Caught in the act.
Everyone’s got one. A shot of themselves in the bath as a kid. A photo that will make an appearance when new boyfriends/girlfriends come home to meet the parents, in the high school yearbook, in the wedding reception slide show.
But this one has an illicit, creepy, gotcha! quality to it, what with the harsh flash and Seabass’ red-eyed surprise. Like he’s been caught in Watergate or insider trading.
The sound of a happy baby laying in his crib after a long nap, sucking his toes and farting around.
No one told us it would be so hard.
I recently read about someone who lost her baby during the 18th week of pregnancy. She had to rush to the emergency room and go through the pain and intensity of labor without the reward of a new life on the other end. This couple had been trying to conceive for some time, and this was their first success in getting pregnant. Needless to say, they had been over-the-moon until the pregnancy took this horrible turn.
Hearing this story pre-Seabass would have ellicited in me a host of emotions: sympathy, compassion, maybe even tears. But now, the feelings are so much deeper. Now, I feel a low, slow-burning angst for this dear couple that extends beyond what I thought possible. I can’t get them off my mind.
To get pregnant, Jake and I never had to resort to drastic measures like in-vitro-fertilization. But we were off birth control for a good 18 months before we conceived, and I had begun to worry that all our prior efforts to AVOID pregnancy had been unnecessary. In fact, there had been a time while we were traveling in New Zealand in which I was absolutely certain I’d miscarried. I was late, and the pain was exponentially greater than any I’d experienced with a normal cycle. Later, I would come to recognize much of that pain in going through labor with Seabass.
When we returned to the States, I started charting my cycles religiously and noticed that my luteal phase was far shorter than normal women’s – so short, in fact, that it seemed impossible for a fertilized egg to implant and start growing. So I visited an acupuncturist who put me on a heavy regimen of Chinese herbs. (One of the herbs was packaged in what appeared to be a ping pong ball that cracked open to reveal dozens of little pellets that I had to ingest every morning. Another was a big bottle of capsules that smelled exactly like dirt. Another was a small brown pill that I only took every other day. And all of these herbs were covered in Chinese characters – not a lick of English. How’s that for faith?) Thankfully, the practitioner never needed to bother sticking me with pins because I became pregnant within a matter of days. It worked.
But there are so many for whom it doesn’t. I have friends who have miscarried up to ten times in an effort to conceive, each time having to deal with not only the physical and emotional pain of loss, but the attendant reminder of that loss in added pregnancy weight and well-intended friends asking how everything’s going. I once asked one of these friends how she feels when someone inquires about a baby that has since been lost. “First and foremost, I feel shame,” she said. “I feel ashamed for constantly having to say ‘I lost the baby’ when all anyone ever wants to hear is good news. Pretty soon, I stop announcing pregnancies just to avoid making people feel bad.”
Do you remember when we were in junior high and the health teacher said, “All it takes to get pregnant is one time!” They made it sound like looking at someone wrong would get us pregnant. No one ever told us about the threat of loss. No one ever said it might be this hard, even if we followed all the rules. They only told us that it might be hard if we didn’t.
So there are some pretty sad stories out there. But then there are stories about beautiful children conceived by people who had long ago given up hope of having them. It is a mixed bag, this life. As I look down at my precious, wild, hilarious little boy, he flashes a toothless grin that brings me such joy, then arches his back in a simmering fuss that brings me to my edge. To think I might never have felt this. To think there are those who can’t. My heart bruises and breaks for them.
As a new mom, I have so many questions. Yeah, some of them are questions about how much breastmilk and sleep the baby should be getting, how to put a fitted sheet on the crib mattress without throwing my back out, and how to tell the difference between Seabass’ cries. Let’s call those “safe questions.”
But then there is a bevy of squirrely questions that I’m kind of afraid to ask. And that’s where Controversy Wednesdays come in. Controversy Wednesdays are about getting your opinion on the sorts of questions for which we all want answers but wouldn’t be caught dead asking. (And by that token, if you have a suggestion for a topic, please feel free to share it with me at jaimeclewis@gmail.com.) Just remember, I am not an expert on anything at all. I’m just a mother trying to figure out where she stands. In other words, if you somehow wind up in jail because of something you read on this blog, I will not be held responsible, capisce?
This week’s topic: DRINKING ALCOHOL. That’s right, I’m not messing around, people.
No need to send hate mail for this. It's a joke. And a funny one, too.
A number of years ago, Jake and I were wine tasting somewhere near our home in San Luis Obispo and I realized that I really loved wine. As in, I loved it more than the average person. Thus began a career change that would take me through sommelier certification, vineyards and wineries around the world, and would ultimately return me to San Luis Obispo as a wine and food writer for several magazines and marketing firms. (Interestingly, along the way I discovered that my true passion is actually beer. But that’s another blog altogether, now isn’t it?) Anyway, the point is this: I enjoy alcohol on a fundamental level.
But when we started trying for a wee Seabass, I gave it up after hearing that alcohol can inhibit conception. And it wasn’t difficult at all. Sure, I missed the occasional glass of something spectacular, but I wanted a child so much more than that. And then we conceived and there were nine months of pregnant non-drinking. In the meantime, I was still writing tasting notes and having to sniff my way through several bottles just to pay the bills. I believed that I’d be able to return to my moderate drinking habits as soon as Seabass was hatched.
