Gracias

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

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

I did not plant you, true.

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

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

Battle of the bottle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm bringing CPS back

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

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

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.