Bikini vs. bacon

Gregg made an announcement last week about our upcoming vacation in Mexico. "I have determined what my persona will be," he said. "I plan to be Fat Man with a Hot Wife."

I found this concept disturbing, to say the least. The pressure is all on me, one not known for Hotness, while he can sit back and eat his fourth serving of ice cream. Well, that's not fair, since he actually sits down with the entire carton in his lap so it can really, in truth, only be called a single serving. In the meantime I am subsisting on low carb yogurt, Weight Watcher's frozen entrees with all the appeal of crushed cardboard in a red sauce, and glass after glass of crushed ice. I have had to leave behind my love of extra crispy bacon, cheese, almonds, olives and other savory foods that are ever-so delish and ever-so waist expanding.

But this need for a vacation persona is apparently one that Gregg has a long history with; a few years ago he and his sister went on a cruise, where, thanks to a hard of hearing new acquaintance, his ship-wide name became "Gary." In less than 24 hours, my relatively conservative, non-imbibing husband became the life of the party and one who was greeted with cheers of "GARY!" whenever he entered a room. He and his sister dominated the karaoke stage, toasted and cheered on by the enthusiastic patrons. Drinks appeared miraculously, phone numbers on napkins were dropped surreptitiously in his lap, men clapped him on the back whenever he entered a new scene, and both "Gary" and his sister were tearfully bid adieu at the end of the cruise.

Now, several years and missed workouts later, he has decided to embrace this new persona of the Fat Guy. Which he is not, but has recently made efforts toward with three-pound burritos and ice cream each night. He plans to sit by the pool with zinc on his nose, Hawaiian shirt on, umbrella drinks next to him, looking both amazed and grateful for the hot wife by his side. The flaw in his plan is ME, who after perusing too many Venus, Victoria Secret and even Lands End catalogs have pulled out my most conservative one-piece bathing suits, extra large terry cover ups and water wings...whatever it takes to draw attention away from the body that has betrayed me after 42 years. He is unaware of MY plan to be Fat Wife with Hot Husband, and thus that his ice cream has been replaced with sugar free ice-cream-like-product and the pizza guy has been tipped to accidentally lose his way if asked to deliver to our house. And that — in the spirit of competition — my lower office drawer is now filled with chocolate and peanut butter eggs, sesame sticks, small tins of Pringles and baked chips and other snacks that have pushed those NV Weight Pills and the exercise journal to the back of the drawer.

Ha, Gary, Gregg, whatever your name is. We have three weeks to see who will win the title of Fat Spouse. May the most corpulent win.

On your permanent record

I had a parent/teacher conference last week, and went into it with great trepidation. Much like my own work review, I have deep and nameless and ultimately unfounded fears as it pertains to reviews and other moments of Let's Assess How We're Doing...Shall We? It must be close to the same fear some men feel when their partner turns to them and says "Look, we need to talk." Perhaps I should adopt the attitude of men who don't feel any fear but instead think "how long is this going to take? I've gotta THING."

In the end, I left the conference with my usual lump in my throat, not from being berated but because I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the clear love, appreciation and committment Shawn Joaquin's teacher has for him in all ways. We discussed his growth over the last year, how he shocked all the teachers by belting Pequeñita Arañita last week with great joy and perfect pronunciation, and about his growing friendship with BlueJay, aka E.J., and what a perfect role model this confident, kind and open little boy is for Shawn Joaquin. There was one area in which his teacher felt that we could work with Shawn Joaquin: his ability to ask questions.

I went home with that thought on my mind. As I entered the door, Shawn Joaquin greeted me.

"What Angela doing? Who was at the school? What's for my snack? Why is THAT for my snack? What's after nap time? Why do we have to do THAT? What is Amalie doing? Amalie is MY best friend, not YOUR best friend. What Daddy doing? When he coming home? Why he coming home at night? What's that sound? Where's the bird? I want to SEE the bird. What the bird saying? What the bird's name? What color is the bird? Why he up in the tree? What tree? What he eat? What he saying now? Why I have to go night night? What's after my bath? I want all my toys in the bath...lots of toys. Do I have any new toys? What toys do I have? Where's the diver? What the diver doing while I SLEEP? What you gonna do? What you do that for? Where's Sacha? Why she there? Where does Winnie the POOH live? NO, HE LIVES IN THE HUN'RED ACRE WOOOODS. Not in Heffalump Hollow. Who lives in Heffalump Hollow? Why his name Lumpy? What his mama's name? Why is Rabbit scared? Why..."

