The holiday letter I'll never send

Dear friends, family and those people who will be offended if they don’t receive a holiday missive but from whom we’ve really grown apart:

This year been good to the short people, with both kids reaching major milestones: Madelena started preschool and Shawn Joaquin entered kindergarten. Gregg and I can claim no such accomplishments.

Shawn Joaquin has been described by his teacher as the “soul” of his class and is apparently very social and into film. He can describe in great detail plots from movies he’s never seen, and startles me with facts about places he’s never been. He recently told me all about Coney Island and how exciting it is; he garnered these Coney facts from his friend Nyeli in one of their many Deep Conversations in Small Chairs.  At home he is the cuddler in the family, unable to see anyone else hug without launching himself at them to join in. He is constantly concerned with others’ feelings and goings on, which will either make him an exceptional husband or an equally exceptional stalker. Only time will tell.

Madelena is special in her own way.  Thanks to her bilingualism, she’s able to tell me what’s what in BOTH languages, and is either called “Loquita” or “Miss Screamalot”, depending on how lovely she is that day.  She is the boss of the household, and while her intelligence is sometimes used for evil (please give Mama back her keys and turn the engine off), it is more often used for good. While I am maddened by her defiance, I am equally impressed by her conviction. Since the world needs more smart, strong women I have decided not to squash her little soul like bug and instead to teach her how to use all that power in a more positive way. Until then she will get out of many close calls by being too cute for words.

Gregg and I continue to muddle along, doing boring but important things like working and bringing home the money to keep our children in bilingual schools and Gymboree clothing. In between we medicate our aging cat, rescue the new kitten from the window he fell out of, or chase down the dog that has once again run away thanks to her Pervasive Anxiety Disorder. We have both realized our mortality and work out religiously to stave off humped backs and atrophied muscles; one of us looks 20 years younger than reality and the other simply enjoys eating more to make up for the increased calorie needs. Every once in a while we have a Date Night, which often consists of going to a café to read in blessed silence and being back home and in bed by 10pm. To sleep. Ah, romance.

There were a few major events, with all of us but Gregg ending up in ER or the hospital for a few days. We had a couple of vacations with great pictures of children but with seemingly absent adults. Shawn Joaquin learned to cast at Packer Lake and left only one fishing pole at the bottom of the lake. Madelena learned how to tap dance and dance ballet, and delights in making everyone sit down to watch her dance in the predawn hours after we have been summoned there with a shriek.

All in all, we are glad to have each other and even more glad to have friends who have helped us get through, get over and to celebrate the many events of this year. So here’s a shout out to a few people who have helped us survive and celebrate:  Kristel, who stayed up all night with me in ER and saw so much of me that we should just go ahead and get married. To Krista and Anna for their DVD deliveries for Shawn Joaquin during his recovery. To Jennifer, Marvella and Carrie for the delicious meals. To Rick and Christie for the poolside chats and afternoon champagne. To all the friends who I have not named and who will feel slighted and angry and think up ways to get back at me, but will put down that TP and shaving cream and forgive me long before they reach my house at midnight with evil in mind. 

Happy holidays.

The Good Wife's Guide....Again

Originally posted on the blog in 2006, and the most searched for and viewed posting in the archives. I give you...my version of The Good Wife. Just in time for the holidays.




Someone sent me this Good Wife's Guide, originally published in 1955. I ask you, what wife doesn't need a handy dandy guide to know just how to succeed in her role? Isn't it enough that advertising and publishing tell us what to wear, how to pluck, preen and clean, how to improve our sex lives, our financial future and the appearance of our skin, hair and teeth? I was so inspired by this guide to being a Good Wife, which of course I aspire to, that I updated it for our times. To really understand how thoughtful my update is, please read the 1955 version first.

The 2009 Good Wife Guide

Have dinner ready.
Call your husband on his way home from work, and tell him in specific detail what you’d like him to pick up, and it better be hot, DAMNIT. If your husband is like many others and needs a list for three items or more, write up your dinner request on a post it note the night before. Place the post it note on his steering wheel and repeat on the dash, in his daytimer, on his cell phone, his underwear, wallet and the inside both of his shoes. Unless he shows up naked and on foot, he has a pretty good shot of actually bringing home 50% of what you asked for and some disgusting fruit pie that was on sale and next to the register.

