Just back away slowly....

Like all good SAHMs, I find that most of my meals are on the run or off the kids' plates - crusts of bread, leftover sandwiches from the lunchbox, a fat-laden scone grabbed with a cup of coffee as I run errands in Montclair. While I have not gained weight during my family leave, it is only by the grace of my frenetic days that I keep it off. In two short weeks I will return to my sedentary work life, but my palate is sure to remain forever changed — I will still crave iced lemon scones, peanut butter sandwiches, the "saved" Halloween candy and the Ben and Jerry's I feel I so richly deserve after a long day of wiping, feeding, bathing, consoling, walking and transporting kids. So I have decided to proactively lose weight — in preparation for gaining the Deskbound 10 — by using Fat Loss 4 Idiots.

On this diet, you follow 11 days of predetermined meals that are based on 20-30 foods you like. While this may seem like quite a selection, boredom can set it quite easily given that most of them are different types of fruit, vegetables and deli meat. Today is day two - three meals of mixed fruit and one meal comprised of a sandwich with deli meat. No condiments, no luscious mayo and tart pickles and vinaigrette. No, dry bread and thin-sliced meat. But as a break from fruit, it seems like a slice of chocolate decadence cake, a gift from heaven.

I made my dry but thick sandwich and settled in at the coffee table to enjoy it with a sugar-free beverage and the last 10 minutes of the Gilmore Girls. This was my time - my stolen moments while Madelena naps and just minutes before the Shawn Joaquin pick up hour. Imagine my dismay as the phone rang to interrupt my 10 minutes of heaven.

I returned from the phone to find one slice of my precious bread missing — now in the dog's mouth, her lips delicately curled around the edges as she stayed low to the ground, hoping not to be noticed.

DROP IT, CHEYENNE!

She dutifully dropped it and ran, and I did what any sane dieter would do. I slapped it back on my sandwich and slammed it before she could come back for seconds. Yes, damnit, I put the "idiot" in Fat Loss 4 Idiots.

Death in the afternoon

As a parent, you're constantly looking for new ways to entertain your children that don't deplete their college savings or brain cell levels. So you avoid PlayStation, too much television and Disney on Ice and look for more local, cheap activities. Parks are de rigueur, but with two mobile kids an open space can often be a lesson in panic and speed. So I look for interesting places with walls or stroller accessibility or cages.

One of my friends takes his sons to Target to ride the escalators. Another makes regular visits to the Berkeley Vivarium to see the snakes and their friends for sale. For a few hot days in September, our hangout was the IKEA cafe, where we could watch the 80 traffic and eat Swedish meatballs before wandering over to the kids’ section. Once there, we'd bounce on beds and check out the bunks with slides, perhaps playing with a few of the wooden toys on display. A good 90 minutes of fun for about $2.09.

With better weather and a desire to avoid Swedish cinnamon rolls and the traffic in the 80/580 maze, we decided to look for fun closer to home. So now our free entertainment is a drainage tunnel in Montclair that we recently realized was part of a scenic trail built on a former rail line. Jackpot.

Now we have a tunnel in which to howl, a bridge to cross and shout down to the passing cars, and wildlife to view through our new telescope.

Today we enjoyed a long hike, acting out entire scenes from The Jungle Book while appreciating the wild squirrels, hawks and occasional passerby. All of this fun was so exhausting that at one point Shawn Joaquin decided the best place to rest was the middle of the path.

While he rested there, a middle-aged woman strolled by with her requisite Yorkie and sun hat. As Shawn Joaquin panted and continued to extol the virtues of HERE, RIGHT HERE and NO, NO MORE WALKING RIGHT NOW PEESE, she began to speak in a singsong voice.

Oh, it's too bad about that little boy that died on the path, sitting in the sun instead of walking with his mother. They'll find his skeleton, his bleached bones, his little white skull, his body picked clean by the animals and say "Oh, if only he had walked with his mother he'd still be alive today."

She then winked conspiratorially at me and moved on.

Oh.
My.
God.