In those 4 minutes of rapid fire questions, I realized that perhaps we didn't need to work on encouraging him to ask questions. Just perhaps to ask someone other than ME.

Nature vs. nurture — there's still no escape

As a kid, I remember hearing kids taunt other children with cries of "you're adopted! That's not your REAL family" to children both adopted and biologically linked to their parents. To me, part of a family with many adoptions associated with it, this made no sense on any level. Was "you're adopted" supposed to be a slam? Or a gift, meaning that woman in the plaid poncho you call mom could in no way pass on the damaged fashion gene she so clearly carried?

As often as I have wanted to distance myself from my family, I have realized that there is much I have inherited by nature or nurture. From my dad, I have problematic teeth, a Roman nose, bad knees, a fear of large groups, a contradictory command of public speaking, the will do my best in any and every situation regardless of personal cost and a painful need for perfectionism that has lead to both my success and my downfall. From my mother I have inherited the designer gene, minus the latent desire to put dolls on one's bed, my height, an appreciation for dark humor, allergies, asthma, a stubborn streak and a need to have a seemingly neat house with sloppy closets and piles of crap hidden just outside of public view.

I look at my perfect, meant-for-me son and am amazed by both our similarities and our differences. Never at three did I demand my mother come back to my room after lights out to fold my sweater and PUT IT AWAY IN THE CLOSET. NO, IN THE OTHER DRAWER. I was not compelled by any inner voice to straighten all my books before being able to settle in for a nap. I have never had to categorize my books by night-night books, sunny-day books, daddy books and mommy books. But I have, and still do, need to organize my CDs by both genre and artist, and have even gone so far as to split jazz into modern, freestyle and classic oldies. I do not fold my sweater up, but I also do not want to see it so I have conveniently stuffed it behind the pillows I have tossed off the beautifully coordinated, artfully constructed mix of linens that comprise our bed.

We share a love of the outdoors, disagree on the joys of bare feet, enjoy cheese and all things that can possibly be wrapped in a corn tortilla, both think that Dr. Seuss's Cat in the Hat Comes Back SPANKS the original book and should be read at least once a week, and agree to disagree on the benefits of getting really, truly muddy and letting the dirt just bake in. We both laugh loudly and often, much to the chagrin of our very nervous dog. On vacation, we both enjoy sitting for long periods of time reading our respective books while eating snacks and occasionally sharing conspiratorial glances and loving pats, and one of us thinks there is nothing better than digging one's toes deep in the sand while the other one yells I NEED SHOES! I NEED SHOES NOW! THIS IS NOT GOOD!

Our nanny Wafa has been with us since the beginning, and she and I have known each other now for nearly 10 years. She credits me with Shawn Joaquin's calmness and love of books. I credit her with his need to put all things away and straighten them much like the products at the video store. I credit his birth mother with his beautiful appearance and the old soul that he was born with, and his foster family with his love of being be just outside of the raucous fun but never too far away from it. Those things with which we can credit Gregg are still emerging, and may be his avoidance of parties with large numbers of small children and an ability to figure out how to fix almost anything, almost perfectly. The one thing we all share, nature vs. nurture be damned, is a deep and lifelong love for each other and the family we have created through determination, adoption, online dating and a willingness to put our preconceived notions of family aside and just be one.

Wouldn't you?

Some members of my family and community have questioned my reasons for living in Guatemala while awaiting the finalization of our adoption. Looking at this face, I ask you: is this not reason enough?

Madelena, April 2007

Dear Internet

In the near future, this blog may go "private" and only be open to those who subscribe or who have a password. I encourage regular readers to sign up for the email version of the blog (the email submission field is the left) to ensure uninterrupted news about toilet training, slacker parenting, Guatemalan adventures, views on marriage, the failure of Alec Baldwin to see reason, the need to eradicate the voice of certain politicians, ruminations on a multiculturism, bilingualism and what makes a good birthday dinner.

When you sign up, a confirmation email will be sent to you from FeedBlitz to which you must reply. You will then receive one email on each day that I post, with any posts created in the last 24 hours. And no spam. I promise.

