Smells like Tweenage Spirit

We are coming up on three years on the mission field.  In the plus column, my language skills are improving, and I know the city of Reynosa well enough that when I get hopelessly lost, I can usually find my way back to civilization (AKA the border) without panicking.  On the downside, my ability to handle the fact that NOTHING happens on time and NO ONE returns their grocery cart to the cart return thingamabobbers waffles between thin patience and homicidal tendencies.  When I head back to the Midwest and see the store shelves so neatly lined up, I want to weep in ecstasy. 

While life is progressing on the mission field, we have had six months with our oldest squirrel that I can only deem as "the chickens have come home to roost".  That being, when one adopts, there are just some common issues that can arise with an adopted child that relate to attachment, abandonment, rejection, low self esteem, anxiety, food hoarding, and hyperactivity.  These things affect children differently - some weep buckets over a birth mother they may never know...some try to run away or sabotage a good placement because they have felt rejection so many times before...some constantly sneak food into their rooms or get panicked and flip out if they think they will not get to eat when they want or in the immediate future.  Since we really have seen very little "typical" adopted child behavior, we figured we must be doing things right!  Or maybe, since big and little Squirrels have been together since birth, we would avoid some of the problems. 

But no...junior high...a landmine for even a well-adjusted, sheltered, "normal" child has practically been the undoing of our home.  Hammie was the target of a mal-adjusted, suicidal, self-mutilating, openly bisexual tween who I should be praying for and instead want to ship off to Zimbabwe.  Unbeknownst to us, this girl had been texting Hammie all summer and suggesting/pleading/cajoling Hammie to make really poor choices.  Without going into great detail, let's just say that a school suspension, principal office visits, strange journal entries, and many other signs led us to believe that our once happy, social, funny girl was being sucked into the darkness.  So what could we do? 

We pulled her out of traditional school and enrolled her in a virtual academy.  Now, she is taking classes online, connecting via virtual classroom with other students, and able to go off her ADHD meds (and eat all the live long day).  We don't mind if she needs to run laps in between working on her homework.  I don't mind if she wants to listen to her music while she reads (why this works for an ADHD girl but would drive me batty, I will never know).  We don't view this as a permanent solution as I hate to have Hammie miss out on the good things (e.g. sports, theater, chorus) that come with public school...but it has brought an immense measure of relief to our household.  Word has it, The Problem Girl will be moving at the end of this school year.   So we will see...

I am not the rah-rah, Homeschool with a capital "H" mama.  I work more than full-time between my small business and the mission.  I do not enjoy teaching and am terrible at explaining math.  But I am also a Mama Hen who will do everything I can to protect my child from The Darkness.  In the midst of all this drama, I would go up to Hammie's room at night...long after she was asleep, and just kneel by her bed, lay my hands on her, and hold God's promises up to Him.  The promise that He who began a good work in her would be faithful to complete.  The promise that if we trained her up in the way she should go, she would not depart from it when she was older.  The promise that nobody can pluck her from His hand.  That He has placed His mark on her.  Some days, these promises are the only thing that spur me to put one foot in front of the other.  Parents of tween girls...you get this, right?

Spanglish "Mess"ionary

I suppose it is time to put up or shut up about this whole blogging business.  It started as a catharsis for me to blog about the early stages of adoptive motherhood where I alternated between wanting to return my children to whatever barn they were raised in and laughing at the sheer weirdness that comes with two former urban dwelling nut brown Squirrels with zero boundaries.  Then blogging became this pressure to be uber funny and have lots of hits on the website.  My life became moments to be evaluated as "blog-worthy" or not. 

So let's just say this long sabbatical from blogging has been needed.  I had a major life change - or several, if you count my husband quitting his Fortune 50 job, selling our "dream home", moving 1000 miles south to the Mexico/US border, and entering under the microscope of the missionary world where one feels one has to justify any purchase over $50 since others are supporting you financially. 

