Do you ever have those moments of weakness where your head opens, your brain falls out, and you say something that you come to regret later?
Mine was four months ago when I said in passing that I might like to put together a Christmas program as a part of my volunteer duties as worship leader for the Sunday school at my church. By worship leader, I mean me trying to coordinate a Powerpoint with words, memory stick with song, microphone, hand actions and appeal to 80 kids from age 3 to 12. It's more like a spastic one armed monkey dancing for coins than worship most Sundays but I'm doing my best and hoping God will bless my efforts. Add to the fact that I volunteered before I knew my life would hit hyperspeed with two girls that run (as my husband calls it) on "max velocity" during the waking hours.
Nonetheless, my pet peeve is people that go back on their word or shirk responsibility so I determinedly set out to put together a Christmas program. I looked through endless scripts to modify, listened to many .mp3 versions of songs (including a free download of "Away in a Manger" that sounded like a rather inebriated Russian trying to learn English with a strong techno beat pounding in the background), and watched a YouTube video for hours trying to teach myself sign language to "Silent Night".
I soon realized I should have started practice WAY before Thanksgiving. I cut "Silent Night" down to one verse only as that's all the sign language we could learn. I cut out the song at the end of the program because I only get about 10 minutes at the start of Sunday school to try to teach the kids all they need to know. What really happens is that my pre-schoolers kind of watch me in wander, swaying side to side, picking their nose, lifting up their dress, mumbling a word here and there but give the chorus a great gusto. The third and fourth grade boys are "too cool for school" and act like hand actions are beneath them. The fifth and six graders hang back hoping I won't notice that they are trying their best to act bored. Or maybe they really are bored.
Anyway, we finally got through a rehearsal on Sunday complete with several microphone fiascos and two missing actors. I felt slightly ready as I made my construction paper wise man crowns and found a blue throw pillow that will double as a pregnant belly. I still hadn't solved the problem of Mary needing to "deliver" in front of the audience (i.e. shake the pillow out from underneath her large white tunic and somehow translate that into my friend's very much alive baby being placed in a manger) when I was notified that due to the recent ice storms, the church was without power and the program would have to be postponed.
No problem, thought I, it gives me a week to think through the final placements and flow of things...until I was notified by three separate sets of parents of kids WITH speaking parts that their children would be MIA on Sunday. A quick email to a friend allowed me to find a replacement female Shepherd #2 but alas, I am still sans an Innkeeper and a Wise Man. I've told Darren that if worse comes to worse, he will have to be my oversized Wise Innkeeper Man. If anyone else doesn't show up, he could end up being my oversized Angelic Narrating Wise Innkeeper Shepherd Man. Hope he can learn a lot of lines fast, if need be.
And we already have a Moses costume for him to wear. It may be mixing our milliniums and make Biblical scholars roll over in their mausoleums but it's the only costume that fits a 6'5" Angelic Narrating Wise Innkeeper Shepherd Man. If it's not the Best Christmas Pageant Ever, at least it will be memorable.
Family
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
(Foster) Pilgrims' Progress
Many of you have asked if I am seeing any improvement in previously mentioned issues so here goes...
1) Eating habits - getting much better...still spilling on shirts and floor but they are doing their best to use utensils and not their fingers. They are sitting until dismissed and want to pray at meals after the main prayer. We have done two restaurant outings and they did okay.
2) Whining and pouting - WAY better...K still has to push us to see if we mean what we say but is immediately and immensely contrite when she knows she is going to time out. S has had several days without a time out at all. Once she FINALLY understood that the next step after a verbal warning was a time-out, she is starting to learn to rein her emotions back in. She used to go from zero to sixty into the red zone routinely and now, she realizes we are not budging. They also have started playing by themselves better, which was something that did not happen for three months.
3) Name changes - this was one that we were not sure we were going to do but in talking with other foster moms and in realizing that we would like a little more identity protection, given the proximity of the birth family, we have decided to change their first names upon adoption. We talked about names that have significance to the family and let them choose from those. S is all for the change...K was a little more reluctant. They are keeping their current names as middle names so we have started mixing in their first and middle names in addressing them to get them used to the identity. DCFS is not really for changing names as they say kids have enough grief and loss but other foster moms have said their kids viewed it as a "rite of passage" into their new family. The difficulty is that S and K will have had a full or partial school year with their existing names so the transition may be a bit rough for everyone to remember.
4) Transitions from birth family - as the girls get more comfortable with their new home/family, they have started opening up more about their past. Some of it is pretty shocking, some of it is frustrating, and some helps us to understand them a whole lot more. S, in particular, remembers A LOT and hence, has had a tougher transition. We have talked about what a birth mom is, what an adoptive mom is, and what a step mom is and she can now differentiate. We've also talked about what it means to be adopted. I told her that I know about her birth family and that it is okay to miss them and talk about them. She still doesn't understand why she can't live with her grandma and the reason why is too complicated for a six-year-old to understand.
5) Attachment - what nobody told me is that I would possibly be the one with "attachment issues"...the girls have done fine. It took me a good two months to feel like their mom, especially when there are definite personality clashes from time to time and a general tendency for one of them to run at hyperspeed non-stop all day long. My head would be reeling at bedtime and I'd wonder how in the world I was going to get up and do the whole thing all over again the next time. That's when I remember my sister Mary's quote from Isaiah 28:10 "Line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little, there a little..."
Sometimes I am too close to the process to see the progress but this foster pilgrim will keep building and re-building foundations and pray that God will grant the increase.
1) Eating habits - getting much better...still spilling on shirts and floor but they are doing their best to use utensils and not their fingers. They are sitting until dismissed and want to pray at meals after the main prayer. We have done two restaurant outings and they did okay.
2) Whining and pouting - WAY better...K still has to push us to see if we mean what we say but is immediately and immensely contrite when she knows she is going to time out. S has had several days without a time out at all. Once she FINALLY understood that the next step after a verbal warning was a time-out, she is starting to learn to rein her emotions back in. She used to go from zero to sixty into the red zone routinely and now, she realizes we are not budging. They also have started playing by themselves better, which was something that did not happen for three months.
3) Name changes - this was one that we were not sure we were going to do but in talking with other foster moms and in realizing that we would like a little more identity protection, given the proximity of the birth family, we have decided to change their first names upon adoption. We talked about names that have significance to the family and let them choose from those. S is all for the change...K was a little more reluctant. They are keeping their current names as middle names so we have started mixing in their first and middle names in addressing them to get them used to the identity. DCFS is not really for changing names as they say kids have enough grief and loss but other foster moms have said their kids viewed it as a "rite of passage" into their new family. The difficulty is that S and K will have had a full or partial school year with their existing names so the transition may be a bit rough for everyone to remember.
4) Transitions from birth family - as the girls get more comfortable with their new home/family, they have started opening up more about their past. Some of it is pretty shocking, some of it is frustrating, and some helps us to understand them a whole lot more. S, in particular, remembers A LOT and hence, has had a tougher transition. We have talked about what a birth mom is, what an adoptive mom is, and what a step mom is and she can now differentiate. We've also talked about what it means to be adopted. I told her that I know about her birth family and that it is okay to miss them and talk about them. She still doesn't understand why she can't live with her grandma and the reason why is too complicated for a six-year-old to understand.
5) Attachment - what nobody told me is that I would possibly be the one with "attachment issues"...the girls have done fine. It took me a good two months to feel like their mom, especially when there are definite personality clashes from time to time and a general tendency for one of them to run at hyperspeed non-stop all day long. My head would be reeling at bedtime and I'd wonder how in the world I was going to get up and do the whole thing all over again the next time. That's when I remember my sister Mary's quote from Isaiah 28:10 "Line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little, there a little..."
Sometimes I am too close to the process to see the progress but this foster pilgrim will keep building and re-building foundations and pray that God will grant the increase.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Princesses and the Pee
WARNING: Those of a more discrete disposition may want to skip this post...
This random bedwetting has got to stop...
Both are repeat offenders. One who shall remain nameless (or initial-less) decided she wanted to sleep in her underwear last night so she could be just like her dad (who I'm sure is delighted to have that shared with all the blog followers). Anyway, she must have decided her bed was just too comfortable to get out of this morning to go to the bathroom and instead decided to leave me a large pizza-sized wet spot. She told us she was awake when she did it so I put her in the shower (which she hates) so she can remember next time that 'tis better to get up than to wet the bed.
I went to get the other one up the other morning, giving her hugs and patting her bottom...which was soaking. She also left me a surprise. She said she was too tired to get up.
They aren't consistent enough for me to insist they wear pull-ups every night. Well, I did have one episode where the older one really WANTED to wear pull-ups like her cousins (I have three nieces who wear them) and so she purposely wet (and pooped) the bed (what kind of neurosis is that? But she's the same one who will fake a cough because she really like cough syrup).
I know there are kids with legitimate bed-wetting issues...however, ours can mostly be pointed to them going to bed later than usual, not making sure they go potty before bedtime, just deciding they don't feel like getting up or having too much to drink past 7 PM. And one time it was because we forgot to leave the door open a crack so that light could pave the way to the throne room.
So this morning, as has happened randomly over the past three months, I am washing sheets and underwear...at least this time, there were no pajamas involved thanks to someone thinking their dad is the coolest thing since sliced bread.
This random bedwetting has got to stop...
Both are repeat offenders. One who shall remain nameless (or initial-less) decided she wanted to sleep in her underwear last night so she could be just like her dad (who I'm sure is delighted to have that shared with all the blog followers). Anyway, she must have decided her bed was just too comfortable to get out of this morning to go to the bathroom and instead decided to leave me a large pizza-sized wet spot. She told us she was awake when she did it so I put her in the shower (which she hates) so she can remember next time that 'tis better to get up than to wet the bed.
I went to get the other one up the other morning, giving her hugs and patting her bottom...which was soaking. She also left me a surprise. She said she was too tired to get up.
They aren't consistent enough for me to insist they wear pull-ups every night. Well, I did have one episode where the older one really WANTED to wear pull-ups like her cousins (I have three nieces who wear them) and so she purposely wet (and pooped) the bed (what kind of neurosis is that? But she's the same one who will fake a cough because she really like cough syrup).
I know there are kids with legitimate bed-wetting issues...however, ours can mostly be pointed to them going to bed later than usual, not making sure they go potty before bedtime, just deciding they don't feel like getting up or having too much to drink past 7 PM. And one time it was because we forgot to leave the door open a crack so that light could pave the way to the throne room.
So this morning, as has happened randomly over the past three months, I am washing sheets and underwear...at least this time, there were no pajamas involved thanks to someone thinking their dad is the coolest thing since sliced bread.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Perpetuating the Myth
The big question at our house this past week was, "Is Santa Claus real?" S told me her classmates say he is not. And being that I still want to use the whole "Santa Claus is making a list and checking it twice" as leverage this Christmas season, I told her that if she thinks Santa is real, then he just might be.
So now the girls check under the tree every morning to see if Santa has dropped off more gifts. Heaven forbid that I have an uneven number of gifts under the tree or Santa must be favoring one girl over the other. S feels the need to remind me every day that we need to leave cookies for Santa. I really sense that Santa has a fondness for monster cookies;-)
I like these fictitious characters that keep kids in line. The Tooth Fairy kept S from bawling over having two teeth removed. Santa keeps them both behaving from Thanksgiving until Christmas. The Easter Bunny will be put to work later on. Man, I'd tell them there were ankle biting monsters under their beds if it kept them from getting out of bed.
I know. You are shaking your head and "tsk tsking" me right now. Don't worry...in addition to saving for their college tuition, we are setting aside money to pay for intensive therapy when they are older. After all, with us as parents, they are guaranteed to need it!
So now the girls check under the tree every morning to see if Santa has dropped off more gifts. Heaven forbid that I have an uneven number of gifts under the tree or Santa must be favoring one girl over the other. S feels the need to remind me every day that we need to leave cookies for Santa. I really sense that Santa has a fondness for monster cookies;-)
I like these fictitious characters that keep kids in line. The Tooth Fairy kept S from bawling over having two teeth removed. Santa keeps them both behaving from Thanksgiving until Christmas. The Easter Bunny will be put to work later on. Man, I'd tell them there were ankle biting monsters under their beds if it kept them from getting out of bed.
I know. You are shaking your head and "tsk tsking" me right now. Don't worry...in addition to saving for their college tuition, we are setting aside money to pay for intensive therapy when they are older. After all, with us as parents, they are guaranteed to need it!
Monday, December 8, 2008
Pants on Fire
"Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive."
- Sir Walter Scott
We've had to have some serious discussions on honesty around here. S came home from school with a thing of tinted lip gloss she had found on the playground. She was very excited thinking finders were keepers until I told her she needed to bring it back to school the next day and turn it into the office. I told her it was the type of lip gloss probably used by one of her teachers. She was a little crestfallen but woefully put it back in her backpack. The next morning, K comes into my room with about 12 lbs. of lip gloss smeared on her lips. "S gave me some MAKE-up!", she proudly proclaims. I come downstairs to find S with another 12 lbs. smeared on her lips. I tell her that was not a good thing to do and to put it back in her backpack for school.