Before we enter the world of gated blogs (does this mean I'll have BOA dues, like HOA dues?) I'll give you 24 hour warning and the option of emailing me for the password, in lieu of having one more email sent to you each and every day...possibly to be lost amidst the email from your bank, that site you shopped at once, NY Times headlines and more.

Thanks, Internet. Catch you later. Abrazos y besitos.

Introducing the Von Trapp Family poo poo...

Gregg and I spend an inordinate amount of time waiting for the often non-existent functioning of Shawn Joaquin's bowels. We struggle through hours and hours of encouragement and hearty, false announcements of "HERE COMES THE TINKLE!" and wails of protest when we say no, you can not put on your pants just to have an extra buffer between you and the urine that must, must, must come out at some point.

The two of us have been reduced from witty conversationalists able to talk about sports, pop culture, advertising and great books to talking nearly non-stop to Shawn Joaquin, each other and even other adults about the joys of poo poo and tinkle, its consistency, frequency, color, inappropriate timing and various foods with laxative-like properties. We've gotten so used to cheering when Shawn Joaquin finally gives it up — after FOUR HOURS of crouching beside him, singing songs, playing games, watching a one hour slide show with a single 3 minute song that repeated over and over and over — that we both live in fear of the inevitable moment when we cheer for the stranger in the next stall at some public bathroom.

Shawn Joaquin has become so enamored of this attention that he feels its loss anytime he rises from that little toilet and frees us for a couple of hours of Outside Contact. We went to brunch on Saturday with one of my former colleagues and his boyfriend; we immediately began talking about great advertising, bad layoffs and gossip about mutual friends. Shawn Joaquin quickly lost interest in his 57 toys, 2 books, pumpkin waffle, milk and the dozens of strangers that usually are of great interest. He kept tugging on my arm until I finally turned to him; he then said, in a grand stage whisper: I WANT TO TALK ABOUT SOMETHING. I WANT TO TALK ABOUT WINNIE THE POOH.

Thus in less than two minutes he was able to turn the conversation back to Pooh, if not poo. Gamely, my friends asked him questions about Heffalumps and Piglet, Roo, Rabbit and Winnie the Pooh, much to Shawn Joaquin's great delight. And I was once again reminded that my happiness is based on my son's happiness, and that even though I would sometimes like to talk about things in the news, everything in our lives right now comes down to poo, no matter how you spell it.

I'm no Baldwin

Often I am chagrined at my behavior as a parent — the times I tell Shawn Joaquin the TV is broken so that I can avoid one more viewing of the Backyardigans, or that NO, that is NOT a cookie but some daddy food that tastes YUCKY. I have never raised my voice to him except once when he was in danger of running into the street, and when I call him Demando or Gregg calls him Knucklehead it's always with great affection and usually followed by a kiss and a hug and some light pinching of his round little cheek. Yet still I feel guilty about various things. Until today.

Today, I realized that while there seem to be countless Baldwins, I am not one of them. Never will I call my daughter a selfish little pig or threaten to get on a plane to come out and kick her ass, as Alec Baldwin was recently outted for doing.

Listen to his sweet message here:


Alec Baldwin has now had his custodial rights temporarily suspended, and lieu of apology lashed out at his ex, Kim Bassinger, for leaking the message to the press.

All of us have moments we're not proud of. Moments when our parenting is not Child magazine material, when we are glad that no one is there to see us do a half-assed job at diaper changing or feed our child something that is oh-so-easy and oh-so-bad for them. We often are thankful that nanny cams are not built into the walls for our friends and family to watch us, not because we are ever abusive but perhaps lax or befuddled or momentarily negligent or snappish. But in this case Mr. Baldwin has gone beyond snappish and into brutish territory. And that is when I go from watching 30 Rock just to see his wonderful acting to posting his horrible voicemail message so that the countless...dozens...who read my blog can join me in loathing him for reviling his own daughter. Feel free to share the loathe.

Good night, Alec Baldwin. May you join your brothers in the hell that is B-movies.

T is for Love

Shawn Joaquin attended after school care yesterday for the first time; as a kid who needs a 2 hour nap every day, I was anxious about his ability to sleep in a darkened room filled with toys and other drowsy children who might — with the proper stimulation — be encouraged to join him in hopping like a kangaroo, running small trucks over inert bodies or smashing playdoh into the carpet.

I asked him how his nap experience went, and if he enjoyed the day.

SJ: I slept with Tanya today.
Me: Really?
SJ: No. She slept and I WATCH her. I had a goooooood day.

