Higher Highs, Lower Lows

Date: January, 2010. 

Event: Jake’s company “Christmas” party. 

Theme: High school prom.

Me: Pregnant and glowing.

Jake: Adorably carefree.

Seabass: Snickering away and biding his time.

Scary Chinese Mommy and Her Zombie Slaves

I know, right?  Kind of a weird Controversy Wednesday topic.  But oh, just wait till you see what I’m gonna share.

Jake recently told me about a piece he’d heard on NPR about a woman who decided to try parenting her children like Chinese parents do.  I won’t go into detail – you’ll have to hear it for yourself – but it involves punishing a three-year-old child for not practicing piano by telling her to stand outside in the cold. 

Then my friend Patty passed along a couple of articles out of the Wall Street Journal and New York Times talking about this same woman and her approach to parenting.  Here’s one.  Here’s the other. 

Her name is Amy Chua, and she has written a book about being a Chinese parent entitled Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother.  If, by chance, you haven’t caught wind of this crazy book or its crazy author, you might consider crawling out from under that rock because it is H-U-G-E right now.  In essence, Chua purports that by prohibiting her children from enjoying their childhood, she has been able to mold them into genius, virtuoso zombies with a bright future and no soul.  Yeah, that’s my interpretation.

Interestingly, there is one point on which I agree with Ms. Chua.  In her book she discusses the importance of forcing a child to push through their desire to quit playing a musical instrument. 

What Chinese parents understand is that nothing is fun until you’re good at it. To get good at anything you have to work, and children on their own never want to work, which is why it is crucial to override their preferences. This often requires fortitude on the part of the parents because the child will resist; things are always hardest at the beginning, which is where Western parents tend to give up. But if done properly, the Chinese strategy produces a virtuous circle. Tenacious practice, practice, practice is crucial for excellence; rote repetition is underrated in America. Once a child starts to excel at something—whether it’s math, piano, pitching or ballet—he or she gets praise, admiration and satisfaction. This builds confidence and makes the once not-fun activity fun. This in turn makes it easier for the parent to get the child to work even more.

Like it or not, this woman has nailed it on the head.  In teaching piano for more than half of my life and working as the education director for a symphony orchestra, I’ve seen so many parents who just want their children to “try” an instrument to see if they’ll like it.  But it is a law of the universe that people – whether children or adults – don’t enjoy doing things at which they’re not yet very good.  The kid picks up a violin the first time and gets excited because it’s shiny and red and new and expects it to sound as good as it looks.  But then it doesn’t.  BECAUSE THE KID DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO PLAY.  And then they don’t want to do it anymore because practice is hard and the teacher is creepy and old and has bad breath.  The parent battles with the child for a few months – maybe even a few years – until they finally give up, assuming that little Joey or Jenny just wasn’t cut out for the violin.

On this, I agree with Ms. Chua, though perhaps not for the same reasons.  I have no expectation that Seabass will play an instrument in Carnegie Hall (Ms. Chua’s daughter ended up playing that prestigious house,  by the by), but I do expect him to have a lifelong love of music.  And I know that the best way to get him to enjoy playing music is to get him good enough to like what he hears.  And that, my friends, requires practice.

Wait, don’t shoot!  Other than that, me and the Tiger Mother have very little – scratch that, NOTHING – in common. 

Enough outta me.  What do you think?  Do you agree with any part of Amy Chua’s “Chinese” approach to parenting?  

Ojai, California: Site of our magical babymoon.

Hey friends,

I’ve mentioned before that I write professionally for the food/wine/travel industry, but I’ve never let you inside my strange little world.  The public relations firm I work with, Parker Sanpei & Associates, has a multitude of clients who deal with “the finer things in life.”  Along those lines, we just started up a blog called The Dish by PSPR. 

One of our first topics is the “babymoon” and how to take one without breaking the bank.  As I write this, I’m listening to Seabass yell from his crib while he should be FAST ASLEEP.  From this side of his birth, I can say with all confidence that the babymoon is a must.  If you’re pregnant and haven’t gotten away with your beloved for a time of rejuvenation and peace, you are missing out.  Want to read more?  Here’s the post.  Enjoy!

Jaime

Jake is a saver.  By that, I mean he faithfully socks his money away like a squirrel hoarding nuts.  Me?  I’m a spender.  The regular comment in our home is that if Jaime has $11, she’ll look around and say, “What costs $11?” 

If I have a few dollars to my name, I like to buy lots of different things: wine, beer, manicures, haircuts, and gifts for other people.  But my real weakness is clothes/shoes.  Whoa nelly, do I like me some fashion.

