Higher Highs, Lower Lows

Some of you may remember a post I once wrote about taking a lovely holiday with Jake before Seabass’ birth.  We called it a “babymoon,” as many people do now.  It was an extraordinary experience, complete with a nice hotel, prenatal massage, shopping, and of course, eating, eating, eating.

Well, it’s a mere two months before Baby #2 arrives, and we are set to take our next babymoon this weekend.  But this will be quite a different affair.  Quite different, indeed.

Difference #1: It’s a “staycation.”  (And please, never ever remind me that I used that awful fake word.)

We thought about taking the trailer to some remote beach, or even swapping houses with someone somewhere exotic.  But in the end, we realized we hadn’t done much of anything in our own backyard since Seabass emerged, so the choice was simple.  Let’s rediscover home!  So we’re staying in a friend’s guest house in Avila Valley.  Not too shabby, trust me.

Difference #2: We’re doing several things that a very pregnant woman has no business doing.

Like golfing.  And hiking to Point San Luis.  And sitting through ten hours of a midnight Batman marathon.  Not joking.

I can barely sit through dinner, let alone ten hours of The Dark Knight. Why am I doing this to myself?  Because I friggin love movies and Batman is one of about four movies on which Jake and I actually agree.

Also, I think I might enjoy pain.  Here is a real email conversation between dear husband and me earlier today:

SUBJECT: batman

From: Jacob Lewis – 8:37 AM (6 hours ago)

It might be about time you make the call on Batman if I’m going to have to find a replacement date.  Maybe you should watch the previews to all three just as inspiration…

—-

SUBJECT: RE: batman

From: Jaime Lewis – 2:34 PM (36 minutes ago)

Here and now, I am foolishly committing to watch the marathon with you.  HOWEVER, I am not promising that I will stay awake throughout it.

—-

SUBJECT: RE: batman

From Jacob Lewis – 2:44 PM (26 minutes ago)

woo-hoo!  I am both excited you’ll be with me, and worried that it could be miserable.  Let’s do our best to provide you with everything you could want:

http://www.amazon.com/Egg-Crate-Convoluted-Hemorrhoid-Cushion/dp/B001FSAUF6/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&qid=1342561262&sr=8-8&keywords=hemroid+pillow

http://www.amazon.com/Anuice-Approved-Medical-Hemorrhoid-Treatment/dp/B003840WFS/ref=pd_sbs_hpc_10

mmmm.. comfy:

http://www.amazon.com/Convaid-Recline-Option-Pediatric-Wheelchair/dp/B0074JSLUQ/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&qid=1342561436&sr=8-7&keywords=recline+wheelchair

etc..

Difference #3: No good food, and less of it, too.

Nothing says “getaway” quite like eating a meal of boiled chicken breast and steamed broccoli, then impaling yourself an hour later to check your blood sugar.  Gestational diabetes, I curse you!!!!

Ah well.  So it’s not quite the Hawaiian vacation we’d dreamed of.  So what?  I’m still beside myself with anticipation of sleeping in, reading the paper with a cup of tea in hand, spending uninterrupted time with Jake and not doing dishes.  Big kudos to Grandma Lewis for making it all possible by caring for the wiley Seabass.

I’ve been getting SO crafty lately.  Sewing reusable snack bags (in lieu of the billions of Ziploc baggies), laminated bibs, dresses, hair pins, etc.  It’s been a sweet little nesty outlet for me these days, as we progress closer and closer to Baby #2’s due date.

HOWEVER.  I recently came across a website called “Crafting a Green World” while searching for a pattern, and I couldn’t resist following this link: From Cloth Pads to Crocheted Tampons: DIY Menstrual Supplies.  Yup.  Not kidding.

Exactly what you think it is.

Now, we use cloth diapers at our house, and I truly dig it.  (To be perfectly open and honest, the thing I love most about cloth is that I don’t have to pay through the nose for diapers. Sure, the water bill is higher, but it’s nothing compared to a regular shipment from Diapers.com or anything.)  But there is something absolutely disgusting – nay, repugnant – about crafting reusable tampons.  I realize that our foremothers knew no different…and knowing that changes nothing.  It’s just gross.

Go ahead, green commenters.  Call me wasteful.  Call me lazy.  And then call me clean and happy cuz I’m not using DIY menstrual supplies.

I titled this post “Seeking advice” because people love to dispense wisdom, and I am in the market for wisdom with my precious Seabass.

Since the very beginning, Seabass has been a mama’s boy.  He only wants Mama to hold him.  He only wants Mama to change his diaper.  He only wants Mama to put him in the carseat.  He only wants to see Mama first thing after he wakes up.  That last one is the biggie.

Because he is amazing and has unrelenting compassion on me, Jake goes in to Seabass first thing in the morning and puts him to bed at night.  The little guppy has mostly grown accustomed to this, with few exceptions.  But if I go in to get him after his nap and Jake is around (say, on a weekend) Jake can’t be anywhere nearby without getting a face-melting glare, a “NO DADDY!!!” or even a slap from Seabass.  It is unacceptable and will not be tolerated.

