"You cease to exist"
On caring for young children at social gatherings (holiday or not)
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I was talking with a friend about how hard it can feel to be at social gatherings as a caregiver.
It’s so much work to be out and about with small children, as opposed to at home. If you know you know. It’s fine; it’s parenting. But what sometimes pushes me over the edge is that on top of all the work it is to navigate a new environment with littles, there can be a feeling of invisibility, even marginalization.
“Oh yeah, that’s such a thing,” my friend said. “You cease to exist.”
I honestly couldn’t have said it better. It’s a strange feeling, working so hard and yet feeling so unseen, and I’ve experienced this acutely at social gatherings.
I remember this sense of marginalization being very disconcerting as a new mother. Although I’m an introvert, I’m not shy, and I really enjoy talking with others and generally look forward to gatherings.1 I assumed I would still be a part of things, just with my baby along! Maybe people would even help with the care? Either way, I looked forward to social events as I always have.
But it often felt difficult. I’d have to run to grab a diaper or something, and my conversation partner would be gone when I got back. Baby would need a change of scenery and no one would come to hang out with me as I moved to a place where she might be happier. In general, it seemed like I’d suddenly become a non-person, someone no one thought much about or was all that interested in.
Once at a family gathering at my mom’s, everyone was talking about going for a walk in a little while. I told the people I was chatting with that I’d like to come, but that I first had to get the baby down. I retreated to a bedroom to read a book to my little one and get her settled in. When I came out, the going-on-a-walk crew had left without me.
This triggered absolute rage. I’d been frustrated by experiences of loneliness at gatherings before, and I remember I was trying in particular to catch up with a cousin of mine with whom I used to be very close. I’d also just been simply looking forward to talking with people after a long day of solo caregiving.2 I felt a sharp sense of violation, and without much thinking I gathered my things, scooped up my (not yet asleep) baby, and—after some fiery words to my aunt and mother—drove home.
Intense? Yeah, it was. My cousin felt bad and we connected and repaired the next day. But these things build; at least they do for me.
Sometimes you’re not just ignored socially, but the host seems to have absolutely no awareness of or regard for your experience as a caregiver (or the experience of your child). A friend told me that one holiday season a family member refused to modify her fancy, ground-level decorations after she was asked, the caregiver knowing how physical her baby was and not wanting anything to get broken (or to have to hover over her child all night long). Upon this dismissal of her concern, my friend chose to not attend the gathering.
The disrespect is wild.
Another fun variation is where you’re mostly ignored until someone has some unsolicited advice or criticism about the way you’re parenting. I was at a family gathering once where the other family members with children hadn’t yet arrived. As the adults were meandering around and catching up, I let my husband chat and took over caregiving responsibilities completely. No one came to talk with me as I did so, which is fine as that’s essentially what I’ve come to expect. However, after a free-range-ish parenting decision my toddler got hurt, and lo and behold, someone was quick to come over and let me know that I shouldn’t have let her (do what she was doing).
Sigh.
At the risk of sounding whiny, I’ll share one more way I’ve felt socially marginalized as a primary caregiver of littles. I’ve often gotten the sense that people simply don’t think I have anything interesting to talk about. Maybe because I don’t have a job so people can’t ask me how work is going, the preferred go-to American conversation starter? (I do have a part-time freelance writing life, but that always seems hard for not in the writing/online world to understand.) Perhaps the “SAHM” condescension is at play and it’s (subconsciously) assumed that I’m a little dull or a little dumb? Maybe there’s a fear that if they start talking to me I’ll launch into a mind-numbing monologue about my baby’s sleep schedule or something? I don’t know, but it’s… weird, and it’s a bummer.
Socializing in America feels to me very adult-centric. It seems like small children are either the total focus of people’s attention at gatherings (usually for a short time to mostly admire how cute they are and/or pepper them with predictable and condescending questions), or they are ignored. This feels so off.
I can easily imagine a society—and from what I’ve read it exists in other parts of the world—where small children are just a normal, joyful, somewhat inconvenient-of-course-in-the-way-that-all-human-relationships-are part of things. Seamlessly and unsurprisingly integrated into social and community life, where others not only tolerate them but welcome them and even offer to participate in their care.3
Where kids aren’t socially marginalized, their caregivers won’t be either. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask. I’m not looking to be the center of attention as a mother; I’m just looking to, like, not be treated as some sort of boring, irrelevant nobody.
