Lessons in when “Doubt Means Don’t”…But You Do

Mistakes happen to the best of us – it’s just one of the ugly truths of life. But is there anything worse than making a mistake and knowing you have no one to blame but yourself? I’m sure we can all recall times when we acted against our better judgement and made a decision that ran contrary to every instinct in our body. Sometimes the repercussions are small. Sometimes they are huge. Take the time I walked down the aisle, for example. Ha! I KID!!! But in all seriousness, I have – just since becoming a mom three short years ago – found myself second guessing myself a lot more than I did prior to popping out dem babies.

Many times my blunder is forgettable. Maybe my husband calls at 5 p.m. and suggests we go out to dinner as a family. “Man how I’d love to get out of cooking for a change,” I muse. “But the kids skipped their afternoon nap today, and they seem borderline homicidal. Come to think of it, so am I.” So my initial response is “No, tonight probably isn’t the best night to venture out.” My well-intentioned husband then chides me for never wanting to have any fun. Never deviating from the routine. “You’re right,” I sigh. “I AM the world’s lamest person and most boring mom ever. Let’s take a walk on the wild side and blow this joint!”

So off I go to meet him – kids screaming like the animals they are in the backseat. My initial foray into living on the edge is not off to a good start. And, surprise, surprise: the situation does not improve from there. Dinner is a cataclysmic disaster. My husband gets a business call just as the food is arriving and is conveniently absent for the bloodbath that ensues. I’ll spare you the gory details, but yeah. I’m talking eardrum blasting screams of defiance from the toddler, inconsolable wailing from the baby, and a healthy dose of food hurling from both. My drive home has me on the verge of tears and the brink of a nervous breakdown. I’m begging for mercy, wishing I had just taken it on the chin, been called a killjoy for the millionth time that week and stayed in the relative comfort of my home far, far away from the wide-eyed shock of traumatized restaurant patrons who clearly never even entertained the notion of reproducing.

Look at this proud papa. He's never seen anything he loves as much as that cute pink stroller.
Look at this proud papa. He’s never seen anything he loves more than that cute pink…stroller.

But in the grand scheme of things, a dinner gone awry is a fairly minor offense. Other examples have been more regrettable. I may, for example, have foolishly partaken in shopping for baby strollers in some rather mind-bogglingly expensive posh nursery boutiques in the Northeast during my first pregnancy (you know, back when I thought burp cloths were sold individually at $15 a pop instead of realizing they were also sold in packs of 10 for $15 under the clever marketing ruse “cloth diapers”). As I listened to the salespeople drone on and on about the stroller’s ability to navigate all types of terrain and weather – special emphasis on maneuvering in the snow –  I glanced at my husband to see if he was as bored as I was and was shocked to see his eyes ablaze with activity. He was not only listening but also asking questions about the mechanics of the wheels of these strollers. This was a truly intriguing change of pace because at six months along, I could confidently report that he hadn’t been this interested in anything relating to the baby since she was conceived.

Meanwhile, all I care about is how easy it is to fold and unfold the stroller. These people have visions of urban winter treks down crowded sidewalks and slushy crosswalks. I have visions of hoisting the stroller from my car, walking the approximately 25 feet to the beckoning doors of the big box store and then back again in the blazing heat. Let’s repeat that. What do I care about? One thing: easy and quick folding. I couldn’t get the hang of it in the store but was assured by the salespeople and my husband that before I knew it, folding and unfolding that stroller would become second nature to me. Just like changing a diaper. You might struggle with it for the first few times, but before you know it, you can do it with your eyes closed and one hand tied behind your back. Fast forward to the week after we bring our baby home. My husband has gone to work and I am left alone for the first time with this marvel of modern engineering that my husband talked me into buying. I’ve watched the instructional video on YouTube. Looks easy. I’ve seen my husband do it several times now. No problem. I’ve been trying to fold the POS up now for the past 10 minutes and am about to Lose.My.Mind.

Meanwhile, there is no love lost between mama and the stroller.
Meanwhile, there is no love lost between mama and the stroller.

Fast forward two years. I’m at the zoo with my daughter. It’s May, it’s 10 am, and I am already sweating bullets. As if the effort required to pack for a successful “zoo day” wasn’t enough, this same stupid stroller is refusing to unfold in the parking lot. I’ve been at it for about 15 minutes. A hesitant crowd of people has encircled me, and I’m pretty sure they’re all just waiting to resuscitate me when I collapse. I am intensely aware of a dad standing behind me looking on with overzealous pity. He’s staring so hard he’s boring holes in my neck. He finally approaches to offer assistance. It takes every ounce of self-restraint I have not to laugh in his face. You think you can fix this beast that I’ve been trying to tame for years in a matter of seconds? Go ahead! Instead I smile and say “Sure, that’d be great.” Of course he can’t do it either. Why? Because the stroller is worthless. I knew it at the store. I knew it once we brought it home, and I definitely know it now. Every time I see it sitting in our driveway my blood starts to boil.

