Higher Highs, Lower Lows

Since I wrote about one particular night in the life of our precious Sweet Chuck, many people have been kind enough to ask me how it’s going.  The query usually goes something like this:

[hand on my arm, meaningful gaze, sympathetic tone] “How is it [pause] going?”

The truth is it’s really going very well.  That night I wrote about was a one-off; Sweet Chuck is generally very easy to please, and I couldn’t be happier.  She’s sleeping like a little champ, eating like there’s no tomorrow, and pooping like…well, pooping like a baby, I guess.  One of my favorite things to do is take pictures of her and Seabass together.  It has become quite the daily fashion shoot.

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On the rare occasion that I need to break out the yoga ball to bounce Sweet Chuck to sleep, I take the opportunity to listen to new music.  While in my former life (pre-kids) I used to have music on constantly, these days it’s either white noise, “Fire Truck” (by request, of course) or silence.  So a baby-bouncing playlist satisfies my craving while also providing me with rhythm for the task.  Can I share a few favorite tunes with you?  They run the gamut.

I don’t usually go in for super electronic, but there’s something about Bassnectar’s “Butterfly” that calms me down in the face of a screaming infant.

Other Lives’ “Tamer Animals” takes me back to a time when I painted my nails black and spent WAY too much time listening to The Cure.  And now I’m a mom.  Weird.

Not everyone loves Ryan Gosling (I’m looking at you Jenny Sargent), or movies in which dudes bash in each others’ skulls (hi mom!), or the 1980s (love you, Jake).  *I*, however, am a fan of all three, and the movie Drive really delivered.  This song by Kavinsky is from the opening credits.

I can’t remember where I found out about Still Corners, but I’ve been a fan for a few months.  Hooray for upbeat dreamy pop.

And, because it’s me, there must be a bit of Rage.  In addition to baby-bouncing ball time, I also like to blast “Renegades of Funk” from my new minivan.  I especially love when Seabass yells “Groove sucka!”

Not surprisingly, there have been a lot of questions about our recent descent into minivan shame.  In this post I will attempt to explain why I yielded my position.

If ever FORM and FUNCTION were personified by two people, it is me and Jake.  I like things to look nice, nevermind practicality.  Jake, on the other hand, gravitates toward things that work despite being ugly as hot sin.

Ms. Form

Mr. Function. And yes, I use this photo on purpose as retribution for making me drive a minivan.

When we used to argue about getting a minivan (Jake: for, Jaime: against), I would try to reason with Jake.

“They’re ugly.  They’re big.  They signify everything that I dread becoming as a mom.”

He called me vain, and I agreed.  “You wouldn’t wear a fanny pack just because it’s practical,” I said.  “You are vain too.”

This all probably sounds petty and minor to you, but I’m telling you: TEARS were shed over this issue.  On more than one occasion. And I guess I just grew tired of it all.

Soon after Sweet Chuck was born, my beloved husband and I went to a cafe to discuss cars.  Our crappy little RAV 4 had already shown itself to be miserably incompetent when it came to carting two kids around: heads hit on swinging doors, no space for a double stroller, and whoever was unfortunate enough to sit in the passenger seat had to make love with the dashboard just to fit an infant carseat in the meager space behind.  So on this little “discussion date” we hunted craigslist and Auto Trader for cars that fit our narrowly overlapping desires:

• Must not be a minivan (my criteria)
• Must not be an SUV (Jake’s criteria)
• Must be big enough to accommodate our family, stroller, and dog comfortably
• Must not break down
• Must be under $7,000

Have you ever searched for a unicorn?  It was kinda like that.

Reluctantly, I realized as we talked that if I just removed one item from that list of criteria, we could, perhaps, go on with the business of living our lives:

• Must not be a minivan
• Must not be an SUV
• Must be big enough to accommodate our family, stroller, and dog comfortably
• Must not break down
• Must be under $7,000

And thus, in the spirit of moving forward, I ceded my vanity and told Jake he could get a minivan.  Mind you, it took me DAYS to come to this decision.  I agonized.  And, because it involved me not getting my way, there were more tears.