She comes home after school, and I ask her about the lip gloss. She tells me that she did turn it in and it was Mrs. J's. I tell her I am proud of her for doing the right thing even though I know she wanted to keep it.
Fast forward to parent-teacher conferences when her teacher hands me the SAME tinted lip gloss and says S has been keeping it in her desk. I confront S and she tells me, "I really did think I gave it to Mrs. J." So now evidently THINKING you did something is the same as REALLY doing it. Not quite.
And then there is K. I hear a raucious fight break out between her and S when they are downstairs where I can't see them. I come in to break it up and K says, "S hit me." Darren hauls S off for a talking to and a time out while I interrogate K. "Did you do anything to make her hit you, " I ask K with my best "bad cop" impression. She stares up at me with big, brown eyes and seriously shakes her head. "Are you sure?" I ask her again because the story is a little fishy to me. "No, I DIDN'T!" she vehemently denies.
When S's time out is over, Darren comes out to talk with K. "S says you hit her. Did you hit her?" Darren asks. K looks at me. She looks at Darren. She looks back at me. Then, she cocks one eyebrow, looks at Darren and says, "Why, did she tell you something?"
BUSTED. And a wailing liar, liar pants on fire goes off for a time out and a talking to of her own.
When first we practice to deceive."
- Sir Walter Scott
We've had to have some serious discussions on honesty around here. S came home from school with a thing of tinted lip gloss she had found on the playground. She was very excited thinking finders were keepers until I told her she needed to bring it back to school the next day and turn it into the office. I told her it was the type of lip gloss probably used by one of her teachers. She was a little crestfallen but woefully put it back in her backpack. The next morning, K comes into my room with about 12 lbs. of lip gloss smeared on her lips. "S gave me some MAKE-up!", she proudly proclaims. I come downstairs to find S with another 12 lbs. smeared on her lips. I tell her that was not a good thing to do and to put it back in her backpack for school.
She comes home after school, and I ask her about the lip gloss. She tells me that she did turn it in and it was Mrs. J's. I tell her I am proud of her for doing the right thing even though I know she wanted to keep it.
Fast forward to parent-teacher conferences when her teacher hands me the SAME tinted lip gloss and says S has been keeping it in her desk. I confront S and she tells me, "I really did think I gave it to Mrs. J." So now evidently THINKING you did something is the same as REALLY doing it. Not quite.
And then there is K. I hear a raucious fight break out between her and S when they are downstairs where I can't see them. I come in to break it up and K says, "S hit me." Darren hauls S off for a talking to and a time out while I interrogate K. "Did you do anything to make her hit you, " I ask K with my best "bad cop" impression. She stares up at me with big, brown eyes and seriously shakes her head. "Are you sure?" I ask her again because the story is a little fishy to me. "No, I DIDN'T!" she vehemently denies.
When S's time out is over, Darren comes out to talk with K. "S says you hit her. Did you hit her?" Darren asks. K looks at me. She looks at Darren. She looks back at me. Then, she cocks one eyebrow, looks at Darren and says, "Why, did she tell you something?"
BUSTED. And a wailing liar, liar pants on fire goes off for a time out and a talking to of her own.
Snow Farts and Reggies
S comes home with these little paper books from school to practice reading. She is about 90% with the words but this last week, she came home with a book entitled "The Fort". I hear her reading in the back seat and the "o" must have looked like an "a" because she rattled on and on about this "snow fart" that the characters were building. I was going to correct her but I have the sense of humor of a 10-year-old boy at times and still think the word "fart" is infinitely funny.
Meanwhile, K mixes up her Bs with Vs and her Ws with Rs so "red" comes out "wed" and "vehicle" comes out "bee-hickle". My favorite was this morning and she was flopping around in bed, she turns to me all of a sudden and says, "My undaw - rare (underwear) is widing (riding) up my butt (forbidden word by her dad - she is supposed to say "bottom") and givin' me a REGGIE (wedgie)!"
I'm off to build a snow fart right after I take care of this reggie.
Meanwhile, K mixes up her Bs with Vs and her Ws with Rs so "red" comes out "wed" and "vehicle" comes out "bee-hickle". My favorite was this morning and she was flopping around in bed, she turns to me all of a sudden and says, "My undaw - rare (underwear) is widing (riding) up my butt (forbidden word by her dad - she is supposed to say "bottom") and givin' me a REGGIE (wedgie)!"
I'm off to build a snow fart right after I take care of this reggie.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Why Online Shopping is King
Remind me of this post the next time I get romantic visions in my head of me and the girls shopping for a gift for Darren.
We went up to my hometown to see Beth, Lisa and Co. for Thanksgiving. High on my list of priorities was a chance to shop at my favorite mall. I thought the girls and I would have a lot of fun picking out gifts for Christmas for everyone.
I must have overdosed on crack to have such warped visions.
I should have realized that the messed up sleep schedule, the overstimulation, the excitement of the holiday, etc. would pave the path towards the day I decided the rest of my Christmas shopping would be done at night in my bathrobe with a laptop computer.
Perhaps it was the fact that they thought it was fun to race through the store or try to drive the cart (subsequently into SEVERAL displays) or when I tried rain boots on them and they took off running with the plastic ties tying the shoes together STILL attached.
Perhaps it was the fact that S thought everything she saw should be for her or that she threw a fit when I could only find one item for Darren in the store and it happened to be the one K picked out.
Perhaps it was the fact that S decided it would be funny to lag behind me so far ON PURPOSE while trying to hopscotch to the tile grid in the mall and when I would turn around and tell her to get up by me (as I am manuevering K and several bags), she would smirk at me and stay put until I went back to get her.
Timeouts don't work so well in a mall. I tried to find a place to give her one but it was Black Saturday, the mall was packed, and nary a bench to be found. Plus, I had to stay close enough to make sure no one took her (although at that point, I would have seriously considered PAYING someone to do so), so she ended up on the floor by a kiosk. She promptly turned around and started sorting through their sweatshirts as I stood a few feet away.
Then I grabbed S's hand to keep her up next to me and she went limp and shrieking to which point I tried to pull her back up again and tripped over her. I had HAD IT! I pulled both girls by the hand back to find my sisters to let them know this shopping experience was for the birds. Both girls were crying, slobbering, snot-dripping messes trying to wriggle out of my grasp but alas, I put my game face on and marched them out to the car, past many dismayed shoppers.
Within 15 minutes of buckling their shriekinesses into car seats (a challenge in Darren's two door car), they had fallen fast asleep.
Lesson learned. The next time I even THINK about attempting this again, someone please do me a favor and stage an intervention.
We went up to my hometown to see Beth, Lisa and Co. for Thanksgiving. High on my list of priorities was a chance to shop at my favorite mall. I thought the girls and I would have a lot of fun picking out gifts for Christmas for everyone.
I must have overdosed on crack to have such warped visions.
I should have realized that the messed up sleep schedule, the overstimulation, the excitement of the holiday, etc. would pave the path towards the day I decided the rest of my Christmas shopping would be done at night in my bathrobe with a laptop computer.
Perhaps it was the fact that they thought it was fun to race through the store or try to drive the cart (subsequently into SEVERAL displays) or when I tried rain boots on them and they took off running with the plastic ties tying the shoes together STILL attached.
Perhaps it was the fact that S thought everything she saw should be for her or that she threw a fit when I could only find one item for Darren in the store and it happened to be the one K picked out.
Perhaps it was the fact that S decided it would be funny to lag behind me so far ON PURPOSE while trying to hopscotch to the tile grid in the mall and when I would turn around and tell her to get up by me (as I am manuevering K and several bags), she would smirk at me and stay put until I went back to get her.
Timeouts don't work so well in a mall. I tried to find a place to give her one but it was Black Saturday, the mall was packed, and nary a bench to be found. Plus, I had to stay close enough to make sure no one took her (although at that point, I would have seriously considered PAYING someone to do so), so she ended up on the floor by a kiosk. She promptly turned around and started sorting through their sweatshirts as I stood a few feet away.
Then I grabbed S's hand to keep her up next to me and she went limp and shrieking to which point I tried to pull her back up again and tripped over her. I had HAD IT! I pulled both girls by the hand back to find my sisters to let them know this shopping experience was for the birds. Both girls were crying, slobbering, snot-dripping messes trying to wriggle out of my grasp but alas, I put my game face on and marched them out to the car, past many dismayed shoppers.
Within 15 minutes of buckling their shriekinesses into car seats (a challenge in Darren's two door car), they had fallen fast asleep.
Lesson learned. The next time I even THINK about attempting this again, someone please do me a favor and stage an intervention.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
X-Rated Play-Doh
So S's Sunday School teacher took me aside after church to tell me that during the time the class was working on a Play-doh project, the teacher had asked them what they were going to make. S told her she was going to make a boy and girl together in bed.
Oh grand, I thought, as fear lurched into my chest. I have no idea what S has been exposed to in previous placements. I know her mom had three kids in three years with two different men and is now married to another man. Who knows what she witnessed? Do I address it with her? Do I let it slide as natural curiosity?
I know when the time comes I want to be honest with her about sex. After all, the way I found out was from my friend's dad's X-rated videos and porno magazines. I was in the fourth grade and of course, X-rated movies are all the weird stuff - menage a trois and the like. It was quite an education for me. I was convinced that nice, Christian people didn't have sex. I asked my sister Susan and she laughed and me and said, "Christians have sex. Just ask Mom. How do you think you got here?" I was HORRIFIED! I would sit in church and look at different couples and think of them having sex. Talk about a stolen innocence.
As it turns out, I did choose to talk with S about it. I asked her where she had seen a boy and girl in bed together. She said, "At the hotel." Then it dawned on me! We had stayed overnight in a hotel last Friday before the high school football finals. She and K slept in one bed, and Darren and I in the other. She was going to make a Play-doh version of us, I guess. So we had a talk about how a boy and girl can share a bed if they are married and how to tell if someone is married. I know good and well she will eventually run across couples co-habitating and I'll have to answer that question for her but for now, she was content to know that she could only share her bed with her sister and not her boy cousins. Not even her cute, redheaded cousin Micah.
Oh grand, I thought, as fear lurched into my chest. I have no idea what S has been exposed to in previous placements. I know her mom had three kids in three years with two different men and is now married to another man. Who knows what she witnessed? Do I address it with her? Do I let it slide as natural curiosity?
I know when the time comes I want to be honest with her about sex. After all, the way I found out was from my friend's dad's X-rated videos and porno magazines. I was in the fourth grade and of course, X-rated movies are all the weird stuff - menage a trois and the like. It was quite an education for me. I was convinced that nice, Christian people didn't have sex. I asked my sister Susan and she laughed and me and said, "Christians have sex. Just ask Mom. How do you think you got here?" I was HORRIFIED! I would sit in church and look at different couples and think of them having sex. Talk about a stolen innocence.
As it turns out, I did choose to talk with S about it. I asked her where she had seen a boy and girl in bed together. She said, "At the hotel." Then it dawned on me! We had stayed overnight in a hotel last Friday before the high school football finals. She and K slept in one bed, and Darren and I in the other. She was going to make a Play-doh version of us, I guess. So we had a talk about how a boy and girl can share a bed if they are married and how to tell if someone is married. I know good and well she will eventually run across couples co-habitating and I'll have to answer that question for her but for now, she was content to know that she could only share her bed with her sister and not her boy cousins. Not even her cute, redheaded cousin Micah.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Good Morning, Insanity
I am not a morning person, as any of my former roommates can attest. I despise mornings. I can start a drywall project at 9 PM and go strong until 2 AM but getting up in the morning ranks right up there with wedgies and root canals. And the Lord, in His infinite sense of humor, paired me up with Mr. Morning (i.e. Darren). Darren gets up three days a week while it is still dark out to go play basketball. He leisurely drinks his coffee, showers, packs his lunch, gets devotional time in, and quietly (or sometimes not quite so quietly) slips off to work. The girls are still snuggled safe in their beds where thoughts of sugar (forget the plums) are still dancing in their heads.
Then within 15 minutes after he leaves, I get K crawling into bed with me, giving me morning breath kisses and poking her braids into my eyeballs. S hits the ground running and will read books while shifting from foot to foot and dancing. I lumber downstairs in my big white bathrobe so not ready to greet the day but I know I have a limited amount of time to get two squirrely girls through breakfast, teeth brushing, dressing, shoe finding, back packing, coat stuffing insanity in order to meet the bus.
