Finally, evidence

When I leave Shawn Joaquin with Gregg some evenings, I often come home and find odd things around the kitchen. Shredded newspapers, squished but whole oranges, a half full glass of water in the middle of the floor, a stack of broken but carefully arranged crayons, reminiscent of crop circles but slightly less mysterious. Tonight I found bits of a cardboard shipping box in which my new Pilates roller had arrived. A few minutes later, as I began downloading pictures from this weekend's traumatic first Big Boy Haircut Event, I found out just what goes on in my absence.


Clearly, Gregg is teaching Shawn Joaquin to share his fear of cameras.

And, apparently, of pants.

He's no loser, he's my son

I have spent many hours lamenting Shawn Joaquin's inability to deal with strangers, how he is often caught in a glass case of emotion that leads to him sometimes scream a terrified "aaaaaaaauuuuughhh!!!!!!!" into my face while pointing at me with one rigid finger, as if he's just seen Elmo beheaded by Big Bird and I DID IT. He can not bear to break eye or physical contact with me at large events, and feels most comfortable with one hand on my knee or knowing that IF he wanted to reach out and put his hand on my knee it would take NO effort, stretching or flexibility WHATSOEVER. He is not a joiner. He is not going to leave me for a cute girl or a fire truck or the chance to spit over the edge of the slide. He is my little mollusk.

Over the last few days I have had the chance to observe over a dozen kids of all ages, all with Berkeley/Oakland parents that I'm sure share my values and are committed to raising well-mannered but free-spirited children who have kindness in their hearts and compassion as part of their daily interactions. And it has made me more appreciative of that little hanger-on that I call my son.

I saw Shawn Joaquin race to the water fountain with his friend, who shouted, "I'm the winner! The winner!" when he reached the fountain first. Shawn Joaquin, merely sensing general excitement, threw his short little arms in the air and yelled "Winner! Winner!" as well, only to be told "NO, you're a LOSER! I'm the WINNER - you're the LOSER! THE LOSER!" To his credit, Shawn Joaquin was completely immune to this new title and continued to dance around like the little drunken monkey we all know and love.

Over the next few days I observed other kids turn every object into guns, threaten to "kill all the girls", taunt cats, call each other stupid and idiot and other terms of endearment. Shawn Joaquin just jumped and danced among them and said, "let's laugh some more" when he felt he had less than a quorum joining him in his merriment. His innocence among these kids was astounding and precious and heartbreaking. He was oblivious to any unkind word, a blissful lamb among wolf pups.

Later that night, Gregg and I talked about how we protect him from other kids — he will always be smaller, a little less mature, a little more likely to be picked on because of his innocence. Our one hope is that our neighbor's son will be at the same school - he's a rough-and-tumble kid who will, as his father notes, someday pound nails into a wall with his forehead. But he has a sweet, kind heart, and hugs Shawn Joaquin to comfort him when he cries and pats him while saying "It's okay, Shawn Joaquin, I'm here." We see a future as Shawn Joaquin's bodyguard, his on-the-spot, back-off-man friend who will help keep the wolves at bay.

For now, we'll just hope Shawn Joaquin's innocence is not ruined by too many stolen toys, "loser" moments or the slowly dawning idea that he may be a little different from other kids. And start building his bubble, prepping for home schooling or figuring out how we teach him that being different and standing apart is a good thing. And we must fill his little heart with so much self-confidence and awareness of his value to us and to the world that he can withstand what must surely be normal childhood taunts and altercations that are more likely to break my heart than his spirit.

Things my son taught me today

You don't hit baby birds with hammers.

When he is stronger, he's going to drink wine.

The haircut store is a place where scissors hurt your hair.

It's okay to fight with babies — they think it's funny.

Daddy can't read. He doesn't know how.

My breath in the morning smells like salt.

Witches can put a hex on you that make you fly like a frog or a giraffe. He can't remember which one. But if you see a witch, you could get lucky.

Is that for me? YES.

Shawn Joaquin was quite excited about my birthday yesterday.

Whose presents are those?
Mine.
Can I open them?
Sure, you can help me.
NO, I WANT TO OPEN THEM BY MYSELF. THEN I'M GOING TO PUT THEM IN MY ROOM AND YOU CAN'T COME IN.

Somehow I think that this does not bode well for any incoming gifts for Madelena upon her homecoming. I now imagine Shawn Joaquin barricaded in his room behind a pile of pink onesies, stackable toys, soft blankets and board books, quietly ripping the pages from my new Dogtown and the Z-Boys photo book while lying on my new lavender spa pillow.

