Sorry loyal blog readers (are there more than 15 of you? Time for you anonymous blog readers to "come out of the closet")...I have been falling down on the job here. Actually, the downfall of starting a blog is that you start measuring the "blog-worthiness" of your life's moments instead of just letting the blog be the cathartic verbal vomit you really need.
There is still a lot of hilarity at our house but things seem to be settling down to a somewhat (gasp!) normal state. It helps that one is now medicated. Thank God for psychotropic drugs! The difference it has made is ENORMOUS!
Our hilarity today was when S was reading from "The Picture Bible" when she suddenly gasps and says, "Mommy...they said the word "underwear" in this story!". I wasn't sure which one she was reading from until she read aloud "And King Saul was underwear that David was hiding in the cave." Yeeeaaahhh...I think she means "unaware".
Of course, K had her own doozie tonight when she answered that the two people in the Garden of Eden where Adam and Even.
But perhaps my favorite hilarity in the past week didn't even involve my kids but my friend Jamie D's...she emailed me:
"We were talking about heaven at bedtime [at their house]...Brady (age 3) just ran out to ask, "When am I going to heaven?" I say, "I don't know...whenever Jesus comes to get you." To which Brady replies, "He have a car?"
He may...I think it is the Millennium Cloud four door V7 with heated seats.
Family
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Orange You Glad for Self-Tanners?
The downside to having beautiful, chocolate-colored children is that it makes their white adoptive mama look very, um...er...well, pasty white. This become abundantly clear as I reviewed the great photos taken by Heather S. at our church adoption shower. I look positively anemic.
There was a time when I, too, was a lovely...well, not so much chocolate but more of a honey color. It came from spending 30 plus hours a week in the sun as a lifeguard. I still have my mad whistling twirling skills to prove it. The pleas from my mother that, with a father who is a skin cancer survivor (malignant melanoma), I did not have the genes to get away with all that tanning for long, were heard weekly. They fell on deaf ears. I was all about the tan.
In fact, I did try tanning alternatives. I probably used one of the first iterations of self-tanning lotion only because my brother, in one of his many odd entrepreneurial endeavors, was selling it. It was the kind of self-tanner, however, that turned me a lovely shade of orange. And if you weren't careful around knees and ankles, you became splotchy orange with blackish-orange patches. And if you didn't thoroughly wash your hands afterwards, you became dirty palm girl.
I also did the tanning bed thing...though where else would you pay to lay in a pool of your own sweat and endure third-degree burns to your nether regions (which probably shouldn't see light anyway) on your first few trips. I always had a sneaking suspicion that the bed (or stand up booth) was really a two-way mirror and I was giving jollies to some creep with a web cam on the internet.
When my sister got malignant melanoma, I knew it was time to say goodbye to my "light therapy", as I liked to call it. I tried the spray tan thing...not the automatic booth one (who would try that after the "Friends" episode where Ross kept turning the wrong way and repeatedly blasted only one-half of his body with fake tanning spray?) but the one where someone air brushes it on. The smell is overwhelming...like fermented oily coconut. And you have to wait to shower for eight hours while being careful not to touch anything vital or you will transfer the color onto it. Then when you finally do shower, you feel like you are melting in the shower because all the excess tanning spray is running down the drain. Within a week, all that doesn't matter because you start to molt in splotches (unless you are VERY diligent with the moisterizing...and who is?)
So now I am in a quandry...my genetics say stay away from real tanning...my experience says spray tanning is not for me. While the self-tanners have improved, it is still a labor intensive project to provide even coverage. Maybe it's time I embrace my whiteness...lame dancing skills and all...and hope that the anemic look makes a comeback.
There was a time when I, too, was a lovely...well, not so much chocolate but more of a honey color. It came from spending 30 plus hours a week in the sun as a lifeguard. I still have my mad whistling twirling skills to prove it. The pleas from my mother that, with a father who is a skin cancer survivor (malignant melanoma), I did not have the genes to get away with all that tanning for long, were heard weekly. They fell on deaf ears. I was all about the tan.
In fact, I did try tanning alternatives. I probably used one of the first iterations of self-tanning lotion only because my brother, in one of his many odd entrepreneurial endeavors, was selling it. It was the kind of self-tanner, however, that turned me a lovely shade of orange. And if you weren't careful around knees and ankles, you became splotchy orange with blackish-orange patches. And if you didn't thoroughly wash your hands afterwards, you became dirty palm girl.
I also did the tanning bed thing...though where else would you pay to lay in a pool of your own sweat and endure third-degree burns to your nether regions (which probably shouldn't see light anyway) on your first few trips. I always had a sneaking suspicion that the bed (or stand up booth) was really a two-way mirror and I was giving jollies to some creep with a web cam on the internet.