While every other time of the day, they run at 95 MPH, they run at molasses speed in the morning and test me at every turn. They can't decide on what kind of cereal, or what to wear, or would rather spread toothpaste as a coating in the sink then put the brush in their mouth. They can't find their other mitten and they forgot that they needed a garden pea costume for the school play on vegetables that they forgot to tell me about. All the while, I am checking the clock to make sure we don't miss the bus because S's driver runs like a Swiss train - always on time.
I know I'm not the only one out there...my mom still has nightmares that she is pushing, pushing, pushing to get her kids out the door (and there were eight of us) and we are moving like we are in slow motion. She wakes up in a cold sweat. I think that qualifies for post traumatic stress disorder.
I'd love to be a morning person - get up and do yoga, eat an egg white omelet with mushrooms and peppers, take a shower without ANYONE banging on the door telling me who touched who or who took their "makeup" (chapstick) and won't give it back. I'd love to look like a million bucks walking out the door instead of a shlumpa-dinka in flannel pants and an oversized pullover of Darren's. I wish I was awake enough in the quiet hours of the morning to really dig into the Word instead of getting interrupted five times and thinking, "I feel like I've read this verse before."
I've tried going to bed earlier, drinking coffee (laced with so much Coffeemate liquid creamer it can hardly qualify as coffee), etc. but I still hate mornings. So until they invent a conveyer belt that will wake, feed, dress, brush teeth, and do hair for kids, this lumbering, white robed, morning hater will keep on keepin' on.
Then within 15 minutes after he leaves, I get K crawling into bed with me, giving me morning breath kisses and poking her braids into my eyeballs. S hits the ground running and will read books while shifting from foot to foot and dancing. I lumber downstairs in my big white bathrobe so not ready to greet the day but I know I have a limited amount of time to get two squirrely girls through breakfast, teeth brushing, dressing, shoe finding, back packing, coat stuffing insanity in order to meet the bus.
While every other time of the day, they run at 95 MPH, they run at molasses speed in the morning and test me at every turn. They can't decide on what kind of cereal, or what to wear, or would rather spread toothpaste as a coating in the sink then put the brush in their mouth. They can't find their other mitten and they forgot that they needed a garden pea costume for the school play on vegetables that they forgot to tell me about. All the while, I am checking the clock to make sure we don't miss the bus because S's driver runs like a Swiss train - always on time.
I know I'm not the only one out there...my mom still has nightmares that she is pushing, pushing, pushing to get her kids out the door (and there were eight of us) and we are moving like we are in slow motion. She wakes up in a cold sweat. I think that qualifies for post traumatic stress disorder.
I'd love to be a morning person - get up and do yoga, eat an egg white omelet with mushrooms and peppers, take a shower without ANYONE banging on the door telling me who touched who or who took their "makeup" (chapstick) and won't give it back. I'd love to look like a million bucks walking out the door instead of a shlumpa-dinka in flannel pants and an oversized pullover of Darren's. I wish I was awake enough in the quiet hours of the morning to really dig into the Word instead of getting interrupted five times and thinking, "I feel like I've read this verse before."
I've tried going to bed earlier, drinking coffee (laced with so much Coffeemate liquid creamer it can hardly qualify as coffee), etc. but I still hate mornings. So until they invent a conveyer belt that will wake, feed, dress, brush teeth, and do hair for kids, this lumbering, white robed, morning hater will keep on keepin' on.
Monday, November 17, 2008
It All ADDs Up
We had our first parent teacher conferences for S & K last week. Socially, both seem to be doing well - playing with others, sharing, making friends. For the most part, they are on par for fine motor and academic progress.
The one area of concern was the S shows tendencies towards Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). She has a very good teacher this year that doesn't mind that S stands up most of the day to do her work or wiggles around a lot.
Definitely not like the battle axes I had for teachers growing up. I had one who would check our fingernails daily to make sure they were clean. And we had to tell the class whether or not we had remembered to brush our teeth that morning. She had these fantastic long fingernails and wore sleeveless polyester shirts and everytime she wrote on the board, I would watch her upper arms swaying in the breeze. I was mesmerized! During cold and flu season, she would use and re-use the same handkerchief and tuck it into her sleeve when not in use. She was also the type that got her hair set every week and by the end of the week, it looked like she had rolled around in flannel.
But I digress...
Anyhoo, I'm not entirely surprised by the ADD tendencies with S. She finds it virtually impossible to sit still during supper and will literally run laps around the table after school. If she is supposed to be doing homework and there is ANYTHING else going on, including a fly buzzing from 12 counties away, she cannot seem to concentrate enough to keep writing on the same line. She will start adding words to a sentence she previously completed on the page. She is constantly talking or humming and cannot seem to follow a list of directions but instead will get hung up on only one part of the directions. Or she won't listen at all. She's a bit like Hammie on "Over the Hedge".
I'm not going to go charging for the Ritalin bottle yet but there are days that it absolutely drives me batty. I asked her to please be quiet the other night at the dinner table and she said, "Why?" (her favorite word...) to which, being the supportive, encouraging, warm, nurturing mother that I am, I replied, "Because you are annoying the snot out of me." Little K pipes up beside me, "And you is snotting the snot outta me, too."
On second thought, a Ritalin drip may be in order.
The one area of concern was the S shows tendencies towards Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). She has a very good teacher this year that doesn't mind that S stands up most of the day to do her work or wiggles around a lot.
Definitely not like the battle axes I had for teachers growing up. I had one who would check our fingernails daily to make sure they were clean. And we had to tell the class whether or not we had remembered to brush our teeth that morning. She had these fantastic long fingernails and wore sleeveless polyester shirts and everytime she wrote on the board, I would watch her upper arms swaying in the breeze. I was mesmerized! During cold and flu season, she would use and re-use the same handkerchief and tuck it into her sleeve when not in use. She was also the type that got her hair set every week and by the end of the week, it looked like she had rolled around in flannel.
But I digress...
Anyhoo, I'm not entirely surprised by the ADD tendencies with S. She finds it virtually impossible to sit still during supper and will literally run laps around the table after school. If she is supposed to be doing homework and there is ANYTHING else going on, including a fly buzzing from 12 counties away, she cannot seem to concentrate enough to keep writing on the same line. She will start adding words to a sentence she previously completed on the page. She is constantly talking or humming and cannot seem to follow a list of directions but instead will get hung up on only one part of the directions. Or she won't listen at all. She's a bit like Hammie on "Over the Hedge".
I'm not going to go charging for the Ritalin bottle yet but there are days that it absolutely drives me batty. I asked her to please be quiet the other night at the dinner table and she said, "Why?" (her favorite word...) to which, being the supportive, encouraging, warm, nurturing mother that I am, I replied, "Because you are annoying the snot out of me." Little K pipes up beside me, "And you is snotting the snot outta me, too."
On second thought, a Ritalin drip may be in order.
Papa Smurf and His Fan Club
This weekend was the state high school football semi-finals for my old alma mater. My nephew "Papa Smurf" (aptly named for the time his mom packed the wrong football socks and instead of white socks and a blue uniform, he was blue from head to toe...6'2", 275 lbs of blueness...) was playing on the line so we hauled the girls and my other nephew up to watch him. TJ Maxx had a clearance of old Halloween costumes where I was able to find two red and silver sparkly "Go Team" cheerleading uniforms for the girls.
They thought they were the cats' pajamas! My sister had bought face paints so both girls had paw prints on their face. We have already taught them to cheer for the mascot of their home school so had to teach them to cheer for the WILDCATS as well! My nieces were up there and they are "cool high schoolers" who bought the girls ice cream and let them take pictures with their cell phones. S came home thinking that she should really get a cell phone for Christmas. I told her Santa has a "no cell phone" policy until she is in 7th grade. To which she replied, "How about 2nd grade?" Fat chance.
My alma mater won - and are a really amazing team in that there are not one or two really showy players...they all pull together. Part of the reason is that one of their teammates was diagnosed with testicular cancer just a few weeks ago. The team shaved their heads when their teammate went in for chemo so he wouldn't be the only one without hair. This amazing young man then came back to play for the team POST-CHEMO...unbelievable! So they are playing for something bigger than themselves this time.
The team plays again on Saturday morning and Cheer Girl #1, Cheer Girl #2, Husband, Nephew, and me will haul up again to root the team on. Hopefully, I can teach Cheer Girl #1 how to cheer without flailing her pom poms into everyone's head. GO WILDCATS!
They thought they were the cats' pajamas! My sister had bought face paints so both girls had paw prints on their face. We have already taught them to cheer for the mascot of their home school so had to teach them to cheer for the WILDCATS as well! My nieces were up there and they are "cool high schoolers" who bought the girls ice cream and let them take pictures with their cell phones. S came home thinking that she should really get a cell phone for Christmas. I told her Santa has a "no cell phone" policy until she is in 7th grade. To which she replied, "How about 2nd grade?" Fat chance.
My alma mater won - and are a really amazing team in that there are not one or two really showy players...they all pull together. Part of the reason is that one of their teammates was diagnosed with testicular cancer just a few weeks ago. The team shaved their heads when their teammate went in for chemo so he wouldn't be the only one without hair. This amazing young man then came back to play for the team POST-CHEMO...unbelievable! So they are playing for something bigger than themselves this time.
The team plays again on Saturday morning and Cheer Girl #1, Cheer Girl #2, Husband, Nephew, and me will haul up again to root the team on. Hopefully, I can teach Cheer Girl #1 how to cheer without flailing her pom poms into everyone's head. GO WILDCATS!
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The Best Gifts
My seven cents on the best gifts I have received to pass on for those of you who have friends who adopt - especially older children from foster care:
1) UNDERSTANDING. Give an adoptive mom time to get used to instant parenthood without expecting them to be instantly gushy about the experience. You had nine months to anticipate the arrival of your baby. We may have had two weeks.
2) PLAYDATES. Invite our adopted child over to play with your children, understanding that our child needs positive adult and child role models in their life - and we may need a break!
3) USED ITEMS. We may have no idea of exactly what age child we are getting - and very much appreciate even the temporary lending of clothes, toys, and books. I have had two people (outside of my awesome sisters) be especially generous in this area and I was overwhelmed...so thanks, Heather S. and Tracy H.!
4) FOOD. Just because we are not recovering from child birth doesn't mean we wouldn't appreciate a meal. Your newborn sleeps fourteen hours a day. Our kids eat as much as an adult and came with boundless energy. Please don't take this as a shameless plug for me - just bless the next person who adopts an older child.
5) DISCRETION. Don't talk about their status in foster care or adoption status in front of our child. You'd be amazed how much they internalize and act out on, even if they don't fully understand the conversation. They may still be healing from the goodbyes of their last placement and not ready to hear about adoption.
6) PATIENCE & PERSPECTIVE. Be tolerant of our kids behavior not always being age appropriate or appropriate in general. They may have moved every year of their life, said hello and goodbye to multiple parental figures, been beaten, sworn at, neglected, and worse. Most have some kind of attention deficit disorder and trouble with impulse control. They haven't been told how special, how beautiful, how loved, and how important they are from birth like your kids.
7) A SOFT PLACE TO LAND. Don't ask us how we are doing unless you REALLY want to know...and the truth may not be pretty. And we may do the "ugly cry". Just because we really wanted to be parents and have anticipated this time longer than most doesn't mean that the adjustment is any easier. It will get better...just give us chocolate and a hug until it does.
1) UNDERSTANDING. Give an adoptive mom time to get used to instant parenthood without expecting them to be instantly gushy about the experience. You had nine months to anticipate the arrival of your baby. We may have had two weeks.
2) PLAYDATES. Invite our adopted child over to play with your children, understanding that our child needs positive adult and child role models in their life - and we may need a break!
3) USED ITEMS. We may have no idea of exactly what age child we are getting - and very much appreciate even the temporary lending of clothes, toys, and books. I have had two people (outside of my awesome sisters) be especially generous in this area and I was overwhelmed...so thanks, Heather S. and Tracy H.!
4) FOOD. Just because we are not recovering from child birth doesn't mean we wouldn't appreciate a meal. Your newborn sleeps fourteen hours a day. Our kids eat as much as an adult and came with boundless energy. Please don't take this as a shameless plug for me - just bless the next person who adopts an older child.
5) DISCRETION. Don't talk about their status in foster care or adoption status in front of our child. You'd be amazed how much they internalize and act out on, even if they don't fully understand the conversation. They may still be healing from the goodbyes of their last placement and not ready to hear about adoption.
6) PATIENCE & PERSPECTIVE. Be tolerant of our kids behavior not always being age appropriate or appropriate in general. They may have moved every year of their life, said hello and goodbye to multiple parental figures, been beaten, sworn at, neglected, and worse. Most have some kind of attention deficit disorder and trouble with impulse control. They haven't been told how special, how beautiful, how loved, and how important they are from birth like your kids.