Here are a few lessons learned while I have been radio silent...

1)  Marriage was a lot easier when we were not together all the time.  I actually had a chance to miss my husband when he went away to work.  We've had to re-establish what our relationship looks like now that we are together a lot.  Oftentimes sleeping on pallets on top of plywood and dodging cockroaches the size of city busses as we spent many nights down at the mission compound.  We are a work in progress...

2)  Living on the mission field does not carry the same high that a one-week short term mission trip does.  Those of you who have been on one know that hyperbonding and cell phone ditching means really deep relationships forming with your co-travelers.  This gets to carry on when you return home and is way cool!  For us, we get to meet people for a week and then may not see them again for a year.  Or ever again.  I have to fight against the urge to stay un-engaged as goodbyes are emotional.  I also stay behind and continue to try to figure out how to best serve in some of the poorest neighborhoods in our part of Mexico.  It was way easier when I could just send a check down.  Hands on volunteer work requires more than I think I am capable of sometimes. 

3)  I have come to realize that God must have a tremendous sense of humor - sending the most ill-equipped "mess"ionary to the field.  Really.  There are others that can learn language and share the Gospel as easy as they breathe.  Me?  I stumble around in my Spanglish like a kindergartner with a speech impediment and step on people's cultural toes with my ugly Americanism despite my best intentions to be sensitive and humble.  I am combatting this bravado and audacity I have had most of my life and trying to blend.  I am about as successful as a bull in a china shop.  If anyone sees Jesus in me, it will be a true miracle of God!

There is more, I suppose, but that's a peek behind the curtain of our first full year plus here on the frontera.  It's been amazing.  It's been frustrating.  It's been...life. 

Needle in a Haystack? FOUND!

About a year and a half ago, I posted about my quest to help my father-in-law (FIL) find his birth family.  Originally told that he came over on a ship that landed in Ellis Island sometime around September 9, 1945 and with NO original birth certificate, information on his country of origin or even his exact birthday, the quest seemed like an exercise in futility.  I made a trip to Washington, DC to search the National Archives for ship manifests on 10 days of either side of the given date....to no avail. 

My FIL had the wise assumption that perhaps, given the secrecy of adoptions in the early stages of adoptions, perhaps his adoptive parents were given misleading information to protect his birth family. However, I knew the adoption process for his state would have included a court hearing to finalize the adoption regardless of his country of origin. 

And then I happened to have dinner with a friend of my sister in December 2012.  She told me the state had passed legislature allowing for adoptees of a certain age to be able to get an original copy of their birth certificate.  My sister's friend had done so and turned it over to a group of "locators" who found her birth mom within 8 hours. 

I told my FIL the information and, after much prayer, he decided to take the plunge.  He contacted the state and was eventually told that his birth certificate was one of 300 or so that were lost/destroyed.  BUT the man on the phone did let my FIL know that the address on his adoption certificate was the former "Crittenden" home. 

After Googling "Crittenden", I found out there were a series of 65 Florence Crittenden Homes for Unwed Mothers.  Ahhh.....now the plot thickens.  The adoption records for the Crittenden home had been turned over to another agency in P town and the woman to whom my FIL spoke indicated that she knew my FIL's birth mom was still alive! 

My FIL sent a letter through the agency to his birth mother and no sooner had she rec'd it than she called him.  He did not come over on a ship that landed in Ellis Island.  His birthday really was accurate.  And he was born to a very scared little 15-year-old girl who came to the Crittenden home 2 months before she delivered.  She eventually married a year later and was not able to have any additional children.  She ran a restaurant with her husband for many years in a town not an hour away from my FIL.  She told my FIL she had cared for him for 6 weeks after delivery, she had named him, and that ever since he was born, she had prayed for him every morning and night.  For 68 years.  His birth father was 45 when my FIL was born and had passed away some years back.  Through Internet searches, I was able to locate his military and death records and trace his family tree back three generations (and forward 2 as well).  We also know that the birth mother has two sisters still living who had no knowledge that my FIL's birth mom ever had a child. 

