I was standing with a couple of new mothers the other day, both with babies several months younger than Lovebug. The first mother, her face scrubbed, hair pulled into some semblance of a ponytail, shirt stained and askew, was clearly exhausted and frustrated. She spoke about her little guy never sleeping for more than 20 minutes at a time and that while she knew he’d eventually sleep through the night, or even a nap, it felt like that time was never going to come. She opened up and lamented about carrying the bulk of the workload, the wake-ups, the feedings, the laundry, despite her husband thinking he was doing a great job of ‘pitching in’.
More empathetic, I could not be. Haven’t we all been there, haven’t we all felt like we were never going to sleep again, that this tiny creature was born with the sole purpose of seeing how fast it could destroy us? Haven’t we all resented our husband’s full night of sleep and escape into the world of work, while we’re left at the mercy of a pint sized dictator? (Followed, typically, by wretched guilt at not being 100% in love with our little Lovebugs 100% of the time. Mother Guilt hovers always in the wing, ready to deliver a good lashing at a mere moment’s notice.)
I nodded sympathetically, making all sorts of murmuring, comforting noises, knowing there was nothing I could say that would make her feel better, and that anything I did say would probably make her feel worse.
But the other mother, face made up and sporting a chic bob and clean, fitted shirt, clearly could not empathize. While she too nodded and murmermed her sympathy, she was unable to mask the pity she so obviously felt for this woman and countless others like her. She caressed her baby’s sleeping head (sleeping – of course – why not salt the wound) and said she was so lucky because she had such a ‘good’ baby, who’d been sleeping through the night from 6 weeks. 
Discheveled mom’s face fell at this news. Tearing her gaze from Chic mom’s sleeping baby, she looked back to her own bundle who was putting up a cranky fuss in his stroller. I watched, my heart breaking for this poor girl, wanting to wrap her in a big hug and tell her that it really does get better, and that this pompous bitch with her perfect baby will get hers too.
The incident left me thinking about the term ‘good’ baby, how it’s thrown around so much, and how awful it really is. I can’t count how many times people, from immediate family to perfect strangers, have stopped to admire/inquire after Lovebug, and inevitably they always look at me and say, rather than ask, ’She’s a good baby?’ And what can I say – she is, indeed, a good baby. She sleeps well, she eats well, she can entertain herself, she’s happy.
But what if she wasn’t? What if she’d been colicky? What if she wasn’t yet sleeping through the night? What if she’d been difficult or fussy or sick, what if I’d had Post Partum Depression? What, then, is the implication, when one can’t immediately say yes to the inevitable good baby question- that theirs is a ‘bad’ baby? That they’re doing a bad job of mothering? That something is wrong?
Obviously, no one intends for such conclusions; most people probably wouldn’t even draw such conclusions, but as anyone who’s had a newborn knows, those first few weeks (even months) are a time of incredible highs and lows on the emotional scale, and even the tiniest of triggers can send one off the deep end- perhaps even opening the gateway for the Mean Reds. Even if none of that happens, even if, despite her sleeplessness and/or colicky/fussy/what-have-you baby, a new mother of a ‘non-good baby’ is able to maintain a sense of calm and reason, what is the good baby question going to do for her then?
It’s just going to make her feel bad.
Alas, I’m taking on a personal mission of eradicating this awful ‘good’ baby term. All babies are good, in their own special way, and all new mothers deserve to feel that their baby is every bit as ‘good’ and wonderful as the next. Wouldn’t you agree?