Initially I mistook this for budding romanticism, until I reminded myself that Tanya was his teacher and perhaps he was just trying to rat her out for sleeping on the job. But given that Tanya is absolutely one of our favorite and most engaged and loving teachers and the only reason Shawn Joaquin learned the letter "T", I was pretty sure that wasn't the case.

Me: Do you want to try to stay at school again and have a nap someday?
SJ: YES. I want to sleep with Tanya AGAIN.

As the conversation continued, I realized I was really experiencing Shawn Joaquin's first crush — those innocent, dreamy crushes of preschool and elementary school that have nothing to do with gender or romantic love but the person that gives you a reason to hitch up those training pants and make your way to school.

My first crush was a little girl named Nina who had a red dress with a belt that had two white plastic elephants that joined at their trunks. She was Chinese, and I was fascinated by her beautiful, black hair and porcelain skin, such a contrast to mine. We learned Zoom's ubby dubby language together, and performed Roses are Red in ubby dubby for our show-and-tell one day, sure than no one would understand our very secret language. We were crushed to learn that other kids understood, but thanks to the depth of our friendship and my hope to someday wear that dress, we survived.

Later I had crushes on Mikey McBride, who let me flip him repeatedly on the playground to the amazement of a bully I was trying to thwart; Jo, my third grade teacher who let us call her by her first name and once returned from a ski trip with a terrible sunburn and white raccoon eyes from her goggles, a look I considered to be one of the most beautiful and exotic things I had ever seen in my short life; Mr. Tyler, who wore cable-knit sweaters, smoked a pipe and had what I now know is more than a passing resemblance to Tom Selleck; Curtis Wise, my best friend in kindergarten whose breathing I tried to emulate in all it's cool wonder, never understanding that it was paralyzing asthma and allergies that created that wet, sucking sound; and, among countless others, Mrs. Ward, my fourth grade teacher who called us "people" instead of "children" and who introduced me to some of my favorite writers and artists and who was the following year killed by her husband in a violent fight — my first taste of loss and anxiety.

Tanya will have a place in Shawn Joaquin's best memories from preschool, and I have no doubt that while some day he will forget his mother's birthday or his first dog's name or even his own name, Tanya will not be forgotten. She is his muse — it is for her that he sits on the toilet at school each day, attempts to use scissors, learned the letter "T", and is willing to give up his naps to gaze on her face in repose. It may not be the homage that most women seek, but I believe that she too will have a place in her heart for him in the future.

This morning as we packed up for school, he asked who would be at school today. We went through the usual suspects, as he grew more pensive each moment. "Is Tanya gonna be there?" he finally asked. "Yes," I replied. That was what he was looking for. "LET'S GO! LET'S GET IN THE CAR NOW! GO! GO!" And with that he was gone, his little back pack flapping, his rain-or-shine dinosaur rainboots pushing his jeans up and his baseball shirt hanging well below his too-short but favorite windbreaker — a little man on his way to meet his love and to offer her all of his gifts and perhaps even a bite of his sandwich or a chance to take him to the bathroom. For a three-year old, that's love.

Abandon all hope, you who enter here

When I read Dante's Divine Comedy lo those many years ago, I had no idea anything was missing — it seemed more than complete to me. A painful and tortuous journey through a twisted cavern of word, thought and philosophy that could not possibly have one more concept jammed into its bloated self.

But Thursday, everything changed.

Thursday, we discovered the tenth and missing circle of hell: toilet training. I've got your Stygian marsh RIGHT HERE, Dante, and I need another baby wipe, STAT.

For months, Shawn Joaquin has told me that tomorrow, TOMORROW, he's going to say bye bye to diapers. After a particularly painful school meeting last week in which I was reminded that Shawn Joaquin was one of only a handful of children in the school of 80 who still eschewed underwear for pull-ups, I decided that there would be no more Scarlet O'Hara moments. TODAY was THE DAY.

He's been rewarded with the forbidden chocolate, small trucks, race cars, promises of endless Backyardigans and old Disney classics, tortilla chips, new books, a trip to Home Depot, small plastic animals that grow when placed in water, extended bedtimes, more bubbles in the bath, candles to blow out, poo poo party hats and underwear with Diego, Spiderman, Superman, Dora, animals, stars, stripes and bubbles.

