Higher Highs, Lower Lows

Something happened last night that I’m still not sure was entirely real.

Around 4:15 AM, I awoke to Jake whispering and nudging me.  “Jaime!  Wake up!  There’s something I want to show you.”

He had to say it about 13 times before I would agree to rise and go with him.  I was thinking – and may have even said out loud – “This had better be spectacular.”

He took me to the back window and shone a flashlight into our backyard.  Splashing in the middle of our kiddie pool was a trio of raccoons.

“Ohmygosh,” I laughed.  “What are they doing here?  Are they thirsty?”

“No,” said Jake.  “They’re playing.”

No, no. Not playing like that.

And sure enough, they were.  Jake had awoken to the sound of splashing and Murphy growling defensively from his doggie bed.  When he followed the sound, he looked out and saw the raccoons – not drinking, not scavenging – PLAYING with Seabass’ pool toys.  That’s when he decided to wake me up.

And I’m glad he did.  Mostly.  Sort of.  I’ve been up since then.

So has Jake.  As we lay there in the dark, eyes wide open, he laid down the law: “No more leaving the kiddie pool out at night.”

Addendum: I Googled “raccoons playing in water” and got 16 and a half million results.  What the…?

Jake recently downloaded a bunch of old photos off his phone.  This was one of them.

Not only is this shot beautifully composed, it is also a window into a completely different time in my life – a time when I could read whole magazine articles and leave things I value on the coffee table.  Oh how the world would soon change.

Seabass’ nap is almost over and I’ve spent the last two hours (plus two hours LAST NIGHT) trying to fix a post on housecleaning that WordPress insists on destroying.  But I’m over it.  Sorry, loyal readers.  I actually have to go clean my house instead of writing about it.

Old-school awesomeness in a bottle.

This one’s going out to Seabass’ great-grandma, Nana, who recently helped me out with a burning, stinging, blistering problem in our household: Seabass’ diaper rash.

All told, I went to Dr. Awesome about four times to deal with it to no avail.  We did barrier creams, we did prescription creams, we did baking soda, we did chlorine-free diapers.  We also got a boatload of suggestions from all of you out there in Blog Land.  But still, whenever Seabass got teeth, the problem would once again rear its ugly little head in the form of angry red bumps on little dude’s heiney.  And it was SO uncool.

It was during one of these episodes that Nana came to town.  We whined and moaned about the problem and she suggested something called Mexsana powder.  “That was the only thing that worked for me with young kids,” she added.  Perhaps sensing that we were up to our ears in failed suggestions, she quietly went out and bought some for us.

And wouldn’t you know it?  It works.  Consistently.

So thanks, Nana, from the bottom of our clean, fresh, neutral tushies.

Ew, minivans.

Well, well, well.  To say that you have “feelings” about minivans would be like saying you all have “feelings” about pedophiles.  WOWSA!  Since I started Higher Highs, Lower Lows about 14 months ago, never have I seen such a response to any topic – not spanking, working outside the home or even the crazy Chinese dragon mother.  Well done, team HHLL.  We are officially that shallow.

I just want to follow-up on the topic of minivans with some of my thoughts since you’ve all written in.

1.  I really the like the Swagger Wagon video.  It is brilliant.

2. But……I still don’t want a minivan.  In fact, your ire and arduous attempts at persuasion have perhaps made me even more anti than ever.

3. That’s not to say I’ll never drive one.  I may at some point be forced to get behind the wheel of an Odyssey, but I can promise you this: I will hate every minute of it.

4. I can’t seem to get my panties unwadded after being accused of being less than a “real” mom for having only one child.  It might be a permanent condition.

5. I’m mortified that my dad called me to the carpet about our childhood vehicle.  Apologies: It was a Dodge Ram van, not an Econoline. *blush*

As for my interview on the radio yesterday, it went well!  In case you weren’t able to catch it, the podcast should be posted here within the next couple days.  Stay tuned.

Or girl, for that matter.

If you had any shred of respect for me prior to this post, I suspect it will be henceforth destroyed.

And why?  Because I refuse – REFUSE – to drive a minivan, purely out of vanity.  How’s that for controversy?

My obstinacy was the cause of a pretty massive fight between me and my beloved Jake before Seabass came along.  (As in, yes, crying.)  When we found out we were pregnant, all we had was a 1994 Honda Civic two-door with a cracked windshield and 200k miles between us.  The purchase of another car shot to the top of our priority list like lightning.

