Overheard

Shawn Joaquin:

"NO, Madelena! Don't put THAT in the toilet. That's not a good idea. Here - take THIS."

A bike? WTF, Santa!

As any good mom will do, I had been holding the "Santa sees you" concept high over Shawn Joaquin's head for weeks whenever he assaulted me with a "NOOO-AH! NOOOOO-AH! I NOT GOING TO DO THAT!" protest when told it's nap time, bedtime, bath time, mealtime or any other time that did not suit his personal schedule. I was, on occasion, tempted to go to 1-2-3-No-Santa-This-Year, but a fear of giving him too much fodder for his inevitable therapy sessions held me back. To add the story of how Santa didn't come the first year he actually believed in Santa — all because he said NO one too many times or drew back his little hand to smack mama's head— just seemed far too cruel and potentially embarrassing. So instead Shawn Joaquin lost television, Spiderman, Mickey Mouse and the privilege of roaming freely about the house rather than enjoying his fourth time-out of the day. So it was with great joy and anticipation that he awoke on Christmas day, ready to see what Santa had brought despite his 3 hours of wailing in bed the night before — protesting sleep, even though he knew Santa only arrives when children are sleeping — and his pre-dawn wake up on the Christmas morning.

Just days before Christmas, Shawn Joaquin had announced that Santa was bringing him lots and lots of Diego toys. Whenever asked about Santa, he would respond with something along the lines of "yeah, that fat guy who is bringing me lots and lots of Diego toys and animals and more." We, of course, had purchased him a classic Red Flyer step trike with streamers and a bell that shocks the senses, all in the hopes of encouraging more outdoor activity and better coordination. But not wanting to ruin the illusion his first year of faith in Santa, I did a quick online order for two Diego vehicles with accompanying animals and action Diegos. As Shawn Joaquin raced upstairs, I got the camera ready to capture his joy at the shiny new bike and the packages stacked around it.

WHAT?!
IS?!
THIS?!
WHERE ARE MY TOYS?
I WANT TOYS!
I WANT DIEGO TOYS! NOW-AH! NOW-AH! NOW-AH!!!!

And thus began the new Season of Greed and the introduction of a character not previously revealed in Shawn Joaquin's psyche — the GIMME GIMME GIMME boy. In years past we could barely hold his interest in his Christmas stocking before he wandered off to read a book or explore the underside of the coffee table, let alone get him to open a gift. This year was a frenetic display of gift-wrap ripping, regardless of whose name was on any given package. At one point I found a beautiful gingham photo album meant for my mom in his hands, a look of disgust on his face as he tossed it aside and dove for yet another package that might possibly contain something more appealing...perhaps with moving and soon-to-be broken parts or a thing that shoots stuff at the unsuspecting little sister walking by. Each new toy was greeted with a quick "WHAT IS IT, WHAT IT DO?" before being tossed aside with the same enthusiasm as the photo album.

Gregg blamed preschool, I blamed the cookie I gave him to keep him in bed for another 30 minutes, and my parents assured us it was all normal 4-year old behavior. Regardless, we have pledged that next year there will be ONE gift from Santa (a toy that will not be obscured by the false vanity and annoying obstacle of gift wrap) and one gift from my parents. His gift from us will be a visit to his toy shelf to choose those items he wants to donate to children in need, perhaps followed by a trip to Peet's for steamed milk, banana bread and a talk about the spirit of giving. It's that or a swift kick in the butt. Holiday jury is still out on that one.

Happy holidays to all. Now where are my goddamn toys....

Epistolary, Part Deux

Dear Friends and Family:

It's time for our annual letter, the one in which we proclaim our successes that far exceed yours, the 17 trips we took to exotic places, our four-year-old's early acceptance to an Ivy League school, and the many awards conferred upon both myself and Gregg for exceptional community service/work performance/cure for disease/great hair. So let's just get to it so you can read it and then go back and feel even worse about your pitiful life, as your wails echo in the hollow emptiness that is your world.

This year we made many trips to places far and near, expanding our horizons and debt load. From Rite Aid and Safeway to exotic locales like Livermore, Richmond and Hayward (often mistakenly called the Armpit of The Bay Area by jealous outsiders), we enjoyed the multiple cultures, languages and driving styles found in each unique community. The highlight of our travels was a trip to Ranch 99, where we stocked up on Thai foods for our new au au pair, Noo. Thankfully, she is no Khe San and her vocabulary extends well beyond "Daddy", "shiny" and "five dollar now". In fact, she is as cute as a button and weighs about as much, and is quite wholesome and a great addition to our family.

Madelena is also clearly a new addition to our family, and when she's not creating small mosaics made from cheerios and dried mac and cheese found in the corners of her high chair (to later display at the Getty) she's telling us what to do and how to do it and when to do it. It's so nice to have another dictator in the house, relieving me of what has been my constant responsibility.

Shawn Joaquin is excelling in Spanish, insubordination, wailing, kicking, crying and screaming and I expect that any day now he will elevate the art of Creating Chaos in Otherwise Peaceful Public Places. We love him to pieces, and will enjoy him each and every moment until the gypsies finally name their price or we sell him with a Starbucks gift card as a gift-with-purchase incentive. As we often say on the rare occasions when he smiles at me, it's a good thing he's beautiful and occasionally the most charming and precious boy in the world. It's that which keeps CPS at bay.

Gregg continues to work long hours that tax his health and our relationship, and I couldn't be more proud of the many hours and pints of blood he gives his employers. With their micromanaging of him, along with the constant pressure to make more money while spending less, my hopes of an early retirement — living off the life insurance, of course — could come true.

My work is one of our downsides; I am treated with respect, allowed to work from home and see my children throughout the day, and am immune (because of distance) from the office politics and maneuvering that so often cause nightmares, panic attacks and poor clothing choices driven by a "maybe if I show my boobs they won't notice the errors on my latest status report" mentality. This disparity between Gregg's work life and mine leaves us with little in common, so we are forced to rely on physical intimacy and actual meaningful conversation to hold this relationship together. Keep your fingers crossed for us and this crazy approach to "healthy relationships."

Well, I have tons of holiday fun to plan - laundry, shopping for vomit and urine removal solutions, wrapping crappy gifts that I bought at Target on the $1 shelf as stocking stuffers, and of course spreading holiday cheer near and far with our family's version of Jingle Bells. It includes the inimitable stylings of Shawn Joaquin and his spin-around-and-fall-down dance, along with my atonal contribution to harmony.

Happy holidays to all, and a reminder to check my Amazon.com wish list for thoughtful gifts that will be sure to surprise and delight me,

Paige

Dear Santa

Shawn Joaquin's letter to Santa:

Dear Santa:

Please give presents to my baby sister, Madelena. I know you are coming to the zoo, and I hope you bring presents. Thank you for the toys you bring. We're friends now.

I am going to leave you a present when it's Christmas time. I will leave you cookies, I think, and carrots for the reindeer. That's it. That's the end of the story.

Shawn Joaquin

My letter to Santa:

Dear Santa:

Please give presents to Shawn Joaquin and Madelena. Please ensure these presents are already assembled, wrapped and any batteries are already in place. Please don't give them crap that will break in two weeks or I will have to break in two weeks because of some annoying song, sound or children singing through a tinny speaker. BTW, any Barbie item will immediately be put into a burning pyre, along with any plastic guns, swords or other arms. Yes, she IS that dangerous.

Please give presents to Gregg. This will save me a lot of shopping time that could better be used as bath time. While showers have become a distant memory of a cleaner, more attractive time, I do enjoy the occasional bubble bath where the roar of the pipes drowns out the call of responsibility or a wailing child/husband.

Please don't worry about any presents for me. I have enough material goods and would really only want a 30 hour day during which I could be invisible for 6 hours, and I know your elves are still working on that one for moms everywhere.