As my mind raced with how to explain this all to Shawn Joaquin, he who is afraid of skeletons and strangers and aisle five at Rite Aid, he shouted at me.

WHAT SHE SAY? WHAT SHE TALKING ABOUT?

I could only mumble something about crazy people and that I didn't understand her myself, and pick him up with the hopes that he would accept a hug and not ask any more questions. We continued our hike, and the moment seemed to pass.

As we reached a part of the trail with steep drop off, Shawn Joaquin looked over the edge.

I not go down there. If I did, I would die and my bones would be there and I would go up, up, up in the sky and you would be sad and cry forever.

While I decided that perhaps we did indeed need to have a conversation about death and what it means and why he will not get a drivers license until he is 30 and why living at home is a GOOD THING, I also yearned for one of our previous hangouts, where no stranger talks to you about anything but how much they enjoy the lingonberry sauce. Tacka guden för IKEA.

You say Birthday, I say Bribeday

I have started many new posts in the last few days; the titles run the gamut from "Boy4Sale, Cheap" and "Take My Son, Please" to "I am Joe's Vomit" and "Bodily Fluids: Not Just for Bathrooms Anymore." Thankfully, Shawn Joaquin's recent fourth birthday has given me other things to focus on, and we have yet to meet a gypsy family with whom we can strike a cash deal for our little wild boy.

In keeping with his idiosyncratic personality, Shawn Joaquin declared that his birthday should not have a party but still have a jungle theme, and one guest should come to his Not A Party: Amalie the Brilliant. In the weeks leading up to his not-a-big-day, he decided to include Olivia the Beautiful as well, but stopped short of calling it a party and demanded that all the associated mothers and grandmothers come, but no one else. Thankfully, Amalie and Olivia are each blessed with two mothers and no fathers, so no one needed to be excluded.

As the planning progressed, we began to refer to the event as Operation Jungle Babes and the theme morphed to include an emerging African bent, as well as a nod to Venezuela's Amazon tribes. All so very complicated and not readily available at BirthdayinaBox.com, so I became a crafty mom — homemade tablecloth with a unique tribal design, backed by an Ikea shower curtain. A centerpiece created from an Ikea basket and a mix of small palms, with overpriced yet wee jungle animals peering out of it. A tower of homemade cupcakes with centipedes, butterflies, scorpions and other friendly inhabitants of the jungle. The craftiness continued in the form of a tribal beading craft — not just kids' beads but beads purchased from High Strung with much discussion with the owner about the authenticity of said beads. Face painting was a must do, so that meant hours on the computer to determine how we could incorporate tribal-themed face paint — but in a Berkeley-way that was respectful to the indigenous peoples AND doable by one not skilled at face painting. It was all topped off with a DIY pizza opportunity with dough homemade by Gregg over a four hour period; Amalie the Brilliant included a single sliced apple in the center of her DIY pizza, perhaps a subtle homage to Magritte. It all wrapped up with a screening of The Jungle Book in our home theatre, complete with cozy blankets and crazy, inappropriate laughter on the part of all the kids.

In the end, I could have easily outsourced the party to Pump It Up and invited 24 more kids and still have saved countless hours and a big enough chunk of change to keep me in Diet Coke and Lean Cuisines for a long, long while. But I was so very, very sure that this party was it, The Bomb, the thing that Shawn Joaquin would experience and say "wow, you DO love me and now I can stop waking you up every hour on the hour with my banshee-like screams".

As we tucked Shawn Joaquin into bed that night I asked him how he enjoyed the evening.

Did you have a good time?

What Mowgli doing?

He's asleep. Did you have a good time?

I want to see it again NOW.

No, it's night-night time.

I wanna see it NOW! NOW! AAAAAUUUUGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!! DADDYYYYYYYYYYY! WAAAAAFAAAAAAA!

As my dad would say, let no good deed go unpunished. Or as I would say, find those gypsies. STAT.

