It might be better with some ranch dressing

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

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

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

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

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.