Those of you who know me are probably scratching your heads in surprise. I can almost hear you thinking: “What? Is the world ending? Has Olga The Book Addict finally decided to shed her addiction?”
Fret not, my friends; my reading addiction is alive and well and books are still my not-so-guilty pleasure. I love books because of the way they make me feel. There is great beauty to be found in words on a page. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder how brilliant a sentence was, or about the exciting way the author decided to put two words together, or the way the story twists and turns and leaves me in awe of the author’s imagination. I have just bought a new bunch of books and can’t wait to devour them one by one.
So far, I have never regretted reading a book. Even “Fifty Shades Of Grey” wasn’t as bad as I had expected it to be, and I really admired the author for never copy-pasting the sex scenes.
Then I had my first child. True to my bookish nature, I bought all kinds of parenting bibles, from “What To Expect The First Year” to “Raising Our Children, Raising Ourselves” and other Attachment Parenting books. And I noticed that it didn’t even matter that I tried to follow the advice, I was never doing enough. I was never good enough. I was a mothering failure. My child didn’t like what I was doing. She refused to be baby-worn. She refused to have a regular schedule. She refused all the things the books promised would have turned my girl into a well-adjusted, happy baby and later toddler. I can’t even begin to tell you about the confusion I felt. For the first time in my life, books didn’t bring consolation. They brought jugment and shaming and thoughts of being a horrible, horrible mom. The worst mom ever. And what’s more, all the methods presented in parenting books, claim to be the one and that if you don’t follow the very strict set of rules, your child will be a disaster, a drug dealer and alcoholic. That didn’t help me much, either.
What followed was a spiral of guilt and confusion. The more confused I got, the more I read and the more confused I got. A vicious circle.
Somewhere along the way, I gave birth to my second girl. I had less time now, so I chose my books carefully and concentrated on the ones I really wanted to read. And this is when I realized that most parenting books are a waste of time. I started thinking of all the things I could be doing instead: shopping, taking a shower, eating, reading something that is actually fun. Since I had my third child, I stopped reading parenting books altogether, except for the ones that really interested me. These books were less about how to have the perfect baby but more about raising children in different cultures, which helped me realize that there really is no perfect method for raising a child.
Instead of reading books, I started talking to friends, doctors, but above all, my mom. Even my MIL proved more helpful when she told me that my second daughter may need therapy, and she was right. And I must say that witty, clever and no-nonsense bloggers, such as the BLUNTmoms, were just what the doctor ordered against parenting-books-induced-anxiety. I was finally able to let go and enjoy my children without being afraid of spoiling them or not bonding with them properly.
I am a theory kind of person. When I don’t know something, I turn to books and try to work from there. So the hardest thing to accept for me was the fact that theory doesn’t always work and that I will have to try to figure out what works and what doesn’t all by myself. That was hard, but because of it, I know more than I knew a year or two ago, and the fact that I did figure it out, really helped boost my confidence. Now, as a mom of three children, I know that raising children takes practice, persistence, and some luck — but not books.