It's like "Where's Waldo?" Can you spot me and Jake?
As I mentioned before, New Year’s Eve was über-fun and über-brutal. The long and short of it is I paid for acting like a non-parent.
This little story sums it up nicely. The morning of New Year’s Day – a mere six hours after we’d rung in the new year and a mere four hours after I’d fallen into bed like a spaghetti Western stunt man – I went to feed Seabass like I always do at 6:30am. But as I pulled the nursing bra flap down, what should fall out and cascade off my precious baby’s face before hitting the floor? A tube of red lipstick.
Classy.
We spent New Year’s Eve at a restaurant downtown that shut its doors, turned down the lights, cranked the tunes and poured liberal quantities of gloriously good wine. Meeting up with a few other couples – all of them parents of babies, as well – we danced and laughed and sipped our way from 9pm to 2:30am like our younger selves of yore. The only noticeable difference was that we all held our phones pretty tightly, in case the babysitter called. But I’d entrusted Grandma and Grandpa with Baby Seabass at home, so I felt free. I felt light.
More to the point: I felt like I had to make up for lost time.
One of my fellow moms Facebooked me the next day (can Facebook be a verb now that it’s gone public?) with the following message:
It was a great night…up until I have no memory of it, which was around 11:45ish, and then it is all left to others to fill in the blanks for me. Party virgin is an understatement for me – I get the title of Party Amateur. Goodness what was I thinking, to drink Gin n Tonics like it was pre-baby days.
It may not be much of a controversy, but it’s certainly a conundrum: How do you balance the fun of adulthood with the responsibility of parenthood?
Okay, but the baby's still alive, right? Couldn't we have painted the baby to look a little more lifelike fellas? I mean, really.
Seabass has cut his first tooth. Bottom right. And he ain’t happy.
Last night he awoke around 1am for the first time in a long time and cried like a stuck pig until I swooped in to comfort him. Then he had two extremely short and fitful naps. And then, as he cried with a wide open mouth, I spied a little nub of white sprouting from his gums. Then I did the finger confirmation: it felt like a little rock coming through the flesh. At last! This baby’s got teefers! (Oh, how Jake hates it when I say “teefers.”)
Wanna know the benefit of having a generally fussy baby? When he’s teething, you sorta can’t tell! No, I jest. Taking care of this demanding little boy is still tough, but having something to blame makes it somehow easier to bear.
The past ten days were so incredible, I can hardly believe it. It was the first time since Seabass’ birth that I’ve felt truly relaxed in the role of mommy, and it’s no coincidence that I had Jake’s support at home the whole time. No siree. He was AMAZING. We tag-teamed diaper changes, play time, pushing the stroller, bouncing baby on the hip and just about everything but breastfeeding. Every few days, Jake would get a little quiet and then say, “Can you believe I have to go back to work in ___ days? Where is the time going?” Really, it was that nice.
It’s not like anything drastic changed in the grand scheme of things, though. Seabass still took regular naps at 9am and 1pm, went down for bed around 6pm and woke up bright and early at 6:30am. Even on New Year’s Day, after Jake and I had stayed out until 2:30am. That was a little brutal. I liken it to the first summer I spent working after college. You mean we don’t get summer vacation? Welcome to the real world, where work never stops and babies never sleep in.
Tight schedule notwithstanding, Christmas was a lovely affair and Seabass had what I believe was a fun time opening presents. Okay, he mostly just watched presents being opened and then gummed some part of the packaging, but he looked pretty happy doing it.
Here he is digging in to his stocking.
And a book.
And a night light.
Then he insisted on eating the dinosaur finger puppets.
And I include this after-shot because it’s just abstract enough to be mistaken for modern art.
We did something new this year, just for Seabass’ enjoyment: We left all of the wrapping paper and tissue and other trash on the ground as presents were unwrapped. Jake insisted that it would be fun for Seabass to play in. My inner clean freak was nearly hyperventilating, but let go and let God because it was Christmas, after all.
I hope you had a wonderfully merry Christmas with peace in your heart. Love, Jaime, Jake, Seabass, and Murph (…who Seabass also tried to put in his mouth).
Between being sick – AGAIN – the biggest holiday of the year, having my beloved Jake at home to play with, and entertaining family, I hadn’t made it onto Facebook until this morning, when I noticed something along the right sidebar where they display ads tailored precisely to users’ interests. I kid you not; it read:
Surprise your Boyfriend! What will your baby look like? Upload your pic and find out. OurBabymaker is FREE, plus you’ll get the mywebsearch toolbar. Click here!
