Children

Although I disagree with Donald Trump’s and Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s suggestion that mothers who took Tylenol during pregnancy may have caused the huge rise of children born with autism in the US, I also can’t agree with the spate of articles and interviews that have followed – several by high-functioning autistic adults, others by parents of autistic children – basically saying it is great to be autistic. I understand that they are fearful that Trump’s idea of a “cure” could result in anyone with special needs being regarded as subnormal and a second-class citizen, but it’s not helpful, either, to pretend that autism is without its many frightful drawbacks. My son, 42, was diagnosed with Asperger syndrome on his 13th birthday in 1996.

Tiffany Trump’s baby shower photos emerged this week, a Peter Rabbit-themed extravaganza thrown by her sister Ivanka in a Palm Beach mansion, so lavish that Beatrix Potter would have needed a second mortgage to attend. Think balloon arches as big as monuments, themed cocktails and swag bags worth more than your monthly car payment. This Sunday, I had so much fun hosting a Peter Rabbit-themed baby shower for my sweet sister Tiffany! We showered her with love and had the best time celebrating her and baby-to-be! Every detail was inspired by Beatrix Potter’s world — from bunny tails to garden treats — to… pic.twitter.

One of my favorite lines in the modern cinematic classic Incredibles 2 comes courtesy of fashion designer and maker of exclusive superhero costumes, Edna Mode, “Done properly, parenting is a heroic act. Done properly. I am fortunate it has never afflicted me.” I’ve been thinking about this line because for the past couple of days, we’ve watched entirely too much television as I struggled to juggle work, a sick child and a sick husband. I don’t feel like a hero. I’m pretty sure I’m not doing any of this parenting stuff properly. It feels like all hell has broken loose and my toddler is just our roommate now. A small, snotty, adorable, popsicle-addicted roommate. My house has been struck with what I’ve been referring to as “the preschool plague.

Human risk assessment is not a dispassionate numbers-crunching game. Those who fear flying have to know we’re four times more likely to die in a car crash than in a fiery plunge from the skies, even if we’re boarding a Boeing. The fear of flying may be common, but only a select few will rule out the jet engine entirely. When it comes to emotional risk evaluation, there is one area where phobia prevails over reason: our increasingly sterile view of what constitutes a good bet when it comes to marriage and family life. Since the second half of the twentieth century, American society has been on a mission to eliminate risk. Seatbelt and helmet laws reduced deaths in automobile and bike accidents at the expense of comfort and self-respect.

When I was fresh out of college, a week before I started my first job, I had my first grown-up relationship. I met him on JDate, a Jewish dating app. He was a nice guy a few years older than me, living near Georgetown with a few roommates. We texted for a few days before he proposed a crazy first date: an overnight trip to Atlantic City with his friends. There was no hotel stay — we were going to pull an all-nighter driving there and back in twenty-four hours. With a healthy sense of adventure and perhaps a slight death wish, I said yes. We had an epic time and began a fast and furious relationship for the next few months.  While we had a lot of fun together, it became clear pretty quickly that we were very different people.

My niece was seven or eight years old when she called to invite me to a school event. “It’s Mother-and-Daughter Day at my school!” she exclaimed, adding that I had to be there because she and her twin sister wanted to show me their classroom and meet their friends.  I thanked her for including me but added that I’m not her mommy; I’m her auntie.  “But you’re like a mommy,” my niece said, with a tilt in her voice as if I didn’t understand what was immensely obvious to her. “Auntie! You have to come,” she pleaded. I was there with bells on.  I’m fortunate that my nephew and nieces have always lived nearby, and that my sister-in-law and brother have generously embraced my participation in their children’s lives whenever possible.

As I approach my daughter’s first birthday this month, I’m reflecting on what it’s been like to become a mom so late in the game — and the thousands of lessons I’ve learned. A lot of people have carried me through pregnancy and the first year: my husband, for one, has been a rock. His mother and stepfather. My aunt and uncle. They’ve all shown up for us in ways we didn’t even know we would need, with home-cooked meals when I was in the newborn bubble, with baby care so we could work or sleep or unwind. However, nothing has carried me quite like the groupchat a friend started in my first trimester. This friend had her second child on the way and realized three of us were pregnant all within months of one another, so she started the chat.