Our last morning

On this, our last morning, we toasted each other with cheerios and smashed black beans and celebrated by sleeping in until 9am. At 8am, Madelena Sofia rolled her little urine soaked bottom on top of my chest, where came to a rest for the next 40 minutes. As it soaked through my shirt and into my own skin, I was not annoyed or faint or gagging. I was just happy to have that fat little bottom up against me, with an occasional flailing arm batting me as she dreamed of gatitos or pachas or simply her newfound walking skills.

Electricity has been scarce today and tears are not, so I'll keep this short and once again, let the pictures do the talking.

More lessons learned

I have learned much in Antigua. Some things, per my earlier post, are not Fun Things. Some things are Language Things (like how to ask someone to write the price of something down because if left to your own devices and issues with numbers in Spanish, you will simply empty your wallet and ask them to take the money they need). And some things are Interesting and Confidence-Building Things.

I have learned that if Madelena does not like a particular food she can spit it out with a distance of at least 12 inches and with great velocity and glee.

I have learned that walking four miles with a baby strapped to your chest in 90 degree heat is beyond strenuous, but is nothing that a little Quiche Lorraine, a tall glass of Rosa de Jamaica and a baby who is happily occupied squishing a banana for 20 minutes can't fix.

I have learned to look away and pretend to be occupied when a cockroach scuttles across the common area, knowing it's probably on its way to someone else's kitchen.

I have learned how to sterilize bottles and nipples and spoons and more in less than three trips from the room to the purifier to the kitchen, and how to pick up nipples from boiling water using only two pre-sterilized baby spoons and a microwaved towel as a resting place.

I have learned where to get the best frozen coffee after a long, hot walk, which music Madelena will bounce to (salsa) and which she will ignore (classical), which shop imports Trader Joe's boxed soups, how to ease bug bites with toothpaste, where the one park with the swings can be found, where to get the best palmeros, which stores carry Spanish-language board books, how to talk to strangers who share the rooftop garden and even get a nice glass of Chilean red out of it as Madelena and I watch the sun set between the volcanoes, when to say yes, yes, you can watch my baby nap while I get one of the best massages of my life for $30 and just down the garden path from my sleeping baby, and how to one-handedly make a bottle, draw a baby bath, pour coffee and cream, eat a meal, sit down gracefully in a hammock and never drop the baby, her bottle, the jacket I must carry so the Guatemalans do not accuse me of negligence, and my own diet coke.

All in all, it was a very good day.

Thing I learned in Antigua today

Not everyone loves adoptive American parents.

Some missionaries who interrupt your breakfast think that 13 year olds should keep their babies, even if it's their second or third. Because God will provide.

90% of birth mothers in Guatemala are "paid off." According to the missionary, this is NOT what she means when she says God will provide.

American women do not know how to adequately dress their children for the 90-degree humidity - if there are less than three layers and a hat, you are clearly a negligent person who should be stopped on the street and told so in rapid fire Spanish.

Not all NPR reporters are all that bright, and when they interview you they sometimes are oblivious to your need to feed and pay attention to the very child who provides the reason for the interview.

The Mercado in Antigua is one of Dante's less well known circles of hell, where you can watch an animal being butchered next to a tall stack of toilet paper and fake Disney toys, all while enjoying an extra special 100+ degrees of humid, blood-fumed heat under the tin roofs.

Through a day of hell in which you have lost your joie de Antigua and are convinced that everyone hates your tall, white blond self when you stupidly wander out of the primary tourist area, you know your new baby girl thinks you're fabu. Even if it's just because you're fun to climb on, have a nose in which to stick fingers, apparently sneeze hi-lariously and will read the same five books over and over, easily changing one book for another every two pages. And with that knowledge, you can deal with the rants and raves of missionaries. Because in your case, god (not God) HAS provided.

Spit up smells the same, even in Guatemala

In the midst of the fiesta de amor, there have been a few minor trials and reminders that Madelena Sofia is as fallible and prone to human frailty as other, lesser babies.* At breakfast yesterday in the beautiful courtyard at Kaffe Fernando, she spit up all over herself and down the front of my shirt. Given that she is eating solids and had just eaten an egg, spit up is a euphemism that I used to dampen Gregg’s gag reflex. We left him at the table to finish his meal in peace, and walked the 100 yards to our Posada.

