You rook mahvelous

Shawn Joaquin has learned how to give compliments, which he has not yet learned to give out judiciously and only when one wants something. And as long as my mother is not part of the tribe raising him, that skill can perhaps be avoided.

Yesterday he wanted to go to our neighbor's house to play. I asked him why, and he replied "Because Will is a great boy. And his dad...he's a great dad."

Later he told Gregg he was a great fixer, and kissed him on the leg as Gregg struggled to put up three coat hooks.

Earlier this weekend his first words to me after waking were not "good morning" but "Mama, you're a good cooker like Rachel Ray." I knew that his compliments knew no bounds nor reason when later that day he told me I was shiny and handsome, even though I had not showered and was in fact simply wearing real clothes for the first time in days.

These charming compliments are what save him (along with his good looks, if the shallow truth must be told) and continue to hold him in good stead in our household, despite his renewed screams in the darkest hours of the night. Maybe my mother was right, and good looks and good manners ARE what counts and everything else is just so much icing on the cake or annoying intellect, confidence and earning power that turn off men and....well, that's another blog.

A détente in da house

After nearly two months of sleepless nights pierced by the screams and wails of an unhappy boy demanding attention, water or the cessation of "boom boom noises", peace has returned to our home...at least in the dark hours of the night. We are down to one middle-of-the-night explosion by each child, sometimes in quick succession, which leaves only one adult in the house unable to sleep afterwards. One of us is able to roll back over and snore like a cartoon bear while the other has a wide-awake brain listing all of the things that need to happen that day as well as wondering who will win Project Runway, why the toilet has that weird sulfur smell sometimes but not others, what is in the fridge that might somehow be pulled together to resemble a meal, whether Hilary Clinton can be trusted further than she can be thrown, are the towels in the dryer actually dry or turning into a pile of mildewed terry, if the dog was medicated that day, if that foot is asleep or if it's the onset of Sjogren's, and if bread is so, so very bad why does it taste so very, very good.

While our middle-of-the night hours are somewhat more peaceful, Madelena DID get the memo that as soon as one child ends an obnoxious or disturbing run of behavior, the other child must start one. With that in mind and not to be outdone or to totally abandon the category of "What is Sleep Deprivation", a few weeks ago Madelena suddenly began to scream and cry at the first mention of night-night time. One had only to say "da besitos a tu hermano" to set off tears and wails that lasted up to 90 minutes at a time.

The first two weeks, we were alarmed and sure that our precious and perfect child was either possessed or in pain and needed to be rocked, held and sung to until she finally dropped off into peaceful sleep. But then we realized that at no point did that actually work — the minute her little diaper-padded bottom hit her pink flannel sheets the screaming began again. And any time we entered the room she immediately ceased screaming and began to laugh, jump and shout "FISH! GATO! MIAOW! DADDY! GRACIAS!" and any other word she could summon forth from her burgeoning vocabulary. As she bounced gleefully and threw her panda at us, we knew we'd been had. And it was time to let her Cry. It. Out.

"Crying it out" is a concept that is foreign to most new parents, the antithesis of their belief that only by following the child's lead will they have an empowered, confident and loving being. To these tender newbies I have this to say: Ha. Ha. Hahahahahaha. Take off that leash your child has put around your bent neck, kiss her firmly on her beautiful face, tell her you love her and shut the door.

The first night we tried to get tough Madelena cried for an hour, during which time I rocked in a corner, hid in the bathroom with the fan on high, put on headphones and blasted Cake in my ears, and generally felt nauseated, cruel and ready to implode. Finally, I re-entered her room, only to have her immediately gleefully shout FISH and point to the bear on the floor, where all of the former inhabitants of her crib resided. I stayed for a while, saw her almost drop off to sleep, and then turn into a crazed monkey when put back in her crib. Once again, she had hand.

For the next two weeks, I learned how best to avoid the crying: headphones on in the office, ear plugs and a good CJ Box book, baths + earplugs + CJ Box books, and when all else failed the excuse of a meeting somewhere at exactly the same time as bedtime and lasting for approximately as long as her tears. Each night her crying stopped just a little bit earlier, and last night was down to seven minutes. The longest seven minutes of any listener's life, but a mere seven minutes rather than sixty.

Finally, tonight, it seemed that all those hours listening to muffled screams and doubting my own sanity and parenting skills may have paid off. As I lay Madelena down in her crib, she howled briefly in protest, grabbed her water from my hand and then proceeded to body slam her panda. I left her there in silence, panda smashed beneath her and a crocheted blanket firmly pulled around her head. And I knew that for now, the battle of wills was over between us and peace will reign. Until tomorrow, when Shawn Joaquin will get that message by special delivery that says "Tag, you're it" and he once again becomes the topic of all late-night adult conversation and questioning of our competency as parents.

Fancy pants

I assessed my underwear today. It was not good.

Like many women of a certain age and relationship status, my daily selection tends toward cotton underwear washed hundreds of times for greater comfort and broken down elastic that will not pinch or bind my "curves." I have underwear that I now realize was purchased in another decade and only fits due to the aforementioned washings and structural breakdowns. While sorting through my drawer and determining just how bad my selection had become, I caught sight of my ratty-underweared self in our floor to ceiling mirrored closet doors and had an unbidden thought: who would want to have sex with THAT?

