As a growth marketer, I tried to optimize motherhood
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Sleep. Feeding. Wake windows. Room temperature. Every tiny variable.
Two months after having my daughter, I was awake in the middle of the night, clutching my iPhone and peering at TOG rating charts in the dark. The temperature in her room was a warm 72 degrees, but the sleep sack she was wearing had a TOG rating of two, which was apparently better suited for a cooler room between 64 and 68 degrees. It had been an unusually warm day in San Francisco, and the nighttime temps weren’t cooling like they usually do. I was in a panic. Was I overheating her?
The question immediately created a traffic jam of other questions in my head. Was this the correct TOG chart, anyway? How would I know if my baby was running cold, or hot? Was I supposed to feel her hands, her forehead, or was it her core? What would happen to her?
And if something as basic as this required so much investigation and anxiety, how was I supposed to handle motherhood?
As a marketer, I’ve spent my career believing that almost anything can be improved with enough data, focus, and creativity. You measure the baseline. Establish a new test, deploy, and measure what happens. You change a variable, deploy again, then measure again. Eventually, hopefully, you’ll reach the outcome you want.
As a marketer, I’ve spent my career believing that almost anything can be improved with enough data, focus, and creativity. You measure the baseline. Establish a new test, deploy, and measure what happens. You change a variable, deploy again, then measure again. Eventually, hopefully, you’ll reach the outcome you want.
Looking back, I thought I could apply what I’d learned from working in tech startup culture to motherhood. When we prepared for our daughter’s arrival, my husband and I accumulated all of the latest in baby technology, believing we were prepared. We purchased a bassinet designed to rock like the womb. A camera that could monitor her sleep cues and measure her growth. A bootie that would track her vitals. We found a machine that dispensed baby formula warmed to the exact temperature. We were delighted to be gifted an app subscription to record the minutiae of her daily schedule. If that wasn’t enough, there were also charts for wake windows, feeding amounts, and growth.
Of course, saying you’re prepared to become a parent is a little like saying you’re prepared to jump off a cliff. You can interview people who have jumped before, and you can buy the fanciest gear. At some point, though, you jump.
One evening, my daughter began developing a cold. She didn’t want to eat much, and later, she was having trouble sleeping flat because of the congestion. She could only sleep when she was held upright against my chest. I settled into the simple recliner we had set up in her nursery months before and rocked her until she fell asleep. I was too tired to look at my phone — I didn’t need it to know how long she’d been asleep for. I also knew when she’d last eaten. I knew all of this because I was right there with her. She needed me to hold her that night, and that’s what I did. As she slept peacefully, I gazed out of the window and up at the stars, feeling simultaneously exhausted and grateful.
I realized I had been overoptimizing on things like TOG and missing what really mattered.
I had spent months trying to become an expert on the data patterns, and the infinitely more complex person I actually needed to become an expert on was right in front of me.
Looking back, it was an embarrassingly simple revelation. I had spent months trying to become an expert on the data patterns, and the infinitely more complex person I actually needed to become an expert on was right in front of me. This realization gave me much relief, and better prepared me for the unpredictability of motherhood and chaos of toddlerdom that was yet to come.
Maybe motherhood isn’t going to turn me into someone who doesn’t worry or obsess over conflicting-looking charts on the internet. In fact, it’s probably the opposite—I’m the type of person who’s always going to want more information. It’s just part of who I am.
What motherhood is teaching me is when the firehose of information stops being useful. I can be attuned to her needs without monitoring every variable, because the patterns are going to shift over time—sometimes overnight. I can’t buy my way into it either, by purchasing every item that claims to “solve” an area of motherhood.
One recent Saturday morning, we sat together on the floor in the living room. We read from a series of books. We put on music and had a little dance party. We played patty-cake. There was no agenda. There was nothing to measure. She was happy, and so was I.
And when I do get wrapped up in the anxiety of it all, there is usually a small person nearby who is very good at reminding me what matters. I take off my smartwatch, put down the iPhone, and join her, wherever she is.
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