The video game theory of motherhood
A wild baby appeared
Perhaps I should be sufficiently embarrassed by this habit that I should not willingly disclose it on the internet, but, lately, my husband and I have begun using the language of video games—in particular, the lingo of Pokémon—when we are talking about our son. We will say things like “a wild [baby’s name] appeared” when one of us fetches him from his nap. We have decided he is a fire or dragon type. His attack moves are “headbutt”, “bite”, “charm” (which he unleashes on older ladies on buses) and, well, “sludge”. I will give you just one guess as to what that refers to.
The habit has encouraged me to dwell upon the similarities between motherhood and the structured progression that characters make in video games. In “Motherhood: Black Ops 6” (or whatever) early goals would be for your baby to gain weight and produce wet and dirty diapers. Later ones would include the classic milestones of early babyhood, like smiling, rolling over, laughing and sleeping through the night. The ultimate official goal would probably be to send your child off to college or give a toast at their wedding or something but, as with many games, the end is not really the point. The real reason you play is in the hope that is that the journey is a fun one, filled with laughter and love (okay, well, maybe not “love” for the video games—maybe a bit more “blowing up that demon was pretty cool” than “love”—but you get the point).
In video games you tend to progress in two ways. First, you, the actual person, gets better at understanding how the game works. That you should pick an electric type move against a water Pokémon or wander into long grass to find new critters or items. The motherhood equivalent would be the skills you learn: how much better you get at fastening a diaper, wrapping a swaddle or putting a baby in a baby carrier. But the other way you progress in video-games is by finding or acquiring new kit or critters which unlock some new move or capability for your player. You pick up a snazzy new sword, which allows you to slay new kinds of demons, or find a special piece of armour. You catch a Pikachu or a Snorlax.
Obviously the two go hand in hand (you need to have a baby carrier to be able to learn how to use it and be a certain level of Pokémon trainer to actually catch a Snorlax). But one of the things that has surprised me about early motherhood is how I did not “find” or “unlock” certain bits of kit for much longer than I anticipated. I almost gave up trying pacifiers because my son, at first, mostly refused them. He would just spit them out, sometimes forcefully, up until he was about ten weeks old. But once he did take one, we “unlocked” a new skill for him. Previously, he would only go to sleep while nursing and would only stay asleep on a nice, comfy human pillow. Once he took a pacifier he would sleep happily in his crib, as long as it was still in place.
The same “if you have unlocked this item you have unlocked this skill or ability” kind of process has occurred time and time again for me. Sometimes the baby gets to learn a new skill (independent sleep) and sometimes they are sufficiently soothed by a bit of kit that I regain an ability.
My son also hated carriers at first—much to my chagrin, having fallen for and bought the chic-and-comfy-but-oh-so-expensive-Artipoppe-carrier in preparation for his arrival. He squirmed his way out of the Solly baby wrap and howled when we tried to stuff him in a soft structured carrier—until about twelve weeks, at which point the carrier unlocked all kinds of new possibilities for me. Most important, perhaps, was the ability to go to the grocery store alone and not have to shuffle around both a stroller and a shopping trolley, like I was a camper-van hauling a boat.
I can come up with many more examples. The bouncer with the toy bar attachment, from about eight weeks or so, when I was confident he would be happy sitting in it for ten minutes, unlocked daily showering for me. For a while the portable hatch sound machine made car seat naps much easier to achieve, which in turn made driving places solo more plausible. For several months I needed nipple shields to be able to breastfeed.
This dynamic is part of the appeal of registry must-have lists or getting recommendations from mom-friends. Everyone is just trying to make it through the game (motherhood) alive! We all want chubby, well-fed babies, who are developing nicely, sleep well at night and behave in the car seat and at the grocery store and can keep themselves occupied for long enough for us to shower! Learning the tools and methods other people use to achieve those things has been a core part of my motherhood so far. But I imagine this is all somewhat personal (swaddling, for example, never did much to help us) in the same way that video games that let you explore freely and find what you find unfold a bit differently each time you play them.
As such I wanted to try something a bit different this week: I wanted to try surveying you, my readers, about what tools worked for you and when. I am leaning on the survey Emily Oster gathered in order to narrow down the items I plan to quiz you about. She gathered some top level “what was useful” info—I am keener on knowing why and when.
Here is a link to my (short) survey. Obviously, the natural thing to do with the results would be to use them to create “Motherhood: Vice City”, but I envision getting such a game commissioned might be a hard sell. Is there a group of people less likely to have time on their hands to play a video game than new mothers? I cannot think of one. As such I will probably just settle for sharing the interesting details with you at some point in the future, once I have gathered enough data points. Until then: happy gaming.
Alice