Higher Highs, Lower Lows

Enough sittin around, kid. Time to train.

In bed before falling asleep after a wonderful, outdoorsy day with Seabass.  Jake journals, Jaime reads a magazine.

Jake: Hey.  Can I share something with you?

Jaime: [putting down magazine] Talk to me.

Jake: Here’s a list of things I want to do with Seabass when he’s older.

Jaime: Aaw, good daddy.

Jake: First, I want to go on a cycling trip to Lake Cachuma and camp for a few nights.  Second, I want to take him to Big Bear for a week to learn how to snowboard.

Jaime: Naturally.

Jake: Third, I want us to go as a family to Mexico and surf together.

Jaime: Yippee!

Jake: I’d also like to teach Seabass how to build a house by volunteering with Habitat for Humanity.

Jaime: That’s so cool.  What a great list.

Jake: Yeah.  [pause]  How soon do you think we can do all of these things together?

Jaime: Hm.  I’m thinking when he’s like nine or ten years old, minimum.

Jake: Really?  Wait, the snowboarding can happen sooner than that.

Jaime: Oh yeah, you’re right.  He can probably get on a board at five, maybe sooner.

Jake: Huh.  [pensively] I was also thinking we could do the little San Luis Obispo sprint triathlon together.

Jaime: Totally.  That sounds awesome.

Jake: He can do that at a younger age, right?  At like five? Four?

[pause]

What?

Jaime: [Carefully] Um, five seems a little young to swim a half mile, ride a bike seventeen miles and complete a three-mile run.

Jake: [Incredulous] What?!?  He’ll definitely be able to.  We’re doing it.

Jaime: [Smile] He’s lucky to have you as his daddy.

Did I seriously have the presence of mind to take this photo?

It was Monday.  It’s still hard to talk about, hence the four-day lapse.

Bad days, I’ve found, come more often now that I’m a mother.  Perhaps it’s merely statistical: Two people have more bad days than one person, and now that I’m really two people (me and Seabass), bad days are more likely to occur.

But I think it’s more than circumstantial.  I’m pretty sure I set myself up for them – last Monday in particular.  Here’s what I mean:

Mistake Numero Uno: I went for a run.

Running, in and of itself isn’t a bad idea, but running on broken sidewalks with a dog and a non-jogger stroller with a Seabass inside is a very, very bad idea.  For about the first ten minutes, I was able to dodge all obstacles in my path (like tall sidewalks – I never noticed it before having kids, but why are some sidewalks ramped and others not?  Don’t our cities realize that high sidewalks CAN KILL?!??) and was even congratulating myself on my swiftness of foot.  Then it happened.  My toe hit one of the stroller’s wheels as I navigated a portion of bad sidewalk, I stepped on the dog’s leash, which was attached to the stroller, the dog yelped, I fell hard on my left butt cheek, and (this is the worst part) the stroller tipped over and on to me with a very frightened – but totally safe – Seabass.

This wasn’t the first time I’ve fallen in public, but it isn’t getting any easier.

Mistake Numero Dos: I invited a magazine photographer into my home.

A friend of a friend of a friend told a local publisher that I like to cook and the magazine called to get a recipe and a time for a photographer to come over to capture me in the kitchen.  I chose to make a delicious tomato and red pepper tart (love those veggies baked into crusts) and tried to make the dough ahead of time – just after my disastrous run.  Seabass was being particularly difficult that morning, but I couldn’t exactly hold him with one arm whilst kneading a lump of dough.  So I strapped him into the Ergo carrier on my back.  The yeast dissolved into the warm water and I’d just filled my mixing bowl with all the ingredients (think flour, egg, etc.) when Seabass reached out, grabbed the bowl, and spilled the contents all over our brand new hardwood floor.  And the photographer was due in just ten minutes.

Hard not to yell, cry, or dissolve into a puddle of whimpers.

Mistake Numero Tres: I missed a meeting for work.

Okay, actually I didn’t *miss* it; I was unintentionally omitted.  Whatever, it still sucked.