I have been rewarded with urine-stained clothing, a scent of excrement that will never leave my nostrils, an increased use of disinfectant and an OCD-like tendency to scrub my hands.

Now Shawn Joaquin is aware of when he needs to sit on the toilet, painfully torn between his need to dance around with knees and legs twisted to avoid the shock of urination in the little toilet or the horrible, newly self-conscious moment when he realizes that he's had an accident. He is more pained by accidents than we are, which we try to mitigate with reassurances, a cavalier attitude and a no-rush to clean up stroll; to listen to our assurances of him you'd think we freely urinated on the floor at least once a day and really, IT'S NO BIG DEAL.

I know he will be fine. But I am a mess. I mistake his howls of protest at the inevitable functioning of his body with fear, future hatred of me or possible labor pains — as I rub his back with his head on my knee, I am reminded of being with a close friend when she was in labor and am tempted to offer him an epidural or some ice chips.

Tonight, after two dry days and a number of crank calls to various family members after success — GAM, I TINKLED! [click] — I realized that we might be almost ready to leave this tenth circle of hell. And that I may miss the intensity of these last few days, the hours spent holding Shawn Joaquin while he sits on his little toilet seat, reading to him, rubbing his back, encouraging him and always staying within 2 feet of him and that little plastic toilet. I will miss our dinners around his 18-inch high table, where we all gathered so that he could sit on the Bjorn toilet while eating turkey sausage and strawberries and occasionally clinking glasses with us to toast his new underwear. I will miss the intensity of his joy and need to hug me immediately, occasionally bringing droplets of his success with him and soaking my shirt.

When he is grown, I can only imagine that I will yearn for these days in hell. That I will remember what it felt like to be needed, even if it was only to wipe the poo from his bottom and the tears from his face and to hand him a 39 cent race car to make it all better.

Adiós...y hola

I'M moving to Guatemala. I'm MOVING to Guatemala. I'm moving TO Guatemala. I'm moving to GUATEMALA.

I feel that the repetition of this phrase and with different emphasis each time will drive home the point that I seem to be struggling with: I'M MOVING TO GUATEMALA.

Holy crap.

Our daughter, Madelena will turn one in June, and it's my intention to be there while the smoke from that single candle still hangs in the air. I will be there to watch those dimpled fists crush the cake, smear the icing on her round little chin and hear her shriek with the newfound joy of sugary icing. To be there, I am abandoning my home, my job, my crazy dog that is sure to be "accidentally" lost in my absence, my Sunday nights of HBO debauchery, the simplicity of picking up the phone and dialing no more than 10 numbers to reach anyone that I love, Target, dry cleaning, Peet's coffee, the babysitting co-op, a washer and dryer a few steps from where the dirty clothes accumulate. I am giving up my husband's warm back in the middle of the night, cool Oakland evenings, baseball games with $7 hot dogs and the New York Times on Sunday. Trader Joe's will be but a dream, every shopping trip to be a marathon run on cobblestone streets with two small children attached to my body like mollusks.

For some unknown period of my life, thanks to the meanderings and capriciousness of government in Guatemala, I will be living in an apartment with rationed electricity, looking out on the thunderstorms that promise to arrive each and every afternoon during the hot, wet Antigua summer.

But while there, I will have my delicious, golden daughter and my equally perfect and soul-matched son. I will be able to tell my children that we all lived in the country that gave them to me, that we spent lazy mornings in bed reading board books about monitos y más, that their father waited patiently for all of us to return and would at any point trade his remote control and 500 channels for a moment in that same warm bed with us. That we spent those weeks or months learning about each other and about the land that their birth families had lived in for hundreds and hundreds of years, how I memorized the curve of my daughter's plump brown foot and the shine of my son's black-as-coal hair in the Guatemalan sun.

As I think about those mornings, the emphasis of those once scary words has changed: I'm moving to Guatemala.

These words now form a powerful and heartfelt mantra, no longer about where I am going but about the journey that I will have while there.

Poo boot camp

Today begins poo boot camp and bikini boot camp, both created to prepare Shawn Joaquin and myself for a better life and to set off nightmares that will continue each and every night until we reach our respective goals.

Poo boot camp and bikini boot camp are in conflict with one another as it pertains to base principles (one is motivated by treats and the other is about denial of treats), but part of the shared boot camp mentality is mutual suffering and common pain and an intense awareness of our bodies. And both of us are driven to this boot camp — this lonely, god-forsaken, pleasure-drought — by Others. People Who Judge Us.