Prepare yourself.
If you’re looking bedraggled from your commute home or from a long day of wrestling short people into clothes, naps and behaving well, so be it. Less chance he’ll hit you up for sex in the first five minutes. If you’re looking particularly hot from a client meeting or a ladies-who-lunch day, immediately change into sweats, preferably his. Top it off with a ripped sweatshirt to ensure a good night’s sleep.

Be a little gay.
Not too gay, because men LOVE that girl-on-girl action and might get enthusiastic. Try just being just “I wear sensible shoes and fleece” gay, not San Francisco “I wear great shoes and glasses and designer clothing” gay.

Clear away the clutter.
Gather all the newspapers he’s left strewn about, last night’s beer can and perhaps some stale snack food found on the floor and put them in his favorite chair so he can be a dear and clean it up when he tries to sit down. Gather up school books, toys etc and throw them into the kids’ beds so they can be a dear and clean up before bed.

In the cooler months of the year, light a fire to provide a pleasant environment.
The fire needn’t be made of traditional kindling and wood, but can be comprised of all the smelly socks, sports jerseys made for young and lithe bodies no longer found in your house, and ripped underwear that you can’t bear to see one more time. If you use lighter fluid or kerosene (highly recommended for the greatest burn possible) be sure to open the damper. No need to knock anyone unconscious so early in the evening.

Prepare the children.
Let them know their father will be physically present but may not be engaged, and to just write down all of the little slights so they have a better record for their future therapists.

Be happy to see him.
Or at least the hot meal he better be carrying.

Greet him...
with the recycling or garbage that needs to go out. Lord knows that once he steps foot inside the door it’s a lost cause.

Listen to him.
This is a tough assignment, but practice listening in front of the mirror. Many people think that listening is done with the ears, but no, it’s all about facial expression. If possible, draw eyebrows slightly higher on your forehead so you also appear to be interested.

Make the evening his.
Turn on a game, SportsCenter or a Victoria’s Secret infomercial. He will enjoy himself while you have the bubble bath you so richly deserve. Be sure to lock the door to keep those pesky kids out, and immerse your whole head to block out any annoying screams.

Your goal: make it through the day without anyone dying and you’ve done your job. Pat yourself on the back on the way to the bubble bath.

Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.
See note above about garbage or recycling greeting.

Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner.
Call for delivery and enjoy the free dessert all by yourself.

Arrange his pillow.
If he is uncomfortable, he can put the pillow BEHIND his head all by himself.

Don’t ask him questions.
That will just start needless conversation that stands between you and your bubble bath.

A good wife always knows her place.
In the tub, with a glass of wine in one hand and People in the other. A pop-culturally literate and sweet smelling, albeit slightly tipsy wife is a happy wife. And one most likely to get up and do it all again tomorrow.

Dykes on Segways and other signs of cultural demise

After last year's holiday ice skating spectacular in San Francisco, starring Brian Boitano skating to the music of Barry Manilow, I have been on the lookout for additional signs of impending Armageddon and our equally disturbing cultural demise. If one only opens one's eyes, the signs are plentiful and obvious.

• Dykes on Segways, logo'd and recently seen in Rockridge, whizzing along with the wind in their facial hair and causing the leather fringe on their jackets to flutter in the breeze
• The Hottie and the Nottie makes millions overseas both in theaters and DVD release; foreigners readjust their views of Americans. And not in a good way.
• 30-second national spot advertising Spam, the official meat of the islands, during the Oscars telecast earlier this year
• Duke University's Women's Center, Student Health Center and Women's Studies Department's sponsorship of a "Sex Workers Art Show" at which nearly-nude artists danced for students and provided critical commentary through performance art that included a woman's eating "excreted" dollar bills from a man's ass

Feel free to share your own signs of cultural demise or Armageddon in the comments. And just get ready to grab my steering wheel when it all comes down. Because I'm going to be laughing my ass off while all those devout Christians go poof and leave us Spam-eating, Paris-loving, sex-working-supporting sinners here to rule the world. 

Was that the wind?

As I lay in bed recently with one child shoving the other off of me with a howl and a kick, both clinging to my neck and other body parts with proprietary ferocity ...with the cat kneading my left shoulder with wickedly sharp claws...and the dog's head up inches from mine, desperately trying to lick me...Gregg said, with all sincerity, "it's nice to be so loved, isn't it?"

As mothers we can sometimes feel superior to all other beings because our children are still young enough to consider us the center of their world. We are loved, we are needed, we are...suffocating. It is an awful burden to bear when no other adult or being in the world is capable of filling even the most basic need. 

SJ: I would like some milk, please.

