Higher Highs, Lower Lows

Okay, but the baby's still alive, right? Couldn't we have painted the baby to look a little more lifelike fellas? I mean, really.

Seabass has cut his first tooth.  Bottom right.  And he ain’t happy.

Last night he awoke around 1am for the first time in a long time and cried like a stuck pig until I swooped in to comfort him.  Then he had two extremely short and fitful naps.  And then, as he cried with a wide open mouth, I spied a little nub of white sprouting from his gums.  Then I did the finger confirmation: it felt like a little rock coming through the flesh.  At last!  This baby’s got teefers!  (Oh, how Jake hates it when I say “teefers.”)

Wanna know the benefit of having a generally fussy baby?  When he’s teething, you sorta can’t tell!  No, I jest.  Taking care of this demanding little boy is still tough, but having something to blame makes it somehow easier to bear.

Here’s to 19 more.

Kicking and screaming.  No, not Seabass.  Me.

And why? Jake’s vacation is over.

The past ten days were so incredible, I can hardly believe it.  It was the first time since Seabass’ birth that I’ve felt truly relaxed in the role of mommy, and it’s no coincidence that I had Jake’s support at home the whole time.  No siree.  He was AMAZING.  We tag-teamed diaper changes, play time, pushing the stroller, bouncing baby on the hip and just about everything but breastfeeding.  Every few days, Jake would get a little quiet and then say, “Can you believe I have to go back to work in ___ days?  Where is the time going?”  Really, it was that nice.

It’s not like anything drastic changed in the grand scheme of things, though.  Seabass still took regular naps at 9am and 1pm, went down for bed around 6pm and woke up bright and early at 6:30am.  Even on New Year’s Day, after Jake and I had stayed out until 2:30am.  That was a little brutal.  I liken it to the first summer I spent working after college.  You mean we don’t get summer vacation?  Welcome to the real world, where work never stops and babies never sleep in.

Tight schedule notwithstanding, Christmas was a lovely affair and Seabass had what I believe was a fun time opening presents.  Okay, he mostly just watched presents being opened and then gummed some part of the packaging, but he looked pretty happy doing it. 

Here he is digging in to his stocking.

And a book.

And a night light.

Then he insisted on eating the dinosaur finger puppets.

And I include this after-shot because it’s just abstract enough to be mistaken for modern art.

We did something new this year, just for Seabass’ enjoyment: We left all of the wrapping paper and tissue and other trash on the ground as presents were unwrapped.  Jake insisted that it would be fun for Seabass to play in.  My inner clean freak was nearly hyperventilating, but let go and let God because it was Christmas, after all.

I hope you had a wonderfully merry Christmas with peace in your heart.  Love, Jaime, Jake, Seabass, and Murph (…who Seabass also tried to put in his mouth).

Between being sick – AGAIN – the biggest holiday of the year, having my beloved Jake at home to play with, and entertaining family, I hadn’t made it onto Facebook until this morning, when I noticed something along the right sidebar where they display ads tailored precisely to users’ interests.  I kid you not; it read:

Surprise your Boyfriend!
What will your baby look like? Upload your pic and find out. OurBabymaker is FREE, plus you’ll get the mywebsearch toolbar. Click here!

 Now, just imagine for one moment that I am a 15-year-old girl dating some dirtbag my parents hate.  And I see this ad on Facebook.  And I just happen to have photos of me and Dirtbag on my computer.  And I follow this BabyMaker link.  And the result is an adorable little baby just crying out for someone to make it, pronto.

CAN DIRTBAG-DATING 15-YEAR-OLD GIRLS BE TRUSTED NOT TO TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY?!??!?   AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

I completely expect to see a baby boom among pimply high schoolers (and – gulp! – junior highers?) as a result.  And it infuriates me, this preying-upon of the internet on clueless girls.

As an antidote to this epidemic, I propose an alternate website that tells the truth about “babymaking.”  A website that shows what the baby will really look like.

Who’s with me?

[Note: It’s Christmas Eve Eve, and I’m exhausted.  Seabass is cranky and Mom is on the verge of a nervous breakdown, counting the nanoseconds until Daddy comes home for a long holiday break from the office.  All that to say Controversy Wednesday needed an extra day to formulate.  Merry Christmas!]

I was looking for a photo of some unhappy child at The Nutcracker, but Google knew to give me this instead. Because it's hilarious.

It’s that special time of year when lights are a-twinklin’, bells are a-jinglin’, and small children are strong-armed into bow ties, patent leather, and velvet for performances of The Nutcracker Suite, Handel’s Messiah, and various and sundry church services. 

Actually, I was one of those precocious little girls who LOVED dressing up and sitting still (mostly) for a Christmas performance.  I have so many fond memories of donning a stickie-outtie dress (my own term), and driving down to Santa Barbara with my mom and brother to meet my grandma for The Nutcracker ballet at the Arlington Theatre.  It was an annual tradition – complete with full, live orchestra – to which I give partial credit for my lifelong love of classical music.  (Thank you Mom and Nanny.)

