1-2-3 Mama loses it

I ran away yesterday.

After watching Shawn Joaquin have a 33-minute wailing meltdown, complete with kicks and shrieks and punching of furniture, I was weak. But what had really killed me was my own visceral reaction. I had visions of smacking his head, locking him in a closet, shaking him into silence, bopping his head, knocking him down. I did none of those things and calmly counted 1-2-3-You lose X, though I did cover his mouth at one point when he was particularly loud and had just woken Madelena after only 20 minutes of a long-overdue nap. And he did get a light swat on the bottom that killed me in retrospect but caused no physical pain to him and probably was not even registered in his by-then hysterical head. But inside my own I was seething and ready to scream obscenities and things that would shame him and me years from now. I felt I was millimeters away from being the next headline.

So after he had finally calmed down and was eating a snack as if the world had not nearly ended, I left the house and put the new nanny in charge.

I spent the next two hours deeply depressed and shamed and unable to even look in his eyes. I felt like the world's worst parent, yet still had an unreasonable anger towards him for bringing this out in me, even if it never reached the surface. Especially when only a few hours earlier we had sat like the world's two closest chums, enjoying a shared Jamba Juice in the sunshine, our feet up as we watched the passerby in Montclair.

Everyday we read about horrible things that happen to children, the latest being the tragic and heinous Baby Grace story. We are horrified and sickened, and I find myself in tears nearly every day that I read the paper. We can't believe anyone could hurt an innocent child, done anything to bruise or emotionally torture his or her little body or spirit. But every mom I have talked to has had a moment when the only thing that stood between themselves and a loss of control was the hard-earned wisdom to know when to walk away, run away or take a deep breath and count 1-2-3-You lose X. Most of these moms are in the 30s or 40s and have the inner strength and probably the years of therapy needed to build the inner reserves that silence the little voice screaming "shuuuuuuut uppppppp" as their child screams, open-mouthed and epiglottis flapping in the wind.

Two days ago I spoke to a friend whose daughter has 60 minute screaming fits in which she wails, "I hate you! I wanna break your face!" She is beside herself and unable to sleep because of her own perception of failure as a parent, and her inevitable inability to count 1-2-3 in the face of such wild anger. Another mother told me about yelling at her daughter — who had entertained an entire church congregation by dancing in front while her mother sang — "never dance in church again!" And I have yelled at Shawn Joaquin after he clotheslined his sister with an embrace from behind "STOP HUGGING YOUR SISTER! NOW!" And all of us are embarrassed and ashamed by our raised voices and the absurdity of the words, the visions of smack downs in our head, and the worry that others have witnessed our lack of control.

Yet what we all may need to do is this: give yourself a break. Run away if you have to, be it for some retail therapy or a Jamba Juice or to just walk down the street to visit another mom who will tell you it's all okay. And know that because you are a strong and competent woman and mother, you will never answer to those little voices in your head and as long as they remain there, you're okay. And so is your child who, until brain-reading becomes the latest gadget from Sharper Image, will never know there was a moment when you considered locking him or her in a closet and leaving the house for an extra large caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream.

Big fat slacker parent

Until recently, I was in Shawn Joaquin's classroom daily. Each day I saw his joy at his first sighting of Cole and their tender goodbye - an embrace, followed by a gentle kiss on Shawn Joaquin's shoulder, Cole's eyes gently closed as if to say "goodbye, my sweet, goodbye". I saw which kids brought organic lunches, which ones had a Safeway sandwich and which ones eschewed lunch altogether and used their lunchera as merely a prop or a billboard for their latest pop cultural interest - Diego, Dora, Backyardigans or simply hemp. I was the first to sign up for the Halloween pot luck, did crafts in class for Shawn Joaquin's birthday, spent time planning his show-and-tell item on Fridays, affixed new photos in his lunchbox each week to surprise him and was the most adamant about teachers being present for drop off and parents being on time. I became a fixture at nearby parks and in the parking lot after drop off, a mom you could count on to watch your kid for five minutes while you ran into the school to ask a question or find a lost jacket. Then I returned to work and, ultimately, to my big fat slacker mom status.