Gregg: I'll get you some.

SJ: Mama, I want milk.

Gregg: I'll get you some.

SJ: Mama, where's my milk! Why are you being mad to me? WHERE'S MY MILK????

If Shawn Joaquin asks a question that's answered by any other adult, he is incapable of hearing them. He stares intently at me and waits for my response, even if the other adult is sitting next to him and I am on the other side of the room. They are just so much lint on a chair, while I am the glowing sun and source of knowledge and center of his little world. He is in physical pain if he's not able to cuddle with me and spend copious amounts of time with me, a situation made difficult by his need to go to school and my need to start work even earlier. He wails with near physical agony if I shut my office door and begins to sound like a baby jaguar as he is pulled away from the door knob. 

Every morning I am pinned to my bed by obligation and love, unable to rise until Shawn Joaquin has made his appearance and had his cuddle time. If I dare get up to use the bathroom and he arrives in my absence, the screams can be heard by the neighbors as well as his previously sleeping sister.

In recent days we have begun bribing Shawn Joaquin with new, cool Gymboree clothes. For once, his obsession with just the right clothing - not too tight, not too "hard", not uncool - has paid off. For every day that he does not ignore all others and every night that he is able to go to bed without multiple "mamas" and rise without wailing/whining/pummeling me as he fights his way into our bed in the predawn hours, he receives a cool new shirt, underwear, or non-binding pants. So far he has won a skull-and-crossbones shirt with matching underwear, knit cargo shorts, a soccer shirt, camouflage underwear and a new pair of jammies. I have won uninterrupted sleep and a reprieve from unintelligible whining and keening in the wee hours of the morning. 

I'd like to say that I miss his insistent need for me at every minute, but I do not. I enjoy the freedom to move my arms in the morning without being accused of non-cuddling, the ability to use the bathroom without punishing screams, and to know that others are capable - however nominally - of fulfilling his basic needs. Amen.

Our life..in review

Madelena suffers the fate of many second children; fewer photos, the absence of baby or brag books, and "pre-owned" toys simply scrubbed down for her enjoyment. But she seems not to notice, and in fact eschews any new toys given to her. Her favorite toy at the moment is a small, dusty plastic bag filled with leftover plastic bears from a long-ago birthday party; the bag is taped shut, with grime collecting on the curling edges of the tape. She carries this bag around like a prized possession, often placing it in her bag-lady shopping cart filled with other random items from around the house. Occasionally I will find her singing into the bag, like a microphone, closing with "Thank you, San Francisco!" Last night she was dancing with the bag, making it sing along to Move It; afterwards she placed it lovingly in her tattered box of crap. The box contains, in addition to the dusty bag, half-torn stickers, crumpled playing cards, dried up stamps, a fuzzy pipe cleaner and a car missing one wheel. 

I have tried to interest her in the few new toys given to her over the last year - a MacClaren stroller, an alligator xylophone, beautiful Latina dolls with shining dark eyes and glowing brown skin. On Christmas morning she awoke to these dolls, strapped in her new stroller and ready for a walk. She screamed with delight - "MIRA!!!" - and promptly dumped the dolls on the floor and replaced them with her omnipresent panda, one of Shawn Joaquin's shoes and an old cup of chunky milk she had carefully hidden in her toy basket. Now I occasionally find the dolls in the oven or pushed into the corner of the kids' tent, only to be used as weapons or pillows. The stroller is used merely as a replacement for her shopping cart or as a means to push her big brother around and eventually crash into the wall with his head or feet hitting first.  

The upside of all of this - head injuries to Shawn Joaquin aside - is that our toy budget is small and usually used for educational but fun toys for Shawn Joaquin that she will eventually inherit. The bad news is that we worry that she will someday end up pushing a shopping cart down the street and living in a cardboard box, and be not at all bothered by her fate. Perhaps our best investment for her is not Gymboree or art classes, but  survival skills class that includes "how to urinate in a public place without being caught" or "Under-Bridge Habitats: Not Just for Trolls". She may be a bag lady, but thanks to us, she'll be the best bag lady there is. 

The chicken crossed the road

As a self-proclaimed future writer of pirate books, Shawn Joaquin has started to tell tall tales. Not fibs, but actual epic romances along the lines of Beowulf and Grendel. Men...or chickens...who set out on journeys that end up involving witches, Indians, bears, one-eyed foxes, genies, gods and monsters. Most tales are set in Arabia, India or Africa and are never less than 20 minutes in length...without a breath. In each story someone dies, often multiple times, yet in the end they are alive again and anyone who was once evil is somehow redeemed and becomes good. 