Now, just imagine for one moment that I am a 15-year-old girl dating some dirtbag my parents hate. And I see this ad on Facebook. And I just happen to have photos of me and Dirtbag on my computer. And I follow this BabyMaker link. And the result is an adorable little baby just crying out for someone to make it, pronto.
CAN DIRTBAG-DATING 15-YEAR-OLD GIRLS BE TRUSTED NOT TO TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY?!??!? AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
I completely expect to see a baby boom among pimply high schoolers (and – gulp! – junior highers?) as a result. And it infuriates me, this preying-upon of the internet on clueless girls.
As an antidote to this epidemic, I propose an alternate website that tells the truth about “babymaking.” A website that shows what the baby will really look like.
[Note: It’s Christmas Eve Eve, and I’m exhausted. Seabass is cranky and Mom is on the verge of a nervous breakdown, counting the nanoseconds until Daddy comes home for a long holiday break from the office. All that to say Controversy Wednesday needed an extra day to formulate. Merry Christmas!]
I was looking for a photo of some unhappy child at The Nutcracker, but Google knew to give me this instead. Because it's hilarious.
It’s that special time of year when lights are a-twinklin’, bells are a-jinglin’, and small children are strong-armed into bow ties, patent leather, and velvet for performances of The Nutcracker Suite, Handel’s Messiah, and various and sundry church services.
Actually, I was one of those precocious little girls who LOVED dressing up and sitting still (mostly) for a Christmas performance. I have so many fond memories of donning a stickie-outtie dress (my own term), and driving down to Santa Barbara with my mom and brother to meet my grandma for The Nutcracker ballet at the Arlington Theatre. It was an annual tradition – complete with full, live orchestra – to which I give partial credit for my lifelong love of classical music. (Thank you Mom and Nanny.)
My brother Dusty, however, was not fooled by the weak seduction of a cannon shot, a life-sized dancing rat king, or a far-too-short battle sequence. In fact, I’m not even sure he noticed any of that. He was too preoccupied with the fact that guys were wearing tights. And dancing. And BULGING all over the place.
My mom loves to recount how Dusty would hold it together, for the most part, through the ballet’s first half. At intermission, we’d grab a cookie at concessions, and try to get the wiggles out in preparation for the second half. But as the curtain parted and the dancing began again, Dusty would slowly but surely disintegrate. Despite her finely-tuned sense of propriety and regard for fellow audience members, Mom could not withstand my brother’s acute desire to roll in the aisle, bow tie hanging by a thread and hair shooting in all directions. The worst moment every year, she claims, was when the Arabian dancers took the stage. Whatever brittle interest Dusty had in the remainder of the ballet was, at that point, destroyed. I mean, to a little boy, COULD THIS SONG BE ANY SLOWER? OR MORE BORING?
My friend Andrea has a great story about her own younger brother and The Nutcracker Suite. Apparently, Jordan was not much of a fan as a little boy, either. He kept quiet – whether by force or of his own volition – through the entire ballet until the Pas de Deux at the end. As the harpist plucked the opening notes and the two dancers began twirling, Jordan could take it no longer, exclaiming – OUT LOUD – “Aaw, not again!”
Now, here’s the thing. I wholeheartedly intend to force The Nutcracker on Seabass (much to his father’s chagrin, I might add). He will own a bow tie, patent leather shoes, and will, most likely, roll in the aisle during the Pas de Deux. I feel like it’s a right of passage.
But I draw the line at dragging him along to Handel’s Messiah for a sing-along…at least until he’s old enough to read music. And even then, it’s his call as to whether he wants to join me. This might seem like a contradiction to the post I shared about my thoughts on music lessons a while back, but there’s a big difference between bringing a four-year-old to Walt Disney Concert Hall for a four-hour Baroque marathon (no joke – people do it) and bringing him to a Hallelujah chorus flash mob at Macy’s. One is a novelty for music-lovers. The other is thinly-veiled child abuse. (Which reminds me. When I worked at the San Luis Obispo Symphony, the unofficial motto of the education department was “Torturing children with classical music for five decades.”)
Enough outta me. What do you think? Do you bring (or plan to bring) your children to boring holiday cultural events? How do they react?
About ten months ago, Jake and I had photographers (and dear friends) Matt and Summer Schmitz over to memorialize my pregnant belly, swollen with an imminent Seabass. We strolled with Murphy through our beloved San Luis Obispo, stopping at favorite spots for glamor shots along the way, including the Mission San Luis Obispo de Tolosa…
The creek walk downtown…
And a very serious shoot at Linnea’s Cafe. (Note Jake’s sultry eyes. And my so-white-it’s-almost-translucent arm.)I love looking back on these shots because they remind me of a simpler time. A time of anticipation. A time of unknowing. And yes, a time of rich, unadulterated sleep (except for that affected by round ligament pains, which are no fun at all). My body teemed with new life. We were two, but now we are three. Incredible.