I work from home during Seabass’ naps, so there is a set time each day that I’m available to chat.  Otherwise, I just tell my employers that I absolutely cannot get anything of value done while he’s awake.  They are so understanding and empathetic…but they forget.  I kid you not: it was with my heiney all black and blue, a bowl’s worth of flour, water and egg on my floor, and a screaming Seabass on my back that I decided to check my voicemail.  Just for kicks, I guess.  Sure enough, my wonderful (and I mean that) boss was on the other line, cheerfully announcing that she had assembled the team for a phone meeting I’d never heard of, and could I please call them back to join in?  At my earliest convenience?  The message had been left over an hour previously.

It was right about then that I felt doomed to fail.  Thankfully, in the end, lives were not lost.

We missed our flight.  It’s a long story that involves me never looking up what time our flight left and a hefty fee of $231.00.

Lou Brooks

So anyway, we’re still in Idaho until this afternoon.  With a little bit of time to kill, I read an article in The Atlantic recommended by a friend of mine.  It’s called “How to Land Your Kid in Therapy: Why the obsession with our kids’ happiness may be dooming them to unhappy adulthoods,” by Lori Gottlieb.  It’s all about how kids with parents intent on their children’s happiness still become jacked up adults.  On a day like today, when I have already erred royally, it is particularly germaine.

If you don’t have time to read the article, watch this short video featuring the author.  But if you do have time to read the full article, you won’t be sorry.  I especially enjoyed reading all of the comments from readers.  Whoa, nelly!  As you may imagine, when someone denounces the power of the ever popular self-esteem movement, there’s gonna be blood.

From the article:

A few months ago, I called up Jean Twenge, a co-author of The Narcissism Epidemic and professor of psychology at San Diego State University, who has written extensively about narcissism and self-esteem. She told me she wasn’t surprised that some of my patients reported having very happy childhoods but felt dissatisfied and lost as adults. When ego-boosting parents exclaim “Great job!” not just the first time a young child puts on his shoes but every single morning he does this, the child learns to feel that everything he does is special. Likewise, if the kid participates in activities where he gets stickers for “good tries,” he never gets negative feedback on his performance. (All failures are reframed as “good tries.”) According to Twenge, indicators of self-esteem have risen consistently since the 1980s among middle-school, high-school, and college students. But, she says, what starts off as healthy self-esteem can quickly morph into an inflated view of oneself—a self-absorption and sense of entitlement that looks a lot like narcissism. In fact, rates of narcissism among college students have increased right along with self-esteem.

Meanwhile, rates of anxiety and depression have also risen in tandem with self-esteem. Why is this? “Narcissists are happy when they’re younger, because they’re the center of the universe,” Twenge explains. “Their parents act like their servants, shuttling them to any activity they choose and catering to their every desire. Parents are constantly telling their children how special and talented they are. This gives them an inflated view of their specialness compared to other human beings. Instead of feeling good about themselves, they feel better than everyone else.”

I find all of this fascinating in lieu of all my recent praise of Seabass for walking, talking, signing, and generally being freaking adorable.  It’s also fascinating because, *ahem,* this article is describing me and a lot of my friends.  I mean absolutely no disrespect to my parents – they were loving and supportive and superb disciplinarians – but I believe I am a victim of the “narcissism epidemic.”  And look!  I have the therapy sessions to prove it.

Enough outta me.  What do you think?  Do you believe that happiness is the key to life for your children?  Are you willing to do anything to ensure their happiness?  Are you child-centered or parent-centered?  And how do you think we can avoid raising another generation of narcissists? 

Where tough little non-communicative babies become brilliant young men.

So, it’s our last day in Idaho visiting Seabass’ grandparents, and I can’t believe how downright LOADED those weeks have been with learning.  Seabass, by the by, is brilliant.  Okay, maybe not brilliant, but he’s certainly smart as a whip.  He’s never been a super verbal guy (unless you count the whining and screaming) but suddenly, he’s Captain Communication.  A short list of his new “tricks:”

• He says “uh-oh.”  Like, constantly.  It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard in my whole life.
• When we ask him, “How big is Seabass?” and reply “SO BIG!” He throws his hands in the air
• He signs “more,” “thirsty,” “eat,” “all done,” and “thank you”
• He says “ni-ni” and waves goodbye
• When you ask him for a kiss, he leans his head over to your lips
• He says “MA, MA, MA, MA, MA” for mama, particularly when he’s upset

I’m sure most of you have kids who were applying, like, the quadratic equation at Seabass’ age, but for us this is huge.  Finally, I can ask him what he wants and feel confident that he’s getting it.  Of course, sometimes what he wants is to play with a chainsaw or switchblade or something, in which case we don’t give him what he wants.  But at least now we know why he’s crying.  Thank you God.