7) A SOFT PLACE TO LAND. Don't ask us how we are doing unless you REALLY want to know...and the truth may not be pretty. And we may do the "ugly cry". Just because we really wanted to be parents and have anticipated this time longer than most doesn't mean that the adjustment is any easier. It will get better...just give us chocolate and a hug until it does.
Imitation is NOT a Form of Flattery!
My girls were playing house the other day, and taking turns playing the part of Mommy. I had the "privilege" of hearing what I sound like.
It was downright scary how much they internalize...and how much I yell. My goal for the next few weeks is to keep my voice in check and become more "velvet over steel"...after all, who knows what they share with others when I am not around. I never thought I'd be a yeller but they seem to know what buttons to push when I am at my weakest. In fact, I ducked into a hall closet two days ago just to get two minutes to calm down and pray before I entered the "red zone".
I suppose I should come out of the closet one of these days. Maybe tomorrow;-)
It was downright scary how much they internalize...and how much I yell
I suppose I should come out of the closet one of these days. Maybe tomorrow;-)
Christmas Card Phobias
We took Christmas card pictures the other week. It only took 33 tries to get two girls, two dogs, and two adults to all look forward and smile (sans the dogs...we counted it a victory if we could keep them in the sit position long enough to snap the picture). It didn't help that those biting, ladybug looking pests were taking nose dives at our bare skin and latching on for all they were worth. S is at the age where she thinks it's funny to make faces for the photos and we had several photos of the forced smiles as well. But alas, that's what Photoshop is for. Makes professional "photographers" out of all of us...
Now I have to review the Christmas card list - which gives me great distress. It grows every year and for some reason, I keep receiving and sending Christmas cards with people I have not physically seen or spoken to in 7 years. I highlight their names thinking I will cut down my list each year and even wait to send a card out but alas, I get their card and feel compelled to let the never ending cycle continue. Someday I'll be brave enough to not send a card and they will probably breathe a sigh of relief on their end as well. Until then, I may have to invest in a Pitney Bowes mailer inserter thing to get through the ordeal.
Now I have to review the Christmas card list - which gives me great distress. It grows every year and for some reason, I keep receiving and sending Christmas cards with people I have not physically seen or spoken to in 7 years. I highlight their names thinking I will cut down my list each year and even wait to send a card out but alas, I get their card and feel compelled to let the never ending cycle continue. Someday I'll be brave enough to not send a card and they will probably breathe a sigh of relief on their end as well. Until then, I may have to invest in a Pitney Bowes mailer inserter thing to get through the ordeal.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Pride & Prejudice
This parenthood thing is an exercise in overcoming pride and prejudice...my own, that is...
For those of you who think I am so open minded, let me tell you that I wrestled with the fact that the girls that would be placed with us were AA. For some reason, I figured that A) people would look at my white skin and their black skin and figure I got seduced by a college football player or B) that the girls would not have as many dates because - while it is common to see white girls dating black guys, you don't see many white guys dating black girls.
Ridiculous, I know, but there you have it. Darren had his own issues with the Latino race thinking that people would assume our children were illegal immigrants. Absolutely absurd on both of our parts and a learning experience for both of us as we truly explored racial heritages.
Now on to pride battles...
For some reason, I seem to think that how they dress is a reflection of me...but I am learning to let that go and let them pick out their own outfits. We've had some doozies - brown velvet pants with a neon green Bratz shirt, hot pink tight pants with a brown and orange flowered shirt, neon orange shirt with red and white checkered pants and pink Dora shoes...sometimes they look like they have taken a running leap and dove into a pile of random Goodwill clothes. I'm letting go...
Their academic progress, or lack thereof, is also a pride issue...S does really well in school with the exception of her handwriting. K has no interest in learning her letters except for the first letter of her name and the first letter of her "stister's" name. When I try to work with her on flash cards, she guesses every letter to be "C". I tell her, "We are working only on these three letters and none of them are "C", now guess again..." to which she looks up at me and says, "Is it "C"?" AAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGHHHH...so she might be the last one on planet Earth to write her name or recognize her ABCs or count past 8...I'm letting go...
On to pride with behavior...my pastor and good friend says K had her hands down the back of her pants during Sunday school. My guess is we forgot to lotion her "booty" and it gets dry and itchy. So I've got the buttscratching kid. And S came home and said, "I colored on my pants." I asked her why and got a blank stare. She has no idea what on earth possessed her to take a red crayon and color a large blob on the front of her off-white corduroy pants. I'm letting go...
I'm letting go and hoping that, instead of being the best dressed or the cleanest or the smartest, that they grow up to be the nicest, most caring, most thoughtful adults. If I can just help them survive until then!
For those of you who think I am so open minded, let me tell you that I wrestled with the fact that the girls that would be placed with us were AA. For some reason, I figured that A) people would look at my white skin and their black skin and figure I got seduced by a college football player or B) that the girls would not have as many dates because - while it is common to see white girls dating black guys, you don't see many white guys dating black girls.
Ridiculous, I know, but there you have it. Darren had his own issues with the Latino race thinking that people would assume our children were illegal immigrants. Absolutely absurd on both of our parts and a learning experience for both of us as we truly explored racial heritages.
Now on to pride battles...
For some reason, I seem to think that how they dress is a reflection of me...but I am learning to let that go and let them pick out their own outfits. We've had some doozies - brown velvet pants with a neon green Bratz shirt, hot pink tight pants with a brown and orange flowered shirt, neon orange shirt with red and white checkered pants and pink Dora shoes...sometimes they look like they have taken a running leap and dove into a pile of random Goodwill clothes. I'm letting go...
Their academic progress, or lack thereof, is also a pride issue...S does really well in school with the exception of her handwriting. K has no interest in learning her letters except for the first letter of her name and the first letter of her "stister's" name. When I try to work with her on flash cards, she guesses every letter to be "C". I tell her, "We are working only on these three letters and none of them are "C", now guess again..." to which she looks up at me and says, "Is it "C"?" AAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGHHHH...so she might be the last one on planet Earth to write her name or recognize her ABCs or count past 8...I'm letting go...
On to pride with behavior...my pastor and good friend says K had her hands down the back of her pants during Sunday school. My guess is we forgot to lotion her "booty" and it gets dry and itchy. So I've got the buttscratching kid. And S came home and said, "I colored on my pants." I asked her why and got a blank stare. She has no idea what on earth possessed her to take a red crayon and color a large blob on the front of her off-white corduroy pants. I'm letting go...
I'm letting go and hoping that, instead of being the best dressed or the cleanest or the smartest, that they grow up to be the nicest, most caring, most thoughtful adults. If I can just help them survive until then!
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Invisible Mother
My good friend Carmen R sent me this blurb earlier in the week...thought it was worth sharing:
Invisible Mother
It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store.
Inside I'm thinking, 'Can't you see I'm on the phone?'
No one can see I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all.
I'm invisible. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this?
Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, 'What time is it?' I'm a satellite guide to answer, 'What number is the Disney Channel?' I'm a taxi to order, 'Can you pick me up right around 5:30?
I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated sum a cum laude - but now they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. She's going; she's going; she is gone!
One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England .. Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in.
I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself.I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, 'I brought you this.'
It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe. I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription:
/'To Charlotte , with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.' /
In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work:
No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names. These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.
A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, 'Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it.' And the workman replied, 'Because God sees.'
I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place.It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, 'I see you, Charlotte. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become.' At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life.
It is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride.
I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on.The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.
When I really think about it, I don't want my son to tell the friend he's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, 'My mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table.' That would mean I'd built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, to add, 'you're going to love it there.'
As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we're doing it right.
And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.
Invisible Mother
It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store.
Inside I'm thinking, 'Can't you see I'm on the phone?'
No one can see I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all.
I'm invisible. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this?
Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, 'What time is it?' I'm a satellite guide to answer, 'What number is the Disney Channel?' I'm a taxi to order, 'Can you pick me up right around 5:30?
I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated sum a cum laude - but now they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. She's going; she's going; she is gone!
One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England .. Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in.
I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself.I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, 'I brought you this.'
It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe. I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription:
/'To Charlotte , with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.' /
In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work:
No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names. These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.
A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, 'Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it.' And the workman replied, 'Because God sees.'
I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place.It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, 'I see you, Charlotte. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become.' At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life.
It is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride.
I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on.The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.
When I really think about it, I don't want my son to tell the friend he's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, 'My mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table.' That would mean I'd built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, to add, 'you're going to love it there.'
As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we're doing it right.
And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.
Monday, November 3, 2008
For Real
The other day, I was disciplining K and she was crying, "Mommy, mommy, mommy"...when in the background I hear S ask her "Do you mean your "real" mommy?"
I am so not ready for that. This real versus adopted mom thing is still a bit of an insecurity for me. S is old enough to have a lot of memories and I know I should be braced for the expectation that I will hear about her "real" mom everytime she doesn't get to do something she wants as a teenager. But that was the first time I heard her mention her birth mom. She's talked about her birth grandma and her foster mom - but never her birth mom.
The scary (if that is the right word) part about domestic adoption is that they are all pretty much open - which means that birth family can find you and DCFS encourages you to become big, happy mixed biological and adoptive families. There is an adoption registry where adoptive parents can enter information on behalf of their adopted kids and at age 15, an adopted child can request information with parental permission. At 18, no parental consent is needed.
I live with the realization that we will likely run into birth family on more than one occasion and at any random moment, their birth mom or other relatives could initiate contact or show up. I do have a fear that the birth family will re-enter the picture at some point, perhaps after our daughters have left home, and then I will have to share holidays or important occasions with this other half of my daughters' lives. I know genetic connection is strong and that the girls will be curious about what traits they have inherited from whom.
I spoke with my good friend Jane B. who has adopted three children and asked her if she shares that fear. She had the wisest answer. She said, "No. I just thank God for the privilege of raising these kids and the time I have had to spend with them."
I am definitely not there yet...
For now, all I can say is, while I did not physically give birth to these girls, I am very much their "real" mother...I'm the one who gets puked on when they are sick, makes sure they have clean clothes to wear, helps them with homework, sings "Twilight is Stealing" to them at bedtime, and makes sure they eat their peas and carrots. Doesn't get more "real" than that!
I am so not ready for that. This real versus adopted mom thing is still a bit of an insecurity for me. S is old enough to have a lot of memories and I know I should be braced for the expectation that I will hear about her "real" mom everytime she doesn't get to do something she wants as a teenager. But that was the first time I heard her mention her birth mom. She's talked about her birth grandma and her foster mom - but never her birth mom.
The scary (if that is the right word) part about domestic adoption is that they are all pretty much open - which means that birth family can find you and DCFS encourages you to become big, happy mixed biological and adoptive families. There is an adoption registry where adoptive parents can enter information on behalf of their adopted kids and at age 15, an adopted child can request information with parental permission. At 18, no parental consent is needed.
I live with the realization that we will likely run into birth family on more than one occasion and at any random moment, their birth mom or other relatives could initiate contact or show up. I do have a fear that the birth family will re-enter the picture at some point, perhaps after our daughters have left home, and then I will have to share holidays or important occasions with this other half of my daughters' lives. I know genetic connection is strong and that the girls will be curious about what traits they have inherited from whom.
I spoke with my good friend Jane B. who has adopted three children and asked her if she shares that fear. She had the wisest answer. She said, "No. I just thank God for the privilege of raising these kids and the time I have had to spend with them."
I am definitely not there yet...
For now, all I can say is, while I did not physically give birth to these girls, I am very much their "real" mother...I'm the one who gets puked on when they are sick, makes sure they have clean clothes to wear, helps them with homework, sings "Twilight is Stealing" to them at bedtime, and makes sure they eat their peas and carrots. Doesn't get more "real" than that!
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Moses and Two Tooth Fairies
Last night was Halloween. We were hoping that, since we attended the Fall Festival at school, the girls would not ask to go trick or treating.
Fat chance.
S desperately wanted to be a mermaid. I told her we didn't have the dress up clothes for that so she had to pick something else. I finally talked her into a fairy since the outfit had long sleeves and she could wear her white tights (a big deal before you hit 18). I helped her make a wand out of construction paper, a pencil, and tape. She figured she needed to be a specific kind of fairy and since her bottom tooth has been very wiggly, she decided she was The Tooth Fairy.
K, being the "monkey see, monkey do" variety, decided she was also being The Tooth Fairy. She was really wearing the Cinderella dress but since neither had actually seen a tooth fairy, we figured who would know the difference?
As for me, I borrowed Darren's Moses costume, complete with a beard down to my knees and a hair piece that rivaled Charleton Heston's in "The Ten Commandments". The robe was a little long so the rope belt held up the big blousing over of the top part. My old Birkenstock sandals (so Seattle Grunge '90s) came out of hiding. I knew I held on to them for a reason.
