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.

The holiday letter I'll never send

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy holidays.

The Good Wife's Guide....Again

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




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

The 2009 Good Wife Guide

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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