Shawn Joaquin said we would leave you cookies and carrots. The carrots are sure to be there, but the cookies might be gone. Just know they were really delicious and made with love by me, for me...I mean you.

Merry Christmas,
Paige

Scream-along Nutcracker

One of San Francisco's unique traditions is the Dance-along Nutcracker, performed by the LGBT Orchestra and friends. The performers are of all ages, shapes and genders — without regard to the role played — and the audience is invited to dance along over a dozen times in a style closer to a bacchanal than a ballet. Thanks to our good friend Krista, we were in the front row and only 5 feet from the giant rat who would be narrating this rat-ified version of The Nutcracker, as perceived or conceived by all the rats vilified in previous versions of The Nutcracker.

After much fuss in getting there (yes, we need to go fast, fast, fast. No, you can't touch the train while it goes by. No, you don't have to smile or talk to that man with the bottle in his hand), we were finally installed in our seats and ready for the band to begin. At their first trumpeted notes and the opening song of the six-foot rat, Shawn Joaquin began to wail.

I WANNA GO HOOOOME!
I WANNA GO HOOOOOME NOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWW!
THIS IS TOO SCARY! THIS IS NOT FOR CHILDREN!!!

All of this was of course picked up by the mic five feet in front of us, much to my chagrin and the dual amusement and annoyance of those around us. I did the classic duck and run with him in my arms, trying to convince him that the towering rat was our friend, the band was just comprised of geeks and nerds (yes, even gay bands are nerdy and wear tennis shoes with dress pants and make unfortunate decisions when it comes to whether to tuck or not tuck) who would never hurt us, and that all would soon be good and right with the world.

Life with a child who has unreasonable fear and a need for order embedded in his heart can be challenging. He regularly shrieks DON'T SMILE AT ME, WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING? if he sees amusement on one of his parent's faces. In his room, no item can be out of place or at less than right angles without inducing a screaming panic attack. He is afraid of new people, pants with tags, loud music outside of the genres in which he is most comfortable, being left at the bottom of the stairs while I precede him, using the wrong color towel, taking off his own socks, having a door closed too quickly or his clothing put on or pulled off with any speed. He is panicked and angered by mismatched pajamas, the prospect of me spending time with Gregg, phone calls in which his name is mentioned, unanswered questions, pretend games that last for more than two minutes and are not instigated by him, crooked pictures and unexpected laughter. As deeply as I love my son, some of our public moments are tinged with embarrassment or annoyance, like having to scoop and run in the spotlight meant for the giant rat at The Nutcracker.

We returned to our seats after five minutes of fierce whispers, calming his fears and assuring him there was nothing to be afraid of and that if in five minutes he still wanted to leave we would. Thankfully, the rat learned not to look Shawn Joaquin in the eye, Shawn Joaquin's sugar high from a candy cane kicked in and he let loose with some of his patented spin around and fall down dance moves. While he never took his eye off the rat, we were able to enjoy 2 hours of dancing, singing and generally spastic behavior. During that time I was able to see that sweet, sweet boy I enjoyed for nearly four years before his sister arrived and ruined his life. I can only hope to see him again and more often in the coming weeks and months, and pray that some day he will return to us full time...at least until adolescence, when I fully expect that his raging hormones will be accompanied by bad behavior that masks his good, inner self. And then I will pull out this photo to remind me of his inner goodness and, if necessary, to blackmail him into at least pretending he likes me in front of his friends.

ER: emergency or social outting?

On Friday night Madelena and I spent four and half long hours in the ER, which she entered listless and with burning skin and glassy eyes. By the time we left, she was bouncing up and down on my chest while whacking me in the head and shouting BABUU, BABUU in a steroid-induced fit of glee. It was 3am, and the prospect of bed was apparently not appealing to her, as I would soon learn.

In our long time in the ER I was pleased that — unlike a previous visit — at no time did I feel a need to ask the doctor if perhaps I could speak to their father or another adult on premise. We were treated with kindness, knowledge and just the right amount of appreciation for Madelena's beautiful face and outgoing disposition. And I learned much about the healthcare situation in America from a side I had not expected — the patients who abuse the system, versus the insurance companies and medical corporations that stick you $20 for a Tylenol or deny your surgery claim, without which your foot would still be in the cooler where the other guy on the line placed it after you stumbled into the chipper.

Madelena and I spent some time alone in a two-bed room before a young boy and his mother and aunt joined us. After they turned up Nick at Night loud enough to drown out our viewing of Lady and the Tramp, I abandoned any attempt at cajoling Madelena into sleep. With Will Smith and company loudly going through the motions on The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, they were forced to speak even louder — it was as if they had forgotten that it was they who had turned it up and ultimately had control over the volume of both the TV and their own speech. But it was thanks to this failing that I learned much about them and their reason for being there.

When the first nurse entered to find out why they were there, the mother told her the boy had stepped on a nail and the hole had started hurting a few hours earlier. Then in the course of several other conversations with residents and nurses, it turned out this had happened the week before and had been treated at the ER with both antibiotics and a tetanus shot and in fact no longer hurt. But he had a rash a couple of weeks ago...could they take a look at that? And his stomach had hurt that day and he'd had to take some Pepto Bismol...maybe he needed an X-ray or sumpin', because he'd been drinking the Pepto for most of his life, so clearly there was a problem. And he had a headache - maybe that was related to the foot injury or the stomachache, but someone should take a look at that too. When asked if the boy had ever been hospitalized, the mother replied "Well, no, usually we just hang out in the ER for the night or so."

With those words, I realized that not only did they regularly visit the ER for medical issues that could easily be resolved at a doctor's office during regular business hours, but that for them the ER was perhaps their equivalent of going to the mall and hanging out at the food court. Soon a friend arrived with burgers and fries to make up for the lack of Pup on a Stick outlets in the hospital. When we left at 3am, they were all enjoying the George Lopez show, milkshakes and fries and were reclining in found wheelchairs and the bed. Loud guffaws of laughter emitting from all three adults and the young boy, who clearly had no bedtime on any given night and unlimited access to adult TV. So it was Friday night fun in the ER at no cost to the patient and a whopping bill to the insurance company - that's what I'M talkin' about.

I stumbled back to my car, feeling weak with a need for sleep and relief at Madelena's improved condition. While a burger and fries DID sound good, I know I would much prefer to enjoy that at home or someplace without the odor of Betadine in the air and a chance that any surface was covered with some potentially deadly virus or bacteria. And as much as I had enjoyed the bonding aspects of holding my child for hours, the ER was not some place I would want to spend any more nights, regardless of what's on TV.

Mi Americana

For the last four months I have spoken nothing but Spanish to Madelena, which now comes naturally after a few weeks of translating in my own head. After a series of failed nanny relationships, she is also now being cared for full time by someone who speaks nothing but Spanish to her or anyone else. Every book is in Spanish, most of her music is in Spanish, and I am learning new words every day to keep up with her growing number of questions (usually indicated by pointing at something and saying "Ooooooooh?"). Even Shawn Joaquin starts her day by shouting BUENOS DIAS MI AMOR! and saying repeatedly to her as she heads towards one of his toys NO LO TOQUES! NO LO TOQUES! MAAAAMAAAA!

So today, with great pride, she pointed at Cheyenne....always referred to as la perra, la perrita or la perrita loca. Staring deep into Cheyenne's eyes she said with great force: DOG. DOG. DOG.

"NO. Perrrrrra, perrrrrrra, mi amor."

At that she threw back her head and laughed and shouted "Bye byeeeeee" as she took off for the stairs, probably on her way upstairs to listen to her Rosetta Stone English tapes sent to her by her anti-bilingualism grandparents. Holy crap. I mean...santo mierda.