So Moses, Tooth Fairy #1, and Tooth Fairy #2 joined Super Girl (Grace) and Superman (Lance) and Renee around T-town for a night of sugar high. I had to remind them often not to tramp through everyone's landscaping and S would race to the door to be first to yell "TRICK OR TREAT" while K repeatedly lost her Sunday shoes (guess tooth fairies also wear brown Mary Janes from Walmart). My staff was so long I had to hang it out the side window and nearly took out a few mailboxes as the red minivan lumbered from house to house.
Now we are rationing the haul as I already have to peel S and K off the ceiling most days. Plus, their dad and I plan to raid their stash on a regular basis!
Fat chance.
S desperately wanted to be a mermaid. I told her we didn't have the dress up clothes for that so she had to pick something else. I finally talked her into a fairy since the outfit had long sleeves and she could wear her white tights (a big deal before you hit 18). I helped her make a wand out of construction paper, a pencil, and tape. She figured she needed to be a specific kind of fairy and since her bottom tooth has been very wiggly, she decided she was The Tooth Fairy.
K, being the "monkey see, monkey do" variety, decided she was also being The Tooth Fairy. She was really wearing the Cinderella dress but since neither had actually seen a tooth fairy, we figured who would know the difference?
As for me, I borrowed Darren's Moses costume, complete with a beard down to my knees and a hair piece that rivaled Charleton Heston's in "The Ten Commandments". The robe was a little long so the rope belt held up the big blousing over of the top part. My old Birkenstock sandals (so Seattle Grunge '90s) came out of hiding. I knew I held on to them for a reason.
So Moses, Tooth Fairy #1, and Tooth Fairy #2 joined Super Girl (Grace) and Superman (Lance) and Renee around T-town for a night of sugar high. I had to remind them often not to tramp through everyone's landscaping and S would race to the door to be first to yell "TRICK OR TREAT" while K repeatedly lost her Sunday shoes (guess tooth fairies also wear brown Mary Janes from Walmart). My staff was so long I had to hang it out the side window and nearly took out a few mailboxes as the red minivan lumbered from house to house.
Now we are rationing the haul as I already have to peel S and K off the ceiling most days. Plus, their dad and I plan to raid their stash on a regular basis!
Bat Wings and a Thass
The other day, S piped up from the backseat "Mommy, how come you never exercise?"
Well, harumph.
The first reply I composed in my head was, "I do exercise every day all day. It's called bend overs and pick ups. I bend over and pick up your clothes. I bend over and put the wash in the washer and bend over and pull the clean clothes out of the dryer. I bend over and pick you up as you dance up and down in front of me, chanting. I bend over the tub to wash your hair and pick your sopping wet, slithery like an eel, jumping, jiving body out of the tub. I bend over to load the dishwasher and to vacuum up the bits of Play-Doh that have glued themselves into the rug."
The next reply I composed in my head was "Just wait until you hit the thirties. Believe it or not, there was a time I could sit on the toilet and actually still see the toilet seat underneath me instead of my thighs flopping over the sides. I could wear a swimsuit 8 hours a day lifeguarding and not worry that the back of my legs look like they have been hit by shrapnel. My arms would stop waving when I did. I had only one chin. My clothing size was in the single digits. I actually had a distinguishable waist and nobody ever incorrectly asked me when I was due."
What I actually mumbled was something closer to, "Because I hate it and would rather poke a pen in my eye."
Well, harumph.
The first reply I composed in my head was, "I do exercise every day all day. It's called bend overs and pick ups. I bend over and pick up your clothes. I bend over and put the wash in the washer and bend over and pull the clean clothes out of the dryer. I bend over and pick you up as you dance up and down in front of me, chanting. I bend over the tub to wash your hair and pick your sopping wet, slithery like an eel, jumping, jiving body out of the tub. I bend over to load the dishwasher and to vacuum up the bits of Play-Doh that have glued themselves into the rug."
The next reply I composed in my head was "Just wait until you hit the thirties. Believe it or not, there was a time I could sit on the toilet and actually still see the toilet seat underneath me instead of my thighs flopping over the sides. I could wear a swimsuit 8 hours a day lifeguarding and not worry that the back of my legs look like they have been hit by shrapnel. My arms would stop waving when I did. I had only one chin. My clothing size was in the single digits. I actually had a distinguishable waist and nobody ever incorrectly asked me when I was due."
What I actually mumbled was something closer to, "Because I hate it and would rather poke a pen in my eye."
Thursday, October 30, 2008
No Spanking Zone
WARNING: This post may cause controversy. It will probably lessen your opinion of me even more.
All foster parents have to sign an agreement that they will not use corporal punishment during the foster care period. "Corporal" is very broadly defined to include not only spanking, but slapping hands or mouths, washing a mouth out with soap, making a child eat hot sauce or vinegar, making a child run laps or do sit-ups/push-ups, making a child stand in the corner, making a child miss a meal, taking a child's belonging away without providing a way to earn it back, withholding an allowance (the state provides them one) without providing a way to earn it back, pinches, pokes, slaps, ear pullings, flicks, basically anything but the TIME-OUT.
Well, let me just tell you...this has been a real struggle for me because the time-outs do not always work as planned. Even though we are administering them the same (# of minutes equal to their age, put in their room, explained why they are put in time-out afterwards, apology demanded, hugs and kisses....very a la "Supernanny"), I have been hit, had a room trashed, had both scream themselves hoarse (good thing we live in the country), and literally had one foaming at the mouth this week. (Note to self: check on last rabies shot)
I know why DCFS puts in the "No Spanking Rule"...it's A) because a lot of kids in foster care have experienced physical abuse whether known at the time they come into care or discovered later on and B) some foster parents would take it too far. I add reason #3...there are times you feel such a rage that if God did not stay my hand, I fear for my own strength. I know in my heart of hearts, I would rather not have a situation come to a spanking but for some kids, it's the only thing (administered correctly) that snaps them out of their hissy fit.
I'm sure I'll get responses quoting the "spare the rod, spoil the child" and responses stating that "spanking is barbaric and only done by parents that have lost control". Regardless, the choice is not one I have right now...so we continue with time-outs. And more time-outs. And more time-outs. I trust in the value of consistency. I trust that the girls will learn to handle the word "no" eventually. I trust that they WANT the boundaries even if they don't know they want the boundaries.
I trust. And pray for wisdom beyond my experience and peace in the midst of one of the worst weeks to date.
All foster parents have to sign an agreement that they will not use corporal punishment during the foster care period. "Corporal" is very broadly defined to include not only spanking, but slapping hands or mouths, washing a mouth out with soap, making a child eat hot sauce or vinegar, making a child run laps or do sit-ups/push-ups, making a child stand in the corner, making a child miss a meal, taking a child's belonging away without providing a way to earn it back, withholding an allowance (the state provides them one) without providing a way to earn it back, pinches, pokes, slaps, ear pullings, flicks, basically anything but the TIME-OUT.
Well, let me just tell you...this has been a real struggle for me because the time-outs do not always work as planned. Even though we are administering them the same (# of minutes equal to their age, put in their room, explained why they are put in time-out afterwards, apology demanded, hugs and kisses....very a la "Supernanny"), I have been hit, had a room trashed, had both scream themselves hoarse (good thing we live in the country), and literally had one foaming at the mouth this week. (Note to self: check on last rabies shot)
I know why DCFS puts in the "No Spanking Rule"...it's A) because a lot of kids in foster care have experienced physical abuse whether known at the time they come into care or discovered later on and B) some foster parents would take it too far. I add reason #3...there are times you feel such a rage that if God did not stay my hand, I fear for my own strength. I know in my heart of hearts, I would rather not have a situation come to a spanking but for some kids, it's the only thing (administered correctly) that snaps them out of their hissy fit.
I'm sure I'll get responses quoting the "spare the rod, spoil the child" and responses stating that "spanking is barbaric and only done by parents that have lost control". Regardless, the choice is not one I have right now...so we continue with time-outs. And more time-outs. And more time-outs. I trust in the value of consistency. I trust that the girls will learn to handle the word "no" eventually. I trust that they WANT the boundaries even if they don't know they want the boundaries.
I trust. And pray for wisdom beyond my experience and peace in the midst of one of the worst weeks to date.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Drs Jekyll and Misses Hyde
The burning question this week is why my girls behave so well for others and so rotten for me?
Seriously.
My mom and dad kept them overnight to give Darren and me some time to finish our thoughts and sentences without interruption (a rare occurrence these days). This was their first time overnight without us and without kids their age to play with so I wasn't sure how they would do. Plus they were going to mom and dad's church on Sunday and would have to wear tights, which I wasn't sure at what age tights go from being cool, ballerina things to leg circulation killers. Maybe when you are old enough for your thighs to rub together and start a fire.
Mom and Dad reported that the girls did great! In fact, my sister Renee kept them on a different evening and they did great. Also did great for Darren's mom and dad. I guess I should be thankful that they behave well for others so that I can actually get people to babysit but what happens between the time they are with others to the time they are home???
My mom says that they behave poorly for us because they feel comfortable enough to "let their hair down". It's a sign of bonding. I'll have to ponder that one.
Meanwhile, they were absolutely a bouncing off the wall, sass talking, whining nightmare when they came home yesterday. In fact, they weren't even home yet...it started on the car ride home. I feel like I use my microwave timer for timeouts more these days than I use the heating function on the unit. I had to CARRY S on the bus on Thursday because she was having an almighty hissy fit. The bus driver looked at me like "What is this crazy lady doing?" as I sighed and said, "We're having a morning." K ended up in bed at 7:30 last night because she wouldn't stop sassing off.
For both Darren and me, we try to step in when the other one is on the verge of snapping. We don't like the tension or the fact that we both feel rather crabby at the end of the evening. So hopefully we can have a breakthrough here soon before we have a breakdown here soon! Much more of this, and I fear a van is going to pull up with a man who tries to wrestle me into a white sweater with funny sleeves.
Seriously.
My mom and dad kept them overnight to give Darren and me some time to finish our thoughts and sentences without interruption (a rare occurrence these days). This was their first time overnight without us and without kids their age to play with so I wasn't sure how they would do. Plus they were going to mom and dad's church on Sunday and would have to wear tights, which I wasn't sure at what age tights go from being cool, ballerina things to leg circulation killers. Maybe when you are old enough for your thighs to rub together and start a fire.
Mom and Dad reported that the girls did great! In fact, my sister Renee kept them on a different evening and they did great. Also did great for Darren's mom and dad. I guess I should be thankful that they behave well for others so that I can actually get people to babysit but what happens between the time they are with others to the time they are home???
My mom says that they behave poorly for us because they feel comfortable enough to "let their hair down". It's a sign of bonding. I'll have to ponder that one.
Meanwhile, they were absolutely a bouncing off the wall, sass talking, whining nightmare when they came home yesterday. In fact, they weren't even home yet...it started on the car ride home. I feel like I use my microwave timer for timeouts more these days than I use the heating function on the unit. I had to CARRY S on the bus on Thursday because she was having an almighty hissy fit. The bus driver looked at me like "What is this crazy lady doing?" as I sighed and said, "We're having a morning." K ended up in bed at 7:30 last night because she wouldn't stop sassing off.
For both Darren and me, we try to step in when the other one is on the verge of snapping. We don't like the tension or the fact that we both feel rather crabby at the end of the evening. So hopefully we can have a breakthrough here soon before we have a breakdown here soon! Much more of this, and I fear a van is going to pull up with a man who tries to wrestle me into a white sweater with funny sleeves.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
God Makes Ketchup
I have been struggling to explain who God is to S & K.
I know they have been to church. In fact, in the midst of S's ramblings in the back seat, I heard her say, "Lord (pronounced "Lawd"), give me POWER." and another time she was running around, pretending to hand out what I can only guess were Gospel tracts while saying over and over again "God (pronounced "Gawd") is MOVING today.". I can imagine their church experience involved women who wear hats, a swaying choir in robes, and a preacher who gets a sweaty forehead as he points his index finger to the sky and yells.
But when I ask them who God is, I get a blank stare. They've had a lot of religion without knowing what is behind all of that. How do I tell them about their Creator? Their Abba Father? Jehovah Jirah? Jehovah Raphe?
I started by explaining to K that God made her and many wonderful things around her. I asked her to think of things God made, thinking she would say "the sky" or "the grass". Instead, she listed ketchup, furniture, her shirt. She views God as a manufacturer of goods, I guess. I started to explain to her that God created the elements that go into those things without actually sitting at the sewing machine or carpenter's bench and then realized that I was speaking to a four-year-old.
S is quicker to pick up on the use of Jesus' name in prayer, the songs, the Bible stories. But I don't just want her to become an encylopedia of head knowledge about God. My desire is for both of them to know Him, to make the choice for themselves to follow Christ's example and commandments, and not just to do things because their mom and dad did.