After about 10 minutes I usually find my mind wandering, though I don't want to discourage this new storytelling streak - I love that his imagination is so rich and his ability to express it so expansive. So I try to concentrate as he tells his story each night at dinner. 

"So...once upon a time there was this chicken who wanted to cross the road. The chicken was kind of a crazy chicken with ojos locos, and he was very hungry. As night fell, he crossed the road with the bear to get some ice cream. After they had their ice cream at a little shack, he and the bear went to the Indian village, and they decided that they should be Indians TOO. So they had a ceremony and gave him Indian clothes and he put them on like this [demonstrating quick change skills] and the elders gave him a new name...Food....Super Hero. His secret power is that he can turn ROCKS into PIZZAS. And they made a lot of friends. Like She Who Builds Houses, and she could build houses faster than ANYONE. And Dark Cloud, who made giant storms that washed away cities that looked like Cairo. And Table.... Super Hero...who...turned people into big tables if they were bad.  During the ceremony, all the friends danced and did a funky monkey dance. They then were attacked by some genies, who took them to the river and threw them in. They weren't EVIL genies, but they were confused and were having some bad behavior. Suddenly, a crocodile with one green eye and one white eye [a recurring theme] tried to eat them, and the genies, who were now good and feeling bad about what they did, saved them. But everyone died anyway, and then the genies did a secret spell and put them on the flying towels and took them to Africa. Then..."

At about five minutes in, I feel my face sagging and my interest flagging. My mind wanders off as I consider whether painting brows above my own might make me appear more interested or just surprised. I try to inject "oh wow" and "no way" at appropriate moments, but really, I am ready to crawl under the table by the time we reach the 20 minute mark. Suddenly I tune back in as I hear "Russia" enter the story.

"...and now that they're in Russia, they go to lots of restaurants. Russia has the best food in the world, and restaurants in all the towns and next to all of the houses. They..."

I interject: Shawn Joaquin, how do you know all this about Russia? Did you see it on TV or read it in a book?

"Mama," he says with impatience, "I just use my IMAGINATION. That's what WRITERS do. Okay, so then in RUSSIA the PIRATES came and capture the bear and the Indian chicken and..."

And so it goes for another 30 minutes. In the meantime, She Who Does Not Like To Be Ignored is throwing food at me or singing at the top of her lungs, I am wondering if Flight of the Conchords was DVR'd, and the dog - the best person in the house - is listening attentively to Shawn Joaquin's story. Ears cocked, head tilted and brow furrowed, worried that the Chicken Indian Food Super Hero might be in danger. Or perhaps she is just waiting for Shawn Joaquin to drop some more food as his excitement continues to increase and his fork skills consequently decrease. 

None of it matters. Shawn Joaquin is caught up in his own world of stories, his imagination that will serve him well in his life, whether he does indeed become a writer of pirate books or not. It is this same imagination that will someday save him from insanity as he sits in long corporate meetings, drive him to become a creative or simply a creator of things, or merely provide fodder for the stories that he will tell his own children as he tucks them into bed each night.  In the meantime I will not dampen his enthusiasm; if need be, I will put scotch tape on my forehead to lift my brow and provide a look of constant interest, and practice maintaining eye contact while making lists in my head and dreaming of bedtime. 

25 Random Things

1. I could not live without reading every day.
2. The best and hardest thing I’ve ever done was to find my children – born from my heart if not my body – and to be the best parent I can be every day.
3. I am addicted to Scrabble and am currently seeking a 12-step program.
4. Sometimes when I see my husband naked, all I hear inside my head is “OMG, it’s a MAN!!!!”. He’s super hunky.
5. I think about my brother every single day.
6. I am finally friends with my mom again, so I can lose “crazy ass bitch” as a term of endearment
7. I love that I have a handful of friends who remind me of who I really, truly am.
8. I am a moderate with extreme swings to either side on specific issues.
9. I love that we have a multicultural family and that our children will never question why Amalie has two mommies, why Lucas’s mom is dark and his dad is light, and why their grandparents are raising their cousin. They know that a family is made up of people who love each other for life, and that’s what counts.
10. I never knew I could love ANYONE as much as I love my children.
11. I constantly dream of an ex-boyfriend. And it totally freaks me out.
12. Getting married was never high on my priority list. When I married Gregg, it was not because I chose to get married but rather because I chose HIM.
13. I speak nothing but Spanish to Madelena, 24/7.
14. I am on the board of my son’s school not because I enjoy long meetings but because I am committed to the idea of bilingualism, biliteracy and creating new global citizens who will not only be able to see the world’s problems but be motivated to and capable of tackling them.
15. I miss having a best girlfriend.
16. I have insomnia six out of seven nights. And I do not enjoy the extra hours of wakefulness that brings.
17. I like my bottom. I have worked hard to keep it from gravity’s cruel grasp.
18. I always have fresh flowers in the house. Or at least once-fresh-and-soon-to-be-replaced flowers.
19. I live by my grandmother’s adage: every house should have at least one red chair.
20. Underneath my crispy, crunchy exterior is an extremely oooey gooey center.
21. I can’t stand to fail.
22. I am smarter than the average bear.
23. I want to live in a Spanish-speaking country with my family for at least six months, if not longer.
    