Blessed are the parents

Too often my blog focuses on the challenges of parenting rather than the rewards; in fact one potential babysitter read my blog and decided to take a pass on caring for the kids. Part of the reason for my topics are the universality of the challenges and my desire to not make others feel bad by comparing their children to my nearly perfect ones. Or to wax on about their deliciousness and leave readers retching. But today you'll need to get your barf bags ready.

Like most mothers, I love my children beyond words. Like some mothers, at least once a day I am overcome by tears not because of a 33 minute fit but because I am overwhelmed by their sweetness, their goodness or even their evilness that presents itself in some new skill that brings danger or destruction one step closer. Only yesterday I watched Madelena find one of the tot lock keys and come oh-so-close to opening a cabinet filled with electronics too hot to touch, and rather than feeling alarmed I was weepy at her intelligence and coordination and the look of sheer triumph on her face as she heard the tell-tale "click" that would allow her in the cabinet. Or when Shawn Joaquin happily said "okay" and grinned at me after I asked him in a gruff voice to put away all the toys, even though I was sure that most of them had been strewn about by Madelena. Or when we all gathered in bed, with feet in my face and milk spilling on the comforter, only seconds away from ordering everyone out but was interrupted by Shawn Joaquin's declaration of "we're a family, huh, Mama? We're all a family because we love each other" before diving on his sister for a scream-inducing hug.

Unlike some families, we chose to become a family. There was no "oops" moment, staring at a pregnancy test or at the calendar, counting back the days from my last period. Shawn Joaquin was sought out, worked for and waited for. Gregg joined us with full knowledge that by marrying me he would become a father for life. And Madelena too was sought out, worked for and waited for by three of us for far, far too long. This doesn't make our family better than others; it simply makes me more aware of the choice and provides me with a reminder that this is the life and the family I chose, and they are truly a gift to me and my reason for being.

These holidays will truly be our happiest ever, with all of us finally home where we belong. With Shawn Joaquin finally over his fear of Santa and fully aware of both the giving and receiving qualities of Christmas. With Madelena ready to tear ornaments from the tree with an excited "BABUUUU", her unique cheer of triumph. And Gregg perhaps past his "holy crap, I'm a father and there's no getting out of it" phase and into a new phase in which he is telling me that he's falling more and more in love with our children each and every day. And for that and all three of them, I am grateful and blessed each and every day.


Happy holidays.

1-2-3 Mama loses it

I ran away yesterday.

After watching Shawn Joaquin have a 33-minute wailing meltdown, complete with kicks and shrieks and punching of furniture, I was weak. But what had really killed me was my own visceral reaction. I had visions of smacking his head, locking him in a closet, shaking him into silence, bopping his head, knocking him down. I did none of those things and calmly counted 1-2-3-You lose X, though I did cover his mouth at one point when he was particularly loud and had just woken Madelena after only 20 minutes of a long-overdue nap. And he did get a light swat on the bottom that killed me in retrospect but caused no physical pain to him and probably was not even registered in his by-then hysterical head. But inside my own I was seething and ready to scream obscenities and things that would shame him and me years from now. I felt I was millimeters away from being the next headline.

So after he had finally calmed down and was eating a snack as if the world had not nearly ended, I left the house and put the new nanny in charge.

I spent the next two hours deeply depressed and shamed and unable to even look in his eyes. I felt like the world's worst parent, yet still had an unreasonable anger towards him for bringing this out in me, even if it never reached the surface. Especially when only a few hours earlier we had sat like the world's two closest chums, enjoying a shared Jamba Juice in the sunshine, our feet up as we watched the passerby in Montclair.

Everyday we read about horrible things that happen to children, the latest being the tragic and heinous Baby Grace story. We are horrified and sickened, and I find myself in tears nearly every day that I read the paper. We can't believe anyone could hurt an innocent child, done anything to bruise or emotionally torture his or her little body or spirit. But every mom I have talked to has had a moment when the only thing that stood between themselves and a loss of control was the hard-earned wisdom to know when to walk away, run away or take a deep breath and count 1-2-3-You lose X. Most of these moms are in the 30s or 40s and have the inner strength and probably the years of therapy needed to build the inner reserves that silence the little voice screaming "shuuuuuuut uppppppp" as their child screams, open-mouthed and epiglottis flapping in the wind.

Two days ago I spoke to a friend whose daughter has 60 minute screaming fits in which she wails, "I hate you! I wanna break your face!" She is beside herself and unable to sleep because of her own perception of failure as a parent, and her inevitable inability to count 1-2-3 in the face of such wild anger. Another mother told me about yelling at her daughter — who had entertained an entire church congregation by dancing in front while her mother sang — "never dance in church again!" And I have yelled at Shawn Joaquin after he clotheslined his sister with an embrace from behind "STOP HUGGING YOUR SISTER! NOW!" And all of us are embarrassed and ashamed by our raised voices and the absurdity of the words, the visions of smack downs in our head, and the worry that others have witnessed our lack of control.

Yet what we all may need to do is this: give yourself a break. Run away if you have to, be it for some retail therapy or a Jamba Juice or to just walk down the street to visit another mom who will tell you it's all okay. And know that because you are a strong and competent woman and mother, you will never answer to those little voices in your head and as long as they remain there, you're okay. And so is your child who, until brain-reading becomes the latest gadget from Sharper Image, will never know there was a moment when you considered locking him or her in a closet and leaving the house for an extra large caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream.

Big fat slacker parent

Until recently, I was in Shawn Joaquin's classroom daily. Each day I saw his joy at his first sighting of Cole and their tender goodbye - an embrace, followed by a gentle kiss on Shawn Joaquin's shoulder, Cole's eyes gently closed as if to say "goodbye, my sweet, goodbye". I saw which kids brought organic lunches, which ones had a Safeway sandwich and which ones eschewed lunch altogether and used their lunchera as merely a prop or a billboard for their latest pop cultural interest - Diego, Dora, Backyardigans or simply hemp. I was the first to sign up for the Halloween pot luck, did crafts in class for Shawn Joaquin's birthday, spent time planning his show-and-tell item on Fridays, affixed new photos in his lunchbox each week to surprise him and was the most adamant about teachers being present for drop off and parents being on time. I became a fixture at nearby parks and in the parking lot after drop off, a mom you could count on to watch your kid for five minutes while you ran into the school to ask a question or find a lost jacket. Then I returned to work and, ultimately, to my big fat slacker mom status.

Yesterday, only two short weeks after returning to work, I received a call from Shawn Joaquin's TA, the beloved Maria Jose.

Hi, did you know school gets out early today? In 5 minutes?

NO!

Yes, we had a little party with everyone for grandparents day and —

—we're on our way.

Gregg rushed to school to pick up Shawn Joaquin, leaving me home to deal with a client conference call and my growing angst. He arrived to find the parking lot filled with complete, multi generational families toting casserole dishes and happy children, along with handmade frames and a picture of a child who is actually loved and cared for at a higher level. When he entered the classroom, he found Shawn Joaquin sitting on the floor with only one other abandoned child, clearly another victim of slacker parenting. Later, when questioned, Shawn Joaquin was unable to even name or describe the child, leading me to believe that perhaps this was some homeless kid who had wandered into the room and thus reducing the count of slacker-parented kids to one and the need for tighter security to Code Red.

When Shawn Joaquin returned home, I learned there had been a pot luck and "lots and lots of peoples came with families and childrens and I had a GOOD time." While I was sick inside, I thought perhaps we had dodged a bullet and he had been so enthralled with the change of scene that our absence — and that of his grandparents, who find us geographically undesirable — had not been noticed. He happily ate a guilt-provided snack of leftover pizza and handed over his handmade picture frame with a grinning shot of him. I tried not to imagine each child handing over the gift to their loving families, while Shawn Joaquin sat in the corner talking to an imaginary dog or banging his head on the wall.

After a few minutes, he announced his desire to take a nap and made his way downstairs. As he stopped by my home office for last minute goodbyes, he asked a question.