The irony is that I don’t dress with any particular flair, nor do I dress with any consistency.  Some days, I’m all about the jeans, Converse, and hooded sweatshirt.  Sometimes I’m in the mood for a summer dress and flat sandals.  Or skinny jeans, ballet flats, and a leather jacket.  It’s really not too exciting, but it’s never exactly the same.

That is, not until Seabass wriggled into my life.

Moms talk a lot about succumbing to sweatpants, giving in to the beauty of soft, shapeless cotton and an elastic waistband.   And I get it – oh, do I get it.  There is nothing better than putting the baby down for bed at night, climbing into my jammies and sipping a glass of wine.  Truly, I can think of few luxuries I enjoy more.

But at about three weeks post-partum, I vowed never to wear my sweats/yoga pants/PJs all day long unless I was sick enough to require a doctor’s visit.  And I’ve managed to keep that promise to myself with the following little set of rules.

1. Shower before Seabass’ first nap.  This forces me not to wear anything with an elastic waistband.  I put the little guy in his jumper in the bathroom and he happily (usually) bobs while I bathe nearby.  We have a clear shower curtain so he can see that I’m there with him, so he doesn’t get too upset.  (The creepiness of being naked in front of my young son isn’t lost on me.  Never fear: Parental nudity is an upcoming Controversy Wednesday topic. Stay tuned.)
   

   7 for All Mankind A-Pockets

2. Buy a basic uniform and spend money for quality.  My uniform is a $5 tee shirt, a pair of 7 for All Mankind A-pocket jeans I bought for $100 at Marshall’s and Ariat Western Heritage cowboy boots I bought online for $160.  Have I ever spent that much on jeans or footwear?  Never.  But that leads me to my next point.
3. Wear the same thing every day.  Having a baby requires the elimination of trivial decisions such as what to wear.  I wear my jeans and Ariats nearly every single day, and feel great in them every single day because they are quality.  My friend Jenny has coined the term girl math which entails justifying expensive clothing based on a per-wear basis.  For instance, if I buy a skirt for $100 and wear it every day for a year, that is only 27¢ per wear.  And that’s quite a deal. 

   

   Ariat Western Heritage J Toe

4. Go cheap on the rotating stuff.  Notice my tee shirts are only $5?  I have about a billion of them for when Seabass spits up or flings applesauce all over them. 
   

   Polka dot girliness

5. Accessorize, accessorize.  I recently bought a super cute polka dot cardigan from Target with Christmas money that looks terrific with my uniform.  I also have a couple great headbands, scarves, jackets, and earrings I can tack on to the uniform at a moment’s notice to lend spice. Oooh, look at these earrings I’m lusting after currently.  These will be perfect for Seabass to grab at and rip my earlobes through.  Hmm. 
   

   http://www.etsy.com/people/Isette

These rules aren’t hard and fast, by any means.  In fact, as I write this, I am unshowered and wearing an elastic waistband while Seabass takes his morning nap.  BUSTED!  But I certainly do try.  I’m also thinking of adopting one day per week to wear something a little nicer than usual.  I love Lisa Leonard’s blog and her posts entitled “What I Wore Wednesday.”  Maybe we can all start wearing our Wednesday Best and sharing the results?  What will you wear tomorrow, mama?

“It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.”   Duke Ellington.

Well, folks, we’re almost done with this mini series on how Jaime is taking charge of her life.  What’s that you say?  You haven’t read parts 1, 2, or 3?  For shame!  Please take a moment to come up to speed.  Take your time.  I’ll just sit here and pick at my cuticles until you’re ready.

Today: Wake up and get involved.

What I recently walked into after one of Seabass' naps. Zoom in and witness the UNSTOPPABILITY of this cuteness!

I thank the good Lord above for giving me a baby who sleeps well.  It’s no secret how much I’ve wanted to give Seabass the best rest he can possibly get; without it, he is too miserable to bear.  So I’ve spent the past eight months irrationally, obsessively protecting his nap schedule, which has been a blessing and a curse.

The blessing, of course, is having a child who goes down pretty easily (never perfectly) in his crib for two regular naps and an early bedtime.  The curse is that I never, ever ever ever woke him, no matter what.  What’s the big deal? you inquire.  I’ll tell you what the big deal is.  We couldn’t participate in anything.  If the library hosted storytime at 11am and Seabass didn’t wake up until 11:30am, that meant no story time.  If the moms’ group got together at 3pm and Seabass slept until 4pm, that meant no moms’ group.  Church?  Nope.  It made for a pretty isolating existence, both for me and for him.

