Higher Highs, Lower Lows

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” I told my friend Sharon.  “His tantrums are like kryptonite to my mothering skills.”

I had called Sharon because I knew she would understand my dilemma, having a high-energy little boy of her own who was several months older than Seabass.  At the time, Seabass had hit a whole new level of difficulty: random meltdowns and tantrums of biblical proportions.  What do I do? I thought to myself.  Do I ignore him?  Get in his face?  Spank him?  What?!?  It seemd that no matter what I tried, nothing helped calm him down and get him to a place where he could listen to reason.

Like so many desperate phone calls for advice to fellow mothers, this one was made in the eleventh hour, with the latest tantrum still raging.  Thankfully, I’d had the wherewithall to put Seabass in his room with the door closed to scream and thrash while I made my call.  If I hadn’t done that, this post might have been coming to you from Prison Block C rather than the comfort of my couch.  I had HAD it.

Sharon was awesome.  “My little guy has something we call ‘the fussing spot,’ she divulged.  It’s just a little floor mat that we lay down for him to sit on while he cries or whatever.  When the crying stops, we talk, hug, and get up.”  Sensing my skepticism of the fussing spot’s transferability to my situation, she added, “I can’t promise it will work for you, but it has worked wonders for us.”

With that in mind, I decided to move forward with Mission Fussing Spot.  Seabass’ next tantrum occurred over something trivial – something like a cracker broken in half – and I quickly whipped out a faded brown floor rug we use to wipe our feet on at the front door.  (Not exactly the cleanest spot, but it’s what I had.)  I situated it on the fringe of the kitchen where Seabass could see me while I washed dishes.  “Look at me,” I ordered him, through the buckets of snot and tears gushing from every orifice of his face.  “This is THE FUSSING SPOT.  You will sit on this and not get up until I see that you have stopped crying.  STAY HERE.”

Of course, the first thing Seabass did was try to get up.  But with one more “STAY HERE” and a firm squaring of the buns on the mat, he got the idea and…wait for it…he stayed there.

Where the magic happens.

It was probably five excrutiating minutes before he stopped crying.  (Five minutes is nothing, I know.  There are plenty of kids out there for whom a good tantrum isn’t over before 30 minutes are up.)  When he had settled down a bit, I dried my hands and squatted beside him.  Then we had a little talk about how I loved him and didn’t like punishing him, but that he would have to go to the fussing spot any time his crying got out of control.  Then we hugged.  I really liked that part.

The fussing spot has become a good tool for discipline and self control in our house.  Sometimes Seabass works the system by claiming he’s all done fussing the second I sit him down, but for the most part he gets it.

In fact, there have been several times when something upset him – the dog looked at him funny or the sun was shining too brightly through the window – and he fetched the fussing spot on his own.  It is not uncommon for him to quietly lay the mat down, arrange the corners just so, sit down on it and proceed to wail.  Those are tough times not to laugh.  How do you keep from smiling when your not-even-two–year-old knows he has a bad attitude and needs a time-out?

Jake took this video over the weekend as we lazed around the house, eating waffles and dancing to Hot Chip in our jammies.  As we watched it together later, he proclaimed, “You will not be able to help posting that on the blog.”  I hate it when he’s right.

What really struck me while watching this is how quickly things change Just three years ago, Jake and I were living in Europe, swimming in the waters off the Cote d’Azur and turning the beautiful color of cafe au lait (which will one day, no doubt, come back to haunt us in the form of skin cancer).

Look how relaxed I was.

Here’s my point: Stuff happens.  Things change. Just when you think it’s all dialed-in, life makes a left turn and you’re wondering where you are again.  I’m so glad I had my opportunity to explore the world (and flirt with skin cancer) before Seabass made his debut.  But if I hadn’t had him, I doubt I would treasure those experiences as much.  Thank God for perspective.

Some time back – before we had children – Jake and I read a book on the subject of initimacy.  It detailed small steps a husband and wife can take to keep the romance alive and kicking, even through the rough times.