For now, we are trying to lay the foundation by teaching them the stories of the Bible, teaching them to pray, to be respectful of God's holiness, teaching them psalms and hymns and spiritual songs (good thing I am the only one who knows how to load songs on the MP3 players for them because I'm sure they'd rather have Hannah Montana and High School Musical). And we pray for the day when they have a full understanding of salvation and make that choice for themselves.
Until then, they keep hoping God makes more ketchup.
I know they have been to church. In fact, in the midst of S's ramblings in the back seat, I heard her say, "Lord (pronounced "Lawd"), give me POWER." and another time she was running around, pretending to hand out what I can only guess were Gospel tracts while saying over and over again "God (pronounced "Gawd") is MOVING today.". I can imagine their church experience involved women who wear hats, a swaying choir in robes, and a preacher who gets a sweaty forehead as he points his index finger to the sky and yells.
But when I ask them who God is, I get a blank stare. They've had a lot of religion without knowing what is behind all of that. How do I tell them about their Creator? Their Abba Father? Jehovah Jirah? Jehovah Raphe?
I started by explaining to K that God made her and many wonderful things around her. I asked her to think of things God made, thinking she would say "the sky" or "the grass". Instead, she listed ketchup, furniture, her shirt. She views God as a manufacturer of goods, I guess. I started to explain to her that God created the elements that go into those things without actually sitting at the sewing machine or carpenter's bench and then realized that I was speaking to a four-year-old.
S is quicker to pick up on the use of Jesus' name in prayer, the songs, the Bible stories. But I don't just want her to become an encylopedia of head knowledge about God. My desire is for both of them to know Him, to make the choice for themselves to follow Christ's example and commandments, and not just to do things because their mom and dad did.
For now, we are trying to lay the foundation by teaching them the stories of the Bible, teaching them to pray, to be respectful of God's holiness, teaching them psalms and hymns and spiritual songs (good thing I am the only one who knows how to load songs on the MP3 players for them because I'm sure they'd rather have Hannah Montana and High School Musical). And we pray for the day when they have a full understanding of salvation and make that choice for themselves.
Until then, they keep hoping God makes more ketchup.
Arsenic Afternoons
I don't know what teachers give kids right before going home but the moment they step off the bus until after supper time is when they are absolutely bouncing off the walls. Perhaps it's the long hours they sit listening quietly. Perhaps it's the fact that they have had to behave all day long. Whatever it is, when S gets off the bus, she is loaded for bear. She will go tearing into the house. I follow the trail of clothing that she is yanking off and simultaneously turning inside out (it's uncanny) to remind her that it is too cold out to wear a pink tutu and snow boots.
Then it's like she is coming off a week long fast. She is hhhhhhhhhhhhuuuuuuuuuuuungry (imagine this in a high decibel whine). A small snack is not enough even though I know she won't eat any supper if she eats more. Then it's bouncing off the walls about what's in her bookbag, and what's for supper, and when is K getting home ("Same time as every other day", I say), can she go outside, can I play with her, when can she have a friend over, she doesn't want to ride her bike, is "Hannah Montana" on (I say, "Death to Hannah Montana"...well, at least in my head I do)...
This runs for two hours straight. K gets home 45 minutes later and she has usually gotten a little sleepy on the bus ride but hits the ground running nonetheless. And the chaos escalates.
My sister Renee calls this "Arsenic time" - because you either want to give some or take some yourself. Darren gets home about halfway through the "arsenic time" and while I would love to give him a moment to detox and relax after work, the reality is the girls usually attach themselves to each of his legs while I am in the background trying to clean up spilled drinks, dirty clothes, etc. He can see the steam starting to rise off my head and my eyeballs shooting flames out of their sockets and knows I am T minus 10 seconds from what Bill Cosby would call "A conniption". He sighs, puts down his laptop bag, and shuffles the girls outside to play.
I'm not sure if this is a phase all kids go through. With my luck, if it is, it will last until they are 18.
I'll be back, after these messages, and a dose of arsenic.
Then it's like she is coming off a week long fast. She is hhhhhhhhhhhhuuuuuuuuuuuungry (imagine this in a high decibel whine). A small snack is not enough even though I know she won't eat any supper if she eats more. Then it's bouncing off the walls about what's in her bookbag, and what's for supper, and when is K getting home ("Same time as every other day", I say), can she go outside, can I play with her, when can she have a friend over, she doesn't want to ride her bike, is "Hannah Montana" on (I say, "Death to Hannah Montana"...well, at least in my head I do)...
This runs for two hours straight. K gets home 45 minutes later and she has usually gotten a little sleepy on the bus ride but hits the ground running nonetheless. And the chaos escalates.
My sister Renee calls this "Arsenic time" - because you either want to give some or take some yourself. Darren gets home about halfway through the "arsenic time" and while I would love to give him a moment to detox and relax after work, the reality is the girls usually attach themselves to each of his legs while I am in the background trying to clean up spilled drinks, dirty clothes, etc. He can see the steam starting to rise off my head and my eyeballs shooting flames out of their sockets and knows I am T minus 10 seconds from what Bill Cosby would call "A conniption". He sighs, puts down his laptop bag, and shuffles the girls outside to play.
I'm not sure if this is a phase all kids go through. With my luck, if it is, it will last until they are 18.
I'll be back, after these messages, and a dose of arsenic.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Dear Miss Manners
This week, we are concentrating on table manners.
My guess is that S & K have had to fend for themselves when it comes to food, as evidenced by the fact that the table, their plate, the rug, their shirt, and eyebrows/hairline are all covered in bits of food after dinner. They tended to eat with their fingers or somewhat with a fork while back shoveling the rest of the food with their hands.
I've promised them that if they work on using their fork, not their fingers, not talking with their mouth open, not sliding off their chair under the table, not trying to leave the table as soon as they are done instead of waiting for everyone else, not showing their mastery of noisy bodily functions at the dinner table, etc....that we will be to a REAL restaurant (so far, the only request has been McDonalds...repeatedly...if I never see a golden arch again, it will be too soon) with menus, and trays, and waitresses, and everything.
And as for Darren, well, he's feeling the full effects of a house full of women. Someone please send him a blow torch or chain saw before the last bit of testosterone flees from him.
My guess is that S & K have had to fend for themselves when it comes to food, as evidenced by the fact that the table, their plate, the rug, their shirt, and eyebrows/hairline are all covered in bits of food after dinner. They tended to eat with their fingers or somewhat with a fork while back shoveling the rest of the food with their hands.
I've promised them that if they work on using their fork, not their fingers, not talking with their mouth open, not sliding off their chair under the table, not trying to leave the table as soon as they are done instead of waiting for everyone else, not showing their mastery of noisy bodily functions at the dinner table, etc....that we will be to a REAL restaurant (so far, the only request has been McDonalds...repeatedly...if I never see a golden arch again, it will be too soon) with menus, and trays, and waitresses, and everything.
And as for Darren, well, he's feeling the full effects of a house full of women. Someone please send him a blow torch or chain saw before the last bit of testosterone flees from him.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Oral Fixations
Nibble, nibble, little mouse
Who is nibbling at my house?
EVERYBODY!
It started with the dogs, Atticus (big, slow, loves to lick everything, doesn't run unless it involves food) and Sasha (timid, quick, shy, sneaky). I have caught them chewing a cell phone charger, lag bolts, palettes, rugs, planters, my mom's cell phone, flip flops, sidewalk chalk, screens, the house, the porch railing, concrete, Kim Possible figurine, etc. I bought some new dianthus and turned around and they had eaten the planter and the plant. I finally went to the local meat locker and picked up huge beef femur bones which keeps them busy for hours...but then my yard looks like a cow graveyard.
On to two girls with oral fixation...shirt sleeves, hair bands, MP3 players, shirt ties, napkins, fingers, pens, pencils, markers, backpack straps...my brother-in-law Shannon thinks it's a "comfort thing". I think I may go crazy. If you want to find me before I do, follow the gnawing sound to the house whittled down to a toothpick behind the cow graveyard.
Who is nibbling at my house?
EVERYBODY!
It started with the dogs, Atticus (big, slow, loves to lick everything, doesn't run unless it involves food) and Sasha (timid, quick, shy, sneaky). I have caught them chewing a cell phone charger, lag bolts, palettes, rugs, planters, my mom's cell phone, flip flops, sidewalk chalk, screens, the house, the porch railing, concrete, Kim Possible figurine, etc. I bought some new dianthus and turned around and they had eaten the planter and the plant. I finally went to the local meat locker and picked up huge beef femur bones which keeps them busy for hours...but then my yard looks like a cow graveyard.
On to two girls with oral fixation...shirt sleeves, hair bands, MP3 players, shirt ties, napkins, fingers, pens, pencils, markers, backpack straps...my brother-in-law Shannon thinks it's a "comfort thing". I think I may go crazy. If you want to find me before I do, follow the gnawing sound to the house whittled down to a toothpick behind the cow graveyard.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Transgendered Barbie
I have a love/hate affair with the whole Barbie empire. While the girls love playing with them, the Barbie clothes available now are kind of trashy. And I keep stepping on tiny pairs of shoes, purses, cell phones, handbags, etc. around the house. Oh yes, and a Barbie latte cup. What's next, Starbucks Barbie? She'll be dressed in Prada, talking loud on her cell phone, while jittering and jumping on a caffeine high.
I used to love playing with Barbies. Erin and I would spend HOURS making up elaborate story lines. We made a house out of old orange boxes that we would put wrapping paper on for wall paper and cut pictures out of "Farm and Ranch" magazine for the windows. Kleenex box beds and Sunday shoes for cars. The only thing we didn't have was Ken Barbie because (I suspect) our mom thought our story lines would become more "graphic" and there would be little, unexplained Barbies forthcoming from the pair. Hard to get more graphic when both Ken and Barbie have plastic, welded on underwear.
Erin and I were determined to have a male lead for the story, though, so we took one of the oldest Barbie (the one whose arms didn't bend and only had sparse, straight blond hair), cut off all the hair, and put it under the weights on the weight set until the boobs were smashed into a concave shape. So we ended up having a butch-looking, "transgendered" Barbie/Ken. I think that scared Mom more because at Erin's next birthday, we finally had surfer dude Ken. He didn't have as many clothing options, though, so most of our stories had to revolve around the pool or the beach.
So we'll see how long the Barbies stay around our house. S & K's story lines revolve around "buying hair at the salon" and dancing like mad to "High School Musical". So far no requests for a Ken doll have been made but if I see Barbie hair on the floor and a doll with a double mastectomy, we are heading to Walmart fast!
I used to love playing with Barbies. Erin and I would spend HOURS making up elaborate story lines. We made a house out of old orange boxes that we would put wrapping paper on for wall paper and cut pictures out of "Farm and Ranch" magazine for the windows. Kleenex box beds and Sunday shoes for cars. The only thing we didn't have was Ken Barbie because (I suspect) our mom thought our story lines would become more "graphic" and there would be little, unexplained Barbies forthcoming from the pair. Hard to get more graphic when both Ken and Barbie have plastic, welded on underwear.
Erin and I were determined to have a male lead for the story, though, so we took one of the oldest Barbie (the one whose arms didn't bend and only had sparse, straight blond hair), cut off all the hair, and put it under the weights on the weight set until the boobs were smashed into a concave shape. So we ended up having a butch-looking, "transgendered" Barbie/Ken. I think that scared Mom more because at Erin's next birthday, we finally had surfer dude Ken. He didn't have as many clothing options, though, so most of our stories had to revolve around the pool or the beach.
So we'll see how long the Barbies stay around our house. S & K's story lines revolve around "buying hair at the salon" and dancing like mad to "High School Musical". So far no requests for a Ken doll have been made but if I see Barbie hair on the floor and a doll with a double mastectomy, we are heading to Walmart fast!
Sunday, October 12, 2008
So how is it going...really?
So many of you have asked how it is going. I weigh whether to give you the warm, fuzzy answer that you are looking for like "Oh WONDERFUL! I knew these girls were mine from the moment I saw them and we spend hours doing each others' nails."
But that's not reality. Here is the unfiltered truth...
I cried to Darren three nights into this that I wasn't sure I was going to be able to handle this. I don't "feel" like the girls are my own yet although the bonding grows each week for all of us. I was so glad to hear my friend Jill say that, even though she had anticipated the arrival of her adoptive daughter from the birth mother, she, too, felt like she was "watching someone else's kid". I am not a person that attaches immediately to much of anything but when I do, it's for a long time. And I am committed to these girls for as long as the Lord allows.
Each week gets better. There are starting to be more good moments than bad. We are down to one good time-out per day for each one and they are starting to self-correct their behavior with one lethal "if looks could kill" glare from me. But I can tell that they have not had a lot of attention in their short lives. The first two weeks they would constantly need to be around me, calling "Mommy, mommy, mommy" which I know should thrill my soul and certainly did the first few times but 54 times into it for the day, it was less than thrilling. I felt like the life force was being sucked out of me.
