And so it begins

Shawn Joaquin has an inordinate fear of his sister coming in the bathroom while he's using it, but he refuses to close the door. Instead he shrieks and screams "SHE'S LOOKING AT ME! SHE'S COMING IN! AAAAUUUGGGHHH!!!!!!" while inadvertently spraying his own leg in his spastic attempts to wave her off.

Last night at dinner he announced that he needed to go to the bathroom, confident that Madelena was securely strapped in her chair and unable to disturb him. He left strict instructions that we should just wait for his return and not even think about getting up in the interim. We helped him down and then went back to our conversation, which inevitably led to some laughter. Suddenly he screamed and then shouted "HEY, I NEED A LITTLE QUIET NOW, PLEEEEEEEASE" like some 70-year old man for whom his current task requires strict attention. He then returned to the table, passed gas loudly with a laugh and a shout of "hey, did you hear that motorcycle?" before slamming a huge bite of chicken with as much heedlessness and smacking as a 14-year old adolescent might make.

Later, when Gregg asked him to help pick up the puzzle pieces Madelena had flung about the room, he put the back of his hand up to his head, flopped on the sofa and said wearily "Daddy, SOMETIMES people just need to RELAX."

Every time I start to worry a lack of general mental acuity, he does something to remind me that no, he's not special. He's just a male, subject to the quirks, procrastination and repeated instruction as required by his extra chromosome. And that adolescence is just around the corner, waiting to snatch him up, roll him around in it's mouth filled with unbrushed teeth and epithets and toilet jokes, only to spit him back out at the feet of his family...unrecognizable, rude, and given to public scratching of private parts.

Pickin' and grinnin'

When I was a perfect child and later a rebellious teenager, my mother — like all mothers before her — often began sentences with "just wait until you're a mother, then..."

The second part of the sentence was often "you'll understand", "you'll feel bad for what you did", "you'll see, and I hope your child is as mean to you as you are to me." But never, in all the iterations of that phrase, did I hear "Just wait until you're a mother and dig crusty crap out of your own child's nose and don't even think twice about it." Had I heard those words, perhaps I would have thought twice about the path that lay before me and upon which I now walk.

For weeks now, both kids have woken up with various levels of sticky nose effluence in and around their noses and occasionally on their chins and up to their eyebrows. Poor Madelena, whose hair falls forward when she sleeps face down on the panda, has at times had to have her hair ripped from her face and nose in the morning, so glued to her skin is it by her nightly nasal secretions. In the beginning, I used a warm towel and gentle probing with a nasal aspirator or a towel-swathed hand to clean her and her brother up before sending them on their way. Tissue boxes were in all bags, cars and levels of the house. But a dearth of laundry, the constant appearance of crustiness just seconds before walking into class, a party, someone's house or a restaurant has led me to lower my standards and raise my tolerance level.

Today I found myself putting Madelena in her car seat and, without batting an eyelash, shoved my pinky finger into her nose to clean it out and remove a particularly distended and disgusted "bug", as Shawn Joaquin calls it. No revulsion welled up in me as I wiped my finger on a newspaper fluttering by, no chill on my spine as I crinkled it up to dig under my nail to ensure it was clean and then followed up with a baby wipe. No. My only thought was "I wonder if we have milk at home?" followed by "I'm hungry."

WTF.

Perhaps this is why I have unconsciously become a compulsive hand washer, carry hand sanitizer in all bags and have skin that's beginning to resemble that of a worn milk-maid, chapped from my efforts to cleanse my hands and perhaps my very soul. Perhaps this is also one of the many reasons why, according to Suave, 89% of mothers feel they have let themselves go. Because honestly, who can be concerned about ones hips, thighs, hair, teeth or attire when no matter what you're wearing or how taut your abs, you have sunk to the level of a primate picking bugs off of one and other. The only thing that stand between us and them is that they eat their finds, while we at least have the decorum to discard our bounty, even if the wipe ends up on the floor of the car we said we'd never own - the one filled with the detritus of child-rearing and multiple Peet's cups, and the shadow of our former hygienic and stylish selves.