If you can believe it, there was a chapter on hygiene.  For men, this chapter mostly reminded them that if they wanted to get close to their woman, they’d have to shower and pluck their nosehair.  For women, the chapter mostly reminded them that if they wanted their man to stay even remotely engaged in the marriage, they would need to a) maintain and cultivate a physical relationship, and b) stop wearing sweats.

Now, when I read this, I knew exactly which piece of clothing the book was asking me to give up.: the Yale sweatshirt.

This item of clothing has been with me since I snagged it from an old boyfriend in high school.  It bears traces of paint and woodstain from all our many projects over the years, so it’s sentimental.  And, quite simply, I adore it.

Unfortunately for Jake, it is my Team Building Exercise ’99 shirt.  If you understand that reference, I have said quite enough.

The inherent problem in the Yale sweatshirt situation – the reason I can’t give it up – is that it’s large enough to cover up any unsightly bulges I may be harboring, namely a baby bump.  During the last three months of my pregnancy with Seabass, the Yale sweatshirt became a constant companion, sending Jake more into the role of a very kindred roommate than that of a husband.

Anyway, the Yale sweatshirt came out again a few nights ago, and I could almost smell Jake’s disappointment.  Is this really happening again? I could hear him ask himself.

And my answer? Awww, yeah.

Seabass and I have been reading a lot of Goodnight Moon lately, and the soothing rhythm of Margaret Wise Brown’s writing has infected me.  In fact, I’ve written my own book in the same style.  It’s called Goodbye Waist.  Check it out.

 

 

In my ever-expanding belly
Grows a precious little life
Worth all my goodbyes
Over nine months of strife

Goodbye waist

Goodbye tush

Goodbye brain

Turned to mush

Goodbye appetite

Goodbye sanity

Goodbye clean house

Goodbye vanity

Goodbye wine

Goodbye soft cheese

Goodbye dry underpants
After I sneeze

Goodbye jogging,
Tight belts, and good jeans

I hope to see all of you
In two-thousand thirteen.

It all started innocently enough...

I am no stranger to addiction. Certain substances have made themselves my constant companion in the past, including sugar, caffeine, and nicotine.  With each addiction came a horrible and all-too-powerful feeling that I should be able to stop using, but, well…just this once more.

That sense of guilt and powerlessness has arisen in my life once again in a manner I never could have expected.  Much as I’ve wanted to keep this new addiction to myself, it’s time to come clean.

I am addicted to “dinner and a show.”

Dinner and a show is our family’s term for the time when Seabass is strapped into his high chair, fed dinner, and entranced by a video for a half hour or so.  We do it every day around 5pm and I feel horrible about it.  Mostly.

Like all addictive substances, this one feels really, really good at first:

1. He’s immobile, so I can whirl around the house picking up errant socks, toys, and God knows what else he has flung across the room throughout the course of the day.
2. He’s entertained, so I’m not being asked to do much more than stay out of the way of the screen.
3. He’s distracted, so he tends to eat more adventurously without realizing it, e.g. vegetables.

So what’s the problem?  you say.  Well, there’s the whole issue of not eating at the table as a family.  Seabass still goes to bed around 6pm (I know, crazy) which means dinner for him happens before Jake even gets home from work.  That isn’t a sufficient excuse for doing dinner and a show every night, but it does frame the situation.

There’s also the problem of screen time.  I SWORE I wouldn’t show my child videos as an easy out from the difficulty of parenting, but it all started innocently enough.  I wanted Seabass to learn a few signs so we picked up a sign language video at the library and tried it out over dinner one night.  The next thing I knew, Seabass was a signing fiend and started asking for it every afternoon. Well, it’s educational, right? I thought.  But very soon, the “show” portion of “dinner and a show” was infiltrated by tractors, trains, and construction videos, all of which have become my son’s particular weakness.  I am helpless to intervene.

