I'm bringing CPS back

As part of Shawn Joaquin's ongoing musical education, we divide our time between Jose Luis Orozco, Music Together CDs, "fast guitars" on 107.7 The Bone and "mama music." After days of demanding XM Kids every day after school, on Tuesday SJ was finally ready to return to the fold and requested that I play something off my iPod. I immediately plugged it in and flipped to my treadmill playlist — high energy music with a great beat from every genre...pop, rock, country, folkie, alt. As his heels pounded the seat in time to the music and probably irreparably damaged the leather, I mindlessly began to sing along:

I’m bringing sexy back
Them mother fuckers don’t know how to act
Come let me make up for the things you lack...

Fast forward. Next track.

They like the way we dance, they like the way we work
They like that way that L.A.M.B. is going across my shirt
They like the way my pants, it compliments my shape...

Clearly time to try a new list. "Work fun". Play.

Check-ch-check-check-check-ch-check it out
What-wha-what-what-what's it all about
Work-wa-work-work-work-wa-work it out
Let's turn this motherfuckin' party out

Perhaps his musical education will have to wait and require its own iPod list, and I will have to bear yet another round of "Pirates Who Don't Do Anything", as sung by Christians masquerading as vegetables.

"Vacation" is spelled with a W for WHINE

As we drove home from Healdsburg yesterday — me aching with the flu, Gregg 2-days unshowered and tight-jawed with tension, Madelena in her dollar-store sweatshirt and one eye closed by the puss from her pink eye and Shawn Joaquin yelling "OUR HOUSE IS TOO FAR! TOO FAR! TOO FAR!" — I reflected on the numerous joys of vacation with two children under the age of five.

We had originally planned to drive 7 hours to Arcata this past weekend to visit family, but were shot down by a flu epidemic that affected all of our loved ones and made them less desirable as an end destination. Since Shawn Joaquin had recently been gypped out of a visit to the other side of the family, we didn't want to disappoint him again by telling him our vacation was off and now he needed go find some books and read in the corner. Quietly. So 3 hours of VRBO searching led us to a sweet little two-bedroom cottage near the Russian River, sure to provide hours of joy and fun for the kids as we walked down the dirt path to the river, picnicked and laughed under a jelly bean rainbow in the sunshiny day.

While I spent a frantic 2 hours packing clothes for both kids and myself plus all the food, toys, Diego backpacks, flashlights, books, toiletries, sleeping requirements (blankets, sound machine, portable crib, panda, Spiderman), bibs, cups, bottles, child-sized utensils and snacks for the car, Gregg, Shawn Joaquin and Madelena milled around and demanded attention or respite from one and other. Finally it was time to jump in the car for a hopefully brief and traffic-free 75-mile drive to our home-away-from home. The first 30 minutes of vacation were blissful — I had a Peet's coffee, the kids were happily drinking their milk and listening to XM-Kids, and Gregg was looking forward to our weekend away. We even managed to have adult conversation without Shawn Joaquin constantly interrupting and shouting "What you talking about? What is that? Why you talking about that? Let's talk about STORIES. TALK ABOUT WOLVES THAT EAT PEOPLE!"

At mile 25, Madelena became generally unhappy with the situation and decided to fling her cup to the floor as well as anything else put in her hands. She began braying like a donkey in protest at the confines of her car seat, while Shawn Joaquin shouted "WHY'S SHE DOING THAT? THAT'S NOT GOOD. MAKE HER STOP." And so it went for the next 50 miles.

Upon arriving at our house, Shawn Joaquin was more than thrilled to hop into his new bed which someone had so thoughtfully "freshed" for him. Madelena was not so easily coaxed into her portable crib, and an in fact decided that 30 minutes of nap were more than enough, thank you, and now it was time to get up and find all of the cords, remotes and breakable objects within reach in the non-Madelena proofed house.