When my sister got malignant melanoma, I knew it was time to say goodbye to my "light therapy", as I liked to call it. I tried the spray tan thing...not the automatic booth one (who would try that after the "Friends" episode where Ross kept turning the wrong way and repeatedly blasted only one-half of his body with fake tanning spray?) but the one where someone air brushes it on. The smell is overwhelming...like fermented oily coconut. And you have to wait to shower for eight hours while being careful not to touch anything vital or you will transfer the color onto it. Then when you finally do shower, you feel like you are melting in the shower because all the excess tanning spray is running down the drain. Within a week, all that doesn't matter because you start to molt in splotches (unless you are VERY diligent with the moisterizing...and who is?)
So now I am in a quandry...my genetics say stay away from real tanning...my experience says spray tanning is not for me. While the self-tanners have improved, it is still a labor intensive project to provide even coverage. Maybe it's time I embrace my whiteness...lame dancing skills and all...and hope that the anemic look makes a comeback.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Cathartic Penguin Penmanship
I know enough about psychology to be dangerous. Not so much helpful or insightful as dangerous. But since the "therapist" that is supposed to be meeting with my girls has been MIA, I've been doing my best to bridge the gap between their past life and their life here. Sometimes I don't know whether it's best to talk about it or to let it fade away.
It's been especially hard with S because she is older, remembers more, and her ADHD tendencies also include a pretty quick temper. I know I am not supposed to play favorites with my kids but let me just say...some are easier to love. Some are quicker to cuddle, more happy-go-lucky, more sweet. The tables could totally turn when adolescent hormones kick in...I get that...but I've had to remind myself that sometimes the hardest one(s) to love need it most.
So I try to find something to bond with S over. Doing hair is not it...she hates that! She's not one for sitting still or cuddling. We do have an affinity for "American Idol" and she is dead-on accurate with who she thinks will make it through the Hollywood. She also informed me that when (notice she says "when" and not "if") SHE tries out for American Idol, she will sing "Jesus Loves Me" and if she does not make it, she will not cry. Good to know. If American Idol is still on in 10 years, that will be a feat in itself.
So I figured for the times that she can't find the words to express her feelings, or in case she feels she can't tell me something, I would get her a journal to write in. I mean, that's what all good therapists would recommend, right? I found a small spiral bound notebook and wrote "S's Diary" in purple letters on the front. I explained to her that this was her special book that she could write in about how she is feeling and what she would like to tell her birth mom or grandma, etc. Her eyes lit up and she carried it everywhere for several days. I figured the journal must be FILLED with the outpourings of her pent-up frustration and sadness.
So one morning I took a brief glimpse in it. I know...probably a violation of trust but she didn't see me.
There was one entry. And it said, "Penguins are cool. They can swim on their bellies."
That's it. That's her heartfelt feelings. Sheesh! So much for catharsis. Oh yes, and she had ripped one page out and shredded it in tiny pieces, which she had sprinkled in the fake plant in her room. Evidently, she was pretending to plant "seeds". I don't think she's is grasping the concept of this whole journaling thing. Oh well...
It's been especially hard with S because she is older, remembers more, and her ADHD tendencies also include a pretty quick temper. I know I am not supposed to play favorites with my kids but let me just say...some are easier to love. Some are quicker to cuddle, more happy-go-lucky, more sweet. The tables could totally turn when adolescent hormones kick in...I get that...but I've had to remind myself that sometimes the hardest one(s) to love need it most.
So I try to find something to bond with S over. Doing hair is not it...she hates that! She's not one for sitting still or cuddling. We do have an affinity for "American Idol" and she is dead-on accurate with who she thinks will make it through the Hollywood. She also informed me that when (notice she says "when" and not "if") SHE tries out for American Idol, she will sing "Jesus Loves Me" and if she does not make it, she will not cry. Good to know. If American Idol is still on in 10 years, that will be a feat in itself.
So I figured for the times that she can't find the words to express her feelings, or in case she feels she can't tell me something, I would get her a journal to write in. I mean, that's what all good therapists would recommend, right? I found a small spiral bound notebook and wrote "S's Diary" in purple letters on the front. I explained to her that this was her special book that she could write in about how she is feeling and what she would like to tell her birth mom or grandma, etc. Her eyes lit up and she carried it everywhere for several days. I figured the journal must be FILLED with the outpourings of her pent-up frustration and sadness.
So one morning I took a brief glimpse in it. I know...probably a violation of trust but she didn't see me.
There was one entry. And it said, "Penguins are cool. They can swim on their bellies."
That's it. That's her heartfelt feelings. Sheesh! So much for catharsis. Oh yes, and she had ripped one page out and shredded it in tiny pieces, which she had sprinkled in the fake plant in her room. Evidently, she was pretending to plant "seeds". I don't think she's is grasping the concept of this whole journaling thing. Oh well...