Tomorrow's secret word is going to be either "share" or "MINE!" Both can teach a valuable lesson.

Namaste

I am giddy.

I am joyful.

I am dancing, spinning, singing and behaving in ways not normally acceptable in the adult world but entirely expected in the preschooler world, where one can wear one's heart on one's sleeve, in a shout or a song or in the joyful toss of cheerios in the air. I am living in that world of joyful, exuberant, hear-me-roar moments.

I am, finally, going to bring our daughter home.

What we have here is a failure to communicate

Thanks to the ongoing situation with Madelena my tolerance — once wide and deep and seemingly endless — has dried up to the merest trickle of flexibility and patience, wending it's way through rocks and stones of wrath and lability and inexplicably big reactions to small things. Those most affected by this near-drought are the men in my life, Gregg and Shawn Joaquin.

Last night I put Shawn Joaquin down at 7:30, and he tried every trick to extend the bedtime...bathroom, water, touch-the-monkey (his Mr. Monk-like, OCD-driven need for me to touch the Curious George on Wheels before leaving his room), covering up the CD player, moving the blanket so that it was clearly at right angles to the pillows, ensuring that the otter and white dog were completely hidden under the covers and that all was good and right with the world. I tamped down my growing frustration with visions of bad TV and a bath once the door to his room finally closed. Finally, I was out.

MAMA, I WANT TO TALK TO YOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU! came the wail from downstairs, minutes after my departure. For the next 55 minutes, he demanded my presence over and over and with great force, never ceasing to yell at the top of his lungs for me, even after I entered the room. I was driven to the edge, all tolerance finally gone gone gone.

Shawn Joaquin, if I have to come back one more time, you're going to get a swat on your bottom.

This stopped him in his wailing tracks.

Oh. What's that?
It's something that doesn't feel good.
Oh. Is it an owie? I don't want an owie.

My heart broke at his earnest question, and I felt like a terrible, abusive, raving mother who should call CPS on herself and willingly give her child over to someone who would not threaten them with a Swat on the Bottom. He demanded a hug and said goodnight for the 57th time and I left the room.

Ten minutes later, he began to yell again.

I NEED TO TELL YOU SOMETHING RIGHT NOW. COME HERE NOW. I NEED TO SEE YOU.

All heart break forgotten and my need to follow through and show no fear or weakness propelled into his room. I pulled back the covers and swatted his bottom for the first time in his short life. The swat was greater in my mind than in his mind or behind, so soft was it. Completely unfazed by his swat, he yelled in my face: I WANNA HUG YOU NOW. COME HERE AND LET ME HUG YOU. With that he grabbed my neck, hugged me and kissed me and said goodnight. For the last time that night.

Once again, with that kill-them-with-kindness move, he proved that he is Master of the Game and I am but a pawn, easily head-faked and left to doubt my parenting skills for the rest of the night.

Losing time

I was sitting on the bed with Shawn Joaquin a couple of nights ago, both of us reading our respective books. In the middle of Chapter 33, mid-sentence, he began to talk to me.

"And then two girls came into the room, and they said hi and then they all get into the hole with me, Mama. Who the girls are? Are they my friends?"

Oh my god, I must have blacked out. Somehow I had missed the entire introduction to that thought and "lost time", as my grandmother often did in her declining years. I decided to ignore my descent into dementia for the moment, fake an answer and then go back to my book. A few minutes later, he began again.

"She said yes but I didn't want to go to the store with that lady, but we did. And she said yes and yes and then no. Why we go there?"

It was at this time I realized that no, I had not blacked out. I was simply being drawn into some conversation that began in his little head and had somehow bubbled out and into his Outside Words, with nouns and verbs in random order just so he could Mess With My Head. I found out that this was not his trick alone — my friend Colin's daughter is also quite capable of pulling the same thing and causing him to doubt his own sanity.

I have often wondered if our children get something in the mail — a letter that simply says IT'S TIME!!!!! — letting them know that now is the time to come down with the terrible twos, unending questions, a suddenly desire to play at 2am, a distaste for foods once demanded and now found repugnant. These sudden and complete behavioral changes are enough on their own to lead you to question your own mental stability without the added doubt as to whether you recently blacked out mid-conversation. I decided to talk matters into my own hands.