For Shawn Joaquin, it is a society that expects a three and a half-year-old boy who is capable of existential thought and memorization of all Jack Johnson lyrics to at least be able to put on some freakishly padded underwear and lose the diapers.

For me, it is the constant barrage of bikini-wearing, skin-baring models on the cover of each and every magazine in my mail box, coupled with the looming threat of a Mexican beach vacation — all driving me to want to lose MY freakishly padded bottom and put on a bikini without total and complete shame.

So here we sit, he on the toilet and me at my computer, the timer set to let him know when he's been on it for two minutes and can have his 1/24th piece of an already small peanut-butter filled chocolate egg. I have been coveting this egg all morning, the sweet chocolaty-peanut-butter-goodness beckoning me with a nearly silent whisper of "oh, it's just one bite."

"Mama, toilets are funny."
"Yeah, why?"
"It eats my poo, and then I get to eat something that LOOKS like poo."

And with that, bikini boot camp and my will power just got an unexpected boost.

********

Thank you to all who wrote to encourage my continued blogging, despite my overwhelming need to be liked by EVERYONE and thus freaked out by the recent Incident in which Others Were Offended. Yes, 'tis better to blog...

The danger of public life

Tonight I learned that one of my blog entries had perhaps offended someone in the Circle of People Whose Opinions I Actually Care About. While I played it cool with a "yeah, yeah, I'll take it down" inside I was shaking and dry-mouthed and ready to leave the county, sell the house, buy a trailer...live somewhere off the grid, away from blogs and technology and perhaps just scratching my self-amusing thoughts in the dirt with a twisted stick, knowing that I could erase them once I had spilled them from my brain.

I have been told that my writing is BIG. It's OUT THERE. It's REALLY LOUD. I never know quite what to make of this; my blog writing is what is inside of me in that moment, unedited and unpolished. It's a far cry from my dark fictional meanderings about dysfunction and dyspeptic characters with shadowed pasts and a penchant for self-destruction. I keep that writing to myself, and only let out what I think is amusing and relevant and a slightly skewed reflection of What Really Happened. I, like David Sedaris, am sometimes more empowered by my imagination than reality, and see no issue with that in this blog.

Now, however, I am cowed. Anxious. Ready to leave the world of blog writing to people who write about cooking or how to get the ring out from around the collar. Things that can't cause people angst or concern or outrage. Who can be outraged about mac and cheese or how to blot red wine out of a rug? I'm sure there is some small contingent, somewhere, but this are probably the same people who don't own computers because they're the Devil's Machine and wouldn't have to blot red wine because only sinners drink.

So now I have a choice to make: to blog or not to blog. That truly, deeply...IS the question.

The cranky pants have shrunk again

We just received a fax to let us know that the adoption paperwork we redid last month had a problem.

This is the paperwork recreated by me, previewed by our agency, then notarized by the nice notary lady, approved by the County Clerk who sweated me about the nice notary lady's signature, authenticated over a 5-day period by the Guatemalan Consulate who failed to actually complete the form until I showed up teary-eyed, held up in transit by Fed Ex for three days because they thought Guatemala had zip codes, reviewed by our attorney, reviewed by our Guatemalan facilitator, translated into Spanish overnight, authenticated and stamped again by the GUA external affairs for five days and then finally, after over two and a half weeks, was resubmitted to the PGN this morning only to be sent back out the door, a look of embarrassment about it because it just wasn't...quite...right.

If someone, anyone had looked closely at it two weeks ago we would be fine. But I, in my rush, missed one word...and none of the professionals associated with the case caught it or perhaps even read it. So I here I sit, ready to bludgeon someone, something, somewhere.

Receiving a fax with this news rather than a phone call is the equivalent of the post-it note break up. It's simply not done. And now we can’t even be friends.

My cranky pants are riding high, my kleenex box is almost empty, and I'm waiting for something good to happen or a house to fall on my head. It could really go either way. In the meantime, G has hugged me and slipped quietly from the room should flying coffee cups or an unregistered firearm suddenly appear.

I am not an angry person. I'm a goddamn happy person whose very soul has been plundered by bureaucracy and negligence and damnit, I don't like that. Let me go back to my ruthless optimism, people, and don my fuzzy robe of happiness instead of these tight cranky pants.

