Finally, evidence

When I leave Shawn Joaquin with Gregg some evenings, I often come home and find odd things around the kitchen. Shredded newspapers, squished but whole oranges, a half full glass of water in the middle of the floor, a stack of broken but carefully arranged crayons, reminiscent of crop circles but slightly less mysterious. Tonight I found bits of a cardboard shipping box in which my new Pilates roller had arrived. A few minutes later, as I began downloading pictures from this weekend's traumatic first Big Boy Haircut Event, I found out just what goes on in my absence.


Clearly, Gregg is teaching Shawn Joaquin to share his fear of cameras.

And, apparently, of pants.

He's no loser, he's my son

I have spent many hours lamenting Shawn Joaquin's inability to deal with strangers, how he is often caught in a glass case of emotion that leads to him sometimes scream a terrified "aaaaaaaauuuuughhh!!!!!!!" into my face while pointing at me with one rigid finger, as if he's just seen Elmo beheaded by Big Bird and I DID IT. He can not bear to break eye or physical contact with me at large events, and feels most comfortable with one hand on my knee or knowing that IF he wanted to reach out and put his hand on my knee it would take NO effort, stretching or flexibility WHATSOEVER. He is not a joiner. He is not going to leave me for a cute girl or a fire truck or the chance to spit over the edge of the slide. He is my little mollusk.

Over the last few days I have had the chance to observe over a dozen kids of all ages, all with Berkeley/Oakland parents that I'm sure share my values and are committed to raising well-mannered but free-spirited children who have kindness in their hearts and compassion as part of their daily interactions. And it has made me more appreciative of that little hanger-on that I call my son.

I saw Shawn Joaquin race to the water fountain with his friend, who shouted, "I'm the winner! The winner!" when he reached the fountain first. Shawn Joaquin, merely sensing general excitement, threw his short little arms in the air and yelled "Winner! Winner!" as well, only to be told "NO, you're a LOSER! I'm the WINNER - you're the LOSER! THE LOSER!" To his credit, Shawn Joaquin was completely immune to this new title and continued to dance around like the little drunken monkey we all know and love.

Over the next few days I observed other kids turn every object into guns, threaten to "kill all the girls", taunt cats, call each other stupid and idiot and other terms of endearment. Shawn Joaquin just jumped and danced among them and said, "let's laugh some more" when he felt he had less than a quorum joining him in his merriment. His innocence among these kids was astounding and precious and heartbreaking. He was oblivious to any unkind word, a blissful lamb among wolf pups.

Later that night, Gregg and I talked about how we protect him from other kids — he will always be smaller, a little less mature, a little more likely to be picked on because of his innocence. Our one hope is that our neighbor's son will be at the same school - he's a rough-and-tumble kid who will, as his father notes, someday pound nails into a wall with his forehead. But he has a sweet, kind heart, and hugs Shawn Joaquin to comfort him when he cries and pats him while saying "It's okay, Shawn Joaquin, I'm here." We see a future as Shawn Joaquin's bodyguard, his on-the-spot, back-off-man friend who will help keep the wolves at bay.

For now, we'll just hope Shawn Joaquin's innocence is not ruined by too many stolen toys, "loser" moments or the slowly dawning idea that he may be a little different from other kids. And start building his bubble, prepping for home schooling or figuring out how we teach him that being different and standing apart is a good thing. And we must fill his little heart with so much self-confidence and awareness of his value to us and to the world that he can withstand what must surely be normal childhood taunts and altercations that are more likely to break my heart than his spirit.

Things my son taught me today

You don't hit baby birds with hammers.

When he is stronger, he's going to drink wine.

The haircut store is a place where scissors hurt your hair.

It's okay to fight with babies — they think it's funny.

Daddy can't read. He doesn't know how.

My breath in the morning smells like salt.

Witches can put a hex on you that make you fly like a frog or a giraffe. He can't remember which one. But if you see a witch, you could get lucky.

Is that for me? YES.

Shawn Joaquin was quite excited about my birthday yesterday.

Whose presents are those?
Mine.
Can I open them?
Sure, you can help me.
NO, I WANT TO OPEN THEM BY MYSELF. THEN I'M GOING TO PUT THEM IN MY ROOM AND YOU CAN'T COME IN.

Somehow I think that this does not bode well for any incoming gifts for Madelena upon her homecoming. I now imagine Shawn Joaquin barricaded in his room behind a pile of pink onesies, stackable toys, soft blankets and board books, quietly ripping the pages from my new Dogtown and the Z-Boys photo book while lying on my new lavender spa pillow.

Tomorrow's secret word is going to be either "share" or "MINE!" Both can teach a valuable lesson.

Namaste

I am giddy.

I am joyful.

I am dancing, spinning, singing and behaving in ways not normally acceptable in the adult world but entirely expected in the preschooler world, where one can wear one's heart on one's sleeve, in a shout or a song or in the joyful toss of cheerios in the air. I am living in that world of joyful, exuberant, hear-me-roar moments.

I am, finally, going to bring our daughter home.