I caught two bass in Lake Coeur d’Alene with my dad this week.  Sure, they were only about 0.011 ounces each, but they were real fish.  That I caught.  With a rod.  All by myself.  Here’s the shot to prove it.

It felt a little wrong catching bass, of all things.  So I tossed them back.

Endless Summer takes on an entirely new meaning.

Today is the first day of summer!  And you know what that means: relaxing by the pool, trashy novels, and tropical vacations.

Unless, of course, you happen to be a young mother.

Okay, so Seabass isn’t exactly school-aged yet, but like mothers of school-aged kids over the summer, I am all too familiar with the thought What the heck will entertain you today?  Thankfully, I have a friend who is far more proactive than me.  Her name is Stephanie and she has made a terrific list of activities to turn to whenever the kiddos get antsy this summer.  I recently asked her permission to share this list with you all, and she graciously agreed.

Granted, many of these are specific to where I live, San Luis Obispo, where it’s never too hot or too cold to do much of anything.  (Gloat, gloat.)  But many are applicable wherever you live.  Just get out there and do stuff.  If you’re anything like me, it will provide sanity when you’ve squeezed the life out of all your other ideas.

Out and About

• SLO creek
• Pismo Beach/Avila Beach
• Montana de Oro
• Avila Valley Barn
• Bob Jones Trail
• Morro Bay – watch boats
• Elfin Forest – Los Osos
• Sweet Springs Nature Preserve – Los Osos
• Atascadero Zoo
• Avila Beach Park
• Farmers Market – SLO or Avila
• Children’s Museum – SLO or Paso
• Fly a kite
• Walk to Laguna Lake
• Santa Barbara Zoo
• Rancho Grande Park – AG
• Pool
• Visit a fire station / police station
• Jack Creek Farms – Templeton
• Monterey Bay Aquarium
• Denise the Menace Park – Monterey
• Live Kids Music @ Boo Boo Records – Wed. 10:15-10:45 (arrive early)
• Concerts in the Plaza – Fridays 5:30-7:30
• Blues Baseball Game
• Waller Park Santa Maria- feed the ducks
• Cal Poly – visit the cows and horses
• Library
• Klondike’s Pizza / Doc Burnsteins – AG
• Volunteer
• BBQ or Bon Fire – Port San Luis
• Bubblegum Alley
• Dinosaur Caves Park – Pismo Beach
• Walk around Atascadero Lake – play at the park
• Hike to Point San Luis Lighthouse
• Avila Beach Sea Life Center
• PetSmart – look at fish and birds
• Home Depot – touch tools (that’s my own addition to the list!)

Fun at Home

• Build a fort
• Camp in the backyard
• Paint or Watercolor
• String beads
• Draw with sidewalk chalk
• Make playdough
• Make flubber
• Wash the car
• Paint the house (water and paint brushes)
• Have a tea party
• Make a matching game
• Sensory table – cotton balls, soil, water, sand, dry pasta, beans, rice, etc.
• Catch bugs
• Have a dance party
• Make and fly paper airplanes
• Play dress up
• Make musical instruments from recycling
• Read
• Cook together
• Make an obstacle course
• Have a picnic
• Send someone a letter
• Make sock puppets
• Put together a puzzle or make one
• Toss handmade bean bags
• Toss a ball
• Run in the sprinklers
• Plant a flower
• Ride bikes
• Get a book on CD
• Watch airplanes land and take off
• Pudding finger paint
• Perform an experiment
• Sing
• Play Hide and Seek

Warning: You’re about to learn a lot more about me than you may want to know. I’m looking at you, Dad.

When Jake and I were married in 2002, we discovered that hormonal birth control methods (e.g. the pill, the patch, etc.) turned me into a raving lunatic.  In fact I’m pretty sure my dear, precious husband was questioning his choice of bride during those first painful months.

Eventually, we landed upon the method of “charting” to keep Seabass at bay.  This entails watching a few of my body’s signals to predict when I will ovulate – information useful either for avoiding or promoting conception – and charting the results.  All of our information for how to practice charting came from the fantastic book Taking Charge of Your Fertility by Toni Weschler.  (By the by, I highly, highly recommend this book to all women, especially young ones.  Learning how to read your body’s signs is incredibly empowering and helps minimize the frustration of becoming a pimply, weepy psychopath once a month.)

