Higher Highs, Lower Lows

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.

"Pull my finger." Awkward pregnancy shots never get old. Click on the photo for more.

1) “Wow, you’re only twelve weeks along?  I’m sorry, but you look WAY bigger than twelve weeks!”

2) “Are you sure you don’t have two in there?”

3) “When are you due?” (Asked at 10 weeks in the grocery store by a complete stranger.)

4) “I can’t believe you’re only fourteen weeks.  You’re the same size as my cousin, and she’s due tomorrow.”

Alright, listen up people.  YOU CANNOT – I REPEAT, CANNOT – GO AROUND SAYING THINGS LIKE THIS TO PREGNANT WOMEN.  Especially women who are baking their second, third, fourth, or fifteenth child.  We know we are big.  We are wearing the weight.  Please, just comment on the weather and leave our bellies out of the conversation.

The End.

It’s been too long since I’ve published anything of controversial value.  Forgive me.

This one springs from my recent experience with a mom who told me she didn’t hang out with her best friend anymore because this friend doesn’t have kids and “doesn’t have anything in common with me anymore.”

Warning: this video says a couple bad words and references sex.  Oh, and is hilarious.

I’m sure this is a common occurence.  There are probably billions of friendships that cool down once one party begins the parenting journey. Normal.  I’d just never heard it put so bluntly before.  All the same, it really really really bothered me.  And to illustrate why, here is a little story.

When Jake and I had been married several years but were still not interested in having children, it seemed that we were the only ones.  I do not exaggerate when I say that every get-together included an announcement.  This had quite an adverse effect on me – so much so that I started to decline baby shower invitations just to maintain my sanity.  (Could be seen as a bit insensitive, I now realize.  But seriously, we’re talking a couple showers a week.)

The craziness hit a fever pitch when I ran into a good friend who had had a baby about six months prior.  We chatted for a while before another recent mom friend saw us and came over.  It took about three seconds before one asked the other the color of her baby’s poop after starting rice cereal.  I suddenly became invisible while they compared notes on every grunt their kids made.  For ten minutes.

Sure, they were new moms.  And, of all people, I should understand the value of commiserating over the ups and downs of parenthood.  But still, I felt obsolete; like a Friend 1.0 in a world of Friend 2.0s.  I didn’t have kids, and therefore, what was the point?

This was so long ago I really should have forgotten all about it, but I can’t.  I had made the choice not to have children – what if I hadn’t been able to?  How devastating would that have been?

Now I am among the parenting crowd, and I’ll admit that it’s lovely to connect over something as close to me as my child – soon to be children.  (!!!)  It brings me enormous joy to meet so many people I never knew existed near me just because we have kids the same age.  Going to the park might have been a solitary affair before, but now you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a cool parent to chat up.  It’s awesome.

BUT.

Having Seabass two years ago didn’t change my basic makeup.  I still love Rage Against The Machine.  I still love to knit.  I still love to read The New Yorker and keep up with what’s going on in the world.  I still love a good beer, and not just because it gives me a mini-vacation from a stressful day of lassoing The Wild Seabass.  And I still love the friends who make me laugh until I snort, whether or not they have kids now.

Stock photos slay me. Who is this cute after having kids? And who is inviting her friends over for a glass of wine while their toddler is still conscious?!?!? AND WHY IS HER HOUSE SO SPOTLESS???

I try really hard to keep in touch with them.  They’ve grown fewer and fewer, of course, as they meet their mates, choose to procreate or overcome the battle of infertility.  And I try really hard to let myself be a good friend to them without dominating the conversation waxing philosophic on whatever adorable things Seabass has learned to say lately.  (“He says ‘choo choo’ instead of ‘train.’  Isn’t that PRECIOUS?!?!?!”)  Besides, it’s relaxing to talk about budding relationships, work, and the newest movies, as though…well, as though I still go to the movies.  Getting outside myself just feels nice.

In other words, I sincerely hope I never say anything like, “Now that I’m a mom, we can’t be friends” because it would honestly be my loss.  And so, dear childless friends, please don’t give up on me if I don’t call you right back – or ever – and if I insist you come to my place for dinner because we can’t afford to hire a babysitter.  We love you and need you in our lives.

Extracurricular:

• Funny post about friends without kids.  (Warning: contains naughty words.)
• A rant on being dumped by non-parent friends.

Perhaps this is one tummy on which my OB would not comment. What a horrible movie. What was Emma Thompson thinking?

“Look at that pretty tummy!”

That’s what my OB says to me at every single appointment as we prepare for Baby #2.  This last appointment was no different.

“Oh, doctor,” I replied, as he arranged the Doppler and prepared to listen to Baby’s heartbeat.  “You probably say that to all the expectant mothers.”

He suddenly became very grave, putting down his equipment and looking me straight in the eye.  “Not true,” he said, delicately.  “There are several for which I give no comment.”

I recently came across a cute blog featuring artwork by Iowa artist Nathan Ripperger built upon the things we say as parents.  Witness the following:

It reminds me of a favorite bit by comedian Brian Regan.

It’s incredible the stuff we say.  Seabass and I recently visited a restaurant’s public bathroom where I had to say out loud, “Please don’t crawl on the floor: There are icky hairs from strangers down there.”  Who else would you EVER say that to besides a child?