This week, dinner and a show became especially trying as our DVD player went kaput.  Five o’clock P.M. found me running around like a lunatic trying to find similar (and similarly lengthy) YouTube clips to pacify a jonesing Seabass.  When I discovered how to create a playlist of train clips that runs on autoplay, Seabass stopped crying and started glazing over in that familiar dinner-and-a-show way.  It was a new low.

I’d like to say that I have a plan for how to stop the madness at our house, a plan to axe dinner and a show and begin living full evenings.  But I still need it.  Perhaps an intervention should be staged.

Dear new, precious little baby,

Someday, you will read this and wonder why the heck your mommy talked so much about her feelings.  You’d do well to embrace it now: Mommy wears her heart on her sleeve.  And, as such, I can’t help but mention that I hope you are a little girl.

But before I get too deep into why I have such a hope, let me explain something to you.  I will – and already do – love you so very much.  You are my surprise wonder!  The baby who defied all the odds!  And even though you are currently sending my body into a nauseated tailspin, it is worth every ache, pain, and hot flash just to bring you safely into this world.  It doesn’t matter if you’re a boy, girl, giraffe, or a gargoyle – I will adore you and fawn all over you no matter what.

With that said, you have to understand that there is something natural about wanting a child from each gender.  A nice balance.  Also, *I* am a girl, and there are a lot of things I want to share with a girl that a boy wouldn’t necessarily be interested in: The Nutcracker Suite, Jane Austen, and knitting, for starters.  I know there’s nothing wrong with cultivating a love of those things in a boy.  But come on.

A lot of people say that girls are easier at the beginning and more difficult as they get older.  I can really believe that, and those later years freak me out, no question.  You should see your daddy shudder at the thought of raising a teenage girl. But your brother (whom I love more than life itself and would go to the gallows for) was so difficult and remains so high-energy that I am willing to forego any comfort I might have with you as a teenager just to avoid repeating the harrowing experience.

How I remember your brother Seabass' early life.

Anyway, I will probably be talking a lot on this blog about wanting a girl.  Most likely a lot more than I should.  And I just want you to know that it is for shallow reasons that I hope you are of the XX persuasion.  My heart is yours either way, and my dearest hope is that you are healthy and happy in my tummy until you make your grand entrance.  We can’t wait.

Love,

Mamma

Not a joke.

I knew it when Seabass was still nursing and my nipples were on fire.  I knew it when I awoke in the middle of the night in a pool of my own sweat.  And I even knew it when two different pregnancy tests came up negative.

On the third one, however, all suspicions were confirmed.  I am, indubitably – yet unexpectedly – preggers.

The evidence.

Enjoy the attention now, little bugger.

How am I feeling about having another child?  Such a tough question.  It really depends on the day – sometimes the hour.  So here is a brief (but accurate) diary of my emotional and physical roller coaster since the day I found out.

• January 20: Took test.  Told Jake.  Overwhelmed.
• January 21: Overwhelmed and excited.  Perhaps a girl?
• January 22: Oooh, I’m a bit queasy.
• January 23: Make that REAL queasy.
• January 24: Can smell leftovers through the refrigerator door.
• January 25: Can smell the dog’s breath from another room.
• January 26: I can’t imagine having another person to care for.  Seabass is quite enough.  Perhaps I should have thought this through.
• January 27: The minivan discussion rears its ugly head.
• January 28: Trying not to sleep all day, every day.
• January 29: So glad to have Seabass weaned.  Boobies are mine for another few months.
• January 30: Had a breakdown.  Crying, sobbing, moaning, writhing.  WHAT ARE WE THINKING?!?!?!
• January 31: Better day today.  Less sick and tired.
• February 1: Saw cute baby clothes in a shop window and allowed myself to dream a little.
• February 2: OMG, I’m unbuttoning my pants already.
• February 3: It’s all about gummy candy right now.  Love it.
• February 4: I hate gummy candy.
• February 5: Begged Jake to bring home burgers, fries, and…gummy candy.
• February 6: Held a screaming baby today.  Amazing how it doesn’t bother you as much once you’ve already had one.
• February 7: Who knew the “taste” of water would make me want to ralph?
• February 8: First doctor’s appointment.  Saw baby on ultrasound.  Swoon.  Due date: September 19.
• February 9: I asked Jake if he could see my baby bump and he said, “Is that the baby or the cheeseburgers?”
• February 10: Can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t think. Am clearly dying.
• February 11: Seabass has discovered my weakness and is trying to destroy me.  Had another crying fit today.
• February 12: Jake patted my tummy today and said “Thanks for growing my baby.”  Made me blush.
• February 13: Fell asleep thinking about baby names.
• February 14: Spent Valentine’s Day evening sprawled on the couch in flannel, eating a frozen pot pie.  Poor Jake.
• February 15: The house smells stale.
• February 16: We need more money before baby comes!
• February 17: We need to renovate the kitchen before baby comes!!
• February 18: I have to get Seabass out of diapers before baby comes!!!
• February 19: Babies are cute.  Can’t wait to smell him/her.