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The Good Jesus Wise Man Samaritan
Every night we read Bible stories to the girls. The problem is that their attention span is extremely short. We've started telling them that they need to pay special attention because we will ask them questions after the story is done. This is a sample of what it sounds like:
(I read the story of "The Good Samaritan")
Me: "S, what happened to the man walking down the road?"
S: "Uhhhhm..." (I see her glance at the page as she starts to read verbatim from the story. I close the book and she gets a panicked look on her face...no more cheating). "He gets kicked?"
Me: "Close enough...K, who comes along to help him?"
K: "Jesus?" (she grins at me because she thinks if she answers "Jesus" to every question, she gets a pass)
Me: "How about a priest? Does he help the man?"
K: "YES!" (she is SURE she is right this time)
Me: "Were you listening?" (not sure why I even bother asking...it's evident she was off in la-la land)
K: "YES!" (a big lie)
Me: "No, the priest did not help. Who did help?"
K: "The wise men."
Me: "There are NO WISE MEN in this story. S, who helped?"
S: "Uhhhhmmm...I can't remember his name."
Me: "THE SAMARITAN!" (exasperated...will they retain ANYTHING?) "What did he do for the man that got beat up and robbed?"
S: "Took him to a door." (A door? The door of the inn? I look through the story. Nope, no mention of a door)
At this point, I look at Darren, roll my eyes, and realize our work is cut out for us. Better luck tomorrow night.
(I read the story of "The Good Samaritan")
Me: "S, what happened to the man walking down the road?"
S: "Uhhhhm..." (I see her glance at the page as she starts to read verbatim from the story. I close the book and she gets a panicked look on her face...no more cheating). "He gets kicked?"
Me: "Close enough...K, who comes along to help him?"
K: "Jesus?" (she grins at me because she thinks if she answers "Jesus" to every question, she gets a pass)
Me: "How about a priest? Does he help the man?"
K: "YES!" (she is SURE she is right this time)
Me: "Were you listening?" (not sure why I even bother asking...it's evident she was off in la-la land)
K: "YES!" (a big lie)
Me:
K: "The wise men."
Me: "There are NO WISE MEN in this story. S, who helped?"
S: "Uhhhhmmm...I can't remember his name."
Me: "THE SAMARITAN!" (exasperated...will they retain ANYTHING?) "What did he do for the man that got beat up and robbed?"
S: "Took him to a door." (A door? The door of the inn? I look through the story. Nope, no mention of a door)
At this point, I look at Darren, roll my eyes, and realize our work is cut out for us. Better luck tomorrow night.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Singing Like Canaries
The lesson we are working on this month in this house is getting rid of all the tattling. What is it about kids that, when it comes to 'fessing up on themselves, they clam up like a vault but if it means narcing on their sibling, they will sing like a canary?
Bill Cosby calls these children the "Informers". I've got two of them. And it never fails that once they point out the rule that their sibling is breaking, they are quick to smile angelically and remind me that THEY are currently behaving (stress is on the word CURRENTLY).
Whatever makes them want to throw each other the bus, I've had it up to my eyebrows trying to settle disputes and follow up on everything that starts with a sing-songy "Maaaaaaw-ahm". So the new rule around here is that unless one of them is bleeding, they cannot tell on each other. This had led to lots of harumphing and stomping off when I remind them of the new "no tattling" criteria.
Of course, I'll have to reverse most of this teaching when they are teenagers and I'll need to know if one of them is trying to hide pot in their room or is secretly dating a college boy. Until then, however, you'll hear me like a broken record..."I don't want to hear about your sister...you worry about yourself."
Bill Cosby calls these children the "Informers". I've got two of them. And it never fails that once they point out the rule that their sibling is breaking, they are quick to smile angelically and remind me that THEY are currently behaving (stress is on the word CURRENTLY).
Whatever makes them want to throw each other the bus, I've had it up to my eyebrows trying to settle disputes and follow up on everything that starts with a sing-songy "Maaaaaaw-ahm". So the new rule around here is that unless one of them is bleeding, they cannot tell on each other. This had led to lots of harumphing and stomping off when I remind them of the new "no tattling" criteria.
Of course, I'll have to reverse most of this teaching when they are teenagers and I'll need to know if one of them is trying to hide pot in their room or is secretly dating a college boy. Until then, however, you'll hear me like a broken record..."I don't want to hear about your sister...you worry about yourself."
Friday, February 6, 2009
Daring to Take "The Love Dare"
My small group has decided to do "The Love Dare" as their next series, as taken from the movie "Fireproof". This couldn't be better timing for me. Husband and I are in that itchy seventh year of marriage and kids have added a WHOLE new dimension.