We bought our new minivan last Saturday.  I took it for a test drive.  It ran, which is all that mattered.  When we brought it home, Jake was seriously a-twitter, showing Seabass all the nooks and crannies, features, and counting the cupholders.

Me?  I got out.  I grabbed the baby.  I went inside.

Driving it is fine.  Seabass doesn’t hit his head getting in anymore, which is nice.  The stroller fits.  So does the dog.  We didn’t get power doors (do you think we’re made of money???) but the fact that they slide means we can park closer to cars in parking lots, I guess.  Other than that, I have nothing to say.

Here’s the thing about the minivan: As a friend of mine once noted, IT IS A BUBBLE FROM WHICH NO CUTENESS CAN ESCAPE.  That means I might be looking extremely cute one day – hair awesome, clothes fitting – you know, rocking it.  But if I’m in that dumb van, it doesn’t matter how cute I am.  My cuteness cannot penetrate the minivan’s force field of bland practicality and mom-ness.  And that sucks.

I brought this up with Jake.

“How are we ever going to pull up to a nice restaurant and feel cool in the minivan?” I queried.

Rav 4 for sale. Buyer must like Cinderella.

“Did you feel cool pulling up in a 1999 RAV 4 with faded paint and a Cinderella sticker on the back window?  Or how about the 1994 Civic with the cracked windshield and dog fur woven into every possible surface?”

I get his point.  Sigh.  Cuteness will just have to wait.

I will never be able to lift my head high again.

Operation Mom: COMPLETE.

Jake has scheduled the appointment.  The vasectomy train has left the station.

We’re all so very different, girls. I know several of you who were devastated to see your spouse go in for the procedure.  Your reason?  No more pregnancy, no more babies.  Finality.

I, on the other hand, am perfectly happy to let Jake get snipped.  My reason?  No more pregnancy, no more babies.  Finality.

This is not an impulsive decision – I assure those of you who want to jump down our throats for acting too soon, or for acting whilst in the throes of newbornhood.  Jake and I both grew up in families of four.  It’s what we know.  It’s also impossible to picture where another child would sleep in our little cottage.  Or where the money would come from to clothe them.  Or where the sanity would come from to parent them.

So we’re throwing in the towel, and we’re beyond excited to stop here.  Because seriously, how cute is this little bunch?  Best to stop while we’re ahead.

My little daydreamer.

Considering that he is left to entertain himself quite a bit now that Baby Sweet Chuck is here, it couldn’t have come at a better time: Seabass has discovered his imagination.

Grandma Lewis first noticed it when Seabass used his fingers to walk like legs into his big fire truck toy.  Once she mentioned that, I watched eagerly for any sign of pretend play.  Shortly thereafter, he announced to no one in particular that his little excavator was picking up a giant load of dirt to dump on a pile.  And he started singing in his crib, in his stroller, wherever.  The sound of his singing nearly causes my fragile little mommy heart to burst.  I will treasure these sounds forever.

As a child, I was very independent and loved pretend play.  I remember sitting in my room for hours with a few dolls and a tea set, making up scenarios for my characters to act out.  I had been waiting for this to kick in with Seabass, hoping that his love of playing would be as strong as mine.  Because really?  What parent doesn’t want to see their child secure and content in such a simple – not to mention FREE – activity?

That’s not to say this milestone hasn’t come with its challenges, of course.  An imagination can dream up tractors busy on a construction site, a tea party, or…a nightmare.  Seabass has awoken several times at night yelling “Nooo!!  Nooo!!” and scared me and Jake half to death.  He has also started imagining up little scenes in his bed – no toys necessary – and refusing to fall asleep for his nap.  It takes a concerted effort on my part to convince him of the benefits of sleep.  I have also bribed him with sugar.

As parents, we anticipate so many milestones in our children’s development, from rolling over to first words to saying words like please and thank you without prompting.  But for me, despite a few negatives, this one has by far been the best milestone yet.  Take note, mothers of difficult infants! There is light at the end of your fussy one’s little tunnel, and you will cherish it all the more when it arrives.

The scene.

