Higher Highs, Lower Lows

Um…maybe not THIS happy. This image proudly taken from some miserable stock photo website.

A beloved friend of mine recently got me a subscription to The New Yorker (which makes me feel like a genius whenever I manage to read an entire article), and a recent piece entitled “The Case Against Kids” by Elizabeth Kolbert studied the argument that people who have children are less happy than those who don’t.I’ve grown a little weary of this position, as, frankly, I don’t need to hear it.  So I was pleasantly surprised to read the following letter articulately addressed to the editor in the May 7 issue.

Elizabeth Kolbert mentions “research [that] shows that people who have children are no more satisfied with their lives than people who don’t” as a factor in Christine Overall’s case that people should reconsider procreation (“The Case Against Kids,” April 9th). But what does self-reported happiness really measure? Consider two hypothetical Saturdays: one spent sitting on the sofa, and another spent climbing a mountain. It is safe to assume that the couch-sitter would report higher levels of hour-by-hour happiness than the climber, as he would encounter none of the fatigue and pain experienced by the latter. But the climber would be able to report a sense of accomplishment, and would have banked a memorable experience. Put simply, happiness involves two dimensions: gratification and achievement. When some researchers purport to be measuring “happiness,” I think they are really measuring gratification. As the parent of a small child, I can attest to the fact that parenting at this stage is mainly an achievement activity, in that every day feels great, but often not until I’m sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine at the end of it.

Dan Mayer
Berlin, Germany

Hurray for a smart person!!!  I love the distinction between gratification and achievement, and definitely feel the latter more than the former these days as the parent of a two-year-old.  Thank you, Mr. Mayer, for putting into words what no amount of research ever could.

(And with that distrust of research in mind, I also share the following article from USA Today, purportedly claiming that parents today are happier than non-parents.)

During a recent lunch with girlfriends, the topic of pregnant belly buttons came up.  Some of us think that the sight of a nub poking through a pregnant woman’s tee shirt is flippin adorable, while others of us are compelled to gag.  What do you think?  Keep in mind that this poll is entirely anonymous.  If you find your wife’s outie repulsive, it’ll be our little secret.

Happy Birthday, Seabass!  We are so proud of your tender heart, your security, and your taste in music.  May year number three be even awesomer.  We love you, precious, sweet boy.

We pray over meals in our house, and have included Seabass ever since he started solid food.  But our eyes have always been closed – we had no idea what Seabass was doing while we thanked God for the food.

Until now.

Jake set up the camera to take this video before dinner one evening.

We showed this to Jake’s cousin, Christy, who is a third grade teacher.  She laughed for a minute, but then she turned serious.  ”Does he make eye contact?” she queried.  ”Does he avoid physical touch?”

I saw her angle right away.  This video is either a side-splitting document of  Seabass’ strange secret life, or…. our first evidence that something is horribly, horribly wrong.  I vote for the former.

This post is dedicated to Aunt Pauline.  We are thinking about you and praying for you, Seabass included.

When I found out I was pregnant, I made it pretty clear on this blog that I was hoping for a girl. Today, we discovered that my hopes are satisfied.  It is a girl.

…At least, the technician said she was 95% sure.  We may be surprised yet.  But the shot of the baby’s bottom (a perfect, gorgeous little rump, mind you) showed no dingaling between the legs.  So I’m calling her a girl.

Speaking of ultrasound images, I don’t have a scanner, so I won’t be able to show the actual pictures here for a while.  But – be honest - can you tell one sonogram apart from another anyway?  They’re all identical, so far as I’m concerned.  So, in the spirit of homogeneity, I’m posting other people’s sonograms instead of my own.  I don’t know these folks; they came to me via the magic of Google Images.  Let’s just pretend, shall we?

Here we have a profile shot of Seabass’ baby sister.  Beautiful scooped nose, eh?  Just like her mama.

This is one of those creepy 4D images.  Look at how Baby Sissy is laughing and saying “aw, shucks!”