Back in our room, I stripped her down and prepared her bath. This is no easy feat in a room filled with tile and sharp corners and no jumpy seat or excersaucer in sight. But I was feeling confident – one armed though I was – sure that all my mama skills were back in high gear. Finally one of us was naked and the other shirtless and the smallest of us was settled in the bath. Still, the smell of spit up pervaded the room. As I began to consider the source, Madelena got on her hands and knees to explore. And to drop one of the most lengthy and colorful floaters ever seen by a horrified mother into the once-clean bath water.

It was scoop and run time, as she reached for this new fun toy in the water, something perhaps as squishable as the cereal she so loved to scoop out of her own mouth and mash into her fist and then hair. As I lifted her, she attempted to step on it on her way out of the tub and seemed truly chagrined to have missed out on this possibly fabulous tactile sensation.

Gregg, fabulous father and partner that he is, has one weakness: squishy things. Be it baby food, soft diapers or, in this case, the new kids now floating in the pool. I knew it was a matter of moments before he’d be home and see the evidence of our child’s lack of fealty to him and his delicate senses. As he entered the door and headed to the bathroom I screamed “don’t go in there!!!!” He looked at me kindly, sure that I was embarrassed by something I HAD left in the bathroom, some trace of my own humanity. I decided not to disabuse him of this notion — better he know that I am human than be afraid to ever bathe Madelena in case of an encore performance.

The rest of the day, no matter where we went, all I could smell was spit up. It haunted me at Nim Po’t, the fabulous gallery of Quiche arts and crafts where we picked up a beautiful huipil for our home, textiles to adorn Madelena’s walls, a wooden quetzal for Shawn Joaquin’s room and beautiful art work to mark this very special week in our lives. The spit up smell followed me into Frida’s, down the street to the Plaza, and back to our hotel. It was in my nose. It was in my lungs. And it was, as I ultimately found out four hours after the incident, in my hair. Ah, motherhood. All poop and spit up and lack of sleep and all, ultimately, vale le pena.


*I apologize to all the readers and friends who have perfectly beautiful, perfectly perfect babies. I am still in the throes of love and figure I can get a hall pass for 60 days of hyperbole.

It it gunfire or happy saints?

(DATELINE: ANTIGUA, GUATEMALA) We awoke at 1am last night to the sound of gunfire. This did not seem improbable, though highly frightening, since we had seen more than one man walking down the street here in Antigua with a pistol in his waistband. After multiple shots, in which we imagined someone whacking someone BUT GOOD a la Bobby "Bacala" Baccalieri in the Sopranos, we realized it was merely middle of the night fireworks. And that they appeared to be coming from the rooftop of our little Posada, which was only slighly less comforting than the Bobby scenario.

Today we learned that the Iglesia de Merced for which our Posada is named was setting off fireworks at random hours to either pay homage to or attract the attention of saints, Given that the explanation was given in rapid Spanish, it's also quite possible that the man I was speaking to said "did you know you are attractive"; my Spanish fluency, depending on my level of exhaustion or distraction, is either somewhat impressive or leads to interesting conversations in which I ask someone how long their child is and what towel they wear.

Madelena has been amazing - flirting with everyone, walking to strangers with her arms up to be picked up, snuggling into my chest and patting my arm as we walk through the cobblestone streets. Her arms are super stretchy, seeming to reach at least four feet at every table with hot plates, salsas, wine glasses or squishable food on it; her humor is dry, witty and occasionally she allows herself the slapstick moment when she pretends to drop a leaf over and over, as if it were not in her full control to grab it and eat it at her whim as she has illustrated so many times before.

We are enchanted. We are in love. We are joyful while being sick at the thought of leaving her. She is beautiful and loving and sweet and demanding. She is a force to be reckoned with, and already knows that she is not one to be confined to any playpen - the world and all its people and things are her playpen and toys to be kissed and petted and thrown down with a cocky little laugh as she throws back her head and grins at her good fortune.



She is Madelena Sofia Wheeler Fleury. And damnit, she's ready to show Oakland and the greater United States what she's all about.

Sometimes a picture - or 4 - is worth a thousand words

We're happy and tired and so glad to finally experience Madelena Sofia, who is full of fire and personality and demands and sounds and humor and ultimately, perfection. More words tomorrow; we've been up for 36 hours and are ready to crash in the beautiful Posada La Merced.

Poo poo head in da house

I had heard from other parents in our classroom that new words have been introduced into our innocents' lives in recent weeks: stupid, kill and the phrase "sick of it." I have no idea who introduced what, and was just grateful that it had not reached the wee ears of Shawn Joaquin, who is probably so engaged in his lone wolf behavior that he can't be bothered to listen to the slurs bandied about circle time.

