Higher Highs, Lower Lows

Ew, minivans.

Well, well, well.  To say that you have “feelings” about minivans would be like saying you all have “feelings” about pedophiles.  WOWSA!  Since I started Higher Highs, Lower Lows about 14 months ago, never have I seen such a response to any topic – not spanking, working outside the home or even the crazy Chinese dragon mother.  Well done, team HHLL.  We are officially that shallow.

I just want to follow-up on the topic of minivans with some of my thoughts since you’ve all written in.

1.  I really the like the Swagger Wagon video.  It is brilliant.

2. But……I still don’t want a minivan.  In fact, your ire and arduous attempts at persuasion have perhaps made me even more anti than ever.

3. That’s not to say I’ll never drive one.  I may at some point be forced to get behind the wheel of an Odyssey, but I can promise you this: I will hate every minute of it.

4. I can’t seem to get my panties unwadded after being accused of being less than a “real” mom for having only one child.  It might be a permanent condition.

5. I’m mortified that my dad called me to the carpet about our childhood vehicle.  Apologies: It was a Dodge Ram van, not an Econoline. *blush*

As for my interview on the radio yesterday, it went well!  In case you weren’t able to catch it, the podcast should be posted here within the next couple days.  Stay tuned.

Or girl, for that matter.

If you had any shred of respect for me prior to this post, I suspect it will be henceforth destroyed.

And why?  Because I refuse – REFUSE – to drive a minivan, purely out of vanity.  How’s that for controversy?

My obstinacy was the cause of a pretty massive fight between me and my beloved Jake before Seabass came along.  (As in, yes, crying.)  When we found out we were pregnant, all we had was a 1994 Honda Civic two-door with a cracked windshield and 200k miles between us.  The purchase of another car shot to the top of our priority list like lightning.

Jake and I agreed on several aspects of the purchase: that the car be clean, well-maintained, extremely fuel-efficient, with four doors and a little bit off the ground, if possible, to save our backs from breaking every time we put the baby in the car.  We also agreed that we wouldn’t make payments on anything or put it on the credit card, so it would have to be seriously cheap.

Beyond that, though, we disagreed on just about everything.  To me, a Toyota RAV4 or Honda CRV fit the bill, but Jake insisted that a minivan was the only way to go.

“Everyone has one!” he argued, “And they all love theirs.  Why can’t you just put your vanity aside and listen to reason?”

He had every right to be frustrated with me.  Why not just give in and go the way of the minivan?  They’re spacious and convenient, with plenty of seats for gobs of kids to sit in and something like four cupholders per passenger.  They can also be fairly inexpensive to purchase used, and are often quite fuel-efficient.  And those automatic open-and-shut sliding doors, wow.  So what was the problem?

I don’t know exactly.  Maybe it’s that I grew up getting car sick bouncing around in the back of a giant Dodge Econoline that resembled the A-Team van.  Or perhaps it’s memories of kids getting dropped off at school by exhausted mothers who drove wood-paneled Astrovans encrusted to a near-Baroque degree with Cheerios and snot.  But most likely, it’s just that I don’t want to give in to the stereotypical mom image, spending my entire waking life driving kids to soccer games, dance lessons, etc. in a minivan with a bumper sticker that reads “Mom’s Taxi.”  Like I said, it’s vanity.

While I’m not proud of myself for being so shallow, I *do* feel affirmed by the hoardes of people who feel the same way.  Just Google “anti minivans” and you’ll find a thriving community of people like me, some of whom even go so far as to write blogs on the subject.

Mmmmm, Vanagon.

Before I lay down my weak defense to be pummeled by all of you proud minivan drivers out there, I’d like to note that there is one exception to my minivan prejudice.  I wouldn’t mind driving a VW Vanagon or Westfalia because they’re a) the descendent of the VW bus, b) European, and c) often outfitted with a sink, stove, and hookups for camping.

Anyway, my friend Linda has already scorned me on her blog with an ode in praise of her minivan, and she speaks convincingly to its many charms.  But what do you think/drive?  Are minivans the pits?  Or are they the best thing since indoor plumbing?

The Dave Congalton Show

If you can’t get enough of the weeping and gnashing of teeth here on the Higher Highs, Lower Lows blog, tune in to KVEC 920 AM tomorrow (Wednesday) at 3pm PST to hear me discuss my experience with postpartum depression on the Dave Congalton Show.   Oh yes.

If you’ll be outside the local airzone, you can listen live by clicking here.

In case I die of nerves or fright or sheer humiliation on air, I want you all to know how much your audience, comments, and support have meant to me since I started talking about Seabass behind his back last year.  Thank you.

Ahem.

WARNING: If you are easily shocked, this might not be the best post for you.  Run along now, shoo.

The raisons d’etre for this blog post are a little obscure, so I’ll give a little context in three parts.

1) The other day, whilst driving across town with a fussier-than-usual Seabass in tow, I turned on the radio and hit upon an old favorite, Led Zeppelin’s “The Lemon Song.”  As Seabass grew more and more fussy, I turned the volume dial up and up and up until it drowned him out.  (This is often the only way I can get Seabass to relax in the car for any drive that exceeds 10 minutes in length.)  Finally, he stopped whining and stared out the window.  As we drove with “The Lemon Song” thumping, I started to pay attention to the lyrics:

Squeeze me, babe, ’till the juice runs down my leg

Squeeze me, baby, until the juice runs down my leg

The way you squeeze my lemon, ah

I’m gonna fall right outta bed, ‘ed, ‘ed, bed, yeah

As Robert Plant howled and moaned these words, I shot a nervous glance back in the rear-view mirror at Seabass.  Does he understand?  Does he sense the innuendo? Unnerving.

