We all encourage our children to be different in some way, not to follow the crowd but be THEMSELVES. If Max jumped off a bridge, should you do it? If Rosa cuts HER bangs in class, should you do it? NO, you are your own person. We have this emphasis on self and independence and on confidence in differences that make us who we are. It’s all good. Until your child is truly different. Then…it is heartbreaking.

Shawn Joaquin was recently diagnosed with something that will affect him his entire life. It will perhaps make him stronger as he fights to overcome it. It may someday, possibly, be a gift in that way. But in the interim, astute children will see it and comment on it. Weak-minded bullies will sense it and use this perceived weakness as a way to taunt him. My tenderhearted boy is going to have to develop more than confidence; a carapace may have to develop to get him through the coming years and even into adulthood.

I cringe when I get emails from my new Yahoo group with postings like “how to explain your child’s disability”, “your disabled child can…”, “alternatives to public school for disabled children”. I now understand the battle of many to remove the word “handicapped” from the general vernacular. Of those with paraplegia fighting against being called paraplegics. Those words are limiting, placing people into little buckets as if that single word describes who they are versus one of the many challenges they and we all face. I am not ready to apply any label to my son.

I had thought that with the general cluelessness of children under 8 and Shawn Joaquin’s own innocence and naiveté that we would not need to deal with any of this for some time. We have not talked to him about what’s happening, nor has he asked – he is simply grateful for his extra time with me as we go to various appointments every week. He loves the tradition of bagels with cream cheese before one appointment, snacks in the hospital cafeteria before another, and the simple joy of singing along to XMKids in the car with his mama. We have lived in this bubble for some time, and I had hoped to keep it going. But in the last weeks of kindergarten he came home discouraged and hurt by the taunts of two of his “friends” whom I suspect will someday be in the bully camp. Then yesterday his inability to keep up at camp in the various games – capture the flag, Frisbee football and other games we all played as children — had him feeling frustrated and in tears. And my heart broke just a little as I realized that not only did I need to talk to the counselors about how to help him, I had to talk to him about his differences. And somehow convince him that his differences make him special, not handicapped, disabled or otherwise boxed in. Though what I want to do is wrap my arms around him and shelter him from any cruelty or unkindness from any corner, to keep him safe and protected until the day I die.

As is apparent from this posting, I am unable even now to put a label on Shawn Joaquin, to describe what is happening with him — I am not ready for anyone to put limits on him or to discuss his challenges in the school parking lot at pick up. And perhaps I want to preserve my own innocence and naiveté that will surely be damaged when I learn that someone in my circle is not as compassionate or supportive as I had hoped or expected. So for now I too will enjoy the bagels and the snacks and the singing, until I can come up with the right vocabulary to talk to Shawn Joaquin and those I depend on to guide him daily in his life – teachers, counselors and others intimately involved in our life now. And hope that they too can see past any label and see only my beautiful, smart, creative son — and all that he is capable of now and in his lifetime.

Who wants a monkey baby?

Recently, Shawn Joaquin and I watched a documentary entitled "My Monkey Baby" on TLC. It focuses on individuals and couples who have adopted small monkeys and believe they are like human children - they are cosseted, diapered, dressed in smocked tops and Hawaiian shirts...whatever best expresses the personality of their parents. Both Shawn Joaquin and I were fascinated by this, and I just felt a little sad for people who had a void that could only be filled by a wrinkly-faced monkey who would be dependent on them for their entire lives.  I was also a little creeped out. Then I thought about how I had always wanted a monkey as a child - I had read a book about a family who had a monkey, and it was obvious to me (at seven) that they were THE LUCKIEST FAMILY IN THE WHOLE WORLD.

Imagine. A monkey to hug you every morning. To fetch your cereal. To watch Mutual of Omaha's Animal Kingdom with you every Sunday night, albeit with a starkly different viewpoint. To defend you from your annoying little brother, perhaps even taking the blame for mysterious bruises or broken toys and lost books. After sugar cereal, this was high on my list of dreams.

