Being Mom

The Good Wife's Guide...otra vez

2011-12-01T13:57:00.000-08:00

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 Good Wife's 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.

To believe or not to believe

2011-11-29T15:49:00.000-08:00

My son is deeply troubled by the kids in his class who have decided to mount a "There is no Santa" campaign in the second grade classroom. They have yet to create posters or a campaign slogan, but they are slowly cutting kids from the herd to individually tell them that Santa doesn't exist. Shawn Joaquin isn't questioning whether Santa exists — come on, what really bright kid starts questioning THAT gift horse weeks before Christmas? — but he's bothered by the campaign.

"X said it and then Y said 'yeah, I think that's right' and then two more boys decided to believe him," he reported at dinner. "I think they're trying to be cool." I would have to agree with him; these are the same kids who will have that first beer or first puff because X is the self-proclaimed cool kid who will be there to offer it to them. In fact, he's probably packing a candy cigarette deep in his backpack, just waiting for the opportunity to strike it up with a gummy match and say "hey, wanna drag?"

It pains me that peer pressure exists in a second grade classroom, but I am heartened by my son's firm belief that their anti-Santa campaign is just a sad commentary on their lack of imagination and general creativity. Madelena has dismissed them as future recipients of sticks and rocks in their stockings. I hope they get a can of whuppass with said sticks, simply based on their desire to rob other kids of their belief. But I also have to reflect on all of the magic that Santa represents, and if at the tender age of seven these kids are letting it go...what does their future look like?

Dear X and Friends:

By saying goodbye to Santa at seven, you are letting go of one of the easiest bits of magic to believe in. Here's how it goes: You believe in a guy that brings you a gift on Christmas. One that you've fervently wished for and written down in crayon on a piece of recycled paper, shoved in an envelope merely addressed "Santa, North Pole", and left in your mailbox. And POOF, on Christmas morning, said gift appears. Living proof of that magic's existence. X = Y. The Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy have similar X = Y stories, but none so fully supported as the man in the red hat's. But if you can't buy off on that and start to question it even before you can type his name into Snopes, what else will you miss out on? What else requires faith, a belief in magic and ignoring the loud voices of disbelievers?

True love. The belief that there are one or two people in this world who will really see you, love you, support you and want to be there from your best years through your more challenging years and future incontinence. And the faith that you will somehow find your true love through friends, happenstance or eHarmony.

Faith in other humans. Believing that most people, when given the chance, will actually do the right thing - regardless of what you'll someday read on CNN or have beamed to your brain remotely by whatever future news implant Rupert Murdoch's great-grandson has created.

Successful parenting. It is only through faith and belief in a little bit of magic that you and your future partner will be able to conceive, adopt or otherwise become parents to soft little creatures that you have the ability to break. Like an atheist in a foxhole, you will look for any glimmer of some higher power or guidance that will keep you from screwing up your child, somehow messing with those malleable little heads in such a way that they will move 3,000 miles just to avoid Thanksgiving dinner with you.

These are just a few of the things in front of you that require faith, creativity and a belief in a little bit of magic. Don't let go of it just yet, and don't take it away from the kids around you who are buoyed up by their belief in the big guy. Who rush from their rooms in the morning to see if their Elf on the Shelf has indeed returned from the North Pole after reporting their good behavior to Santa. Who write not just one or two but multiple letters to Santa, including one that just asks what kind of cookies he'd like to eat on Christmas night...knowing how tired he must be of sugar cookies with too much icing. Who will, on Christmas morning, awaken with more joy in their hearts than a mere present can be responsible for - the joy that comes from knowing that magic has visited their house in the cold, dark night. Leaving behind more than just a scooter or a book or a toy, but a reaffirmation that he or she has been a good kid that's been not just watched by but watched over by a jolly old soul all year...and all the years before.

Merry Christmas, X and Friends - here's hoping that you still hear the sleigh bells this year, and that your voices of skepticism don't drown out the sound of their magic for others around you.

I AM in control

2011-09-30T12:43:00.000-07:00

As I lay in ER, listening to the electronic beeps that signified my heart and the numbers that illustrated my breathing, I had but one thought: I'M IN CHARGE HERE. And therein lies the problem.

Being a working mom of two children is challenging. Starting a new business is challenging. Have a child with learning differences that take time and conscious effort each and every day is challenging. Having health issues that point out your age and your heredity is challenging. Being a caring partner in the midst of the madness is challenging. But for me each one of these challenges was just that - a thing to be overcome, to be surmounted, to be willfully crushed into submission. And then reality and my body took over, and on a Tuesday afternoon I found myself in the ER, trying to use my mind to will my heart and lungs into submission as various doctors determined that no, it was not a heart attack. As proud as I was of being able to will my blood pressure down and my respirations into a low enough state to set off alarms, I realized that perhaps the thing that needed to be crushed into submission was my mind.

As mothers and women, we feel like we should be able to do it all. We are flawed or weak or somehow Less Than if we let the "usual" stresses of life get us down in anyway. We should be able - in one day - to get snacks for the soccer team, take kids in for vaccinations, fill in required school forms, shop for all the meals in the week, get dinner on the table and still earn the income, calm the clients and every once in a while do something brilliant to remind ourselves, our colleagues and our clients that we are The Bomb. Failure is not an option. Or is it?

The day after The ER Incident, I was back it - up at 5:15am to work out, at my desk at 7:30 and butt-in-seat until 6pm, when it was time to slap a quick dinner on the table and run out the door to a committee meeting. Both kids got teary as I left, asking me why I had to leave and why I was working so much that I no longer sang to them at bedtime. I tamped down my guilt and headed out the door, only to be hit with more guilt in my meeting as I realized that there was more to do for that group as well....everyone was missing their song, their strategy, their X need that only I seemed to be able to fulfill. And there it was, in front me...failure. But perhaps failure was not a fallback option or a gaping pit into which I could tumble. Perhaps I could actually rename "failure" and leap into it - shouting GERONIMOOOOO as I jump into the great unknown option that I would call...my new life.

My new life focuses on those things that I cherish the most: my children, my husband, my basic need to use my brain, and my need for salty snacks. It means singing at bedtime, not checking email after 8pm or before 8am, and ensuring that weekends are about downtime and cuddling in bed and easy dinners that may not make it into Gourmet magazine but will give us all the energy we need to have fun together. It's no longer about squeezing in a few hours to work while Gregg teaches the kids to ride bikes or throw a football as I teach them about absentee parenting. It's not about putting together proposals and sending out invoices or creating strategies for time-crunched clients. Yes, it needs to happen and it will...but during the week when the option to sing to my kids isn't available, when my husband isn't patiently waiting for me to climb into bed only to ignore him after immediately saying "watch me, watch me sleep..." as I drop off in 10 seconds or less.

I'll need to relinquish my need to be the one to "save the day" by getting a project done more quickly and better than someone else. I'll need to walk away from leadership roles that I felt I needed, that I felt defined me. I'll need to work like someone who actually has a life to live away from their office.

We'll make less money. We'll cut back on those little luxuries we had been clinging too. But we'll be richer in time. In those moments when Gregg and I can look at each other over our children's heads and know they just did or said something we can be proud of...or even dismayed by and perhaps need to consider therapy for. But we're there together to experience it, and I'll have enough energy at the end of all of it to at least spoon my husband before I say "Watch me. Watch me sleep".

She is my sister. Always.

2011-05-25T14:14:00.000-07:00

I have often written of my brother and nearly every entry includes a reference to my son. The women in my life have never been mentioned. Not because they're less interesting but because some of them have challenges that I often can't bear to face, let alone bring in to the light. My sister is one such person. She is a tragedy that breaks my heart on a regular basis.

When I was eleven and she was three, my sister finally came home to us after a long fight to adopt her. My sister had been abandoned multiple times by her birth mother, and even from an unknown distance she was able to stand between us and Jordan, only two and then three and then finally home with us. Before she became my sister, she had been abandoned with babysitters, in stairwells and in cars. Left to fend for herself or with others barely able to care for her or even see her needs. In between she had been in receiving homes meant to care for children for days, not months - rarely held, nurtured or shown that she was special and loved and the center of anyone's world. Those early years have proven to be insurmountable when coupled with heredity and chemical imbalances long left unchecked.

From the moment she came home to us, she was loved. Cherished. I remember looking at her and feeling physical pain, so much did I love her and see her perfection. Little rosebud lips, sandy blond curly hair so different from my own. Golden skin, cheeks so round and pink. A little lisp and a love of songs that challenged her pronunciation - I made countless tapes of her singing "Hey dere, wittle wed widing hood" at the top of her little lungs. I loved to dress her in little sun suits and white saltwater sandals. White hand-knit sweaters and smocked dresses with Peter Pan collars. Fancy pants - those ruffled panties she'd wear under dresses or sometimes on their own with only a crown and some white socks and baton she twirled around the house. And in return for my adoration she shared her own, waiting for me on the front steps each day after school and eager to jump into my arms and demand my full attention.

As she grew older, behavior that might have been chalked up to age began to stand out as more than a blossoming Id. Deeply inappropriate relationships with other students, a need to completely please or to completely dominate, depending on the other party. Sneakiness, theft, lies. I was oblivious to much of this — by then I had moved out and returned every Friday night to babysit her. I saw only my baby sister, from whom I was growing apart; I blamed that rift on my physical distance rather than what was happening in her own little body and mind. My parents were not as unaware, but dealt with it in the only way they knew how — grounding her, taking away privileges. Later changing schools when the latest incident was just too embarrassing, when they were sure that a fresh start would "do the trick". Third party intervention was never seriously considered, since my mother was convinced that my sister would just lie to any psychiatrist and my mom, with her own research, was more than qualified to diagnosis my sister. She determined that no therapy — talk or drug — would help. But another town, another school might.

Years passed in this manner. Altercations increased at home and out in the world. She had a child by a man unknown, or at least not known which of the four possibilities it might be. She drank and smoked through her pregnancy, dated men that had literally half her IQ and none of the opportunities she had had in her "country club life", as she referred to her upbringing.

Fast forward 15 years, and she now sits in a trailer in the poorest section of La Place, Louisiana. Two children living with her and one long-abandoned to the care of my parents. A husband on permanent mental disability and supported by the state; a man she chose to marry two weeks after meeting him, leaving her child behind and then claiming she had lost her child to virtual kidnapping by her own parents. She smokes two packs a day, has lost her teeth to poor health and the beautiful, perfect little body I so loved to hug and rock now unrecognizable under pounds and years of terrible nutrition. She survives on food stamps and misplaced dreams, spending what little money she has on Wii games instead of clothing for her children. Buying hand guns. A Harry Potter chess set for a family that doesn't play chess or have any intention of learning. She has little but the satisfaction that so much of this is not her fault; she finally has the diagnosis long-denied her. She is bipolar. She is sometimes unmedicated. She falls into deep depressions. She is manic for weeks at a time. She is all of these things. But she is my sister.

Many years ago, an English professor spoke out of his ass and declared that no one could love an adopted child as much as their "own" biological child. I was outraged and not silent - I railed against him in front of the entire class, outlining the struggles we had in adopting my sister. She was chosen. She was fought for. She was hard won and cherished. Today I look back at that and then at her and where she has ended up. Abandoning her child as she was abandoned. Living a life that on a good day could be the punchline to a Jeff Foxworthy joke. But even with all of this, I see her. I know that she is there because of all that happened to her before she was three, even before she was born - bipolar heredity clicked into play long before she took her first breath. Long before her biological mother told her to "wait right here" and left her alone on a stairwell and never returned. And the cruel follow up to that joke — repeated abandonment, an absence of affection and stimulation and basic love — made all that happened after just a means to take the edge off what could have been an even more disastrous life.

As I look at my own daughter, I try to tamp down what I hope is the very unreasonable fear of what may be in her own little perfect body and mind. A biological mother who had her own issues that could have been temperament or may have been more. One that led to pregnancy at 14 and again at 15, only three months after Madelena's birth. I try not to panic when Madelena shows signs of normal Super Ego vs Id battles, restraining myself from assigning my own past experience with Jordan to Madelena's future. But it's so very hard.

I have seen the first little girl that I loved with all my heart become a woman who breaks my heart every time I hear her voice. Now Madelena is that little girl who owns me, who demands my full attention, has my complete adoration and returns it — however fleetingly — when her busy schedule allows for it. I am terrified to feel this love again, and now with even greater depth. But as I deal with that fear, I have hope. Because I know that regardless of how my sister's life has turned out...she is my sister, whom I will love until the day that I die. And the same will be true for Madelena, no matter what the future brings.

No no no....thank YOU

2011-05-10T13:35:00.000-07:00

Everyone expects a card or something made of macaroni on Mother's Day. What few expect is to have their heart broken.

The night before Mother's Day I had a date night with Gregg. When we came home, everyone was in bed and konked out and I was giddy with freedom and my unfettered access to DVRd programming beyond Wild Kratts. At 11pm I came downstairs, flushed with freedom and the joy that comes from watching TV without a single person asking "why", "what" or "can I have". Then I came downstairs and found the kids' very early cards for me. Though they stood between me and the sleeping pill I had been dying to take for weeks — finally banishing insomnia — I decided to go ahead and read them in advance of my actual day of celebration.

Madelena had drawn a variation on a spider and a birthday cake, two very popular themes in her portfolio now. Thankfully, these were not multimedia pieces; those have often left permanent stains or wounds after handling. Shawn Joaquin, the simpler artist, had created something on the back of a piece of paper recycled from work with the specter of the "Visa" logo shining through. I was ready for a battle scene with some hearts, maybe a picture of all of us in the middle of tall buildings or sunshine or grass. But instead I found a sentiment that immediately brought me to tears: "Thank you for adopting me."

Unless you are an adoptive family, perhaps the reason for the heartbreak is puzzling. After all, how often do our children thank us for doing anything? Do we not deal with entitlement struggles all the time, from their expectation that you will of course buy those stomp light shoes at an exorbitant price to yes, you will replace them in four months when they outgrow them?

As an adoptive mother, however, I deal with constant ignorance that calls into question my benefits from adoption; people often saying how lucky my child is to have been adopted by me, how nice it is that I can care for "someone else's child", how lucky they are to have a home with me instead of whatever their fate might have otherwise been. But the luck is mine, the gift is mine, and the gratefulness to the heavens, gods, energy, universal spirit or whatever brought these children into my life...is all mine. And never do I want my son to think that he needs to be any more grateful to have been adopted by me than another biological child might be grateful that his parents hooked up after a night out at a tiki bar. Never do I want him to think that he needs to thank me for becoming his mother. Thank me for washing his socks, for teaching him how to ride a scooter, for helping him to become a man that a woman can love. But never thank me for adopting him...that pleasure is all mine.

As I look at my beautiful, dark-skinned children I see MY children. I don't see someone I took in, someone I chose to help. I see the children who, as I have often said, were born from my heart if not my body. And like nearly every other mother on Mother's Day, I know that underneath the expectation that we be lauded for our year-round efforts is our very own gratefulness to the very beings that made us mothers. However they came to be in our arms.

Dear Badass Santa

2010-12-20T20:51:00.000-08:00

Dear Santa:
I know I've already written you on behalf of my children, but I feel compelled to write one last letter on behalf of all of my friends who are mothers; none of us really has time to write, but I'm a fast typer and my children are more susceptible to the effects of Benadryl. Thus I author this letter for all of us in this quiet moment.

We've all just about had it with the whole "Santa is watching you" thing. It's exhausting to constantly remind the kids of their need to behave well and stop smacking their sibling with the leftover tubes from the wrapping paper or slashing at each other with a broken ornament. And we're all trying to get through December without any trips to the ER, drunken incidents aside.

To bolster your power, several of us have purchased the Elf on a Shelf, carefully moving the Elf each night to put the fear of Santa in the kids. While some are motivated, others patiently explain to the adults that it's IMPOSSIBLE for the Elf to return to you each night to report on the day's meltdowns or triumphs. Then they pat our hands sympathetically and return to seeing how many turns it takes to twist off their sibling's ear.

So we, all mothers, are putting aside our usual requests for extra hours in the day, a full night's sleep, a wife, a cabana boy, a larger wine fridge. Instead we'd like to ask you to do something truly magical, truly time-saving: we want you to scare the crap out of our kids and put the fear of Santa in them once and for all.

Here's how it works:

Child A hits Child B in the head with some object. Child B picks up another object and hurls it at Child A, only to miss and break Aunt Helen's crystal cake platter. Suddenly, YOU appear. "What the hell is going on here?" you roar, your belly shaking not so much like a bowl full of jelly but more like a sumo wrestler who's going to kick some ass. "Knock this shit off NOW or you're getting NOTHING, I mean NOTHING from me! I will be on you like white on rice FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE and make sure that no one gives you anything but coal. You feel me? I said, YOU FEEL ME?" Then with a quick finger to the side of your nose, you disappear in a puff of smoke that leaves your big, badass size 14 bootprints on the floor.

Seriously, the need for hourly warnings or $29.95 Elf on the Shelf packages would disappear as quickly as you did. And just think of all the extra hours we'd have in each day.

Now, I know what you're thinking. This might be bad for the brand, the whole magical, merry thing. But think of how much your stock would go up with mothers around the world, driving up that "believe" meter to unheard of levels. You'd be more than a hero, more than a god - you'd be a rock star. With groupies. Moms around the world might be waiting with cookies when you arrive, ready to do whatever it takes to make your journey better. And we'd keep the whole plan on the down low — we'd make sure our child's credibility would be called into question should they repeat the story to any adult. Though a little buzz around the playground might help make your ass-kicking visits fewer in number, so frightened would kids be by hearing the story from their BFF.

So think about it, Santa. It's a new world with new needs and brands have to move with it, and though we appreciate your new Facebook page with the insider's look at North Pole antics, it's going to take more than that to make our Christmas merry.