Today, on his journey from the living room to his bed he stopped by for his usual pre-nap check in.

Mama, what's that smell?
I don't know. Is it a good smell or a bad smell?
Bad smell. I think it's your poo poo head, and I'm sick of it.

Great, a twofer. At least he's not a slacker who can only pony up one slur at a time. I can't wait until he and his classmates start using words and phrases like "oppressor", "lard ass" and "I'm calling Child Protective Services." And then I'll teach him mama phrases like "because I said so", "I know you are but what am I" and "I dare you" and start asking myself when I became my own mother.

Parents, start your worry engines

Before my friends all married and birthed and my son became the center of my world, we lived a relatively Friends-like existence. Sunday nights were for Zzas restaurant, where we'd put our name down as "Next" on the sign-in sheet, much to our amusement and the hostess's annoyance. Saturdays we'd gather at a random high school field or park and play Sports. Sports could be any single or mix of athletic-like or athletic-lite games, since we all carried equipment in our cars. Footballs, frisbees, rock climbing equipment, golf clubs, soccer balls, kid's kick balls, a couple of hula hoops, roller blades and various gloves, mitts and helmets. We had legendary games of ultimate frisbee on rain-soaked fields that left us muddy and bruised and bloody but still able to wobble out a victory lap and incorporate interpretive dance into our victory dance, as was called for sometimes by our ever-changing game rules. Golf games were not always at golf courses, and often involved Happy Gilmore moments and group tee-offs. Our biggest sources of anxiety were either work-related tiffs or having a taqueria close early, requiring another dinner decision.

All of that has changed. As parents, we now all play games that involve chutes and ladders and learning colors. Our sports are limited to those that include lightweight or padded equipment incapable of causing head injuries. And our worries are exponential: organic food vs. "regular", how to help develop self-confidence in children, toilet training, dangers lurking around every sharp corner and low-hanging ledge, which formula, which diapers, what car will protect the back seat best, how to reach a doctor after hours, mapping out the fastest route to the emergency room, learning how to cut wee nails, who will break our child's heart first, will he fit in, will she be liked and loved and appreciated for her differences, how will she survive that first day of school without you, how will YOU survive that first day knowing that she's out of your protective sphere for perhaps the first time in her young life, how much exercise, which television programs if any, how to keep small fingers from creeping over the edge of the stove, keep forks out of sockets and so much more — all those things we do each and every day just to get through the day without heartache or a visit to the emergency room and filled with at least an hour of love and connection and reassurance that yes, you are my child and I love you with all my heart.

But it's not enough.

This weekend I read an article in the Sunday paper entitled "The Test from Hell." Apparently, in addition to getting us all through the day alive and loved, I need to start worrying about the SATs no later than second grade. If at that time I fail to recognize any learning issues for my child and fail to document them from that day forward until the SAT arrives, at best my child will end up in a vocational school learning to make leather wallets or at worst playing Lara Croft: Tomb Raider XVI on my sofa for years after barely graduating from high school. Or incarcerated because his sense of self-worth has been so damaged by failure in high school and at taking the Test from Hell that he was forced to steal the neighbor's car when he went out to buy beer with his fake ID.

According to the author — whose veracity I do not question — it is only because they tested her child in second grade that she had a shot in hell at keeping up with her peers in all the years ahead, and of doing better than squeaking by on the SATs.

"When she was in second grade, we shelled out $2,000-plus to have a private version of the crucial Individual Education Plan (IEP) -- a test of your child's problems, if any, and what interventions might help. It advised us to hire a specialist twice a week to help Dana learn to fare better in the classroom. And so it began: Over the years, private tutors taught her strategies for decoding words and math problems, how to use special computer programs to help her get organized and even how to make her own case with administrators that she needed extra time on a test or the use of a computer. (Back then, such tutoring cost $80 an hour; now that rate would be considered a bargain.)"

I am frightened. It took 12 years of tutoring and a lawsuit against the Educational Testing Service to allow their learning-disabled child a fair swag at the SATs. Like many parents, I can barely make it through a week without anyone mutilated or traumatized, and now I need to look at each badly scrawled sentence or drawing and determine if my son is learning disabled or just messy, or put him through the rigors of the IEP test at the tender age of seven just to figure out if there's a chance that in 10 years he'll be smacked down by the SATs and need proof that way-back-when we started documenting his disability. This would legitimately allow him either additional time or access to a computer during the SATs. We'd need this historical proof because, as icing on the cake, some parents have been accused of "shopping for accommodations" in their child's high school years to ensure that their possibly non-learning disabled child has the letters he or she needs to buy that time or access — and now the ETS is randomly rejecting applications for accommodations.