Why you not come today? Because you love me?

I realized that quite often my rote answer to repeated questions is indeed "Because I love you." It's the answer for him as to why I cut the crusts off his sandwich, don't let him walk on the edge of the sidewalk, kiss him unexpectedly, give him an extra glass of milk, help him put his shoes on, buckle him into his car seat, read him Backyardigans for the billionth time, make him popcorn, raise my voice when he bolts out of the door and even why he gets Diego bubbles in the bath tub. But not even I, knowing that the answer could be easily accepted, could say "yes, I was not there because I love you" and hope that the nonsensical reply would pass through his unguarded gates.

Well, baby, I wasn't there because I was working and I —
— can I use big people toothpaste? I wanna brush my teeth. Where's Madelena? What Daddy doing now? Who made my bed? I...

And with that I realized that he was not yet on to my failings, had yet to realize my big fat slacker parent status, and that perhaps I had until the next big missed event before that would creep up on him. In the meantime, I will more studiously read parent emails and mark my calendar and hope that next time the one lone kid in the classroom without a parent is not mine and if we're all very lucky, actually does not exist at all.

You say "peine", I say "pene"

I had my first Spanish tutoring session today since returning from Antigua. It was wonderful to speak with an adult and be able to tell her more than that I wanted to change her diaper or ask if she could go find her bottle. Luisa complimented my accent and my newfound fluidity, bolstering my confidence. Since Madelena's arrival in my life, I have been committed to speaking only Spanish to her and have been concerned about using poor grammar or somehow ruining her language acquisition skills.

All is not golden, however. In committing to speaking only Spanish, sometimes words are left unsaid. Or, as I learned today from Luisa, I may be directing her to do things that I had not intended through simple mispronunciation or sheer, unadulterated idiocy.

What I meant to say:
Go this way. You're worth the pain. I have missed you so much. You have stolen my heart.

What I was actually saying:
This road. You're worth the penis. I have thrown you. You have barked my heart.

This is why sometimes, just sometimes, it is better to be silent and thought a fool than to open one's mouth and confirm it.

The boy is back

This weekend I had the double whammy of a migraine and some weird respiratory/GI virus. As I wallowed in self-pity in the dark, ice on my head and a rumbling in my stomach, Shawn Joaquin joined me.

What you doing, mama?

I'm sick, baby. Please be gentle with mama.

Does your bottom hurt? Is there poo poo like fire coming out of your bottom like this? [insert fire breathing dragon sound]

Why yes, yes it is.

It's okay, mama. I'll protect you.

And with that he gave me a gentle kiss on my arm and patted my head.

Thank you, lord, for finally returning Shawn Joaquin the Furious to the alien planet from whence he came, and leaving in his place the sweet, sweet boy I have so missed. Now, lord, about that fire coming out of my ass...

Signs of Armageddon

"Aflac presents: The Brian Boitano Skating Spectacular will be the first ice show ever held at AT&T Park.

The show, which is set to the music of the 70's, will include songs from Barry Manilow’s new album, The Greatest Songs of the Seventies, and is choreographed by Renee Roca, two-time U.S. ice dancing champion. The December 5th performance, promoted by Seybold/Egan Productions, will also be taped for future airings on The Style Network.

Joining Olympic Gold Medalist Boitano and music legend Manilow will be Olympic gold medalists Dorothy Hamill, David Pelletier and Viktor Petrenko."

I'm pretty sure this is a sure sign that it's time to put your head between your knees and kiss your ass goodbye. Happy holidays.

Tick...tick...911

Last week I returned to work, and through a painful series of events have ended up entrusting my children into the care of a new nanny I met only 72 hours before. As I watched them pull out of the driveway the first time, I had a moment of panic that has yet to fully subside. What do I know about this woman? So she had references...who says they weren't faked? So I have a copy of her driver's license...who says she's not a con woman and it's a fake too? WHAT DO I REALLY, TRULY KNOW AND WHO WILL I CALL IF MY CHILDREN DO NOT RETURN IN THE NEXT 10 MINUTES???

Working mothers have dealt with this issue for years, and I know that I am more fortunate than most to have a nanny rather than dropping my children off at some mucus-heavy day care with the possibility of a Mary McMartin scandal hiding in the closet. But to watch my children drive away, realizing that Madelena has never even been a car with Gregg — I am her sole chauffeur and primary caregiver — I felt a tightening in my chest and a flipping in my stomach not unlike what I experienced looking over the edge of the observation deck on the Empire State Building. Even the fleeting thought of anything happening to my children is enough to drop me to my knees.

Before I had children, parents told me there were no words to describe the depth of love and emotion you feel for your own child, regardless of how they came to be your child. I nodded as if I understood, foolishly believing that I DID understand. Gregg at one time told me he hated people telling him that because he felt it was arrogant and rude and patently false. But now that we are both parents, I know that at least one of us finally knows what we didn't know — that having a young child is more akin to falling in love, and always being in the crazy falling part. You are filled with angst and overwhelming tenderness and vulnerability and lability and a desire to be as close to that person as you can be, to crawl inside them or eat them up...yet you have moments when you're angry with them for not fulfilling your every dream of who they are or could be, when they have just screamed and scratched your face as you tried to show them off in a public place, when they decide that it was more important to steal your keys and fling them into the bin of produce than to smile or coo or present that loving, delicious face you so often see at home. But, being so deeply and crazily in love, you forgive them everything instantly.

I keep waiting for that moment when turning my back on my son as I leave him at school becomes as easy as dropping off the dry cleaning. When handing Madelena's round little body to someone else becomes a relief and I lose the hesitation as her body loses contact with mine. When I am finally able to take them for granted in the same way they take me for granted, surely one of the best signs of their confidence in our family and their place in it. But for now I will continue to tamp down the panic each and every time the new nanny takes them out of the house, every time I hear the bath running and I am not there to patrol the waters, and every time I listen to my daughter cry from her crib while I am stuck on a conference call and reliant on someone else's not-so-sensitive ears.

Yes, I do want to have a life away from my children. I miss movies and yoga and coffee with adults and having the first voice I hear in the morning be Gregg's instead of Shawn Joaquin's insistent whine: I WANNA SLEEP WITH YOU. YOU'RE IN MY SPACE. DON'T SLEEP THAT WAY. But until there's a way to shrink them down and put them in a little locket around my neck like Orion's galaxy, I will continue to struggle between my need for independence and the need to make sure that when someone screws up and they end up scarred or maimed or just weepy, I'm the one responsible.

Retraction

Yesterday's posting of "Good Dog" has been retracted to ensure the continuation of my marriage. Damn it, it was funny. But apparently...not that funny.

Good dog

Last night I was relaxing in the bath at what I felt was a safe hour, most likely to guarantee 15 uninterrupted minutes of blissful bubbles and reading: 10pm. Less than five minutes into my escape, Gregg knocked on the door.

The baby is crying. What should I do? Can you hear her?

Just...

Oh, great! Now he's crying too! DAMNIT!

Fine. Fine. Just shut the door. I'm coming out.

You don't need to. Just tell me what...

Shut the door, get a bottle, and I'll be there in a second.

This exchange left me chilled and Gregg pissed, feeling dismissed and snapped at. In reality, I was not annoyed in the least but wasn't enjoying the cold air his entrance let in with it. But later, as he huffed and puffed and said I was "mean to him", I realized while I had not been annoyed, damn it, I should have been. If it were he in the bath, I would not be knocking to ask him what to do if the baby cried. Or if the dog threw up on the carpet. Or if the DVR was taping some unknown show and how, oh how, could I change the channel and not lose the show. Though, upon further reflection, perhaps it is myself I should be annoyed with, having taken someone who at one time was quite capable of taking care of himself if not someone else and turned him into my third child.