Uh oh, I hear the children stirring and those restraints were supposed to be removed before the kids fully awakened, so I have to sign off soon.

So let me just close by saying we hope to see you arrive and leave in a puff of smoke some day soon, leaving cowering children behind you and some eternally grateful mothers in front of you.

Love,
The mothers

Dear Santa....love, Madelena

2010-12-05T10:05:00.000-08:00

Dear Santa:

I am writing as proxy for Madelena, who is too busy shoving crap into socks that she then ties up with Silly Bandz and leaves strategically about the house and down drains. She would very much like princess tape, Hello Kitty tape and a Fancy Nancy "ice cream thing". The most important part of that request is the tape - this is required to seal up the many important packages she makes every day from recycled paper and any object left within her reach - why, just yesterday she beautifully wrapped up a tampon with such flair...I think she might have a place in your wrapping headquarters one day. I was so delighted to find feminine protection in a four-year old's baby carriage, next to the tape measure she had taped shut and the doll with her eyes taped open, perhaps the victim of some type of interrogation earlier in the day. Oh, how she does love role play.

She would also like me to tell you just how good she's been. She has given up spitting at people until Christmas has passed, because she knows you are watching her. She has also just decided that YOU are her only friend and you're invited to her party, and that I am a bad, bad mama because moments ago I would not give her the hot glue gun to close the shoe box in which she had trapped her duck who is apparently also not invited to her party. I have to tell you, that's high praise - on any given day various members of her family and community are disowned and informed that they are not coming to her party. The party for her birthday in seven months, which she has been actively planning for the last five. I do hope you like jumpy houses.

Lastly, she asks that I tell you to bring her brother nothing at all. He is not in her favor at the moment (and not coming to her party) because he unwittingly threw her art project in the trash, not realizing the wadded up napkin with eggs in it was in fact an installation piece. After threatening to stomp on his eyeballs, she carefully removed the piece from the trash, lovingly placing it on her table and placing a flashlight - stolen from her brother - next to it to shine on it.

On a personal note, I would like to thank you for providing a fantastic threat that ensures minimal carnage during the holiday season - a hissed "Santa is watching you" evokes such fear of empty stockings that any uprising is quelled within minutes and leaves her trembling. In the future, please consider leaving her cash to pay for the therapy she will no doubt need to get through the paranoia-inducing holiday season.

I'd love to write more, but I have to rescue the cat from the stroller in which he has just been tied. He doesn't appear to be pleased, especially since he is blindfolded. Perhaps I am about to thwart yet another interrogation.

Have a fantastic holiday season, and maybe we'll see you next June at the party - unless you bring the wrong thing for Christmas. In which case, all bets are off and you should start sleeping with one eye open and remove all glue and tape from your home.

Love,
Madelena's Mama

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The Good Wife's Guide....Again

2010-11-19T15:16:00.000-08:00

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's Guide. 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 2010 Good Wife's 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.

Missing out

2010-11-09T17:45:00.000-08:00

My brother was picked on. Chased. Beaten up. Humiliated. And otherwise made to feel less than, different and like someone who was not worthy of a happy life. And in the end, he had just what his tormentors wanted - a tragic end witnessed by no one.

As we watch our "it gets better" videos and read the heartfelt pleas for better education of and instilling of morality in our youth, I am reminded of a day in sixth grade when such morality was not to be found. I watched my brother being chased down a hill by the school's toughest kid, with at least 50 kids running behind him, ready for the show. He was chased all the way down Aviary Road to the park at the bottom, where he was finally caught and thrown to the hard winter ground. The crowd began to shout "FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!" as the bully - easily twice the size of my brother - wrestled him and began punching his head. He fought back, but was helpless in that boy's grip — unable to stop the blows that came one after another. I was breathless and unable to even scream — at the memory of this, I feel that same nausea and fear taking over my body. I ran to a neighbor's house to plead with them to call for help, pleading in a choked voice for someone to call my mother, call the police, call someone....just please, please...leave my brother alone. That was to be my rally cry for the rest of his life, though often it was he that needed to stop hurting himself.

That scene was to be repeated many times in my brother's life. He wasn't gay or assumed to be gay, not that would have changed anything or made the bullying any more acceptable or expected. Still, ugly homophobic epithets were hurled at him like sharp stones everyday. Faggot. Queer. Shithead homo. Anything that could bruise a young boy's soul and leave him crippled for life. To this day, I have no idea how anyone sensed that he was different or worthy of this cruel attention. He was a little hyperactive, a little brilliant, very creative and — after moving 10 times before fifth grade — a little standoffish. That was it. No visible signs of "difference" or "kick me". Just some unseen invitation that only the cruelest could read and reply to.

As I watch my son grow up, his joy and love and kindness so visible to all, I wonder at what it was like for my mother to see her son so beaten in all ways. What it was like to see his same joy and love leave his eyes and heart and leave only a kid who started drinking at 14 to tamp down the pain. What could she have done, should she have done, was there anything at all...and I wonder if she too asks herself the same question.

I think of all the mothers of children who are victimized by bullying in this country — a recent article noted that over 160,000 kids stay home from school just to avoid the pain of bullying. I think of the principals who care and those who can't be bothered, of the adults who do step in and those who allow their own issues to step in the way of doing what's right and good. Of the people from all walks of life who have posted their own "it gets better" video, and of those kids who may — just maybe — have just a little more hope because an adult who had lived through their pain and acknowledged that it's more than just a bad day can tell them that yes, it does get better. And you need to be here to see that.

My brother died nine years ago, a long-delayed victim of bullying. He finally believed that his life would get better and in fact was getting better, but for him it was too late. The taunts and punches had started a cycle of lifelong destructive behavior that stopped only two years before his death but waited in the wings to claim him.

As you sit down to dinner tonight with your children, look at their joy. Their openness. The way they shine. Think about what you are doing to keep that light going — teaching them what it means to be compassionate. To have integrity. What it means to be accountable in this world. What it means to know yourself and how valuable you are to not only your family but to the world. These aren't traits or values that just happen; we need to be as diligent about guiding and showing them each and every day as we are about teaching them to do addition or floss their teeth well. And if we are able to do that, to help them become people who are compassionate, accountable and confident in their value— then we can all believe that yes, yes indeed. It does get better...for everyone.

If you enjoy this blog, please feel free to vote for me on Babble; I'm currently in the top 50.

Wally World

2010-08-26T14:52:00.000-07:00

With less than one short week left in our stay in Guanajuato, it seemed that a family day was in order. After talking to various locals — both gringo and Mexican — I decided that a trip to a local hot springs was in order. I was told that it was family friendly. That it has thermal waters, to the tune of 95 degrees. That we need take nothing but our towels and sunscreen and rely on the local cafe for food and water. That it's less than an hour away, and more than worth the drive.

What I didn't know was that the trip would end up taking half a day, the thermal hot springs were actually a small part of a giant water park with 4-story slides, waterfalls, 2-story roller coaster like tubes of fun, and that I would love it almost as much as I love my Kindle.

In the past, I had written off water parks as the destination of people who stop at every Walmart on cross-country trips — they mark each one on the map ahead of time to ensure that none are skipped, and have photo albums of the family in front of each one. I had visions of tattered wife beaters on beet red bodies and trucker caps turned sideways, rusted RV's filling up the parking lot, kegs strapped to the back. Little did I know that here in Mexico, at least in the state of Guanajuato, it's actually a little bit of paradise for families with small children and college students with a need for speed.

To get to this still-unknown paradise, however, we needed a driver. The first driver I hired showed up in a Honda sedan, after assuring me he had seatbelts for all.

"Oh, you can put both kids in the front seat - it's just wide enough for them. No worries - I'm a good driver!" After explaining to him that the kids can't ride in the front, with or without the ONE shared seat belt he offered up, I had to break the news - Xote was a no go, at least with Ramiro.

"We NEVER do ANYTHING FUN!" yelled Shawn Joaquin, forgetting the many trips to museums, parks and trampoline camp every day. "You are NOT MY FRIEND!" yelled Madelena. "You are not my friend and you are NOT my Mama!"

Gregg simply hugged me, possibly to pin my arms down to keep me from striking anyone.

Within minutes I had Maria de Jesus on the line, asking if she could come from her ranch to take us to Xote....immediately. No problem, she replied, she'd be here in an hour.

Two hours later she arrived in her dusty, giant and completely safe Suburban. We all piled in and set out for Xote in high spirits. Two hours after THAT we had completed a full circle around San Miguel de Allende, Dolores Hidalgo, and various pueblos that had but two cows and a dusty shack to their name. On our insistence, we finally stopped to ask for directions, only to learn that Xote was a mere 2.5k from where we were. As we drove down the dirt road to what we hoped was mecca, we saw the tall slides...dry, empty of water or patrons. We saw an empty parking lot, and closed gates.

Holymotherofgod, this was our Wally World.

As I prepared to get all Clark Griswold on someone's ass — having checked the website that assured me that Xote was open 365 days a year — we saw a small gate open at the far end of the lot. There we learned that A) it was open and B) it had no food but chips, sodas, and beer. Fine. We were here. And damnit, it was going to be FUN.

And indeed it was; Shawn Joaquin surprised everyone with his whoops and fist-pumping as he came down the fast 2-story tubes in our laps, and Madelena surprised us with her caution and desire to hang out under a mushroom waterfall. The attendants turned on the massive four-story slide, and the adults took turns driving water painfully up their noses upon landing at the bottom. All in all, we spent four hours swimming, sliding, splashing and eating nothing but junk food. The families around us, all with complete picnics and gear, were kind and normal and seemingly amused by the one semi-gringo family with the aging adults who raced up the slides past the college students.

Best of all, I learned — once again — that Type A has no place in Mexico. There is a need to go with the flow, let go of expectations, and to let go of preconceived notions of what is or what will be. That the only thing one needs for fun is an open mind, a happy family...and sunscreen. The rest will take care of itself.

2010-08-19T10:02:00.000-07:00

Shawn Joaquin is a worrier. A fuss-budget. A worry wart. Filled with angst. In constant trepidation, ready for flight at any moment. He must know what happens next and next and next, and then be reassured that the path laid out will indeed be followed and that no danger is involved. While this will most likely ensure his sobriety and cigarette-free high school years, it can be a real bummer in our day-to-day lives.

This morning I decided to take on the daunting task of shopping at the Mega before work; this was once a great source of joy, but the mile-long walk to get there, the need for extreme focus while selecting any meat or produce, and the Mr. Toad's Wild Ride home in a taxi have taken the shine off my former Mega-love. A new neighbor had told me that instead of walking down the steep hill on on the gravel and broken glass-covered sidewalk, I could take a path through the chaparral behind our house, as long as I didn't mind the occasional cow patty or, in the gloaming, partiers towards the end of the path near the bridge. At 8am the likelihood of partiers seemed low and the sun high enough to help me avoid any cow gifts. It sounded like the perfect start to the day, until Shawn Joaquin volunteered to come.

"Why are we going this way? This looks dangerous! Why are you letting me trip? THAT'S NOT THE PATH! THAT'S JUST DIRT! I need to tinkle...no, what if I get it ON MY SHOES? What? There's no bathroom here? WHY NOT? You're fibbing to me, I know it. THAT'S NOT THE WAY! THAT'S NOT THE WAY!"

Madelena's contribution to the walk was simply to trip twice and say, both times, "It's all part of the fun, right mama?"

In the store, Shawn Joaquin worried that someone would take our cart when we put it at the end of the aisle and walked away from it. He worried that I was buying the wrong milk. That the crackers were not the right kind of crackers. That I would forget to buy salami. That we would lose Erika when she went to get the carrots I had forgotten. That the check stand I was going to was not actually open and we would never be able to pay. That the cab that was outside, with no one near it, would be taken by someone else and we wouldn't be able to get home. That I would leave groceries in the cab, as I did a package of chorizo last week. And that I wouldn't have the right change to pay the taxi, and the driver would be angry.

As my frustration level with the incessant questions and anxiety about everything reach a peak level, I was hit with a thought that had somehow escaped me before: it's very, very hard to be Shawn Joaquin. To live with that worry and to be only six, without the tools to recognize that which should be anxiety producing and that which is merely a different brand of crackers.

In all my concern about protecting him from other kids and labels and predators, I had failed to think about protecting him from himself...and from me. My sense of adventure and hyper-competence, as it has been called, comes with much less worry about intangibles and a much higher level of risk-tolerance. His worries are so foreign to me that I have failed to give them their full due, to understand that right now he is no more able to stop those thoughts than he is to breathe. Instead I answer him with "you're right, we will never get home and will have to live at the Mega" or "if it's the wrong kind of crackers, everyone else will eat them and you can choose to be hungry." My complete lack of empathy (at least after the fifth worry) has done nothing to provide him with the tools he needs now or in the future — I now understand that this is not a phase but as much a part of him as his beautiful dark eyes and incredible loving spirit.

While Shawn Joaquin excels at worry, I excel at guilt when it comes to my children. This new guilt, however, will drive me to find those tools I need to give him the tools HE needs to best be able to handle the worry...and to know that no matter what, the one thing he never needs to worry about is how much his mother loves him with all her heart. Of that, there is no question.

Holy Crap, Parte Dos

2010-08-15T12:26:00.000-07:00

The last week has had no end to travails, from a serious GI bacterial infection, a head injury and a bad case of strep to a lack of power, frozen debit card, and various other everyday challenges common in Mexico but just enough to push me over the edge. After telling Gregg that this is the worst trip of my life, I decided that I had to change tack: I need to spend more time doing adult things, spend more money — at least as much as is required to make the first thing happen — and start drinking tequila earlier in the day. And to make any time I had with the kids be good time and mutually pleasurable.

With all that in mind, I decided to take the kids down to El Central and have brunch, then wander over to Alhóndigas, a museum we've been meaning to see since we arrived. We had a lovely brunch in which I perfected my deafness as it pertains to a whining tone, and then made our way to the museum. Per usual on this trip, it was closed indefinitely. No problem. A kind gentleman directed us up the hill to the wax museum, filled with 30 historical figures. Both kids, upon hearing "figures", started trembling and saying "no! no mummies!" I reassured them that the figures were just made out of wax, were like dolls, and had never, ever been alive. That we'd see people like Hidalgo, Pipila, Don Quixote - it would be tons of fun. So we paid our $50 and entered the first room.

Holymotherofgod. Not again.

Sure enough, Hidalgo was there. At least his decapitated head. As was Allende's, the head of Jimenez and others who had had their heads displayed in cages outside the Alhóndiga many years ago. Large as life and twice as bloody, in an environment just intimate enough that there was no escape. As the student tour guide attempted to speak, the kids began to shout "no! no more dead people! I don't like this! This was not! A! Good! Idea!"

We shuffled into the other room, only to be confronted by a wax.....MUMMY. Are you sh*tting me? We scrambled out of there amid wails to find Jesus, who I was sure would be more comforting. Not so much. This Jesus had something of a serial killer expression vs one of benevolence; perhaps he had been borrowed from another wax museum featuring the likes of Dahlmer, Bundy and other notables. Put a trucker hat on him and a bowie knife in his hand and you'd easily cross the street to avoid him.

Surely, there had to be some redeeming quality to this museum, other than the cheerful woman who manned it. We moved on to see Don Quixote, a welcome respite from the killers and the killed. As we admired the Don Quixote and pretended that nothing had come before it, a sudden loud noise and terrified screams interrupted us. Apparently the NEXT room was booby trapped to scare the crap out of adults and kids alike. I needed no more prompting, and we fled the museum as Shawn Joaquin yelled "RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!" and Madelena started pounding me with her little fists and yelling "BAD MAMA! BAD MAMA!"

Now that I have ruined all museums for my children, for life, perhaps I have contributed to my first goal of spending more time doing adult things - the kids will no longer clamor to go to any museums, and will in fact prefer the half-darkness of our TV room where they can enjoy more suitable fare like The Heffalump Movie. And I can avoid additional therapy for any of us, spending my money on my new hobby: tequila. ¡Salud!

Momias v Mama

2010-08-10T10:55:00.000-07:00

The trip to Guanajuato was arduous - 5 days of delays, 15 hours of travel, three planes, a Suburban and a cab. But finally we landed in our gorgeous home with the view of the bluffs, sick with exhaustion but ultimately happy to finally be here. Shawn Joaquin wanted to go to the mummy museum immediately, after having all of three hours sleep. Madelena wisely chose to nap and then was ready to rumble. Instead we all rambled, learning the way to the not-so-close funicular and how to dodge cars on the main boulevard, feeling like captives in a Frogger game. We had Michoacán ice cream — the best ice cream in the world — in El Jardin, surrounded by swarms of Mexican tourists and vendors. We found the Museo de Diego Rivera, where Madelena raced from floor to floor, shouting in Spanish "come on, guys, we've got an appointment upstairs!"

Finally, day two, we made our way to the Museo de Mómias, the kids unable to contain their excitement. It was long cab ride and line for the tickets, but $20 and 30 minutes from departure, we found ourselves in the anteroom of the museum. As the film about the museum started, so did the shrieks.

"This is not a good idea! I don't want to see people die!" wailed Shawn Joaquin and "I don't like skeletons - they are mean persons with no bodies!" from Madelena and, from both, "I wanna go hooooooooome!" I tried to calm them both, as a black and white film with Dia de Los Muertos played on the wall, complete with haunted house music. I assured them if they didn't like the mummies themselves, we'd leave. Just one room of mummies. The mummies they had been begging to see since touch down.

And then we entered the first room. Holy. Crap.

In the realm of "things to do to permanently damage your children" I had hit paydirt - an event so horrific that my contributions to the "Future Therapy Fund" would have to be doubled. These were not mummies. There was no wrap, no neatly packaged corpse that appeared to be as inanimate as a shoe and just as threatening. No, these were dessicated bodies that appeared to have died in the throes of agony.

