Higher Highs, Lower Lows

Seabass and I have been reading a lot of Goodnight Moon lately, and the soothing rhythm of Margaret Wise Brown’s writing has infected me.  In fact, I’ve written my own book in the same style.  It’s called Goodbye Waist.  Check it out.

 

 

In my ever-expanding belly
Grows a precious little life
Worth all my goodbyes
Over nine months of strife

Goodbye waist

Goodbye tush

Goodbye brain

Turned to mush

Goodbye appetite

Goodbye sanity

Goodbye clean house

Goodbye vanity

Goodbye wine

Goodbye soft cheese

Goodbye dry underpants
After I sneeze

Goodbye jogging,
Tight belts, and good jeans

I hope to see all of you
In two-thousand thirteen.

It all started innocently enough...

I am no stranger to addiction. Certain substances have made themselves my constant companion in the past, including sugar, caffeine, and nicotine.  With each addiction came a horrible and all-too-powerful feeling that I should be able to stop using, but, well…just this once more.

That sense of guilt and powerlessness has arisen in my life once again in a manner I never could have expected.  Much as I’ve wanted to keep this new addiction to myself, it’s time to come clean.

I am addicted to “dinner and a show.”

Dinner and a show is our family’s term for the time when Seabass is strapped into his high chair, fed dinner, and entranced by a video for a half hour or so.  We do it every day around 5pm and I feel horrible about it.  Mostly.

Like all addictive substances, this one feels really, really good at first:

1. He’s immobile, so I can whirl around the house picking up errant socks, toys, and God knows what else he has flung across the room throughout the course of the day.
2. He’s entertained, so I’m not being asked to do much more than stay out of the way of the screen.
3. He’s distracted, so he tends to eat more adventurously without realizing it, e.g. vegetables.

So what’s the problem?  you say.  Well, there’s the whole issue of not eating at the table as a family.  Seabass still goes to bed around 6pm (I know, crazy) which means dinner for him happens before Jake even gets home from work.  That isn’t a sufficient excuse for doing dinner and a show every night, but it does frame the situation.

There’s also the problem of screen time.  I SWORE I wouldn’t show my child videos as an easy out from the difficulty of parenting, but it all started innocently enough.  I wanted Seabass to learn a few signs so we picked up a sign language video at the library and tried it out over dinner one night.  The next thing I knew, Seabass was a signing fiend and started asking for it every afternoon. Well, it’s educational, right? I thought.  But very soon, the “show” portion of “dinner and a show” was infiltrated by tractors, trains, and construction videos, all of which have become my son’s particular weakness.  I am helpless to intervene.

This week, dinner and a show became especially trying as our DVD player went kaput.  Five o’clock P.M. found me running around like a lunatic trying to find similar (and similarly lengthy) YouTube clips to pacify a jonesing Seabass.  When I discovered how to create a playlist of train clips that runs on autoplay, Seabass stopped crying and started glazing over in that familiar dinner-and-a-show way.  It was a new low.

I’d like to say that I have a plan for how to stop the madness at our house, a plan to axe dinner and a show and begin living full evenings.  But I still need it.  Perhaps an intervention should be staged.

Dear new, precious little baby,

Someday, you will read this and wonder why the heck your mommy talked so much about her feelings.  You’d do well to embrace it now: Mommy wears her heart on her sleeve.  And, as such, I can’t help but mention that I hope you are a little girl.

But before I get too deep into why I have such a hope, let me explain something to you.  I will – and already do – love you so very much.  You are my surprise wonder!  The baby who defied all the odds!  And even though you are currently sending my body into a nauseated tailspin, it is worth every ache, pain, and hot flash just to bring you safely into this world.  It doesn’t matter if you’re a boy, girl, giraffe, or a gargoyle – I will adore you and fawn all over you no matter what.