Giddy up!

One of the signs to read during charting is my early morning body temperature.  So, every morning when the alarm went off at 6:30am Jake would jam a thermometer in my mouth.  Despite how unappealing that sounds, it was actually a beautiful way to wake up.  I got to lay there for a full minute, completely still, while preparing to take on the rest of the day.  When the thermometer beeped, we’d note the temp on a chart.  If my temperature spiked one day, it was a sign that I’d ovulated.  When that spike descended after several days, we knew I’d soon be visited by Aunt Flo.

When we left for our year-long trip around the world, we dutifully packed the thermometer and a chart, thinking everything would continue as planned.  But it didn’t, because my ovaries didn’t drop an egg for 150 days.  I would have believed I was pregnant if my temperature had ever spiked, but it hadn’t.  You see, my sensitive reproductive system is a lot like a turtle: The slightest change or stress, and everything goes into lockdown.

Eventually my cycle re-emerged and my timid body managed to ovulate.  It wasn’t until a few months after our return home that we decided to change our objective with charting and try to conceive.  In Taking Charge of Your Fertility, the author describes how it’s possible to conceive on Monday, but not technically be pregnant (i.e. fertilized egg implanted in the uterine wall) until Tuesday or Wednesday.  Furthermore, she states that the implantation process can be felt, and can be “a little uncomfortable.”

So it was with Seabass.  We *ahem* did the deed on a Friday, but the fertilized egg didn’t implant and get me pregnant until I was shopping at Trader Joe’s on Saturday.  Pushing my cart through the cheese aisle, I felt a sharp, searing pain not unlike a knife in my pelvis.  It was so uncomfortable I couldn’t walk or move.  So I just stood there squeezing a wedge of brie until it passed, about a minute later.

And I guess that’s when I first knew we had a Seabass on the way.

sym·bi·o·sis/ˌsimbēˈōsis/Noun

1. Interaction between two different organisms living in close physical association, typically to the advantage of both.

2. A mutually beneficial relationship between different people or groups.

Just between you and me, I have a fear that runs deeper than my fear of snakes, heights, and nuclear war combined:

Flying on an airplane with Seabass.

It’s not because he’s a baby.  It’s not even because he’s a crazed psycho baby.  It’s because in all of my travels, whenever I saw a baby on board, I would inwardly roll my eyes and curse the parents.  WHY in the WORLD does this family INSIST on traveling with their baby?!?  Audible sigh.

And now I’m the one insisting on flying with a [loud, demanding] baby and everyone else will be cursing me.  Because?  Seabass is making his airplane debut in just a matter of days.

I feel safe placing all of the blame on my mother.  She’s the one who suggested I bring the baby up to Idaho for three weeks this summer.  She enticed me with descriptions of warm sunshine, free babysitting, and hours floating in the lake.  It sounded like a good idea at the time.  So I agreed to fly up with Le Seabass – ALONE – at the end of June.

Jake will fly up on his own for the middle week, lucky bastard.  He’s already planning all of the fun things he’s going to do the weeks preceding and following his trip.  “As many crappy action movies as I want!” was his reponse when I asked how he would fill up his lonesome nights.

I asked a friend in the know what to do about traveling with C.  “Just shut up and take it like a man,” she said.

So I asked a different friend how to go about it.  “Hm,” she mused.  “I once received a little goodie bag from a mom with a young child sitting next to me on a flight.  It contained a set of new earplugs, a mini Snickers bar, and a note saying ‘Sorry about the kid.’  It was brilliant.”

Indeed, it is brilliant.  So I’m putting together goodie bags of the same nature to give to my seatmates on the six – count ’em: SIX – flights to and from Oma’s house in Idaho.  I plan on using the same formula of note, candy, and earplugs.  I’ve already made up the notes.  Would you like to read one?

The thing I like most about this goodie bag idea is that it reaches outside the boundaries we put around ourselves as air passengers and diffuses a little of the pain of an uncomfortable situation.  (A little, but not all.  I’m guessing that Snickers bar will only be halfway eaten before my seatmates return to cursing me.)

P.S. For those of you who might suggest drugging the little guppy for the flight, please see Exhibit A.