Isn't it enough that we eat organic, have child-proofed the house down to the basement and garden shed, read for at least an hour each and every day and have never, ever had an action figure in the house? That we show him the benefits of an active lifestyle, teach him his letters in the bathtub by drawing on the tiles with non-toxic paint, sing and read to him in two languages and avoid MSG, weapons in the house and raising our voices?

Forget saving for college. Now we need to save for the IEP and the years of tutors that may follow. If by some chance our perfect, kind, smart little boy turns out to be viewed as perfect in his learning abilities, we'll use that money for either his college tuition or a big ass party with ice cream cake and non-scary clowns to celebrate the day someone other than us affirmed that yes, yes, he's smart as a whip and sees letters and numbers and concepts as he should. Between now and then, I'll add learning disabilities and the IEP to my list of worries, somewhere above "will he learn to walk down the stairs by himself" and way below "will he be happy", my number one concern today and every day in our future.

Apropos of nothing, again

As I drove down the hill today, I saw a sign that said "Cash needed for homeless cats" with a now forgotten URL below it. I have only this to say: why would I give money to a homeless cat? Where are they going to put it? They don't have pockets OR homes. THINK, people. THINK.

Super heroes and implants

Today Shawn Joaquin returned home with yet another scratch on his face, possibly self-inflicted in some spastic moment of joy or anger. I asked him where the scratch came from.

Peyton scratch me.
Why did he scratch you?
We're Power Rangers. It's what we DO, MAMA.

I'm only hoping that retaliation is not another characteristic of Power Rangers, and that Peyton's sweet little face is unscathed. Seven months ago this would have led me to worry about who was doing what to whom and how long it might be before someone is blinded, followed by a slew of phone calls to other parents. Now I am wise and jaded enough to know that if Peyton scratched Shawn Joaquin it was most likely amidst some Shawn Joaquin-driven wrestling and he may even have his own scratch or bump and is equally unfazed by it. After all, they're Power Rangers. It's what they DO.

We're not sure where this new obsession with Power Rangers and Ninja Turtles came from, given that Shawn Joaquin's TV is limited to 30 minutes of PBS and his action toys have names like Big Bird, Elmo and Franklin the turtle. And I know I have raised my son in a gender-neutral household, and his toy cabinet includes Dora and my baby doll next to his dump truck and fire engine puzzle. Yet other than his occasional desire to use my make up sponges to put on just a touch of complexion enhancing foundation, he's all boy. Boy boy. Run around and fall down and eat dirt boy. Cautious — never one to leap off of ledges or climb further than his legs might easily get him down — he still turns toys over first to find their screws and regularly pounds the crap out of the table with oranges and rocks and any inanimate object that he can turn into a blunt force instrument.

I think that upon either birth or entry into the U.S., a small subcutaneous chip was implanted with the ability to feed his little brain brand names of action heroes. And a burning desire to turn every object into a loud truck or drum. And the yearning for a ride in a muscle car and instructions on how to dismantle a phone while mama naps. And finally, an inexplicable urge to eat chips and put his hand inside his waistband whenever ESPN or Fox Sports comes on, no matter how briefly.

About which Gregg proudly says, YES, yes. That's my boy.

Ms Potato Head

Yesterday my son missed seeing me all day — when he came home from school I was away at a lunch appointment, and when he arose from his nap I was at his school for yet another critical meeting and didn't return until after 11pm. We usually see each other many times throughout the day; our encounters sprinkled with hugs and kisses and head butts and demands of snacks with milk in mama's bed NOW. So he was more than delighted to see me when he awoke especially early today, perhaps cognizant of my late night and not wanting me to get all soft by allowing myself to sleep more than five hours.

MAMA! Where you go? Come here. I gonna hug you and
squish you like a POTATO.

Twenty head-squeezing seconds later all those difficult events of the last few days and weeks seemed like so much nonsense. This is where it's at: head squishing at dawn by the person you love most in this world, regardless of the fact that at any given moment he may turn on you and tell you to GO AWAY, this is not YOUR AREA and might even wipe off your kiss if he's so inclined. Todo vale la pena.

