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.