Now, I know that in a year or so, Seabass will want nothing to do with me.  It will be all Daddy, all the time.  But for now, I’m struggling with how to approach his blatant disrespect for Jake.  It happens all the time, not just when he’s waking up.  We’re tired of tip-toeing around Seabass’ frivolous whims from one moment to the next.  Has anyone else experienced this?  Did anything help?

Sincerely,

Victim of an Ill-Tempered Seabass

Hi, it’s me.  The fat lady with two dogs and a two-year-old that you passed on the Bob Jones Bike Trail this morning.  Yeah, hi.

Maybe you’re from L.A. Or the Bay Area.  Or even Orange County.  And maybe you’re having a really bad day.  Those are the only reasons I can see that could possibly explain why you would yell, “IT’S A TWO-LANE PATH!!!” at me as you sped past in your tidy little black spandex running shorts this morning.

This is San Luis Obispo County, my friend.  We are an active people, but a relaxed and sensitive people.  When you lashed out at me for the two inches I jutted into your “passing lane” to address my toddler’s meltdown, I was speechless.  I mean, really speechless.  My first response after gaping at your prancing backside was to chase you down and give you what-for.

“OH IS IT REALLY?  IS IT REALLY A TWO-LANE PATH??  I WAS SO CONFUSED!  THANKS FOR POINTING IT OUT TO ME, YOU THOUGHTLESS HARPY.”

That’s what I wanted to say.

But my second response was just to cry.  Blame it on being pregnant.

Oh wait – did you not notice that I’m pregnant?

I write this from the waiting area of the blood lab, where I’m undergoing something akin to medieval torture: three-hour testing for gestational diabetes. 

All pregnant women are asked to perform a one-hour glucose test between 24 and 28 weeks; for me, that happened last week.  It entailed showing up, non-fasting, drinking something that tasted like Gatorade, and waiting in the lobby for an hour before the phlebotomist drew my blood for review.  The lab is really nice, complete with a leather recliner and blanket.  I snagged that spot and proceeded to return calls I’d been neglecting to make.  (Yup, I was that obnoxious person on the phone in the waiting room.  Deal.) All in all, it was a decently pleasant experience.  I mean, I got to sit. 

The call from my OB’s office came at quite possibly the worst moment of my week.  I was in the throes of filing a subpoena with the sheriff’s office to summon to court the person who hit and totaled our truck parked outside the house a few weeks ago.  (Funny story: We’d owned the truck for less than a month, the perp didn’t have insurance, and has stopped returning our calls. Hilarity!)  The process had me running up, down, and sideways through the county court building with Seabass in tow.  He was being *extremely* good, but even a very well-behaved two-year-old is still a curious two-year-old.  I swear, no electricity outlet in that building went uninspected.

“Hi Jaime, this is Gladys from the OB’s office.”

“Uh-oh, this can’t be good news,” I said, already knowing why she was calling.

“You didn’t pass your glucose test.”

“Hmm.  Seabass, no!  No licking the carpet! So, what does that mean?”

“That means you need to take another test.”

“Like what kind of test?”

[Pause] “You need to do a fasting three-hour test at the lab.  And it needs to be within the next few days.”

[Seabass yelling “Mamamamamamamamamamamama” in the background.]

“You’re kidding me.”

“Um, no.”

The test itself sounded awful.  But even worse, how would I handle childcare???  I couldn’t bring the untamable Seabass along for a three-hour wait.  If I did, someone wouldn’t leave the building alive, and my bet would be on the fasting pregnant woman.

OMG no no no.

But Jake and I were able to work out a complex plan that is too boring to detail here.  So here I sit, alone, back in the waiting room’s recliner, starving and cranky.  And it’s only the first hour.

Did I mention that they’re taking my blood FOUR TIMES this morning?  FASTING????

What does it all mean?  Apparently I’m at risk for gestational diabetes, and frankly, I’m not too surprised.  My skin, my bones, my ligaments, every part of me is stretched to the limit holding this sweet little giant girl.  Even though my OB tells me I’m “right on track,” I know without a doubt that I am far larger than I was with Seabass at this point in the game.  And yeah, I know everyone’s bigger the second time around.  I’m talking A LOT bigger.

If I do, in fact, have gestational diabetes, but don’t follow the prescribed no-carb diet, I could end up giving birth to, like, a 15-pound baby. 

There is actually a medical term for a “fat baby” at birth: macrosomia.  And macrosomiatic babies don’t enter the world easily, as you can imagine.  Oh geez. The thought of anything larger than the 9-pound Seabass swimming through my birth canal kind of makes me kinda gag. 

End of post.

[THREE DAYS LATER]

Got the call.  Fat baby, here we come.