When I shared this long-dead dream with Gregg, his immediate response was a sputtered "Don't tell me this! I don't want to know this about you! No! No!" And thus began the Great Monkey Debate. Shawn Joaquin, Madelena and I feel that wanting a monkey is normal, and in fact a developmental milestone.  Yes, we all let it go for other things like bikes, horses and our first tattoo....but surely, every normal child yearns for a monkey to call his own, to look at him with limpid eyes before leaping up to swing on the dining room chandelier.  Shawn Joaquin thought a monkey might make his bed for him, and he could be named Luke. Madelena was thrilled with the idea of a monkey as a permanent audience member, finally giving her the applause she so desperately seeks every waking minute. Gregg, on the other hand, felt like it's the first step down a path that ends with 50 cats, feces in the living room, and 24/7 watching of Animal Planet and a particular focus on "Pets Do The Darndest Things".

Now I feel the need to justify my monkey lust, even though it's far behind me. Please take a moment to answer my poll and confirm the importance of monkey dreams as a child. Without dreams like this, children are just short adults waiting for an opportunity to file their first tax returns.

When you were a child, did you want to have a monkey to call your own?

Hell yes!My younger sibling was my monkeyNo. I'm getting creeped out just reading this.

pollcode.com free polls

My yin

Madelena is a foot stomper.  A shrieker. A willful, my-way-or-the-highway child. Then seconds later she is offering me milk and half her begged-for cookie, saying “Mama, can you sit with me?”  She is dancing around the kitchen, doing a spastic one-legged hop and a skip, yelling “Look at me, Mama, look at me!” I am trying to cook dinner and she is clapping her hands together over her head, twirling dangerously close to the open flame in her princess dress and Elmo slippers, yelling “Look at me, Mama, look what I can do!” She is creating a microphone out of Legos, singing a song of her own making. She is putting countless things from around the house into bags and boxes and backpacks, never to be found again. She is brushing her stuffed duck’s nonexistent teeth with real toothpaste, saying “It’s okay, Carmella – it’s good for you.” She is riding her tricycle on the rug, singing and tossing her purple fur hat up in the air. She is watering plants and chairs and the deck. She is running full force at me, and I know not whether a kiss and a smile are coming for me or a little fist raised in anger or frustration. She is constant energy and fury and love. And if you are to believe my mother, she is me.

Shawn Joaquin is all my peacefulness, my love of books and words and the woods. He embodies my need for quiet time for regeneration, my ability to take on others’ emotions, and my desire for everyone, regardless of how I may feel about them, to like me. To really like me. 

Then there is Madelena. 

She is that part of me that is constantly in motion, trying new things and creating something from nothing. The part of me that can’t follow but must lead, that has a painful need to be recognized for what I do – not by many, but by those that count. The part of me that at the very same age, danced near the stove yelling “look at me, Mommy, look at me” for the better part of every meal preparation, and actually for the better part of every day for the first six years of my life. Everything that I love or find challenging with her is a part of me in her.

So Mom, you were right. I am now dealing with all that you did – your “just wait until you have kids” mantra has come to fruition. I know how frustrating and challenging I was each and every day. And how I fulfilled on your own mother’s proclamation…the one she must have uttered the time she caught you smoking in the closet, or hiding in the backseat on your cousin’s first date so you could pop up and yell “HELLO!” as she had her first kiss. For the times you “borrowed” your neighbor’s horse or dressed up your dog Blackie like a princess, leading to a permanently limp ear and furless patch on his side. For the countless times that you too yelled “look at me, Mother, look at ME!”

So as I watch Madelena, in all her fierceness and love and imagination…I will strive not to quash her in any way but to direct her energy and power so that she too will have the strength to bring in yet another generation of girls who become women who become mothers — having turned their willfulness into resilience and their fierceness into strength and compassion. I will teach her that her energy and creativity can be used for good, not evil, and that everything that is in her gives her the power to be amazing in all ways. I will show her, as your mother showed you, that she is loved for all of this. And capable of anything.

Look at me, Mom. Look at me. 

Pooper scooper...and so much more

As I scooped poop with my hands swathed in Safeway bags (the pooper scooper having gone missing, perhaps used as handy weapon by a kid) I had to take a serious look at my life.

In the past month I have cleaned up vomit at 2am, after a particularly big night at Barney’s and Tutti Frutti Yogurt. I have surreptitiously whisked dried mucus from my child’s nose seconds before a photo is snapped. With my bare hands. I have sniffed my children’s hands multiple times to ensure they smell of soap and not of the trip they just made to the bathroom. I have allowed Madelena to spit chewed gum, soggy crackers, grape seeds and a particularly foul bite of seasoned chicken into my palm. I have wiped bottoms, cleaned out ears, inspected nostrils, flossed teeth, scrubbed skid marks and nuzzled upset children who smell more like pickles than Johnson & Johnson. I have done it all without thinking, without horror and without regard to my personal safety or likelihood for PTSD.