With that said, you have to understand that there is something natural about wanting a child from each gender.  A nice balance.  Also, *I* am a girl, and there are a lot of things I want to share with a girl that a boy wouldn’t necessarily be interested in: The Nutcracker Suite, Jane Austen, and knitting, for starters.  I know there’s nothing wrong with cultivating a love of those things in a boy.  But come on.

A lot of people say that girls are easier at the beginning and more difficult as they get older.  I can really believe that, and those later years freak me out, no question.  You should see your daddy shudder at the thought of raising a teenage girl. But your brother (whom I love more than life itself and would go to the gallows for) was so difficult and remains so high-energy that I am willing to forego any comfort I might have with you as a teenager just to avoid repeating the harrowing experience.

How I remember your brother Seabass' early life.

Anyway, I will probably be talking a lot on this blog about wanting a girl.  Most likely a lot more than I should.  And I just want you to know that it is for shallow reasons that I hope you are of the XX persuasion.  My heart is yours either way, and my dearest hope is that you are healthy and happy in my tummy until you make your grand entrance.  We can’t wait.

Love,

Mamma

Not a joke.

I knew it when Seabass was still nursing and my nipples were on fire.  I knew it when I awoke in the middle of the night in a pool of my own sweat.  And I even knew it when two different pregnancy tests came up negative.

On the third one, however, all suspicions were confirmed.  I am, indubitably – yet unexpectedly – preggers.

The evidence.

Enjoy the attention now, little bugger.

How am I feeling about having another child?  Such a tough question.  It really depends on the day – sometimes the hour.  So here is a brief (but accurate) diary of my emotional and physical roller coaster since the day I found out.

• January 20: Took test.  Told Jake.  Overwhelmed.
• January 21: Overwhelmed and excited.  Perhaps a girl?
• January 22: Oooh, I’m a bit queasy.
• January 23: Make that REAL queasy.
• January 24: Can smell leftovers through the refrigerator door.
• January 25: Can smell the dog’s breath from another room.
• January 26: I can’t imagine having another person to care for.  Seabass is quite enough.  Perhaps I should have thought this through.
• January 27: The minivan discussion rears its ugly head.
• January 28: Trying not to sleep all day, every day.
• January 29: So glad to have Seabass weaned.  Boobies are mine for another few months.
• January 30: Had a breakdown.  Crying, sobbing, moaning, writhing.  WHAT ARE WE THINKING?!?!?!
• January 31: Better day today.  Less sick and tired.
• February 1: Saw cute baby clothes in a shop window and allowed myself to dream a little.
• February 2: OMG, I’m unbuttoning my pants already.
• February 3: It’s all about gummy candy right now.  Love it.
• February 4: I hate gummy candy.
• February 5: Begged Jake to bring home burgers, fries, and…gummy candy.
• February 6: Held a screaming baby today.  Amazing how it doesn’t bother you as much once you’ve already had one.
• February 7: Who knew the “taste” of water would make me want to ralph?
• February 8: First doctor’s appointment.  Saw baby on ultrasound.  Swoon.  Due date: September 19.
• February 9: I asked Jake if he could see my baby bump and he said, “Is that the baby or the cheeseburgers?”
• February 10: Can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t think. Am clearly dying.
• February 11: Seabass has discovered my weakness and is trying to destroy me.  Had another crying fit today.
• February 12: Jake patted my tummy today and said “Thanks for growing my baby.”  Made me blush.
• February 13: Fell asleep thinking about baby names.
• February 14: Spent Valentine’s Day evening sprawled on the couch in flannel, eating a frozen pot pie.  Poor Jake.
• February 15: The house smells stale.
• February 16: We need more money before baby comes!
• February 17: We need to renovate the kitchen before baby comes!!
• February 18: I have to get Seabass out of diapers before baby comes!!!
• February 19: Babies are cute.  Can’t wait to smell him/her.

Dear Sir/Madam,

If there is anything worse than finding dog poop under your shoe, it is most certainly seeing dog poop rolling and flinging off of a stroller wheel and onto your pant leg.