2) I was preparing dinner in the kitchen last night with the local college radio station on in the background when Seabass ran in from his bedroom and started “dancing” (bobbing, shaking, lurching) to the beat.

“Do you like this song, baby?” I laughed, putting my knife down and starting to dance with him.  I went to turn the music up and realized it was a song I used to sing karaoke to in college: Eric Clapton’s “Cocaine.”

Hmmm.

Boo Boo Records, San Luis Obispo

3) Like every Wednesday, we attended the kids’ music hour this morning at my old workplace, Boo Boo Records.  If you’ve ever been inside, you know that it’s packed to the gills with old concert memorobilia, record covers, and music posters.  I’ve stared at the walls for years and somehow missed a giant LP called “Butt Candy” by The Sidekicks until this morning.  I noticed it sometime between singing “The Wheels on the Bus” and “I’m A Little Teapot.”

Part of me wants to grab Seabass and run away from this stuff.  I mean, it’s completely inappropriate to talk lemon-squeezing, cocaine-snorting and butt candy at his age…or any other, really.  And I can already see his little wheels turning, trying to sort life out.  It makes me want to vacuum-pack him to preserve his sweet innocence for as long as possible.

But there’s another part of me that loves Eric Clapton and Led Zeppelin so much (um, I could do without the Butt Candy, though) that I want Seabass to enjoy dancing to their infectious rhythms no matter what the words say.  They are, after all, our rock and roll heritage!  And it’s not my fault that they put dirty words to face-melting solos and tasty licks.

I always appreciated that, even though my parents were born-again Christians, they never stopped rocking to good music.  (Mom and Dad met in a rock band in the 70s, so it’s in my blood.)  My brother and I grew up with Stevie Ray Vaughn, Jimi Hendrix, the Beatles, the Eagles – even Cheech and Chong – and have not only lived to tell about it, but have become respectable members of society…with excellent taste in music, I might add.

Enough outta me – what do you think?  Sterilize your kids’ upbringing to preserve their innocence or give them a comprehensive cultural education and run the risk of exposing them to something disturbing along the way?

Fact: I’ve been a mother for 15 months.

Fact: I accepted the fact that I had postpartum depression after about 12 weeks.

Fact: I never considered that PPD would linger past one year.

Fact: It did.

Yes, PPD has reared its ugly head again.  I’ve been on OB-prescribed anti-depressants for a year now, and have intermittently attempted to go off of them under my doctor’s supervision.  But it never went well.  Once, my experiment coincided with a surprise business trip for Jake and torrential rains.  Not good odds.  But this most recent time I tried in the sunshine of summer with Jake here to support me.  And still, no dice.  It’s like a big, heavy cloud is following me around, keeping me from being fun for Seabass, helpful to Jake, or even just accepting of my own skin.

But in between those dark days, there have been wonderful days.  Days when the medication was really working and I stupidly thought,  Check it out: I’m a normal person!  I’m mothering!  Nicely, even!  And I look like I fit in with the rest of society!  Whooppee!

But it’s all a fantasy. In fact, it’s the most misleading fantasy I’ve ever had.  To go off antidepressants and look at myself in the mirror – hair unwashed, eyes red from pointless crying – and realize This is the real me, is pretty freaking discouraging.  Throw in a glance to my gorgeous, demanding son and another at my gorgeous, supportive husband, and I’m fit to be tied.  The guilt is crushing.

When PPD entered my life, holding hands with Seabass, I had no reason to believe it would last this long.  Kids get easier, right?  My doc says yes and no – an answer I loathe.  Yes, kids get easier, and no, it’s not about the kid.  It’s about me and my chemical balance, which is currently out-of-whack.  Doc then handed me a double prescription of Lexapro and said “Have a nice day!”

This has bothered me for a while.  Why hasn’t he recommended a counselor?  Or followed-up with me when I’ve changed medications?  It’s frightfully lonely in PPD Land with just my OB as a buddy.

So I recently called ALPHA Pregnancy and Parenting Support.  I’ve never been a hotline-caller, but when I told Jake I couldn’t go on anymore, he made me promise I’d do whatever it takes to get well again.  And I’m so glad I did.  The nice woman on the line said ALPHA would cover my first call and first session with a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist who specializes in PPD, so I called her and she heard me out.

“You need a plan, girl,” she said.

Score one for the therapist.  God knows I love a good plan.

“Are you sure this is an okay time to talk?” I asked, refering to the loud voices in the background while we spoke.

“It totally is.  I’m on vacation with my kids, but this is more important right now.”

Score two for the therapist.

“I come home Monday.  When we meet on Thursday, we’re going to put together a comprehensive plan for you.  We’re going to look at your medication, your diet, and your physical well-being.  I’m going to order a full panel of bloodwork to be done on you, because I suspect thyroid complications.  And our end goal is going to be getting you off those meds.”

Score three.

“That sounds great,” I said.  “I’m nodding yes to all of this.  But how much will it cost?”

“Don’t worry about that.  ALPHA will pay for our first session, and after that, we can meet on the phone to keep your costs down.  We’ll do whatever it takes.”

Score four.  Therapist wins.

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.