Higher Highs, Lower Lows

Jake and I have been going on lots of dates lately.  It may have something to do with this.  Not sure.

The most recent date we enjoyed was the night before Valentine’s Day.  I’ve never been a big V-Day celebrator (celebratrix?) but when you have a kid and they go to preschool and exchange Valentines and down their weight in Gobstoppers and come home spun-out and don’t take their nap…well, you’ll use any excuse to get a night out.  We had a great time at the Granada Bistro in downtown SLO, followed by a walk and a cup of decaf from Kreuzberg CA.

I’m so thankful for the handful of terrific babysitters we have on-call for child care.  Mostly, they are college students who work in Seabass’ Sunday school class and for whom Seabass has a special affinity.  But forget the kids – *I* have a special affinity for them because they are super responsible, fun, wonderful people with whom I have no trouble leaving my two most precious treasures.

Precious treasure #1

Precious treasure #2

In fact, I might love them a little too much.  See, the truth is, I sort of live vicariously through them.  Jake claims I can’t end a conversation to save my life – and he’s right – but with our babysitters, I’m particularly horrible.  I generally hand them a check for their services and begin drooling at the sound of their weekend plans.

“I’m camping in Big Sur this weekend.”

“I’m training for a marathon.”

“I’ve been studying so hard, I think I’ll just sit around in my jammies and watch early Sean Penn movies.”

Drool, drool, drool.  Half the time, I want to say,starry-eyed, “…and then what are you going to do?”

Speaking of babysitters, I recently found out that some friends of ours have never – I repeat, NEVER – hired a babysitter in the three years since their son was born.  He is a perfectly well-adjusted, normal kid who loves people.  I asked the mother how they had gotten this far without a break.  She shrugged and said, “I don’t know.  We just muddle through somehow!”

Wow.  Wow.

My sweet Bible-loving boy.

We were driving to Big Bear Lake to see family a few weeks ago, and somehow we forgot to bring CDs.  (Side note #1: Our stupid minivan continues to disappoint.  Not only is it ugly as flaming sin and shameful to drive, it doesn’t have an auxiliary input for a phone or mp3 player.  It was made in 2006.  I had an mp3 player then, as did much of the United States. So…WTH?)

Somewhere around Hour Three of our drive I scrounged through the glove compartment to find a small collection of discs: a Radiohead CD and a dramatized recording of Seabass’ children’s Bible.

Now look, I’m all for listening to a recording of the children’s Bible, and I’m tickled that Seabass wanted to listen to it FOR HOURS ON END.  Really, truly thrilled.  But at some point, it was time to cleanse the palate with a little Radiohead, knowwhaddImsayin?  So, with as much diplomacy as I could muster, I informed Seabass that we would be changing things up for a bit.  After a few meeps and moans, he acquiesced, and the wailings of Thom Yorke were soon soaring from our speakers.

Seabass was okay with this for exactly one track.  As soon as the second cut came on, he asked – rather sweetly, I might add – for the Bible to be put on again.  Jake and I found ourselves in quite the quandary.  How do you refuse a child the Bible in favor of Radiohead?  I’m sure some of my fellow Christian parents out there are cringing at the fact that we even had to think about this.  Sorry friends.  We are just that selfish.

“Love, we’re going to stick with Radiohead for a bit longer, okay?  This is mommy and daddy’s pick.  You’ll get your turn to choose again soon.” [Repeat with start of every subsequent song.]

Around Track Seven, however, our conscience got the better of us.  It was the song “We Suck Young Blood” off of the record Hail to the Thief.

Yup.  That’s really what it’s called. (Who thought it was a good idea for us to become parents?!?)

(Side note #2: Regarding “We Suck Young Blood,” I have a theory that the use of hand claps in any song makes it instantly great.  Reference the intro to “Car Wash,” “We Will Rock You,” and “Blister In The Sun” by the Violent Femmes.  Who’s with me?)

“Can I please have the Bible on?” asked Seabass.  And yes, he seriously used the word please.

[Sheepish look from Jake.] “Let’s just finish this song,” I said, guiltily.  “Then you can have whatever you want.”

I’m sick.  Seabass is sick.  Jake’s sick.  And Sweet Chuck is sleep training.  It’s been a special kind of hell around our house lately.

We can’t have anyone over, can’t go anywhere, can’t ask for help, and can’t sleep at night.  Last night around 8:30 I started to doze off until Sweet Chuck woke up.  We let her cry for a few minutes and she fell back asleep, but I was spun up like a meth addict.  When I was finally able to wind down around 11:30am, the neighbors (yes, THOSE neighbors) decided to play beer pong in their back yard, about three and a half feet from my face.  Before I called the cops, I fantasized about what sorts of things I’d like to say to them.  I can’t recall details, but there were phrases like “…oh HELL no you are not waking me up again without CONsequences…” and “…treat you like the CHIMPS you are….”

Anyway.  Being a stay-at-home mom is isolating enough, but being a sick stay-at-home mom is like solitary confinement.  Only it isn’t solitary.  Actually, come to think of it, solitary confinement sounds pretty good right now.

