The comfortably padded walls, blinding primary colors and off-putting, patchwork-clown puppet at HappyBabyGym had lured me in again. This time, I assured myself, I'd claim my rightful share of HappyBabyGym moments.
See, as a new mother, you’ve miraculously attained a baby; somehow managed to feed, clothe, burp, change it; and maybe gone outside for a stroll. Still, you’re tired, lonely and – let’s be honest – bored. Baby’s not exactly Dorothy Parker. You
need to pack that intimidating diaper bag and escape the house. So, with my second baby in tow, I once again found myself at HappyBabyGym.
I was pleased that, four years later, the routine and songs remained exactly the same. I dutifully cajoled my daughter to clap, stomp and pop bubbles on cue, silently begging her to conform with me.
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| The Dreaded Checklist |
The same moms chattered enthusiastically, although they had little in common aside from parenting a child of similar age. They didn't yet know that even that bond was weak, held together only by a checklist of milestones.
My son had been born with a condition that
could result in physical and/or cognitive challenges. We were told it would not be possible until he was older to assess the severity, and we had to "wait and see." I can report now that he would, indeed, grow into his "best-case scenario" and his challenges are, relatively, mild. However, each week at HappyBabyGym, we'd only know that he had missed yet another milestone on the list.
His delays were amplified, scrutinized and assessed competitively to a point that, at circle time, I'm pretty sure I exaggerated his mastery of the sippy cup and other weekly accomplishments. Sure, the mothers would be sympathetic, at times making a big deal of placing little Johnny next to my son to roll a ball together, but when numbers were exchanged, nobody asked for mine. After I strategically lunged for the only instrument my child could grasp during the baby band jam, we'd partner up with the group’s lone nanny and her charge.
No, I was not joyous and self-satisfied, like the moms on the brochure. Nor did my son giggle gleefully under the colorful parachute. He was the one screaming in terror. We often cried in unison as we drove home.
So when I returned years later with my daughter, I felt entitled to a picture-perfect HappyBabyGym experience. I deserved this.
Alas, just because she could perform their tricks did not mean she wanted to. Instead, like her older brother, she cried. Or ran in circles. Or sniffed the other kids’ hair. So we put our shoes back on, and I walked out of HappyBabyGym for good.
Soon after, we found solace, companionship and comfort among moms and children elsewhere: in waiting rooms and doctor’s offices, where she aced another checklist: the signs of autism.
This post is part of the Yeah Write Summer Writer's Series. I had my choice of three writing prompts and chose: "Describe a time you felt alone." I am proud to be part of this talented, supportive writing community.
It's my first blog giveaway, and I feel oddly powerful. I'm giving away a shiny, new copy of Easy to Love but Hard to Raise
. Read more about the book and its origins here: Guest Post: Easy to Love but Hard to Raise.
