Parenthood: The Definition of Teamwork

I've never been a fan of anything requiring a group effort. I never played any team sports (or any sports for that matter) and I definitely wasn't a member of Girl Scouts or any other type of group organization. I was involved in academic competitions, but only individual ones. I was the kid in school who groaned every time a teacher assigned a group project. It's not that I'm antisocial or I couldn't get along with my peers, it's just that I always ended up doing all of the work. But not because my fellow group members didn't want to help, it's just that my 16 year-old self was convinced that nobody could do the work as well as she could. So, I would assign the cheerleader/goth/jock the task of making the poster with bubble letters while I did all of the actual research and report-writing.

This "I can do it all on my own" mentality lasted approximately 28 years...or until November 7th, 2013, the day Rory was born. Marcos and I attended twelve weeks of Bradley Method classes to prepare for Rory's birth. The Bradley Method is also referred to as husband-coached child birth, but I secretly openly laughed at this phrase. Men have no idea what childbirth is like, and even though this is no fault of their own, that's like asking someone who's never played football to coach the Broncos. And I'm sorry, but the last thing I want when I'm in pain and trying to push a small human out of my vagina is for my husband (the one who got me into this situation in the first place) whispering words of encouragement in my ear or rubbing my back in between contractions. Don't talk to me, and definitely don't touch me. Fortunately, Marcos understood his role in husband-coached child birth: stay at least two feet away from me and don't say a word. I have to say, he played the part brilliantly. Honestly, I wish we still lived in the era when the men would stay in the waiting room smoking cigars and then a few hours (or God forbid, days) a baby would magically appear.

So, up until the second that Rory was actually born, I held  on to the belief that I could do everything myself. But after giving birth, I was mentally and physically exhausted. I could barely walk, let alone care for a newborn on my own. I realized quickly that accepting help was imperative for both Rory and my's survival. When Marcos offered to change Rory's diaper or give her a bottle so that I could have a break, I was more than happy to hand her over. Over the next few weeks, it dawned on me that parenthood is the very definition of team work. To keep the football metaphor going, every day is spent passing the football (Rory) back and forth and analyzing the playbook to determine the best play for every situation.

You hold her while I eat, and then we'll switch. 

I'll put her down for her nap while you do laundry.

Would you rather do the dishes or give her a bath?

I'll hold her legs while you distract her so the doctor can give her the shot. 

I'll drink these three margaritas and you wake up with her at 5 am. 

And just like football players specialize in certain positions, each parent has his or her own strengths as well. I'm the only one who can cut Rory's nails, but Marcos can get her to eat every last bite of her dinner. Parenting is hard work, and not something that anyone should have to do alone. It's true that it takes a village to raise a child. Marcos isn't the only one who helps me on the field. (Okay, that one was a stretch, but I'm nothing if not consistent.) I have lots of teammates: my neighbors, friends, and that random guy who offered to hold Rory while I cleaned the grocery cart. Everyone has something to offer if you let them help.

It took me almost thirty years, but I'm glad that I finally realized that I can't do it all by myself. And I'm beyond grateful to have such great teammates by my side. I don't want to brag or anything, but I bet if we were a real football team we would win the World Series.