And sleep training, oy.  I haven’t had to go back on antidepressants since Sweet Chuck was born, but if anything was going to tip me toward a breakdown, sleep training would be it.  Fortunately, these are the sparkling eyes that greet me.

I was born with faith in my bones.  In my earliest memories, I am open to God, spying him in everything, longing to plumb the mysterious depths of his identity.  I encourage myself to remember that fact when observing my own children today.  They have a predisposition to faith that will not likely grow as their bodies grow, so I try to help them embrace it while it’s robust.

But the truth is my own faith has been minimal to nonexistent since I had Seabass.  I chalk it up to postpartum depression (what kind of loving Father would put their child through that?) but it’s anybody’s guess as to why I would suddenly become cynical and doubtful of everything I’d valued all my life.

Ironically, just as my own faith was evaporating, I was passionately, primitively compelled to instill faith in my child.  Why?  Why indoctrinate Seabass while violently questioning that very same doctrine?  Was I living in a fantasy where kids who go to church are the “good kids?”  Where those who live in Christian homes are the same ones who get good grades, say please and thank you and make their parents proud?  Or was it God himself who was using me – despite my own misgivings – to bring his truth to Seabass? I may never know the answer.

But a little path has risen to my feet of late.  I feel stirrings of faith – pleasure in my life and gratitude in the midst of chaos.  A desire to see God’s design in the disparate elements of my story.

So when irrational fear overtakes me, as it is so often prone to do, I am attempting to shine the light and lightness of God on it.  This doesn’t come naturally to me.  It’s something I have to make happen as though my life depends upon it.  Which it does.

Before I had kids, I could watch movies or the news without a thought to how it might affect me.  Stories about children who lose their parents or parents who lose their children had only a negligible effect on me.

Today, I am like a quaking leaf on a tree in winter: fragile and just waiting to be overcome.  The slightest hint that a narrative will involve harm to a child can bring me to sobs.  Within my natural inclination, I cut and paste my own precious babies into the scene – and I fixate.  What would I do if it were them? Then I scheme.  We are never leaving the house.  Never again.

A good example:

But!  If I head myself off at the pass, impose God onto the scenario – with the firm belief that he is good – there is peace.  I can’t protect Seabass and Sweet Chuck from everything.  In fact, they were never mine to protect.  They are God’s.  And everything he does will be shown as right and good when all is said and done.

When I take this approach to life, other caverns of fear open up for light to shine into.  Like the insidious fear that my life is on the downhill now that I’m a parent.  That I’ll never have the time or energy to pursue my talents or interests.  Or worse yet, that I have nothing to offer anyway.  When I expose these fears to truth, I find the joy and fortitude to continue walking forward in whatever capacity God deems fit.  The unexpected blessing?  I discover, with something like incredulity, that I am a good mom.

Is this easy?  No offense, but HELL NO. Trust me: I’m the last person to feign anything like competence. It is nearly impossible.

But only nearly so.

If you are not interested in babies at all, this video may not mean anything to you.  Worse yet, it may annoy you – so be warned.

If, on the other hand, you’ve ever delighted in a child’s funny little noises, you will find this charming.  Although, come to think of it, you should be warned too.  Don’t go getting pregnant on account of my daughter’s adorableness.

Sweet Chuck was gurgling away while I worked this morning, and I couldn’t resist capturing the moment. And for those of you who revel in stating the obvious, yes, I realize she’s hungry.  Thanks.

Since she was born just 11 weeks ago, Sweet Chuck and I have already:

• Watched Downton Abbey together
• Done our nails (mine painted, hers clipped)
• Baked muffins (me doing the work, her observing)
• Gone shopping (new concealer for me, a headband for her)
• Thrown a baby shower!

That last one happened on Sunday, and it appears to have been a hit.  My dear friend A is expecting a little girl in January, so we invited 18 lovely ladies into our tiny home for a good old fashioned baby welcoming.  The theme?  PINK and GAUDY AS ALL GET-OUT.

Thanks to my crafty mama for providing the bunting and the hot pink trees.

Who can resist a pair of tiny pink TOMS?

The gorgeous mom-to-be

Loot!

It’s official: My child dwarfs me.

Pink sangria and twirly straws in mason jars.

Pink champagne cake from The Madonna Inn, smoothie shooters with whip, and spiced popcorn.

S.C. had her two-month check-up with Dr. Awesome yesterday, and whoa nelly!  That girl is growing like a weed.  She is off the charts in weight (16 lbs) and height (24.5″).

No really, I mean she isn’t on the chart.  The percentiles don’t go up that high.  Does that make her the tallest, heaviest baby IN THE WORLD?!?  It would seem so.

Speaking of S.C., what a little peach she is.  Sure, she’s fussier than the average baby (we make ’em big and fussy, Jake and I) but she’s still such a gentle little soul that it’s hard to complain.  Just try to be frustrated with her when her face lights up in a smile.  Go ahead.  It’s impossible.

Remember way back when that I put together a little slideshow for Seabass’ birth?  Well I’ve done it again for my big, beautiful Sweet Chuck.  Enjoy!

Happy Thanksgiving! 

I am so thankful for anyone who reads this blog.  It is such a tremendous outlet for me.  Please eat an extra slice of pie tomorrow on me.