An uneasy truce

Hurricane Shawn Joaquin has been downgraded to a Category 4 from a Category 5, though winds may pick up tomorrow when he realizes he's being booted to the door for school again. He will no doubt suspect that in his absence Madelena and I will eat pizza and corn on the cob followed by ice cream, watch endless episodes of Diego and Dora, drink gallons of milk, never nap and miraculously never have to use the bathroom— an oh-so-annoying pit stop that prevents him from playing, eating, reading or doing any other activity non-stop. But on this day we are enjoyed fewer fits and more moments of genuine affection, and believe that perhaps he is not so much possessed as obsessed.

My first clue about his obsession with me, so inexorably and inextricably bound to his love/hate for me, was at bedtime one night last week. As I left the room I wasn't slammed with demands to tinkle, drink or straighten his rug. Instead he clung to me and wailed "don't leave me, Mama, peeeeeeeeese, peeeeeese peeeeeeeeeeeeese don't leave me! You can sleep on my rug! You can sleep on my bed! Don't leave me and use the key and lock me in!" After first doing a double take on the key mention (his door has no lock), I realized he was terrified of losing contact with me. Instead of demanding he stay in bed and start losing those things near and dear to him if he were to launch himself out of bed and screaming into the hall, I told him I would leave his door open and be just across the hall if he needed me. He still got up 10 times, but each time asked in a calm voice "What Mama doing NOW? Why she doing THAT?" and once he received his requested info, hit the bed again.

For the first night in 3 weeks he stayed in bed through the wee hours of the morning and woke us at 7am instead of dawn and with the call of "Mamaaaaa.... I’m coming to see you" instead of banshee-like screaming as he propelled his damp body down the hall. There were no thrown jars of mustard that day (sorry Rick and Anne's Cafe), no slapping of his own leg as he bellowed and sputtered "PUH-LEASE! PUH-LEASE!” and only one attempt to step on his sister's hand, four slaps to my head and six fist pounding declarations of "NO!!!!” Given that only a week before he was choking his classmates and scratching his own eyes out, this seemed to be progress.

I'm sure that part of the reason for Shawn Joaquin's dismay is the clearly false advertising — he had been told his sister would love him, think him amazing and funny and an object of adoration. Instead she screams every time he tries to hug or kiss her, though in her defense he often chooses moments when she's on the move and is thus perceived merely as an obstacle that stands between her and the remote/toy/dog/cat/bottle/bug that she has her eye on. For a year she was billed as the one-person Shawn Joaquin fan club, and here she is rebuffing him, stealing his toys, his mother and all the time that should be HIS ALL HIS AND NO ONE ELSE'S. Surely, EVERYONE KNOWS THAT.

Tomorrow he will set off for school with his new Thomas the Tank Engine lunch box, one of the many gifts he has received and will continue to receive in order to curry his favor or at least diminish the number of smacks to my head. I will breathe, albeit with guilt, a sigh of relief...knowing I can finally show affection for Madelena for at least 3.5 hours without fearing the wrath of my little stalker, the one always on the lookout for a misplaced hug, kiss or smile that clearly should have gone to HIM, not the interloper among us.