Both kids were immediately inconsolable, and as they screamed I promised to get them out STAT. Mexican tourists looked on with interest, apparently unfazed by the horror before them but slightly annoyed with the interruption my children provided. I swept them both up and looked for the exit.

Holy. Crap. Again.

There was no way to go but forward....through five more rooms of mummies.

As I attempted to race through the maze-like museum, the wailing continued and all I could do was push Shawn Joaquin's face into the folds of my dress and Madelena's into my shoulder. Finally we hit the bright sunlight and both were able to breathe again. As was I.

Later that night we called home to tell Gregg about our adventures. Madelena claimed she had laughed at the mummies and Shawn Joaquin said they weren't scary at all, but really he wasn't "really a fan of mummies" anymore. And we are left with a haunting memory and a lingering fear that forces Madelena to ask every ticket taker at every museum, "There aren't any mummies here, right? My mama doesn't like mummies."

The new rules

2010-08-01T19:47:00.000-07:00

With both kids testing us daily and constantly challenging, we felt that an old-school, new-agey family meeting was in order. Both kids are very well-behaved at school, where the kids create and adhere to their own rules. So Saturday morning we sat down to create our family rules, to be posted on the fridge with their corresponding consequences, also agreed upon by the family. As we began, Shawn Joaquin was quick to fire off the first few:

No fibbing
No pushing or hitting
No laughing when you're in trouble
Listen when you're spoken to
Be kind to your family

Madelena, eager to get in on the list, began her contributions, equally rapid-fire:

No smoking
No drinking wine
No taking off your shirt in the movie theater
No throwing people off the balcony

We were able to quickly come up with corresponding consequences for Shawn Joaquin's list - time outs in a new spot, with minutes corresponding to one's age - but Madelena's was more difficult. At least until I get my hands on the California penal code.

2010-07-07T11:58:00.000-07:00

We all encourage our children to be different in some way, not to follow the crowd but be THEMSELVES. If Max jumped off a bridge, should you do it? If Rosa cuts HER bangs in class, should you do it? NO, you are your own person. We have this emphasis on self and independence and on confidence in differences that make us who we are. It’s all good. Until your child is truly different. Then…it is heartbreaking.

Shawn Joaquin was recently diagnosed with something that will affect him his entire life. It will perhaps make him stronger as he fights to overcome it. It may someday, possibly, be a gift in that way. But in the interim, astute children will see it and comment on it. Weak-minded bullies will sense it and use this perceived weakness as a way to taunt him. My tenderhearted boy is going to have to develop more than confidence; a carapace may have to develop to get him through the coming years and even into adulthood.

I cringe when I get emails from my new Yahoo group with postings like “how to explain your child’s disability”, “your disabled child can…”, “alternatives to public school for disabled children”. I now understand the battle of many to remove the word “handicapped” from the general vernacular. Of those with paraplegia fighting against being called paraplegics. Those words are limiting, placing people into little buckets as if that single word describes who they are versus one of the many challenges they and we all face. I am not ready to apply any label to my son.

I had thought that with the general cluelessness of children under 8 and Shawn Joaquin’s own innocence and naiveté that we would not need to deal with any of this for some time. We have not talked to him about what’s happening, nor has he asked – he is simply grateful for his extra time with me as we go to various appointments every week. He loves the tradition of bagels with cream cheese before one appointment, snacks in the hospital cafeteria before another, and the simple joy of singing along to XMKids in the car with his mama. We have lived in this bubble for some time, and I had hoped to keep it going. But in the last weeks of kindergarten he came home discouraged and hurt by the taunts of two of his “friends” whom I suspect will someday be in the bully camp. Then yesterday his inability to keep up at camp in the various games – capture the flag, Frisbee football and other games we all played as children — had him feeling frustrated and in tears. And my heart broke just a little as I realized that not only did I need to talk to the counselors about how to help him, I had to talk to him about his differences. And somehow convince him that his differences make him special, not handicapped, disabled or otherwise boxed in. Though what I want to do is wrap my arms around him and shelter him from any cruelty or unkindness from any corner, to keep him safe and protected until the day I die.

As is apparent from this posting, I am unable even now to put a label on Shawn Joaquin, to describe what is happening with him — I am not ready for anyone to put limits on him or to discuss his challenges in the school parking lot at pick up. And perhaps I want to preserve my own innocence and naiveté that will surely be damaged when I learn that someone in my circle is not as compassionate or supportive as I had hoped or expected. So for now I too will enjoy the bagels and the snacks and the singing, until I can come up with the right vocabulary to talk to Shawn Joaquin and those I depend on to guide him daily in his life – teachers, counselors and others intimately involved in our life now. And hope that they too can see past any label and see only my beautiful, smart, creative son — and all that he is capable of now and in his lifetime.

Who wants a monkey baby?

2010-07-01T08:15:00.000-07:00

Recently, Shawn Joaquin and I watched a documentary entitled "My Monkey Baby" on TLC. It focuses on individuals and couples who have adopted small monkeys and believe they are like human children - they are cosseted, diapered, dressed in smocked tops and Hawaiian shirts...whatever best expresses the personality of their parents. Both Shawn Joaquin and I were fascinated by this, and I just felt a little sad for people who had a void that could only be filled by a wrinkly-faced monkey who would be dependent on them for their entire lives. I was also a little creeped out. Then I thought about how I had always wanted a monkey as a child - I had read a book about a family who had a monkey, and it was obvious to me (at seven) that they were THE LUCKIEST FAMILY IN THE WHOLE WORLD.

Imagine. A monkey to hug you every morning. To fetch your cereal. To watch Mutual of Omaha's Animal Kingdom with you every Sunday night, albeit with a starkly different viewpoint. To defend you from your annoying little brother, perhaps even taking the blame for mysterious bruises or broken toys and lost books. After sugar cereal, this was high on my list of dreams.

When I shared this long-dead dream with Gregg, his immediate response was a sputtered "Don't tell me this! I don't want to know this about you! No! No!" And thus began the Great Monkey Debate. Shawn Joaquin, Madelena and I feel that wanting a monkey is normal, and in fact a developmental milestone. Yes, we all let it go for other things like bikes, horses and our first tattoo....but surely, every normal child yearns for a monkey to call his own, to look at him with limpid eyes before leaping up to swing on the dining room chandelier. Shawn Joaquin thought a monkey might make his bed for him, and he could be named Luke. Madelena was thrilled with the idea of a monkey as a permanent audience member, finally giving her the applause she so desperately seeks every waking minute. Gregg, on the other hand, felt like it's the first step down a path that ends with 50 cats, feces in the living room, and 24/7 watching of Animal Planet and a particular focus on "Pets Do The Darndest Things".

Now I feel the need to justify my monkey lust, even though it's far behind me. Please take a moment to answer my poll and confirm the importance of monkey dreams as a child. Without dreams like this, children are just short adults waiting for an opportunity to file their first tax returns.

My yin

2010-05-26T14:05:00.000-07:00

Madelena is a foot stomper. A shrieker. A willful, my-way-or-the-highway child. Then seconds later she is offering me milk and half her begged-for cookie, saying “Mama, can you sit with me?” She is dancing around the kitchen, doing a spastic one-legged hop and a skip, yelling “Look at me, Mama, look at me!” I am trying to cook dinner and she is clapping her hands together over her head, twirling dangerously close to the open flame in her princess dress and Elmo slippers, yelling “Look at me, Mama, look what I can do!” She is creating a microphone out of Legos, singing a song of her own making. She is putting countless things from around the house into bags and boxes and backpacks, never to be found again. She is brushing her stuffed duck’s nonexistent teeth with real toothpaste, saying “It’s okay, Carmella – it’s good for you.” She is riding her tricycle on the rug, singing and tossing her purple fur hat up in the air. She is watering plants and chairs and the deck. She is running full force at me, and I know not whether a kiss and a smile are coming for me or a little fist raised in anger or frustration. She is constant energy and fury and love. And if you are to believe my mother, she is me.

Shawn Joaquin is all my peacefulness, my love of books and words and the woods. He embodies my need for quiet time for regeneration, my ability to take on others’ emotions, and my desire for everyone, regardless of how I may feel about them, to like me. To really like me.

Then there is Madelena.

She is that part of me that is constantly in motion, trying new things and creating something from nothing. The part of me that can’t follow but must lead, that has a painful need to be recognized for what I do – not by many, but by those that count. The part of me that at the very same age, danced near the stove yelling “look at me, Mommy, look at me” for the better part of every meal preparation, and actually for the better part of every day for the first six years of my life. Everything that I love or find challenging with her is a part of me in her.

So Mom, you were right. I am now dealing with all that you did – your “just wait until you have kids” mantra has come to fruition. I know how frustrating and challenging I was each and every day. And how I fulfilled on your own mother’s proclamation…the one she must have uttered the time she caught you smoking in the closet, or hiding in the backseat on your cousin’s first date so you could pop up and yell “HELLO!” as she had her first kiss. For the times you “borrowed” your neighbor’s horse or dressed up your dog Blackie like a princess, leading to a permanently limp ear and furless patch on his side. For the countless times that you too yelled “look at me, Mother, look at ME!”

So as I watch Madelena, in all her fierceness and love and imagination…I will strive not to quash her in any way but to direct her energy and power so that she too will have the strength to bring in yet another generation of girls who become women who become mothers — having turned their willfulness into resilience and their fierceness into strength and compassion. I will teach her that her energy and creativity can be used for good, not evil, and that everything that is in her gives her the power to be amazing in all ways. I will show her, as your mother showed you, that she is loved for all of this. And capable of anything.

Look at me, Mom. Look at me.

Pooper scooper...and so much more

2010-05-24T09:00:00.000-07:00

As I scooped poop with my hands swathed in Safeway bags (the pooper scooper having gone missing, perhaps used as handy weapon by a kid) I had to take a serious look at my life.

In the past month I have cleaned up vomit at 2am, after a particularly big night at Barney’s and Tutti Frutti Yogurt. I have surreptitiously whisked dried mucus from my child’s nose seconds before a photo is snapped. With my bare hands. I have sniffed my children’s hands multiple times to ensure they smell of soap and not of the trip they just made to the bathroom. I have allowed Madelena to spit chewed gum, soggy crackers, grape seeds and a particularly foul bite of seasoned chicken into my palm. I have wiped bottoms, cleaned out ears, inspected nostrils, flossed teeth, scrubbed skid marks and nuzzled upset children who smell more like pickles than Johnson & Johnson. I have done it all without thinking, without horror and without regard to my personal safety or likelihood for PTSD.

It’s what we do as mothers each and every day, though there are some at Madelena’s preschool who relegate those jobs to someone who is better suited to it (read “Paid to do this sh*t) while they dash off to the gym to meet their personal trainer before their ladies’ lunch. But in my circle of hard-working mothers, most of whom are work full-time and then come home to do the even harder job of raising clean, non-sociopathic, functioning human beings — well, it’s all in a day’s work.

So today, on this rainy Monday, take 15 minutes to do something other than Purell yourself after yet another Incident. Lock yourself in your bedroom and put on your iPod to block out the knocks and screams, and enjoy a cup of coffee or a glass of wine while you’re at it. Call a friend you haven’t talked to in months because he or she shares your hectic lifestyle, or call one of those people who is constantly posting vacation/bar/ski trip/wine country/late night photos on Facebook but still pausing long enough to “like” your photo of your six-year old in his Superman cape. Watch a snippet from Jerseylicious just to make yourself feel superior. Take a cat nap. Go to your underwear drawer and toss out the crap, then buy some good stuff online with a few clicks…knowing that it may not fit and will have to be returned, but at least you have the dignity of finding that out in the comfort of your own home versus in a heinously lit dressing room. Whatever it takes to remember that while you’re scooping poop or cleaning up vomit or hugging a kid regardless of his or her personal odor, you’re still you…someone who is smart, funny, loving and deserving of a little personal time each and every day. And who may, thanks to free 2-day delivery, soon be enjoying that time in some hot new underwear.

Happy Monday.

For his first mother

2010-05-09T07:55:00.000-07:00

I don't know how it never hit me before. But in the darkened Piedmont Theatre on Friday night I burst into tears, suddenly realizing the unfathomable sacrifice made by another mother....the one that made me a mother. I sat in the dark and realized that while I have the incredible joy of raising my son, seeing his passion and insight and incredibly loving self each and every day, his other mother....his birth mother...has only her imagination and desire to believe in the best for him, having no idea where in the world he might be. All she can do is pray that he is happy, he is safe, and he is loved. And I realized, in that moment, that those thoughts must be in her mind each and every day, bringing both pain and an incredible need to have faith in the unknown person who has her son. My son.

Imagine the child that you love so much, the one that you would give your life for. Now imagine that child is gone, to somewhere unknown with someone unknown. Would a day go by without a fervent wish to know that he is all right? Would the pain of not knowing ever leave your heart?

In all my stories for Shawn Joaquin, we talk about how his birth mother loved him but knew she couldn't care for him in the way she would like. She was a 26-year old mother of a three year old, recently 'divorced' from her partner of 8 years. She earned $50 a month, and paid $25 a month in rent, and formula alone (necessitated by a lack of breast milk) was $20 a week. So we talk about how she made the decision to let another mother be his mother for life, so he would have everything the needed to be healthy and safe and loved. And then we move on to talking about his foster parents, the first night we all met, how he was loved and adored by his foster sisters, what his first night home was like in our little house in Oakland with our two dogs and a cat. His birth mother never appears again in those stories - she is but a prelude to his life. But suddenly, I know that to be false.

On this day, I know this woman - a grown woman, not some teenager who 'made a mistake' and doesn't recognize the depth of her loss or the importance of her decision - is wondering if her boy is all right. If he is loved. She is looking at his now 9-year old brother, wondering if anyone loves her youngest child as much as she loves the boy before her....if it is even possible for anyone to love someone as much as she loves him. I want her to know that yes, the baby that she gave away against all of her desires except the one that he have a better life than she could give him...yes, he is loved. More than anything in this world.

I know that my wish, sent across the thousands of miles between us, will not be known without some action on my part. She can't feel my heart, my intention. So on this day I have decided to find her, to let her know that he is everything she would want him to be. It will be up to her to let me know how much detail she wants; a photo, a letter that she will painfully be forced to share with someone else because of her illiteracy. Whatever she needs to know that she made a good decision, one that allowed her son to grow up with opportunities he never would have had in Guatemala. To have an education. To have a future in which he can be anything he desires. To have the support of a family committed to him for life. And above all, to know that someone loves him as much as she did the first time she saw his fiercely beautiful, Mayan face. We are tied for life, this mother and I, by our love for our son....Shawn Joaquin.

The holiday letter I'll never send

2009-11-30T13:57:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-09T09:25:00.000-08:00

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

2009-05-29T07:09:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-05-28T09:21:00.000-07:00

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

2009-02-11T15:00:00.001-08:00

Early signs

2009-02-05T12:21:00.001-08:00

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

2009-02-04T11:00:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-28T07:33:00.000-08:00

I could not live without reading every day.
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.
I am addicted to Scrabble and am currently seeking a 12-step program.
Sometimes when I see my husband naked, all I hear inside my head is “OMG, it’s a MAN!!!!”. He’s super hunky.
I think about my brother every single day.
I am finally friends with my mom again, so I can lose “crazy ass bitch” as a term of endearment
I love that I have a handful of friends who remind me of who I really, truly am.
I am a moderate with extreme swings to either side on specific issues.
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.
I never knew I could love ANYONE as much as I love my children.
I constantly dream of an ex-boyfriend. And it totally freaks me out.
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.
I speak nothing but Spanish to Madelena, 24/7.
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.
I miss having a best girlfriend.
I have insomnia six out of seven nights. And I do not enjoy the extra hours of wakefulness that brings.
I like my bottom. I have worked hard to keep it from gravity’s cruel grasp.
I always have fresh flowers in the house. Or at least once-fresh-and-soon-to-be-replaced flowers.
I live by my grandmother’s adage: every house should have at least one red chair.
Underneath my crispy, crunchy exterior is an extremely oooey gooey center.
I can’t stand to fail.
I am smarter than the average bear.
I want to live in a Spanish-speaking country with my family for at least six months, if not longer.
My feet have gone up a full size since college. But so has my bra cup size.
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

2009-01-21T10:32:00.000-08:00

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.

Who knew

2008-12-29T11:39:00.000-08:00

Things I have learned from my children over the last few days:

From Shawn Joaquin

Indians did not have cows; the cows went someplace else. Therefore the Indians did not have milk. And they could not go to the store to buy milk because they don't have wallets.

From Madelena

It IS possible to put a band-aid on a cut on the inside of your lower lip if you really, really try and are not afraid of choking to death.

Santa: Super Spy. Enforcer. Jesus.

2008-12-23T09:46:00.000-08:00

With Christmas fast approaching, Gregg and I are determined to avoid the debacle of last year - presents are limited, Santa gifts will be presented unwrapped, and with the growing awareness of the Power of Santa, we have implemented Operation "He is Watching".

When Shawn Joaquin wakes us for the fifth time in the darkest hour of any night, we invoke the name of Santa: "Do you think Santa thinks that waking up your parents means you're being a GOOD boy or a BAD boy? What happens if you're not a GOOD boy?" With a whimper and a mumbled "I want presents" Shawn Joaquin shuffles back to bed.

When Shawn Joaquin runs away from us and laughs to avoid any discipline, we have only to say "Santa is watching" to stop him dead in his tracks. When he is clearly wrestling with whether to smack his sister in the middle of her back or kiss her gently on the head, we simply say "What would Santa do?"

We know that the years are limited in which the invocation of Santa will be so powerful, and we are determined to make full use of them. Just last night the Power of Santa compelled Shawn Joaquin to fetch a beer for Gregg, to wipe his own bottom thoroughly and with gusto, and to finish his salad and pasta before leaving the table. Santa has helped him dress with fewer tears in the morning, get out of bed slightly less in the middle of the night, and to be exponentially more helpful in general.