5pm – Start cooking dinner.  You know, something mild that Sweet Chuck can tolerate when she gets it via breastmilk.  In other words: no spices, no soy, no dairy (butter, cheese, milk, casein, whey), no broccoli, no cauliflower, no tomatoes, no onions, no garlic, and no nuts.  So fire up a pot of boiling water, cuz it’s boiled chicken and rice tonight, baby!!

5:11pm – Sweet Chuck starts wailing.  Stop everything, pour self a cold beer, and nurse with glass in hand.

5:30pm – Daddy comes home.  Don’t forget to accept his kiss and look him in the eye for half a second.

6pm – Restart dinner proceedings.  Clean up stove where rice boiled over.

6:30pm – Sit down to dinner with Sweet Chuck in bouncer between me and Seabass, as per his very specific request.  Pray in gratitude for the food.  Start to dish up plates until derailed by screaming Sweet Chuck.

6:32pm – Leave table to bounce Sweet Chuck on giant living-room-dominating yoga ball while inserting pacifier into gaping mouth.

6:50pm – Watch as Daddy and Seabass leave table and head toward the bathroom for a bath.

7pm – Make it back to boiled chicken and rice, now cold.  Sweet Chuck fidgets in bouncer nearby.

7:15pm – Seabass and Daddy finish bath, proceed to bedroom for ni-night routine.  Try to clean up enough of dinner to ensure that life can go on the following day.

7:30pm – Make appearance in Seabass’ room to say goodnight with ever-fussier Sweet Chuck in arms.  Feel crushing guilt that Seabass doesn’t get all of me anymore.

7:32pm – Change Sweet Chuck into pajamas, swaddle in Miracle Blanket, and nurse.

7:50pm – Bounce Sweet Chuck on yoga ball while inserting pacifier.

8pm – Lay Sweet Chuck down in bouncer, crank white noise machine to eleven, and hope for the best.

8:02pm – Brush teeth, wash face, note dull skin, dark eye circles and flabby tummy in mirror, wondering when I can reasonably expect them to go away.  Don pajamas that allow for emergency boob access.  Take vitamins, including stool softener and ibuprofen to ease inflammation in still-healing nether-region.

8:15pm – Pump breastmilk for a bottle that Daddy can feed to Sweet Chuck in next four to five hours.

8:30pm – Kiss Jake goodnight (oh yeah, he has a name besides Daddy!) and try to fall asleep while listening to Sweet Chuck cry with him in living room.

9pm – Fall asleep.

11pm – Rouse to sound of Sweet Chuck crying.  Force myself to stay in bed and let Jake handle it.

12:57am – Feel Jake shaking me for the changing of the guard.  Say goodnight to him again as he lays down in bed.  Pee.  Drink water.  Shuffle out to living room where Sweet Chuck is screaming for milk.  Attempt to change diaper, only to watch her pee all over changing table.  Remove changing pad, remove Sweet Chuck’s pajamas, find new pajamas.  Change diaper successfully.  Hear Sweet Chuck poop with the force of a jet engine as beginning to swaddle.  Cry.

1:20am – Finish getting Sweet Chuck dry, pajama’d, and swaddled.  Begin nursing.

1:45am – Finish nursing.  *Place Sweet Chuck in bouncer for bed.  Lay down on couch to sleep.

1:47am – Hear Sweet Chuck start to squirm.

1:49am – Sweet Chuck now completely awake.

1:51am – And now screaming.  Get on yoga ball and insert pacifier whilst cursing.

2:01am – Lay now-sleeping Sweet Chuck into bouncer.  Lay down on couch once again.

2:03am – Hear Sweet Chuck start to squirm.

2:05am- Sweet Chuck now completely awake.

2:07am- And now screaming.  Get on yoga ball and insert pacifier whilst cursing.

2:09am – Lay now-sleeping Sweet Chuck into bouncer.  Lay down on couch once again.

*Repeat this sequence of events for next hour, punctuated by repeat attempts to nurse fussy Sweet Chuck and consumption of two bowls of cereal.

3:15am – Neighbors home from bars and obnoxious outside window.  Nice touch.

3:30am – Actually get Sweet Chuck to sleep.

3:45am – Fall sleep.

