I've always had a bit of a competitive streak. I have been known to challenge people to a push-up contest, often if someone has implied that I'm weak, and especially if statements about weakness seem connected to my gender. I couldn't beat any Navy SEALS out there, but I think I can take your average couch potato American. I'm also a little rabid when it comes to board games. When I was in elementary school, my best friend and I competed at everything - who read the most Baby Sitters Club books, who held on the longest in the flexed arm hang, who bounced the longest on a squeaky pogo stick, who ate macaroni and cheese with a butter knife the fastest. My man is a little competitive, too, and we both have slightly stubborn streaks.
For some reason, I didn't expect to be stubborn or competitive about soothing our crying baby. Who imagines they would want to hang on to a crying baby longer than they have to, if capable help has arrived? Relief is usually welcomed. The trouble is that, deep down, I think I'm better at soothing Axel that everyone else. When he is fussing in someone else's arms, I quickly decide what's wrong - he's tired, doesn't like the harsh overhead lights, wants to be rocked, hates the scent of the person's cologne - and think of ten things that the person should be doing that he/she isn't doing or should be doing faster. Since, usually, the person holding him is related to me or a close friend, I restrain myself from swooping in and snatching Axel away at the first sign of a whimper. When I am holding Axel, I often have no idea what's wrong with him; when someone else has him, I suddenly think I'm a baby mind reader, and the best fussy baby calmer around.
It is not at all clear that this is true. Sometimes, my man (after having to work to convince me to relinquish the baby) takes Axel and, in a few minutes, he's placidly sleeping. Sometimes, he takes Axel and the kid keeps on raging. Other times, I'll take Axel from Sean's arms and calm him quickly by cradling him and shushing right next to his ear, while the baby's slightly sour milky breath coats my cheek, and we happily snuggle in the rocking chair. But just as often, I'll take him and he won't settle down for me any better than he would for his father, or anyone else.
My husband is in the business of taking care of people - putting out fires, rushing people in the midst of heart attacks to the hospital, taking care of car loads of folks injured in wrecks during snow storms. He takes care of me when I'm sick - which is not always easy to do, because I am usually in denial about how sick that I am, and, even if I have food poisioning and have been puking for days will still try to go run errands - so I know, firsthand, his skills in this area. I'm a better skier than he is and I read much faster, and he's a better snowboarder than I am and a faster runner (and he could easily beat me in a push up contest) but our caretaking skills are probably about equal. But, when it comes to my son, I can't shake the, "I'm the mama so I should always be the one who calms him down," instict, which implies, "You're the father and I, as the mother, am better at this than you." This irrational belief that simply recently becoming a mother means that I should be a rockstar at baby soothing makes me feel that much worse when I fail to quiet Axel in thirty seconds flat. And, while some relatives or friends might not know our baby and I might be better at reading Axel's very mixed signals than they are, my husband spends almost as much time with Axel as I do. He knows our boy pretty well, too.
The thing is, I don't want to be the only one who calms down Axel. I will be going back to work, and I also might want to spend more than an hour away from the baby some day soon, so I need to stop second-guessing other caretakers - especially my baby's very loving and capable father. And I don't always want to hold Axel while he screams at me, especially on days when my husband isn't working and could easily take on his share of ear abuse, but it's still hard for me to hand the baby over to anyone else, even my husband, when he's crying. The I'm the mother so I'm best instict - or maybe it's not an instict, but something ingrained in me by years of watching TV shows with perfect, calm, capable, soothing Claire Huxtable types, or perhaps from seeing my own mom as the go-to-girl when sick or things weren't right - is hard to shake.