While we are trying to remind the kids that Christmas is about giving and about taking care of our family, friends and even strangers who might not have the wealth that we have — well beyond the financial, with health, love and security as critical elements of our well-being — we have been grateful to have the lure of Christmas morning greed to drive better behavior, even if only for a few weeks. So for now we say thanks, fat guy. We raise our sugar cookies to you. Then it's back to the wails, crying and tantrums that have marked this winter of our discontent....and Shawn Joaquin may even shed a tear or two of his own.

Sit Ubu, Sit

2008-12-17T09:33:00.000-08:00

At the beginning of the school year, Shawn Joaquin aligned himself with two of the more outgoing boys in class. This had both its plusses and minuses - Shawn Joaquin can be quite reticent, and his admiration of these boys would sometimes drive him to try new things and other times to try bad things to impress them. But at least he was getting out.

I recently asked him if he still played with them, and his answer was a simple "no".

"Well, who DO you play with?"

"I play with Diego and Marisol."

This thrilled me, since both kids are well-known to me and as sweet and innocent as Shawn Joaquin. And Shawn Joaquin plans on marrying Marisol, whom we would gladly welcome as a daughter-in-law.

"What do you do when you play?"

"We play house."

"And what do you DO when you play house?"

"Well...Marisol is the mom. Diego is the dad. And I'm the DOG! AWHOOOOOOOO! I bark and howl a lot, but I don't get to talk."

With that the complex reality of preschool social hierarchy was made somewhat clearer to me. And I had to remind myself that in our house it's the dog who never gets in trouble, is always fed on time, comes when called, and is generally well-regarded and the least likely to fling poop or yogurt on the floor. So you go for it, Shawn Joaquin. I mean...sit boy, sit. Good dog.

I Do NOT Have Sh**ty Taste in Music

2008-12-15T07:47:00.000-08:00

As the holidays approach with the unsettling shadow of my brother's death casting a pall over it, I find myself filled with angst and ennui with an occasional flicker of peppermint-bark induced giddiness. I remember all too well the surreal holiday season of 2001, as I sat for days on end on my sofa with my hands limp at my side, watching the tree crisp into a brown, potentially incendiary homage to my grief. The feeling of wanting to scream and often doing so, so unbelievable was his death and ruthless separation from us. Constantly and senselessly wondering if he was okay, sometimes questioning the mere fact of his death. I spent months like that, alternating high-functioning, over-compensating workaholic drive with complete catatonia at home. The dogs were not walked for six months, phone calls were never returned, mail left unopened, plants left to die, and whatever I wore to work that day became my pajamas for the night. To undress was more effort than I could imagine, and Tylenol PM became my best friend.

The immediate duties of dealing with Shawn's body, his home, car and the crew hired to clean up the scene of his death all fell to me. It was a morbid, awful and seemingly inhuman and incomprehensible task -- but as the only semi-functioning adult in our family, it was mine to accomplish. I talked to mortuaries, the coroner, police, his landlord, his long-distance girlfriend, and had the terrible task of calling all of my parents' friends and extended family to let them know what had happened. Each call was a terrible reminder of the first call, when I had to wake my parents in the middle of the night to tell them their only son was gone.

Finally I had to brace myself and go to Shawn's home to pick up his Jeep. I was at a near breaking point, and the only thing I would be spared was actually entering his home -- due to the circumstances surrounding his death, his home was locked down and only professionals were able to enter. My sister drove me to his apartment and all but peeled out as she dropped me on the edge of the driveway. My hands shook so badly as I tried to put the key in the Jeep door that I dropped the keys repeatedly on the asphalt. Finally I stepped in and sat with my eyes closed, hands at 10 and 2... just breathing in the essence of my brother. Coffee. Cigarettes. Straw. A slightly minty aftershave. I finally opened my eyes and took in the scene.

An AA meeting guide. Multiple crushed Starbucks' cups. Shredded rolls of Tums, matchbooks and crumpled, empty packs of cigarettes. A Hunter S. Thompson book on the seat. And a coffee-stained envelope taped to the front of his stereo with these words scrawled on it in his nearly unintelligible hand: I do NOT have sh**ty taste in music.

At that, all my tears and tension turned into choking laughter - that sign and this scene summed up so much of my brother, so tough and yet constantly needing to remind himself that he was not the kid who used to be beaten up on a regular basis, teased constantly and made to feel less than the creative and special boy that he was. I turned the key in the ignition, immediately assaulted with Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon. As I drove his car to the car wash (where I would later discover a loaded handgun in a Kleenex box under the seat - an apparently common finding in Louisiana), I listened to a compilation CD filled with songs that I too listened to regularly. Tom Waits, unknown or lesser known artists, tunes from our high school days and some played only on current college radio. And in those tunes was reminded of the sameness between us rather than the distance that lead to his demise. I knew that while my brother's body was gone and would never again be touched or hugged or pushed away...he was part of me and as inseparable from my life as the air that filled my lungs.

As the anniversary of my brother's death arrives today, I realize that the last few years have not allowed me to slip into the catatonia that was mine each December for the first three after his death. Too many people rely on my competence and remind me that while my brother is no longer here, his legacy is: his death pushed me to stop waiting and become a mother, and it is therefore because of him that I have my amazing son - his namesake. So instead of reflecting of all that is lost I must focus on what is here before me. As well as the good memories I have of Shawn before his cruel departure.

I look back at days spent at the Pannikin in La Jolla in the early 80s, studiously ignoring each other but arriving and leaving together. Playing air hockey on Christmas Eve in Baton Rouge, Shawn sweating like an old man in the December heat of the fun center. Miniature golf games with Shawn doing color commentary with each play, pushing his hair back from his forehead to ensure greater visibility of the hole underneath the windmill. Shawn pulling a wagon with a one-year old Sam in it, his dog Barney chasing them around the vast lawn of my parents' backyard. Driving over to his house to see him in the upstairs window - sitting on the sofa with his arm around his dog, back to the window, as they watched TV together in his dark apartment. Memories of him scaring the crap out of me after we had secretly stayed up to watch forbidden horror movies; sneaking out on to our patio roof to read, never answering our parents' call; running through eucalyptus canyons with him all day, exploring drainage pipes and caves and other dangerous but exciting landscapes. Running home from the park to tell my mom that Chris Hodges was once again beating my brother up for no reason other than the dozens of kids who would gather to watch him do so. Shawn being forced to go on my first date with me, and his gracious offer to crawl up the driveway, outside of my dad's sight, so my date could kiss me goodbye. Little did I know that he was actually just setting up a diversion so my parents might not notice that he himself was stoned and possibly drunk.

So today, instead of mourning what is not here and lighting my usual candle to mark the five days between his death and discovering it, I will celebrate his life. I will focus on all our memories, the son that is here due to the impetus of his death, and the fact that I was so fortunate to have had someone who made me feel so happy, so angry, so frustrated, so challenged, so safe, so worried and ultimately like I had a twin - sometimes evil, sometimes not - who shared my life for 36 years and contributed to the mom, wife, friend and daughter I am today.

Deja vu

2008-12-03T14:34:00.000-08:00

We have entered into the winter of our discontent, back into full-force sleep issues that make me feel like the worst parent in the world when I reflect on my 3am behavior — driven to madness after being awakened for the 11th time that night by the same crying, screaming child who, when asked "What's wrong? What do you want?", can only scream "NOTHING! STOP BEING MAD TO ME! YOU'RE NOT NICE!" within inches of either my head or his sleeping sister's door.

This summer, when dealing with similar issues, a well-meaning, just-out-of-school therapist suggested that perhaps this was all due to Shawn Joaquin not breast-feeding as an infant and the only hope was to return him to that time in his life. She suggested we cuddle skin-to-skin for up to 45 minutes at dawn, with his chest pressed to my belly and his cheek to my breast as I fed him white chocolate to emulate the sweet taste of breast milk. After attempting to drive the images of "The Good Mother" from my head, I declined and headed to the pharmacy to refill our prescriptions for Atarax, liquid sleep for children. Thankfully, within two weeks the situation seemed to have righted itself and our wake-ups were limited to once a night and were delivered in sotto voce rather than screams.

Now we're back to screams that can only be avoided through bribery: "If you sleep tonight, you can watch [Happy Feet, The Bee Movie, Backyardigans, Shrek the Halls, Alvin and the Chipmunks, Jolt] tomorrow." We have tried to up the ante from a single night to two nights per movie, which meant that Bolt actually took a full week to earn and early morning questions included "Can I see the movie now? Can I see it?" followed by wails when the sleepy answer was a slurred NO.

I mentioned this in passing to someone at Peet's, who chided me for using crappy commercialism to bribe my son. "You know, he'd be so happy to just get a hug and a kiss and an 'I'm proud of you' in the morning — have you tried gold stars?" After a spit-take with hot coffee I thanked the clearly not-a-mom-to-real-children and went on my way. Then I reconsidered. We had tried the gold-stars approach in the past to no avail, but perhaps he was just too young to understand. At home, I broached the subject with him.

"Shawn Joaquin, how about if we make a really cool chart. And every time you sleep through the night or are a good listener, you'll get a gold star on the chart. When you have 10 gold stars, we can go to the movies or go pick out a special book at the bookstore."

"Can I go to the movies tomorrow?"

"No...you have to get gold stars first."

"What's gold? What do I do with them? Can I take them to the movies? Are they stickers? Madelena likes stickers. MADELENA, MAMA HAS STICKERS FOR YOU! Mama, what can I watch? WHAT MOVIE CAN I SEE? NOW? NOW? NOW! NOW!"

And with that I realized that I should stick to what I know - one good night's sleep in trade for one viewing of a not-so-crappy movie and some microwaved popcorn. A small price to pay, with no one losing yet another night's sleep or one's taste for white chocolate.

Happy Holidays

2008-11-21T11:07:00.001-08:00

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

In the eye of the beholder

2008-11-21T09:25:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, one of Shawn Joaquin's younger friends gave him this picture of a tree. Shawn Joaquin has taken an almost fetish-like obsession with this tree. The paper has become worn from the constant folding and unfolding as he carries it around his pocket and takes it out to view it a few times every hour. When he goes to school it is placed on the fridge just above Madelena's reach, and when he comes home it is folded into thirds and then half and placed in his pocket. Yesterday it was a prop in some imaginary scene in Shawn Joaquin's head; he was throwing himself on the floor and whispering "no, the villains are coming. We'll have to run for help!" while reading the picture as if it were a map to his safe haven.

So many hours have been enjoyed with this simple picture — both by myself and by Shawn Joaquin. I love that this picture is somehow so precious to him, and that he likes to show it to people and tell him it's from his friend. All of that changed, however, when Gregg picked it up and showed it to me.

"Why is Shawn Joaquin carrying around this....um...picture? Do you really think that's appropriate?"

And with that, a simple childhood memory became the focal point of future therapy sessions.

Getting it right NOW

2008-11-18T16:48:00.000-08:00

A couple of months ago I went to Carmel, Indiana to celebrate the life of a friend who passed away just a few short weeks before. She left behind two young teenage sons and a husband, all of whom she helped guide into manhood even while being pummeled by multiple myeloma. The service was a testament to her hard work — her sons were as well-spoken as grieving, hormone-stricken young teens can be, telling stories of their mom chasing them with a wooden spoon to stop them from killing each other and other heartwarming tales. Her husband was able, even in the midst of his overwhelming grief, to paint a picture of a vibrant, bossy, loving and incredible woman with whom he shared — by his own admission — a less than perfect but always passionate marriage.

As I experienced this service and later walked through my friend's home, seeing the photos of her life and sitting on the sofa that she herself had spent hours resting on over the last four years, I thought of what my own children and husband might say if it were me who had been so ruthlessly stripped from their lives. The thought was scary. Not just that I might miss out on weddings and proms and life-altering moments that my children have in front of them. But that I might not give them the right fodder for a slammin' celebration of life...that somehow I will fail to show them how much I love them, the good crazy vs. the bad crazy inside of me, how to "man up", as my friend Pat told her own sons, and how to live life out loud.

After that I tried to provide some legacy, each and every day, no matter how slight. I wanted my family to have something to remember me for other than that I was simply there. This added a lot of pressure, especially in the beginning. I started by putting little notes in Shawn Joaquin's lunch box every day - handmade cards with photos and stickers, trying to make each lunch a memorable meal rather than something he pawed through while spitting milk out of his nose. I took him to anything I thought he might enjoy and someday remember — So You Think You Can Dance at the Oracle Arena, a Cal game, a solo camping trip with me to Tuolumne, Disney on Ice, movies and more. I was going to be the FUN mom, damnit. And I started actually showering and shining everyday before work, hoping that if it were to be the last time he ever saw me, my husband would remember my shining hair and bright eyes rather than that I had once again stolen his boxers as work attire or had pulled my hair up in a pink flowered toddler hair band. I made a home-cooked, interesting and nutritious meal every night and made sure that Madelena was able to help me stir things, set the table and still have time to sit on the floor and read her the same book 27 times. We enrolled in mommy and me classes and started family game night and new lengthy bedtime traditions. I was super mom, and I would not go quietly into the night.

After about a month of this, I realized it was...how you say...bullshit. And that Madelena loved running errands in Rockridge and seeing the crabs at the market every bit as much as any planned activity. Shawn Joaquin thought a trip to Trader Joe's in which we discussed all the odd imported food was just as entertaining as a trip to the Oracle Arena and more likely to end with some yummy treat from a cafe, accompanied by steamed milk. And that Gregg really didn't care what I was wearing as long as I had some intention, at some point in the day or night, of taking it off in front of him. And maybe that my legacy is just that I love my family and somehow they do see that every day in the truly little things like bedtime stories, breakfast for dinner on Friday nights and taking the kids to ride the elevators in an air-conditioned Target on hot, hot days.

The kids might remember that I would sit in the blue plastic baby pool with them, that I howled in our favorite tunnel as loudly as they did, and that no matter how many times I may have used my mad voice, my loving voice was always used exponentially more. That I could not keep my hands off their arms and cheeks and heads, always wanting to touch their warm, brown skin and kiss them whenever they would allow me. And maybe Gregg will remember that I laughed obnoxiously and loudly and often and at inappropriate YouTube videos. That I had to read every night and every morning, even if it meant just reading the cereal box or a twice-read magazine, just to keep my brain active. And that behind the scenes I kind of kept things running - bills paid, service providers coordinated, doctors appointments and school meetings completed, food in the fridge and the house usually bright and with semi-living flowers, and all gift giving for all relatives and seasons handled and hassle-free. And that I would wear his boxers or shirts not just from laziness or super-sizeness but because I love the smell of him.

So now my legacy is just to be: be happy, be loving, be angry, be crazy, be emotional, be me. And that will, in some way, be enough.

Once in a lifetime

2008-11-12T08:08:00.000-08:00

When I was a child, I knew there were three things I wanted in my life: to own a home, to be a writer, and to be a mother. As an eight-year old I often sent away for Kohler catalogs; after receipt, I would hole up in my room with the catalogs and some graph paper and layout my ideal spa bathroom and chef's kitchen. I drew many home built around courtyards with large wooden doors as the sole point of entry into my sanctuary - so much is now evident to me as I reflect on that design.

I have no memory of ever considering a life as anything other than a writer; when my great-grandmother gave me a tattered pink cheongsam from one of her world trips, I considered it a valuable addition to my writer's look. I would often don that faded silk and go into my office — my closet, complete with a cardboard box desk and a light clipped to a clothes hanger. An appropriate lair for a nine-year old writer of Erma Bombeck-inspired satire and, ironically, morbid poetry. Throughout the coming years, many people (outside of my immediate family, for whom my writing was and is not a serious pursuit but more of a reason to question my veracity, claiming "writer's embellishment") encouraged my writing. There was Ms. Moore in eighth grade, Mr. Castro in eleventh, and various college professors who attempted to overcome my family's desire that I get a "real job" and leave these musings behind. Thanks to a summer spent trying to live on author's copies of obscure literary magazines, my family got their wish. I sold out to advertising and my turn-of-phrase often includes the words "new", "enhanced" and "for a limited time." But in my soul and in the wee hours of the morning, I am still that child-writer in a stained pink silk dress and white socks, writing from her heart.

And so it goes. In my twenties I could officially call myself a writer who had been paid authors' copies and paltry sums of money for my words. In my mid-thirties, I became a home owner. And then, just months before my 40th birthday, a mother.

So here I sit nearly five years later, with all that I had wished for plus more - a handsome husband who can be persuaded to participate in Spa Night while watching Entourage; friends from various countries and generations and life experiences that inspire me and give me a reason to check in on Facebook or pick up the phone or at least email on a regular basis; a dog who thinks the I am the sun and the moon; a cat who has lived well-beyond her expected lifespan, only to gaze adoringly at my face from only two inches away, replete with fishy cat breath. With so many riches, I must be exceptionally happy and rise to song and technicolor every morning, right?

No. Like everyone else in the world I see the piles of laundry, the unmade bed, the bills waiting to be paid, the child with stick-up hair waiting to be dressed and the husband in an early-morning catatonic state and think "WTF? How did I get here?" It's very hard to focus on the riches in your life when you have a child screaming "Daddy be mad to me" while flinging dirty socks off the balcony, another yelling "I need to go poopoo - out of my way" and find that the only pants you can bear to wear — thanks to their loose-fitting waist-band — are your husband's Quicksilver boxers. So here I sit, just a three short weeks before Thanksgiving, thinking that perhaps I should focus on all that I do have and not all that I lack or have not accomplished: the anti-bucket list...no goals, just an assessment of those things that I should be thankful for.

Personal appearance/health: I still have hair in only appropriate places and will soon lack the clear eyesight to see any outliers who spring up in unwanted places. You can bounce a quarter on my bottom, though you might not get it back since I am often short on change. My weight is still within a healthy BMI range and my presbyopic husband often mistakes me me for a much younger woman.