4am- Wake to dog barfing up God-knows-what in dining room.  Decide to leave it there until someone else notices, or until I slip in it and die.

4:30am – Wake to cries of hungry Sweet Chuck.  Change diaper.  Twice.  Nurse.

5:30am – Sleep.

7am – Daddy up for work and eating breakfast four feet away from Sweet Chuck.  Rustling cereal bags and spoon-against-bowl noises rouse Sweet Chuck.  Nurse.

7:30am – Seabass up and demanding breakfast.

7:32am – Frantically turn to coffee maker for salvation.  Remember that caffeine might irritate baby’s tummy.  Pity self.

Um, since when was Seabass a full-grown man? And what’s he doing in that stroller? I mean, for being a full-grown man, can’t he WALK?!?

Children.  Child-REN.  I’ve never felt so very matronly.

OMG I can’t believe we have more than one.

Nope, haven’t given birth yet.  Let’s just get that out of the way.

I was nine days overdue with Seabass, so the whole baby-not-here-yet thing isn’t new.  All the same, it really, really sucks.  Through this experience I have realized, yet again, that what I dread most in life isn’t death or nuclear war or losing my house to a flood.  (Such quaint, specific fears!)  No, I dread the unknown.  I dread a lack of control.  You can see why parenting has been challenging for me.

I had an appointment with my OB on Monday.  Seeing as I have gestational diabetes (read: MONSTER BABY) he asked if I’d like to be induced this weekend.  I said I’d prefer not to be pumped full of chemicals, no.  Then he “checked” me (such a harmless word for such an uncomfortable procedure) and found that I was 50% effaced and 2 cm dilated – both good signs that labor would kick in before the weekend anyway.

But here we are.  On Thursday.  With no indication that my body has any clue what it’s supposed to do.

Everyone has a suggestion for how to bring on contractions. I’ve been told I need to eat spicy food, have sex, twiddle my nipples, walk downhill a lot, and get a massage. (Jake has gone one step further and suggested I pour Tabasco sauce DIRECTLY onto my cervix.)  And then there are the specific food suggestions.  One friend swears he has catapulted dozens of women into labor with his enchiladas.  Another believes that a pizza place in Sacramento does the trick.  But when I was one week overdue with Seabass, a friend shared the recipe for her family’s magically labor-inducing banana nut bread that appeared to work, since I went into labor the day after consuming it.

So last Tuesday, I pulled out Seabass’ baby book (where the recipe lives) and whipped up a loaf.  To my infinite dismay, the bread did not budge baby.  But it sure was delicious.

Me looking like a friggin whale in my apron. Notice birthing ball in corner of room, gathering dust.

Great Grandma Schirnmer’s Labor-Inducing Banana Nut Bread

• 2 c. flour
• 1 1/2 t. baking powder
• 1/2 t. baking soda
• 2 eggs
• 1/2 c. oil
• 1 c. sugar
• 1 t. lemon juice
• 1/2 t. vanilla
• 1 c. mashed bananas
• 1 c. chopped walnuts

Sift flour, baking powder and baking soda together in a small bowl.  In large bowl, mix eggs, oil, sugar, lemon juice and vanilla.  Add bananas and walnuts.  Stir in flour mixture and pour batter into greased and floured loaf pan.  Bake at 350 degrees for 45-60 minutes, depending on size of pan.  Test for doneness with a toothpick.

Despite this bread’s failure to launch me into labor this time, I still highly recommend it.  Just let your pregnant friends know before they eat it that they’re playing with fire.

Well, that’s just embarrassing. They’ve somehow managed to Photoshop my abs onto this woman’s body. I tell ya.

It was a baby shower for my dear friend, Roslyn.  A handful of friends had gathered at a local restaurant to celebrate the impending birth of her second son with a delicious lunch and plenty of wine (for those of us not pregnant, of course).  As we awaited our lunch, Ros opened the gifts we’d each brought, including mine: a sweet little pinstripe golf cap.

“Oooooh!” Ros gushed.  “This will be our hat for trips to San Luis Obispo.”  I should mention that Ros lives in a town about fifteen miles south of San Luis Obispo called Arroyo Grande, which is completely charming.

