A bit too much advice

So much for JD's birthday plans. I was supposed to go out after a work thing, but here it is almost 11 pm and no sign of my husband coming home (and I was in City Y this morning so I may not even see my husband on his birthday). Oh well.

I have discovered that I have an incredibly high tolerance for bad, rude, or just idiotic parenting advice. I am so incredibly grateful to be past the endless questions "When are you going to have kids?" (ok, there weren't so many of those given our timing) and stupid fertility-related advice ("Just relax" doesn't really seem likely to succeed when you've never ovulated ...) that I am usually quite content to listen to all sorts of silly advice about breastfeeding and sleep schedules and teething toys and sunscreen. Until tonight.

Let's just pretend the mother sitting next to me at dinner lived in some very ritzy part of NYC, say, for example, Park Slope. And we'll add that she really doesn't know much about me or my income or family background, etc. This woman, we'll call her Ms. Competitive proceeded to tell me all about how she chose her neighborhood based on the school system there before she was even pregnant, and how she loves the 'types of families' in her current neighborhood and how stressed she was about her child getting into a top-notch preschool (only 10 hours a week so she still needs a full-time nanny) and how I really, absolutely cannot put off applying for preschool for my little fusspot for another year (who still cannot reliably locate her hands on a daily basis - we're not exactly in need of reading readiness yet). And she went on and on about how important it is for her toddler to associate with other families with 'similar goals' and how she's already thinking about middle school admissions tests and choosing her child's extracurriculars carefully (and yes, I was so engrossed in the details that I honestly did not catch if she had a son or a daughter). And at the time I couldn't exactly figure out why her loud enthusiasm for her particular lifestyle was annoying me so much, rather than either being humorous or just irrelevant.

And then it struck me. I am not going to push my little fusspot into the very best preschool in our neighborhood (even if we could afford it) because I simply don't care. I don't care that not getting into a good preschool may keep her out of a competitive kindergarten and as a result she may never, ever get to Haaaarvard. I did not have a baby to add a line to my imaginary life resume: Raised one neurosurgeon. I want my fusspot to be happy and I want her to enjoy life and I do care that she learns to live independently and support herself eventually. But I am just not going to push her that much to follow in her parents well-educated heels. I want to respond to my fusspot's interests (when they progress beyond her hands and toes) and I want to encourage her to do things she likes, but I am terrified of committing dream for her, no matter how hazy, in case it happens to be wrong. I have no idea yet if my fusspot is autistic or dyslexic or tone-deaf or as uncoordinated as her parents, and I want to find these things out with her. And I want to be able to be happy with the choices she makes along the way. There was something so grating about the particular ambitions this woman was layering onto her toddler that just made me want to shout at her "I love my baby more than you love yours. I love her just the way she is now and I will love her even if she does not go to college. I love her more because she is not just an object to be pushed and manipulated. She is not a status item for me and I don't care if her friend's parents are 'succesful.'"

For the record, I really do hope this woman loves her toddler as much as she possibly can. And I'm still in a bit of shock that I felt so strongly opposed to what might just have passed as the normal self-centered NYC parental competition.

And yes, my no prenatal care, sugar-water-fed, left home alone as a toddler, no reading prep at all husband did manage to acquire a Haaaarvard degree.