My brother Dusty, however, was not fooled by the weak seduction of a cannon shot, a life-sized dancing rat king, or a far-too-short battle sequence.  In fact, I’m not even sure he noticed any of that.  He was too preoccupied with the fact that guys were wearing tights.  And dancing.  And BULGING all over the place.

My mom loves to recount how Dusty would hold it together, for the most part, through the ballet’s first half.  At intermission, we’d grab a cookie at concessions, and try to get the wiggles out in preparation for the second half.  But as the curtain parted and the dancing began again, Dusty would slowly but surely disintegrate.  Despite her finely-tuned sense of propriety and regard for fellow audience members, Mom could not withstand my brother’s acute desire to roll in the aisle, bow tie hanging by a thread and hair shooting in all directions.  The worst moment every year, she claims, was when the Arabian dancers took the stage.  Whatever brittle interest Dusty had in the remainder of the ballet was, at that point, destroyed.  I mean, to a little boy, COULD THIS SONG BE ANY SLOWER?  OR MORE BORING?

My friend Andrea has a great story about her own younger brother and The Nutcracker Suite.  Apparently, Jordan was not much of a fan as a little boy, either.  He kept quiet – whether by force or of his own volition – through the entire ballet until the Pas de Deux at the end.  As the harpist plucked the opening notes and the two dancers began twirling, Jordan could take it no longer, exclaiming – OUT LOUD – “Aaw, not again!”

Now, here’s the thing.  I wholeheartedly intend to force The Nutcracker on Seabass (much to his father’s chagrin, I might add).  He will own a bow tie, patent leather shoes, and will, most likely, roll in the aisle during the Pas de Deux.  I feel like it’s a right of passage.

But I draw the line at dragging him along to Handel’s Messiah for a sing-along…at least until he’s old enough to read music.  And even then, it’s his call as to whether he wants to join me.  This might seem like a contradiction to the post I shared about my thoughts on music lessons a while back, but there’s a big difference between bringing a four-year-old to Walt Disney Concert Hall for a four-hour Baroque marathon (no joke – people do it) and bringing him to a Hallelujah chorus flash mob at Macy’s.  One is a novelty for music-lovers.  The other is thinly-veiled child abuse.  (Which reminds me.  When I worked at the San Luis Obispo Symphony, the unofficial motto of the education department was “Torturing children with classical music for five decades.”)

Enough outta me.  What do you think?  Do you bring (or plan to bring) your children to boring holiday cultural events?  How do they react?

About ten months ago, Jake and I had photographers (and dear friends) Matt and Summer Schmitz over to memorialize my pregnant belly, swollen with an imminent Seabass.  We strolled with Murphy through our beloved San Luis Obispo, stopping at favorite spots for glamor shots along the way, including the Mission San Luis Obispo de Tolosa…

The creek walk downtown…

And a very serious shoot at Linnea’s Cafe.  (Note Jake’s sultry eyes.  And my so-white-it’s-almost-translucent arm.)I love looking back on these shots because they remind me of a simpler time.  A time of anticipation.  A time of unknowing.  And yes, a time of rich, unadulterated sleep (except for that affected by round ligament pains, which are no fun at all).  My body teemed with new life.  We were two, but now we are three.  Incredible.

So to all my pregnant or soon-to-be-pregnant homegirls out there, I highly recommend taking lots of belly shots, whether professionally or not.

There are a few rules for pregnancy photos, however.  Rather than list those rules out, I think I’ll leave it to this website featuring awkward pregnancy photos to lay down the law.  But here’s a preview: Don’t use a watermelon, a gun, a dead turkey, or a tire as props for your belly shots.  I know it’s tempting, but you must refrain.  MUST.

(Note: There are some borderline risqué photos on this site, so if you’d rather not chance seeing an errant butt or boob, it’s probably best to skip.  But for the record?  You’re sorely missing out.)

Special thanks go out to Scott Cody for providing the link and making me want to wash my eyes out with bleach.

The old-school mail drop box.  Yeah, that should be in my mouth. 

Oh look, a camera.  That should also be in my mouth.

You know, I’m starting to think pretty much everything I see should be in my mouth.  That includes all razor blades, your shoes, and any available trash.

Mama's scrumptious little muffin

When I gave birth to the Wild American Seabass at the hatching grounds – oops, the hospital – I was lucky enough to be attended to by a dear friend who is a labor and delivery nurse.  We didn’t plan this – it just worked out perfectly.  I thought it might be fun to ask her a few questions about the nature of her job in the delivery room.  Here’s what she said.

How long have you worked in your field?
I’ve been in maternal/child heath for 15 years.

How have things changed since you started?
Changes in labor and delivery are always happening – not so much for the natural process, but on the medical side. The most astounding change I think I’ve seen is the increase in cesarean sections, for many different reasons. Natural childbirth is my preference and if I can help a woman get there, I will. Sometimes things are beyond our control.

