Overheard

Shawn Joaquin:

"NO, Madelena! Don't put THAT in the toilet. That's not a good idea. Here - take THIS."

A bike? WTF, Santa!

As any good mom will do, I had been holding the "Santa sees you" concept high over Shawn Joaquin's head for weeks whenever he assaulted me with a "NOOO-AH! NOOOOO-AH! I NOT GOING TO DO THAT!" protest when told it's nap time, bedtime, bath time, mealtime or any other time that did not suit his personal schedule. I was, on occasion, tempted to go to 1-2-3-No-Santa-This-Year, but a fear of giving him too much fodder for his inevitable therapy sessions held me back. To add the story of how Santa didn't come the first year he actually believed in Santa — all because he said NO one too many times or drew back his little hand to smack mama's head— just seemed far too cruel and potentially embarrassing. So instead Shawn Joaquin lost television, Spiderman, Mickey Mouse and the privilege of roaming freely about the house rather than enjoying his fourth time-out of the day. So it was with great joy and anticipation that he awoke on Christmas day, ready to see what Santa had brought despite his 3 hours of wailing in bed the night before — protesting sleep, even though he knew Santa only arrives when children are sleeping — and his pre-dawn wake up on the Christmas morning.

Just days before Christmas, Shawn Joaquin had announced that Santa was bringing him lots and lots of Diego toys. Whenever asked about Santa, he would respond with something along the lines of "yeah, that fat guy who is bringing me lots and lots of Diego toys and animals and more." We, of course, had purchased him a classic Red Flyer step trike with streamers and a bell that shocks the senses, all in the hopes of encouraging more outdoor activity and better coordination. But not wanting to ruin the illusion his first year of faith in Santa, I did a quick online order for two Diego vehicles with accompanying animals and action Diegos. As Shawn Joaquin raced upstairs, I got the camera ready to capture his joy at the shiny new bike and the packages stacked around it.

WHAT?!
IS?!
THIS?!
WHERE ARE MY TOYS?
I WANT TOYS!
I WANT DIEGO TOYS! NOW-AH! NOW-AH! NOW-AH!!!!

And thus began the new Season of Greed and the introduction of a character not previously revealed in Shawn Joaquin's psyche — the GIMME GIMME GIMME boy. In years past we could barely hold his interest in his Christmas stocking before he wandered off to read a book or explore the underside of the coffee table, let alone get him to open a gift. This year was a frenetic display of gift-wrap ripping, regardless of whose name was on any given package. At one point I found a beautiful gingham photo album meant for my mom in his hands, a look of disgust on his face as he tossed it aside and dove for yet another package that might possibly contain something more appealing...perhaps with moving and soon-to-be broken parts or a thing that shoots stuff at the unsuspecting little sister walking by. Each new toy was greeted with a quick "WHAT IS IT, WHAT IT DO?" before being tossed aside with the same enthusiasm as the photo album.

Gregg blamed preschool, I blamed the cookie I gave him to keep him in bed for another 30 minutes, and my parents assured us it was all normal 4-year old behavior. Regardless, we have pledged that next year there will be ONE gift from Santa (a toy that will not be obscured by the false vanity and annoying obstacle of gift wrap) and one gift from my parents. His gift from us will be a visit to his toy shelf to choose those items he wants to donate to children in need, perhaps followed by a trip to Peet's for steamed milk, banana bread and a talk about the spirit of giving. It's that or a swift kick in the butt. Holiday jury is still out on that one.

Happy holidays to all. Now where are my goddamn toys....

Epistolary, Part Deux

Dear Friends and Family:

It's time for our annual letter, the one in which we proclaim our successes that far exceed yours, the 17 trips we took to exotic places, our four-year-old's early acceptance to an Ivy League school, and the many awards conferred upon both myself and Gregg for exceptional community service/work performance/cure for disease/great hair. So let's just get to it so you can read it and then go back and feel even worse about your pitiful life, as your wails echo in the hollow emptiness that is your world.

This year we made many trips to places far and near, expanding our horizons and debt load. From Rite Aid and Safeway to exotic locales like Livermore, Richmond and Hayward (often mistakenly called the Armpit of The Bay Area by jealous outsiders), we enjoyed the multiple cultures, languages and driving styles found in each unique community. The highlight of our travels was a trip to Ranch 99, where we stocked up on Thai foods for our new au au pair, Noo. Thankfully, she is no Khe San and her vocabulary extends well beyond "Daddy", "shiny" and "five dollar now". In fact, she is as cute as a button and weighs about as much, and is quite wholesome and a great addition to our family.

Madelena is also clearly a new addition to our family, and when she's not creating small mosaics made from cheerios and dried mac and cheese found in the corners of her high chair (to later display at the Getty) she's telling us what to do and how to do it and when to do it. It's so nice to have another dictator in the house, relieving me of what has been my constant responsibility.

Shawn Joaquin is excelling in Spanish, insubordination, wailing, kicking, crying and screaming and I expect that any day now he will elevate the art of Creating Chaos in Otherwise Peaceful Public Places. We love him to pieces, and will enjoy him each and every moment until the gypsies finally name their price or we sell him with a Starbucks gift card as a gift-with-purchase incentive. As we often say on the rare occasions when he smiles at me, it's a good thing he's beautiful and occasionally the most charming and precious boy in the world. It's that which keeps CPS at bay.

Gregg continues to work long hours that tax his health and our relationship, and I couldn't be more proud of the many hours and pints of blood he gives his employers. With their micromanaging of him, along with the constant pressure to make more money while spending less, my hopes of an early retirement — living off the life insurance, of course — could come true.