Dear Sir/Madam,

If there is anything worse than finding dog poop under your shoe, it is most certainly seeing dog poop rolling and flinging off of a stroller wheel and onto your pant leg.

Your dog is obviously extremely ill.  How else do you explain the identically-shaped turds at regular intervals along the sidewalk of Chorro Street?  This was not the work of a team of dogs.  This was one dog.  Yours.

Might I suggest that you investigate the BRAT Diet for your poor pooch?  (It has done wonders for my oft loosey-goosey Seabass.)  Or perhaps a well-stocked, handy cache of plastic bags would do the trick?

Either way, if I find your dog’s excrement on the tire of my stroller again, I will hunt you down and force-feed your dog Immodium AD with my own two hands.

Sincerely,

Jaime

I am proud to announce that we are the new parents of a stunning collection of photos by photographer Barry Goyette.

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Barry is a photographer based out of San Luis Obispo, and an old friend.  I met him when I was 18 and needed senior photos taken.  (If you really want a laugh, go to my mom’s blog and see the hilarity that is me as a teenager – WITH A PERM.)

It is really a crime to waste Barry’s talents on senior photos (or family portraits, for that matter), as he is a legit fashion photographer and designer.  But we fought hard to have him do Seabass’ portraits, and I’m so glad he said yes.

Thanks to Barry for giving in and to Oma for funding the shoot.  What a lovely keepsake we now possess!

Please mama. Please try.

I was talking to a mommy friend recently about how jealous we are of the energy that some moms have for their children.

“We were at the park last weekend and this wonderful, energetic hippie mom showed up and was singing on the playground.  SINGING.  Like, children’s songs and stuff.  All the kids flocked to her like animals to Saint Francis of Assisi, including mine.  I had to apologize to him later for not being as cool as all that.”

This struck a chord with me.  I often find that I’m the mom at the playground who just wants to sit and watch while the other moms get on their kids’ level, make silly voices, and pretend to order waffles from their budding short-order “cook.”  Don’t get me wrong – sometimes I am that mom, but not as often as I’d like.  I spend such a good amount of time keeping everything together at home that when the chores are done (or even if they’re not) the only thing I want to do is sit down and smile from the sidelines.

Case in point:

Yesterday, Seabass and I were at our neighborhood park when a mom arrived with three young children.  Seabass had been in the middle of a serious sandbox session, but it all ended when these kids tumbled out of their car.  The mom asked what they wanted to do at the park, and they screamed, in unison, “RACE!!”  So she lined them up, stood back a few paces, and then yelled “GO!”  This set the kids off screaming and giggling and positively wearing themselves out running away from their adorable, energetic (and enviably trim!) mom.  They played like this for about 20 minutes.

Seabass couldn’t believe his eyes.  A mama who runs?!?  He was drawn to her like a moth to flame.  I followed behind him, loping along, as he joined the pack of wild kids running in all directions.

And despite my real delight that he was having so much fun, yes, the whole time, I just wanted to sit down.