Urine nation

The other night I let Shawn Joaquin sleep with me after his fourth time screaming down the hall, reasoning that if he were next to me in bed it would be easier to calm him or perhaps allay whatever anxiety sends him banshee-like down the hall demanding my presence. It was 5am, and I had been up every hour on the hour, and damnit, it was time to sleep.

Madelena interrupted this plan at 5:15; Shawn Joaquin found her annoying and thus had to scream until she went back to bed at 5:30. Finally, at 5:45, after he had arranged my arms and body JUST SO to ensure his maximum comfort, he fell into a deep, snoring sleep. At 6:15, I awoke to a warm, wet sensation on my leg — for the first time in his life, Shawn Joaquin had wet the bed. And not just any bed. MY BED.

So I did what any good mother would do. I got up, wrapped his urine-soaked body in a towel, assumed the required position and went back to sleep.

Holy crap. How the mighty — and once hygienically-correct — have fallen.

Making Abbott and Costello proud

Last night I knew that if I listened to Hey Lolly Lolly or Ratón Vaquero in the car one more time, my children's lives were in danger. I was, to turn a poetic phrase, losing my shit. Too many tantrums, too little sleep, and a complete dearth of alone time.

Shawn Joaquin, we're going to listen to the radio now. We need mama music.

WHY? WHY? I want MY MUSIC. I don't LIKE mama music. WHY?

Because mama is tired and would like just a few minutes of what mama would like.

I flipped on KFOG to hear Alanis Morrisette singing. A full minute of blessed silence from the backseat followed.

Mama, what's this song called?

You Outta Know.

NO. What's THIS SONG CALLED?

It's called You Outta Know.

NO!
TELL ME THE NAME OF THE SONG!
TELL ME NOW!
I DO!
NOT!
KNOW!

Screw it. Let's put on some B-I-N-G-O and sing until my ears bleed. As I have often said: I'm a mom. It's what we do.

Skeeving Las Vegas

Gregg left for Vegas this morning, after giving me a "woe is me...we're in a crappy Marriott far from the Strip — not that I'd go anyway — and it will all be work work work, I can't believe I have to go" tale. I felt bad for him - as hard as it would be to single parent this week, at least I had the comfort of our home and our cozy bed in which to recuperate from a long day of temper tantrums, drooling and anything the kids themselves might come up with. Then I checked out his hotel online, to ensure I had the phone number at which to call him and express my condolences.

His world:

Golf.

Swimming.

Fine dining.

Night life.

My world:

Competitive destruction.

Swimming.

Fine dining.

Night life.

Unless a scantily clad Chippendale's-like waiter comes by and starts serving me free cocktails while I play Break the Ice with Shawn Joaquin, I'm pretty sure I got the short end of this deal.

Why it's all worth it

And why I will someday, perhaps, have a little leverage when Shawn Joaquin asks "yeah, well how are you going to stop me?"

Slippery slope

Over the years, I had looked askance at people who placed large plastic reindeer in their front yards, alongside the blow up snowman and under the hanging star of Bethlehem. These are the same yards that have full graveyards at Halloween, larger-than-life Easter Bunnies in spring and often have their own flag pole for all patriotic holidays. I had written them off as misguided, compulsive Lillian Vernon shoppers or escapees from a trailer park. Now I realize they can be summed up in one word: parents.

As Shawn Joaquin and I trolled the aisles at Rite Aid, we came upon the holidays and special occasion section. Since it was late September, the fall and Halloween items were already 50% off and the Christmas decorations were overflowing on 50 feet of shelves. After screaming in terror at the thought of walking past talking skulls, Shawn Joaquin careened down the opposite aisle to find his new best friend: the Penguin Carecrow.



Mama, it's a penguin! It's a carecrow! What he doing?

Only days before, I had confided in Gregg that I had seen the scarecrows at Rite Aid and had considered buying one to surprise Shawn Joaquin but had resisted — embarrassed and ashamed by the urge. He commended my resistance and urged me to stick to that decision, since it's only a hop, skip and a jump from a small scarecrow to a house covered in fake snow with a Santa sleigh on the roof and flashing lights running down the reins to his full fleet of reindeer.

