Our mothers think we're crazy. Though few of them had full-time careers while they were pregnant and raising infants, they did all have lives, they tell us now. They went places. Did things. Drank coffee. Had cocktails. They were not, in other words, breast-feeding their babies every two hours.
And somehow, they kindly point out, those babies survived. Nurtured on powdered formula and instant cereal, we grew into healthy, successful adults.
In response, we just smile our smug, how-little-they-knew-then smiles. Because we'd sooner buy a flammable cradle with its razor-sharp edges coated in lead paint than give our own precious babies food from a can.
Every generation finds its own way to make peace with the bone-grinding hard work that is new motherhood. For the women of the late '60s-early '70s Lamaze era, grueling labor stories were the key to establishing one's status as a martyr. So even if you stashed your little one in a plastic playpen while having a cigarette and a nice, long gossip with your neighbor, you could still claim the moral high ground of motherhood by invoking the 36-hour-long labor you endured with only deep breathing and a reluctantly enlightened husband to dull the pain.
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