Three kids and eight years in, I’ve grown to not only accept this as something that happens but to actually treasure the time I spend tending to my children and their experiences with unfamiliar places and activities. I now have no one in diapers anymore—such a strange thing—and I remember a clear moment from Christmas Eve a few years ago, when my youngest, Rosie, was about six months old.
I was in a bedroom, putting her to bed during an extended family gathering. Outside the closed door and down the hall the fireplace was blazing and we were right in the middle of delicious food, lively interaction, anticipation of presents, and all the typical things a family Christmas gathering brings. I’d been partaking in an interesting conversation with my brother-in-law and my sister-in-law’s boyfriend. (If I remember right, we were talking about Spain, where I lived for a semester in undergrad.) Rosie had had enough though, as her bedtime had come and went, so I exited the conversation to go put her down. As I did so I felt a twinge of annoyance, but nothing like I’d felt in previous years. I remember mostly deep satisfaction that I got to be with my healthy, sweet baby in a dark, quiet room.
I think this shift in perspective has happened largely because I've now seen a few babies get big. My oldest is 8.5 and taller than I can ever really believe. She was a baby yesterday. At the risk of sounding like the old people in the grocery store, I know (in a way that young-me didn’t know) that these moments are truly numbered. Great conversation and hanging out with adults will still be there in a few years. Babies will not.
Care work is intimate and relational work and therefore is not work with visible, tangible results. It’s also simply not culturally valued. It’s taken me a few years of motherhood to be okay with this invisibility and the loneliness it can induce. Thinking of you if you’re feeling the isolation of caregiving this holiday season. Hang in there, and keep up the good work.
Is this something you’ve felt or experienced? I’d love to hear.
P.S. Here’s a grainy video I took in the dark room that Christmas Eve. PSA: take videos of your babies, not pictures.
With a good chunk of silence and downtime after, of course. IYKYK;)
This was also the side of the family that had hosted not one but four child-free weddings in recent years (and, being the eldest cousin, I was the only one with kids). So I think that played into my reaction as well.
Before anyone gets the idea that my family or my husband’s are monsters, lol, we do have people who will hold and care for the babies. But even so, this feeling of isolation persists because the broader climate of culture matters, a lot.
Reading this made me realize how special our community is! We've been growing a Catholic neighborhood, where there are gatherings multiple times a week. We host dinner every Friday and there's brunch elsewhere every Sunday.
Most couples have kids and the adults without kids are like aunts and uncles to our kids. There's a joking competition on who is godparent to the most children (we have five godchildren and aren't close to winning this game). There are always lots of kids and babies at weekly gatherings and the two annual picnics. We host Thanksgiving every year and we invite any friends who don't have other plans, and if they have kids, they bring their kids.
Our single adult friends are, according to their personality, always ready to either read to a kid or play pretend and chase older kids or hold a baby. When I'm at brunch, having an interesting conversation with an adult, sometimes I stop and say, "Where's [my toddler]?" Then I look around and he's either playing with other kids supervised by a friend or has a friend reading to him. I usually say, "High trust society!" And go back to the conversation.
I've occasionally felt a small bit of what you wrote about, but only when visiting relatives without children. So much of my life is surrounded by big families that I forget we're not the norm! Big hugs to you and all parents for whom this isolation is a common occurrence, especially at holidays!
I loved reading how your perspective has changed over the years. There were times in early motherhood in which I felt unnoticed, and I’ve noticed the feeling creep back in whenever I’m pregnant — probably because I need help with managing a child and vomiting/using the bathroom, depending on trimester. There were stages in which we went out when we should have stayed home.
Over time, I’ve found it helpful to prepare my children for the gatherings (like, on a daily basis: following house rules, teaching not to touch, etc) and prepare myself to exit gatherings early. I feel less like my own individual self, and more like an important leader of this family who need me along with my husband to protect and meet their needs. It’s a good feeling of ceasing to exist, because a greater existence was borne. It’s taken time to get there.
And when I do get into conversation, I just try to ask a lot of questions of others, and it’s usually quite enjoyable for both of us, I hope.
I really appreciate this post and the opportunity to reflect on how our stages and handling of the hard situations change over the years.