Mama, what he doing? Why he here? Does he live here?

No, my son, he now lives on Castle Drive.



Thank goodness that Halloween is almost here and the Christmas items will soon be on sale. Gregg will be most dismayed if I pay full price for that Santa soon to be on our the roof.

Just another magic Monday

A few highlights of our day:

Finding Madelena washing her toast in the toilet. Deep in the toilet.

Shawn Joaquin sneezing so hard twin green rivers stretch from his nose to his shirt, as he immediately begins to scream and lick all at once.

Taking Madelena's wet diaper off her while she stands, only to learn she's more than wet. Much more. And eager to sit on my lap immediately.

Hearing a suspicous crunch and realizing it is Madelena enjoying an appetizer of Pedigree Crunchy Bites while using the dog bowl as a finger bowl.

Finding stickers in my purse to give the kids after yet another doctor's appointment, and mindlessly putting a gorila sticker on my own hand for being such a good girl.

House of Phlegm

We have had a virus in the house for over two weeks now, leaving us mucus-filled, hacking and limp with ab and lung exertion. On good days we sigh "finally!" and bundle Shawn Joaquin up, sending him out the door under the influence of Motrin and Robitussin, On bad days we stay in and watch Plaza Sesamo, baseball highlights and "house" TV. In between there are countless readings of Pinocchio and Big Chickens, nasal suctioning, hissy fits, coughing spasms followed by minimal but disturbing incontinence, puzzles, playdoh and hours of general malaise and thoughts of "when will this ever end". When coupled with Shawn Joaquin's new habit of waking every two hours with a scream and a wail for one of us, we are all sleep-deprived and cranky and not ready for prime time.

Shawn Joaquin, once the sole inhabitant of the center of the world and He Who Could Do No Wrong, is finding himself as patient zero and at the short end of this phlegm stick.

Shawn Joaquin, please stop touching your sister's face.
Shawn Joaquin, please stop grabbing her.
Shawn Joaquin, please stop pushing her.
Shawn Joaquin, please wipe your nose. NO. With a tissue, not your shirt.
Shawn Joaquin, please stop whining and use words.
Shawn Joaquin...
...put your underwear on.
...stop crying.
...pick up your books.
...go back to bed.
...drink this medicine.
...I already answered that 10 times. Stop asking.
...that's one.
...that's two.
...that's time out.

He is sick, cranky, anxiety-ridden and in need of hugs and cuddling and extra books, but Madelena's matching illness and mobility means that he is often told to wait 5 more minutes that turn into 10 or 15 or an eternity. I go to bed feeling guilty for his lack of focused attention and the repetition of the word "no" throughout his day. I try to make up for this with exclamations of joy when I pick him up from school, reminding him of how much I missed him during the day. Or with 15 minutes of magical "tunnel" time in the newly discovered drainage pipe we found in Montclair last week. This weekend we took a special trip, just the two of us, to howl like coyotes in the middle of the pipe and then eat a single, quarter-sized chocolate soccer ball - a usually forbidden pleasure.

I think of my friend Lorraine, with six children that constantly need love, attention, discipline, diaper changes, food, naps, guidance and more — all of which they appear to get on a regular basis. How can I complain about two sick kids and lack of sleep by comparison? How can I tell Shawn Joaquin "five more minutes" and forget about him when I have only two children to keep track of?

As I write this, Shawn Joaquin is hacking on the sofa, mesmerized by Sesame Street and completely unaware of the mucus running down his face and the cheerio stuck to the bottom of his foot. Madelena is smearing egg in her hair and trying to shove a plastic monkey up her nose while laughing at something only she can see out the window. As I look at my dirty but happy children, I vow to spend more time saying yes and less time saying no, and to stop complaining about my time in the House of Phlegm. Instead, I need to recognize that this is one of the few times when my children are both here and happy to be with their mama and in a few short years I will be uncool, less outwardly needed and the one saying to Shawn Joaquin "hey, can we read a book together" and desperately hoping he says yes.