Jake and I agreed on several aspects of the purchase: that the car be clean, well-maintained, extremely fuel-efficient, with four doors and a little bit off the ground, if possible, to save our backs from breaking every time we put the baby in the car.  We also agreed that we wouldn’t make payments on anything or put it on the credit card, so it would have to be seriously cheap.

Beyond that, though, we disagreed on just about everything.  To me, a Toyota RAV4 or Honda CRV fit the bill, but Jake insisted that a minivan was the only way to go.

“Everyone has one!” he argued, “And they all love theirs.  Why can’t you just put your vanity aside and listen to reason?”

He had every right to be frustrated with me.  Why not just give in and go the way of the minivan?  They’re spacious and convenient, with plenty of seats for gobs of kids to sit in and something like four cupholders per passenger.  They can also be fairly inexpensive to purchase used, and are often quite fuel-efficient.  And those automatic open-and-shut sliding doors, wow.  So what was the problem?

I don’t know exactly.  Maybe it’s that I grew up getting car sick bouncing around in the back of a giant Dodge Econoline that resembled the A-Team van.  Or perhaps it’s memories of kids getting dropped off at school by exhausted mothers who drove wood-paneled Astrovans encrusted to a near-Baroque degree with Cheerios and snot.  But most likely, it’s just that I don’t want to give in to the stereotypical mom image, spending my entire waking life driving kids to soccer games, dance lessons, etc. in a minivan with a bumper sticker that reads “Mom’s Taxi.”  Like I said, it’s vanity.

While I’m not proud of myself for being so shallow, I *do* feel affirmed by the hoardes of people who feel the same way.  Just Google “anti minivans” and you’ll find a thriving community of people like me, some of whom even go so far as to write blogs on the subject.

Mmmmm, Vanagon.

Before I lay down my weak defense to be pummeled by all of you proud minivan drivers out there, I’d like to note that there is one exception to my minivan prejudice.  I wouldn’t mind driving a VW Vanagon or Westfalia because they’re a) the descendent of the VW bus, b) European, and c) often outfitted with a sink, stove, and hookups for camping.

Anyway, my friend Linda has already scorned me on her blog with an ode in praise of her minivan, and she speaks convincingly to its many charms.  But what do you think/drive?  Are minivans the pits?  Or are they the best thing since indoor plumbing?

The Dave Congalton Show

If you can’t get enough of the weeping and gnashing of teeth here on the Higher Highs, Lower Lows blog, tune in to KVEC 920 AM tomorrow (Wednesday) at 3pm PST to hear me discuss my experience with postpartum depression on the Dave Congalton Show.   Oh yes.

If you’ll be outside the local airzone, you can listen live by clicking here.

In case I die of nerves or fright or sheer humiliation on air, I want you all to know how much your audience, comments, and support have meant to me since I started talking about Seabass behind his back last year.  Thank you.

Ahem.

WARNING: If you are easily shocked, this might not be the best post for you.  Run along now, shoo.

The raisons d’etre for this blog post are a little obscure, so I’ll give a little context in three parts.

1) The other day, whilst driving across town with a fussier-than-usual Seabass in tow, I turned on the radio and hit upon an old favorite, Led Zeppelin’s “The Lemon Song.”  As Seabass grew more and more fussy, I turned the volume dial up and up and up until it drowned him out.  (This is often the only way I can get Seabass to relax in the car for any drive that exceeds 10 minutes in length.)  Finally, he stopped whining and stared out the window.  As we drove with “The Lemon Song” thumping, I started to pay attention to the lyrics:

Squeeze me, babe, ’till the juice runs down my leg

Squeeze me, baby, until the juice runs down my leg

The way you squeeze my lemon, ah

I’m gonna fall right outta bed, ‘ed, ‘ed, bed, yeah

As Robert Plant howled and moaned these words, I shot a nervous glance back in the rear-view mirror at Seabass.  Does he understand?  Does he sense the innuendo? Unnerving.

2) I was preparing dinner in the kitchen last night with the local college radio station on in the background when Seabass ran in from his bedroom and started “dancing” (bobbing, shaking, lurching) to the beat.

“Do you like this song, baby?” I laughed, putting my knife down and starting to dance with him.  I went to turn the music up and realized it was a song I used to sing karaoke to in college: Eric Clapton’s “Cocaine.”

Hmmm.

Boo Boo Records, San Luis Obispo

3) Like every Wednesday, we attended the kids’ music hour this morning at my old workplace, Boo Boo Records.  If you’ve ever been inside, you know that it’s packed to the gills with old concert memorobilia, record covers, and music posters.  I’ve stared at the walls for years and somehow missed a giant LP called “Butt Candy” by The Sidekicks until this morning.  I noticed it sometime between singing “The Wheels on the Bus” and “I’m A Little Teapot.”