The next night, we were silently sitting at dinner listening to Jack Johnson for the 50 billionth time, per his request. I decided to begin my own conversation mid-thought.

"I think that sounds like a good idea - I would have done it too."

He stared at me with what I was sure was recognition and perhaps a "welcome to my game" face. Then he replied.

"What are you talking about, Mama? I don't understand you at all - no more talking PLEASE."

Clearly, he can not be beaten at his own game.

Bidness time

Gregg and I, after 19 months of marriage and less than three years together are still figuring out how to read the other's "tells". This leads to innumerable missed sex opportunities, senseless fights and get-the-F-out-of-my-way-looks confused with sultry come-hither looks. Finally, thanks to Flight of the Conchords, we no longer have to rely on body language but can instead, finally, simply rely on a calendar.





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Mama love

I adore my son. Whether he is deemed weird or too inquisitive or prematurely swearing or stonily silent in the presence of strangers, he is perfection to me. I am sometimes overwhelmed by the sight of his beautiful little face and big black eyes — oddly, almost embarrassed by his beauty and the surge of love I feel in my chest at any given moment.

Before I held Madelena for the first time, I was worried that I would be unable to ever love a child as much as I love him. He is mine and I am his and so we will be forever, whether we are together or distant or both old and misunderstanding the other's intentions. My bond with him is so intense that I wonder how my mother ever recovered from my brother's death, or if indeed she ever will. At sometime they owned each other and were as close as I am to Shawn Joaquin, and she too held him close and kissed him and thought he was as perfect as I do my son. Later years changed that view, but under it all - even through the months of estrangement leading up to his unexpected death — did they not share this same intense tie?

Before we became a family, my husband said he was offended by people who have children telling the childless that they will never truly understand the love parents have for their children — as if it were something inexplicable and wordless and nothing any poetry or prose could ever explain. Now, finally, I think he understands it — who could look at this boy and have him call you Daddy and not?

Thankfully, my fears about Madelena were unfounded. From her first moments with me, she laid claim to me for life. I know that our bond will be as intense if different, and I see a life of adventure with her - the two of us jumping off a cornice with Shawn Joaquin safely below, videotaping our insanity. Or maybe our adventures will be as simple as tea at the old Sheraton Grand, where we will sample cucumber sandwiches and petit fours and cross our legs in a ladylike manner...all while slipping extra cookies into our demure, pale pink purses.

On this gray day, with Shawn Joaquin off at Habitot with Wafa and my daughter in Guatemala with her loving foster family, all I can do is miss them both and look forward to our life together. Be that a bubble bath this afternoon for a little boy who is sure to recite the entire plot of Toy Story and wipe off his father's kisses with a hearty laugh or the homecoming in a few weeks or months with a baby girl who I have carried in my heart if not my arms for the last year.

Somehow, both those thoughts make this gray day a little easier to bear.

********

Yes, all sentiment and no snarkiness today. Don't worry, it's still me, and I'll be back tomorrow with something scathing or innappropriate - it's the only way to keep the censors interested.

Jesus F'ing Christ

I do not swear. In general. Though I have a love of the phrase "rat bastards" and occasionally enjoy taking the lord's name in vain by proclaiming "JESUSMARYANDJOSEPH" with a slight Irish lilt when shocked or amazed or trying to cheer myself up. So it was with great surprise, dismay and maybe even a tinge of misplaced pride that I overheard Shawn Joaquin in the kitchen playing and obviously frustrated with his dump truck.

DAMN IT.
Shawn Joaquin, what did you say?
DAMN IT.
Why did you say that?
Because I couldn't put these THINGS in my TRUCK. DAMN IT.

I quickly let him know that he was, so sad to say, mistaken. The phrase is actually DARN IT. He repeated it several times — "DARN IT DARN IT DARN IT" — with a different emphasis each time, and appeared satisfied enough to look up and say "Thanks, Mama."

Thankful to have dodged that bullet, I made my way downstairs to address the issue with Gregg, who was clearly responsible for this new profanity and the slippery slope down which our son was quickly tumbling. As I hit the last step I whacked my big toe on the basket at the bottom and spilled my coffee. "DAMN IT!"

Whoops. Perhaps Gregg doesn't need to know about this latest vocabulary addition after all.

Mama needs a time out

I have been remiss in my duties as a blogger, which I blame on two things: depression about Madelena and an unending stream of questions from Shawn Joaquin that fill my every waking hour, and now even invade my dreams. The former issue can be dealt with through exercise, bootstrapping and copious amounts of Fruit Loops. The latter is a seemingly insurmountable issue, possibly viewed that way because of my exhausted state after the first 10,000 questions.