Donations of kleenex, fresh cut flowers or boxes of sugar-free chocolate with sympathetic words inscribed on the box all welcome. In the meantime I will focus on this little face and know that someday soon, she will know: Mama is on her way. And once she gets you, she’s never letting go.

Bunny cake vs. crap cake: a tie

We are not a family who enjoys photos of ourselves. We do everything we can to distract from our faces and our tired eyes through the use of props, which may at any time involve costumes, electrical tape, baked goods or the use of our child as a shield.




When I was a child, my mom used to bake this cake for Easter. My mother was not a Pepperidge Farm mom — there were no cookies and milk waiting for us when we got home from school. We were more likely to find a note that said, "I'm sleeping. Turn the TV on low and do not disturb me if you ever want to be allowed to watch American Bandstand or the Hardy Boys again" or something along those lines. And when we were home sick, we had better be damn sick. Though the phrase "GET UP YOU BIG FAT FAKER" was rarely uttered, we were encouraged to go back to school as soon as the vomiting was at least controllable and only the weakest of our friends would abandon us if we lost it. But on Easter, my young mom rolled up her peasant sleeves and pulled her hair back in leather braid wraps to bake The Bunny Cake, the cake we looked forward to each year.

In honor of my mother and the first year of Shawn Joaquin not only recognizing the significance of the day but also no longer shrieking at the sight of the Easter bunny, I spent a large portion of Saturday making this cake. And filling 40 eggs with painstakingly cut out tattoos, individual stickers, small toys, banana chips, almonds and small peanut butter crackers.

Things we learned about Easter and
Shawn Joaquin this year include:

• The three-hours-to-make Bunny Cake could be a fast, lopsided Pile of Crap Cake and he's still want it, because, damnit, IT'S CAKE
  
  
• Five is the number of eggs that can be found with even weak enthusiasm, and a leaf blowing by on the ground can be a welcome distraction from our cheering-on of the egg hunt that merely takes him away from Other More Important Things Like Eating Toast
  
  
• Books trump toys
  
  
• Jelly beans are actually called jelly crackers, and they are — according to Shawn Joaquin — "bad things...dangerous crackers...and not for children"
  
  
• The Easter Bunny doesn't like children and wears sunglasses even at night

Sounds like me in the '80s.

Is it DSD or just an ass?

In a recent blog, I wrote about the terrible disease that some of my father's family suffers from: Dumbshittedness. While my father does not have the disease, he has had to endure years of torment that come from being associated with people who do. He's had to answer questions about their problem: "WHY THE HELL DID YOUR BROTHER DO THAT? IS HE AN ASSHOLE, OR WHAT?", always trying to maintain compassion for both the victim of the disease and the victims of secondhand dumbshittedness — the coworkers, spouses, neighbors and children.

Then it hit me — we need to do a walk to raise awareness of Dumbshittedness disease (DSD) and to raise funds for a cure. While my first thought was to wear a brown ribbon in solidarity with the victims, my friend Jess came up with an even better way to get people talking about the disease: an empty toilet paper roll stuck on car antennas with masking tape or to one's chest with a large metal safety pin. Imagine the attention that would garner from passerby and the CHP, starting a dialog that can lead to recognition and shared pain: "OH MY GOD, MY MOTHER HAS THAT", leaving people feeling a bit less alone, more understood, and driven to work together to find a cure.

I can hear the testimonials now.

"I refuse to let this disease define me. I am NOT a Dumbshit — that is just my disease."
— John, 23

"For years we thought my brother was just a raving maniac and a bastard. Then we found out that he couldn't help it — he had the Dumbshittedness."
— Mary Beth, 51

"People have called me names for years. Dickhead. Asshole. Unsympathetic, controlling and twisted sick fuck. But now I know. I'm none of those things. I have DSD, and this summer, I will walk for a cure. Will you join me?"
— Robert, 47

Dennis Richmond will report live from Golden Gate Park, where thousands of walkers will proudly wave sticks with empty rolls of toilet paper taped to them and banners that let everyone know why THEY walk.

"I walk for my twice-convicted-for-a-DUI-and-continues-to-drink-and-drive-brother-in-law. He can't help it: he has DSD."

"I walk for my 'I didn't call you when your father died because I know you were watching yer shows' mother. She can't help it: she has DSD."

Who among us doesn't know someone who as DSD or who has been affected by secondhand DSD? Let us all join together now, raise our empty toilet paper rolls high and work together to find a cure for DSD somewhere on this side of homicide.