I admit...I am surprised I am able to remain monogomous. I had the relationship longevity of a gnat during my dating years. Once the infatuation and "firsts" wore off, my attention span did, too. The prospect of marriage slightly scared me because I've always viewed it as "for keeps"...and not the "dig your heels in and endure like a martyr" kind of keeps but the "let's work on it to make it spectacular" kind of keeps.
Only I realize I'm rather lazy and selfish about working on it. I seem to lean towards harboring feelings of resentment when I feel I am doing more to make this household run. In reality, Darren does more housework then most men and is a tremendous dad to the girls. I seem to forget that easily.
The other night, he said something that just fried me. Can't even remember what it was but I wasn't in a good mood anyway and he made the mistake of asking me "what got into me" that day or something to that effect. As I am sitting at the dinner table, steam rising off my head, teeth clenched, I hear a little voice pipe up beside me. It's S, asking "Mommy, do you and Daddy ever fight?"
' You bet your sweet fanny, we do', I said to myself, seething internally. I managed a terse "Yes", finally, to which she asked "Are you having one right now?" To which I squeaked out, "Don't worry about it."
Nothing like being called on the carpet by your six-year-old. I cooled off after a while and you can tell whatever it was must not have been highly important because I can't even remember now but MAN, for a good 15 minutes, I thought of some incredible mean things to say in my head.
So you see, I am a good candidate for the "Love Dare". And goodness knows, Darren needs a less selfish, hot-headed, strong-willed wife. Too bad he married me for keeps! That was the biggest Love Dare of all!
I admit...I am surprised I am able to remain monogomous. I had the relationship longevity of a gnat during my dating years. Once the infatuation and "firsts" wore off, my attention span did, too. The prospect of marriage slightly scared me because I've always viewed it as "for keeps"...and not the "dig your heels in and endure like a martyr" kind of keeps but the "let's work on it to make it spectacular" kind of keeps.
Only I realize I'm rather lazy and selfish about working on it. I seem to lean towards harboring feelings of resentment when I feel I am doing more to make this household run. In reality, Darren does more housework then most men and is a tremendous dad to the girls. I seem to forget that easily.
The other night, he said something that just fried me. Can't even remember what it was but I wasn't in a good mood anyway and he made the mistake of asking me "what got into me" that day or something to that effect. As I am sitting at the dinner table, steam rising off my head, teeth clenched, I hear a little voice pipe up beside me. It's S, asking "Mommy, do you and Daddy ever fight?"
' You bet your sweet fanny, we do', I said to myself, seething internally. I managed a terse "Yes", finally, to which she asked "Are you having one right now?" To which I squeaked out, "Don't worry about it."
Nothing like being called on the carpet by your six-year-old. I cooled off after a while and you can tell whatever it was must not have been highly important because I can't even remember now but MAN, for a good 15 minutes, I thought of some incredible mean things to say in my head.
So you see, I am a good candidate for the "Love Dare". And goodness knows, Darren needs a less selfish, hot-headed, strong-willed wife. Too bad he married me for keeps! That was the biggest Love Dare of all!
Thursday, February 5, 2009
A Career as a "Dog Chranr"
S comes home with school, having filled out a sheet called "Five sentences about myself".
1. My favorite thing to do is: "Swim" (oh really...is that why you shriek when you get near water and why we had to put a ski belt on you and why you begged for arm floaties, like your sister?)
2. I want to grow up to be: "Dog chranr" (I'll assume that's "Dog trainer"...not sure how "trainer" can start with "ch"...she is not incredibly fond of our big, licky dog so I guess she plans on overcoming that)
3. One great thing about me is: "I know match" (perhaps "math"? although she says she wishes she were in kindergarten because then school would be easy...to which I start in with my lecture about how easy things don't make you grow and get smarter, yada yada Mom-speak)
4. One thing I would like to do better is: "Swim" (amen)
5. If I had one wish it would be for: "Mrs. B" (her teacher....awwwww...perhaps those lectures on putting someone else first are sinking in!)
1. My favorite thing to do is: "Swim" (oh really...is that why you shriek when you get near water and why we had to put a ski belt on you and why you begged for arm floaties, like your sister?)
2. I want to grow up to be: "Dog chranr" (I'll assume that's "Dog trainer"...not sure how "trainer" can start with "ch"...she is not incredibly fond of our big, licky dog so I guess she plans on overcoming that)
3. One great thing about me is: "I know match" (perhaps "math"? although she says she wishes she were in kindergarten because then school would be easy...to which I start in with my lecture about how easy things don't make you grow and get smarter, yada yada Mom-speak)
4. One thing I would like to do better is: "Swim" (amen)
5. If I had one wish it would be for: "Mrs. B" (her teacher....awwwww...perhaps those lectures on putting someone else first are sinking in!)
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