So when the baby was born and my life suddenly consisted of little more than nursing, sleeping, and listening to screaming, there was no more welcome treat than a turkey sandwich and a cold, frothy mug of beer trickling down the hatch. That is, until…
…until I told my OB. Whoa, Nelly! Doc put the brakes on my momentary mini-vacations from new parenthood by sharing that drinking – even moderately – while nursing is considered majorly verboten by several in the medical community. These good folks assert that no matter how much a breastfeeding mother drinks, at least some of the alcohol will pass to baby and affect his or her nursing and sleeping, kill brain cells and otherwise guarantee that the child will grow up to be a serial killer. Okay, I thought. Case closed.
But then both a rogue lactation consultant and delivery nurse informed me that the hops in my delicious Dogfish Head 90-minute India Pale Ale would increase breastmilk production, and another anonymous but highly reputable source revealed that one drink would have no effect on Seabass if I waited a couple hours to nurse him. Okay, I thought. Case re-opened?
Upon hearing my confusion over the whole drinking-whil-nursing conundrum, a friend told me about Milkscreen Breastmilk Alcohol Detection Strips. To use these little strips, you place a bit of breastmilk on the white tip after you’ve had a drink to see if you’re safe to nurse baby. If the strip turns brown within two minutes, you are not safe to nurse, but if it stays white, you are good to go. I gave it a whirl after one beer and three hours had passed, fully expecting the strip to remain white as a spring daisy so that I could go nurse the wee Seabass in perfect safety.
But it didn’t stay white. In fact, it turned black. Yikes. Is that CPS I hear knocking at the front door?
You see, every woman’s metabolism is different. Apparently mine is quite slow, because it took nearly six whole hours to get a strip to come up white after my ONE BEER. So I made the decision then and there primarily to abstain from drinking alcohol until Seabass is weaned. The fact that I shouldn’t drink while on anti-depressants only served to reinforce that decision.
So now it’s your turn. What do you think? Have you tried Milkscreen’s products? What does your OB say? More importantly, are you drinking while nursing?
Ah, the good old days, when a house in California didn't cost you your soul.
Remember the house we were going to buy? Well, that deal is history. Yup.
After a lengthy once-over by a reputable inspector, we have decided to walk from the house. Yes, the house that I openly wept in, exclaiming, “I want to raise our children here.” It turns out that, despite appearing rather clean and sound, the house is essentially built on a sink hole, riddled with asbestos, and prone to flooding like New Orleans during hurricane season. And we wondered why the asking price was so reasonable.
Although we’ve owned property before, this is the first time we’ve gone to such trouble to find THE PERFECT HOUSE. And why? Because now we have Seabass to consider. Is there plenty of room to play outside? Are there pitbulls nearby? Is the town walkable? Is the community tight? Where is the local library/park? Does the house have enough space for entertaining friends? What is the closest school like? Do the neighbors seem, well, neighborly? Oh, and can we afford to make the monthly payment?!?!?
To illustrate how we’ve deliberated on this decision ad nauseam: This is the third property we’ve put an offer on in the past year, only to decide later that it isn’t quite right for one reason or another. Each time, our reaction to the failed deal has been different.
That said, I am tired. I am tired tired tired of thinking about houses. I’m tired of imagining where all my furniture will go on each floor plan. And I’m tired of moving; we have packed and unpacked seven times in the eight years since we wed. And get this: I haven’t lived anywhere longer than two years since I left home for college fourteen years ago.
Jake, on the other hand, could host a house-hunting show on HGTV. It is, like, his favorite thing to do. In the whole world. While I can’t imagine he enjoys watching deals fall through, part of me wonders if he isn’t a little excited to have an excuse to keep looking.
It’s taken so much energy and thought of late that I’m starting to wonder how important it is for us to own our home. Of course, we’ve gone through all the hoops of considering moving to a more affordable state like Oregon. But what of our community here? What of our astronomically high quality of life? What of our relationships with our neighbors, friends, local shopowners? To wheel Seabass around downtown in his stroller is to run into at least three people I know and love. How can I put a price tag on that?
Yesterday was a great day. Not only did Seabass nap like a champ, but between those naps he was a joy to behold. Several times, I caught myself musing on how happy I am to be his mommy and how much I am enjoying my full life lately.
Then I came across this article. YOWSER! The implications of these findings on kids and happiness are pretty major.
Now, I’m not one to put a lot of stock in what I read in TIME Magazine, but neither do I discount it entirely. So parents, I want your opinion.
The poll is anonymous, so feel free to share what you really think.
We’re getting ready for a wedding, and I am a hurricane of panic whirling around the house. Get the stroller don’t forget the burp rag grab extra diapers make sure the wipes aren’t dried out put on makeup bring the pump and a bottle just in case where’s the lightweight blanket does this dress make me look fat and above all don’t forget Sophie the African rubber teething toy, choice of discriminating babies worldwide.
In the meantime, Jake is dressed and ready to go, holding the baby in the living room and wearing a face that says, “Any chance we’ll make it by the cutting of the cake?” I could ask him to help me, but to let him in on the frenzy between my ears would be not only counterproductive, but ugly.
On what seems like my 49th lap around the house before departure, I catch the following out of the corner of my eye.
And I pause long enough to take this video and thank God for dads.
My new, unintentional look.
Jake and I celebrated our 8-year anniversary last night by seeing Band of Horses in Big Sur at the Henry Miller Library. We didn’t get home until 1am, after which Seabass welcomed us by crying for food at 2:15am and then greeted the day at 6:30am by rolling over and wailing like a stuck pig.
The show was really fun, but today I could be confused with a character from Night of the Living Dead. Was it worth it? I’m not sure. What do you think?
Higher Highs, Lower Lows 