When the ultrasound tech saw this shot (or, you know, one just like it) she said “Oh, what a beautiful face.”  Only a radiologist would say that because, let’s face it, this is creepy as all get out.  I’m giving birth to an alien skeleton.

And here’s the last shot which reveals that Baby Sissy has no junk between her knees.  Almost positive, anyway.

Whether boy or girl, what a wonderful way to spend a Wednesday morning: Jake, a very well-behaved Seabass and I sitting in a darkened room getting the first glimpse of a beautiful new family member.  It was lovely.

And now it’s time to think up a nickname…

Thanks to all the anonymous kids who unwillingly donated their sonograms for my use in this post.

 ”I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.”  Henry David Thoreau

When Jake and I first started dating, I made the mistake of telling him “Being with you is almost as good as being alone.”  I meant it as a compliment, but it has taken eleven years to prove that to him.

I love to be alone.  It is where I find my strength, soul, and energy.  In a social situation, I may be the loudest one in the group, but when I get in the car to drive home, I’m spent.  Yet another reason becoming a mother has been a massive adjustment for me.

Jake, on the other hand, is the complete opposite.  The more interaction with people, the better. Get him in the car after the rendez-vous and he is atwitter with energy.  Keep him home alone for a couple days and he starts to look a little wan.

Despite our gross differences, each of us has come to an understanding about the other.  Jaime needs her solitude and Jake needs his get-out-and-aboutness.

So I was especially touched that my dear husband gifted me with a two-night stay at the New Camoldoli Hermitage in Big Sur for my birthday.  The Hermitage is a monastery perched high in the Santa Lucia Mountains overlooking the Pacific Ocean where monks welcome weary travelers of all religious backgrounds to retreat with them.  I had stayed there many years ago during a tough time, and the solitude was a perfect salve for my troubled heart.  This time around, I just needed a break: From my beautiful Seabass, from cleaning the dishes, from picking up dog turds in the backyard.

The Hermitage is perfect for loners like me because you really don’t need to talk to anyone the whole time you’re there.  Meals are taken alone in your room, and the unwritten rule is to protect the silence of the property.  (Among the retreatants, let’s just say there is a lot of nodding and smiling.)  The Ritz it ain’t, but each room is adequately comfortable with a single bed, a desk, a rocking chair, a bathroom, and – best of all – a private garden overlooking the ocean.

The view from my room.

As I prepared for my visit, I told a couple of people where I’d be over the weekend.  I could tell the kindred spirits from the, uh, non-kindred spirits by their reaction. Simply put, I received either a deep sigh and a lot of jealousy, or something along the lines of “You’re going up there alone???“

I’ve thought before that the Hermitage would be a wonderful spot in which to write.  The quiet and the uninterrupted hours of nothing lend themselves beautifully to it.  But the last thing I wanted to bring was my laptop and a long list of writing to-dos.  Instead, I brought my journal and a couple of books to help me focus my thoughts and come away from the weekend feeling filled-up and satisfied.  Other than hopes of taking long walks, waking up late, and drinking coffee in bed, I really had no plans.

Oh, how glorious to fall asleep looking at the stars, undimmed by ambient city lights!  And to wake to the sound of birds chirping and waves crashing!  The hours were entirely, blessedly mine, without a schedule or any responsibilities other than to enjoy myself and relax.  The food was delicious, the weather was impeccable, and truly, I couldn’t have hoped for a better time.

But, surprisingly, when I awoke Sunday morning, my heart burned for home.  Quiet mornings and days full of nothing may be a rare occurence and special treat, but on the whole?  I’ll take waking up to the contented chirps of my Seabass and days spent caring for my family.  Retreating didn’t just give me rest; it gave me an appreciation for every poopie diaper, dirty dish, and basket of laundry I deal with on a daily basis.  I am so lucky to take care of my boys, and so blessed to bear another child within!  So I packed up the car early and headed home, eager to smell Seabass’ neck, see Jake’s smile and have a meal together as a family.  I wasn’t disappointed.