No no no....thank YOU

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.

Awakening

In recent months I have begun to acknowledge things within my children that I had previously denied, especially as it pertains to common characteristics among children adopted internationally. I had always dismissed the ideas as something created to explain bad behavior, or as creating a pathology for what is simply common behavior among children of a certain age. It had nothing to do with being adopted, let along whether that adoption was international or domestic. But today one of those characteristics stood up, slapped me in the face, and then shook me until my teeth rattled.

My kind, sweet baby boy - who feels the emotions of all around him - had a debilitating panic attack as we walked through the streets of Mérida. He was so overcome with terror that he attempted to run across the street to escape, nearly running in front of a speeding bus before being scooped up by his father. Strangers turned, sure that we had kidnapped the beautiful brown boy screaming in this Anglo's arms. As we attempted to quiet him, people stopped to check out the situation and determine our intentions and assess his safety. But all of that was a peripheral blur, so focused were we on calming him down.

Shawn Joaquin has an aversion to crowds and to noise, and often covers his ears to escape things that are even visually frightening to him - all the while continuing to stare at it. But today there was no escape from the incredibly crowded sidewalks, the music blaring from the stores, the police megaphones squawking, the teeming crowds that pushed up against him in the humid Yucatán centro. His anxiety was overwhelming, and he had a death grip on our hands as he alternately sobbed and reassured himself...and we continued to tell him we were close to our destination. He could work through this. He was safe. He begged to take a cab, but we somehow felt he could just make it two more blocks.

Then we hit a block with not only beggars, but beggars equal to an Indian novel - missing eyes or feet, others with gnarled body parts and some with parts of their minds long gone, leaving them to bash themselves in the face with the same cup they used to collect the infrequent centavo sent their way. One such woman was howling as she hit herself repeatedly, sitting in her wheelchair with twisted, Thalidomide limbs and unseeing eyes. Upon first passing her, Shawn Joaquin - ever the polite boy - stood frozen in fear but didn't want to say why; as he told us later, he didn't want to hurt her feelings. Madelena simply asked "hey, what happened to her," ever the pragmatist.

But when we had to turn around and give up on our journey, planning to just hit an air conditioned, quiet restaurant, Shawn Joaquin lost it and begged us to just get an a non-existent cab. We attempted to take a circuitous route back, avoiding some of the larger crowds, as sweat dripped down his face. We tried to speak calmly, reassuringly...just two more blocks, and we'd be in the restaurant and would take a cab home. Then suddenly he was in flight and dashing across the street - yet another frightening person had appeared on his left, and he couldn't take it any more. As we struggled to calm him and hustle across the street, we payed no attention to anything but him and traffic...and before we knew it, the head-bashing woman was there in front of us, howling directly at Shawn Joaquin. What had we done?

After that, he buried his head in Gregg's shoulder, shaking and heaving, until we were able to finally find a cab. In the cab, he fell apart not from the fear but his guilt at having subverted our day. He apologized all the way home, overwhelmed by guilt and not hearing our reassurance that it was okay...we understood.

But honestly, I don't completely understand. At least I don't understand or know what lies in the heart and mind of this incredibly sweet boy that makes him afraid of loud noises of any kind. Of even "normal" people who look just like him but walk too close to him. Of anyone with a disability or a different appearance. Of the average homeless person. Of anyone who looks too long at him on the street or in a restaurant, when he's sure they're laughing at him or plan to do him harm. He has been loved and protected and cherished since his first day of life - when he was given to the foster mother and family who loved him as their own, and then to me, his true mother for life. What lies within him, what loss does he feel, from the first of three mothers who had no choice but to give him up for his own survival? It breaks my heart, challenges my own faith in my abilities as a mother, and makes me desperate to find some solution for him - something that will lead to a life without this debilitating fear within him. My boy who wants to explore the world and learn about all cultures, but fears a trip to Berkeley because two years ago a homeless man growled at him and changed something within him. Or simply awoke something.

I would like to say this has nothing to do with his adoption, international or otherwise, but as I read more and more about similar experiences with similar children...I have to wonder. And while there is nothing I can do to change that past nor would I if it meant he were not my son - I have to change his future. I have to figure out what I can do help him become the person he wants to be, the explorer, the historian, the cultural anthropologist. Or I have to help him find a new future that he will not just accept, but embrace. And in the interim, we will take taxis. We will be aware of anyone a block away who might panic him. We will spend more of our days here in the safety of our home, in the pool, or in the quiet areas outside the city where we can wonder at the ruins or the sites and ensure that history is in the forefront of his mind....not fear.  And we will keep him safe, from dangers real, imagined or deep within his heart.

The Good Wife's Guide...otra vez

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.

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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