Your dog is obviously extremely ill.  How else do you explain the identically-shaped turds at regular intervals along the sidewalk of Chorro Street?  This was not the work of a team of dogs.  This was one dog.  Yours.

Might I suggest that you investigate the BRAT Diet for your poor pooch?  (It has done wonders for my oft loosey-goosey Seabass.)  Or perhaps a well-stocked, handy cache of plastic bags would do the trick?

Either way, if I find your dog’s excrement on the tire of my stroller again, I will hunt you down and force-feed your dog Immodium AD with my own two hands.

Sincerely,

Jaime

I am proud to announce that we are the new parents of a stunning collection of photos by photographer Barry Goyette.

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Barry is a photographer based out of San Luis Obispo, and an old friend.  I met him when I was 18 and needed senior photos taken.  (If you really want a laugh, go to my mom’s blog and see the hilarity that is me as a teenager – WITH A PERM.)

It is really a crime to waste Barry’s talents on senior photos (or family portraits, for that matter), as he is a legit fashion photographer and designer.  But we fought hard to have him do Seabass’ portraits, and I’m so glad he said yes.

Thanks to Barry for giving in and to Oma for funding the shoot.  What a lovely keepsake we now possess!

Please mama. Please try.

I was talking to a mommy friend recently about how jealous we are of the energy that some moms have for their children.

“We were at the park last weekend and this wonderful, energetic hippie mom showed up and was singing on the playground.  SINGING.  Like, children’s songs and stuff.  All the kids flocked to her like animals to Saint Francis of Assisi, including mine.  I had to apologize to him later for not being as cool as all that.”

This struck a chord with me.  I often find that I’m the mom at the playground who just wants to sit and watch while the other moms get on their kids’ level, make silly voices, and pretend to order waffles from their budding short-order “cook.”  Don’t get me wrong – sometimes I am that mom, but not as often as I’d like.  I spend such a good amount of time keeping everything together at home that when the chores are done (or even if they’re not) the only thing I want to do is sit down and smile from the sidelines.

Case in point:

Yesterday, Seabass and I were at our neighborhood park when a mom arrived with three young children.  Seabass had been in the middle of a serious sandbox session, but it all ended when these kids tumbled out of their car.  The mom asked what they wanted to do at the park, and they screamed, in unison, “RACE!!”  So she lined them up, stood back a few paces, and then yelled “GO!”  This set the kids off screaming and giggling and positively wearing themselves out running away from their adorable, energetic (and enviably trim!) mom.  They played like this for about 20 minutes.

Seabass couldn’t believe his eyes.  A mama who runs?!?  He was drawn to her like a moth to flame.  I followed behind him, loping along, as he joined the pack of wild kids running in all directions.

And despite my real delight that he was having so much fun, yes, the whole time, I just wanted to sit down.

Despite the fact that nursing is Seabass’ favorite thing in the whole wide world, we finally decided to wean him.  At 21 months, it didn’t feel cruel, but it certainly didn’t feel simple, either.

We chose to wean him somewhat gradually, going from four feedings a day (FOUR FEEDINGS A DAY!!) to just one in about 10 days.  I’m happy to report that the morning feeding and the post-nap feeding disappeared fairly uneventfully when I could distract him with something like breakfast or a snack.  But those pre-sleep feedings, oh oh oh.  So tough.  Seabass just looked up at me (and still does, sad to say) with his precious little cherub face, making a pathetic little “eee?” sound and the sign for milk furiously.  Then we kiss him, put him in his bed, and he cries for about ten minutes until he falls asleep.  It’s not exactly how I pictured his new bedtime routine, but then again, nothing in parenthood has been how I thought it would be.

Once Seabass was down to just one feeding per day, we went all out and took a “weaning weekend” away.  Yup, as in Jake and me without Seabass in a remote location, enjoying ourselves.  Selfish, right?

Whatever – it was dreamy.  We dropped the little guppie off with his grandparents on Friday evening and had two whole nights in Palm Springs to eat at restaurants, see movies, sleep in, read the newspaper and live generally unscheduled lives.  Glory, Hallelujah!