Yesterday, only two short weeks after returning to work, I received a call from Shawn Joaquin's TA, the beloved Maria Jose.

Hi, did you know school gets out early today? In 5 minutes?

NO!

Yes, we had a little party with everyone for grandparents day and —

—we're on our way.

Gregg rushed to school to pick up Shawn Joaquin, leaving me home to deal with a client conference call and my growing angst. He arrived to find the parking lot filled with complete, multi generational families toting casserole dishes and happy children, along with handmade frames and a picture of a child who is actually loved and cared for at a higher level. When he entered the classroom, he found Shawn Joaquin sitting on the floor with only one other abandoned child, clearly another victim of slacker parenting. Later, when questioned, Shawn Joaquin was unable to even name or describe the child, leading me to believe that perhaps this was some homeless kid who had wandered into the room and thus reducing the count of slacker-parented kids to one and the need for tighter security to Code Red.

When Shawn Joaquin returned home, I learned there had been a pot luck and "lots and lots of peoples came with families and childrens and I had a GOOD time." While I was sick inside, I thought perhaps we had dodged a bullet and he had been so enthralled with the change of scene that our absence — and that of his grandparents, who find us geographically undesirable — had not been noticed. He happily ate a guilt-provided snack of leftover pizza and handed over his handmade picture frame with a grinning shot of him. I tried not to imagine each child handing over the gift to their loving families, while Shawn Joaquin sat in the corner talking to an imaginary dog or banging his head on the wall.

After a few minutes, he announced his desire to take a nap and made his way downstairs. As he stopped by my home office for last minute goodbyes, he asked a question.

Why you not come today? Because you love me?

I realized that quite often my rote answer to repeated questions is indeed "Because I love you." It's the answer for him as to why I cut the crusts off his sandwich, don't let him walk on the edge of the sidewalk, kiss him unexpectedly, give him an extra glass of milk, help him put his shoes on, buckle him into his car seat, read him Backyardigans for the billionth time, make him popcorn, raise my voice when he bolts out of the door and even why he gets Diego bubbles in the bath tub. But not even I, knowing that the answer could be easily accepted, could say "yes, I was not there because I love you" and hope that the nonsensical reply would pass through his unguarded gates.

Well, baby, I wasn't there because I was working and I —
— can I use big people toothpaste? I wanna brush my teeth. Where's Madelena? What Daddy doing now? Who made my bed? I...

And with that I realized that he was not yet on to my failings, had yet to realize my big fat slacker parent status, and that perhaps I had until the next big missed event before that would creep up on him. In the meantime, I will more studiously read parent emails and mark my calendar and hope that next time the one lone kid in the classroom without a parent is not mine and if we're all very lucky, actually does not exist at all.

You say "peine", I say "pene"

I had my first Spanish tutoring session today since returning from Antigua. It was wonderful to speak with an adult and be able to tell her more than that I wanted to change her diaper or ask if she could go find her bottle. Luisa complimented my accent and my newfound fluidity, bolstering my confidence. Since Madelena's arrival in my life, I have been committed to speaking only Spanish to her and have been concerned about using poor grammar or somehow ruining her language acquisition skills.

All is not golden, however. In committing to speaking only Spanish, sometimes words are left unsaid. Or, as I learned today from Luisa, I may be directing her to do things that I had not intended through simple mispronunciation or sheer, unadulterated idiocy.

What I meant to say:
Go this way. You're worth the pain. I have missed you so much. You have stolen my heart.

What I was actually saying:
This road. You're worth the penis. I have thrown you. You have barked my heart.

This is why sometimes, just sometimes, it is better to be silent and thought a fool than to open one's mouth and confirm it.

