honestly about my own learning curve as a typical, caring father who wants his kids to reach their full potential – intellectually, spiritually, and physically. Surely, this is basic instinct.

When we become dads for the first time, we are overwhelmed by the gift of parenthood, hyper aware of the responsibilities and the possibilities. As men, it’s difficult for us to just sit back and enjoy the miracle, because we are hard-wired to tinker – to reshape, re-jigger, improve and (above all) fix. Clearly, the baby has very little use for us. It’s all about mom. But we are driven to do something with this new project.  It’s as if we confuse our babies with a kitchen remodel.  

Like new mothers, most dads begin the parenting journey dazed and clueless. We have just produced (with an assist from the wife) the most perfect, pure, dynamically complicated creation imaginable. We’re in love and excited and terrified all at the same time, and there is no way we’re going to blow this gig. So, we want to roll up our sleeves and get busy. Though our child is perfect in every way, we can’t help ourselves – we are going to make that baby better.

These instincts compelled me to ‘help’ as my first child explored her physical potential. Nothing wrong with helping, of course, but I think where I (and other fathers) get into trouble is when helping becomes pushing, when we perceive physical development as life’s first competition. Our Pediatricians point to statistical charts — what’s above and below average for various developmental stages — and we consciously or unconsciously compare our kids to their peers.

My kid, average? Surely, she’ll be happier in life excelling. I know I’ll be happier. 

I’m proud of my kids. They are a reflection of me — everything that I am, and certainly everything I aspire to be. Naturally, it’s personally gratifying if they demonstrate advanced physical abilities.  As a new father, I assumed I could (and should) assist my girl in this area.  I imagined that I could accelerate her development, as if I could ‘teach’ her balance and coordination, to roll over, to walk and eventually run (really fast). While my intentions for her may have been good, I understand now that my motives were misguided. I wanted her to excel, to perform beyond age-appropriate measures (to impress her doctor, maybe?), and to give her a better shot at the 2010 World Cup team.

I’ve read about elite athletes like Tiger Woods and Andre Agassi receiving hand/eye training from their fathers in the crib (!). Like science projects. I’ve also read that Tiger and Andre never felt that they had lived up to their fathers’ expectations. I’m thinking that if Tiger had been allowed to mature naturally — maybe play basketball, ping pong, skateboard — and he wasn’t introduced to a golf ball until he was 16, he would still be Tiger Woods. Same power, same concentration, same ability, same package. Maybe he’d even have avoided his current personal crisis (I know, off topic — but integrity is something we can teach our kids very early on by modeling).

What I know today through experience (and the gift of Janet’s modeling) is that every infant progresses physically in his own way, and in his own time. This is Nature’s expertise, not mine. Obviously, a child who is developmentally disabled presents an exception. But by tinkering with any stage of our kids’ natural development, we risk undermining the next. For most infants and toddlers, tricks like rolling over, crawling and eventually walking do not need to be taught. Sorry, dads, but our babies really don’t need us in that way, and we need to stifle our impulse to facilitate. Turns out our kids are quite capable in this area without us, and our interference can actually put our child at physical risk (more on that cryptic note here).

The good news is that there will be glorious years ahead when our time spent as a mentor, role model, coach and friend will be invaluable, indelible, precious and very much appreciated.

That’s all I know.

I know Mike would LOVE to hear your comments.

When I began attending RIE parenting classes as a new mom, I adopted the habit of  telling my baby what was happening to her, and what was about to happen.  I told her that I was going to pick her up, place her on a changing table, or do anything that involved her, before I did it. I learned that babies crave predictability. They like the teensy bit of control they feel when they can anticipate what will happen next. It makes their world feel a little less overwhelming and more secure to know, for example, that after bath time they will put on pajamas, hear a lovely song, and then be carried over to help draw the shades before being placed in their bed.  Babies like to be included in a process, to participate as much as possible, even if it just means being informed about all that is happening to them. 

When babies are treated with this kind of respect, they are surprisingly cooperative, because they are aware and engaged.  But when we scoop a baby up without a word, or distract her with a toy to get a diaper changed quickly, we discourage her involvement, and make her feel manipulated into compliance, rather than feeling like a partner in an intimate activity.  Even though babies cannot speak, they are whole people, capable of participating actively in a relationship with us, and in their lives. The sooner we honestly take them in and invite them to join us, the sooner they will. 

When my baby was around twelve months old, I prepared her for the doctor’s office in advance.  I talked to her at home on the morning of our appointment, told her where we were going and what would happen there.  I told her about the scale, the stethoscope, about the doctor looking into her eyes with a light, feeling her belly and looking into her mouth.  And if I had thought she was getting a shot that day, I would have told her about that too, and right before she was injected I’d warn, “This may hurt or sting.”  

When my daughter and I arrived at the doctor’s office she had been hearing all about, I could sense her eager anticipation, and when the doctor finally came into the examining room, she was quiet, attentive, breathlessly waiting for all her predictions to be fulfilled.  

Unfortunately, this well-meaning doctor launched into a comedy/magic routine,  whizzing that little pen light all over like a firefly in his attempt to distract, telling her, “I see a birdie in your ear!”, and then sneaking in the peaks he needed for his examination. My baby was nonplussed.  I moderated.  I told her what the doctor was actually doing, so that she could stay involved and at least mentally participate as much as possible. He is a fine physician, but has a common view about children — that they cannot be trusted with the truth, and need to be tricked, and entertained to distraction for him to get his job done. 

Happily, my daughter enjoyed her first doctor’s office experience enough to want to go back.  She reacted with similar interest to wearing a giant bib at the barbershop and feeling the snip-snip of scissors cutting her hair, and she always looked forward to the dentist, even though she had to keep her mouth open for a long, long time.  

No question my children appreciate a lollipop, a new toothbrush, or an “I have great teeth” sticker.  But I came to the conclusion a long time ago that the honest preparation that led to their active involvement in those early experiences with the doctor, dentist and hairstylist is the reason my children still like going.  Or, maybe they’re just weird kids.