Palm Springs did us a favor by boasting 78-degree days, which we spent wandering the fun vintage design shops and lounging poolside.  Of course, the thing we most looked forward to was sleeping in, however, the first night I slept in a whole three minutes.  (Seabass had me on remote control, I swear.)  The next night, though, I managed to reach 7:30am.  Holla!

I expected my biggest revelation to be how much I love and cherish Seabass by being away from him.  And while I do love and cherish him, the truth is I came away from the weaning weekend with a greater love and affection for Jake.  In Palm Springs, we were just a couple of lovebirds again, discovering who the other is even after ten years.  Funny how that whole discovery thing never ends with a spouse.

Apparently Seabass was “an angel” for Grandma and Grandpa.  I’m not surprised. (I’ve always said that I was like an addiction for him – that if you removed me from the scene he’d be so much calmer and easier.)  But when we met up to do the exchange at the end of the weekend, he melted down, predictably.  Jake and I had been dreading the five-hour drive home, but only the first half was horrible.  He slept the rest of the way.

So now he’s completely weaned, though he still wants the boob (and the boob is hard as a rock!)  Whenever he asks for milk, I try to reason with him that “Mama’s milk is all gone.”  But Seabass has never been much for reasoning.  Instead, it seems best just to stay consistent and attempt to distract him from his laser-point focus on my chest.

It was late at night or early in the morning – I can’t remember, as this took place several months ago.  Seabass was awake again and my many efforts to soothe his wailing had come to nothing: holding him, rocking him, nursing him, patting him, etc etc.

With an aching back, I finally laid him down in his crib after 45 minutes of attempting to calm his restless little Seabass soul.  Enflamed, he rolled to his belly and pulled up on his feet to stand and scream in my face.  I was desperate.

And indeed, desperation is precisely what inspired me to cast off my slippers, grab the crib railing and heave myself into Seabass’ crib.

I was so tired, I just wanted to lay down, so that’s exactly what I did; scrunched up knees and toes shivering under a tiny toddler blanket.  I pulled Seabass’ body down to lay beside me and quickly pinched my eyes shut to convey the message that NOW IS THE TIME FOR SLEEP.  THIS IS WHAT WE ARE DOING NOW.  EVERYONE.  WITHOUT EXCEPTION.

I lay there, eyes closed, breathing slowly in the hopes that Seabass’ breathing would soon follow suit.  He lay still beside me, in what I believed to be a drowsy elation that his most favorite person in the whole world was closer than ever.

Ten minutes went by without so much as a stir on either of our parts.  I thought it safe to peak with pride at the boy I had so cleverly put to sleep.  With the crack of an eye I saw…

A wide awake Seabass – eyes round as dinner plates – laying on his side, staring at his weird mama who had somehow thought it helpful to jump into his bed.  Ever heard of personal space, lady???

http://www.toothpastefordinner.com/011212/

Glennon Melton is a blogger who recently wrote a piece called “Don’t Carpe Diem” at the Huffington Post.  The post is a reaction to comments from older women to young mothers like “”Oh, enjoy every moment. This time goes by so fast.”  The writing is funny, honest, and realistic.

Being told, in a million different ways to CARPE DIEM makes me worry that if I’m not in a constant state of intense gratitude and ecstasy, I’m doing something wrong.

The piece resonated with me – and thousands of other people – because I have the same feelings of guilt whenever someone tells me to “enjoy every moment” while Seabass is tantruming on the cement floor at Trader Joe’s.  To paraphrase the author, it’s tough to see a forest of love for the poopie-diaper trees when you’re just trying to make it through the day.

To be fair, I completely get what you older women are saying when you tell me that it goes by so fast.  And I want to enjoy every moment – I really do!  But enjoying every moment of parenting a willful toddler is a little like achieving world peace: Man, it sounds nice, but…how????

So that’s my question to you, beloved readers: How do you enjoy your little people even when things are hard?  How do you make the most of your parenting experience?