I want to hear your doozies.  Forget “Kids Say The Darndest Things.”  I want to hear what you parents have caught yourselves saying.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” I told my friend Sharon.  “His tantrums are like kryptonite to my mothering skills.”

I had called Sharon because I knew she would understand my dilemma, having a high-energy little boy of her own who was several months older than Seabass.  At the time, Seabass had hit a whole new level of difficulty: random meltdowns and tantrums of biblical proportions.  What do I do? I thought to myself.  Do I ignore him?  Get in his face?  Spank him?  What?!?  It seemd that no matter what I tried, nothing helped calm him down and get him to a place where he could listen to reason.

Like so many desperate phone calls for advice to fellow mothers, this one was made in the eleventh hour, with the latest tantrum still raging.  Thankfully, I’d had the wherewithall to put Seabass in his room with the door closed to scream and thrash while I made my call.  If I hadn’t done that, this post might have been coming to you from Prison Block C rather than the comfort of my couch.  I had HAD it.

Sharon was awesome.  “My little guy has something we call ‘the fussing spot,’ she divulged.  It’s just a little floor mat that we lay down for him to sit on while he cries or whatever.  When the crying stops, we talk, hug, and get up.”  Sensing my skepticism of the fussing spot’s transferability to my situation, she added, “I can’t promise it will work for you, but it has worked wonders for us.”

With that in mind, I decided to move forward with Mission Fussing Spot.  Seabass’ next tantrum occurred over something trivial – something like a cracker broken in half – and I quickly whipped out a faded brown floor rug we use to wipe our feet on at the front door.  (Not exactly the cleanest spot, but it’s what I had.)  I situated it on the fringe of the kitchen where Seabass could see me while I washed dishes.  “Look at me,” I ordered him, through the buckets of snot and tears gushing from every orifice of his face.  “This is THE FUSSING SPOT.  You will sit on this and not get up until I see that you have stopped crying.  STAY HERE.”

Of course, the first thing Seabass did was try to get up.  But with one more “STAY HERE” and a firm squaring of the buns on the mat, he got the idea and…wait for it…he stayed there.

Where the magic happens.

It was probably five excrutiating minutes before he stopped crying.  (Five minutes is nothing, I know.  There are plenty of kids out there for whom a good tantrum isn’t over before 30 minutes are up.)  When he had settled down a bit, I dried my hands and squatted beside him.  Then we had a little talk about how I loved him and didn’t like punishing him, but that he would have to go to the fussing spot any time his crying got out of control.  Then we hugged.  I really liked that part.

The fussing spot has become a good tool for discipline and self control in our house.  Sometimes Seabass works the system by claiming he’s all done fussing the second I sit him down, but for the most part he gets it.

In fact, there have been several times when something upset him – the dog looked at him funny or the sun was shining too brightly through the window – and he fetched the fussing spot on his own.  It is not uncommon for him to quietly lay the mat down, arrange the corners just so, sit down on it and proceed to wail.  Those are tough times not to laugh.  How do you keep from smiling when your not-even-two–year-old knows he has a bad attitude and needs a time-out?

Jake took this video over the weekend as we lazed around the house, eating waffles and dancing to Hot Chip in our jammies.  As we watched it together later, he proclaimed, “You will not be able to help posting that on the blog.”  I hate it when he’s right.

What really struck me while watching this is how quickly things change Just three years ago, Jake and I were living in Europe, swimming in the waters off the Cote d’Azur and turning the beautiful color of cafe au lait (which will one day, no doubt, come back to haunt us in the form of skin cancer).

Look how relaxed I was.

Here’s my point: Stuff happens.  Things change. Just when you think it’s all dialed-in, life makes a left turn and you’re wondering where you are again.  I’m so glad I had my opportunity to explore the world (and flirt with skin cancer) before Seabass made his debut.  But if I hadn’t had him, I doubt I would treasure those experiences as much.  Thank God for perspective.

Some time back – before we had children – Jake and I read a book on the subject of initimacy.  It detailed small steps a husband and wife can take to keep the romance alive and kicking, even through the rough times.

If you can believe it, there was a chapter on hygiene.  For men, this chapter mostly reminded them that if they wanted to get close to their woman, they’d have to shower and pluck their nosehair.  For women, the chapter mostly reminded them that if they wanted their man to stay even remotely engaged in the marriage, they would need to a) maintain and cultivate a physical relationship, and b) stop wearing sweats.

Now, when I read this, I knew exactly which piece of clothing the book was asking me to give up.: the Yale sweatshirt.

This item of clothing has been with me since I snagged it from an old boyfriend in high school.  It bears traces of paint and woodstain from all our many projects over the years, so it’s sentimental.  And, quite simply, I adore it.

Unfortunately for Jake, it is my Team Building Exercise ’99 shirt.  If you understand that reference, I have said quite enough.

The inherent problem in the Yale sweatshirt situation – the reason I can’t give it up – is that it’s large enough to cover up any unsightly bulges I may be harboring, namely a baby bump.  During the last three months of my pregnancy with Seabass, the Yale sweatshirt became a constant companion, sending Jake more into the role of a very kindred roommate than that of a husband.

Anyway, the Yale sweatshirt came out again a few nights ago, and I could almost smell Jake’s disappointment.  Is this really happening again? I could hear him ask himself.

And my answer? Awww, yeah.