Higher Highs, Lower Lows

Seabass’ birthday was a couple of weeks ago, and frankly, he wasn’t a little bundle of joy through it all.  But he is now.  Ah, cycles.

Anyway, the point is that it hasn’t been until now that I feel like celebrating his sweet, crazy spirit with a birthday slideshow.  But it’s worth the wait!

You’re our little tornado, giggles and wrecklessness, tangled up tight together.  We love you very much, darling boy.  Happy birthday!!

When Jake and I lived in New Zealand, we made a point of hiking the Nydia Track, which is a phenomenal and hugely under-appreciated hike in the Marlborough Sound. (Read all about it here, if you have the time or inclination.) The coolest part of the excursion was staying at an eco-lodge halfway along the trail, which was only accessible by boat or by foot from the trail.  The proprietors were a young couple who tended the lodge and cooked for guests.  Our first night there, sore and achy, we enjoyed a delectable steaming curry along with a 40-ounce bottle of the wife’s home-brewed beer. When she served it to us, I thought to myself, When I grow up, I’m going to be the sort of woman who brews her own beer.

And I guess I’ve grown up, because I am now that sort of woman.

THIS IS A MOMMY BLOG, you argue, NOT A BEER BLOG. And that’s very true.  But my homebrewing experiment is so uncannily similar to the births of my two children, that I’ve started to call the beer My Third Baby.  Witness:

• It was expensive, and at times painful.

• It made me do and say strange things, as though I was in a trance.

• Daddy had to take the other two kids so I could devote myself fully to the process.  He did the best he could with what he had.

• I even spent some time in the bathtub with it.

Will the payoff be quite as good as that of a real baby?  Considering that it won’t wake me up four times a night, tell me to shut up, ask me for the keys to my car or call me from the police station, I’d wager yes.

Just kidding, geez.

In the days before children, it seemed like everything was sprinkled with the word *and.*  Let’s prepare a time-intensive French dinner AND watch movies all night AND go wine tasting AND take a nap.  We can because we can!!!

If I had to summarize these days with two children under my care, I would call them the Days of *Or.*  We can visit Uncle Dusty in London OR remodel the kitchen.  We can embark on a walk OR read a book. We can take a shower OR write a blog post.  We have a lot of options, but we can’t do it all.

And that should perfectly explain my lack of posts lately; Higher Highs, Lower Lows has most definitely been the “or” that gets the shaft.  The good news, however, is that the things I choose instead have been wonderful ones.  I’ve taken on more writing work, which makes me oh so very happy, plus I’ve been gardening, canning, brewing beer (aka My Third Child, which will receive its own blog post shortly), sewing, celebrating Seabass’ 3rd birthday, training for a half marathon, and collaborating with Jake on plans for our (gulp) impending kitchen remodel.

Individually, each of these activities would strongly indicate that I am happy. But I’ve been doing them all, which makes me Little Suzy Sunshine.  Some people, I suppose, chill out and do less when they’re happy, but not me.  If my mind is freed up from despair and anxiety, there is more space for dreaming and scheming.  This is where I am right now, thank the Lord.

So forgive me for taking some time off.  The fact that I’m happy does not mean the stories have ceased.  Heavens, no.

Doin’ good.

It was Monday.  I managed to pee by myself in the bathroom, only to discover Seabass had pushed Sweet Chuck over from a sitting position and was slapping her head with both hands repeatedly while she cried.  And     I     simply    lost     it.

Lost what? you ask, innocently.  My mind.  My dignity.  My equanimity in the face of difficulty.  It all went far, far, so very far away.

I sort of watched the scream coming, as if in slow motion.  Here it comes I gotta hold this one back or it’s gonna be ugly and think about what the neighbors will think uh oh too late:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

The scream was so long and from so deep in my gut that the kids were already crying by the end of it.  Oh, they were so scared.  All day long, I had been saying “Don’t do this” and “Don’t touch that” and “Don’t hit her” and “Stop grabbing” and “If I hear any more whining…” like a broken record.  And finally, something new came out of my mouth.  It got their attention, all right, but it wasn’t pretty.

After a few moments in which all three of us shed tears, I had the presence of mind to apologize.  ”Screaming is never okay, you guys.  I am so sorry.”  Then hugs all around.  The creepy hugging-too-long-and-too-hard-because-Mama-feels-guilty sort.

Things haven’t really been the same since, especially between me and Seabass.  He’s a little sullen and a lot sensitive.  He might be obeying me more, but he’s not the sparkly, affectionate boy he was just a couple weeks ago. Did I ruin him forever?  Will he have to join a 12-step group to recover?

I’ve told a couple fellow moms about the scream, expecting their jaws to drop in horror.  Of course, they didn’t.  One mom actually said, “Who among us hasn’t screamed?”  And while it certainly helped, for the time being, I’d like to keep that question rhetorical.  It would hurt too much to discover that, in fact, almost nobody acts this way.

The Facebook version of our life at home.

Everything happens in cycles around here.  One week we’re dancing in the living room every night, and the next week we’re weeping and gnashing our teeth in Gehenna.  I used to blame it on Seabass.  And while he certainly is a force to be reckoned with, it isn’t he who sets the tone in our home.  It’s me.  And that, my friends, is a lot of pressure for someone born of such mercurial stuff as I.

…aaaaaand the real version.

I’ve been working really hard since Monday to surrender my impatience and rage in exchange for peace and kindness, and it has worked decently well, but it won’t last.  I’ll fail again.

How to overcome?  No really.  This is a question for which I’d seriously like an answer.

I commented to Jake the other night that our premarital counseling (required by many churches) from 11 years ago continues to bear fruit in our marriage today.  I regularly think back on the words we read from the book As For Me And My House by Walter Wangerin, and apply them as needed.  Surely parenting is as hefty a commitment as marriage; why don’t we encourage pre-parental counseling?

It is all four of us, sitting at the dinner table, eating.  Out of the blue, I decide to become chatty, helpful, Healthy Habits Mama.

Healthy Habits Mama: Hey Seabass, is that a tasty dinner?

Seabass: Uh-huh.

HHM: What’s on your plate?

SB: [Glancing down] Um…spinach and black beans and garlic and carrots and tortillas.

HHM: Oh.  Are those healthy foods?

SB: [Absentmindedly] Uh-huh.

HHM: They all help your body in different ways, don’t they?

SB: Uh-huh.

HHM: Like garlic.  Garlic is really good for your heart.  Did you know that?

SB: [Inquisitive-yet-slightly-blank stare.]

HHM: And carrots are really good for your eyes.  They help you to see far away.  Like a super hero.

SB: [Suddenly hanging on Healthy Habits Mama's every word]

[Pause]

HHM: [Turning to Daddy to discuss something more fruitful] So, did our tax refund get direct deposited into our… [Looking back at Seabass, who has picked up the carrots from his dinner to apply directly to his eyes] NO!  Seabass!! I didn’t mean “good for your eyes” quite like that…