Happy Birthday, Madelena

Yesterday Madelena had her first birthday, and I expected the day to be a tearful one for me as I imagined her with that little candle in front of her and her family thousands of miles away. But each time I imagined that scene I saw not our absence but the presence of others who love her — her foster mother and brother, both of whom have loved and cared for her since the first few days of her life. They have been there for her first coo, that first unsteady flip from her back to her tummy, the many times she pulled herself up on a table or chair only to fall again on her well-padded bottom. They have kissed her and hugged her and cooed to her for a year, holding her close and calming her in times of fear or stress, clapping and laughing with her in times of joy. And on this day, I knew they would celebrate her birth and her existence and her place in their lives and their home.

So I had no reason to cry on my daughter's birthday. My child is loved in two countries, and missed by two mothers — her young birth mother and her lifelong mother. All she knows is love and care and the joy of each new experience, and she is missing nothing on her birthday or any other day. She simply knows she is loved, and with that I am content.

You say Nemo, I say Namo

Gregg took Shawn Joaquin to school today, and they sang one of his favorite songs, Bingo.

B-I-N-G-O AND BINGO WAS HIS NAME-O!

Gregg: Shawn Joaquin, is Bingo a dog?

SJ: No, DAAAD, Namo is a FISH. Everyone knows that.

Welcome to the world of mondegreens.

Tears and breasts and hearts, oh my

The kindness of strangers often makes me weep.

Today I spent my morning at the Summit Hospital Breast Health Center, called back for an ultrasound on a breast I'm rather fond of. When I was there two weeks ago, I was in and out in 20 minutes and only noticed that the staff was nice. Today during my 45-minute wait, I saw their unwavering kindness to every woman that entered the door.

One hospital worker sat in the waiting room just to greet women with unfailing cheer and warmth, patiently answering stupid questions and considered questions and walking each and every patient to their appointment, the registration desk or anywhere else they might need to go. She told me that my appointment was going to be delayed, and apologized deeply and sincerely. She walked me to the bathroom, found me a not-too-outdated New Yorker, admired my Mexican shirt and made not-annoying small talk to keep me company. The tech also apologized and thanked me for waiting, not in the rushed and peremptory "I say this all day and no longer hear the words" way, but with warmth and eye contact.

Every step of the process was explained to me as if this were the first time they were telling anyone, as opposed to the rote delivery of the gym membership salesman who watches the TV in the gym above your head while reeling off the benefits of membership. At the end of what could have been a traumatic and trying appointment, I wanted to thank each person that had at one moment or another helped me. But as I opened my mouth to say, "thank you, you're really doing a wonderful job here" I found my vocal cords smothered by a cottony lump in my throat, and knew that tears would accompany the words.

This proclivity for tears in exchange for kindness is relatively new to me. It began at about the same time that I began my journey towards motherhood, when perhaps my mom-ducts were turned on and all commercials with babies and even movies with animated beasts crying could reduce me to a puddle of salty tears. This was not long after my brother died, so perhaps it's tied to the both crushing and mind-expanding epiphany that one experiences with the unexpected death of someone you hold in your heart: you are not in charge here, and kindnesses and joy and moments of light should be honored and respected and recognized, never taken for granted or dismissed as just the way things are and should be.

It's either this epiphany or my mom heart that drives the tears when I read obituaries for the young men killed in Iraq, on Bayview streets or through some sleight of fate's hand. I cry when the Beast begins to die in Beauty and the Beast, when athletes deliver gold medal performances, when I see a baggy-pants-wearing, hooded and begrilled boy jump up to assist a woman with a walker as she attempts to navigate the supposedly automatic door. I cry after saying hello to our 90-year old neighbor as he takes his twice-daily walk up our steep hill, and when the special bagger at Safeway turns his round face to me and shouts THANK YOU and hugs me as I leave. With the arrival of my son in my mind's eye and my brother's death, I left behind the woman that was able to move dry-eyed through any given day, pleased but relatively unaffected by a stranger's kindness or general movement at the periphery of my world.

I thank them both — my brother Shawn and my son Shawn Joaquin — for having given me this sometimes painful and awkward gift that keeps on giving.

This little light of mine

We made plans this weekend to travel to Guatemala in three weeks, where we'll hold our daughter in our arms for the first time. Originally a solo trip for me, Gregg is now coming for the first two days to share those first precious moments, provide emotional support and hold the video camera. I am so frickin' giddy that work just seems like a time suck that takes me away from my obsessive thinking rather than the means by which I can pay for this crazy-expensive trip.

