Gooood morning!
In case you missed it, Aja and I sent over our favorite links of the week on Monday. Your shared love of this clog has been wildly validating for my lowly fashion pursuits. So, thank you.
And now:
I didn’t know much about babies before I had my own.
But my parents tell me that when my sister was young, I would wrap my arms around her small body, squeeze her into my embrace, and say through gritted teeth “I love my baby sister.” Going through our family albums, you can practically hear them saying, “gentle, Aliza,” behind the camera. (Sorry, Moll.)
Every dog I’ve ever had: same story. I can hardly give them a hug without simultaneously smothering them with smooches, gritting my teeth, and clenching my jaw.
Exhibit A: That’s me in the pink shorts. (Sorry, Belle.)
There’s an official term for my condition: “cute aggression,” or “the urge people get to squeeze or bite cute things, albeit without desire to cause harm.”
In 2018, Katherine K. M. Stavropoulos and Laura A. Alba summarized their findings in the Frontiers in Behavioral Neuroscience. This common human response to “cuteness,” they explain, is an evolutionary neural phenomenon, eliciting stronger caretaking behaviors and greater attachment. The theory goes that once you’ve come down from your cuteness high, you can get back to taking care of your baby — otherwise you might spend so much time cuddling them you forget to feed them.
I gave birth to my son in September 2022.
We had only been home from the hospital for a few days when it occurred to me that I hadn’t observed any of the familiar urges — no gritted teeth, no clenched jaw. I loved being with my baby and felt increasingly at ease as I learned to swaddle, diaper, and shusshhhh. But I couldn’t help but feel shame for displaying a stronger emotional reaction to my dog than my child.
Society puts intense pressure on parents — and mothers especially — to experience an immediate and overwhelming bond with their child. As much as I tried to block it out, once you’ve gotten the question, “Isn’t he just the best thing that ever happened to you?” enough times, and your honest response (which you do not share) would be, “Um, I guess so, but I’m still missing my old life and my boobs are leaking and I often have to cuddle with my dog at night to keep myself from crying,” it’s easy to psych yourself out.
Writer Jancee Dunn described the “fuzzy disconnect” she experienced with her baby in the first weeks after the birth. Her pediatrician didn’t think she had postpartum depression, but she still felt “steeped in shame and guilt.” To cope, I found myself detaching into autopilot mode — obsessively tracking the baby’s wake windows, squeezing in coffee with friends in which I tried to listen to what was going on in their lives, and looking forward to the day when my child would recognize me too.
It’s normal for attachment to take time. At the end of the day, “the process of becoming a mother is profound and exhilarating and triggering and a million different things that are nuanced for people,” Dunn wrote, quoting reproductive psychiatrist Alexandra Sacks.
And like Dunn and some of the women she interviewed, the wave of attachment I’d been missing finally hit me when J started to smile. The more he did it, the more he saw me, the more I fell in love. I felt myself becoming consumed with familiar symptoms: gritted teeth, clenched jaw, and the urge to squeeze and kiss his chunky cheeks (he has really impressive cheeks).
Since those early moments, our relationship has taken on new meaning. When deciding whether I would go to New Orleans for Jazz Fest this year, a trip that has become something of an annual tradition for our friends, I surprised myself when I told Sam, “I don’t want to go unless J is there.” And, despite all of the sacrifices (like missing Jon Batiste’s show), it was worth it.
But what Instagram doesn’t show you is that, even at eight months, my son and I are still getting to know each other. What I imagine Stavropoulos and Alba might have concluded, had their study followed up one year later, is that the urge to bite your baby (for those of us with the affliction) is only the first phase of a lifetime of building attachment and belonging.
On a normal night, Sam or I will pick up J from daycare at 5:00 pm. We have an hour-ish of unstructured time before we begin the post-dinner bedtime routine: bath, bottle, book, and bed. There are still days when I’m counting down the minutes until bedtime, but what six months ago sometimes felt unfulfilling or mundane is now reliably my favorite time of the day.
A baby has a knack for bringing out the silliest side of yourself. I belt out The Sound of Music, using the spoon as a microphone. I ask Sam to “hold the baby,” as I All That Jazz my way through the kitchen. I repeat the word “bluuuubb” in various octaves while I bounce J in front of the mirror. Really anything to get a laugh.
J and I lock eyes. He smiles with his entire face.
Right now, these everyday, in-between moments — far less momentous than when I held J for the first time — fill me with unbridled, unfiltered joy. It can be much harder to convey, as Grose writes here, “the existential pleasure of having children.” But I adore these moments. I just want to eat them up.
Bonus Content:
Speaking of often unspoken and nearly universal phenomenon: this article is a fun read about why we sing to our babies.
My friend recently sent me a copy of Dunn’s book How Not to Hate Your Husband After Kids. If you have ever (or think you might ever) wondered how/if you can have greater equity and respect in your relationship with your partner for the good of all involved, this book is for you.
That’s all for this week!
love, Aliza