My work is one of our downsides; I am treated with respect, allowed to work from home and see my children throughout the day, and am immune (because of distance) from the office politics and maneuvering that so often cause nightmares, panic attacks and poor clothing choices driven by a "maybe if I show my boobs they won't notice the errors on my latest status report" mentality. This disparity between Gregg's work life and mine leaves us with little in common, so we are forced to rely on physical intimacy and actual meaningful conversation to hold this relationship together. Keep your fingers crossed for us and this crazy approach to "healthy relationships."

Well, I have tons of holiday fun to plan - laundry, shopping for vomit and urine removal solutions, wrapping crappy gifts that I bought at Target on the $1 shelf as stocking stuffers, and of course spreading holiday cheer near and far with our family's version of Jingle Bells. It includes the inimitable stylings of Shawn Joaquin and his spin-around-and-fall-down dance, along with my atonal contribution to harmony.

Happy holidays to all, and a reminder to check my Amazon.com wish list for thoughtful gifts that will be sure to surprise and delight me,

Paige

Dear Santa

Shawn Joaquin's letter to Santa:

Dear Santa:

Please give presents to my baby sister, Madelena. I know you are coming to the zoo, and I hope you bring presents. Thank you for the toys you bring. We're friends now.

I am going to leave you a present when it's Christmas time. I will leave you cookies, I think, and carrots for the reindeer. That's it. That's the end of the story.

Shawn Joaquin

My letter to Santa:

Dear Santa:

Please give presents to Shawn Joaquin and Madelena. Please ensure these presents are already assembled, wrapped and any batteries are already in place. Please don't give them crap that will break in two weeks or I will have to break in two weeks because of some annoying song, sound or children singing through a tinny speaker. BTW, any Barbie item will immediately be put into a burning pyre, along with any plastic guns, swords or other arms. Yes, she IS that dangerous.

Please give presents to Gregg. This will save me a lot of shopping time that could better be used as bath time. While showers have become a distant memory of a cleaner, more attractive time, I do enjoy the occasional bubble bath where the roar of the pipes drowns out the call of responsibility or a wailing child/husband.

Please don't worry about any presents for me. I have enough material goods and would really only want a 30 hour day during which I could be invisible for 6 hours, and I know your elves are still working on that one for moms everywhere.

Shawn Joaquin said we would leave you cookies and carrots. The carrots are sure to be there, but the cookies might be gone. Just know they were really delicious and made with love by me, for me...I mean you.

Merry Christmas,
Paige

Scream-along Nutcracker

One of San Francisco's unique traditions is the Dance-along Nutcracker, performed by the LGBT Orchestra and friends. The performers are of all ages, shapes and genders — without regard to the role played — and the audience is invited to dance along over a dozen times in a style closer to a bacchanal than a ballet. Thanks to our good friend Krista, we were in the front row and only 5 feet from the giant rat who would be narrating this rat-ified version of The Nutcracker, as perceived or conceived by all the rats vilified in previous versions of The Nutcracker.

After much fuss in getting there (yes, we need to go fast, fast, fast. No, you can't touch the train while it goes by. No, you don't have to smile or talk to that man with the bottle in his hand), we were finally installed in our seats and ready for the band to begin. At their first trumpeted notes and the opening song of the six-foot rat, Shawn Joaquin began to wail.

I WANNA GO HOOOOME!
I WANNA GO HOOOOOME NOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWW!
THIS IS TOO SCARY! THIS IS NOT FOR CHILDREN!!!

All of this was of course picked up by the mic five feet in front of us, much to my chagrin and the dual amusement and annoyance of those around us. I did the classic duck and run with him in my arms, trying to convince him that the towering rat was our friend, the band was just comprised of geeks and nerds (yes, even gay bands are nerdy and wear tennis shoes with dress pants and make unfortunate decisions when it comes to whether to tuck or not tuck) who would never hurt us, and that all would soon be good and right with the world.

Life with a child who has unreasonable fear and a need for order embedded in his heart can be challenging. He regularly shrieks DON'T SMILE AT ME, WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING? if he sees amusement on one of his parent's faces. In his room, no item can be out of place or at less than right angles without inducing a screaming panic attack. He is afraid of new people, pants with tags, loud music outside of the genres in which he is most comfortable, being left at the bottom of the stairs while I precede him, using the wrong color towel, taking off his own socks, having a door closed too quickly or his clothing put on or pulled off with any speed. He is panicked and angered by mismatched pajamas, the prospect of me spending time with Gregg, phone calls in which his name is mentioned, unanswered questions, pretend games that last for more than two minutes and are not instigated by him, crooked pictures and unexpected laughter. As deeply as I love my son, some of our public moments are tinged with embarrassment or annoyance, like having to scoop and run in the spotlight meant for the giant rat at The Nutcracker.

We returned to our seats after five minutes of fierce whispers, calming his fears and assuring him there was nothing to be afraid of and that if in five minutes he still wanted to leave we would. Thankfully, the rat learned not to look Shawn Joaquin in the eye, Shawn Joaquin's sugar high from a candy cane kicked in and he let loose with some of his patented spin around and fall down dance moves. While he never took his eye off the rat, we were able to enjoy 2 hours of dancing, singing and generally spastic behavior. During that time I was able to see that sweet, sweet boy I enjoyed for nearly four years before his sister arrived and ruined his life. I can only hope to see him again and more often in the coming weeks and months, and pray that some day he will return to us full time...at least until adolescence, when I fully expect that his raging hormones will be accompanied by bad behavior that masks his good, inner self. And then I will pull out this photo to remind me of his inner goodness and, if necessary, to blackmail him into at least pretending he likes me in front of his friends.