Down with the experts

The other day, I made the mistake of scanning through a bunch of local parent magazines at one go. Eek!

There was the article about oral hygiene that directed me to take my baby to the dentist by age one. Sure. The dentist would have gotten glimpses of the kid’s teeth when she inhaled for another scream. It then proceeded with this ever-so-helpful ‘graph: “And if you tell a dentist that your child won’t let you brush their teeth, then remember that dentists have heard all that before. Parents would be wise to help their children brush their teeth until they are 8 or 9 years old.” Give me a friggin’ break. My daughter’s tooth brushing is purely ceremonial, but the only alternative would be nightly anesthesia to knock her out cold. Perhaps the author will send over an anesthesiologist—or a zookeeper with a stun gun.

Then there was the article on cell phones for tweens. Fer chrissake, I don’t have a cell phone. Or the advertorial page displaying an ever-so-cute onesie emblazoned with “my space” and a picture of a crib, for a mere $20 (my child refused to sleep anywhere near anything with bars, and I think she was right) and a stroller blanket with tie-downs for $70 and up (I kinda want one of those). By the time I got to the article about the “play debate”—about whether children are or are not being pressured to learn too much too young (with sidebar on playing with your child to stimulate brain development), I was ready to stick my kid in front of the TV and pour myself a double slug of whiskey.

Calmed by the booze, I offer this expert advice: Parenting magazines, advice manuals, and all supposed parenting experts are bad for you. Stay away from them. I take that back. (Like most experts, I flip flop.) Just dip into them sparingly and with liberal doses of salt. And after the kids have gone to bed, read Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English’s classic For Her Own Good: 100 Years of the Experts’ Advice to Women.

My best antidote to expertist guilt-mongering is the Bad Mommy Club. My fellow chair of this club called up the other night at about 8:00 to tell me that her daughter had just woken up from a nap, so it was going to be a late night. She was now plunked in front of the TV watching Dora the Explorer and eating cheese crackers. “You’re the coolest mom,” I said.

Among the things that qualify me for the Bad Mommy Club are not always buying organic, allowing my child to eat sweets upon occasion, never getting the hang of putting her in a sling, never having Ferberized her, never having taught her sign language, and allowing Veggie Booty to be the only vegetable she ate for a while. I was in trouble when the stuff was recalled.

What the Bad Mommy Club reminds me of is that half the things some school of thought thinks are de rigeur are verboten for another—that’s part of the joke I share with my co-chair. It reminds me not to sweat the small things and stick to what I actually think is important. It also reminds me not to judge others’ parenting choices—or try not to. I happen to think both my co-chair and I are really good mothers. There are plenty of differences between us—I’ve never exposed my child to TV, for one—and that’s okay. There are many ways of being a good mother. Don’t let anybody tell you different.