So to all my pregnant or soon-to-be-pregnant homegirls out there, I highly recommend taking lots of belly shots, whether professionally or not.
There are a few rules for pregnancy photos, however. Rather than list those rules out, I think I’ll leave it to this website featuring awkward pregnancy photos to lay down the law. But here’s a preview: Don’t use a watermelon, a gun, a dead turkey, or a tire as props for your belly shots. I know it’s tempting, but you must refrain. MUST.
(Note: There are some borderline risqué photos on this site, so if you’d rather not chance seeing an errant butt or boob, it’s probably best to skip. But for the record? You’re sorely missing out.)
Special thanks go out to Scott Cody for providing the link and making me want to wash my eyes out with bleach.
The old-school mail drop box. Yeah, that should be in my mouth.
Oh look, a camera. That should also be in my mouth.
You know, I’m starting to think pretty much everything I see should be in my mouth. That includes all razor blades, your shoes, and any available trash.
How am I supposed to resist this cuteness? I ask you.
About a month ago, I was walking Seabass around the neighborhood in his stroller when he busted out with his standard “get-me-out-of-this-thing-I’m-bored” cry. You know the one.
But on this particular occasion, in the middle of an especially baleful howl, Seabass started to giggle, even as the tears rolled down his cheeks. I looked down. “Are you…are you laughing?” I asked, bewildered at my child’s remarkable ability to swing from agony to ecstasy in the blink of an eye. And indeed, he was laughing. I couldn’t figure out what was so funny until I realized a dog was barking down the block. He was laughing at the dog barking. From then on, whenever Seabass heard so much as a “woof” from across town, a little smile lit up his giant face.
I bring this up because I recently discovered that I could woof and have the same effect on him. So now I bark whenever Seabass is fussy, whether he’s on the changing table, playing in the bath, or in the stroller for a walk. In public. This makes for a very strange sight, as you may well imagine.
Jake, I’m pretty sure, does not approve. He thinks I’m stooping too low – in other words, acting like a lunatic – to keep the baby happy. In fact, in our blissful, adult-speech pre-Seabass days, Jake insisted that when we had children, we would never use baby talk to communicate. “None of this ‘poopoo’ and ‘peepee’ nonsense,” he declared. “It will only be ‘feces’ and ‘urine.’ I can’t stand all that oogly-boogly baby talk. Who’s with me?!?”
Little did he know he was directing these edicts toward the most oogly-boogly baby-talking weirdo on the face of our planet. I simply cannot resist. When I talk to Seabass, every noun is followed by a suffix of -ies, as in “shoes-ies,” “kiss-ies,” and “blanket-sies.” It’s totally obnoxious, I know, but I really can’t help it. Seabass’ cuteness draws this behavior out of me, and the cuter he becomes, the less power I have to control myself.
Fortunately, science backs me up. According to the infallible wisdom-trove that is Wikipedia, a number of reputable researchers believe that “baby talk contributes to mental development, as it helps teach the child the basic function and structure of language.” In fact, there are even scientific names – and acronyms! – for baby talk, including infant-directed speech (IDS) and child-directed speech (CDS). (There is also something called pet-directed speech [PDS], which, unfortunately for Murphy, doesn’t get used too much around here anymore.)
Okay, so all of this is really fascinating. However, what I really want to know is whether I get to talk about farting and butts as much as I do when Seabass is old enough to understand what I’m saying. Because I LOVE talking about farting and butts. LOVE might not even be a strong enough word for the extremity of emotion I feel. The same stupid fart joke can be told 200 times and I’ll still be giggling because you said fart. And you know what? I’ll stop laughing when it’s no longer funny. That’s just how I roll.
But enough outta me. Does baby talk pour out of you or does it make you bristle? And for you parents further down the road, do you refrain from talking about poo and butts, or do you let it all hang out around your kids?
An early shot of some of the babies. Yup, that's ours.
If I had to list on one hand the things that have kept my spirit afloat since I hatched the beautiful Seabass back in May, they would be:
Jake
Trust that God chose me to mother this specific child
Anti-depressants
Writing this blog
My moms’ group
It is no exaggeration to say that, throughout this new thing called motherhood, my moms’ group has buoyed my sense of humor, helped me to process what it means to care for another human being, and given me a treasure of wonderful new friends. Moreover, Seabass came into this world pre-set with a built-in group of baby buddies. It’s truly a brilliant arrangement.