Work/money: I have a job that I like and believe I will actually keep it through this economic crisis. And now I must rush madly about the house and knock on all wooden objects. Gregg's future is less certain, but for now we can still afford to eat meat on a regular basis though we have eschewed restaurants that have anything more than a single "$" symbol when noting prices.

Family/love: My mother calls less often and with less insanity in her voice than in prior years though the election drove her into name calling for a short period of time. Shawn Joaquin is loving, smart and crazy about me, even if he is unable to tell you what color my shirt is, recognize his own printed name or learn how to apply the brakes on his bike. Madelena is insanely independent and precocious and rarely hits me anymore and still prefers me to all other human beings. Gregg has learned to shrug off his early-morning catatonia much earlier, making him a fully-functioning adult by 8am on most weekdays and 9am on most weekends. He occasionally tells me he loves me and appears to still think there is a good reason to come home at night and that I just might be part of it. And I am often happy to wake up and see that it is his body next to mine rather than someone else or just the lovestruck cat.

Friends: I have spent my lifetime collecting people a few at a time that I love and remain loyal to, even if we don't speak as often as we used to or travel to each other's now distant homes. My friends' ages range from 30-70, and I have learned something from each of them that has helped me through some day, some situation or some fleeting moment when I thought I knew nothing and could not go on. My holiday card list has gotten shorter but more meaningful to me, and thanks to my advancing age I no longer feel compelled to spend time or effort on those people who will not be on my holiday card list 10 years from now.

So as I look to Thanksgiving at the end of this month, I say thank you to all who have given me a reason to be thankful after all...overlooking the laundry, the bills, the occasionally screaming child and daily challenges of being alive: I raise my cup of Peet's to you on this foggy morning and simply say again...thank you.

A Shameless Tout for Mary McHenry Photography

2008-10-31T11:25:00.000-07:00

Friends...whether you like it or not

2008-10-30T07:42:00.000-07:00

When I was a child, my brother and I were inseparable. This was both a burden and a blessing; it meant I never lacked for a playmate and that I was always responsible for someone else's behavior and possible injury. This was a lifelong pattern that began the first time he fell down the steps while in my three-year old care, and did not end until his unexpected death nearly 35 years later. In between we fought like rabid dogs or protected each other from outsiders with the same fierceness; for a few years when he was at his worst, our contact was limited and snarling and ultimately frustrating for both us, but was occasionally broken by a sudden realization of "oh, you're just like me" when talking about our reaction to relationship stress or our view of our often crazy and temperamental mother.

In high school I was often blackmailed by my brother, negating his need to actually work since my hard-earned money could often be extorted from me in order to maintain my good-girl status. My senior year he found my birth control pills hidden in the lining of my purse, and often quietly threatened me by saying "B.C., Paige, B.C." if he felt I was about to rat him out to my parents for ditching school, stealing my money or hiding a bottle of tequila in a speaker in his room. One day I came home to find my parents waiting for me in the living room, both clearly angry and crushed and accusatory; between them sat my birth control pills. Apparently, my brother had gotten bored.

All was not evil and contrary between us, however. In my junior year of high school, a former best friend was making my life so miserable that I had something of a breakdown and my parents decided that the best option was for both my brother and myself to transfer to another school. All I had to do was make it through the last 60 days of the semester, and then I'd be off to a better school and far away from the person who had cast me out from our circle and warned all that speaking to me would earn them the same punishment.

Not too long after a particularly painful and inflammatory public humiliation, I was pulled from my class by school security, the handsome Manny that I had had a crush on since 7th grade and his partner, Jess. Apparently my antagonist's car — a 1970 cream-colored VW bug that I had long coveted and had in fact learned to drive stick shift on — had been tampered with, and I was named as the prime suspect. I stammered and cried my way through a clearly honest denial, and they were forced to let me stumble back to my philosophy class. As I rounded the last corner before hitting the classroom, my brother stepped out from behind a gate, hands in pockets and looking left and right while he cupped a cigarette in his hand. He pulled me into the shadows and asked if I had talked to security yet. I was both buoyed by his concern and dismayed by his insider knowledge and the possibility that he would somehow turn this into yet another blackmail opportunity. It was then that I learned he had completely rewired my enemy's car during second period, and had done such a good job that it took her mechanic step-father over a week to repair it.

This was one of the moments in which I was reminded that through our many moves — we had lived in 11 houses and attended nine schools in less than seven years before finally settling in San Diego — my brother had always had my back with outsiders, even if occasionally stabbing me in it at home. We were a team, and as often as I might call him an idiot or malcontent or evil incarnate, that was MY privilege and right and no one else was allowed to denigrate him in any way. I can only hope that Shawn Joaquin and Madelena have that same loyalty to one and other outside of our house if not always in it; I see how she leaps up to help him, her older brother, when he struggles with something, shouting "I help you, 'mano." How he tackled a visiting child who pretended to shoot Madelena with a finger. How her laughter at his antics can elate or devastate him, depending on whether he feels laughed with or at. How every time I give anything to Madelena - food, toy, book or a drink - she immediately says "para 'mano, Mama?", never wanting him to miss out on anything.

While Shawn Joaquin occasionally feels ripped off having to share the center of my world with Madelena, my hope is that long after I am gone they have each other and the knowledge that regardless of who else may come or go in their life, their sibling is always there. Yelling, screaming or hugging, but always one of the people who loves them best. Until death do they part.

He ain't heavy

2008-10-29T13:14:00.000-07:00

Being "different" is okay, I tell myself. I have always felt like an outsider, a little unusual, listening to a drumbeat somewhere outside of the norm. I have always completed tasks in a unique but — in my eyes — ultimately successful way. I understood that while I was not always understood, I was always confident enough in myself to be okay with it. I always imagined my children would be much the same, making their own decisions about what is right or wrong or in fashion or in need of changing, listening to their own hearts rather than some preconceived notion of what was "normal." Yet when I find that my child really is "different", the word takes on a new and painful meaning. It conjures up labels that no one wants applied to their child, visions of playground altercations and name-calling, his slowly dawning awareness of what he can't do versus celebrating all that he can do, and a new focus on "what is normal" and learning outcomes that are provided to us on an accusatory piece of yellow paper. Sometimes, when applied to the sweet five-year old you would lay your life down for, "different" is just scary.

With the help of professionals, we are in the process of defining some of the learning challenges that Shawn Joaquin faces; while a very bright and imaginative kid, sometimes concepts are unintelligible to him and thus are met with a verbal straight-arm: "I can't do it. No. No. No." I watch his sister immediately grasp these same concepts and I start to blame myself for not seeing much sooner that Shawn Joaquin was on a different path, so blinded was I by my overwhelming love and confidence in his rank as the smartest, sweetest and most beautiful boy in the world.

Part of the cognitive assessment process is starting with where your child is and looking at his strengths; I appreciate this approach immensely not only because it reminds me of all of the best pieces of Shawn Joaquin but allows me to share them with someone without being called a braggart or even just a boor. His imagination, poetic nature, passion and interest in hearing every story about my misguided youth are appreciated and lauded. His ability to sit for hours and "read" books, his enthusiasm for dancing and all things with rhythm — even if he has none of his own — are held up for admiration and insights into how best to let those strengths assist him in areas where he is weaker. I leave each session dizzy with knowledge and questions and hope and sadness — eager to do whatever I can to ultimately help my son feel successful and confident and happy with who he is. But it is a long and painful process and not one I can approach like one of my strategic decks, laying out the objective, the strategies and the tactics that will ultimately get us there. It is a murkier area without a clear timeline; it involves waiting for audiologists, psychologists and occupational therapists to get faxed orders, find dates in 2009 when they can fit you in and negotiations with insurance companies in the hopes of keeping your house while you try to help your child learn to say, with bold confidence, "That is the letter M, and it's red."

In the meantime we play I Spy to work on our colors, bake cookies to help with motor skills, and spend at least a few minutes everyday cuddled up and talking about the time I had three cats in a row named Claude, rode my bike to MacDonald's while my mom secretly tailed me, or when I was spy at the tender age of eight and fell through Mrs. Wolfe's patio cover while watching her in the bath. And, of course, loving all the parts of him that are normal, different or exceptional. Because all in all, they add up to the boy I love most in this world...my perfect son.

Adult humor, child's voice

2008-10-21T12:30:00.000-07:00

Hoping to avoid the debacle of last year, Gregg and I talked to Shawn Joaquin about what he might want to ask Santa for at Christmas. After we made various suggestions that included Diego, Backyardigans and books, he announced what he would like.

"I would like something....not broken. And hard. That's all."

And with that he set up a full night of lines that could only be finished with the classic: Yeah, that's what SHE said.

Grace has fallen

2008-10-10T12:40:00.000-07:00

Part One

When I was single, my friends and I used to amuse ourselves playing something we called the Corpse Game. We'd determine how long it would take for any one of us to be found if we died in our homes. My average was five days. If I died on a Friday night and had no plans for the weekend, it would be Monday before anyone would notice I was missing. Coworkers would assume I'd just called someone else to say I was sick or late. On Tuesday, my boss or HR would call my house. It would be Wednesday before anyone ever actually showed up at my house. And depending on the situation, they could get in then or maybe that night. So five days from death to discovery. It was all very, very amusing. Until it took five days to find my brother's body.

***

I am often overwhelmed by images that may be of a past remembered or a past desired. Images of late afternoon sunlight through a car windshield, my mother's profile, songs sung on winding roads that follow the curving path of a river. How much of it is true and how much of it is the memory of the childhood I often wished I had?

Everything unwinds like a damaged film too long stored in a damp closet. Held up to the light, some images are true and clear and others are spotted and faded and others gone entirely. Frames missing. If they ever existed at all.

The one true thing was my brother. He is in every memory, every event, every frame that I can pull up with breathtaking clarity. Fourteen months younger than I, he was my responsibility for as long as I have memory. He was my witness, my confidant, my best friend, my enemy, my playmate, my accuser, my tormentor, my steadiness, my pride, my responsibility. He was my brother.

In the weeks following his death, I didn't think I could live through the grief. It's an ache that never leaves you, even in your sleep. I tried to slip deeper, where it couldn't touch me. But it slid beneath my clenched eyes, past my dreams of grocery shopping and walks and Christmas dinners and a time before it was all changed. It slipped past the home movies I so desperately tried to play, soundless yet so filled with my brother's laugh...the sound and temperature of a compelling spirit and sweetness tinged by darkness and pain and angst that begged to be held and understood and seen.

Then one day the ache left me for a moment as I smiled at a stranger, and the loss of the ache itself hit me. I was sick. I was weak in the knees, nauseated and spinning and wondering if this moment of grieflessness meant I was forgetting. And that thought was more unbearable than the grief ever was.

_______________________________________________

This is the first in a series of not-so-funny remembrances about my brother and his death. I apologize for those who come to laugh, but this story has been a long time coming and perhaps shows a different side to the mom who has been known to call her son a freak but loves him desperately and with all her heart. As she did his namesake, Shawn. As we draw near to what would have been his 43rd birthday and the anniversary of his ruthless separation from us in December of 2001, more excerpts from "Grace Has Fallen" — a book of short stories...some fiction...some not — will appear here. Thank you for reading.

The forgotten child

2008-10-06T14:22:00.000-07:00

This summer my father had the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of being our nanny for a week and as he ran screaming from the house he left the kids a departing gift: new Indian names, as he had once bestowed on myself and my brother...aka Running Fox and Moss. Upon Shawn Joaquin and Madelena he bestowed the following: Dark Cloud and Sunshine.

Sunshine often gets short shrift in this blog and among tales told to friends; Dark Cloud's heightened sense of drama and passion often overshadow her happiness and general brilliance. They're both terribly interesting people, yet she has consistently ended up with fewer photos, baby book entries and stories. So let today be her day.

Madelena is fully bilingual, as I realized in a moment of her total frustration today. She asked Gregg multiple times for something he couldn't understand — galletas, bocadillos, almendras — and then stamped her foot in annoyance and shouted SNACKS, Daddy!

She knows all of her colors (in Spanish) and counts up to 13 in both languages. She can glance at a picture and say "Hay quatro elefantes" and be correct 100% of the time. She laughs like a monkey and says "oh, that's funny" at every opportunity. She talks to strangers and asks them "hey, man, what you doing?" and says "hasta luego" while giving a beauty pageant wave. She loves to jump off high and dangerous places and to shout "corre!" and take off before you know what's happening.

When her brother cries she immediately goes to him and hugs him, saying "lo siento" even if it's nothing that she caused. She has many opportunities each and every day to do this.

When offered a shirt she doesn't like she'll say "Éste? Hmmmm....no thank you" rather than just tossing it to the ground like other children in the house. She says "discúlpame" at the end of her meals and after burping and either "oh, that's so nice" or "gracias, mama!" for any item handed to her, no matter how crappy. She sings constantly, mixing the phrases and words from Pío Pío Pío with Pop Goes the Weasel.

When put to bed she shouts "night night" and then proceeds to sing for the next 90 minutes. Should you cough or sneeze in another room, she breaks her song to shout "SALUD!" She insists on 15 kisses at bedtime, to include eskimo, mariposa, cabeza y boca on demand. She says "te quiero" often and rarely cries, though in the early morning she is known to shout "NO DADDY" and wail if the wrong person walks in to get her dressed.

She is our Sunshine in all ways, so aptly named by my dad. It took over two years to bring her from a concept to our a beautiful daughter, and if I forget to record that she walked at 10 months and learned her letters at 24, I will never, ever forget that the first time I saw her picture, I knew she was ours.

Te quiero, mi hijita. Te quiero.

When not to date

2008-10-02T13:41:00.000-07:00

There was an interesting article on CNN this week about five reasons to not go on that first date; the reasons were as follows:

1. You're lonely

2. You're desperate

3. You're infectious

4. You're not over someone else

5. You're drunk

While these reasons are all well and fine (though I do question the last one - who says that blowing chunks on your date or being unable to recall his name will not test both his compassion and provide endless fodder for dinner parties for both of you?) I had a few more that I felt should be added.

6. You're married. To someone else. Even trying to date your spouse is challenging and often not that fun, let alone trying to be interesting for a new person. Plus think of all the new underwear you'd have to buy. And remember that conversations among marrieds tend to wander back to kids and the next day's trip to Home Depot — and you often find conversation outside of THAT too mentally exhausting. So why waste anyone's time, money or Friday night effort on a date when you could spend it picking up ten thousand pieces of crap left around the house by the kids or drinking a bottle of Two Buck Chuck while folding stained underwear.

7. He's a big fat loser. We've all had that cringe factor before a date that we know will lead to nothing, but feel we're being too judgmental and need to broaden our horizons...accept facial deformations, poor grammar, bad manners or interesting body odor because you know WHAT, if you open your heart...THIS JUST MIGHT BE THE ONE. Ha. Stay home. Eat ice cream. Watch Weeds on your DVR - you'll save everyone some heartache and yourself from listening to a possible mouth breather say "You got a pretty mouth" while visibly chewing gum.

8. You're the parent of small children. When your kids are little you fall into the habit of referring to yourself in the third person and speaking casually about verboten topics, and it's hard to break in public spaces. And no one wants to cop a feel or make out with someone who just said "Mama needs to go tinkle and wipe the oogity boogities out of her nose, so wait RIGHT here."

Add this all together and you have a hallelujah from me, thankful to be a smug married who is in fact not so smug at all, and realizes that while being married is hard, hard work each and every day....I never again have to put on a brave face, straighten up my back, take that last glance in the mirror as I walk out the door and say "you can do this. Maybe it won't be so bad after all."

It might be better with some ranch dressing

2008-09-29T21:45:00.001-07:00

Shawn Joaquin has finally gotten the hang of the whole sleeping thing and often has his wake ups down to one 3am wail or just a few half-hearted attempts to rouse sympathy for his forced confinement to bed. Tonight he was up several times before 8:30, each excuse more lame than the last. Books. Water. Bathroom.

And so it went, until his final plea.

I can't sleep.

Why?

Because I ate paper. And it didn't taste very good.

Well, don't eat paper.

OH. [Slapping himself in the head.] Good night.

And with that he ambled back to bed, toilet tissue stuck to his lower lip and a faint smacking sound heard in the distance as he tried to finish it off. Yes, he's a freak. But he's MY freak. And I love him.

Olorific

2008-09-10T13:08:00.000-07:00

SJ, while hugging me: Hey, you smell like a mama.

Me, hugging back: What does a mama smell like?

SJ: Pizza. And dog food. Can I smell your bottom now?

And once again we find where "hey, it's all natural curiosity" and "back off, freak" intersect.

Lint and other souvenirs

2008-09-02T07:33:00.000-07:00

When parents of similarly aged children tell me how happy they are each and every day, I immediately assume their dose of Lexapro is higher than mine or their crack is of a higher grade. Thus I am always thrilled to find other parents who are more in my corner of the world, overwhelmed and under-rested and wondering at least once a day whether we are complete failures as parents and possibly as human beings. Thankfully, I believe my contingent is larger if quieter, perhaps by virtue of our general hoarseness from repeating everything from "that's not a good choice" to "knock it off or I'll give you something to REALLY cry about" ten thousand times a day.

On a recent drug-free vacation with the kids, I was worried about how we might entertain them and survive a week in the wilds of the Sierras, far from TV, phones, internet, zoos, kid-oriented cafes, parks and Gymboree classes. Whether we have become so dependent on our au pair and paid memberships that without the crutch of places to go, people to see and those to care for our children that we would crack under the pressure....with four leaving Oakland and a lesser number returning.