What’s your favorite thing about your job?
I have many favorites parts of my job. Encouraging and helping a woman surrender to the birth process and letting it roll with her body, shows power and strength through surrender. Watching a new father cry when he sees his baby enter the world. The cherished moment when a baby wants to lock eyes with his/her momma or turn to his/her father’s voice. Participating in helping mother and baby breastfeed in those early days. The list is so long, but those come to mind.

What’s a favorite story from work?
Story? I got stories!!!!!! But here’s a fun one. When the birth happened, the mother looked at her husband’s face with anticipation of emotion and when she saw the look in his eyes, she said, “WHAT?” You could tell she was frightened. He couldn’t help but give something away through his expression – his eyes were popping out of their sockets!! He responded, finally with, “It’s a girl!!” Again mom said,”WHAT?” Then he handed her their daughter and then they both cried. The ultra sound said it should have been a BOY! They shopped for BOY, had a shower for BOY. The whole family and friend network was expecting a BOY! I can still see the whole scene in slow motion. Classic and beautiful. They were overjoyed, because they admitted to me that they secretly wanted a girl. Just glorious!

One of my other favorites is when I walked into the room when a woman was obviously in transition, screaming out of control. The other nurses were rushing about trying to get things ready and get the doctor there. I grabbed her screaming face and said, “Look at me. You are going to have your baby!” She stared desperately at me and said, ” I can’t do this!!”  I said,”You ARE doing this and you WILL grab your legs and push!” She did just that and we delivered her baby as she gave the battle cry, the cry of a primal warrior woman. It was beautiful and we all celebrated with tears when she held her baby in her arms. I was so fortunate to have participated in this birth.

Who has been your worst patient?  And please, for the love of God, don’t say me.
The most difficult and demanding types of patients I have are the ones who come in with a mind set of how they expect to have their experience. A birth plan in hand, refusing most if not all types of medical/supportive suggestions and care that the doctor, midwife, and/or nurse and staff have to offer. The patients who treat us like the enemy. Like we are here to control their world. I sometimes wish they would deliver somewhere else. It is just frustrating to be there with the knowledge and background and be shot down. I, more than anyone, want a patient to have the best birth experience she and her partner can have.

Any advice for expectant mommies?
My best advice for the expecting mommy is to surrender to a life change. Nothing will ever be the same. Life as you know it will be pretty much altered, interrupted, faced with new challenges and blessings. There is no black and white.  So for you Type A personalities, it would be smart to always have a plan “B”!!

Any advice for expectant daddies?
Dads refer to the previous answer and try to be supportive.  In labor, be mom’s advocate and know you can’t “fix” labor. Take on more responsibilties at home. This will be a family soon, so work together. Communicate with each other daily about your growth, frustrations, plans, etc. Don’t wait for the baby to be old enough to play with. They need you from the first day. You are a very important role model.

Who is the cutest baby you’ve ever seen?
Cutest baby I’ve ever taken care of? Um, there are thousands and I can’t remember all their names. But God gives us the cutest baby every time – they all have very special qualities!!!

Thank you SO much for taking the time to answer all these questions. The only one you got wrong was the last one. The correct answer was SEABASS. I mean, come on.
You are very welcome and I have to say that, yes, Seabass is most definitely one the most gorgeous babies I have seen in my career. He is just so scrumptious!!

Ew, business.

So many of us perform widely varying roles from day to day.  For instance, I’m a wife/mom first, but I also write about food/wine/beer/travel, volunteer in my community and keep this blog for your reading pleasure.  Sometimes I wish I had a digital business card that encapsulated all my different roles into one place.

Enter About.me, a new service I learned of from Maggie Mason at Mightygirl.com.  The folks at About.me call their service a “custom splash page and personal analytics dashboard.”  Whatever.  I think of my About.me page as my home page, where ANYone who has ANY reason to work with me in ANY capacity can find me. Here, have a look.

What’s this “digital business card” good for, you ask?  Well, I plan to add it to my e-mail signature first.  Then I’ll post it to my Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn pages. 

And THEN, I’ll paint the URL on the side of our house.  You don’t think that blurs the line between my professional and personal lives too much, do you?

Today, I’m lucky to be SCARY.  That’s right, I’m featured on the amazing, hilarious blog, Scary Mommy.  You should really go read what I wrote, and poke around a bit on the site while you’re at it.  Jill’s sense of humor does laps around mine.

Here’s the thing: The post is all about me and my stupid body.  I tell you this as a warning, because I don’t want to hear any “Oh Jaime, you look great!” nonsense.  It was not written to elicit compliments or flattery.  I was just trying to be completely honest about a lifelong obsession that I know I share with many, many women.

Are you still here?  Why haven’t you gone to Scary Mommy to read it yet?!?

Love ya.

…and the winner of the Pammy’s Attic apron giveaway is

ShotwellWallace!  Who, ironically, posted the following comment for the giveaway:

aw, those are totally cute, but i do wish they had a ‘daddy bird’ one. my husband does all of our cooking and totally wants to get our little dude on board, so i feel like getting a ‘mama bird’ apron probably wouldn’t be fair to him.

Well, Shotwell, I hope your man is utterly secure in his masculinity, because the Mama Bird apron is now officially his.  Congrats!