Bad Parent: Out of Sight
Why we don't use a baby monitor.
by Elizabeth Blackwell
December 30, 2008
Studio-apartment-dwellers aside, we're clearly in the minority with our no-monitor stance. On those rare occasions we hang out with fellow parents in the evening or during afternoon naptime, there's almost always a monitor lurking on a side table, a reminder that the kids are with us even when they aren't. The monitor utters a low, steady hiss, a combination of static and indistinguishable baby noises, a distraction that prevents us from ever completely relaxing. In this house, the kid rules, it seems to be saying.
I'm all for checking in on your kids, and I do make several trips upstairs each night to make sure everyone's okay (or, during those early months, to check that everyone's still breathing). So maybe I do more schlepping up and down than people who have a monitor. But it's worth it, and not just because I count it as my daily cardio. For a few precious hours, my husband and I revert to our previous, laid-back selves, rather than haggard parents second-guessing every noise our new masters make.
As the years pass, I've gotten more reckless, venturing out to the backyard during naptime. On the off chance the boys woke up early, I wouldn't hear them, but what's the worst that could happen? They're in cribs, in a childproofed room with the door closed.
When I get a break from my children, I take it.
Will there really be any long-term damage if they have to wallow a little longer in a skanky diaper? Possibly, but it'll be a good ten years or so before they start laying down the guilt trips.
When I get a break from my children, I take it — not just physically but mentally. I remember watching an Oprah segment about moms in Iceland leaving their bundled-up babies outside in strollers while they gathered inside a cozy café for coffee and chitchat. Did I mention that this was during the winter? In Iceland?
I don't think I'd ever be that bold — besides, pulling that stunt during a Midwestern January might get me arrested. But I think there's something to be said about having your kids nearby, yet not too close. For allowing them some space, even when they're babies. For putting them to bed, and then leaving them alone.
Eight o'clock is the magic hour in my house, the time I tell the kids, who are now six and two, that Mommy stops working. Once they're in bed, I don't really care what they do, as long as they're breathing and eventually sleeping. Without a baby monitor picking up their every twitch, they're free to do as they like. And, more importantly, so am I.
©2008 Elizabeth Blackwell and Babble
About the Author
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Elizabeth Blackwell is a freelance magazine writer and the author of Frommer's Chicago guidebook. She lives in the Chicago suburbs with her husband, three children and a vast collection of long underwear.
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