My friend from college, Hannah Bos, was always funny.  But now she’s, like, funny and famous. Check her out in this video that parodies MTV’s “16 and Pregnant.” (It was featured on Jezebel!) And laugh it up, people, because this is probably your life.

And if it’s not, please don’t be mad at me.  OK thanks.

Since I discovered I was pregnant with our second child, I haven’t really dipped my toe into the postpartum depression discussion that I swam so freely in after the birth of our dear Seabass.  Maybe I’ve been feeling more private about it.  Or maybe I’ve felt more hopeful, and didn’t want to jinx it.

Or maybe I’m just pregnant, exhausted, and spending all of my free time drooling on the couch.

The truth is, when I don’t share what’s going on with me, I feel like I lose touch with reality.  So here’s the update, friends.

I was pretty nervous about being on antidepressants through this pregnancy.  Of course, I did the stupid, more-harm-than-good Google search on “citalopram while pregnant” and learned all manner of horrible things that I was inflicting on my growing baby: lungs with holes in them, autism, emaciation, heart murmers, you name it.

So I took these concerns to my OB, who told me it was important that I stay with my meds until the third trimester, by which time I should have weaned off of them.  The goal is not to create a dependency in the child, and to ensure that she’s as vibrant and vigorous at birth as possible.

In the meantime, I’ve had my thyroid checked a number of times by a prescribing naturopath in whom I very much trust.  She specializes in thyroid dysfunction – which runs in my family – and is extremely conservative about treatments during pregnancy.  She put me on something called Thyrosine, which has been VERY beneficial.  In fact, the best I’ve felt since I had Seabass was while I was on both the antidepressants and Thyrosine.  I thought I had everything figured out.

But then I started to wean off the antidepressants in anticipation of my third trimester.  Last week, I took only two doses of citalopram and doubled my Thyrosine.  While it’s not nearly as gloomy around here as it was before I went on antidepressants, it’s gloomy enough to make me wonder: Am I just tired because I’m pregnant?  Do I cry every day just because I’m hormonal?  Am I depressed again because my thyroid went AWOL?  Or – my least favorite option – AM I JUST A DEPRESSED PERSON BY NATURE?

So here I am, at week 26, the official beginning of Trimester Three, just hanging in there.  My weight gain is higher this time around (22 lbs) so I have a hard time moving around without grunting.  My back hurts like the Dickens and my patience with my gorgeous two-year-old Seabass often runs quite thin.

But my baby girl is protected, and that is a weight off my shoulders.  A confidante recently told me how much she respected that I was off the antidepressants for the sake of the baby.  I told her I was sure to screw the child up over the course of her childhood, so it’s only fair that I give her some peace in utero.

And yes, the citalopram prescription is ready and waiting for the day after I give birth.

Jake and I love to dance.  In fact, our first date included hours of fancy footwork at The Boom Boom Room in San Francisco.  After cutting a rug with Jake, I knew I’d found the Fred to my Ginger.

Then, many years later, we had Seabass.  And let me tell ya, this kid has moves.

For example, check out Seabass’ jazz hands around 0:08.  We like to call it his “Shekinah Glory” maneuver.

Given our family’s urges to groove, I am completely unsurprised that the little girl in my tummy is performing Riverdance on my bladder as I type.  God help us all.

Um…maybe not THIS happy. This image proudly taken from some miserable stock photo website.

A beloved friend of mine recently got me a subscription to The New Yorker (which makes me feel like a genius whenever I manage to read an entire article), and a recent piece entitled “The Case Against Kids” by Elizabeth Kolbert studied the argument that people who have children are less happy than those who don’t.I’ve grown a little weary of this position, as, frankly, I don’t need to hear it.  So I was pleasantly surprised to read the following letter articulately addressed to the editor in the May 7 issue.

Elizabeth Kolbert mentions “research [that] shows that people who have children are no more satisfied with their lives than people who don’t” as a factor in Christine Overall’s case that people should reconsider procreation (“The Case Against Kids,” April 9th). But what does self-reported happiness really measure? Consider two hypothetical Saturdays: one spent sitting on the sofa, and another spent climbing a mountain. It is safe to assume that the couch-sitter would report higher levels of hour-by-hour happiness than the climber, as he would encounter none of the fatigue and pain experienced by the latter. But the climber would be able to report a sense of accomplishment, and would have banked a memorable experience. Put simply, happiness involves two dimensions: gratification and achievement. When some researchers purport to be measuring “happiness,” I think they are really measuring gratification. As the parent of a small child, I can attest to the fact that parenting at this stage is mainly an achievement activity, in that every day feels great, but often not until I’m sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine at the end of it.

Dan Mayer
Berlin, Germany

Hurray for a smart person!!!  I love the distinction between gratification and achievement, and definitely feel the latter more than the former these days as the parent of a two-year-old.  Thank you, Mr. Mayer, for putting into words what no amount of research ever could.

(And with that distrust of research in mind, I also share the following article from USA Today, purportedly claiming that parents today are happier than non-parents.)