The next 48 hours were spent keeping the kids from killing themselves or each other, trying to convince the usually happy hiker Shawn Joaquin that Armstrong Woods was actually a fun and exciting place as opposed to a destination that stood between him and the National Geographic DVD he had spied at the cottage, and that being outside was indeed better than being inside and asking repeatedly "what we gonna DO? what we gonna DOOOOOOOOOO???" The tiny little cottage was no longer perceived as intimate so much as entirely lacking in sound-proofedness, as illustrated by Shawn Joaquin shouting from his bed "WHAT ARE YOU EATING?" when he heard the crackle from the bag of forbidden Doritos in the kitchen. And sleeping became a luxury in which only Shawn Joaquin would indulge — Madelena saw no reason to stay in her crib when a perfectly nice bed was available just a few feet away and her parents were such accessible playthings at 1am.

Despite the tears (Gregg's), the howls of frustration (Madelena's) and the general moodiness (Shawn Joaquin's), the weekend was not a total loss. Shawn Joaquin, after screaming and crying his way through the Armstrong Woods, piped up from the back seat on the way home: "I had a goooood time, Mama. Thanks for taking me." A short trip to throw rocks in the water was appreciated by all, Shawn Joaquin did love the documentary about Rio, and Gregg and I managed to watch our own DVD one night, huddled close to the TV so as to not wake the children with an actual audible volume.

Today Shawn Joaquin is happy and eager to tell his Gammie about his trip to the river, and excited for our trip this weekend to snow country. In the interim, Gregg and I will rest up and get ready for another weekend of howls, tears and screams that will all add up — someday — to memories that will only include the moments when everyone was happy and Shawn Joaquin said with shining eyes and a sweet, sweet smile: "I had a good time, Mama. Thanks for taking me."

Head bangin' and other parental duties

Our household has never been one filled with the sounds of Raffi, Barney is verboten and in fact Shawn Joaquin recognized and could name Jack Johnson's and Merle Haggard's voices before he ever knew who Elmo or Diego were. At the age of one he most enjoyed spastically dancing and drumming to the Kings of Leon's Holy Roller Novocaine. But through the years, a bit of children's music has crept into the house, sneaking in on manufactured Disney feet as birds come down and tie ribbons in homogenous singing princesses' hair. So it was with great delight that I turned on Shawn Joaquin’s radio to hear Bell Bottom Blues and hear Shawn Joaquin shout "KEEP THAT ON! I LIKE THAT! THAT'S THE BOOOOOONE!"

"The Bone" is 107.7 THE BONE, a local radio station that prides itself on playing pure rock with none of that crappy pop or pretenders-to-the-rock-throne mixed in. Madelena, who usually listens to folkie music and reggae, was instantly intrigued. The next song to blast forth from the bright blue radio was Van Halen's Panama. Within seconds, Madelena was on the bed and jumping up and down on her knees, fists in the air and chin tucked down, hair in her face and her eyes closed...the very epitome of a rocker chick at a concert, head bangin' and feeeeelin' it. And in that moment I felt an icy fear grip my heart. I had already announced to Gregg months before that Madelena will be the child that breaks my heart; the very independence and force of will that I so admire now will be the thing that will drive her to the East Coast or Eastern Europe at the age of 18, with no care by her for her aging mother. But in that head banging moment I saw her at least two years before her abandonment, sneaking out to a concert with kohl-ringed eyes and a joint in the pocket of her too tight jeans.

So I had to weigh the options before me: switch off Panama and turn on Ariel singing for the prince for whom she so willingly tossed aside her entire family, or risk turning my child into a rocker that will break my heart just as surely as Ariel broke her father's. I chose the lesser of the two evils, and Shawn Joaquin, Madelena and I all enjoyed some Teen Spirit, complete with air guitar, continued head banging and a finale that included collapsing to the floor at the end while shouting "THANK you! Thank you very much, Oaklaaaaand!"

Rock on.

You rook mahvelous

Shawn Joaquin has learned how to give compliments, which he has not yet learned to give out judiciously and only when one wants something. And as long as my mother is not part of the tribe raising him, that skill can perhaps be avoided.

Yesterday he wanted to go to our neighbor's house to play. I asked him why, and he replied "Because Will is a great boy. And his dad...he's a great dad."

Later he told Gregg he was a great fixer, and kissed him on the leg as Gregg struggled to put up three coat hooks.

Earlier this weekend his first words to me after waking were not "good morning" but "Mama, you're a good cooker like Rachel Ray." I knew that his compliments knew no bounds nor reason when later that day he told me I was shiny and handsome, even though I had not showered and was in fact simply wearing real clothes for the first time in days.