It’s what we do as mothers each and every day, though there are some at Madelena’s preschool who relegate those jobs to someone who is better suited to it (read “Paid to do this sh*t) while they dash off to the gym to meet their personal trainer before their ladies’ lunch. But in my circle of hard-working mothers, most of whom are work full-time and then come home to do the even harder job of raising clean, non-sociopathic, functioning human beings — well, it’s all in a day’s work.

So today, on this rainy Monday, take 15 minutes to do something other than Purell yourself after yet another Incident. Lock yourself in your bedroom and put on your iPod to block out the knocks and screams, and enjoy a cup of coffee or a glass of wine while you’re at it. Call a friend you haven’t talked to in months because he or she shares your hectic lifestyle, or call one of those people who is constantly posting vacation/bar/ski trip/wine country/late night photos on Facebook but still pausing long enough to “like” your photo of your six-year old in his Superman cape.  Watch a snippet from Jerseylicious just to make yourself feel superior. Take a cat nap. Go to your underwear drawer and toss out the crap, then buy some good stuff online with a few clicks…knowing that it may not fit and will have to be returned, but at least you have the dignity of finding that out in the comfort of your own home versus in a heinously lit dressing room.  Whatever it takes to remember that while you’re scooping poop or cleaning up vomit or hugging a kid regardless of his or her personal odor, you’re still you…someone who is smart, funny, loving and deserving of a little personal time each and every day. And who may, thanks to free 2-day delivery, soon be enjoying that time in some hot new underwear. 

Happy Monday.

For his first mother

I don't know how it never hit me before. But in the darkened Piedmont Theatre on Friday night I burst into tears, suddenly realizing the unfathomable sacrifice made by another mother....the one that made me a mother. I sat in the dark and realized that while I have the incredible joy of raising my son, seeing his passion and insight and incredibly loving self each and every day, his other mother....his birth mother...has only her imagination and desire to believe in the best for him, having no idea where in the world he might be. All she can do is pray that he is happy, he is safe, and he is loved. And I realized, in that moment, that those thoughts must be in her mind each and every day,  bringing both pain and an incredible need to have faith in the unknown person who has her son. My son.

Imagine the child that you love so much, the one that you would give your life for. Now imagine that child is gone, to somewhere unknown with someone unknown. Would a day go by without a fervent wish to know that he is all right? Would the pain of not knowing ever leave your heart?

In all my stories for Shawn Joaquin, we talk about how his birth mother loved him but knew she couldn't care for him in the way she would like. She was a 26-year old mother of a three year old, recently 'divorced' from her partner of 8 years. She earned $50 a month, and paid $25 a month in rent, and formula alone (necessitated by a lack of breast milk) was $20 a week. So we talk about how she made the decision to let another mother be his mother for life, so he would have everything the needed to be healthy and safe and loved. And then we move on to talking about his foster parents, the first night we all met, how he was loved and adored by his foster sisters, what his first night home was like in our little house in Oakland with our two dogs and a cat. His birth mother never appears again in those stories - she is but a prelude to his life. But suddenly, I know that to be false.

On this day, I know this woman - a grown woman, not some teenager who 'made a mistake' and doesn't recognize the depth of her loss or the importance of her decision - is wondering if her boy is all right. If he is loved. She is looking at his now 9-year old brother, wondering if anyone loves her youngest child as much as she loves the boy before her....if it is even possible for anyone to love someone as much as she loves him. I want her to know that yes, the baby that she gave away against all of her desires except the one that he have a better life than she could give him...yes, he is loved. More than anything in this world.

I know that my wish, sent across the thousands of miles between us, will not be known without some action on my part. She can't feel my heart, my intention. So on this day I have decided to find her, to let her know that he is everything she would want him to be. It will be up to her to let me know how much detail she wants; a photo, a letter that she will painfully be forced to share with someone else because of her illiteracy.  Whatever she needs to know that she made a good decision, one that allowed her son to grow up with opportunities he never would have had in Guatemala. To have an education. To have a future in which he can be anything he desires. To have the support of a family committed to him for life. And above all, to know that someone loves him as much as she did the first time she saw his fiercely beautiful, Mayan face. We are tied for life, this mother and I, by our love for our son....Shawn Joaquin.