Part of me wants to grab Seabass and run away from this stuff.  I mean, it’s completely inappropriate to talk lemon-squeezing, cocaine-snorting and butt candy at his age…or any other, really.  And I can already see his little wheels turning, trying to sort life out.  It makes me want to vacuum-pack him to preserve his sweet innocence for as long as possible.

But there’s another part of me that loves Eric Clapton and Led Zeppelin so much (um, I could do without the Butt Candy, though) that I want Seabass to enjoy dancing to their infectious rhythms no matter what the words say.  They are, after all, our rock and roll heritage!  And it’s not my fault that they put dirty words to face-melting solos and tasty licks.

I always appreciated that, even though my parents were born-again Christians, they never stopped rocking to good music.  (Mom and Dad met in a rock band in the 70s, so it’s in my blood.)  My brother and I grew up with Stevie Ray Vaughn, Jimi Hendrix, the Beatles, the Eagles – even Cheech and Chong – and have not only lived to tell about it, but have become respectable members of society…with excellent taste in music, I might add.

Enough outta me – what do you think?  Sterilize your kids’ upbringing to preserve their innocence or give them a comprehensive cultural education and run the risk of exposing them to something disturbing along the way?

Fact: I’ve been a mother for 15 months.

Fact: I accepted the fact that I had postpartum depression after about 12 weeks.

Fact: I never considered that PPD would linger past one year.

Fact: It did.

Yes, PPD has reared its ugly head again.  I’ve been on OB-prescribed anti-depressants for a year now, and have intermittently attempted to go off of them under my doctor’s supervision.  But it never went well.  Once, my experiment coincided with a surprise business trip for Jake and torrential rains.  Not good odds.  But this most recent time I tried in the sunshine of summer with Jake here to support me.  And still, no dice.  It’s like a big, heavy cloud is following me around, keeping me from being fun for Seabass, helpful to Jake, or even just accepting of my own skin.

But in between those dark days, there have been wonderful days.  Days when the medication was really working and I stupidly thought,  Check it out: I’m a normal person!  I’m mothering!  Nicely, even!  And I look like I fit in with the rest of society!  Whooppee!

But it’s all a fantasy. In fact, it’s the most misleading fantasy I’ve ever had.  To go off antidepressants and look at myself in the mirror – hair unwashed, eyes red from pointless crying – and realize This is the real me, is pretty freaking discouraging.  Throw in a glance to my gorgeous, demanding son and another at my gorgeous, supportive husband, and I’m fit to be tied.  The guilt is crushing.

When PPD entered my life, holding hands with Seabass, I had no reason to believe it would last this long.  Kids get easier, right?  My doc says yes and no – an answer I loathe.  Yes, kids get easier, and no, it’s not about the kid.  It’s about me and my chemical balance, which is currently out-of-whack.  Doc then handed me a double prescription of Lexapro and said “Have a nice day!”

This has bothered me for a while.  Why hasn’t he recommended a counselor?  Or followed-up with me when I’ve changed medications?  It’s frightfully lonely in PPD Land with just my OB as a buddy.

So I recently called ALPHA Pregnancy and Parenting Support.  I’ve never been a hotline-caller, but when I told Jake I couldn’t go on anymore, he made me promise I’d do whatever it takes to get well again.  And I’m so glad I did.  The nice woman on the line said ALPHA would cover my first call and first session with a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist who specializes in PPD, so I called her and she heard me out.

“You need a plan, girl,” she said.

Score one for the therapist.  God knows I love a good plan.

“Are you sure this is an okay time to talk?” I asked, refering to the loud voices in the background while we spoke.

“It totally is.  I’m on vacation with my kids, but this is more important right now.”

Score two for the therapist.

“I come home Monday.  When we meet on Thursday, we’re going to put together a comprehensive plan for you.  We’re going to look at your medication, your diet, and your physical well-being.  I’m going to order a full panel of bloodwork to be done on you, because I suspect thyroid complications.  And our end goal is going to be getting you off those meds.”

Score three.

“That sounds great,” I said.  “I’m nodding yes to all of this.  But how much will it cost?”

“Don’t worry about that.  ALPHA will pay for our first session, and after that, we can meet on the phone to keep your costs down.  We’ll do whatever it takes.”

Score four.  Therapist wins.