1-2-3 Mama loses it

I ran away yesterday.

After watching Shawn Joaquin have a 33-minute wailing meltdown, complete with kicks and shrieks and punching of furniture, I was weak. But what had really killed me was my own visceral reaction. I had visions of smacking his head, locking him in a closet, shaking him into silence, bopping his head, knocking him down. I did none of those things and calmly counted 1-2-3-You lose X, though I did cover his mouth at one point when he was particularly loud and had just woken Madelena after only 20 minutes of a long-overdue nap. And he did get a light swat on the bottom that killed me in retrospect but caused no physical pain to him and probably was not even registered in his by-then hysterical head. But inside my own I was seething and ready to scream obscenities and things that would shame him and me years from now. I felt I was millimeters away from being the next headline.

So after he had finally calmed down and was eating a snack as if the world had not nearly ended, I left the house and put the new nanny in charge.

I spent the next two hours deeply depressed and shamed and unable to even look in his eyes. I felt like the world's worst parent, yet still had an unreasonable anger towards him for bringing this out in me, even if it never reached the surface. Especially when only a few hours earlier we had sat like the world's two closest chums, enjoying a shared Jamba Juice in the sunshine, our feet up as we watched the passerby in Montclair.

Everyday we read about horrible things that happen to children, the latest being the tragic and heinous Baby Grace story. We are horrified and sickened, and I find myself in tears nearly every day that I read the paper. We can't believe anyone could hurt an innocent child, done anything to bruise or emotionally torture his or her little body or spirit. But every mom I have talked to has had a moment when the only thing that stood between themselves and a loss of control was the hard-earned wisdom to know when to walk away, run away or take a deep breath and count 1-2-3-You lose X. Most of these moms are in the 30s or 40s and have the inner strength and probably the years of therapy needed to build the inner reserves that silence the little voice screaming "shuuuuuuut uppppppp" as their child screams, open-mouthed and epiglottis flapping in the wind.

Two days ago I spoke to a friend whose daughter has 60 minute screaming fits in which she wails, "I hate you! I wanna break your face!" She is beside herself and unable to sleep because of her own perception of failure as a parent, and her inevitable inability to count 1-2-3 in the face of such wild anger. Another mother told me about yelling at her daughter — who had entertained an entire church congregation by dancing in front while her mother sang — "never dance in church again!" And I have yelled at Shawn Joaquin after he clotheslined his sister with an embrace from behind "STOP HUGGING YOUR SISTER! NOW!" And all of us are embarrassed and ashamed by our raised voices and the absurdity of the words, the visions of smack downs in our head, and the worry that others have witnessed our lack of control.

Yet what we all may need to do is this: give yourself a break. Run away if you have to, be it for some retail therapy or a Jamba Juice or to just walk down the street to visit another mom who will tell you it's all okay. And know that because you are a strong and competent woman and mother, you will never answer to those little voices in your head and as long as they remain there, you're okay. And so is your child who, until brain-reading becomes the latest gadget from Sharper Image, will never know there was a moment when you considered locking him or her in a closet and leaving the house for an extra large caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream.

Big fat slacker parent

Until recently, I was in Shawn Joaquin's classroom daily. Each day I saw his joy at his first sighting of Cole and their tender goodbye - an embrace, followed by a gentle kiss on Shawn Joaquin's shoulder, Cole's eyes gently closed as if to say "goodbye, my sweet, goodbye". I saw which kids brought organic lunches, which ones had a Safeway sandwich and which ones eschewed lunch altogether and used their lunchera as merely a prop or a billboard for their latest pop cultural interest - Diego, Dora, Backyardigans or simply hemp. I was the first to sign up for the Halloween pot luck, did crafts in class for Shawn Joaquin's birthday, spent time planning his show-and-tell item on Fridays, affixed new photos in his lunchbox each week to surprise him and was the most adamant about teachers being present for drop off and parents being on time. I became a fixture at nearby parks and in the parking lot after drop off, a mom you could count on to watch your kid for five minutes while you ran into the school to ask a question or find a lost jacket. Then I returned to work and, ultimately, to my big fat slacker mom status.

Yesterday, only two short weeks after returning to work, I received a call from Shawn Joaquin's TA, the beloved Maria Jose.

Hi, did you know school gets out early today? In 5 minutes?

NO!

Yes, we had a little party with everyone for grandparents day and —

—we're on our way.