The whole thing started as a pre-natal birthing class taught through our OB’s office. Jake and I met with eight other couples for six weeks to discuss our fears and expectations, and to practice for an event that would, inevitably, go nothing like we planned. (Did anyone else manage to breathe calmly through their contractions? Despite how much I practiced those breathing techniques, what came out was just a lot of grunting like an animal caught in barbed wire.) As each couple had their baby, they e-mailed us their baby photos and labor stories. Since Seabass and I were near the end of the line-up, it was fascinating to hear everyone’s birth story – and to see new little people that would soon be friends with our own new little person.
Ours is the big one sleeping in the front.
Later, the birthing class became the moms’ group, once again arranged through our OB’s office, and with all the same participants. And this was where the rubber met the road. No more abstract talk. No more what-ifs. With my transition from bright-eyed pregnant girl to battle-scarred new mom came a desperate need to get real.
“Is anyone else experiencing pain that feels like a blowtorch on their nipples every time they nurse?”
“I’m in so much pain down there that I ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner on the sitz bath yesterday. Is that normal?”
“Every time I try to shop for groceries with the baby, he screams like I’m whacking him with a frying pan and everyone stares at us. Will I ever be able to visit Trader Joe’s again?”
For eight weeks, all of us new mommies talked, mused, cooed, wept a little, and compared notes on nursing bras and sleep methods. After each session, I went home feeling more at peace in my role and more connected to the outside world (though I also admit to feeling that somehow my baby was missing the QUIET/EASY button that the other babies had).
These days, it’s hard to stay connected as we all have such different schedules. But this past weekend all of the moms, dads and babies made a point of getting together and had such a wonderful time seeing each other. Babies rolled, crawled, and gummed toys. Moms swapped night-waking stories. And dads drank beer and discussed house projects.
(Aside: After the little party, I asked Jake if he talked with any of the other dads about being a dad. He said it never came up. “How could it not have come up?!?” I asked, flabbergasted. “Parenthood is your qualification for being in that group!” Then we both chuckled because we were reminded of this video.)
Anyway, Seabass is, I’m pretty sure, the biggest of the babies, so we passed him around to let everyone in on what it’s like carrying 22 pounds of dead weight love around all the time. We all marveled at how comfortable we are holding babies now, whereas before having children, holding someone else’s baby was sort of like, “Huh. Great! Okay. Nevermind, it’s too scary. You can have your baby back now.”
By far, my favorite comment of the entire weekend came from one of the dads in our group. One of the moms was trying to relay a story about their son’s narrow miss overdosing on teething tablets when the father broke in to say, “Don’t tell Jaime that! She’ll write about us!” I laughed and assured them that wouldn’t happen.
And here I am, writing about them. Sorry guys. It was too good to pass up.
Here’s to Benjamin, Cole, Riley, Hazel, Sienna, Jaelynn, Scarlet, Ciaran and Seabass – the little people who brought us all together. Thank you, kiddos!
I really can’t think of any parents who are worse at commemorating their child’s life than me and Jake. We love Seabass desperately – don’t get me wrong – but we’ve never done any of the lovely things that good parents typically do to celebrate the new life of their child.
We never had him dedicated at church.
Never sent out birth announcements.
Never even had infant photos taken.
On the flip side, however, here are a few things I have done for Seabass.
Put together one of the jankiest baby books known to man, made from a 99¢ composition notebook I bought at Food4Less.
Dedicated a blog to him about how hard it is being his mother.
Took advantage of a FREE Halloween photo offered by the local camera shop and didn’t even bother to wipe off the baby’s spit-up before the shutter clicked.
Am I proud of this? Yeah, right. Looking at this list makes me feel like finding a cave, curling up and dying a slow, agonizing death. It’s not at all how I pictured motherhood. I was so sure that when I had a baby, everyone in my address book would sport a beautiful, professionally-composed birth announcement on their fridge featuring my child’s stunning face.
Instead, I’m running into people I barely know who look at Seabass’ stunning face and say, “Oh, so YOU’RE the fussy baby from the blog!”
I am Jaime, wife to Jacob. We are the smitten, stupefied, sometimes scared silly parents of a precious boy nicknamed Seabass and a darling girl nicknamed Sweet Chuck.
I am Jaime, wife to Jacob. We are the smitten, stupefied, sometimes scared silly parents of a precious boy nicknamed Seabass and a darling girl nicknamed Sweet Chuck.
Higher Highs, Lower Lows 