The first couple of days were relatively painless for me, boosted as I was by a new early bedtime of 8pm and a subsequent 10 hours of sleep. Gregg, unable to lose his big city ways, was up until midnight each night and thus lacked the reserves to deal with the near-constant "what are we doing AFTER this" that accompanied each trip to the lake, Sand Pond, a hike, Frasier Falls, the lodge and every meal. After 48 hours of near-death wrestling matches between the kids over things as random as dirty napkins, we learned that each was exceptionally well-behaved when outside of the hearing range of the other. With that in mind we began to spend quality time with each kid, if not with each other. Finally on Wednesday, with not a clean pair of underwear between us nor a sock without a ring of dirt around it, we had to come together as a family and go to the laundromat in Blairsden, 18 screech-filled miles from our cabin. Oh, if only we had known the wonders that existed there.

There, in the shabby confines of the very same laundromat I had visited with my family 35 years ago, the children came together as one. They slammed carts into each other with great glee, shouting UNO DOS TRES GOOOOO! while heading full steam into each other, knocking at least one child to the ground to his or her delight. The coins, lint, string and other bits of detritus found under tables were treasures to be shared and shoved into pockets and the occasional mouth, and watching the clothes go round was as exciting as a new episode of the Backyardigans with an original score by Phillip Glass.

After an hour of Downy-scented fun, I had to ask myself if we really needed to spend so much time, money and effort schlepping the kids and all their accoutrement to a faraway place when a laundromat right down the hill might offer the same level of fun at a fraction of the cost. If we added in riding the escalators at Target, lunch at the IKEA cafeteria and an afternoon spent throwing a collection of rocks down a drain pipe we'd have an entire vacation for mere cents, allowing us to save that money and spend it later on the adult vacation we so richly deserve.

Yet upon check out from our tattered but beloved cabin at Packer Lake, I signed on again for next year...confident that the Blairsden Laundromat will still exist, as it has my entire life, and perhaps in the coming year my children will learn to love other aspects of our summer vacation, be that hiking or just the joy of the rusted junk yard next to the laundromat. We'll cross our fingers and update our tetanus shots, and in the meantime will determine if we really need to spend money on a holiday camp vs sending the kids down the hill with a pocket full of quarters and their names and numbers sewn into their little jackets. Bien viaje, niños!

Sleep is for the weak

2008-07-02T07:24:00.000-07:00

We have been struggling with sleep issues with Shawn Joaquin for many months now, summoned to his bed up to 20 times nightly with wails and screams that ultimately end with him sniffling and saying "nuffing" when we ask him what's wrong. We have tried incentive programs, punishment, door open, door closed, explanations, coaxing, yelling, removal of special blankets, toys, lights, and books. We have promised multiple viewings of Shrek, ice cream for breakfast, trips to the zoo, the moon and the restaurant of his choice. We have tried tapes, videos, sound machines, total freedom of movement throughout the room, silence in all other rooms and dozens of books in bed. All for naught and resulting in nothing more than the deterioration of our adult time together and the firmness of the skin beneath our eyes.

After nearly nine months of this, I finally lost my mind with him one night and became someone I would never want caught on tape, and am now officially off the casting list for Moment of Truth. So I changed tactics — from that night forward, sleep time would be known as Operation: Who Is Shawn Joaquin.

At the Operation's launch, we explained to Shawn Joaquin that his job at night was to go to bed, and our job was to spend mama and daddy time together. We would eat dinner, watch TV and do whatever we used to do before we spent 2 hours arguing with him at bedtime. We would be here, we would love him and we would not leave the house. But we would also not talk to him after his requisite Mama Time and Daddy Book Time - once we said goodnight, he would cease to exist until the morning. In the morning we would cuddle him. In the wee small hours he would be persona non grata.

After spending a great deal of time explaining this, accompanied by lots of nods and assertions of "yeah, I'm gonna stay in bed and have good behavior," we began. Within three minutes Shawn Joaquin was outside his room screaming for Gregg, infuriated when he didn't hear pounding footsteps coming down the stairs. For the next hour, he alternately screamed, cried and ran when he felt he had finally lured us to his room. He actually appeared happy and excited when he saw me coming down the stairs, then furious when he realized that I was not there to berate or punish him but to change into my Nick and Nora fruit-covered pajamas.

Forty-five minutes of screaming later, we settled in to eat dinner and watch TV like sedentary adults in other homes. We ignored Shawn Joaquin as he crept up the stairs quietly, aching to be caught and punished. For two hours he stalked us, finally losing interest and playing with a piece of string he found on the stairs, possibly considering the string a replacement for his once-attentive parents. At some point he quietly wandered back to his bedroom, emerging when we went to bed to peer into the darkened room and determine whether there was any chance of rousing us and sending us screaming down the hallway. We were not to be baited.

We are now in week three of Who Is Shawn Joaquin, and our success has been mixed. He now drops off to sleep around 9pm instead of 11pm, a heavy book on his head and one arm flung over the side of the bed. He has permanently lost the light bulb in his lamp, forced to read by the dimmer light of his still-bright night light, a tactic for which we may end up paying for with bifocals at the age of eight. He still wakes up once or twice a night to scream that Gregg should be working in his office or that we should not be sleeping or — to our great but stifled amusement — to run down the hall with his palms flat over his eyes screaming "I CAN'T SEE! I CAN'T SEE! SOMEONE, HELP ME!"

I see a future on Broadway for him or, more likely, an off-Broadway play entitled "When I Didn't Exist" where — in a darkened theater that bears a slight whiff of self-pity mixed with fear sweat — he can work through his painful childhood years. Then perhaps he, and all of us, will finally sleep.

Jesus, take the wheel

2008-07-01T07:24:00.000-07:00

Life as the parents of two young children takes a daily toll on my marriage and my home. We had no idea how easy we had it with Shawn Joaquin prior to Madelena's arrival - he was a neat freakin', 12-hour sleeping, caution-seeking sweet boy who had a penchant for thousands of questions but few temper tantrums or other less-than-appealing behaviors. Now he's been replaced with a flailing, red-faced, screaming banshee whose life has been ruined by his parents insistence on good behavior, sleeping in his own bed for at least a few hours every night, and a sister who points at him during his fits and says in a bored tone of voice "Hermano CRY, CRY, CRYYY."

Amidst the madness we attempt to have a few sane moments, some child-free, and focus on the times when everyone is fed, clean and happy. This is more difficult to achieve than one might imagine, primarily because of my own inability to achieve success in those three areas myself.

When I worked in the city, I shined up every day. My clothing was current, fitted and flattering. My footware was hot, heeled and unscuffed. My hair was bouncin' and behavin' and my makeup natural but complete. I had my non-fat yogurt and Peet's coffee before leaving the house, and picked up a nice plate of ham and eggs on the way to my neat and fashionable office. Fast forward to today.

Current attire: baggy jeans with a suspicious stain on the right leg, running socks that have apparently swiffered the floor near the dog bed. Hair in a pony tail since a shower was not to be this morning, make up reduced to tinted moisturizer and a quick swipe of the lip gloss brush. Underwear MIA, since none were conveniently near the jeans crumpled on the floor. Breakfast of an Atkins bar and some once-hot coffee, shoved down while making a ham sandwich that will surely be abandoned by Shawn Joaquin come lunch time. My only accessories my watch and my pedometer, showing the priorities of my life. Yet Gregg leaves the house showered, shaved and well-dressed. Shawn Joaquin sharply put together in his Oaklandia shirt and jeans, face shiny and hair wet but neat. Madelena looking like her usual catalog-baby self, matched from her hair bands down to her socks. This is the most common circumstance - one of these things is not like the other, and one of those things is ME. To quote David Byrne, how did I get here?

I must remind myself, as I look at my tired eyes and less-than-put-together self: By choice. I chose this life, I chose these kids, and I chose my sharp-dressed man. And someday, when the kids are able to take care of themselves and no longer need me to pick out the clothes, make the lunches and wipe up the bottoms or tears, I will look back — well-dressed, coiffed and once again ready for my close up — and ask again...how did I get here? And miss these days of being needed, however painfully, with all my heart.

Have you hugged your pirate today?

2008-06-16T16:25:00.000-07:00

When I saw the ad for "Pirate Festival" I knew immediately that this was our Saturday afternoon destination - we had become stuck in a rut. Saturday mornings at the park, afternoon spent prowling Rite Aid or Trader Joe's...Sundays at the Farmer's Market and later yet another park. Or those weekends when we went from one kid's birthday party to another, considering tequila shots on the way out the door in order to deal with the high levels of squealing sure to pierce eardrums. But this weekend was going to be different, sure to show us something different.

As we drove to the festival, Shawn Joaquin asked me about the pirates.

Will they be nice pirates?
Can I hug a pirate?
What do pirates eat?
Can I eat pirate food?
Will they say aaaargh?

Yes, yes, of course you can hug a pirate Shawn Joaquin. And then we arrived....

You know that kind of creepy feeling you get at the Renaissance Faire when you come across people who are just a wee bit tooooo into their costumes and the attached role, unable to break from their "miladies" and "thou art" even when in the bathroom drying their hands with Costco paper towels? The Pirate Festival is filled with people who LIVE, LIVE, LIVE for Renaissance Faires and travel around the country to attend fairs everywhere, and more than a handful of people who were turned away at the Renaissance Faire gates — so disturbing was their intensity, their make up, their cleavage or their lack of sobriety. These are the people who flooded the ferry landing in Vallejo, ready to be seen as their true selves — black-hearted pirates, fetishists bound into corsets of amazing proportion and boning, drunken sailors with an unquenchable thirst for ale and booty of all kinds.

As we entered, I exchanged a look with Gregg that said "holy crap" while Shawn Joaquin ran past a bare-breasted woman to jump into a cage with a skeleton. Madelena, not to be outdone, screamed from her stroller to join him. With our children safely locked in a cage, I observed the scene around us.

Inhumanly huge breasts with pints of ale balanced on their expansive, vein-laden skin and cleverly hiding coaster-sized nipples to be revealed only when swigging from the stein. Men in ankle length leather jackets, overly tanned and waxed chests bare except the chains and chains of gold and pearls that tangled with their long, curly hair. Seemingly dead faces with eyeballs falling out onto their ragged velvet jackets, itchy fingers on their wooden muskets but no way to sight their enemy. Bodies of all sizes squeezed into bustiers and corsets over thin cotton sheaths, leaving breasts presented nearly horizontally and with little to no coverage. Drunken sailors, wenches, captives and captains, slurring their words and commands as they strolled or stomped about.

Welcome to the Pirate Festival. One of many life-scarring events we have subjected our children to.

$30 in crappy food later, Madelena had made friends with a pirate named Captain Shawn, Shawn Joaquin had danced a jig while hiding behind my legs to avoid the stare of a particularly saucy wench, and I had been propositioned by a drunken pirate who wore a shirt that said “I like it when you [blank] my [blank]” under his velvet jacket and ropes of pearls. Gregg had hunkered down at the relative safety of the not-so-pirate-like picnic tables, sticky with ale and effluence better left unnamed; he was able to observe the role playing and breast-serving-up all the better from a distance and behind sunglasses.

After an hour of nearly pornographic fun and with no money left to waste on bad food, we wrapped it up and headed towards the gate. Other than his jig, Shawn Joaquin had spent most of his time hiding from the scary gaze of pirate ghosts and a particularly scary 6 foot 6 man in full reaper-wear, alternating his hiding with coming out and whining about food, clothing, proximity of his sister or strangers. As we exited, Shawn Joaquin summed it up with a single line: Well, THAT was a LOT of pirates.

Yo ho ho and a bottle of Jagermeister hidden in the folds of a dusty pirate suit by a 60-year old man who's far too old for dress up…yes, yes, yes it was, my son. Aaaaargh.

Rambling

2008-05-15T13:10:00.000-07:00

Tonight we embark on a 6+ hour drive to Arcata, carefully planned to the sleep cycles of Madelena, She Who Does Not Enjoy Long Car Rides. Our plans include fueling up on forbidden caffeine from Peet's coffee, flashcards to keep our brains active and Benadryl for all under three feet. The one thing I had not planned on was a sudden heat wave in Arcata, reaching 87 degrees today.

Holy mother of god.

I will be spending 3 nights in a mobile home in Arcata, far from sea breezes and close to a number of homes with carved wooden donkeys and bathtubs filled with flowers. I will be sharing my room and possibly my bed with a squirming and sweaty kid of some gender, and am already stressed by the possible lack of diet foods available to me and necessary for my Body 2008 goals. And now the wrath of god on Arcata in the form of stifling heat? I know China, Myanmar and others have problems, but what about MY NEEDS?

It will actually be a relief to be in Arcata, where newspapers are printed weekly and internet service is only found at Starbucks for the low, low price of your SOUL. Recent news from China, Myanmar and friends in Guatemala have become overwhelming in my mom-head as of late, and I find myself waking up at 2am to think of all of the grief being felt around the world this week, summed up by the phrase "what if that were MY child?"

Everyday we complain to our friends about our childcare, the cost of repairs to our Volvo or BMW, how difficult it is to find just the right organic produce or a yoga class that works for us. We drive a few miles to stock up on fresh food and organic milk, pick up flowers every week without a thought about cost, download the lastest iTunes without a blink, buy our $14 per pound olives and then pass that guy on the street so distastefully panhandling. And we go home to kiss or complain about our always well-dressed, well-fed, well-educated and generally healthy children who most likely have no obstacles before them that can't be overcome by themselves, their family and their U.S. citizenship status.

So while we drive to Arcata without worrying about floods, cyclones, PGN, mortar rounds or the prospect of prison for driving out of our neighborhood without papers, I will try to focus on the blessed life that I live rather than any screaming coming from the back seat. And perhaps by doing that I will also stop worrying heat and the availability of Atkins bars and realize that while other mothers in other countries are looking for their lost children or struggling to find basic food and supplies.... I know exactly where my child is and that we will have everything we need tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

Namaste.

Author's note: This was written with a 12 ounce bag of frozen sweet corn on my neck to battle the heat stroke that is imminent in our 100+ degree house, which may have also affected the rambling quality of this entry. Thank you, global warming.

Just saying hello

2008-05-06T19:41:00.000-07:00

In the opening scene of "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" the lead character is surprised by his girlfriend as he steps out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. By way of greeting, he drops the towel and twists his body back and forth while just below his hips — out of camera range — we hear a distinct "slap slap slap".

"Oh, that's a WW," says Gregg.

"A what?"

"A WW. You know."

"No, I don't."

"It's a weenie wave. EVERYONE knows that. It's just KNOWN."

And thus my husband teaches me something again that I did not know nor want to know, but now will forever have lodged in my brain next to the information about how tofu is made and how to identify lice nits, somewhere behind an image of a liver curdled by cirrhosis.

Teach your children well

2008-05-05T20:18:00.000-07:00

Shawn Joaquin is a rules kid, subject to daily heart attacks from Madelena, who is not. He follows her around shouting "you should not do that - that's dangerous for children" or saying to us, following cross words, "you should not talk to peoples like that - it's not polite." When friends come over and try to shoot the cat with their finger, he is incensed and firmly reminds them that in our house we don't shoot animals or babies. It's not polite. When they jump on the furniture, he stamps his foot on the ground and tells them to get down immediately - we don't do that here.

I was very puzzled as to where this all came from until I realized that while I myself am not always a rules follower (except those that make sense, of course) I am quite the rule maker. And like Shawn Joaquin I am quite tempted to follow people around and remind them of my rules, and only decorum or - more honestly - lack of time keep me from doing so.

To save myself some time and yourself some embarrassment when in my presence, I have decided to note some of my more obscure but helpful rules in order to improve your life/avoid embarrassment/display my own idiosyncrasies/freakishness.

Send thank you notes. The only time this is not mandatory is when you have two children under the age of five - then you can make a phone call to thank someone because putting a pen to paper and having it destroyed/gummed/lost in a diaper bag is a high probability. Emails do not count, no matter how amusing they are - unless they include a video of the person enjoying the gift. Then it's welcome home, Web 2.0.

Do not chew gum in public. If you chew it at home, keep your mouth closed. If I see your gum, get ready to spit it out.

Pick up your movie trash. Just because someone is paid to clean a theater (and is desperate enough to take a job that underpays them, puts them in ill fitting uniforms and subjects them to Joe Public daily) does not mean they need to pick up the crap you have strewn on the floor. You are perfectly capable of gathering and placing it in one of the conveniently placed trash receptacles near the door. If you are not, rethink independent living and consider a facility for special needs citizens.

Say thank you, even if it's crap. Someone spent some amount of time choosing something they thought you would enjoy, even if they mistakenly think you would enjoy a small box carved out of driftwood with a leaping dolphin burned into it and smells of sandalwood. You could keep your weeeed in it.

Hug your good friends. It won't kill you and will make anyone who is not creepy very happy. If someone does not enjoy it, move them to the "possibly creepy" column and test them with random pats on the back and other forms of physical affection to test tolerance.

Share your books, but don't expect someone else to love them and report back. Some of us like frock dramas, and others would rather jab a sharp stick in our eye. And then set that stick on fire.

Turn off your cell phone. Unless you have a sitter that you have left your precious children with or have a partner who will call when they've got the bedroom ready, there is no reason to have a cell phone on at a social occasion. It tells other people that they're not the people you want to be with at that moment, and in fact you would welcome a call from someone, anyone, other than them, even a prerecorded message from a Republican presidential candidate.

Don't text at the table or when socializing with others. See note above. And also check your I.D. stat to make sure you are not some 14-year old in rebellion and armed with a Blackberry.

There are a few other tried and true rules to abide by, not necessarily limited to my rule book: say please and thank you, don't talk with your mouth full, keep your elbows off the table and your napkin in your lap, pack out what you pack in, recycle, do no harm to others, give what you can, and tell the people that you love that you do - OUT LOUD - without fear and often. If you follow these rules and those of your local jurisdiction there's a pretty good chance that you'll have some good karma comin' back you and avoid the wrath of rules people like me and my boy.

Goodbye and - of course - thank you. Thank you very much.

Tiger Wheeler

2008-04-29T14:51:00.000-07:00

Reality bites back

2008-04-28T16:50:00.000-07:00

I am so full of crap.