I'll spend a week in Antigua helping her with her newfound walking skills, wrapping her little fingers around mine to steady her, and obsessively watching her as she sleeps. After a week of love and sleeplessness in Antigua, I'll relinquish her to her foster mother again. There are no words to describe my dread of that moment.

In the meantime, I'm pulling together all our Spanish-language board books, small toys and the clothes that will fit her now but not by the time she's finally here. I've also tried to explain to Shawn Joaquin that I'm going to be in Guatemala with Madelena for a week, but will not be bringing her home.

Why she not come home?
She needs to stay there with her foster mother until everything is ready.
BUT I READY. Bring her HOME.

I hear ya, kid.

My grandclown

Shawn Joaquin informed me this morning that when he's a grown up he's going to have two children — his son CeCe and daughter Binky — and a pet clown. There was no mention of a life partner or who would walk the clown.

why Why WHY WHY

Our exchange this morning in the bathroom, as Shawn Joaquin looked through random items in the cabinet:

What are those?
Tampons.
Can I eat them?
No, they're not to eat. They're made out of paper, kind of like toilet paper.
Do you wipe your bottom with them?
No.
What they for? Can I try it?

In the last week he's had multiple questions about my body parts, his body parts, where poo poo comes from and where it goes after it leaves the toilet, what death means and where people go when they're not HERE anymore and why it makes us sad, and whether peach yogurt is actually a yogurt or just something yucky that I have tried to pass off as an edible. This during a week when we're all sick and impatient and much more interested in what kind of impression the pillow case can make on our faces if we lie immobile for at least two hours of blessed napping.

At this moment I am supposedly paying bills, and can hear Gregg upstairs trying to read book to Shawn Joaquin who is more interested in the details than the actual story.

The man walked down the street and...
What the man walking about? What's on his shoes? Who's that in the window? Whose house is that? What his name? What her name? What is that animal? What it sound like? Is that a cloud? The cloud looks like a WITCH. Why you afraid of witches? What witches do? Where they live? Do witches DIE? When they die, are you sad? Where they go? Why they do THAT?

My friend Melina, who admires my son from afar, will chalk this up as yet another blog entry that confirms her decision to have cats and friends instead of children. While I envy her ability to get to the gym after work, go to first run movies in actual theaters and be able to leave the house for an adult night without paying $10 an hour for the pleasure, I'll stick with my never-ending question and answer show, and just be glad for these days when I can actually answer his questions without needing to turn to reference materials or the crisis intervention line.

No room for the blues

Yesterday, we found out that instead of going to Guatemala and bringing Madelena home in the coming weeks, we instead get to stay here, be sucker punched repeatedly in the head by the news that NO, NO, there are more paperwork snafus that send our case packing and down the steps of the PGN bruised, battered and in need of attention. I feel much the same way, flattened by the shock and dismay and grief. Our Summer of Love is off, and no good news on when we can reschedule and in what season.

I'm working today, though what I really want to do is get back in bed and turn off the phones and either eat an entire pizza washed down with a bottle of wine and some Xanax or give up food and drink entirely. It's a tough call. But as the siren's song of deep depression calls me, I am reminded of one of my favorite quotes from The Anniversary Party, a sometimes navel-gazing but well-constructed film written by Jennifer Jason Leigh and Alan Cummings:

"Oh God, you're so lucky you don't have kids. When you have kids you can't stick your head in the oven. You can't take a handful of Percodan if you want to, or slit your wrists. You can't do yourself in. Kids ROB you of that option. Trust me."

As a mother, there is no time for self-involved grief, no matter how necessary. There are little people who need your love and attention and sobriety. You really can't put your head in the oven, no matter how strong the draw, because you'll inevitably be interrupted any way by some demand for milk, help with on getting on the big toilet, a piercing cry of I WANNA WATCH BACKYARDIGANS or other knee-high distractions that even the wafting gas can't subdue.

And so I console myself with ratty sweats, no make up and an overall general malaise that will not preclude me from being a loving mom, no matter how much I want to just bail on life for a few days and wallow in my discontent. Instead we'll order a small plain cheese pizza, toast with non-fat milk and watch The Heffalump Movie for the 15th time while snuggling under our fleece penguin blanket. Perhaps that's better than a head in the oven or under the covers, and slightly less likely to cause brain damage...other than the song that refuses to leave your head for days afterward, leaving you humming "the terrible thing about Heffalumps" in public places.