The boy is back

This weekend I had the double whammy of a migraine and some weird respiratory/GI virus. As I wallowed in self-pity in the dark, ice on my head and a rumbling in my stomach, Shawn Joaquin joined me.

What you doing, mama?

I'm sick, baby. Please be gentle with mama.

Does your bottom hurt? Is there poo poo like fire coming out of your bottom like this? [insert fire breathing dragon sound]

Why yes, yes it is.

It's okay, mama. I'll protect you.

And with that he gave me a gentle kiss on my arm and patted my head.

Thank you, lord, for finally returning Shawn Joaquin the Furious to the alien planet from whence he came, and leaving in his place the sweet, sweet boy I have so missed. Now, lord, about that fire coming out of my ass...

Signs of Armageddon

"Aflac presents: The Brian Boitano Skating Spectacular will be the first ice show ever held at AT&T Park.

The show, which is set to the music of the 70's, will include songs from Barry Manilow’s new album, The Greatest Songs of the Seventies, and is choreographed by Renee Roca, two-time U.S. ice dancing champion. The December 5th performance, promoted by Seybold/Egan Productions, will also be taped for future airings on The Style Network.

Joining Olympic Gold Medalist Boitano and music legend Manilow will be Olympic gold medalists Dorothy Hamill, David Pelletier and Viktor Petrenko."

I'm pretty sure this is a sure sign that it's time to put your head between your knees and kiss your ass goodbye. Happy holidays.

Tick...tick...911

Last week I returned to work, and through a painful series of events have ended up entrusting my children into the care of a new nanny I met only 72 hours before. As I watched them pull out of the driveway the first time, I had a moment of panic that has yet to fully subside. What do I know about this woman? So she had references...who says they weren't faked? So I have a copy of her driver's license...who says she's not a con woman and it's a fake too? WHAT DO I REALLY, TRULY KNOW AND WHO WILL I CALL IF MY CHILDREN DO NOT RETURN IN THE NEXT 10 MINUTES???

Working mothers have dealt with this issue for years, and I know that I am more fortunate than most to have a nanny rather than dropping my children off at some mucus-heavy day care with the possibility of a Mary McMartin scandal hiding in the closet. But to watch my children drive away, realizing that Madelena has never even been a car with Gregg — I am her sole chauffeur and primary caregiver — I felt a tightening in my chest and a flipping in my stomach not unlike what I experienced looking over the edge of the observation deck on the Empire State Building. Even the fleeting thought of anything happening to my children is enough to drop me to my knees.

Before I had children, parents told me there were no words to describe the depth of love and emotion you feel for your own child, regardless of how they came to be your child. I nodded as if I understood, foolishly believing that I DID understand. Gregg at one time told me he hated people telling him that because he felt it was arrogant and rude and patently false. But now that we are both parents, I know that at least one of us finally knows what we didn't know — that having a young child is more akin to falling in love, and always being in the crazy falling part. You are filled with angst and overwhelming tenderness and vulnerability and lability and a desire to be as close to that person as you can be, to crawl inside them or eat them up...yet you have moments when you're angry with them for not fulfilling your every dream of who they are or could be, when they have just screamed and scratched your face as you tried to show them off in a public place, when they decide that it was more important to steal your keys and fling them into the bin of produce than to smile or coo or present that loving, delicious face you so often see at home. But, being so deeply and crazily in love, you forgive them everything instantly.

I keep waiting for that moment when turning my back on my son as I leave him at school becomes as easy as dropping off the dry cleaning. When handing Madelena's round little body to someone else becomes a relief and I lose the hesitation as her body loses contact with mine. When I am finally able to take them for granted in the same way they take me for granted, surely one of the best signs of their confidence in our family and their place in it. But for now I will continue to tamp down the panic each and every time the new nanny takes them out of the house, every time I hear the bath running and I am not there to patrol the waters, and every time I listen to my daughter cry from her crib while I am stuck on a conference call and reliant on someone else's not-so-sensitive ears.

