Penis parlance

I learned this morning that G skeeves the word "penis", currently one of Shawn Joaquin's favorite words and topics of discussion. Gregg suggested a number of alternate words that I deemed best used only among men, and only among men who hang out on street corners or bars or strip clubs, and in the end we stayed with penis. SJ, unaware of this entire conversation and the fact that penis is today's secret word, won about $10,000 this morning by using it repeatedly.

First use, upon greeting Wafa:
Wafa, when you touch your PENIS you have to WASH YOUR HANDS. Then I'd like some milk, please.

Second use, after doing a little underpants exploration and his own version of a Mary Katherine Gallagher skit:
What my penis smell like?

Third use, after scanning the room:
I have a penis. Daddy has a penis. You do NOT have a penis.

Fourth use, while sitting on the toilet:
This is MY penis. It's not YOUR penis. Only I USE my penis to tinkle.

When I reminded Gregg that this was a unique thing that he and Shawn Joaquin share and that it would be up to him to address the imminent erection discussion, Gregg turned a whiter shade of pale and all but dropped to his knees while sputtering "NO! NO!" and explaining that as much as he hates the word penis, erection is not far behind. Again, he had some ideas for other words that could be substituted, and again his suggested words were declined.

My brother and I were 14 months apart in age, and when he reached about four years of age my parents talked to him about erections. Their explanation was that when you get really excited and happy about something, his penis would go — and I quote — BOING. This led to innumerable car trips in which Shawn would loudly announce "We're going to Nana and Papa's — BOING!" or "I just got an ice cream — BOING!" Thankfully our parlance developed over the years and I learned not to shout "BOING!" in adulthood when I felt the situation called for it. But there have been some near-misses, which drives me to use the real names of body parts for Shawn Joaquin so that someday he does not say the word "wanker" or "winkie" to the love his life, effectively losing her and her respect all at the same time.

Why I'm a slacker parent, reason #56

Last week, we spent a great week in Bucieras, just outside of Nuevo Vallarta. From the lush grounds to the beautiful sunsets and ocean walks you'd think we'd be rife with photos, just lousy with shots of our beautiful son in front of the wild dolphins that visited each day, digging our way through a virtual treasure trove of album-worthy shots. Clearly, you have not met us.

On this 8-day extravaganza, we managed to take two in-focus shots of our son:





And about 17 of the animals that the maid made each day from our rough but clearly morphable towels:









And one of the restaurants where we had our only really good meal:



WHAT KIND OF PARENT DOES THIS? Am I the same kind of person who puts their kid on a leash rather than hold their hand, who parents through benign neglect and who, when called upon to put together that graduation or wedding photo montage of their child's life is only able to supply a few unknown-baby in diaper pics, the first mug shot and a school photo that should have been lost once head-gear was no longer a fashion statement? I realized how bad it had gotten when I downloaded these new pics into my files, only to note that the last download was over two months ago and that those photos seemed to focus more on a bunny cake and our dog...who is admittedly cute as a button and so photogenic.

But I then realized that we spend so much of our day EXPERIENCING that we have little time to document, and that when I try to capture those moments in a photo or even in words, they are unable to convey to power and emotion and uniqueness of the experience. From Shawn Joaquin leaning in close to tap my nose and say "Good. Job." when he saw that I was successful in the bathroom to his bursts of insane love when he shouts "I GONNA KISS AND HUG YOU. GET REAAAAAAAAADY" and charges across the room to head butt my legs before being lifted up for the more traditional signs of affection, these moments can't be captured in any form other than my best memories. There is no photographic technology that can capture the love and sweetness of the look he gives me at bedtime, looking back at me while his daddy reads him the Troll book for the 47th time. No words to express his happiness about air travel, with his almost tearful joy about airplane snacks and his first set of headphones. Those images and moments are locked in my head and carried in my heart and will be what sustains me the first time he decides that he hates me or thinks I'm embarrassing or forgets to call on my birthday. Or I can always look at the pictures of our towel animals, knowing that he was there, just out of frame, and so happy to be there with both of us and having our full attention each and every moment of the day.

