This post brought to you by Arlo who just today, out of nowhere, said:
“I will play with the bulldozer because I am a boy. You will play with the steamroller because you are a girl.”
When Arlo was teeny tiny we swaddled him for sleep and it worked out pretty well.
I was very certain we would also swaddle Farrah but only after we got breastfeeding firmly established. Then Farrah got a stuffy nose. Binding her while unable to breathe seemed akin to torture, more tortuous than the horrible nights were all experiencing. Kris was chomping at the bit to get her wrapped up and understandably so as the flailing from her Moro reflex was keeping us all up at night. Then Farrah struggled for about four days to have a poo. She needed to move her body, I thought, so no swaddle. Milk steady, nose clear, poo delivered and I still waffled. Where I didn’t hesitate with my son, I just couldn’t get my arms around swaddling my daughter.
Desperate for some rest and again, backed with the success of swaddling Arlo, we bound her up one night.
That same night I dreamed I was grabbed and assaulted. Molested.
Never swaddled Farrah again.
No safer place than with her mother and father and yet I could not tie down my daughter’s arms and render her vulnerable. My six-week-old daughter who was more likely to poke her own eye out than fight off an assailant, and yet there it was, woman-to-woman, I could not do it.
My feminist card could get either revoked or renewed for this act. I hope it’s the latter.