Yes, I do want to have a life away from my children. I miss movies and yoga and coffee with adults and having the first voice I hear in the morning be Gregg's instead of Shawn Joaquin's insistent whine: I WANNA SLEEP WITH YOU. YOU'RE IN MY SPACE. DON'T SLEEP THAT WAY. But until there's a way to shrink them down and put them in a little locket around my neck like Orion's galaxy, I will continue to struggle between my need for independence and the need to make sure that when someone screws up and they end up scarred or maimed or just weepy, I'm the one responsible.

Retraction

Yesterday's posting of "Good Dog" has been retracted to ensure the continuation of my marriage. Damn it, it was funny. But apparently...not that funny.

Good dog

Last night I was relaxing in the bath at what I felt was a safe hour, most likely to guarantee 15 uninterrupted minutes of blissful bubbles and reading: 10pm. Less than five minutes into my escape, Gregg knocked on the door.

The baby is crying. What should I do? Can you hear her?

Just...

Oh, great! Now he's crying too! DAMNIT!

Fine. Fine. Just shut the door. I'm coming out.

You don't need to. Just tell me what...

Shut the door, get a bottle, and I'll be there in a second.

This exchange left me chilled and Gregg pissed, feeling dismissed and snapped at. In reality, I was not annoyed in the least but wasn't enjoying the cold air his entrance let in with it. But later, as he huffed and puffed and said I was "mean to him", I realized while I had not been annoyed, damn it, I should have been. If it were he in the bath, I would not be knocking to ask him what to do if the baby cried. Or if the dog threw up on the carpet. Or if the DVR was taping some unknown show and how, oh how, could I change the channel and not lose the show. Though, upon further reflection, perhaps it is myself I should be annoyed with, having taken someone who at one time was quite capable of taking care of himself if not someone else and turned him into my third child.

Women do this all the time. Our male counterparts make a sandwich or dress our child and we look at them as one looks at a puppy who is trying desperately to follow commands but just can't quite do it — with a mix of pity, condescension and affection. Poor, poor little guy. Trying so hard and yet not. Quite. Able to do it. After 100 or so looks like this, what person would not decide to say "fuck it, I'll just ask" rather than be hit ever so softly but effectively with a look that says "oh, good for you for trying!" or more solidly smacked with a glance that says "WTF, can't you do ANYTHING?”

As women, we often feel it's our right to toss these looks about but would be crushed or furious should that same look be shot our way. As mothers in particular, we consider ourselves to be über competent and in no actual need of assistance from anyone, even though we often second guess ourselves on a middle-of-the-night basis, questioning our competence to raise children that won't someday be dependents of the state or ulcer-laden, hypersensitive adults unable to maintain a solid relationship. But perhaps I reveal too much...

I'd like to say that this exchange with Gregg and later epiphany changed me, that I have vowed to kill the "WTF" and the "GOOD FOR YOU!" look when Gregg dresses Madelena in clashing colors or her brother's clothes. But I can't, I just can't. Maybe, just maybe, I AM mean. Or just a woman who knows that while we don't want to keep our man down, we do like to keep him a little dumb — in those moments when we lay awake at night wondering if we made all the right choices for our children that day, we can say "hey, at least I didn't try to feed the baby pepperoni or try to put her diaper on backwards today. And that makes me just a little bit superior to the hunk of man meat lying next to me." And with that, we can finally go peacefully to sleep.

A life in pictures

This picture clearly illustrates all the spare time I have in which to write my blog. More is piling up around here than just trash and excuses.

This picture outlines my plan to scare the crap out of the kids next year:
Carve early. Let'er rot.

And finally, this illustrates Reason #57 why I will not be nominated mother of the year in 2007 or any year: my insistence on documentating — and sharing — my son's lesser moments.

Yes, yes. He's special.