Life Lessons From #CampBabushka

Unraveling the complex dynamic of co-parenting with Mom.

I recently returned from Miami, where I spent two weeks living and co-parenting with my parents. I am very proud to report that, throughout this entire time period, my mom and I only had two arguments, both of which were resolved within 20 minutes. The level of accomplishment relayed in this sentence is akin to an alcoholic telling you they haven’t had a drink in a year – a huge coup and a sign of maturity, restraint and true discipline on both our parts.  

Let me just state here that my mom is my best friend and my closest confidant. She’s the first person I call when something good happens to me (not the bad, that’s not her forte), who I text baby photos and outfit photos to all day long, who is in on all my shameful secrets. She also happens to be an incredible grandmother who has been a huge support to me since my daughter was born, providing me with stretches of time to focus, relax and go on baby-free vacations with my partner. (I even have a hashtag! #CampBabushka) And yet, preserving a peaceful ambiance during the stretches of time we spend together has been one of my greater challenges of these past two years.  

It all started as soon as the baby was born. The plan was for my mom to come stay with us for the first month to help out with the newborn and show us the ropes. By the time she arrived about four days after our daughter was born, the latter was no longer needed. With little help from the hospital staff and no baby nurse waiting for us at home, Dave and I had been left with no choice but to teach ourselves how to burp, bathe, feed and swaddle – all the things that seem so incredibly daunting, but turn out to be weirdly natural in practice. Four days into the experience, we felt like warriors: we had survived a 17-hour labor, a few chaotic hospital sleepovers and an emergency trip back to the hospital due to my missing milk and the baby’s raging appetite. All I needed was for my mom to come in, take the baby off our hands for a few hours so that we could sleep, and then seamlessly insert herself into the system we had created.

The only problem is that babies happen to be tiny half-hatched humans who sleep most of the day. And my mom happens to be an extremely high-energy human with zero chill and a penchant for self-assigned domestic tasks. First, she focused all her energy on my Keekaroo Peanut changing pad, which she deemed to be a deathtrap from which my 5-day baby would inadvertently fling herself from. Then, she decided to make it her mission to aid my milk production by cooking me the most calorie-dense meals possible. When I informed her that I was trying to “eat clean,” she reprimanded me for even thinking about weight loss at this crucial time, stressing the importance of putting my child ahead of my vanity. (Lo and behold, my milk came in sans nut and honey cocktails and I breastfed for 14 months!) When she realized that I wasn’t about to give in on either count, she went for my kitchen cupboards, which she proclaimed to be a mess. One afternoon, she went to Target and returned home with a bunch of Tupperware containers, where she proceeded to transfer all of my grains, flours and sugars. To this day, I’ve never touched them – mainly, because I have no idea what’s in any of them. Throw in my sleep deprivation, raging hormones, and some side comments uttered in my direction in the way that way that only mothers can master, and we were plummeting, fast.

I’ll spare you further details, but it got pretty bad. About a week into her stay, the atmosphere in the house was so uncomfortable that Dave sat me down and told me that something had to change, a big move on behalf of a man who can easily ignore a tow truck pummeling though his backyard. My mom and I talked it out and lived in a semblance of peace for the next three weeks, only to dip back into our pattern when I took the baby to Miami a couple of months later. Since then, it has been an on-again-off-again pattern in which we have the best phone relationship when separated by a few thousand miles and then instantly get into some nonsensical fight over the baby’s food ration the minute we are together.

Conversations with friends assure me that I’m not alone. There is something about the dynamic between mothers and daughters that gets completely uprooted when the daughter becomes a mother herself, requiring a reset that takes some time and patience. To start, there’s the obvious power struggle – a case of too many generals in charge, so to speak. For years, the mother plays the lead role in the family unit, raising kids and running the household and steering the wheel in the exact direction she deems fit. It’s extremely hard for her to accept that, at some point, she has to cede power and allow her daughter to run the show, while she steps in as a supporting character. The daughter, in the meantime, veers between desperately wanting her mom’s approval (we all do!) and trying to continually affirm her independence and sovereignty by trying to control over every situation – often, to her own detriment. There are so many occasions when I either secretly agree with my mom or don’t mind her way of doing things, and yet I find myself fighting it out merely for the “principle” or to avoid “setting a precedent” in which she wins. (Dave would also add here that I’m an exact replica of my mother, which gives an extra twist to our fights.) To add another psychological layer, motherhood also brings up a lot of deeply-rooted memories and emotions, making us realize that there are certain patterns we don’t want repeated with our kids. So, who better to take it all out on than our very own parents?

Then, there’s the generational and cultural gap that makes the dynamic between parents and grandparents so tricky. Like most yuppie 30-something moms, I spend hours listening to parenting podcasts, learning about child psychology and trying to understand how to handle certain situations, be it tantrums or screen time or incessant food demands. My mom admires my curiosity, listens with great interest to my recaps, demands pediatrician insight on every topic and generally comes off as the most plugged-in 70-year-old Russian grandma you’ll ever meet. (I mean, you have to see the woman – she doesn’t look a day over 55.) And yet, paradoxically, she has zero desire to put any of my suggested techniques to use. Let the girl scream instead of giving in to her demands? “That’s child abuse, you’ll ruin her nerves!” Stick to a schedule? “What’s another 20 minutes, she’s enjoying the beach!” Granted, my daughter absolutely loves being at her grandparent’s house, because she gets to run amok with a container of apples, throwing around toys and bossing everyone around. And I, of course, allow it, because the alternative would be giving up the free babysitting, and I’m not a masochist.

I once heard an interview with a child development expert on this topic and, while I don’t remember the granular details, the main message was rather straightforward. (Please note that this applies to the more simple family scenarios and not to the complex dynamics that so many people experience.) Grandparents, unless they somehow become primary caregivers, will never have the same foundational effect on a kid as their parents, which makes it somewhat unnecessary to force them to follow the “house rules.” (Of course, exceptions apply for actual important matters that could affect the child’s well-being, in which case you should be firm in your boundaries.) At the same time, the connection between children and their grandparents is extremely valuable and stays with them through life, which makes preserving it that much more important. The point is, your kid probably won’t remember how many times their teeth were brushed or how many sugary snacks they were given, but they will definitely remember being adored by their grandparents. Which leaves us with no choice but to add a few extra therapy hours, embrace the precious art of ignoring, and remind ourselves that our parents are too old to change, which means that we may have to. Also, that we are incredibly lucky to have them around, because nobody will ever love our kids more.

Famous last words or a motto for my blissfully zen future? Only time will tell.