Women do this all the time. Our male counterparts make a sandwich or dress our child and we look at them as one looks at a puppy who is trying desperately to follow commands but just can't quite do it — with a mix of pity, condescension and affection. Poor, poor little guy. Trying so hard and yet not. Quite. Able to do it. After 100 or so looks like this, what person would not decide to say "fuck it, I'll just ask" rather than be hit ever so softly but effectively with a look that says "oh, good for you for trying!" or more solidly smacked with a glance that says "WTF, can't you do ANYTHING?”

As women, we often feel it's our right to toss these looks about but would be crushed or furious should that same look be shot our way. As mothers in particular, we consider ourselves to be über competent and in no actual need of assistance from anyone, even though we often second guess ourselves on a middle-of-the-night basis, questioning our competence to raise children that won't someday be dependents of the state or ulcer-laden, hypersensitive adults unable to maintain a solid relationship. But perhaps I reveal too much...

I'd like to say that this exchange with Gregg and later epiphany changed me, that I have vowed to kill the "WTF" and the "GOOD FOR YOU!" look when Gregg dresses Madelena in clashing colors or her brother's clothes. But I can't, I just can't. Maybe, just maybe, I AM mean. Or just a woman who knows that while we don't want to keep our man down, we do like to keep him a little dumb — in those moments when we lay awake at night wondering if we made all the right choices for our children that day, we can say "hey, at least I didn't try to feed the baby pepperoni or try to put her diaper on backwards today. And that makes me just a little bit superior to the hunk of man meat lying next to me." And with that, we can finally go peacefully to sleep.

A life in pictures

This picture clearly illustrates all the spare time I have in which to write my blog. More is piling up around here than just trash and excuses.

This picture outlines my plan to scare the crap out of the kids next year:
Carve early. Let'er rot.

And finally, this illustrates Reason #57 why I will not be nominated mother of the year in 2007 or any year: my insistence on documentating — and sharing — my son's lesser moments.

Yes, yes. He's special.

Just back away slowly....

Like all good SAHMs, I find that most of my meals are on the run or off the kids' plates - crusts of bread, leftover sandwiches from the lunchbox, a fat-laden scone grabbed with a cup of coffee as I run errands in Montclair. While I have not gained weight during my family leave, it is only by the grace of my frenetic days that I keep it off. In two short weeks I will return to my sedentary work life, but my palate is sure to remain forever changed — I will still crave iced lemon scones, peanut butter sandwiches, the "saved" Halloween candy and the Ben and Jerry's I feel I so richly deserve after a long day of wiping, feeding, bathing, consoling, walking and transporting kids. So I have decided to proactively lose weight — in preparation for gaining the Deskbound 10 — by using Fat Loss 4 Idiots.

On this diet, you follow 11 days of predetermined meals that are based on 20-30 foods you like. While this may seem like quite a selection, boredom can set it quite easily given that most of them are different types of fruit, vegetables and deli meat. Today is day two - three meals of mixed fruit and one meal comprised of a sandwich with deli meat. No condiments, no luscious mayo and tart pickles and vinaigrette. No, dry bread and thin-sliced meat. But as a break from fruit, it seems like a slice of chocolate decadence cake, a gift from heaven.

I made my dry but thick sandwich and settled in at the coffee table to enjoy it with a sugar-free beverage and the last 10 minutes of the Gilmore Girls. This was my time - my stolen moments while Madelena naps and just minutes before the Shawn Joaquin pick up hour. Imagine my dismay as the phone rang to interrupt my 10 minutes of heaven.

I returned from the phone to find one slice of my precious bread missing — now in the dog's mouth, her lips delicately curled around the edges as she stayed low to the ground, hoping not to be noticed.

DROP IT, CHEYENNE!

She dutifully dropped it and ran, and I did what any sane dieter would do. I slapped it back on my sandwich and slammed it before she could come back for seconds. Yes, damnit, I put the "idiot" in Fat Loss 4 Idiots.

Death in the afternoon

As a parent, you're constantly looking for new ways to entertain your children that don't deplete their college savings or brain cell levels. So you avoid PlayStation, too much television and Disney on Ice and look for more local, cheap activities. Parks are de rigueur, but with two mobile kids an open space can often be a lesson in panic and speed. So I look for interesting places with walls or stroller accessibility or cages.

One of my friends takes his sons to Target to ride the escalators. Another makes regular visits to the Berkeley Vivarium to see the snakes and their friends for sale. For a few hot days in September, our hangout was the IKEA cafe, where we could watch the 80 traffic and eat Swedish meatballs before wandering over to the kids’ section. Once there, we'd bounce on beds and check out the bunks with slides, perhaps playing with a few of the wooden toys on display. A good 90 minutes of fun for about $2.09.

With better weather and a desire to avoid Swedish cinnamon rolls and the traffic in the 80/580 maze, we decided to look for fun closer to home. So now our free entertainment is a drainage tunnel in Montclair that we recently realized was part of a scenic trail built on a former rail line. Jackpot.

Now we have a tunnel in which to howl, a bridge to cross and shout down to the passing cars, and wildlife to view through our new telescope.

Today we enjoyed a long hike, acting out entire scenes from The Jungle Book while appreciating the wild squirrels, hawks and occasional passerby. All of this fun was so exhausting that at one point Shawn Joaquin decided the best place to rest was the middle of the path.

While he rested there, a middle-aged woman strolled by with her requisite Yorkie and sun hat. As Shawn Joaquin panted and continued to extol the virtues of HERE, RIGHT HERE and NO, NO MORE WALKING RIGHT NOW PEESE, she began to speak in a singsong voice.

Oh, it's too bad about that little boy that died on the path, sitting in the sun instead of walking with his mother. They'll find his skeleton, his bleached bones, his little white skull, his body picked clean by the animals and say "Oh, if only he had walked with his mother he'd still be alive today."

She then winked conspiratorially at me and moved on.

Oh.
My.
God.

As my mind raced with how to explain this all to Shawn Joaquin, he who is afraid of skeletons and strangers and aisle five at Rite Aid, he shouted at me.

WHAT SHE SAY? WHAT SHE TALKING ABOUT?

I could only mumble something about crazy people and that I didn't understand her myself, and pick him up with the hopes that he would accept a hug and not ask any more questions. We continued our hike, and the moment seemed to pass.

As we reached a part of the trail with steep drop off, Shawn Joaquin looked over the edge.

I not go down there. If I did, I would die and my bones would be there and I would go up, up, up in the sky and you would be sad and cry forever.

While I decided that perhaps we did indeed need to have a conversation about death and what it means and why he will not get a drivers license until he is 30 and why living at home is a GOOD THING, I also yearned for one of our previous hangouts, where no stranger talks to you about anything but how much they enjoy the lingonberry sauce. Tacka guden för IKEA.

You say Birthday, I say Bribeday

I have started many new posts in the last few days; the titles run the gamut from "Boy4Sale, Cheap" and "Take My Son, Please" to "I am Joe's Vomit" and "Bodily Fluids: Not Just for Bathrooms Anymore." Thankfully, Shawn Joaquin's recent fourth birthday has given me other things to focus on, and we have yet to meet a gypsy family with whom we can strike a cash deal for our little wild boy.

In keeping with his idiosyncratic personality, Shawn Joaquin declared that his birthday should not have a party but still have a jungle theme, and one guest should come to his Not A Party: Amalie the Brilliant. In the weeks leading up to his not-a-big-day, he decided to include Olivia the Beautiful as well, but stopped short of calling it a party and demanded that all the associated mothers and grandmothers come, but no one else. Thankfully, Amalie and Olivia are each blessed with two mothers and no fathers, so no one needed to be excluded.