One of these things is not like the others

We've returned from our vacation, where we decided to call the Hot Spouse vs. Fat Spouse competition a draw, and to just sit back and enjoy the frickin' nachos. Our days were arduous enough without that competetive layer, what with the long 100 foot walk from the pool to the beach and the weight of those piña coladas that we had to heft every afternoon at the swim up bar. We made it a family affair, eschewing alcohol but loading up on pineapple and marischino cherry garnishes that left us sated and drunk on their unique combination of sugar and formaldehyde.

The first few days we kept to ourselves, primarily at Shawn Joaquin's demand and hidden by his monkey-like full body grasp that precluded all conversation with strangers. On Thursday, we decided to take advantage of one of the many activities and joined the aqua aerobics class, Shawn Joaquin digging his talons into my back as I swung my arms and thrashed my legs about in some semblance of exercise. In doing this as a family, as well as joining the poolside Spanish class and conversations about the best dinner spots in our little enclave, we learned we had been a hot topic of discussion the entire week.

I first realized this when people began to say things along the lines of "I've been watching you with him all week, and he's so lucky to have you" and "god bless - we were just saying the other night that more people should do what you're doing" and each time they looked pointedly at Shawn Joaquin, ending any speculation that they might be discussing my husband and his sometimes Special Needs appearance in the early morning. While my inner voice wanted to scream that my son was not in any way luckier than some child that happened to pop out of my womb, I realized that this was an Opportunity to Educate rather than pummel.

"Where did you get him?"
"How long have you had him?"
"What is he?"

In each case I took a deep breath before responding, shoving aside my inner demon that wanted to reply with a personal question of my own — "When did you last have sex?” "Do you love your husband as much now as before?", "Do you still beat your wife?" — and prefaced each reply with "Our son is...." to reaffirm our connection.

To have his connection to me questioned, to have others express disbelief that this little body firmly attached to my side was anything other than my son and the meaning and center of my life was initially painful. And to have people believe that it is HE who is lucky, rather than us. In each instance, I had to look at the intention of the speaker rather than their words, and note that each one expressed appreciation for his beautiful little face, his smile, and our obvious love as a family. But it was a wake up call for me, as I realized that as Shawn Joaquin and soon Madelena hear these questions they will be as much my audience as the inquirer. And that I need to come up with answers that will make my children comfortable and proud and reassured that biology has nothing to do with family or our commitment to one and other.

Our fame/freak status reached as far as the two Harley hog riders with the multiple tats over their large, grey-hair covered bellies and chests. When one of their poolside neighbors asked Shawn Joaquin's name, I heard one biker relay the answer to the other as if it were the answer to a question they themselves had been asking.

This blog entry has no neat little bookend or button to wrap it up, no witty conclusion. I will spend the next few months and years determining exactly what is the right answer to these invasive questions knowing that my listening audience is rapidly expanding to include my children. In the meantime, I can only ensure that they know they are loved and more precious to me than anything in this world, and no biker or Georgian or Mexican waiter can cause me to question that — and in doing so, they themselves will learn not to question their place in my heart.

This just in

Bring me the head of the Guatemalan judge who stands between me and this baby.

I'm baaaaaaaaaaack

Just a few tidbits from Mexico, as I wade through damp bags of clothes, sand and ocean scents...

Telling quotes from Mexico

Me drinking Crystal Light at the pool, Shawn Joaquin asking for a drink:
Me: No, baby, it's a grown up a drink and not good for you.
SJ: Why, does it have RUM in it?
***
Shawn Joaquin sitting on the tiolet, looking quickly, left, right and then down:
WHERE'S MY PENIS?!
***
Más mañana.

Please don't throw me in the briar patch

When the idea of a resort vacation came up, I was staunchly against it. I wanted my son to know Tuolomne Meadows, the feel of ice forming on your brow in the early morning as you burrowed deeper into your army blankets and silently begged someone, anyone to start a fire for you. To know what it's like to drag a cooler down a dirt road for 1/4 mile only to find that all your baggies have perforated, leaving you with steak marinated in ice water, olive oil and grapes. To understand what truly dirty is, after biking 20 miles, sleeping on the beach, surfing, and then riding home again. Resorts are for wimps, old men with cigars and their trophy wives or children who are afraid of mud, bugs and making their own beds.