“Wait,” I interrupted, “why is this hat for trips to SLO?”

“Because,” Ros said matter-of-factly, “it’s a posh little cap and one’s kids have to look exceptionally posh in SLO.”

Two of the other moms who live in Arroyo Grande chimed in excitedly.  “Geez, that’s so true!” said Kayla.  “At parks in AG your kid can wear any old clothes to run around in, but in SLO you have to dress them like little celebrity babies – all name brand and spotless.”

“Yeah, and they have to arrive in a B.O.B. stroller drinking from their perfect little Kleen Kanteen sippy cup.”  Giggle, giggle.

“And as a mom, you have to wear giant sunglasses and hold a cup of coffee from some hipster coffee shop.” Laugh, laugh.

“Ooh, and wear spandex of some kind!  Or at least designer jeans that cost a fortune.  And you have to sit and discuss preschool at UMCC and how much you love Doctor Awesome.” Guffaw, guffaw.

I sat there, mouth agape, stunned that these women had such underdog-ish and defensive thoughts about my beloved town.  I was also stunned at how spot-on accurate they were at describing, well….me and all my SLO mommy friends.  While I don’t own a B.O.B. and Seabass is far from spotless and posh at the park, he does have a Kleen Kanteen sippy, he is on the waiting list for UMCC preschool, I frequent a certain hipster coffee joint and have a slight weakness for designer jeans.  So sue me, AG moms.

But do not mess with Doctor Awesome.  Or I will have to kill you.

There is good reason to love Dr. Awesome so much, and it ain’t just his clever name.  Dr. Awesome has been a pillar of San Luis Obispo society since the dawn of time, it seems.  He was actually my pediatrician as a child* – a fact that, when I remind him of it, makes him smack his forehead and say, “Has it really been that long?!?”  He has an uncanny knack for making moms and dads feel he’s listening to what they’re saying, and he tends to diagnose their kids’ problem accurately.  What a concept.

Aside from the fact that I’ve known him forever, that he’s a cool guy who has five sons of his own, is passionate about hiking, and drives a restored cherry red VW bus, I think the thing I like most about our beloved Dr. Awesome is that he always asks me how I am doing when we arrive at his office for the billionth time to treat Seabass’ diaper rash, hand-foot-and-mouth disease, or bronchial infection.  And there’s something in his delivery – perhaps it’s the eye contact, or the gentle handshake, or the warm smile – that makes me believe he really does want to know how I’m doing.  His willingness to sit with me for however long and discuss Seabass or motherhood in general is a gift of caring that you don’t often see in a physician, unfortunately.  And while I’ve never been through a crisis with my precious Seabass, I have friends whose kids have battled drug addiction, mental illness, and life-threatening situations alongside Dr. Awesome, only to declare him even more of a saint at the end of the day.

EcoBambino: The epicenter of SLO mommy activity.

So look.  Make fun of me all you want.  Tease me for swearing by Aden + Anais organic muslin swaddlers, or for having a Sophie-the-$25-giraffe-made-from-Amazonian-rubber teething toy, or for buying cloth diapers from EcoBambino.  I seriously do not care.

But if you tease me for gushing about Dr. Awesome, I have no choice but to assume you are as jealous as you absolutely should be.

*Footnote: When I was 16 years old, I went in to see Dr. Awesome because I suffered from massive chest pains.  I had been over-committing, as usual, teaching a dozen young piano students, taking a full load of advanced placement courses (and not doing too well at any of them), memorizing ungodly amounts of Shakespeare as the lead in the school play, learning to drive, and preparing for a countywide piano competition.  When my mom brought me in, Dr. Awesome asked about my symptoms, felt around my sternum, and checked my blood pressure.  Then he looked at me knowingly and said, “Have you undergone any stress lately, Jaime?”  Tears came squirting out of my face.  “Yes!” I blubbered, helplessly.  “Hmm,” he mused. “I see in you a syndrome that we usually only see in, say, Olympic gymnasts or ballet dancers.  It’s called Tietze’s syndrome, and it’s basically a benign infalmmation of the chest exacerbated by stress.  I suggest you ditch one or two of your activities and get more sleep.”