Dear Badass Santa

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

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

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

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.


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Wally World

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.

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

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

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

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.

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?

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.

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

Hell yes!My younger sibling was my monkeyNo. I'm getting creeped out just reading this.

pollcode.com free polls

My yin

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

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

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.