And then we booked our vacation at a five-star resort just outside of Puerto Vallarta. I took a virtual tour of the spa...the kids club...the infinity pool with the swim-up bar under the palapas roof. I saw the dozens of beach chairs on the broad sandy beach around a clear, smooth bay, the waiters with trays of creamy piña coladas and their white teeth bared in a nearly friendly smile. I saw a suite with two bedrooms on either side of a cool, tiled living room with a DVD player, a coffee maker that could easily whip up my Peet's lifeblood in a matter of minutes, and the jacuzzi tub in the master bath.

I kept up my protests, though they became weaker with each 60-hour workweek. I secretly tried on my bathing suits and "resort wear" for weeks and checked the weather in Puerto Vallarta religiously. As we approach T-1, I now say who needs roughing it when Amalia from the spa is calling to confirm your Lomi Lomi massage with the happiest ending of all...a piña colada on a white sand beach, a happy kid who's spent the day sliding and swinging and building sand castles, and a husband who smells more like sea and sun than pizza.

Adíos, mis amig@s! I'll be back on the 27th. Until then, have some chips and salsa and think of me.

We don't need no stinkin' badges

Tomorrow we take off for Mexico, and have spent the last two weeks preparing Shawn Joaquin for air travel and the need to walk through the security arch at the airport by himself. After asking me to talk him step-by-step through our journey tomorrow, he announced he's not down with that whole security process.

SJ: I not gonna walk by myself through that, that THING.
Me: Well, you need to. It's the rule.
SJ: I don't have any rules. Rules are NOT GOOD.

If the Oakland Airport is shut down tomorrow for a security breach, I think you know who to thank.

Poostats

I have received countless emails, letters and AP inquiries as to how Shawn Joaquin's toilet training is going at school, and we're finding the ever-present paparazzi-watch outside the stalls to be just too much to handle. Taking our cue from celebrity press agents, we figured it was time to just Address Our Public.

Toilet training stats one week into the season, in the
school environment, with a right-handed urinator:

• # of accidents: 8
• # of false reports of success: 4
• # of actual successful toilet trips: 4
• # of times "I poo poo'd in my underwear!" was shouted w/glee: 2
• # of times "I was busy playing with sumfing" was the excuse: 2
• # of toilet-related nightmares by an adult in a single week: 7

We can only hope that the sunny days in Mexico bring out Shawn Joaquin's inner urinator and a deep aversion to pants wet by anything other than the tide.

Stalking Jon Carroll

The first house I owned in Oakland had three claims to my heart — its wonderful Craftsman built ins, never painted; the beautiful garden I transformed from glass and weeds and dog poop to a scent garden with carefully tended flowers that bloomed throughout the year; and lastly, its proximity to Jon Carroll.

I read Jon Carroll's column each and every day with my Peet's coffee, and to this day it provides yet another reason for my fealty to Oakland. I remember the day I realized that Jon Carroll lived in my little Glenview neighborhood; in his column he referenced Poodles a la Pamela, one of our more bizarrely named local enterprises. I had to rush home to send him an email, as if he would say "aha - it's you!" and would begin to join me for coffee in the morning, take long walks through the neighborhood with me and discuss French films, Willie Brown's hats, the need to buy local and the general superiority of our neighborhood. Instead I received a four-word reply to my email, but it was enough to awaken my Inner Stalker.

For the next ten years, I looked at every older, bearded man in a hat with a snappy brim, sure it was he. I walked up and down the two streets on which he was rumored to live, waiting for him to come out and discover me and immediately ask to read the plethora of short stories and manuscripts I had waiting in my office, just two short blocks away.

Alas, Jon Carroll never came out to play. So in the end I paid to meet him as part of a writers workshop, to have him critique my work and perhaps, just perhaps, to discover my kindred spirit and exceptional talent...my Svengali, ready to introduce me to the publishing world.

Somehow the workshop went terribly, awfully wrong. I sat in a room with two dozen other aspiring writers, waiting for the opportunity to read my writing aloud, sure it would be my shock and awe moment. I toyed with the idea of sharing my stalking with him, in a short story, but I was concerned that flattery might slide into fright and a need for a restraining order, so I abandoned that witty piece and shared instead a piece I had already written about my secretly gay husband.