As the planning progressed, we began to refer to the event as Operation Jungle Babes and the theme morphed to include an emerging African bent, as well as a nod to Venezuela's Amazon tribes. All so very complicated and not readily available at BirthdayinaBox.com, so I became a crafty mom — homemade tablecloth with a unique tribal design, backed by an Ikea shower curtain. A centerpiece created from an Ikea basket and a mix of small palms, with overpriced yet wee jungle animals peering out of it. A tower of homemade cupcakes with centipedes, butterflies, scorpions and other friendly inhabitants of the jungle. The craftiness continued in the form of a tribal beading craft — not just kids' beads but beads purchased from High Strung with much discussion with the owner about the authenticity of said beads. Face painting was a must do, so that meant hours on the computer to determine how we could incorporate tribal-themed face paint — but in a Berkeley-way that was respectful to the indigenous peoples AND doable by one not skilled at face painting. It was all topped off with a DIY pizza opportunity with dough homemade by Gregg over a four hour period; Amalie the Brilliant included a single sliced apple in the center of her DIY pizza, perhaps a subtle homage to Magritte. It all wrapped up with a screening of The Jungle Book in our home theatre, complete with cozy blankets and crazy, inappropriate laughter on the part of all the kids.

In the end, I could have easily outsourced the party to Pump It Up and invited 24 more kids and still have saved countless hours and a big enough chunk of change to keep me in Diet Coke and Lean Cuisines for a long, long while. But I was so very, very sure that this party was it, The Bomb, the thing that Shawn Joaquin would experience and say "wow, you DO love me and now I can stop waking you up every hour on the hour with my banshee-like screams".

As we tucked Shawn Joaquin into bed that night I asked him how he enjoyed the evening.

Did you have a good time?

What Mowgli doing?

He's asleep. Did you have a good time?

I want to see it again NOW.

No, it's night-night time.

I wanna see it NOW! NOW! AAAAAUUUUGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!! DADDYYYYYYYYYYY! WAAAAAFAAAAAAA!

As my dad would say, let no good deed go unpunished. Or as I would say, find those gypsies. STAT.

Urine nation

The other night I let Shawn Joaquin sleep with me after his fourth time screaming down the hall, reasoning that if he were next to me in bed it would be easier to calm him or perhaps allay whatever anxiety sends him banshee-like down the hall demanding my presence. It was 5am, and I had been up every hour on the hour, and damnit, it was time to sleep.

Madelena interrupted this plan at 5:15; Shawn Joaquin found her annoying and thus had to scream until she went back to bed at 5:30. Finally, at 5:45, after he had arranged my arms and body JUST SO to ensure his maximum comfort, he fell into a deep, snoring sleep. At 6:15, I awoke to a warm, wet sensation on my leg — for the first time in his life, Shawn Joaquin had wet the bed. And not just any bed. MY BED.

So I did what any good mother would do. I got up, wrapped his urine-soaked body in a towel, assumed the required position and went back to sleep.

Holy crap. How the mighty — and once hygienically-correct — have fallen.

Making Abbott and Costello proud

Last night I knew that if I listened to Hey Lolly Lolly or Ratón Vaquero in the car one more time, my children's lives were in danger. I was, to turn a poetic phrase, losing my shit. Too many tantrums, too little sleep, and a complete dearth of alone time.

Shawn Joaquin, we're going to listen to the radio now. We need mama music.

WHY? WHY? I want MY MUSIC. I don't LIKE mama music. WHY?

Because mama is tired and would like just a few minutes of what mama would like.

I flipped on KFOG to hear Alanis Morrisette singing. A full minute of blessed silence from the backseat followed.

Mama, what's this song called?

You Outta Know.

NO. What's THIS SONG CALLED?

It's called You Outta Know.

NO!
TELL ME THE NAME OF THE SONG!
TELL ME NOW!
I DO!
NOT!
KNOW!

Screw it. Let's put on some B-I-N-G-O and sing until my ears bleed. As I have often said: I'm a mom. It's what we do.

Skeeving Las Vegas

Gregg left for Vegas this morning, after giving me a "woe is me...we're in a crappy Marriott far from the Strip — not that I'd go anyway — and it will all be work work work, I can't believe I have to go" tale. I felt bad for him - as hard as it would be to single parent this week, at least I had the comfort of our home and our cozy bed in which to recuperate from a long day of temper tantrums, drooling and anything the kids themselves might come up with. Then I checked out his hotel online, to ensure I had the phone number at which to call him and express my condolences.

His world:

Golf.

Swimming.

Fine dining.

Night life.

My world:

Competitive destruction.

Swimming.

Fine dining.

Night life.

Unless a scantily clad Chippendale's-like waiter comes by and starts serving me free cocktails while I play Break the Ice with Shawn Joaquin, I'm pretty sure I got the short end of this deal.

Why it's all worth it

And why I will someday, perhaps, have a little leverage when Shawn Joaquin asks "yeah, well how are you going to stop me?"

Slippery slope

Over the years, I had looked askance at people who placed large plastic reindeer in their front yards, alongside the blow up snowman and under the hanging star of Bethlehem. These are the same yards that have full graveyards at Halloween, larger-than-life Easter Bunnies in spring and often have their own flag pole for all patriotic holidays. I had written them off as misguided, compulsive Lillian Vernon shoppers or escapees from a trailer park. Now I realize they can be summed up in one word: parents.

As Shawn Joaquin and I trolled the aisles at Rite Aid, we came upon the holidays and special occasion section. Since it was late September, the fall and Halloween items were already 50% off and the Christmas decorations were overflowing on 50 feet of shelves. After screaming in terror at the thought of walking past talking skulls, Shawn Joaquin careened down the opposite aisle to find his new best friend: the Penguin Carecrow.



Mama, it's a penguin! It's a carecrow! What he doing?

Only days before, I had confided in Gregg that I had seen the scarecrows at Rite Aid and had considered buying one to surprise Shawn Joaquin but had resisted — embarrassed and ashamed by the urge. He commended my resistance and urged me to stick to that decision, since it's only a hop, skip and a jump from a small scarecrow to a house covered in fake snow with a Santa sleigh on the roof and flashing lights running down the reins to his full fleet of reindeer.

Mama, what he doing? Why he here? Does he live here?

No, my son, he now lives on Castle Drive.



Thank goodness that Halloween is almost here and the Christmas items will soon be on sale. Gregg will be most dismayed if I pay full price for that Santa soon to be on our the roof.

Just another magic Monday

A few highlights of our day:

Finding Madelena washing her toast in the toilet. Deep in the toilet.

Shawn Joaquin sneezing so hard twin green rivers stretch from his nose to his shirt, as he immediately begins to scream and lick all at once.

Taking Madelena's wet diaper off her while she stands, only to learn she's more than wet. Much more. And eager to sit on my lap immediately.

Hearing a suspicous crunch and realizing it is Madelena enjoying an appetizer of Pedigree Crunchy Bites while using the dog bowl as a finger bowl.

Finding stickers in my purse to give the kids after yet another doctor's appointment, and mindlessly putting a gorila sticker on my own hand for being such a good girl.

House of Phlegm

We have had a virus in the house for over two weeks now, leaving us mucus-filled, hacking and limp with ab and lung exertion. On good days we sigh "finally!" and bundle Shawn Joaquin up, sending him out the door under the influence of Motrin and Robitussin, On bad days we stay in and watch Plaza Sesamo, baseball highlights and "house" TV. In between there are countless readings of Pinocchio and Big Chickens, nasal suctioning, hissy fits, coughing spasms followed by minimal but disturbing incontinence, puzzles, playdoh and hours of general malaise and thoughts of "when will this ever end". When coupled with Shawn Joaquin's new habit of waking every two hours with a scream and a wail for one of us, we are all sleep-deprived and cranky and not ready for prime time.

Shawn Joaquin, once the sole inhabitant of the center of the world and He Who Could Do No Wrong, is finding himself as patient zero and at the short end of this phlegm stick.