So let me close with this, one of my favorite poems from childhood:

You can pick your nose.
You can pick your friends.
But you can't pick your friend's nose.

Though perhaps, if one has lost all shame, you can pick your child's nose.

Gracias

I am, for once, at a loss for words when it comes to describing how it felt on Friday to finally complete Madelena's adoption - the US Readopt that ensures that when the US loses its collective mind and declares war on Guatemala or Latin America in general, my child will not be sent off on a boat, a train or a plane with other deportees who failed to jump through the 127 hurdles placed before them by the US Government. 

So I rely on this adoption blessing to replace the words that have so suddenly and most unexpectedly deserted me. 

I did not plant you, true.

But when the season is done —
when the alternate prayers for sun
and rain are counted —
When the pain of weeding
And pride of watching are through —
Then I will hold you high.
A shining sheaf
above the thousand
seeds grown wild.
Not my planting,
but by heaven my harvest —
My own child.

That's it. No snarkiness. No complaints about poo, late night bottle calls, hissy fits or vomiting. Just a heartfelt thank you to whatever universal spirit brought my baby home, born into my heart on June 10, 2006 and finally where she belongs - here, with us.

Battle of the bottle

Madelena has finally given up her bottle. Saying it that way, of course, implies a certain buy-in or "of her own volition" situation, versus something that has been forced upon her. When Shawn Joaquin was ready to give up his bottle, there were clear signs: he began neatly placing it in the corner of the crib, where it would remain undisturbed throughout the night. The only time he cried about his bottle was when it fell over and thus broke the all important rules of placement that govern his life to this day. ("Why you put that book there? IT DOESN'T GO THERE! NO! THAT'S NOT A ROOOOOOOM BOOK, THAT'S AN UPSTAIIIIIRS BOOK!)

Madelena, not a lover of order, let us know if was time to put the kybosh on bottles in her own unique way: she began twisting off the tops, flinging the nipple across the room and sprinkling water on every inch of the crib, perhaps while chanting in Latin and waving some incense. This would happen at 2am and again at 4am, and in the beginning operations were more covert and made to resemble bottle malfunctions versus operator-induced failures. One night I changed her crib twice, only to hand her another bottle of water and watch as she used all of her strength to unscrew the collar and rip the nipple off at 2am. Buh bye bottle, hello wails of loss and grief.

Since then we have battled nightly with bedtime requests for the bottle, usually made wordlessly by flinging the offensive sippy cup from her crib and towards the nearest head. She can not stand the sight of it, and is happier to see it disappear than to know that the water she once so eagerly drank at night has been put into such an unsightly and unwanted vessel. At 11pm, 2am and 4am she wakes herself up and renews her demands for a pacha, angry with her defiant parents and insisting on making them pay through aural assault. Bad mama that I am, I have finally taken to turning off the baby monitor, sure I will hear her yells without any electronic assistance and amplification.

Last night she went to bed easily after, of course, tossing the sippy cup to the floor and pinning the panda down with extreme force. I left her there as she sang to her panda, learned how to knock on the wall and incorporated "ee-i-ee-i-ooooh" into a number of other songs. I went to the gym, came home and watched my DVR'd show, and collapsed into bed.

I awoke this morning refreshed, trying to remember why it was I slept so well. The lack of haziness assured me it was not an Ambien-induced sleep, Shawn Joaquin was already bouncing on the other side of the bed, eliminating some carbon-monoxide aided sleep. And then I realized that not once had I been summoned by Madelena during the night, and had in fact slept nearly 8 hours virtually undisturbed.

Most mothers would be relieved and singing kumbaya. My first thought was HOLY CRAP, SHE'S BEEN KIDNAPPED.

I'm happy to report that she is here and well, and we may have overcome the battle of the bottle. Only time and the bags under my eyes will tell, and should we have another skirmish I have decided that I am not beyond tapping into my own bottle to aid sleep, be it a lovely Jekel Reisling or that bottle of Ambien that beckons so sweetly from my bedside. Fingers crossed and Cirque Lodge on speed dial, I bid you all good night.