It was not my moment of glory. My piece paled in comparison to the trucker's, who wrote about the invasion of Iraq and how we might feel if soldiers were in our living rooms, asking for information about our neighbors. And the woman who somehow telepathically RIPPED OFF MY IDEA but did it better, writing about coming to the class that day to find out if she had IT. That IT I was so sure I had but she got to it first, leaving me with the dregs. All in all, my short story received a few laughs, more than its share of puzzlement and a lengthy discussion about what "gayness" meant and how appropriate it may or may not be. My cheeks were flaming, my lunch threatening to revisit me, and never have I been so glad for time limits and rules that meant the person to my right could now share their pearls of literature.

At some point, I offered to send Jon Carroll a story I had written about adoption and gay and lesbian parenting, a subject near and dear to his heart. He said he'd read it and to include my URL. I felt redeemed, and had some hope that when he finally read my blog he'd see that yes indeed I did have IT, that he would need to pass on my URL and my name to his countless publishing contacts and in no time, no time at all, I would receive a call, an offer, or at least some emailed words of encouragement.

That was 6 weeks ago. Thanks to the steady reports from my StatCounter, I am fairly certain that Jon Carroll never visited my website and never had the opportunity to be dazzled by my prose. Or perhaps he slipped in under the radar and was just too embarrassed by my clumsy writing to ever respond.

So now I skulk around Glenview, avoiding all bearded men in hats with snappy brims and that conversation that might start with "oh, yeah...that story..." and end with my abandonment of all writing and perhaps quitting my job to go to some trade school. Yet every day I read his column, drink my Peet's coffee, and dream that perhaps one day...with the right guidance, editor and prescription drugs...I might be the reason someone gets up in the morning, grabs a cup of Peet's, and settles in at the computer to start their day with Being Mom.

Underwear: it's what's for school

Today, Shawn Joaquin wore underwear to school for the first time.

With that milestone came a back pack filled with extra underwear, pants, socks and shoes and a mother's heart filled with anxiety and pride and anticipation. I was hoping he would have a successful day and come home with tales of toilet triumph rather than urine filled shoes or a new nickname of Poo Poo Pants Head.

Me: Remember what we talked about. Today you don't have a diaper on. Just underwear. So what are going to do when it's time to go tinkle?

SJ: I gonna tell a teacher and go tinkle at SCHOOL.

Finally, the five hours passed and he returned wearing the same pants he left in and his shoes did not appear to be squishy in any way.

SJ: I went tinkle and poo poo at SCHOOL today!

Me: Oh, I'm so proud of you! Did you go with Angela or with Tanya?

SJ: NOBODY. I did it by myself. AT SCHOOL. IN MY UNDERWEAR. What's for snack?

Well, perhaps we still have a ways to go. And need more explicit instructions for tomorrow.

Love letter to my husband

My husband has, at various times, been outted in this blog for his love of fashion, his struggles with early morning parenting, his bodily functions and more. He bears all of this with some humor and some pain and a lot of avoidance of those whom he knows read this blog. He also, in the Real World, not only tolerates me but loves me. So for that, and so much more, I write him this love letter for all to read.

Dear G:

I love you because....

....you pick up my underwear off the floor each and every day and no longer ask me "hey, are you finished with these?"

....when I have a bad day you meet me at the door with a crazy, made up cocktail created from organic juices and vodka and a vow to watch the newly DVR'd American Idol with me. And only once tell me that people who watch this show are IDIOTS.

....when I am a raccoon-eyed bag lady in yesterday's makeup, wearing my striped "spa" socks from RiteAid with my black Target yoga pants and a free logo'd tshirt in a color that actually manages to clash with black, you tell me I'm HOT. And mean it.

....you tell me not to lose an ounce, even after I've gained ten pounds of butt-at-desk-24/7 weight.

....you make me peanut butter toast at 2am, with extra butter, without any regard for the effect on my heart or thighs but well aware of the comfort that heart attack with a side of crumbs brings me. Almost as much as the sight of your face next to mine on the pillow each and every morning.

