Poor Baby

Commercials are powerful.  They can convince you you need things you already have, or want things you never knew you wanted, or even think in a new way.  I was pulled in tonight by a commercial.  "Real life" people were talking about how their cars did these amazing things: The car woke them up when they were falling asleep behind the wheel, or slammed on the breaks before the driver even had a chance to react.  "I need this car!"  I thought.  "I need to keep my child safe in this car!"  So, let's just wait till the end of the commercial to see what it is so I can get it ...okay... still waiting...long commercial... I think this is John Hamm doing the voice over....oh....okay.  It's a Mercedes.

For those of you who know me, you know there is no way I can afford a Mercedes.  And that is fine with me.  I could care less what kind of car I drive.  I chose my car for the gas mileage and airbags, not because I thought people would envy me cruising past them on the highway in my sweet Scion XA.  But this commercial wasn't about status symbols, it was about safety.  And there is nothing that will make you feel worse about your parenting than thinking you can't afford to keep your child safe.  It occurred to me yesterday when I was speaking to some other mothers about convertible car seats.  These range in price with the safest being the most expensive.  So, if you can't afford the safest one, does that mean you don't care about the safety of your child?
What a terrible decision for a parent to have to make.

So I wanted to share with you an essay I wrote for Momversations while I was pregnant.  It has nothing to do with being green, but if you are in a similar financial situation you may be able to relate...

POOR BABY!

SERIOUSLY, MY BABY HAS NO MONEY

by Rebecca Sage Allen

I was never that girl that dreamt about having babies.  I never needed to hold anyone’s baby or peek in a baby carriage or thought that all babies were cute.  Once in a while I would meet a baby that really got to me, and I would think it was special, simply because I didn’t have the urge to ignore it.  I love my friend’s and family’s babies, and knew I would love my own if and when I decided to have one.  But just because I didn’t lie in bed dreaming of nurseries and mommy–and-me groups, didn’t mean I didn’t picture what it would be like to be a mom.  You just assume that if and when you have children their childhood will be similar to your own.  They grow up in a house, they play in a yard, they are not spoiled but they want for nothing.  There is no debate over, “can we afford to get this ice cream?” or “”are you sure you can’t squeeze into that jumper one more year?”  Life takes care of itself because you are financially comfortable.  In the picture…but in reality…

You are five-months pregnant and you are not in a house, you are in a two-bedroom apartment, setting up your babies room/guest room/home office and hoping that the neighbor somehow decides to quit smoking between now and the wee one’s arrival so that smoke doesn’t keep billowing in from their windows directly into your babies’ crib area.  You have asked your upstairs neighbor a half a dozen times to please stop manically spitting off his balcony as it travels past your windows and you are tired of thinking, “Is it raining?  Oh, no, that’s the neighbor’s phlegm.”  You stare out your living room window at the building next door, a Department of Water and Power “station” and wonder what goes on there with all the “Danger: High Voltage” signs and hope that none of this is silently giving you and your unborn child some terrible disease.  And that yard that you grew up frolicking in has been reduced to a 3x5 balcony, big enough for a few plants and two tiny folding chairs.  This is not the motherhood you imagined.  You thought you would be like the Cosby’s, but it turns out you’re Roseanne.

My parents were wonderful.  And their greatest service to me might have also been their greatest disservice.  They always encouraged me to follow my dreams.  They paid for my degree in musical theater, supported my move to Chicago, a city I had never once visited in my life, to pursue improv and sketch comedy, and were 100% behind me when my husband and I decided to take the leap and move to LA.  And although we have been extremely successful by our own standards, that success never came with a big paycheck.  We are frugal; we have savings and no debt.  But we never know where the next paycheck is coming from, or how much it will be, or how long it will be for the next one to follow.  All this was perfectly acceptable to us, the couple, until we found out about this bun in my oven.  Now along with all the other pressures that cram a pregnant woman’s brain I am feeling the most force from the mighty dollar.  Will this kid be able to go to a good pre-school?  Will she be fluent in sign language and French by kindergarten?  Will our Christmas cards have a montage of black-and-white photos of her at a beach, and a raspberry farm, and a pumpkin patch?  And how will I be able to deal with other mothers who have the money I don’t have?  Like last year, before I was pregnant, when my old boss said to me, “I’m taking the family to France next week.  Can you believe Jayna has never been to Paris?”  

Jayna was seven.

Lately I’ve been saying to my husband, “You know, we’re rich.”  If I close my eyes to all the material things around me I honestly believe this is true.  I have a fantastic, healthy family.  My husband is the greatest gift on the face of the planet.  My in-laws are magnificent.  We live in a free country, in a warm city a car ride from the ocean, in a safe, all-be-it small, apartment.  And our tiny baby girl is growing just fine inside my thrift-store-maternity-shirt-covered belly.  Regardless of what we earn we will make her feel like the richest girl on Earth, even if she hasn’t seen the City of Lights by the time she’s entering first-grade. 

Now, I am off to my prenatal yoga class!  And by prenatal yoga class I mean doing some general stretching on my living room floor.  Those classes are $17 a pop!  Don’t get me started on that…