But that’s not even the worst of it because in addition to having made some regrettable decisions, I have made a few that ended up being fairly serious. The first occurred when we took our daughter to New York when she was six months old. Although I very much wanted to go on the trip, I wasn’t very comfortable  with the idea of taking our daughter along for the ride. I wasn’t sure how she would do on the plane, I didn’t know how breastfeeding, meals and sleeping would work outside of our usual routine, and I definitely didn’t know how on earth I would pack all our stuff into anything less than a steamer trunk. I just had a nagging feeling telling me it wasn’t a good idea to go. Nevertheless the trip came and went, and although aspects of the trip were challenging, we all had a great time and lived to tell the tale.

A couple of days after we returned home, my daughter started to look a little “off.” She was coughing a lot and her breathing sounded raspy. Not wanting to be the alarmist first time mom,  I let it go for a few days thinking maybe it was her reflux flaring up. It turns out she had RSV. She eventually recovered from RSV but has had viral induced asthma ever since. There are many days when I give myself a healthy dose of guilt and self-loathing as I dole out her daily prescriptions. Why did we have to take that trip? Why didn’t I listen to that little voice telling me not to go?

The vacation started off innocently enough...
The vacation started off innocently enough…

Six months later, nudged on by family and friends who swore our experience with RSV after travel was just a fluke, we boarded a plane to spend New Years in the Caribbean with close friends. When we arrived, the atmosphere was festive. The accommodations were gorgeous, the weather was perfect, and I was reveling in the excitement of finding out we were expecting baby #2. Woo hoo! We enjoyed a leisurely first day at the beach and had a delicious lunch al fresco. That night we had a sitter stay with the children while we went to dinner at the hotel. The sitter called midway through the dinner and said our daughter was sick and we needed to come right away. We raced back to find our daughter covered in vomit and throwing up with each sip of water she took. We rushed to the hospital as soon as the Caribbean cab could get us there which I have to say was not fast at all.

As I held my daughter, shaking, limp and wrapped in a blanket during that seemingly never-ending cab ride, I wondered what on earth had possessed me to take this vacation. I knew better than to travel with children. I swore I would never do it again! Luckily the hospital staff was relatively responsive and got our daughter hooked up to IVs in an acceptable amount of time. What was not lucky was how both my husband and I succumbed to the same fate as my daughter within hours of arriving to the ER. We spent the last full night of 2013 in hospital room together trying not to get our respective wires and tubing tangled up.

A pretty stellar end to 2013. That's my husband sleeping in the bed and my hand expressing my sentiment about the day while holding my daughter.
A pretty stellar end to 2013. That’s my husband sleeping in the bed and my hand expressing my sentiment about the situation while lying beside my daughter.

I remember seeing an Oprah episode many moons ago where the adage “doubt means don’t” was repeated several times. It stuck with me. I think doubt can signal a lot of things, and maybe it doesn’t always have to mean don’t, but as moms, I do think it pays to listen to that little voice inside your head. Then again, maybe the real lesson here is not only to trust your instincts but also to forgive yourself when you don’t. Yes, we moms are a tribe rife with worry, doubt, and guilt, but we are also a tribe overflowing with wisdom, strength, and courage. We try new things – sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t. The key is that we learn from our successes (and failures) and keep on keepin’ on!

I, for example, agreed to take the kids on an impromptu dinner out last week. All conditions seemed right, so I threw caution to the wind and went for it. Guess what? We had a great time. My stroller? Well, my sister is pregnant and has had her eye on it since the minute she found out she was expecting. I tried to convince her she wanted that stroller as much as she wanted the plague, but she came over to check it out and whaddya know? That stupid stroller unfolded for her on the first try in a gesture akin to sticking its tongue right in my face. Fine. They are obviously a match made in heaven, so who am I to stand in the way of their happily ever after? The stroller is moving out. The trips? I can’t lie –  we haven’t taken any children on a plane since our ill-fated trip to the Caribbean last year. I know the day is coming though, and now that my son is a year old, I am open to the idea…provided we all wear surgical masks the entire time and only consume hermetically sealed Saltines and bottled water. Isn’t progress a glorious thing?

Because really…what says fun vacation more than wearing a protective mask?
Because really…what says vacation fun more than a protective mask?

 

Elizabeth
Elizabeth is a native Texan and stay at home mom to a 3-year-old human hurricane in pigtails and a 1-year-old son who is currently jockeying for the title of world’s biggest mama’s boy. She has been married to her husband, who lives in perpetual denial of the fact that he is, in fact, a Yankee, for eight long (and wonderful!) years. Together they have renovated a historical home with their own little hands (never again), braved the winters of New York (and decided they’d rather not), and discovered a profound and binding love of travel (travel without the children, that is). They currently reside in Fair Oaks Ranch where they are surrounded by family and deer.

1 COMMENT

  1. I got the stroller because it was clearance and I was the only one that could really figure it out. I went through three strollers before I found one I loved.
    Mom guilt is hanging around me, but not as much as you. We have gone on vacation once and I am glad he didn’t get sick. We just lost a favorite shoe of ours. 🙁

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