Thanks, honey. I love you. Please remember that the next time I out you for something on this blog. After all, I'm a writer...I can't help it.

Bacon is winning

Gregg and I continue our race to the bacon-laden finish, to see who will win which title in Fat Spouse and Hot Spouse Go on Vacation sweepstakes. Both of us are vying for the former title, since it's just so much easier to slam a block of cheese with a mayo chaser than it is to jog up our steep hill or lift our ever-expanding butts off the couch. The 15-hour workdays with brief toilet cheering breaks really aren't helping, nor is the backlog of The Riches and the extreme heat of the week. We may end up in a dead tie, and I'll just hope that a few weeks or months in Guatemala, with its inherent food and parasite dangers, will help me reach some newly svelte low, since fat + 90 degree weather = discomfort and sticking in bad places.

Each and every night I wake up at 2am to go through my list of current anxieties: "Where will I live in Guatemala? Will Shawn Joaquin ever not think it's funny to poop in his pants while at a restaurant? Where is my expense check? What is Madelena going to feel when she's put in my arms and removed from those of the only mother she's ever known? Who ate all the salami I hid in the back of the fridge? Why is my underwear so tight? When will my Volvo key fob ever be fixed so I can stop leaving SJ on the curb while I dash around to open the driver's door manually, leaving him vulnerable to Montclair kidnappers? Is it really possible to have cellulite THERE? Is tomorrow a 12-hour workday or a 10-hour workday? Is that a mosquito bite or a toast crumb stuck on my ass?" Nowhere on this list is "how will I look in a bikini in Mexico?” a vast improvement over past weeks when I was eating ice chips and pretending that carbs were the devil’s food. Now when I awake at 2am it's time for peanut butter toast and milk and my DVR'd episodes of The Office.

My beautiful daughter will never be tall and svelte or be mistaken for some waifish model. She will small and curvy and round and have breasts and hips and thighs. I'm glad she will not stand next to some bony-assed mom, but will have a bit more of role model who — after two decades of thinking thin and worrying about sizes — is finally learning to embrace the body that has taken her on many adventures, climbed mountains and rocks, swam in the Gulf of Mexico, the Atlantic and the Pacific, hiked above the treeline, learned to surf in a day, bombed down snowy slopes on long, scary skis, built brick patios and walls and gardens and gates. Not a stick figure fatigued by lifting up that heavy glass of ice and water with lemon, but a strong, healthy, curvy body that will never be mistaken for a 12-year old boy or a heroin addict.

So pass me that pasta — trust me, I’m eating for two.

Broken baby

This weekend, Shawn Joaquin wanted to know what I dream about. Usually we talk about HIS dreams, which still occur in the hole in the wall. In fact, Shrek recently visited there with his three new babies, and Shawn Joaquin let me know that Shrek IS NOT GOOD and SHOULD NOT EVER COME TO OUR HOUSE.

My dream involved babies, but not green ones. I told Shawn Joaquin I had dreamed that we were in Guatemala with Madelena and that the three of us were walking down the street. As in real life, he was yelling PICK ME UP PICK ME UP because he sensed stranger danger from 200 yards away...a speck on the horizon that may indeed be a human who might actually LOOK at him. As I recounted the dream I explained that in real life, he’d need to walk since I need to carry Madelena.

SJ: No, she should crawl in the street while you carry ME.
Me: That would be very dangerous for Madelena.
SJ: It's okay — she can hold her foster mother's hand.

Clearly, there has been a level of information absorption and possible resentment brewing behind those big black eyes. He then went on to explain that if she crawled in the street a car would come and it would BREAK THE BABY and MAKE HER ALL DIRTY AND MESS UP HER CLOTHES. AND I DON'T WANT A BROKEN BABY. SHE WILL HAVE TO STAY THERE.

I think we have a ways to go on the new sibling preparation. Because hey, he's right. No one wants a broken baby.

Boots and bottoms

Shawn Joaquin spends an inordinate amount of time in his underwear and rainboots, clomping around in preparation for toilet time. He's adverse to total nudity, and in fact was only recently convinced of the benefits of the underwear and boots ensemble as it pertained to Speed to Toilet.

At some point this morning, we lost his underwear amidst the tinkle time excitement.

