At the beginning of my first pregnancy, I went straight to the library to read about it. Books lined my desk as I studied about gestational development and healthy habits for pregnant moms. I got references on doulas, birthing classes, and mommy-and-me infancy groups. I interviewed, bought products, and believed I had it figured out.

The second time, I didn’t.

When G made it safely into my arms, I had no plan on how to parent except for my desire to follow my mom’s lead and breastfeed “to the cup” as she always put it. I couldn’t rely on experts or well-thumbed tomes; I had not signed up months ahead as required for most LA baby classes. Instead, I took the simplicity of my bedrest lessons out into the world: mindfulness, acceptance, letting go.

Gigi’s life, too, was simple. Eat, sleep, void. It was not easy to define which cry was which, but her list of needs was not long. The first step was listening.

Step two was to trust myself. Easier said than done.

The spiritual quality of our lives continued in the early weeks. Day and night blurred. Seeking the elusive burp, it felt wondrous getting up in the middle of the night to hold my long-sought baby. Our home itself, empty of its daytime energy, was a cradle that held me as I held her. I was reminded again of the one-ness of motherhood: the countless women throughout time who cared for their infants by pacing back and forth, rubbing backs, singing, talking softly, loving in such a tangible way. Do we forget? Or do we retain this devotion in our collective selves?

*

Parenthood revealed a world requiring greater selflessness than I ever imagined, more emotional and physical demands, and seemingly endless diverging products, services, and philosophies.

There were the basics: nursing, diapering, burping, interpreting cries, rocking, and holding the baby, and then there was judging the seriousness of jaundice, wearing a baby carrier, operating a car seat, using a stroller. I wondered if I would ever grow more confident. Since I did nothing efficiently enough to be on autopilot, there was no room in my brain for anything else. Zen yet again—Beginner’s Mind.

On bedrest, I studied the Tao. Giving birth, I was tested. Nursing, I began a new life. The epicenter of my seismic shift in self-discovery was the moment my body delivered G all of the nourishment she needed to survive. I needed no products or services to breastfeed. It was easy to take the mitochondrial main line back to our first mother and see this was how she fed her baby. It was timeless, fundamental, pre-wired within us. This thought launched a self-study I dubbed the Anthropology of Parenthood based on one fundamental question: what else were we pre-wired to do?

Crying, according to the dictionary, was “grief, sorrow, or pain… inarticulate sobbing sounds.” Nowhere did it say communication. I believed in the classic definition and worried that I was missing a nurturing gene when I could not help G calm down. Why could I not ease her discomfort? What was wrong with me? She had epic rounds of inconsolable tears.

I became an observer of her behavior. What made her cries worse, what eased them? What made me feel helpless, what empowered me? Using my brain helped build my emotional strength. Eventually I discovered G found peace if we were walking. Otherwise, she would cry, oh, could she cry. I was told it was a low-pitched, mellow sound, but that was not how it hit my ears. Her dad said, “Her cry is soft. Don’t let it bother you.”

I challenged him, “Doesn’t it sound like it’s bouncing off the insides of your ears—like your head is going to explode?” Later I learned that mothers were pre-wired to hear and decipher differences in their infant’s cries more acutely than anyone else. To complement this aural sensitivity, infants were pre-wired with a vast array of vocal inflections designed to express their needs.

From hunger to exhaustion to wet diapers, we studied G’s language, and she discovered our responses. I wanted her to know I always would listen—whether she was 2 months or 42 years old. We paid close attention to her sounds, discovering a certain nay-nay-nay pattern to her voice that indicated she was tired. Short quick cries sought attention. A chatter-sort-of-cry reminded me of talking with her toys or the cats.

Our pediatrician reminded us that crying, when all other needs were met, was healthy. It was her form of exercise. Every cry helped a child’s lungs grow stronger to support a maturing body. He added that tears release antibodies that help keep a baby’s eyes healthy.

*

In my heightened state of awareness, I heard voices judging me. How can she let her baby cry like that? That baby is too small to be out. The sun is too bright for her. Nursing… how indecent!

I wondered if my perceptions were off. Why would people judge a young mother?

With chagrin, I realized that I was once one of them. I used to judge harshly. I was uncomfortable with mothers who breastfed in public, who slept with their children, who dressed them messily or let them stay in pajamas all day. I was relentless and ignorant.

To this day, the plate of crow I eat is enough to serve a crowd.

Why do people judge? Revisiting this question from the perspective of the Anthropology of Parenting, my answer shifted. Were we not pre-wired from our tribal days to comment and help each other raise our children? Could it be that what remained now was an instinct? However hurtful others seemed, could they be coming from a place of goodness? Might they be saying: I cannot shake my yearning to help you raise your child.

This window helped break down my defensiveness, but it was hard keeping it down. “Well-meaning” people and publications were out there, determined to stake their claim and define their truth. I battled with my intuition while reading books written by “experts” who said not to respond to cries, to force a schedule, to resist cuddling excessively. Freshly vulnerable myself, they made me want to cry. The battle of child-raising philosophies was staggering. And then there were the friends and relatives who forgot how essential it was to provide unconditional support. Instead many of them downplayed, denied or forgot their own sleep deprivation, the stress caused by incomprehensible, long-term crying, and the challenges inherent in any new job.

There was a cult of denial and secrecy in parenthood but for whose benefit?

*

Slowly I tried to find my own true north. It was difficult to apply my lessons from bedrest as preconceived notions of productivity began to reassert themselves. I had to remind myself to let go and follow the course of the next hour.

Molding my needs and desires around Gigi was an act of liberation. My axis shifted. Instead of hoping she would go to sleep quickly so I could race to accomplish something, I kept a favorite book by the nursing chair to read until her breathing assumed an even pattern. What started as a frustration became an indulgence. Rather than questioning her cries—getting caught in a cycle of anger and helplessness—an onslaught of her tears signaled me to stop everything, put her in the sling, and go for a walk. Sometimes I walked into town for a smoothie or a decaf to savor as we traversed the blocks, or on a hot day, I scanned our route for a refreshing spritz from a sprinkler. It was amazing how a mere change of attitude transformed the experience.

The conditions were unchanged; I simply received them differently.

But I had to content myself with the inherent imperfection of parenthood. I got in trouble a lot when I was a little girl. After my many spankings, I would hold my dolly tightly, letting her hair dry my tears, and vow to her that I would be a different mommy. Yet I was discovering, like any art, there was no 100% to get right (or wrong). The answers were in the way we weathered from day to day.