On the 21st, in the honeymoon period of our weeklong vacation, I waxed on about our special moments. Little did I know that Madelena and her Terrible Twos, along with Shawn Joaquin and his twin pals of terror — Jealousy and Naplessness — were lurking around the corner ready to smack me in the head and rob me of my illusions as well as my patience.

Over the course of the week Gregg and I learned not to judge the successfulness of any venture or day by its entirety but rather by hours.

"That first hour at Sea World — before the whining about snacks, avoidable bathroom emergencies, dolphin soaking and sippy cup dropping — were really fun, weren't they?"

"Boy, I really enjoyed that walk from the parking lot when both kids were passed out from the heat and general exhaustion. I didn't even mind that smell."

"When we went out and left the kids with a sitter, spent $53 on three drinks and fought about petty things but were uninterrupted by children wailing while doing so....good times, good times."

In the end I think we learned to schedule less things for the kids to do, more sitters to provide comic relief for the kids and mental relief for us, pack fewer clothes and more diapers and wine, and to lower our expectations to "if no one dies or ends up in ER, we're going to be okay." Doing so would ensure that no one is disappointed, no baby is left in a wet diaper for an extra hour, and the adults can spend less time arguing about who should have packed snacks and more time toasting the sunset or opportunistically napping. Other than that, I wouldn't change a thing. Especially the participants, who despite their annoying tendency to collapse to the floor while wailing if asked to do something not to their liking, bonded even more deeply and solidified the idea that yes, yes, we made the right choice in choosing one and other.

These are a few of my favorite things

2008-04-21T16:50:00.000-07:00

When I look back on this vacation in San Diego, I'm sure that I will block out all memories of children's limp-legged, back-arched screaming fits and the intially musty smell of our funky little cottage. No visions of puffy faced pre-dawn wake ups or three glasses of spilled milk in a single meal will remain, nor will the sounds of Shawn Joaquin screaming "BUT I WANT TO I WANT TO IWANTTOIWANTO" lodge in my aural memory banks.

Instead, I will remember cuddling up on the outdoor sofa at 6:30am with Shawn Joaquin to enjoy books, coffee and milk. I will remember the first time he let a stranger touch him to paint his face and loudly and clearly told her his name. I will not forget him protectively screaming at me "SHE DOESN'T LIKE THAT! STOP TOUCHING MY SISTER!" when she cried as I took her to bed. I will remember that both children played nicely together, blocking out the reality of clotheslining, snatched toys and a sharp finger jabbed inside the ear to thwart a milk snatching.

But most of all I will have these memories, seemingly merely digital but already deep inside my long-term memory. The images I will call up when I can no longer remember my name or where the bathroom is, and begin to call my shoes "teeth." Even then, I will have these.

The smell of bromance is in the air

2008-04-09T16:43:00.000-07:00

Like many married men with families, Gregg often laments his lack of male friendship and testosterone-laden activities - hoops, golf and sports-statistic heavy conversations. He'll often forget who I am and say something like "can you believe D.J. Augustin? This whole declaration thing is just crazy" or "Mike Cook still has a chance" while looking at me expectantly. While I am a sports fan, the minutia of college ball is just not going to cut through the mom-clutter in my brain, let alone the stacks of work facts filed next to my to-do list that resides in my frontal lobe. So it was with great pleasure that I saw the budding bromance between Gregg and Jim*, a fellow parent from our school.

At a recent event that I co-chaired, Gregg was left to his own amusements while I dashed around with a timetable in my hand, on a mission and not about to deal with small talk or the conversational needs of my husband. So he ended up talking to Jim and MikeMikeMike, both guy-guys, as they battled to outbid each other on a golf package in Arizona. They wrestled the pen from each other while delicately balancing their Sierra Nevadas, screaming epithets at each other to dissuade that next high bid or distract while they themselves made a huge bid jump. As one bid on the golf trip, another would dash to the other side of the table to attempt to be the highest bidder on Cal tickets. Gregg was left on his own while bidding on teeth whitening; neither Jim nor MikeMikeMike were quite as concerned as he about the brilliance of their smiles. Plus the line at the bar beckoned. In the end, they drunkenly swore fealty to each other - whomever won would take the others on the Man Trip for golf in Arizona.

As we drove home (Cal tickets in hand, golf going to Jim), Gregg told me what a great night he'd had with Jim and MikeMikeMike - both were "guy guys" who weren't afraid to swear and somehow seemed closer to his blue-collar roots than most of the other parents.

"Hey, why don't you call them and invite them to play golf next weekend?"
"NO. No way. Guys don't do that."
"What, use a phone?"
"No, no, no. It would all be too weird and date-like. You don't get it."

Apparently men have not just a three-day rule with other, but a total aversion to appearing to pursue a friendship in any way and in fact will only get together if by chance. But I was not ready to give up.

By sheer luck, the next day at the farmer's market we spied Jim and his family.

"Hey, honey! There's Jim! You could ask him about golf and —"
"NO! Keep walking! Don't make eye contact!"

Being a guy is tougher than I ever realized, as is setting up your husband on a man date.

The following week I dropped Gregg off at the park with the kids while I did the grocery shopping. When I got back, he was deep in conversation with a guy about his age about golf, swing stance, NCAAs and other things that made my eyes glaze over. But as I observed them - their open body language, eye contact and friendly smiles, I saw the potential for yet another bromance, a chance for Gregg to break out and perhaps make a man friend. As we packed up our stuff, they shook hands and exchanged names, closing with a "well, maybe I'll see you at the park again soon...that was fun."

"Honey, you should totally get his number."
"NO!"
"Come on, you clearly hit it off! He likes golf, you like golf and —"
"NO! I'm not going to ask him for his number."

As we drove away from the park, we passed Alan* and his son walking home.

"Hey, let's stop and you can ask him..."
"NO! SPEED UP THE CAR! GO! GO! GO!"

As I watched the retreating figure of Alan in my rearview mirror, I sighed at the lost opportunity to set my husband up. And plotted how I might conspire with Jim's wife and perhaps find Alan's so that we could push these recalcitrant but clearly meant-for-each-other men into if not the other's arms, at least their SUVs filled with golf clubs, footballs, basketballs and other random sports equipment.

*Names have been changed to protect the privacy of potential bromancers

The look of love

2008-04-07T16:06:00.000-07:00

Um, I was told there would be oil

2008-04-07T15:44:00.000-07:00

As my hand beat against the masseur's man breasts while he whacked my forearm back and forth, I realized this was not how I had intended to spend my precious hour of free time.

Most mothers know the dilemma - you have an unexpected hour of childcare-covered time...what to do? Most days would find me at the dry cleaner, Trader Joe's, Target or even — heaven forbid — Peet's, not reading the paper while sipping a latte but at least treating myself to a full pound of the best coffee and free cup of joe to go. But Friday I decided to take advantage of a gift certificate given to me last Mother's Day for a free massage. Childcare nor time had been forthcoming, so the certificate languished in a pile of ValCo coupons for discount chicken, airport limo deals and maids sure to make your home merrier. But not that day. That day I would finally unleash the full power of that little piece of paper, sure to entitle me to an hour of soothing, lavender-scented relaxation, replete with the sounds of nature softly emitting from a tasteful CD player.

I walked in to the spa to see a man boy who was certainly a doppelganger for Jonah Hill, though with slightly more heft and slightly less charm. I smiled with an "oh, good for you" look as I noted Jonah Hill 2's too-tight but stylish shirt and obviously product-laden hair. As I looked both left and right for Svetlana, the owner of the spa and of certain magical masseuse hands, I heard my name being called. "Ms. Wheeler? I'm Ivan. Right this way." JH2 rose to escort me to the massage room.

Holymotherofgod.

For the next hour I would endure the relentless pain of thumbs being pressed into soft tissue, sans soothing massage oil, and the intermittent embarrassment of heavy mouth breathing and a body too large for the room slamming into the table with murmurs of "oh, I'm so sorry." He slapped my triceps, reminding me of their lack of firmness, squeezed the muscles above my knee to make me jump repeatedly, and then attempted to massage my psoas (no easy feat for the most talented of masseurs) by plunging his fingers deep below my rib cage without regard to the gasps of pain and cries of "no, no thank you" coming from me. He massaged my back like a three-year old playing the piano, pounding his splayed finger tips into my back in a non-sensical pattern, as if he had seen a SNL sketch with John Belushi imitating a masseur. When I finally thought it couldn't get any worse, he mounted the table and pressed his knees into my hamstrings while lifting my arms behind me in some kind of move previously seen on the WWE. His belly rested against my back in a way just far too intimate for anyone who I have not invited to mount me from behind.

Throughout it all I was relatively silent other than gasps of pain or muffled shouts of "that's enough pressure, please". Why? Because I am PC-overloaded Oaklander who was so afraid to voice my overwhelming discontent in case it was perceived as someone who doesn't like overweight people. A fat hater. Someone who judges others by their weight and appearance rather than the fact they're beating the sh*t of your body while ripping your skin from your bones with dry, firm hands.

Welcome to the Bay Area, where strong, confident women are cowed by their need to be perceived as politically-correct even when faced with bodily harm or watching a free hour in a stress-laden life slip away, sadly, painfully and leaving visible bruises.

The Good Wife's Guide...2008

2008-04-03T04:06:00.000-07:00

Originally posted on the blog in 2006, and now an annual, demanded-by-readers reposting. I give you...my version of The Good Wife.

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 2007. To really understand how thoughtful my update is, please read the 1955 version first.

The 2008 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.

And so it begins

2008-03-29T05:20:00.000-07:00

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'

2008-03-10T20:11:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-09T23:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-05T17:38:00.000-08:00

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.

I'm bringing CPS back

2008-02-26T20:05:00.000-08:00

As part of Shawn Joaquin's ongoing musical education, we divide our time between Jose Luis Orozco, Music Together CDs, "fast guitars" on 107.7 The Bone and "mama music." After days of demanding XM Kids every day after school, on Tuesday SJ was finally ready to return to the fold and requested that I play something off my iPod. I immediately plugged it in and flipped to my treadmill playlist — high energy music with a great beat from every genre...pop, rock, country, folkie, alt. As his heels pounded the seat in time to the music and probably irreparably damaged the leather, I mindlessly began to sing along:

I’m bringing sexy back
Them mother fuckers don’t know how to act
Come let me make up for the things you lack...

Fast forward. Next track.

They like the way we dance, they like the way we work
They like that way that L.A.M.B. is going across my shirt
They like the way my pants, it compliments my shape...

Clearly time to try a new list. "Work fun". Play.

Check-ch-check-check-check-ch-check it out
What-wha-what-what-what's it all about
Work-wa-work-work-work-wa-work it out
Let's turn this motherfuckin' party out

Perhaps his musical education will have to wait and require its own iPod list, and I will have to bear yet another round of "Pirates Who Don't Do Anything", as sung by Christians masquerading as vegetables.

"Vacation" is spelled with a W for WHINE

2008-02-19T11:44:00.000-08:00

As we drove home from Healdsburg yesterday — me aching with the flu, Gregg 2-days unshowered and tight-jawed with tension, Madelena in her dollar-store sweatshirt and one eye closed by the puss from her pink eye and Shawn Joaquin yelling "OUR HOUSE IS TOO FAR! TOO FAR! TOO FAR!" — I reflected on the numerous joys of vacation with two children under the age of five.

We had originally planned to drive 7 hours to Arcata this past weekend to visit family, but were shot down by a flu epidemic that affected all of our loved ones and made them less desirable as an end destination. Since Shawn Joaquin had recently been gypped out of a visit to the other side of the family, we didn't want to disappoint him again by telling him our vacation was off and now he needed go find some books and read in the corner. Quietly. So 3 hours of VRBO searching led us to a sweet little two-bedroom cottage near the Russian River, sure to provide hours of joy and fun for the kids as we walked down the dirt path to the river, picnicked and laughed under a jelly bean rainbow in the sunshiny day.

While I spent a frantic 2 hours packing clothes for both kids and myself plus all the food, toys, Diego backpacks, flashlights, books, toiletries, sleeping requirements (blankets, sound machine, portable crib, panda, Spiderman), bibs, cups, bottles, child-sized utensils and snacks for the car, Gregg, Shawn Joaquin and Madelena milled around and demanded attention or respite from one and other. Finally it was time to jump in the car for a hopefully brief and traffic-free 75-mile drive to our home-away-from home. The first 30 minutes of vacation were blissful — I had a Peet's coffee, the kids were happily drinking their milk and listening to XM-Kids, and Gregg was looking forward to our weekend away. We even managed to have adult conversation without Shawn Joaquin constantly interrupting and shouting "What you talking about? What is that? Why you talking about that? Let's talk about STORIES. TALK ABOUT WOLVES THAT EAT PEOPLE!"

At mile 25, Madelena became generally unhappy with the situation and decided to fling her cup to the floor as well as anything else put in her hands. She began braying like a donkey in protest at the confines of her car seat, while Shawn Joaquin shouted "WHY'S SHE DOING THAT? THAT'S NOT GOOD. MAKE HER STOP." And so it went for the next 50 miles.

Upon arriving at our house, Shawn Joaquin was more than thrilled to hop into his new bed which someone had so thoughtfully "freshed" for him. Madelena was not so easily coaxed into her portable crib, and an in fact decided that 30 minutes of nap were more than enough, thank you, and now it was time to get up and find all of the cords, remotes and breakable objects within reach in the non-Madelena proofed house.

The next 48 hours were spent keeping the kids from killing themselves or each other, trying to convince the usually happy hiker Shawn Joaquin that Armstrong Woods was actually a fun and exciting place as opposed to a destination that stood between him and the National Geographic DVD he had spied at the cottage, and that being outside was indeed better than being inside and asking repeatedly "what we gonna DO? what we gonna DOOOOOOOOOO???" The tiny little cottage was no longer perceived as intimate so much as entirely lacking in sound-proofedness, as illustrated by Shawn Joaquin shouting from his bed "WHAT ARE YOU EATING?" when he heard the crackle from the bag of forbidden Doritos in the kitchen. And sleeping became a luxury in which only Shawn Joaquin would indulge — Madelena saw no reason to stay in her crib when a perfectly nice bed was available just a few feet away and her parents were such accessible playthings at 1am.

Despite the tears (Gregg's), the howls of frustration (Madelena's) and the general moodiness (Shawn Joaquin's), the weekend was not a total loss. Shawn Joaquin, after screaming and crying his way through the Armstrong Woods, piped up from the back seat on the way home: "I had a goooood time, Mama. Thanks for taking me." A short trip to throw rocks in the water was appreciated by all, Shawn Joaquin did love the documentary about Rio, and Gregg and I managed to watch our own DVD one night, huddled close to the TV so as to not wake the children with an actual audible volume.

Today Shawn Joaquin is happy and eager to tell his Gammie about his trip to the river, and excited for our trip this weekend to snow country. In the interim, Gregg and I will rest up and get ready for another weekend of howls, tears and screams that will all add up — someday — to memories that will only include the moments when everyone was happy and Shawn Joaquin said with shining eyes and a sweet, sweet smile: "I had a good time, Mama. Thanks for taking me."

Head bangin' and other parental duties

2008-02-09T20:59:00.000-08:00

Our household has never been one filled with the sounds of Raffi, Barney is verboten and in fact Shawn Joaquin recognized and could name Jack Johnson's and Merle Haggard's voices before he ever knew who Elmo or Diego were. At the age of one he most enjoyed spastically dancing and drumming to the Kings of Leon's Holy Roller Novocaine. But through the years, a bit of children's music has crept into the house, sneaking in on manufactured Disney feet as birds come down and tie ribbons in homogenous singing princesses' hair. So it was with great delight that I turned on Shawn Joaquin’s radio to hear Bell Bottom Blues and hear Shawn Joaquin shout "KEEP THAT ON! I LIKE THAT! THAT'S THE BOOOOOONE!"

"The Bone" is 107.7 THE BONE, a local radio station that prides itself on playing pure rock with none of that crappy pop or pretenders-to-the-rock-throne mixed in. Madelena, who usually listens to folkie music and reggae, was instantly intrigued. The next song to blast forth from the bright blue radio was Van Halen's Panama. Within seconds, Madelena was on the bed and jumping up and down on her knees, fists in the air and chin tucked down, hair in her face and her eyes closed...the very epitome of a rocker chick at a concert, head bangin' and feeeeelin' it. And in that moment I felt an icy fear grip my heart. I had already announced to Gregg months before that Madelena will be the child that breaks my heart; the very independence and force of will that I so admire now will be the thing that will drive her to the East Coast or Eastern Europe at the age of 18, with no care by her for her aging mother. But in that head banging moment I saw her at least two years before her abandonment, sneaking out to a concert with kohl-ringed eyes and a joint in the pocket of her too tight jeans.

So I had to weigh the options before me: switch off Panama and turn on Ariel singing for the prince for whom she so willingly tossed aside her entire family, or risk turning my child into a rocker that will break my heart just as surely as Ariel broke her father's. I chose the lesser of the two evils, and Shawn Joaquin, Madelena and I all enjoyed some Teen Spirit, complete with air guitar, continued head banging and a finale that included collapsing to the floor at the end while shouting "THANK you! Thank you very much, Oaklaaaaand!"

Rock on.

You rook mahvelous

2008-01-28T11:10:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-24T21:36:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-07T14:30:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-01-02T14:28:00.000-08:00

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.

Overheard

2007-12-31T08:58:00.000-08:00

Shawn Joaquin:

"NO, Madelena! Don't put THAT in the toilet. That's not a good idea. Here - take THIS."

A bike? WTF, Santa!