In films, we never see women in old cotton underwear or ratty bras stained slightly gray on the straps from repeated wear. We don't see faded black cotton underwear with "Calvin Kind" knock off labels and stretched out waistbands. Every movie or ad or television program sells the dream of lace, silk, satin and newness...new styles, new places for peek-a-boo holes, new, unblemished swashes of black satin or red silk over equally new and unblemished skin. Half of the models showing off these goods are less than half the age of anyone who can afford it, and in fact can probably not even legally buy a drink with their modeling paycheck. As women of A Certain Age we see these models, soft focused-actresses, body doubles and brand spankin' (if you're lucky and your partner is willing) new under garments. And we ask ourselves: what's wrong with me? Why don't I look like that/own that/bend that way? Answer: Because you're a grown up and the last time you spent $50 on underwear was because your age-driven nearsightedness caused a decimal error when you wrote the check.

Why do we deprive ourselves? Why do we compare ourselves? Because we are women. Women who are constantly shown unattainable, youthful bodies and told that we should look just like that. It's only a $10 a day away with Nutrisystem or one bottle away with the latest diet pill. We are women who aren't airbrushed or Spanxed or even nicely dressed on a regular basis, and to get any one of those three things would involve perhaps winning a Hollywood sweepstakes. We are women and moms and we are programmed to put others first and ourselves down and to forget that sometimes, just sometimes, when you wear really nice underwear and bras you feel so good about yourself that wiping that kid's butt or swiffering the floor for the 10th time that day can be just a little less painful and perhaps even enjoyable.

So let me revise that statement: Yes, we are women. Women who have full lives and full bottoms and who deserve some goddamn underwear that borders on if not crosses the line to LINGERIE, and we need to stop feeling guilty for spending money on ourselves instead of using that extra $20 or $50 to buy our child the latest Crocs, educational toy, fancy raincoat or some food just because he or she is hungry. AGAIN.

Shop on, ladies. Shop on.

Are you sure he's too young for Ambien?

We have not had an uninterrupted night of sleep in over a month and, frankly, people are beginning to talk and recommend Botox, green tea and non-invasive face lifts.

It all began with a severe case of croup for Madelena, followed closely by a LOOK AT ME, HEAR ME SCREAM FROM MY BED ALL NIGHT phase with Shawn Joaquin that continues to this foggy-headed day. Last night both children were either screaming or crying every half hour on the half hour, their little internal clocks pinging them with a "hey, let's do it now...this time in rounds and with FEELING" message. Gregg and I are weak with fatigue and frustration, while the kids seem relatively unfazed by their nocturnal feats.

Gregg and I divide the responsibility during the night: I take Madelena and he takes Shawn Joaquin. Madelena is generally more quickly soothed by my presence and Shawn Joaquin more quickly intimidated by Gregg's. But last night's rounds became an exercise in futility and comedy, each visit to Shawn Joaquin including the question "What do you want, Shawn Joaquin? Why are you crying?"

His answers:

"Nuffing. Be quiet and go to bed."

"I don't know why. But stop talking to me."

"I'm NOT crying. I'm talking to you. Now stop talking to me."

"You were making noise [in this midst of dead sleep] and boom boom sounds and that's not good. Not good at all."

We both have visions of putting masking tape on his mouth and New York City locks on the outside of his door, or just selling him to a deaf family who can appreciate his looks and occasional bursts of affection without being bothered by the wails and screams his passionate, emotional little self can not contain. I am thankful each and every night for Gregg, since his patience with Shawn Joaquin exceeds mine, at least in the dark.

I know we do not have a unique situation, and that many parents of multiple children deal with their nighttime battles for attention. So I wrote to a few of my friends to seek their advice — surely, though we have tried rewards/punishment/intimidation and emotion/non-emotion/soothing/firm voices, someone, somewhere must have an answer for us.

The answers were mixed, with everything from prayer to sedation (on one or both sides) recommended. Thankfully, no one insulted us by suggesting another frickin' chart with gold stars, which as we know from past experience generally ends up with gold stars permanently stuck to the hardwood and Shawn Joaquin asking "What I want stars for?" as well as another tree killed in the name of a soon-to-fail incentive program posted at knee level on the fridge. And all our friends' answers ended with an "it's just a phase, this too shall end" note. So my question is this: at what point does a phase become a permanent part of one's personality and behavior and lead to complete submission by the parents or a future that guarantees a dearth of friends, spouse or other meaningful relationship?

While I think we can safely assume that by 30 Shawn Joaquin will be able to sleep through the night without calling for his parents (who by then will be so addled from lack of sleep and advanced age that we would finally be able to ignore him anyway), today this "phase" seems endless. Yet I know on the day that I come home from the hardware store with a large bag of duct tape and a deadbolt or five, he will finally choose to sleep. In his short but colorful little life, Shawn Joaquin has never failed to push me right to the point of falling or flinging myself off the edge, only to suddenly become my sweet, sweet son again. The edge is close and the hardware store even closer, so let's cross our shaky fingers and pray to god, Allah or holy Sarah Michelle Gellar for a night without wails from any human of any age in the very near future. If not, I will be making another deposit in Shawn Joaquin's Therapy Fund, which it at this point seems so much more important and likely to be used than any common college fund.