"Shawn Joaquin, where's your underwear?"
"On Daddy's head."
"I don't think so — why would it be on daddy's head?"
"He likes to wear underwear on his head and dance around. Can I have some milk please?"

I'd like to pretend I'm shocked. But I'd rather put my energy into planting a nanny cam upstairs to capture the next Underpants Head Dance. Oh man, our Christmas card is gonna be GREAT this year.

Slacker mom, part deux

In the middle of a long and painful conference call yesterday, I received four calls from the school on the other line. I could see the number come up again and again as I blathered on about product positioning, attribute drivers, focus group parameters and other things that in the end All Signify Nothing. Finally I put a dozen people on hold to call the school, only to learn that Shawn Joaquin was sitting in the secretary's office bleeding green mucus from his eyes. I made my excuses and ran out the door to pick him up. Completely unaware that my mascara from the day before, now residing under my eyes, was the only make up I had on and a hair brush had not been introduced to my head in at least 24 hours.

On my way there I made an appointment with the pediatrician, finished my conference call, slammed some string cheese for lunch and hit only a few small cars and animals. As we drove home, his eyes overflowing, I realized that I would be unable to take him to the doctor since I had Fun With Oral Surgery scheduled at exactly the same time and had to keep the appointment or wait until July and kiss a molar goodbye. This was all stacking up to be a day that sucked like no other.

I made my way on BART to the city, Shawn Joaquin headed to the doctor with his nanny, and I awaited a report on his condition. Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer and called Wafa's cell.

"What did the doctor say?"
"He say Shawn Joaquin has something wrong with his eyes."
"Well, we knew that..."
"And he say he has an ear infection in BOTH ears that he's had for a LOOOOOOOONG, LOOOOONG time."

I was stricken, mute and awash in guilt. Had he been in pain for days...weeks...while I was oblivious to it in my rush to get to Board meetings, gala meetings, advancement committee meetings, school, work, Trader Joe's, backyard poop scooping and dog walks? Was I so caught up in this glamorous lifestyle that I had neglected my own child's health? WAS I YET AGAIN A SLACKER MOM?

Wafa assured me the doctor had not told her how long it had been but had written everything down for me, and I could see it all when I got home. 120 minutes of worry and novocain and nitrous later, I was home and rushed in to find the paper on the fridge.

"Sean [sic] has conjunctivitis and an ear infection in both ears."

That was it. That was the entire note from a doctor who had been asked to write copious notes so I would know what to do and how long I had been neglected my child and his ears. There was no timeline, no reassurances, no prognosis, no warnings about not exposing other children to the mucus machine his eyes had become. Just my child's name misspelled and a lack of detail that would keep me up all night wondering if my child would lose his hearing now because I was too damn worried about getting the poop out of the backyard or raising funds for his school.

For the rest of the night, I suffered from something akin to non-custodial parent guilt: he was offered ice cream and grilled cheese for dinner, all the Backyardigans he could watch through his filmy eyes, and I even gave in when he croaked out in the most pitiful voice: I want Rachel Ray. We endured 30 minutes of her chatter and highly suspect cooking just to keep him happy and from focusing, somewhere in his tiny but brilliant brain, on the neglect that had led us all here.

Today, after multiple eye drop battles, he's fine. And his hearing is sharp enough to hear the clink of my spoon from two floors away, leading him to shout "WHAT YOU EATING? I WANT SOME. I NEEEEEED SOME." And as a slacker mom wracked with guilt, he will of course get it...and whatever else he desires until my guilt recedes and common sense is reintroduced. Until then, let him cake. And ice cream. And whatever else his little green-filmed eyes can see and thus desire.

Apropos of nothing

Today I had some major dental work done, and requested nitrous to alleviate my awareness of drill sounds, that smoky smell that accompanies those sounds, and the utter hell of the vibrations it all creates in my head. About 20 minutes into it I realized that voices around me had started to sound like they were coming through the voice scramblers so popular with kidnappers calling for ransom.

The nitrous was clearly on too high.

So, like any good mom, I sucked it in as deeply as possible and enjoyed a narc'd out 60 minute vacation. Hey, it beats air travel.