Things I can't write about

With the success of this blog has come a wide readership that includes, unfortunately, Familiar Readers. Family. Friends. Co-workers. So with that readership comes Responsibility and Self-Censorship. There are so many things I'd like to write about and no longer can out of fear of offending those Familiar Readers. The former fodder for my blogs has been stripped, given that I want to stay married, keep my job, am afraid of my family and am quite fond of my friends.

I can no longer write about the fact that our family has a hereditary disease from which so many of our generations suffer: Dumbshittedness. It has affected so many in the bloodline on my father's side - my only clear bloodline, given that my mother was adopted. I can only hope it skipped me.

I can't write about my mother's recent discovery that she's Irish, leading to a sudden love of Enya, anything Celtic and all things green and perhaps, in the near future, to the abandonment of a tea-totaling life and the embracing of whiskey and beer and bar fights.

I can't write about a former coworker's completely inappropriate pursuit of another coworker, complete with flowers and cards and kittens and baleful, longing looks tossed across cube-tops.

I can't write about how after years of living alone that sometimes it is, even in the midst of love and respect and desire, absolutely horrifying to be faced with some of the natural bodily functions and associated sounds that emanate from a man, especially one with an inability to sense my presence at times and a love of large portions of meat.

I can't write about the days when I can't face one more strategic deck and take an extended and early lunch just to watch the Scrubs or American Idol DVRd from the night before, ignoring the ringing phone and the insistent ping of IM while I drink my diet coke and eat my 100 calorie pack of crispy peanut butter cookies.

I can't write about how truly awful the first year of marriage is, and how many times you scream inside your head "HIDE THE ASSETS! GET READY FOR A MIDDLE AGE WITH NOTHING BUT LOTS OF CATS!" before ultimately seeing a couples therapist that silences the voices and teaches you that NO, YOU'RE NOT ALWAYS RIGHT. NOT EVEN MOST OF THE TIME. And the year passes and you find that you did indeed make the right choice and yes, yes, you will keep that man after all, until death do you part.

I can't write about a crazy friend, my idle consideration of faking my own death to be able to finally get some sleep, the local mom who makes my life miserable and leaves me thinking of ways to slight her that will never actually happen but are oh-so-fun to plan, the times I consider letting the dog run away so I never have to scoop her poop again, the way that some client's voice makes me want to smash my face repeatedly with a stapler to have something else to think about other than that screechy, nasally and ultimately demanding voice.

I can't write about anything but my drunken son, my ethnically-confused self and the occasional public figure deserving of derision (coming soon: a Newt-bashing entry, probably written in my "language of the ghetto", Spanish) and other safe topics. Look for how to get stains out of your clothes or how to watch paint dry in an upcoming blog, with all references to "ass" removed in deference to my sainted Irish mother.

You can leave your hat on

I wrote in an earlier entry about the possibility that Shawn Joaquin is either gifted or an alcoholic.

Watching him this morning up on the kitchen bar wearing only a crumpled birthday hat, a pajama shirt and his dinosaur boots, roaring that THIS IS WHAT I WEAR TO SCHOOL THIS AND NOTHING ELSE DON'T TOUCH MY HAT, I'd have to say the latter.

Red like snow

Last month we babysat Amalie, who shall heretofore be referred to as ABC or Absolutely Brilliant Child. We all sat around the dining room table and read a book about Curious George and all the things that he's curious about — body parts, facial expressions, jobs, shapes and colors, the alphabet, animals...you get the idea.

To no one's amazement both kids could identify a head. And eyes. And even an elbow. But then we got to the tricky, tricky shapes and colors section. Now since having his ass soundly kicked by Amalie in Hullaballoo, Shawn Joaquin has been secretly studying shapes. We realized this when he twisted his straw up one night and proudly shouted 'THIS IS A TRIANGLE!" and had indeed created a triangle. He also pointed out various shapes and was able to bat about .500 when it came to naming their correct color. So we were amped for this part of the book — we were sure that he'd be able to show her Who's The Man.

What color is this monkey?
Amalie: "BROWN!"
SJ: "BLUE LIKE MUD!"

What color is this triangle?
Amalie: "WHITE!"
SJ: "RED LIKE SNOW!"

What kind of mommy am I?
ME: "LOSER LIKE DINA LOHAN!"