These charming compliments are what save him (along with his good looks, if the shallow truth must be told) and continue to hold him in good stead in our household, despite his renewed screams in the darkest hours of the night. Maybe my mother was right, and good looks and good manners ARE what counts and everything else is just so much icing on the cake or annoying intellect, confidence and earning power that turn off men and....well, that's another blog.

A détente in da house

After nearly two months of sleepless nights pierced by the screams and wails of an unhappy boy demanding attention, water or the cessation of "boom boom noises", peace has returned to our home...at least in the dark hours of the night. We are down to one middle-of-the-night explosion by each child, sometimes in quick succession, which leaves only one adult in the house unable to sleep afterwards. One of us is able to roll back over and snore like a cartoon bear while the other has a wide-awake brain listing all of the things that need to happen that day as well as wondering who will win Project Runway, why the toilet has that weird sulfur smell sometimes but not others, what is in the fridge that might somehow be pulled together to resemble a meal, whether Hilary Clinton can be trusted further than she can be thrown, are the towels in the dryer actually dry or turning into a pile of mildewed terry, if the dog was medicated that day, if that foot is asleep or if it's the onset of Sjogren's, and if bread is so, so very bad why does it taste so very, very good.

While our middle-of-the night hours are somewhat more peaceful, Madelena DID get the memo that as soon as one child ends an obnoxious or disturbing run of behavior, the other child must start one. With that in mind and not to be outdone or to totally abandon the category of "What is Sleep Deprivation", a few weeks ago Madelena suddenly began to scream and cry at the first mention of night-night time. One had only to say "da besitos a tu hermano" to set off tears and wails that lasted up to 90 minutes at a time.

The first two weeks, we were alarmed and sure that our precious and perfect child was either possessed or in pain and needed to be rocked, held and sung to until she finally dropped off into peaceful sleep. But then we realized that at no point did that actually work — the minute her little diaper-padded bottom hit her pink flannel sheets the screaming began again. And any time we entered the room she immediately ceased screaming and began to laugh, jump and shout "FISH! GATO! MIAOW! DADDY! GRACIAS!" and any other word she could summon forth from her burgeoning vocabulary. As she bounced gleefully and threw her panda at us, we knew we'd been had. And it was time to let her Cry. It. Out.

"Crying it out" is a concept that is foreign to most new parents, the antithesis of their belief that only by following the child's lead will they have an empowered, confident and loving being. To these tender newbies I have this to say: Ha. Ha. Hahahahahaha. Take off that leash your child has put around your bent neck, kiss her firmly on her beautiful face, tell her you love her and shut the door.

The first night we tried to get tough Madelena cried for an hour, during which time I rocked in a corner, hid in the bathroom with the fan on high, put on headphones and blasted Cake in my ears, and generally felt nauseated, cruel and ready to implode. Finally, I re-entered her room, only to have her immediately gleefully shout FISH and point to the bear on the floor, where all of the former inhabitants of her crib resided. I stayed for a while, saw her almost drop off to sleep, and then turn into a crazed monkey when put back in her crib. Once again, she had hand.

For the next two weeks, I learned how best to avoid the crying: headphones on in the office, ear plugs and a good CJ Box book, baths + earplugs + CJ Box books, and when all else failed the excuse of a meeting somewhere at exactly the same time as bedtime and lasting for approximately as long as her tears. Each night her crying stopped just a little bit earlier, and last night was down to seven minutes. The longest seven minutes of any listener's life, but a mere seven minutes rather than sixty.

Finally, tonight, it seemed that all those hours listening to muffled screams and doubting my own sanity and parenting skills may have paid off. As I lay Madelena down in her crib, she howled briefly in protest, grabbed her water from my hand and then proceeded to body slam her panda. I left her there in silence, panda smashed beneath her and a crocheted blanket firmly pulled around her head. And I knew that for now, the battle of wills was over between us and peace will reign. Until tomorrow, when Shawn Joaquin will get that message by special delivery that says "Tag, you're it" and he once again becomes the topic of all late-night adult conversation and questioning of our competency as parents.