Shawn Joaquin, please stop touching your sister's face.
Shawn Joaquin, please stop grabbing her.
Shawn Joaquin, please stop pushing her.
Shawn Joaquin, please wipe your nose. NO. With a tissue, not your shirt.
Shawn Joaquin, please stop whining and use words.
Shawn Joaquin...
...put your underwear on.
...stop crying.
...pick up your books.
...go back to bed.
...drink this medicine.
...I already answered that 10 times. Stop asking.
...that's one.
...that's two.
...that's time out.

He is sick, cranky, anxiety-ridden and in need of hugs and cuddling and extra books, but Madelena's matching illness and mobility means that he is often told to wait 5 more minutes that turn into 10 or 15 or an eternity. I go to bed feeling guilty for his lack of focused attention and the repetition of the word "no" throughout his day. I try to make up for this with exclamations of joy when I pick him up from school, reminding him of how much I missed him during the day. Or with 15 minutes of magical "tunnel" time in the newly discovered drainage pipe we found in Montclair last week. This weekend we took a special trip, just the two of us, to howl like coyotes in the middle of the pipe and then eat a single, quarter-sized chocolate soccer ball - a usually forbidden pleasure.

I think of my friend Lorraine, with six children that constantly need love, attention, discipline, diaper changes, food, naps, guidance and more — all of which they appear to get on a regular basis. How can I complain about two sick kids and lack of sleep by comparison? How can I tell Shawn Joaquin "five more minutes" and forget about him when I have only two children to keep track of?

As I write this, Shawn Joaquin is hacking on the sofa, mesmerized by Sesame Street and completely unaware of the mucus running down his face and the cheerio stuck to the bottom of his foot. Madelena is smearing egg in her hair and trying to shove a plastic monkey up her nose while laughing at something only she can see out the window. As I look at my dirty but happy children, I vow to spend more time saying yes and less time saying no, and to stop complaining about my time in the House of Phlegm. Instead, I need to recognize that this is one of the few times when my children are both here and happy to be with their mama and in a few short years I will be uncool, less outwardly needed and the one saying to Shawn Joaquin "hey, can we read a book together" and desperately hoping he says yes.

Fa la la la FREAK

On Friday we had our second session of Music Together, a "mommy and me" music class for toddlers and parents so desperate for outside contact that they will shed their shoes and dignity and dance around with scarves to hippy, folky music while their children watch them aghast, agog and drooling. After our first class, I was sure that a Renaissance woman was leading the class. Not Renaissance in the "capable in multiple areas" kind of a way, but more in an "I dress up for Renaissance Faires and my friends and I act out witty vignettes in Elizabethan prose amongst the crowd and I always play the Saucy Wench" way. My reaction to our first class was to call Gregg afterwards and shout "I will NEVER, EVER, make you go to this class." I knew he would be unable to handle the improv-like warm up exercises, including the Becoming the Bee exercise and the beating on the chest while trilling scales. The thought of him twirling scarves around Madelena's uninterested head while dancing to a saccharin version of Autumn Leaves Are Falling was almost enough to warrant investment in a secret video camera and additional couples counseling, but I decided the risk was greater — if only by a smidge — than the hours of gut busting laughter provided by the tape, sure to become a favorite at family get togethers.

After our second class, I downgraded our instructor to perhaps more of a Burning Man participant — still gung ho and in character, but more ironic than creepy in her belting out of Tiny Frog and Hey Lolly Lolly Lolly. Just like those who share a foxhole, the mothers bond through the shared the pain of the scarf dance and more than a bit of embarrassment for the one mom who seemed to find it stimulating and an outlet for her inner Salomé. And in the hours and days that have followed our class, I find myself mindlessly singing Sandpiper, Sandpiper and Rocket Ship and even the Hello song, which seems to play in my head in a constant loop, my first thought in the morning and a buzz in my ears that awakens me at 3am. At home I try to come up with new "spontaneous" verses for Hey Lolly Lolly and Jim Jiggety, knowing that I will be called upon for some improv verses about my child, a body movement or a color. I don't want to be the mom who stops the party because she is confounded by the sudden need to create a new line, unable to croak out "Jim jiggety, twirl jiggety, twirl joesy joe" and instead stares in a panic at the cheery, expectant teacher.

Recently I've been reading articles and essays about making families more adult-centric than child-centric, providing your child with the independence and self-sufficiency they need to recognize their insignificance in the larger world. Send them off to play by themselves while mama and daddy have a pitcher of martinis, some rumaki and adult conversation before the kids become little egocentrics who expect to be included. Taken to the extreme, some say children who are always catered to and cheered on just for breathing and blinking are later shocked when they realize they need to get jobs, work hard at relationships and find self-worth inside rather than in the world around them. They will fall into lives plagued by promiscuity, career failure, drugs, porn and right-wing Republicanism.

As I sit on the floor in ratty socks singing All The Pretty Little Horses while wrangling Madelena into some semblance of calm cuddling, I wonder if I am doing her a disservice. Should I instead be sitting at a café enjoying a strong cup of Peets and thrusting the business section in her face when she demands my attention? Will she sleep with a bike messenger at the age of 15 because I just spent the last hour playing small musical instruments and will spend the upcoming hour playing with wee farm animals and monkeys on the floor, showing her the joy of putting them into muffin tins? Will heroin be her drug of choice because I make her organic meals and feed her not only before me but also often in lieu of filling my own body? IS AN ADULT-CENTRIC STRATEGY MY GOLDEN TICKET, A GUILT-FREE ONE-WAY PASS OUT OF HERE AND INTO THE NEAREST MARTINI BAR?

Not a chance. I spent nearly 40 years focusing on ME and my needs, and now it's my turn to just suck it up and sing some folky, overly sweet songs and dance like a freak with a tie-dyed scarf and ensure my daughter knows that yes, yes, she is the center of the world.

This just in

As I stepped into the shower this morning after a disturbingly long absence, I noticed lavendar and seeds stuck to the sides of the tub, along with a dense layer of foam. I told Gregg I must be losing it, since I knew it had been at least a week since I'd taken a bath with my lavendar sea salts and clearly had not cleaned the tub afterwards.

"Oh, that's mine."

WHAT?

"I just took a shower, and see, what you do is plug up the tub so you can keep a few inches of water in there...then you add the lavendar and you get a great steamy spa shower...it's SO relaxing."

To quote my friend Chris's wife, yes, yes, my husband is JUST gay enough.

Never say never

As the parent of an only child, I looked slightly askance or slightly downward at parents who used the television as an adhoc babysitter, plopping their child down in front of it for 30-90 minutes at a time while they checked their email, read a book, made dinner or drank a fifth of vodka. Now, as the mother of two, I see both the desperation and the wisdom in the TeleSitter.



What was once a treat two or three times a week has been become a daily occurence: The Viewing of Diego, the Patron Saint of Bilingual Households. Now entering our view is also Plaza Sesamo, Dora and on occasion, Design on a Dime. Whatever it takes to buy 30 minutes of blessed happiness/stupor for my children, allowing me to clear the dishwasher or make dinner or swiffer the floor for the 5th time that day. I want to go back and apologize to every parent I gave my "oh, we don't watch television" speech, in retrospect so very condescending and an example of Wrong Thinking. I want to light a candle in a shrine to bilingual, educational programming creators who have saved us from ourselves — left without these choices, I may very well have abandoned all reason and allowed Shawn Joaquin to watch some program with bad animation and superheroes and a dearth of counting and letters but a wealth of screaming, fighting and examples of who not to be. Instead, he is learning to sing new songs in Spanish, all about nearly extinct animals, and — thanks to HGTV — good space planning.

Other things we have learned: in Latin America, Big Bird is green and pink and yellow. All Spanish-speaking puppets tend to have gravelly morning-after voices. And Diego, Dora and all of the characters within those two franchises have nearly indistinguishable voices but a great love of the environment and an ability to create a good responsorial with even the most recalcitrant preschooler. Go, Diego, GO! Mil gracias, mi amigo.