2007-12-30T12:58:00.000-08:00

As any good mom will do, I had been holding the "Santa sees you" concept high over Shawn Joaquin's head for weeks whenever he assaulted me with a "NOOO-AH! NOOOOO-AH! I NOT GOING TO DO THAT!" protest when told it's nap time, bedtime, bath time, mealtime or any other time that did not suit his personal schedule. I was, on occasion, tempted to go to 1-2-3-No-Santa-This-Year, but a fear of giving him too much fodder for his inevitable therapy sessions held me back. To add the story of how Santa didn't come the first year he actually believed in Santa — all because he said NO one too many times or drew back his little hand to smack mama's head— just seemed far too cruel and potentially embarrassing. So instead Shawn Joaquin lost television, Spiderman, Mickey Mouse and the privilege of roaming freely about the house rather than enjoying his fourth time-out of the day. So it was with great joy and anticipation that he awoke on Christmas day, ready to see what Santa had brought despite his 3 hours of wailing in bed the night before — protesting sleep, even though he knew Santa only arrives when children are sleeping — and his pre-dawn wake up on the Christmas morning.

Just days before Christmas, Shawn Joaquin had announced that Santa was bringing him lots and lots of Diego toys. Whenever asked about Santa, he would respond with something along the lines of "yeah, that fat guy who is bringing me lots and lots of Diego toys and animals and more." We, of course, had purchased him a classic Red Flyer step trike with streamers and a bell that shocks the senses, all in the hopes of encouraging more outdoor activity and better coordination. But not wanting to ruin the illusion his first year of faith in Santa, I did a quick online order for two Diego vehicles with accompanying animals and action Diegos. As Shawn Joaquin raced upstairs, I got the camera ready to capture his joy at the shiny new bike and the packages stacked around it.

WHAT?!
IS?!
THIS?!
WHERE ARE MY TOYS?
I WANT TOYS!
I WANT DIEGO TOYS! NOW-AH! NOW-AH! NOW-AH!!!!

And thus began the new Season of Greed and the introduction of a character not previously revealed in Shawn Joaquin's psyche — the GIMME GIMME GIMME boy. In years past we could barely hold his interest in his Christmas stocking before he wandered off to read a book or explore the underside of the coffee table, let alone get him to open a gift. This year was a frenetic display of gift-wrap ripping, regardless of whose name was on any given package. At one point I found a beautiful gingham photo album meant for my mom in his hands, a look of disgust on his face as he tossed it aside and dove for yet another package that might possibly contain something more appealing...perhaps with moving and soon-to-be broken parts or a thing that shoots stuff at the unsuspecting little sister walking by. Each new toy was greeted with a quick "WHAT IS IT, WHAT IT DO?" before being tossed aside with the same enthusiasm as the photo album.

Gregg blamed preschool, I blamed the cookie I gave him to keep him in bed for another 30 minutes, and my parents assured us it was all normal 4-year old behavior. Regardless, we have pledged that next year there will be ONE gift from Santa (a toy that will not be obscured by the false vanity and annoying obstacle of gift wrap) and one gift from my parents. His gift from us will be a visit to his toy shelf to choose those items he wants to donate to children in need, perhaps followed by a trip to Peet's for steamed milk, banana bread and a talk about the spirit of giving. It's that or a swift kick in the butt. Holiday jury is still out on that one.

Happy holidays to all. Now where are my goddamn toys....

Epistolary, Part Deux

2007-12-19T08:49:00.000-08:00

Dear Friends and Family:

It's time for our annual letter, the one in which we proclaim our successes that far exceed yours, the 17 trips we took to exotic places, our four-year-old's early acceptance to an Ivy League school, and the many awards conferred upon both myself and Gregg for exceptional community service/work performance/cure for disease/great hair. So let's just get to it so you can read it and then go back and feel even worse about your pitiful life, as your wails echo in the hollow emptiness that is your world.

This year we made many trips to places far and near, expanding our horizons and debt load. From Rite Aid and Safeway to exotic locales like Livermore, Richmond and Hayward (often mistakenly called the Armpit of The Bay Area by jealous outsiders), we enjoyed the multiple cultures, languages and driving styles found in each unique community. The highlight of our travels was a trip to Ranch 99, where we stocked up on Thai foods for our new au au pair, Noo. Thankfully, she is no Khe San and her vocabulary extends well beyond "Daddy", "shiny" and "five dollar now". In fact, she is as cute as a button and weighs about as much, and is quite wholesome and a great addition to our family.

Madelena is also clearly a new addition to our family, and when she's not creating small mosaics made from cheerios and dried mac and cheese found in the corners of her high chair (to later display at the Getty) she's telling us what to do and how to do it and when to do it. It's so nice to have another dictator in the house, relieving me of what has been my constant responsibility.

Shawn Joaquin is excelling in Spanish, insubordination, wailing, kicking, crying and screaming and I expect that any day now he will elevate the art of Creating Chaos in Otherwise Peaceful Public Places. We love him to pieces, and will enjoy him each and every moment until the gypsies finally name their price or we sell him with a Starbucks gift card as a gift-with-purchase incentive. As we often say on the rare occasions when he smiles at me, it's a good thing he's beautiful and occasionally the most charming and precious boy in the world. It's that which keeps CPS at bay.

Gregg continues to work long hours that tax his health and our relationship, and I couldn't be more proud of the many hours and pints of blood he gives his employers. With their micromanaging of him, along with the constant pressure to make more money while spending less, my hopes of an early retirement — living off the life insurance, of course — could come true.

My work is one of our downsides; I am treated with respect, allowed to work from home and see my children throughout the day, and am immune (because of distance) from the office politics and maneuvering that so often cause nightmares, panic attacks and poor clothing choices driven by a "maybe if I show my boobs they won't notice the errors on my latest status report" mentality. This disparity between Gregg's work life and mine leaves us with little in common, so we are forced to rely on physical intimacy and actual meaningful conversation to hold this relationship together. Keep your fingers crossed for us and this crazy approach to "healthy relationships."

Well, I have tons of holiday fun to plan - laundry, shopping for vomit and urine removal solutions, wrapping crappy gifts that I bought at Target on the $1 shelf as stocking stuffers, and of course spreading holiday cheer near and far with our family's version of Jingle Bells. It includes the inimitable stylings of Shawn Joaquin and his spin-around-and-fall-down dance, along with my atonal contribution to harmony.

Happy holidays to all, and a reminder to check my Amazon.com wish list for thoughtful gifts that will be sure to surprise and delight me,

Paige

Dear Santa

2007-12-17T08:34:00.000-08:00

Shawn Joaquin's letter to Santa:

Dear Santa:

Please give presents to my baby sister, Madelena. I know you are coming to the zoo, and I hope you bring presents. Thank you for the toys you bring. We're friends now.

I am going to leave you a present when it's Christmas time. I will leave you cookies, I think, and carrots for the reindeer. That's it. That's the end of the story.

Shawn Joaquin

My letter to Santa:

Dear Santa:

Please give presents to Shawn Joaquin and Madelena. Please ensure these presents are already assembled, wrapped and any batteries are already in place. Please don't give them crap that will break in two weeks or I will have to break in two weeks because of some annoying song, sound or children singing through a tinny speaker. BTW, any Barbie item will immediately be put into a burning pyre, along with any plastic guns, swords or other arms. Yes, she IS that dangerous.

Please give presents to Gregg. This will save me a lot of shopping time that could better be used as bath time. While showers have become a distant memory of a cleaner, more attractive time, I do enjoy the occasional bubble bath where the roar of the pipes drowns out the call of responsibility or a wailing child/husband.

Please don't worry about any presents for me. I have enough material goods and would really only want a 30 hour day during which I could be invisible for 6 hours, and I know your elves are still working on that one for moms everywhere.

Shawn Joaquin said we would leave you cookies and carrots. The carrots are sure to be there, but the cookies might be gone. Just know they were really delicious and made with love by me, for me...I mean you.

Merry Christmas,
Paige

Scream-along Nutcracker

2007-12-13T12:42:00.000-08:00

One of San Francisco's unique traditions is the Dance-along Nutcracker, performed by the LGBT Orchestra and friends. The performers are of all ages, shapes and genders — without regard to the role played — and the audience is invited to dance along over a dozen times in a style closer to a bacchanal than a ballet. Thanks to our good friend Krista, we were in the front row and only 5 feet from the giant rat who would be narrating this rat-ified version of The Nutcracker, as perceived or conceived by all the rats vilified in previous versions of The Nutcracker.

After much fuss in getting there (yes, we need to go fast, fast, fast. No, you can't touch the train while it goes by. No, you don't have to smile or talk to that man with the bottle in his hand), we were finally installed in our seats and ready for the band to begin. At their first trumpeted notes and the opening song of the six-foot rat, Shawn Joaquin began to wail.

I WANNA GO HOOOOME!
I WANNA GO HOOOOOME NOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWW!
THIS IS TOO SCARY! THIS IS NOT FOR CHILDREN!!!

All of this was of course picked up by the mic five feet in front of us, much to my chagrin and the dual amusement and annoyance of those around us. I did the classic duck and run with him in my arms, trying to convince him that the towering rat was our friend, the band was just comprised of geeks and nerds (yes, even gay bands are nerdy and wear tennis shoes with dress pants and make unfortunate decisions when it comes to whether to tuck or not tuck) who would never hurt us, and that all would soon be good and right with the world.

Life with a child who has unreasonable fear and a need for order embedded in his heart can be challenging. He regularly shrieks DON'T SMILE AT ME, WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING? if he sees amusement on one of his parent's faces. In his room, no item can be out of place or at less than right angles without inducing a screaming panic attack. He is afraid of new people, pants with tags, loud music outside of the genres in which he is most comfortable, being left at the bottom of the stairs while I precede him, using the wrong color towel, taking off his own socks, having a door closed too quickly or his clothing put on or pulled off with any speed. He is panicked and angered by mismatched pajamas, the prospect of me spending time with Gregg, phone calls in which his name is mentioned, unanswered questions, pretend games that last for more than two minutes and are not instigated by him, crooked pictures and unexpected laughter. As deeply as I love my son, some of our public moments are tinged with embarrassment or annoyance, like having to scoop and run in the spotlight meant for the giant rat at The Nutcracker.

We returned to our seats after five minutes of fierce whispers, calming his fears and assuring him there was nothing to be afraid of and that if in five minutes he still wanted to leave we would. Thankfully, the rat learned not to look Shawn Joaquin in the eye, Shawn Joaquin's sugar high from a candy cane kicked in and he let loose with some of his patented spin around and fall down dance moves. While he never took his eye off the rat, we were able to enjoy 2 hours of dancing, singing and generally spastic behavior. During that time I was able to see that sweet, sweet boy I enjoyed for nearly four years before his sister arrived and ruined his life. I can only hope to see him again and more often in the coming weeks and months, and pray that some day he will return to us full time...at least until adolescence, when I fully expect that his raging hormones will be accompanied by bad behavior that masks his good, inner self. And then I will pull out this photo to remind me of his inner goodness and, if necessary, to blackmail him into at least pretending he likes me in front of his friends.

ER: emergency or social outting?

2007-12-10T08:09:00.000-08:00

On Friday night Madelena and I spent four and half long hours in the ER, which she entered listless and with burning skin and glassy eyes. By the time we left, she was bouncing up and down on my chest while whacking me in the head and shouting BABUU, BABUU in a steroid-induced fit of glee. It was 3am, and the prospect of bed was apparently not appealing to her, as I would soon learn.

In our long time in the ER I was pleased that — unlike a previous visit — at no time did I feel a need to ask the doctor if perhaps I could speak to their father or another adult on premise. We were treated with kindness, knowledge and just the right amount of appreciation for Madelena's beautiful face and outgoing disposition. And I learned much about the healthcare situation in America from a side I had not expected — the patients who abuse the system, versus the insurance companies and medical corporations that stick you $20 for a Tylenol or deny your surgery claim, without which your foot would still be in the cooler where the other guy on the line placed it after you stumbled into the chipper.

Madelena and I spent some time alone in a two-bed room before a young boy and his mother and aunt joined us. After they turned up Nick at Night loud enough to drown out our viewing of Lady and the Tramp, I abandoned any attempt at cajoling Madelena into sleep. With Will Smith and company loudly going through the motions on The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, they were forced to speak even louder — it was as if they had forgotten that it was they who had turned it up and ultimately had control over the volume of both the TV and their own speech. But it was thanks to this failing that I learned much about them and their reason for being there.

When the first nurse entered to find out why they were there, the mother told her the boy had stepped on a nail and the hole had started hurting a few hours earlier. Then in the course of several other conversations with residents and nurses, it turned out this had happened the week before and had been treated at the ER with both antibiotics and a tetanus shot and in fact no longer hurt. But he had a rash a couple of weeks ago...could they take a look at that? And his stomach had hurt that day and he'd had to take some Pepto Bismol...maybe he needed an X-ray or sumpin', because he'd been drinking the Pepto for most of his life, so clearly there was a problem. And he had a headache - maybe that was related to the foot injury or the stomachache, but someone should take a look at that too. When asked if the boy had ever been hospitalized, the mother replied "Well, no, usually we just hang out in the ER for the night or so."

With those words, I realized that not only did they regularly visit the ER for medical issues that could easily be resolved at a doctor's office during regular business hours, but that for them the ER was perhaps their equivalent of going to the mall and hanging out at the food court. Soon a friend arrived with burgers and fries to make up for the lack of Pup on a Stick outlets in the hospital. When we left at 3am, they were all enjoying the George Lopez show, milkshakes and fries and were reclining in found wheelchairs and the bed. Loud guffaws of laughter emitting from all three adults and the young boy, who clearly had no bedtime on any given night and unlimited access to adult TV. So it was Friday night fun in the ER at no cost to the patient and a whopping bill to the insurance company - that's what I'M talkin' about.

I stumbled back to my car, feeling weak with a need for sleep and relief at Madelena's improved condition. While a burger and fries DID sound good, I know I would much prefer to enjoy that at home or someplace without the odor of Betadine in the air and a chance that any surface was covered with some potentially deadly virus or bacteria. And as much as I had enjoyed the bonding aspects of holding my child for hours, the ER was not some place I would want to spend any more nights, regardless of what's on TV.

Mi Americana

2007-12-05T15:48:00.000-08:00

For the last four months I have spoken nothing but Spanish to Madelena, which now comes naturally after a few weeks of translating in my own head. After a series of failed nanny relationships, she is also now being cared for full time by someone who speaks nothing but Spanish to her or anyone else. Every book is in Spanish, most of her music is in Spanish, and I am learning new words every day to keep up with her growing number of questions (usually indicated by pointing at something and saying "Ooooooooh?"). Even Shawn Joaquin starts her day by shouting BUENOS DIAS MI AMOR! and saying repeatedly to her as she heads towards one of his toys NO LO TOQUES! NO LO TOQUES! MAAAAMAAAA!

So today, with great pride, she pointed at Cheyenne....always referred to as la perra, la perrita or la perrita loca. Staring deep into Cheyenne's eyes she said with great force: DOG. DOG. DOG.

"NO. Perrrrrra, perrrrrrra, mi amor."

At that she threw back her head and laughed and shouted "Bye byeeeeee" as she took off for the stairs, probably on her way upstairs to listen to her Rosetta Stone English tapes sent to her by her anti-bilingualism grandparents. Holy crap. I mean...santo mierda.

Blessed are the parents

2007-12-03T09:42:00.000-08:00

Too often my blog focuses on the challenges of parenting rather than the rewards; in fact one potential babysitter read my blog and decided to take a pass on caring for the kids. Part of the reason for my topics are the universality of the challenges and my desire to not make others feel bad by comparing their children to my nearly perfect ones. Or to wax on about their deliciousness and leave readers retching. But today you'll need to get your barf bags ready.

Like most mothers, I love my children beyond words. Like some mothers, at least once a day I am overcome by tears not because of a 33 minute fit but because I am overwhelmed by their sweetness, their goodness or even their evilness that presents itself in some new skill that brings danger or destruction one step closer. Only yesterday I watched Madelena find one of the tot lock keys and come oh-so-close to opening a cabinet filled with electronics too hot to touch, and rather than feeling alarmed I was weepy at her intelligence and coordination and the look of sheer triumph on her face as she heard the tell-tale "click" that would allow her in the cabinet. Or when Shawn Joaquin happily said "okay" and grinned at me after I asked him in a gruff voice to put away all the toys, even though I was sure that most of them had been strewn about by Madelena. Or when we all gathered in bed, with feet in my face and milk spilling on the comforter, only seconds away from ordering everyone out but was interrupted by Shawn Joaquin's declaration of "we're a family, huh, Mama? We're all a family because we love each other" before diving on his sister for a scream-inducing hug.

Unlike some families, we chose to become a family. There was no "oops" moment, staring at a pregnancy test or at the calendar, counting back the days from my last period. Shawn Joaquin was sought out, worked for and waited for. Gregg joined us with full knowledge that by marrying me he would become a father for life. And Madelena too was sought out, worked for and waited for by three of us for far, far too long. This doesn't make our family better than others; it simply makes me more aware of the choice and provides me with a reminder that this is the life and the family I chose, and they are truly a gift to me and my reason for being.

These holidays will truly be our happiest ever, with all of us finally home where we belong. With Shawn Joaquin finally over his fear of Santa and fully aware of both the giving and receiving qualities of Christmas. With Madelena ready to tear ornaments from the tree with an excited "BABUUUU", her unique cheer of triumph. And Gregg perhaps past his "holy crap, I'm a father and there's no getting out of it" phase and into a new phase in which he is telling me that he's falling more and more in love with our children each and every day. And for that and all three of them, I am grateful and blessed each and every day.

Happy holidays.

1-2-3 Mama loses it

2007-11-30T08:09:00.001-08:00

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

2007-11-22T05:21:00.000-08:00

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"

2007-11-16T16:05:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-14T14:47:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-13T16:12:00.000-08:00

"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

2007-11-12T21:48:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-08T08:46:00.001-08:00

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

2007-11-07T11:50:00.000-08:00

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.

When you were a child, did you want to have a monkey to call your own?


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