24. My feet have gone up a full size since college. But so has my bra cup size.
25. I wish that I were truly bilingual so that I would never realize that in a moment of exhaustion I had said something in Spanish that could translate into “Tell me a hug after you leave”.

Originally published on Facebook as part of the "25 Random Things" viral, navel-gazing experiment.

O Best Beloved

Shawn Joaquin has become a child of insatiable curiosity, much like Rudyard Kipling's  Elephant's Child. Unlike the Elephant's Child, I do not feel a need to spank Shawn Joaquin for his curiosity, though there are times I want to smack my own self into oblivion to avoid answering his steady stream of questions. Yesterday, on our 15 minute ride between school and home, I was asked:

"What is outside of the planet? Is it dark? What happens if you fall off the earth? How do you TALK? Do have things inside your ears that go round and round so you can hear stuff? What is this thing on my ear? Marisol and Nyeli want to know. What numbers do you use to call the police? What are the circles that make you walk like this [mimicking the perp walk] that police use? Is it just for bad guys? Who lives in a haunted house? If something is in your imagination, can it get out? Do pirates live in the world? OUR world? Right here? What is a POEM? Is it like a story but you say it really slowly? Did you know trash KILLS things? Did you  know Barack Obama is the PRESIDENT? And everyone in the whole world is happy about it? When does..."

It's ironic that only weeks ago we were concerned that Shawn Joaquin had some pervasive development disorder, a worry blasted to oblivion by his slew of cognitive and psychological tests and an amused psychologist. She told us we had nothing to worry about other than his exceptional creative problem solving that may lead him to outfox us on multiple occasions.

Later that night,  we looked up pictures of vocal chords and put our hands on our throats to feel the vibration. I showed him 911 on the phone. I tried to explain skin tags. We watched the presentation of the inaugural poem on television...which was indeed read very slowly.  We went through the trash to make sure no recycling had ended up amongst those things destined for landfill. We talked about the difference between "ghostesses" and goblins and how while your imagination is always with you, nothing can actually "escape" from it. 

By 7pm I was ready to curl up into a fetal position and talk to no one and watch something mindless on TV and perhaps fall asleep to the opening credits. Shawn Joaquin, however, wanted to watch Househunters International with me - one of our odd, endearing shared interests. We watched an episode set in Roatan, Honduras. Shawn Joaquin has the uncanny knack of correctly guessing which house the show's guests will choose, and is often quite intent on listening to all of the home's virtues extolled by the local realtor. He is a fan of granite countertops, soaking tubs and stainless steel appliances, and has on more than one occasion shouted "wow, look at that view!" But last night he was distracted by the locale, in which he suddenly realized that people were speaking Spanish. Suddenly granite countertops were not of interest, and instead he wanted to know about who built the house...did they speak Spanish...what is an island...what is island "craftership"...have I been to this island...was that a shark in the water or a rock....

I know that being the best parent I can be means being present, consciously parenting as much as possible. Finding teachable moments throughout the day and showing respect for the blossoming personality and mind of your highly intelligent, sweet and creative child. But sometimes parenting also means telling your child in a firm but loving voice "BE QUIET NOW. If you don't stop talking you will have to go to bed immediately and talk to your lion puppet, because I  can't answer one more question today without going INSANE."  And being a child, MY child, means saying sweetly "yes, Mama. I love you" and being quiet for three full minutes before whispering "see that woods over there? I bet monkeys live there. And maybe they have one GREEN eye and ONE white eye and..." 

He can't stop himself from wondering. He is, after all, my child.