There was one week last month when Seabass suddenly started waking waaaay early from all of his naps – probably due to the emergence of his first little tooth – thereby allowing us to attend some of those activities we’d never experienced due to my Third Reich Nap Schedule.  First, it was Spanish story hour at the local children’s store.  Then it was a meeting of moms and babies to discuss nursing and sleep issues held at the lactation consultant’s office downtown.  (The moms discussed.  The babies mostly just drooled.)  In making it to these events, here’s what I discovered: SEABASS IS A LOT EASIER WHEN SURROUNDED BY OTHER KIDS.

He giggled.  He danced.  He stared with mouth agape.  It was wonderful!  Minimal fussing, squirming, back-arching or whining.  My precious little fishy has finally gotten to an age where he is interested in the world around him. 

When Jake and I saw this, we seriously considered enrolling him in some kind of part-time day care.  This, despite all my feather-ruffling about being a stay-at-home mom in posts past!  But the more I was home alone with him, the crazier we both got. 

Still, in the end, it just didn’t feel right to put Seabass in day care.  (Every time those words “day” and “care” came out of my mouth, I couldn’t help but cringe.  Say what you will: It simply isn’t the right option for us.)  But now I knew that Seabass was an extrovert – aka the exact opposite of me.  Though I love people and am usually the loudest one talking at the party, I really get my energy from alone time at home.  Jake, on the other hand, gets his energy from being out with people, although, strangely, he’s usually the quietest dude at the party.  Apparently Seabass takes after both of us equally: He gets his energy from being out with people AND he’s the loudest.

So I made up a list of all the free activities we could enjoy throughout the week and made a decision to wake Seabass up in time to get to them.  [Gulp.]

It started with Goldfish “swimming” lessons, which are really just sessions in the pool with other babies to acclimatize them to the water.  As the hour grew nearer and nearer for me to have to wake my boy up to make it to class in time, I grew more and more nervous.  What if he’s a tyrant when I wake him up?  What if he screams the entire time?  I was terrified.

But lo and behold, upon entering his room, my sweet baby awoke with a beaming smile and rosy cheeks.  We made it to class and, being a Seabass, the wee one enjoyed every second of being in the water.

Since then, I try not to make a habit of waking the boy for activities all over town, but when it happens, we haven’t regretted it yet.  Living in such a kick-butt town as San Luis Obispo, California, we have loads of FREE options, including:

• Story time at Barnes & Noble (Weds at 11:15am, Sats at 11am)
• 0-3 yr story hour at the library (Thurs at 10:10am)
• Activity time at EcoBambino (Tues and Thurs at 11am)
• Spanish music/language hour at EcoBambino (Fris at 11am)
• Mom/baby lactation and sleep discussion at Growing With Baby (Weds at 11am)

Other activities for a minimal fee include:

• San Luis Coastal District Parent Participation (Mommy & Me classes, hiking and walking groups, etc.)
• Lots of other events and ideas at the SLO County Mommies website

Here’s the moral of the story: This is the first week that I’ve been involved in so many things with Seabass, and the extra effort it has taken to get us out and about is already paying off in spades.  He seems a little calmer and more satisfied, which is most likely a reflection of how much calmer and satisfied I am.  And yes, getting out to the pool for a long swim yesterday couldn’t have hurt.

I can’t stress enough what a surprise this is, being the home-body I am.  I generally truly hate leaving the house, not in an agoraphobic way – I just really like being home.  But getting out with Seabass has lifted my mood considerably.  And when we are at home together, playing with toys or sitting outside and watching Murphy mangle his rubber chicken toy (a favorite pastime), it is more fulfilling and relaxing than it ever was before.  [Contented sigh.]

Once again, I have to ask that you be sure to read Parts 1 and 2 in this series before proceeding.  No seriously, it’s that important.

Have you read them?  Promise.  Well, alright then.

Today: Exercise.

Jane Fonda Signature Pose #1

Jane Fonda Signature Pose #2

Ah, exercise.  You have been both my friend and my foe ever since someone gave me a pair of dumbells, a headband, and a “Get Fit, Girl!” audio cassette for my ninth birthday.  We are well acquainted, you and I.

How does a woman begin any sort of regular workout after carrying an extra 25-65 pounds for 9 months and having pushed someone the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a grape?  (Deal with it, boys.)  After giving birth to Seabass, I didn’t have a clue.  But I knew within two weeks of having him that I’d have to start doing something to feel human again.  But how?