Slowly they are learning to play on their own, to be content and secure, to be respectful and obedient. All in all, they are adjusting remarkably well considering...
And I am learning to manage my expectations. As part of the adoption licensing process, we had to write a paragraph about what we imagined our biological children would be like. I wrote that my daughter would be strong-willed, overly dramatic, love to read...
And what do you know? That is exactly what my adopted daughters are like! Oh, how God must laugh.
But that's not reality. Here is the unfiltered truth...
I cried to Darren three nights into this that I wasn't sure I was going to be able to handle this. I don't "feel" like the girls are my own yet although the bonding grows each week for all of us. I was so glad to hear my friend Jill say that, even though she had anticipated the arrival of her adoptive daughter from the birth mother, she, too, felt like she was "watching someone else's kid". I am not a person that attaches immediately to much of anything but when I do, it's for a long time. And I am committed to these girls for as long as the Lord allows.
Each week gets better. There are starting to be more good moments than bad. We are down to one good time-out per day for each one and they are starting to self-correct their behavior with one lethal "if looks could kill" glare from me. But I can tell that they have not had a lot of attention in their short lives. The first two weeks they would constantly need to be around me, calling "Mommy, mommy, mommy" which I know should thrill my soul and certainly did the first few times but 54 times into it for the day, it was less than thrilling. I felt like the life force was being sucked out of me.
Slowly they are learning to play on their own, to be content and secure, to be respectful and obedient. All in all, they are adjusting remarkably well considering...
And I am learning to manage my expectations. As part of the adoption licensing process, we had to write a paragraph about what we imagined our biological children would be like. I wrote that my daughter would be strong-willed, overly dramatic, love to read...
And what do you know? That is exactly what my adopted daughters are like! Oh, how God must laugh.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Go-Go Bananas
As most girls their age, S & K are obsessed with cheerleaders so when they found out I was a former cheerleader, they were impressed. I didn't have the heart to tell them I probably only made the squad because I was built like a Mack truck and they could use me as the base to hold up all the princessy girls who got to pirouette on top of the formation. Nonetheless, I dug into the back of my brain for an old cheer we used to do that went like this:
Go bananas
Go go bananas
Go bananas
Go go bananas
First you lean to the left
Then you lean to the right
Then you peel the banana
And you "mmm", take a bite
Not sure why we ever cheered on fruit or why I have forgotten the important things in life, like how to find the area of a cone or what a gerund participle is while maintaining other worthless bits of knowledge like this cheer and all the words to the "Where in the world is Carmen San Diego?" song.
Equally weird is the fact that I am not very girly at all yet spent five years of junior and senior high posed up in front of people in an impossibly short skirt trying to get them to yell the same things I was. What is the purpose of cheerleaders, anyway? Most people were craning their neck around me trying to watch the game and would rather yell at the ref than chant "Go, fight, win...do it again." (Like the team really needed that direction or they would have stopped mid-football field, looked at each other, and said, "We've just gone, fought, and won...what do we do now?")
At any rate, the girls LOVED the cheer and my 4" vertical leap looked like two feet to them. Much prancing, jumping, shouting, and pumping our arms in the air later, they are still "go-going bananas" and me? Well, most days I can go bananas without anyone cheering me in that direction at all.
Go bananas
Go go bananas
Go bananas
Go go bananas
First you lean to the left
Then you lean to the right
Then you peel the banana
And you "mmm", take a bite
Not sure why we ever cheered on fruit or why I have forgotten the important things in life, like how to find the area of a cone or what a gerund participle is while maintaining other worthless bits of knowledge like this cheer and all the words to the "Where in the world is Carmen San Diego?" song.
Equally weird is the fact that I am not very girly at all yet spent five years of junior and senior high posed up in front of people in an impossibly short skirt trying to get them to yell the same things I was. What is the purpose of cheerleaders, anyway? Most people were craning their neck around me trying to watch the game and would rather yell at the ref than chant "Go, fight, win...do it again." (Like the team really needed that direction or they would have stopped mid-football field, looked at each other, and said, "We've just gone, fought, and won...what do we do now?")
At any rate, the girls LOVED the cheer and my 4" vertical leap looked like two feet to them. Much prancing, jumping, shouting, and pumping our arms in the air later, they are still "go-going bananas" and me? Well, most days I can go bananas without anyone cheering me in that direction at all.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Beauty and the Beast
I got a birthday card from S today that will go down in the annals of history. It reads:
"I love Mom. Happy Birthday. She meks me Happy. You are the beast mom."
I'll assume she means "best mom" although I am sure some days I am a beastly mom;-)
"I love Mom. Happy Birthday. She meks me Happy. You are the beast mom."
I'll assume she means "best mom" although I am sure some days I am a beastly mom;-)
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Hairy Times
I never knew black women had such hair woes. I should have had a clue when an African-American (AA) woman in my foster care licensing class begged any of us who received AA girls as placements to "PLEASE get some help with their hair." I figured I could do my own research and figure this out, right?
WRONG!
I stood in the hair aisle at Walmart looking like a man in a scrapbooking store. There was wrapping lotion, hair mayonnaise, pink hair oil, olive oil spray, plastic shower caps, and things with words like "shea butter" and "jojoba oil" (never seen a shea being milked or a jojoba tree in my life). I diligently read the back of each container which promised silky smooth hair after application. I saw beautiful black women with shiny straight hair smiling at me from boxes of "no lye" hair relaxers assuring me, the rookie do-it-yourselfer, that I could figure out "black hair". Armed with a little something of everything, I bravely made my first attempts.
Somehow, overnight, S & K's hair turns into a tangled mess in the back so I spent the first few mornings trying to untangle it. I slathered on hair oil, hair lotion, etc. until I had oily goo running down my arms and felt like Elvis during a fried egg sandwich binge. I would wrestle the hair into some semblence of ponytails and stick in enough hairbows to cover my efforts. A strong round of olive oil finishing spray and off to school they go. Only to have them return with their hair completely dry again and starting to spring off their heads in a lion's mane halo.
Thursday was picture day for S so I was especially nervous. She wanted to wear her hair down and as best I tried, I could only get it to stay perfectly horizontal out from all sides of her head. We finally settled for low ponytails and I prayed that the photographer would be waiting for her to get off the bus.
It was not to be. She told me that she didn't get her picture taken until the afternoon. I have a feeling that her first grade picture will be one that she shows everyone years from now and says, "I don't know what my mother was thinking...sending me to school like that."
So now I am weighing my options on things like braids and beads and hair extensions and realize we may have to add a second mortgage to our home to afford to care properly for black hair. And I'd like to find the hair models for the relaxers and sue them for WAY false advertising. No lye.
WRONG!
I stood in the hair aisle at Walmart looking like a man in a scrapbooking store. There was wrapping lotion, hair mayonnaise, pink hair oil, olive oil spray, plastic shower caps, and things with words like "shea butter" and "jojoba oil" (never seen a shea being milked or a jojoba tree in my life). I diligently read the back of each container which promised silky smooth hair after application. I saw beautiful black women with shiny straight hair smiling at me from boxes of "no lye" hair relaxers assuring me, the rookie do-it-yourselfer, that I could figure out "black hair". Armed with a little something of everything, I bravely made my first attempts.
Somehow, overnight, S & K's hair turns into a tangled mess in the back so I spent the first few mornings trying to untangle it. I slathered on hair oil, hair lotion, etc. until I had oily goo running down my arms and felt like Elvis during a fried egg sandwich binge. I would wrestle the hair into some semblence of ponytails and stick in enough hairbows to cover my efforts. A strong round of olive oil finishing spray and off to school they go. Only to have them return with their hair completely dry again and starting to spring off their heads in a lion's mane halo.
Thursday was picture day for S so I was especially nervous. She wanted to wear her hair down and as best I tried, I could only get it to stay perfectly horizontal out from all sides of her head. We finally settled for low ponytails and I prayed that the photographer would be waiting for her to get off the bus.
It was not to be. She told me that she didn't get her picture taken until the afternoon. I have a feeling that her first grade picture will be one that she shows everyone years from now and says, "I don't know what my mother was thinking...sending me to school like that."
So now I am weighing my options on things like braids and beads and hair extensions and realize we may have to add a second mortgage to our home to afford to care properly for black hair. And I'd like to find the hair models for the relaxers and sue them for WAY false advertising. No lye.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
City Mouse, Country Mouse
Throughout this past week and a half, we have had an inkling of the life that S & K lived before coming here. For one thing, some of the vocabulary gives me a strong impression of where they came from. We call it the "South Side" coming out (for those of you who know their origin). For instance, K asked me, "What's up, G?", refers to her backside as her "booty", and told me that "two dudes" were outside (our carpenters who put up railing so the death-defying one story drop off our deck no longer poses a problem). S has dance moves that require hip action I am sure I was not genetically predispositioned to do. And they tell each other their hair looks nappy and that certain things are "nnnnnnnnaaaasty".
It's been fun to teach them about country life. They are still learning the different animals as before donkeys, mules, and horses were indistinguishable to them. And pretty much the only animal sound they knew was "moo". In fact, when I asked K today what sound a sheep says, she raised one eyebrow and quizzically said, "Moo?". Hmmm...only if it has a cow in it's mouth.
It's been fun to teach them about country life. They are still learning the different animals as before donkeys, mules, and horses were indistinguishable to them. And pretty much the only animal sound they knew was "moo". In fact, when I asked K today what sound a sheep says, she raised one eyebrow and quizzically said, "Moo?". Hmmm...only if it has a cow in it's mouth.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Ahhh...Quietness = Stealthy Destruction
You know those moments during your day when you think, "At last...the kids are playing quietly." Then you heart siezes in your chest because you realize that it's TOO QUIET! You start frantically searching room to room because your children who normally are chattering a constant dialogue while they play are not talking at all. That can mean only one thing...STEALTHY DESTRUCTION. Here's some of the chaos I've had in this week:
K decided to get into tubes of chapstick (which she calls her "makeup) and smear them all over her dolls. Unfortunately, the dolls have little mouth opening to put a bottle in and so alas, the poor dolls have suffered death by chapstick suffocation.
S decided the dogs looked hungry and that the answer was plastic play food for the Playskol kitchen Renee lent us. We found half-gnawed pieces of plastic hamburger, croissant, chips, etc. in our yard.
K figured she'd help herself to the water dispenser in the fridge. In fact, what fun to push it and let the water run, and run, and run...spilling down the fridge, all over papers on the fridge, and pooling on the wood flooring. Guess it worked great for drowning bugs, too.
And neither one is 'fessing up to opening the shampoo bottle, turning it upside down, and putting it in the basket on the back of the toilet so that it would empty entirely all over the bathroom floor creating the Exxon Valdez of shampoo spills.
Hurricane Katrina has nothing on the mass destruction my girls can inflict in minutes!
K decided to get into tubes of chapstick (which she calls her "makeup) and smear them all over her dolls. Unfortunately, the dolls have little mouth opening to put a bottle in and so alas, the poor dolls have suffered death by chapstick suffocation.
S decided the dogs looked hungry and that the answer was plastic play food for the Playskol kitchen Renee lent us. We found half-gnawed pieces of plastic hamburger, croissant, chips, etc. in our yard.
K figured she'd help herself to the water dispenser in the fridge. In fact, what fun to push it and let the water run, and run, and run...spilling down the fridge, all over papers on the fridge, and pooling on the wood flooring. Guess it worked great for drowning bugs, too.
And neither one is 'fessing up to opening the shampoo bottle, turning it upside down, and putting it in the basket on the back of the toilet so that it would empty entirely all over the bathroom floor creating the Exxon Valdez of shampoo spills.
Hurricane Katrina has nothing on the mass destruction my girls can inflict in minutes!
Monday, September 29, 2008
Whine and Cheese
As anyone with girls can attest, those female hormones kick in early creating mood swings that can change in five seconds flat. We add to that, in S & K's case, previous lack of discipline for the formative years of their lives and we have had some first class meltdowns around here.
S is usually very cheerful, eager to please and to be noticed for what she does. But when she wants something and doesn't get it (mean mom won't let her ride her bike without shoes on), she sulks and pouts and starts whining at a decibel level that Army intelligence could use for torture at Gitmo. You know the kind that hits that one nerve at the base of your neck just right and makes you long for Valium. Then, when she is really wound up, it goes to the next level which makes the dogs in the neighborhood bark like mad.
K, on the other hand, while usually a happy, sunny kid who thinks she can do anything her big "stister" can, will lose all skeletal structure and slide to the floor like a wet eel when she is told "no". I am forced to pick up her and try to place her in time out, at which point she slides off the chair like a runny egg slithering onto your plate. While you would think my 100+ lbs weight advantage would allow me get her to bend her legs and sit in time out but she can be freakishly strong for a four year old.