Yesterday we joined Amalie and her moms for Ratatouille, the latest Disney/Pixar venture. Shawn Joaquin was stoically silent throughout his breakfast with the ladies, even ignoring his beloved Amalie — frustrating her to the point that she asked her mother to please "give a message to Shawn Joaquin that I want to talk him." Apparently he was saving all his energy up for the movie theater, where as the last lights dimmed, the rapid-fire queries began. "What's the movie about? Why we sit here? Why are the lights not on? Is that a man? Why he singing? What he singing about? Why he sing about that? Where he go? Who talking now? Why I not see them? What's his name? What he talking about? Why is the mouse doing THAT? What is THAT? Why is it dark? Who turned out the lights? Where they go now? Why they go there? Is it lunchtime? What we gonna do after the movie? Is the movie over? Is there more movie? I want more movie. Lots more movie. Is there lots more movies? How much more? When it gonna end? It not over yet?"

Each question was issued in a normal voice, but a voice that carried throughout the theatre and into the very synapses of my brain, sending off sparks of mild pain that eventually led to stroke-like symptoms — me slumping down in my seat, listing to the side where he sat, my voice beginning to slur as I answered each question in a nearly unintelligible, lisping stage whisper caused by overall exhaustion.

Finally, after the first billion questions, I resorted to my new weapon: proclamation and then silence. "Shawn Joaquin. Stop. Now. Hush. I am not answering any more questions for five minutes." He looked at me and then back at the screen. Two minutes passed by as my body began to straighten and my heart rate slowed and I began to remember the pleasure that is the movie experience. And then....

"Why you not answering questions? Is it five minutes yet? Why you say hush? Why I have to stop? What that man talking about? Why...."

Oh.
My.
God.

And with that I had Annie Lamott-like visions of taping his mouth shut, of running out of the theatre and into the cool darkness of a coffee bar down the street, no trail of breadcrumbs left for him to find me. In those thoughts I knew that I was not alone — all across the theatre I began to hear little voices, all joined in the unending quest for either answers or driving a parent over the brink. And in that misery there was company.

So instead of gagging him or putting a large tub of popcorn over his head, I answered his questions for the next 90 minutes, and dreamed more realistically of his upcoming nap time and the 90 minutes of blessed silence that would accompany it. Once I dreamed of trips to Africa, Italy and the Sundance Film festival. Now I dream of nap time — because, to quote my friend Kim, nappy time is happy time.

I'm an excellent driver. An excellent driver.

We're back and into our usual groove at the Casa de Questionés. Every day Gregg and I repeatedly field some random question asked between 12 and 15 times in as many minutes; we have determined that our breaking point is 16, when we have to leave the room and repeat the mantra "ilovethischildilovethischildilovethischild" before re-entering his orbit. The repeated question may be "what we going to do after this?" or "what is everybody doing?” a popular and unanswerable question asked on the street, in the car, on walks, at restaurants, in stores, at baseball games, in airports, at school and at any place that contains more humans than the three of us.

We have discussed why Shawn Joaquin does this. We know it is not a matter of forgetfulness or ignorance — when pressed, he can always answer the question himself, particularly after having it answered for him 8-10 times prior to that. One of his favorite parts of this repartee is when he is finally asked, "what do you think we're going to do after this?" to which he replies, "what do YOU think we're going to do after this?" Clearly he is on his way to being Rainman or Dr. S.J. Wheeler, psychiatrist.

I sometimes wonder if my son is weird. Not in a Columbine-weird kind of way, but in a dear, sweet way that makes him special and endearing to adults but worthy of garbage throwing by other children in his pre-teen years. It's a horrible admission to make, this concern about weirdness. He's so often in his own simple world and so concerned about safety — "I should not do that. It's not safe for children" — that I even wonder if somehow his birth date was faked and he's actually six months younger than he's reported to be and whether he will ever drive a car or be able to walk down the street without holding my hand. Then this morning he turned to me and said "Mama, look. The wind is playing music and the trees are dancing" with a sweet smile on his upturned face. And all worries about weirdness and pre-teen difficulties are forgotten.

I will let go of my concerns about his future and keep him three for as long as I can, knowing that the leap from 4 to 14 will come all too soon. And in the meantime, we will enjoy his innocence and the music of the wind in the trees while he can still hear it.