Sometimes, when I stare into the eyes of my newborn son, I see….the man. No, not the man he will someday become. THE man. In my life, THE man is not figurative. He is not a metaphor. He is real and he wears diapers. THE man and his big brother conspire to cut my personal freedoms to such a degree that I often feel like I’m in jail—Baby Jail.

Here is the timeline, starting with the birth of my first,  of my journey through “the system”  (all quoted definitions are courtesy of wikipedia—hey, I’m a mom, I don’t have time for better research resources, ok?)

First Year: Jail
Jail is defined as  “a place in which people are physically confined and, usually, deprived of a range of personal freedoms.” In the first year of baby jail, you can’t take a shower, you can’t go to the bathroom in private and your fellow inmates make sure that you don’t get any uninterrupted sleep. No shopping, dining or movie viewing allowed.

Second Year: Work Release
Work release “allows a prisoner who is sufficiently trusted or can be sufficiently monitored to leave confinement to continue working at his or her current place of employment, returning to prison when his/her shift is complete.” Your baby loosens his grip a bit during the second year. Think of your breast pump as an ankle monitoring device. Step lively, but not for too long and not too far way from the baby.

Third Year: Parole
Parole is “the release of prisoners based on prisoners giving their word of honor to abide by certain restrictions.” In the third year, now that you’ve shown the proper respect of authority, your baby will allow you to resume some basic activities. You can shower more frequently, your work can take up more of your time, you can start wearing clothes that make you look like a regular citizen. But don’t get too comfortable. Your baby is still the boss. A boss who has given you enough rope to hang yourself with.

Birth of Second Child: Guantanamo
Guantanamo: “detainment facility where the civilities of  human rights and due process do not apply. Imprisonment is indefinite.” Enough said.  Just as you’ve learned to be grateful for the triumph of the human spirit under adverse conditions, your second baby swoops in and unleashes a flame thrower on what little is left of your personal liberties. All hope is lost. No showering. No talking on the phone. No walking, eating, drinking, breathing, sleeping by yourself.  No writing, philosophizing, cooking, cleaning, reading, exercising, driving, flossing, listening, recollecting.

You will look at your first child and realize how good you had it. At least under his stewardship, Baby Jail had an end in sight. This new child’s favorite style of punishment? Cruel and unusual. You are that baby’s bitch. And there’s no one here to hear you scream.

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