Mama's Tragic Flaw

That was Ephram Brown, the wry and sensitive teenage protagonist from "Everwood," which sadly went off the air in 2005.

Needless to say, it was because of this character that I fell in love with the name "Ephraim" (original Biblical spelling) and I thought even then that this name might also fit my future son.

Here is Effram James when he was just a few days old. He had a scab on his nose from his jaundice sunglasses. His cry sounded like that of a little goat.

I love the actual Effram much more than a fictional character on a cheesy network drama starring Treat Williams. And I'm not goofy enough to compare my kid to a tv character.

But I do compare him to myself. That in itself is a parent's tragic flaw.

Lucy may look more like me, and she is feisty. But actually, Lucy is a very happy child in general. Thank God, because happiness is not so much in my genes, which is why we picked for a sperm donor a laid back California dude with no history of depression in his family.

Effram, however, is extremely sensitive. Having twins gives one the unique experience of seeing two creatures growing side by side in such different ways. If you're lucky, one baby usually follows the typical "norm" developmentally, such as rolling over, crawling, walking, talking, chewing and swallowing food, etc.  When the other doesn't, it's hard not to notice. For example, we hoped Lucy would stop spitting out her food after nearly digesting it, and for the most part she has. We hoped Effram would start walking eventually, and he did, 3 months after his sister. (He had such a fast, kickass crawl-- it was obvious why he didn't want to let it go). So now we're hoping Effram will eventually stop crying all the time.

He cries when he falls, when he bumps his head, or when somebody leaves the house. Those are all common things that make babies sad. He cries when he wakes up and when he has to go to sleep. Again, pretty common. He also cries when he has the slightest pain, physical or existential. He feeds his cookie to the dog and then cries that it is gone. He breaks his sandwich into parts and then cries that it's not whole anymore.

If we smell something foul coming from the nursery, it's a safe bet that Effram will start to cry. When examined, it's an even safer bet that the culprit is still asleep. That's right-- Effram cries when Lucy poops.

He cries when he wants something or when he doesn't want anything or when he doesn't know what he wants.

Today I don't know. I think he's crying for Mubarak to resign.

He has made progress. He's crying less at night, and sleeping through the night about 3-4 times a week. Basically this means I lied in that last blog post. I just loved those smiling, happy pictures of E.Bear. I was feeling sensitive after a family member said, "I've never actually seen him happy before." I wanted to make sure people knew that my baby isn't like, depressed.

But some days and nights, the neighbors probably wonder. Why does that kid cry so much? What are they doing to him?

I shouldn't have watched that episode of "Bipolar Kids" on Discovery Health. Seeing those kids and their parents suffer with this "invisible illness" just about destroyed me.

I've been depressed since I was a fetus. As a kid I was always angry or irritable, having tantrums, and then retreating to my bedroom where I'd rock back and forth for hours. My behavior was similar to that of children on the Autism Spectrum. Everything had some sort of unpleasant sensory and/or emotional undertone to it. I was (am) extremely sensitive to certain sounds. I hated family meals because I couldn't stand the sound of utensils touching plates or bowls or the noises people made while chewing. I've always been hard to live with because I cannot stand people brushing or flossing their teeth, cutting their nails, eating cereal or ice cream, typing, or snoring. Chewing gum, or, God-forbid "popping" one's gum is an infraction that has led to fights with friends and public tantrums. The sound is so offensive to my ears that it turns me into an instant crazy person. To this day! (I almost put my fist into a display case at Target last night because of this).

But it's not about me.

Sure, depression is genetic, but we also pass down our issues onto our kids. I don't want to do that to either of them. They are toddlers and being toddlers is hard enough.

So he rolls around on the floor banging his head and screaming for no apparent reason, refusing to be held or played with or fed, and does so while his sister is smiling and bringing him a cracker to cheer him up. Lucy has typical toddler tantrums all the time, and we deal with them without speculation or suspicion.

It's my job to love him and keep him out of trouble (such as electrical outlets). It's also my job to step aside and let him be. It seems we have to protect our kids from our own bullshit too.

At the end of the day, thank God I have a partner who balances me out. 

"Honey," she says. "He probably just has to poop."