So these days, we are establishing structure, routine, and discipline and as for the moods, well, if we don't like the current mood, we only have to wait a few seconds and it will change. Pass the Valium.
S is usually very cheerful, eager to please and to be noticed for what she does. But when she wants something and doesn't get it (mean mom won't let her ride her bike without shoes on), she sulks and pouts and starts whining at a decibel level that Army intelligence could use for torture at Gitmo. You know the kind that hits that one nerve at the base of your neck just right and makes you long for Valium. Then, when she is really wound up, it goes to the next level which makes the dogs in the neighborhood bark like mad.
K, on the other hand, while usually a happy, sunny kid who thinks she can do anything her big "stister" can, will lose all skeletal structure and slide to the floor like a wet eel when she is told "no". I am forced to pick up her and try to place her in time out, at which point she slides off the chair like a runny egg slithering onto your plate. While you would think my 100+ lbs weight advantage would allow me get her to bend her legs and sit in time out but she can be freakishly strong for a four year old.
So these days, we are establishing structure, routine, and discipline and as for the moods, well, if we don't like the current mood, we only have to wait a few seconds and it will change. Pass the Valium.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Biker chicks
This weekend was very exciting for S & K. Renee and Mary gave us bikes their kids had outgrown. Darren made a quick trip to Wallyworld for some training wheels (which only halfway work) and spent Saturday morning patiently wrestling with the bikes to get them on. The girls have not had a lot of experience riding bikes as evidenced by the fact that little K kept alternating between pedaling forward, then reversing which brought her bike to a screeching halt. So it was pedal, pedal, SCREECH, pedal, pedal, SCREECH! Reminiscent of my attempts to learn how to drive stick shift in Darren's big black Chevy pickup (my apologies to anyone who has to wait behind me as I lurch out onto the highway from a dead stop and to my father-in-law who braved one trip with me and had to have his fingers surgically removed from the dashboard).
Of course, we don't have the best setup for riding bikes either...we managed to build on a hill so on two sides of the driveway pad in front of the garage, there is a death drop down a steep hill which at this point has Roundup-laden thistle (still awaiting some grading work to be done). But the girls were nonplussed...they merrily pedaled to their hearts content. Pedal, pedal, SCREECH!
Of course, we don't have the best setup for riding bikes either...we managed to build on a hill so on two sides of the driveway pad in front of the garage, there is a death drop down a steep hill which at this point has Roundup-laden thistle (still awaiting some grading work to be done). But the girls were nonplussed...they merrily pedaled to their hearts content. Pedal, pedal, SCREECH!
Friday, September 26, 2008
Living black in a white world
Foster care training really hammered home to us to maintain the cultural identity of our adopted children and to provide for a multi-ethnic experience to broaden their horizons. So I gleefully set off to the toy store to look for dolls/games/books that would show a plethora of skin colors. Alas, I realize how sadly lacking the toy industry is in catering to the non-Caucasian child. There would be 14 Barbies but the only African-American one had a boring dress and a hair style that looked like Diana Ross on heroin. The baby doll aisle was no better - only one choice.
Multi-ethic books? You have to know specifically what you are looking for and Amazon.com has become my book mecca. (The "Grace" series by Mary Hoffman are fabulous!)
It's not just a lack of African-American toys..iIt's no different for Asian or Latino children either. How many children, really, are blond and blue-eyed in the totality of this world? Far, far less than those that belong to the wonderful other colors of the rainbow. This mama hen votes for DIVERSITY in the toy stores of America.
Multi-ethic books? You have to know specifically what you are looking for and Amazon.com has become my book mecca. (The "Grace" series by Mary Hoffman are fabulous!)
It's not just a lack of African-American toys..iIt's no different for Asian or Latino children either. How many children, really, are blond and blue-eyed in the totality of this world? Far, far less than those that belong to the wonderful other colors of the rainbow. This mama hen votes for DIVERSITY in the toy stores of America.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Tastes like butter
All the reading I have done concerning adoptions have talked about reactive attachment disorder which can happen with children that constantly have ties broken to the point where they no longer know what a mother is or how to properly bond. The advice is to use lots of hugs, cuddling, skin-to-skin contact (within the realm of what's appropriate according to DCFS guidelines) - almost bringing them back to the point of a newborn and re-establishing a child-parent bond...so I have been loving on these girls quite a bit.
I was cuddling K today and asked if I could "nibble" on her - which sent her into gales of laughter. It's one of her favorite things when I give her lots of kisses on her cheeks. I tell her she tastes like cinnamon. She then decided to start nibbling on me. I asked her what I taste like and she said "Butter.".
Oh dear.
I was cuddling K today and asked if I could "nibble" on her - which sent her into gales of laughter. It's one of her favorite things when I give her lots of kisses on her cheeks. I tell her she tastes like cinnamon. She then decided to start nibbling on me. I asked her what I taste like and she said "Butter.".
Oh dear.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
No place to hide
So we know that S & K have TONS of family on both maternal and paternal side...and that whenever family sees them, they remind the girls of how much their mom and grandma miss them. We worked with the agency to really try to get them away for now so they could heal from the severed tie and start bonding with their adopted family (that being us). When I say they had family everywhere in their old hometown, I mean every school, doctors' office, store, etc.
So I thought taking them to a different town 45 minutes away would be safe. Alas not...we went to the local cosmetology college to get advice on stying "black hair"...only to run in to someone who goes to their grandma's church. The lady said, "I know you! I go to church with your grandma. I'm going to tell her I saw you."
We suffered a night of regressive behavior following that. We figured it would happen sometime, but three days into the transition was a bit too soon. These little ones have had more to deal with in their short lifetime than any of us should have to face. We are praying for hope and healing for our new daughters.
So I thought taking them to a different town 45 minutes away would be safe. Alas not...we went to the local cosmetology college to get advice on stying "black hair"...only to run in to someone who goes to their grandma's church. The lady said, "I know you! I go to church with your grandma. I'm going to tell her I saw you."
We suffered a night of regressive behavior following that. We figured it would happen sometime, but three days into the transition was a bit too soon. These little ones have had more to deal with in their short lifetime than any of us should have to face. We are praying for hope and healing for our new daughters.
The N-word
I about cried yesterday...little K goes to pre-school in the afternoons in town and rides the "big kids bus" home from the high school. Our teenage neighbor girls rides the bus also and she told me that some kids were staring at K and one called her the n-word today. Of course, K has no idea what a nigger is and when I asked her about her bus ride, she thought it was awesome and the kids were her friends. I feel like getting on the bus tomorrow and knocking some heads together but am trying to let my cooler (Christian) head prevail. Don't mess with this mama hen!
I was really hoping kids were more evolved than to use the N-word but I guess not.
I was really hoping kids were more evolved than to use the N-word but I guess not.
The long road to parenthood
This is my faith story. My heartache story. The story of God's grace and being really tested whether or not, no matter what happens, I can still praise God and love Him for who He is.
This story began five years ago. I married a great man. We both loved the Lord and were excited about starting a family. We knew we wanted to wait until we had been married a least a year before "trying" because we imagined that we would have a houseful of rambunctious kids in no time. After all, he came from a family of seven kids. I came from a family of eight kids. It seemed like someone was always pregnant in one of our families so much so that we used to joke that different married couples only had to wash their underwear together in a load of laundry and whoops, they were expecting again.
So after a year, we eagerly began the fun of "trying". Nothing happened. Months passed. Still nothing. We read books, talked to our family doctor. Still nothing. Finally, in my heart of hearts, I just knew something was amiss. In fact, I had a premonition long before then. And it turned out, I was right. Our doctor confirmed that, due to medical complications, it would be extremely difficult for us to have biological children. At least, unless we wanted to try the various methods of in vitro fertilization or insemination.
My world turned gray that day...the greatest longing of my heart was for motherhood. I had been changing diapers and snuggling babies since I was in the third grade. Of all the prayers of my heart, how could God deny me this?
The more we researched IVF and other fertility methods, the more we felt we were not meant to go down that path. We did try a couple of medical procedures we knew did not have as great a chance of success but felt like plunking down $12,000 for a maybe and the moral dilemma of leftover embryos was not a direction we were willing to go.
Meanwhile, all around me, my dear friends were having their second and third child. Their conversation revolved around which child was getting potty trained and which child was starting school, or learning to walk, or had a love of lima beans. Every Mother's Day was a stab in the heart as mothers were praised and showered with gifts and the hole in my heart ached and ached and ached. Well meaning people said thoughtless things and God was teaching me grace...and forgiveness...and forbearance. There's a scene in the movie "Facing the Giants" where the coach's wife is talking to her husband about their infertility and desire for children and she says that she can picture her children running to her, opening up Christmas presents, etc...and she wonders how she can love someone so much that she has never met. I know exactly what she means.
Finally, in January, after many long talks late at night, my husband and I came to the conclusion that with all the hurting children in this world, we needed to step up and bring them into our home. We considered the different options - and chose foster care adoption partly because we felt a loyalty to this country that we love and partly because it was way more cost-effective than international. We wanted the kids that maybe not everybody else would consider. We were open to siblings, to a range of ages, and to any race. We didn't care if they were purple with pink polka dots. We just knew we had the capacity to love and a home that was far too empty and quiet.
So the long journey of adoption began. We felt the invasion of privacy and downright frustration at times when we were asked to divulge everything from a detailed listing of our finances to the utmost details of our intimate life. We filled out mounds of paperwork, attended 30 hours of training, took marriage assessments...and to think that no other pregnant mother would be going through such a grueling process to have their own child. We don't begrudge the foster care system for their diligence to make sure adoptive parents are qualified...it's just the irony of the whole matter.
Finally, on June 11th, we became licensed foster and adoptive parents. Then, on August 29th, we got the call that there were two little girls who are in need of an adoptive placement. On September 20th, we will welcome 4 and 6 year old half sisters. And then the real walk of faith begins. It's called Parenthood.
This story began five years ago. I married a great man. We both loved the Lord and were excited about starting a family. We knew we wanted to wait until we had been married a least a year before "trying" because we imagined that we would have a houseful of rambunctious kids in no time. After all, he came from a family of seven kids. I came from a family of eight kids. It seemed like someone was always pregnant in one of our families so much so that we used to joke that different married couples only had to wash their underwear together in a load of laundry and whoops, they were expecting again.
So after a year, we eagerly began the fun of "trying". Nothing happened. Months passed. Still nothing. We read books, talked to our family doctor. Still nothing. Finally, in my heart of hearts, I just knew something was amiss. In fact, I had a premonition long before then. And it turned out, I was right. Our doctor confirmed that, due to medical complications, it would be extremely difficult for us to have biological children. At least, unless we wanted to try the various methods of in vitro fertilization or insemination.
My world turned gray that day...the greatest longing of my heart was for motherhood. I had been changing diapers and snuggling babies since I was in the third grade. Of all the prayers of my heart, how could God deny me this?
The more we researched IVF and other fertility methods, the more we felt we were not meant to go down that path. We did try a couple of medical procedures we knew did not have as great a chance of success but felt like plunking down $12,000 for a maybe and the moral dilemma of leftover embryos was not a direction we were willing to go.
Meanwhile, all around me, my dear friends were having their second and third child. Their conversation revolved around which child was getting potty trained and which child was starting school, or learning to walk, or had a love of lima beans. Every Mother's Day was a stab in the heart as mothers were praised and showered with gifts and the hole in my heart ached and ached and ached. Well meaning people said thoughtless things and God was teaching me grace...and forgiveness...and forbearance. There's a scene in the movie "Facing the Giants" where the coach's wife is talking to her husband about their infertility and desire for children and she says that she can picture her children running to her, opening up Christmas presents, etc...and she wonders how she can love someone so much that she has never met. I know exactly what she means.
Finally, in January, after many long talks late at night, my husband and I came to the conclusion that with all the hurting children in this world, we needed to step up and bring them into our home. We considered the different options - and chose foster care adoption partly because we felt a loyalty to this country that we love and partly because it was way more cost-effective than international. We wanted the kids that maybe not everybody else would consider. We were open to siblings, to a range of ages, and to any race. We didn't care if they were purple with pink polka dots. We just knew we had the capacity to love and a home that was far too empty and quiet.
So the long journey of adoption began. We felt the invasion of privacy and downright frustration at times when we were asked to divulge everything from a detailed listing of our finances to the utmost details of our intimate life. We filled out mounds of paperwork, attended 30 hours of training, took marriage assessments...and to think that no other pregnant mother would be going through such a grueling process to have their own child. We don't begrudge the foster care system for their diligence to make sure adoptive parents are qualified...it's just the irony of the whole matter.
Finally, on June 11th, we became licensed foster and adoptive parents. Then, on August 29th, we got the call that there were two little girls who are in need of an adoptive placement. On September 20th, we will welcome 4 and 6 year old half sisters. And then the real walk of faith begins. It's called Parenthood.
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