A couple years ago, I’d seen an interview with Gwyneth Paltrow where she discussed the challenge of shedding weight after having two kiddos in quick succession.  Naturally, the solution was a personal trainer, Tracy Anderson.  But I was surprised to hear that when GP and her trainer couldn’t be together in person, she used Anderson’s DVDs that are available to the public.  So I bought a couple.

Let’s just say that the first time I did situps after hatching Seabass was a joke.  On her postpartum core DVD, when Anderson said things like “This may be a little challenging for you right now,” I nearly lost my mind.  A LITTLE challenging?!??  Try FREAKING IMPOSSIBLE, LADY.  And the first time I tried to follow along to her dance cardio DVD, I simultaneously feared that a) my thumping around the living room would wake the baby, and b) my slowly-recovering insides would fall out with each kick-ball-change.

There was also the “challenge” of Seabass himself.  At the time, his naps were never longer than 45 minutes.  What does a mommy do in 45 minutes?  She showers.  She makes the bed.  She eats something.  She sleeps.  She does NOT start a situp regimen.

“It’s great to have your baby nearby while you work out,” said Anderson, tauntingly, while methodically working her glutes from an uncluttered, distraction-free studio in Southern California.

Have Seabass with me?  AS IF.  When that precious boy is awake, the only thing I’m doing on the floor is playing with him.  He’s sort of an “undivided attention” type guy. 

So I tried to work Anderson’s videos into my life, but the truth is it wasn’t often enough to effect any change.  Same goes for my old yoga DVDs.

But I recently came up with a solution that is absolutely brilliant.  I work a 3-hour shift once a week watching kiddos in the local gym’s childcare facility in exchange for a “free” membership.  I get to bring Seabass with me to work, and he loves playing with all the toys and hanging with all the other crazy kids.  And the rest of the week, I get to use the gym – machines, pool, sauna, classes, and weights – and put Seabass in the childcare for just $2 per hour.  HOW COOL IS THAT?!?

We worked our shift together yesterday and I was amazed how well my little guppy did.  Three hours is a long time to expect good behavior from him, but he stood up to it like a champion, watching the other babies crawl (take notes, son) and the older kids run in circles like the little maniac demons they are.  And today?  I think I’ll take a cycling class. 

Naw, more likely I’ll just drop Seabass off and head straight to the jacuzzi.  How’s that for a workout?

Key to this arrangement is that I actually use my membership.  If I don’t, the three-hour shift will start to feel like a job – something I definitely don’t need right now.  So if nothing else, I’m going to work out when Seabass and I need a time-out from each other.  Exercise has always helped me to get perspective and clarity in the midst of confusion and despair.  The weight-loss/fitness aspect is really only about 15% of the reason I’m doing this trade.

You’re right, I’m lying.  It’s like 75% of the reason. 

80%?

Aw, what does it matter?  Getting off my (nonexistent) duff is good for everyone, in every way.

If you missed yesterday’s post, you need to go read it.  Right now.  Go ahead, I’ll wait.

Okay.  Get the big idea?

Today: God.

I hope your view of God is informed by more than Monty Python.

I’ll be honest.  Before I had Seabass in May, my relationship with The Big Guy was going through a bit of a dry spell.  Dunno why, exactly.  Perhaps because life was so good I didn’t see a need to depend on anyone or anything else to get me through my embarrassingly miniscule difficulties.  I’d just started working from home, writing articles for glossy magazines from the comfort of my couch – sometimes even my bed.  When the work was finished, I’d take a walk or do yoga, receiving many an ooh and aah from kind onlookers at the site of my bulging belly.  People opened doors for me.  They let me cut in line at the post office.  I read and drank tea and took naps and prepared decadent meals for Jake to come home to.  It was heaven on earth, and I knew it wasn’t going to last.

Then Seabass took the stage, and I started praying.  BIG TIME.

Have you ever been rocked so hard by something that you almost can’t pray, though?  Sure, for the first month and a half, I was in God’s face a lot.  Please, dear God, help me to be strong.  Help this precious baby to latch on properly.  Give me the strength I need to get through this day on zero sleep.  Grant me patience to get this blasted onesie over his head, onto his arms, and snapped at the crotch without calling the suicide hotline.  Amen.  There was a sense of temporariness, of transition.  God couldn’t possibly expect me to continue in this manner every minute of every day…could he?

But at around eight weeks post-partum, I realized that God could expect that.  And he did; Seabass remained as obstinate and impossible as ever.  With no end in sight.  And that’s when I quit praying. 