Gregg rushed to school to pick up Shawn Joaquin, leaving me home to deal with a client conference call and my growing angst. He arrived to find the parking lot filled with complete, multi generational families toting casserole dishes and happy children, along with handmade frames and a picture of a child who is actually loved and cared for at a higher level. When he entered the classroom, he found Shawn Joaquin sitting on the floor with only one other abandoned child, clearly another victim of slacker parenting. Later, when questioned, Shawn Joaquin was unable to even name or describe the child, leading me to believe that perhaps this was some homeless kid who had wandered into the room and thus reducing the count of slacker-parented kids to one and the need for tighter security to Code Red.

When Shawn Joaquin returned home, I learned there had been a pot luck and "lots and lots of peoples came with families and childrens and I had a GOOD time." While I was sick inside, I thought perhaps we had dodged a bullet and he had been so enthralled with the change of scene that our absence — and that of his grandparents, who find us geographically undesirable — had not been noticed. He happily ate a guilt-provided snack of leftover pizza and handed over his handmade picture frame with a grinning shot of him. I tried not to imagine each child handing over the gift to their loving families, while Shawn Joaquin sat in the corner talking to an imaginary dog or banging his head on the wall.

After a few minutes, he announced his desire to take a nap and made his way downstairs. As he stopped by my home office for last minute goodbyes, he asked a question.

Why you not come today? Because you love me?

I realized that quite often my rote answer to repeated questions is indeed "Because I love you." It's the answer for him as to why I cut the crusts off his sandwich, don't let him walk on the edge of the sidewalk, kiss him unexpectedly, give him an extra glass of milk, help him put his shoes on, buckle him into his car seat, read him Backyardigans for the billionth time, make him popcorn, raise my voice when he bolts out of the door and even why he gets Diego bubbles in the bath tub. But not even I, knowing that the answer could be easily accepted, could say "yes, I was not there because I love you" and hope that the nonsensical reply would pass through his unguarded gates.

Well, baby, I wasn't there because I was working and I —
— can I use big people toothpaste? I wanna brush my teeth. Where's Madelena? What Daddy doing now? Who made my bed? I...

And with that I realized that he was not yet on to my failings, had yet to realize my big fat slacker parent status, and that perhaps I had until the next big missed event before that would creep up on him. In the meantime, I will more studiously read parent emails and mark my calendar and hope that next time the one lone kid in the classroom without a parent is not mine and if we're all very lucky, actually does not exist at all.

You say "peine", I say "pene"

I had my first Spanish tutoring session today since returning from Antigua. It was wonderful to speak with an adult and be able to tell her more than that I wanted to change her diaper or ask if she could go find her bottle. Luisa complimented my accent and my newfound fluidity, bolstering my confidence. Since Madelena's arrival in my life, I have been committed to speaking only Spanish to her and have been concerned about using poor grammar or somehow ruining her language acquisition skills.

All is not golden, however. In committing to speaking only Spanish, sometimes words are left unsaid. Or, as I learned today from Luisa, I may be directing her to do things that I had not intended through simple mispronunciation or sheer, unadulterated idiocy.

What I meant to say:
Go this way. You're worth the pain. I have missed you so much. You have stolen my heart.

What I was actually saying:
This road. You're worth the penis. I have thrown you. You have barked my heart.

This is why sometimes, just sometimes, it is better to be silent and thought a fool than to open one's mouth and confirm it.

The boy is back

This weekend I had the double whammy of a migraine and some weird respiratory/GI virus. As I wallowed in self-pity in the dark, ice on my head and a rumbling in my stomach, Shawn Joaquin joined me.

What you doing, mama?

I'm sick, baby. Please be gentle with mama.

Does your bottom hurt? Is there poo poo like fire coming out of your bottom like this? [insert fire breathing dragon sound]

Why yes, yes it is.

It's okay, mama. I'll protect you.

And with that he gave me a gentle kiss on my arm and patted my head.

Thank you, lord, for finally returning Shawn Joaquin the Furious to the alien planet from whence he came, and leaving in his place the sweet, sweet boy I have so missed. Now, lord, about that fire coming out of my ass...

Signs of Armageddon

"Aflac presents: The Brian Boitano Skating Spectacular will be the first ice show ever held at AT&T Park.

The show, which is set to the music of the 70's, will include songs from Barry Manilow’s new album, The Greatest Songs of the Seventies, and is choreographed by Renee Roca, two-time U.S. ice dancing champion. The December 5th performance, promoted by Seybold/Egan Productions, will also be taped for future airings on The Style Network.

Joining Olympic Gold Medalist Boitano and music legend Manilow will be Olympic gold medalists Dorothy Hamill, David Pelletier and Viktor Petrenko."

I'm pretty sure this is a sure sign that it's time to put your head between your knees and kiss your ass goodbye. Happy holidays.