Screw the environment

There was a time when I had a relatively clean car and took pride in my personal appearance and the state of my home and our impact on the world. We recycled everything, used rags and dish towels instead of paper towels, only ran the dishwasher when we had a full load, ate organic and limited meals out, adhered to high hygienic standards, kept a neat house and were on time to each and every event in our lives. Enter Baby Number Two.

Yesterday I watched Madelena, sitting on the dirty ground in the school parking lot, reaching into my car to pull out various items and drop them on the ground: a three-day old Peet's cup, a string cheese wrapper, stale and desiccated Cheerios, a dried up pen, two used tissues and some dirty, sandy socks. And I realized that I had, despite all efforts and self-directed promises, become the mom who drove That Car. As I looked down at my dog-hair covered yoga pants, dubiously matched socks and now dirty child, I was torn between total abandon and a desire to run home and change into something that actually has contact with my body and had been cleaned recently.

No one plans on becoming the woman on Aisle 4 in the pajama pants and unwashed hair at 10am. No one says that "someday I will subsist on the food left on my child's plate, possible pre-masticated, and food eaten in the car on the way to school pick up." No one dreams of only being able to refer to themselves in the third person and by the name "Mama" instead of the one they once used in professional, dating and social life. At no point did any self-respecting woman decide that bathing was optional and that every-other-day showering and shining was more than good enough. Yet here I am, and I am not alone.

I look around me at the grocery store and see similarly dressed and harried women, wearing their husband's shirts and worn Gap shorts — a look that was cute and sassy on a decade-younger body but now has a whiff of desperation and an odd but unmistakable resemblance to a crazy aunt from Livermore...the same woman who dresses up by wearing bedazzled Keds with her pink sweat suit. I meet moms at Peet's who wax poetic about hair clips that enable them to get up and not bother with a brush, let alone a shampoo. We sit outside on the benches feeding our children bits of boiled egg and bananas, enjoying the respite from the ever-present, sticky high chair and the same wall we face three times a day as we feed our precious children who seem to have all the manners of a drunken, elderly monkey.

Whenever possible at home I use paper plates and napkins and towels so that I can immediately discard of the 14th meal of the week that was eaten or rejected and in either case smashed between small fingers and into hair. I run the dishwasher nightly, regardless of load, to avoid hand washing bottles and sippy cups and lunch box inserts. I do loads of laundry daily, sometimes the same load twice because it was forgotten overnight and now smells like the San Francisco Bay at low tide. I drive to the store at least twice a day for emergency refills on soy milk, fresh bananas, pears and other foodstuffs that need to be on hand for the most demanding eater in the house. I have given up on environmentalism, the wearing of fitted clothing, make up or matching socks. I no longer read the paper, tap into TMZ.com every hour or even check my email on a regular basis. I have given up on being part of the solution to global warming and instead am more concerned with the consistency and frequency of poop, naps and bottles. And I would not change a thing. Except my underwear, and only because clean underwear is the last shred of dignity to which I cling.

Sharp dressed man

When Shawn Joaquin is waking me by wailing at 2am I WANT MAMA MAMA MAMA NOWWWWWW while whacking me in the head with his Diego doll, I will try to remember this image and hope that it keeps me from doing bad things in order to ensure my return to sleep.

Things I never thought I'd say to my child

No, I don't think you should smell your penis.

Please, stop talking and just watch Rachel Ray.

You're right. I do have hair there and you don't.

I don't care if Daddy does it and even louder. If I catch him, he'll get a time out too.

Highlights of motherhood

I NEED TO POOP. I NEED TO POOP NOW.

So go to the bathroom and call me when you need me.

I NEED TO GO NOW. YOU COME WITH ME.

No, go by yourself and call me when you need to wipe.

Shawn Joaquin dashes to the bathroom while I sit on the floor putting a toy back together. Suddenly he's in front of me, bare bottomed and bent over with his butt two inches from my nose.

HERE IT IS!

Oh happy day

Finally, for the first time in 19 days, we're having a happy day. I found myself having the surreal experience of lunch with two kids at IKEA, eating Swedish meatballs and listening to "Hungry Like The Wolf" while sitting on clean-lined, white, modern furniture and watching trucks go by on the 80 overpass. Shawn Joaquin was in heaven — watching trucks while eating meat and with the allure of funky plastic toys a few yards away and Mama not paying too much attention to the Interloper. I had a cringe moment when I realized I had given Madelena a french fry to keep her content and extend our few minutes of joy, a food choice denied to Shawn Joaquin until just a few months ago and even then only a few at a time. But given the copious amounts of fruit, egg whites and other healthy treats she's normally eating or smearing in her hair, it seemed worth the price. Plus she's already suffering from the second-child syndrome, being allowed to eat non-organic foods and dirt and having fewer photos taken, her baby book still sitting in its box on a shelf somewhere next to the plug outlet covers and hand-mixer for food.

As I later pushed my two kids in the cart, Madelena in the seat and Shawn Joaquin enjoying a usually forbidden ride in the basket, I was overwhelmed with love and pride in my beautiful, happy and exceptional children. I had one of those moments when I absolutely knew that my children were far superior to any other child in the store. It's one of those moments that every parent has at some point during any given week or month and will never admit - the absolute certainty that their child is the most intelligent, attractive, likeable, kind and loving person in the world. We look at other children and know they have great qualities, but there is a secret part of us we can't reveal to anyone but our partners that feels all other children pale in comparison, their eyes less glowing or their heart less open or their passion less evident.

As we got back to the car, Shawn Joaquin grabbed onto my arm. "Mama, I had a GREAT time with you. You're my BEST friend." Perhaps Hurricane Shawn Joaquin has finally passed, and left in its stead my loving and sweet boy after all.

This is your wake up call

Our day began at 4am with a screaming banshee that woke me by beating my head with tiny fists while yelling, "Get in the office! Get in the office!" and jumping up and down. At first I thought it was a client or coworker who had somehow sneaked either into my dreams or into my house, so dead asleep was I when the assault began. Then I realized it was my loving son, who had last seen me (at 9pm, within view of his bedroom) in Gregg's office, and he was more than a bit chagrined to find me elsewhere at 4am. Shawn Joaquin has never done well with change, but we had hit a new low as part of the I-Hate-You-For-Disrupting-My-Entire-Life-Now-Hug-Me-NOW-NOW-NOW syndrome. After 15 minutes of hysterics, including screaming like a madman when the bathroom light was turned on while groping blindly for the switch and smacking me at the same time (so much more complicated than rubbing your tummy and patting your head at the same time - I am, in retrospect, rather proud) we began to consider tranquilizers for either him or us. In desperation, Gregg followed him to his room and slept on the floor to placate Shawn Joaquin without feeling like a total patsy by sleeping in the bed with him. Somehow this seemed a Pyrrhic victory, as proven by his back pain later.

At dawn, we tried to discuss the situation with Shawn Joaquin.

Me, firmly: Shawn Joaquin, you can't come running into our room screaming and hitting mama - it's a terrible way for everyone to wake up.

SJ, looking up at the ceiling: And then you saw the chickens and I saw the chickens and not from my bed but in the SKY.

I was tempted to follow up with "I'm an excellent driver, and excellent driver" but hate to laugh alone so early in the morning.

Gregg decided to take a stab at it.

G: Why did you hit mama and yell this morning?

SJ: Beause I yelled and hit mama.

G: But why?

SJ: But why?

He is either a brilliant strategist or no more of a morning person than either of his parents. Either way, we decided to call it a draw and take my mother's approach — let's pretend it never happened and then bring it up in 30 years in a way that is advantageous to us and could possibly, finally, help us win an argument with him.