I told you I’d be honest!

The irony, of course, is that I want more than anything for Seabass to grow up knowing that God loves him and is deeply familiar with every cell of his being.  Like so many parents throughout the history of the world, I want for my child what I’ve been seeking for myself all these years: a rock-solid intimacy with the creator of the universe.  I can’t give Seabass that gift – only God can – and I certainly can’t model it for him unless it’s real because – let’s face it – kids are brilliant at identifying phoneys. 

So I’ve decided to start praying again, looking for the kingdom of God in every diaper change, dirty dish and deadline.  (Footnote: Brother Lawrence.)  Practically speaking, that means:

1. I pray in the morning with the covers over my head, whether or not I feel like I have anything to say.  My inspiration comes from Susannah Wesley, mother of Christian theologian John Wesley (1703-1791), who reportedly covered her head with a dish towel at the kitchen table when she needed to pray, so small was the house she shared with a husband and seven children.  Those kids learned early on to leave mommy alone when she had the towel over her head.  And look: Her devotion gave rise to one of the greatest theologians and abolitionists of all time.
2. I surround myself with people who have the sort of faith I want.  So I joined a Bible study with some other new moms.  We bring our babies and talk, read and pray, trading off kid-watching duties.  We’ve only met once and I already love it. 

Ultimately, Seabass’ faith will be entirely his own.  But if I can lean on a power greater than myself, accepting what is while also courageously venturing into what could be, he’ll at least see faith modeled, and I will be more at peace with life on life’s terms.  Win-win.

The week before Christmas was one of the hardest weeks I’ve endured with the wily Seabass.  He was fussy, often frantically so, and generally dissatisfied with every shred of his existence.   The torrential downpours didn’t help.  Oh the weather outside was frightful, but indoors it was HELL UNLEASHED.  Trapped in a 900-square foot house with an ill-tempered Seabass, I resorted to racking my brain for any obscure errand I might run just to get out.  Finally, the magic hour arrived and Jake was home for 10 whole glorious days.

And I exhaled.

But before falling into the support and blissful contentment that my dear husband brought home with him, I vowed to devise a full complement of ways to keep me and Seabass happier in the months to come.  So, each day this week, I’ll share something new I’m trying to squeeze a little more satisfaction out of motherhood.  Maybe these ideas will work, maybe they won’t.  I hope you’ll come along and see.

Today: B Vitamins.

Pills are good! Pills are GOOOOOOD!

My mom is a big believer in vitamins and herbs.  I’ve often shared some emotional or physical struggle with her that ellicits a suggestion to take one specific vitamin or other.  Occasionally I’ve followed her advice, buying a bottle of St. John’s Wort or Evening Primrose Oil or even a simple women’s multivitamin.  Inevitably, though, I’ve taken a week’s worth, then let it sit on the kitchen counter for a few months before stowing it away in the medicine cabinet, never to see it again. 

But when I hit the brick wall of postpartum depression, a friend told me about how B vitamins helped her stay sane after she transitioned off of anti-depressants.  I didn’t know the first thing about Vitamin B, other than the fact that it lies somewhere between Vitamins A and C.  So I did some research. 

The simplest, most comprehensive explanation of B Vitamin benefits I found says that taking a daily supplement that includes all 11 of the B Vitamins can:

• Ease stress – yup, got that
• Treat anxiety and depression – yup got that too
• Aid memory – what memory?
• Relieve PMS – no comment
• Reduce heart-disease risk – yup, runs in the family

So I checked with my lactation consultant to ensure that a B Complex wouldn’t cause any problems with nursing Seabass.  Then I called my pharmacist to see if it would interfere with my anti-depressants.  Once the coast was clear, I bought a simple B Complex from Trader Joe’s that I’ve been taking every morning with my giant bowl of cereal.  To be honest, I have no idea if it’s working yet.  But I like that I’m doing something good for myself, and I’m committed to seeing it through for at least the next few months.  Because how can you tell if something’s working unless you give it a real go?

"God help me, I'm so relaxed out here alone that this salad seems hilarious."

How to shed light on the ludicrous nature of advertising:

1. Find a typical stock photo. Old people cycling (arthritis meds), middle-aged couples kissing (Viagra), women dressed in white doing cartwheels (anything menstrual), or what-have-you.
2. Then find a bunch of others exactly like it. 
3. Group them together.
4. Laugh until you pee a little.

For instance, here’s a tribute to women laughing alone with salad.  I’m pretty sure SELF Magazine has the market cornered on these shots.