I head back to the area in July and hope to meet my FIL's birth mother.  I think about all that had to fall into place for this to happen and how utterly impossible situations become possible with God.  If I had not adopted children, I maybe would not have had the knowledge of where my FIL could turn for answers.  If the state had not passed the legislation.  If the Crittenden home had never turned over information.  If his birth mother had been older when she gave birth and possibly had passed away before now. 

What ifs aside...my FIL has all the pieces now and a chance to know more about where he came from.  It was the best possible scenario for an adoptive reunion and I pray that with all the pieces comes a deeper sense of peace. 

Ugly Formal Wear Christmas Contest

Once again, I have taken a long hiatus from blogging, which is mainly due to Spanish language school, which has shrunk my brain to a quivering mass, not unlike Husband's heart when he is in a-fib. 

However, I did want to post the video and pics from our latest Christmas thrift contest.  The theme this year?  Ugly Formal Wear



Thanks to a church-wide garage sale benefiting Isaiah 55 Deaf Ministries, my husband was able to score a shocking fuschia satin and black velvet dress.  You heard me right...a dress.  He looked like a very scary drag queen (with his Hannah Montana wig) and I had to wash my eyeballs several times to recover. 

 

Not to be outdone, I also had a lovely mint-green lace-covered satin number with an enviable amount of satin bows attached. 

 

The women contestants

 The male contingent

The hotel continues to wonder about this strange clan that descends every year between Christmas and New Year's.  As evidenced by the photo above, apparently the mental illnesses suffered by me and my sisters can transfer to in-laws and all offspring.  We will stay heavily medicated for your safety. 

Following the Poop

This past weekend, we traveled with staff and friends of Isaiah 55 Deaf Ministries into Mexico's beautiful interior.  While Reynosa is hot and humid, smelling slightly of sewer, and a mix of concrete block homes and modern theaters and restaurants (doesn't really feel like Mexico when you can find Walmart and Applebees in the city!), Real de Catorce is a hidden gem high in the Catorce Mountains located in the Mexican state of San Luis Potosi.  Located close to Matahuala, you veer of the main toll road and travel over old cobblestone roads, winding up the mountain (with no guardrail...whew) until you enter a 2,300 meter one way Ogarrio tunnel to wind up in the hilly, colonial city dating back to the 1700s. 

Ogarrio Tunnel

I'll be honest.  I was a tad nervous to be traveling in Mexico.  I know the Word says a lot about not fearing but the papers say a lot about mass graves and checkpoint shootings.  I nearly backed out several times, especially since Husband and Squirrels would be coming with, but in the end, my mantra was "God has not given you a spirit of fear but of a sound mind."  (I'm claiming it...so don't dispute my sound mind, even if this blog gives you plenty of evidence to the contrary!). 

We could not have had a more peaceful journey there.  Two vans full of Americans - some Caucasian, one Asian, and two African Americans.  Mexicans are not known for subtle staring.  We had several that insisted on having their pictures taken with the Squirrels - which made Katybird and Eli feel like celebrities.   Plus, some older Mexican women believe that if you stare at a child too long, you will give them the evil eye (some dark energy) unless you dispel the energy by touching the child, so Katybird and Eli were also subjected to many hands on their head and kisses on their forehead. 

We stayed at Ruinas del Real hotel, locally known as the hotel where Julia Roberts landed while filming "The Mexican" with Brad Pitt.  Her black camisole hangs in the lobby along with a candid shot of her.  I have a feeling she accidentally left the article of clothing behind instead of intentionally bequeathing an undergarment but I may have overestimated her. 

View of the main street when there are NO vendors there. 

 The silver mine ruins

 

NoNo, Husband, and NoNo's son Bibb atop the Catorce Mtns

 

We spent the next few days hiking nearly impossible inclines (all because NoNo's twenty-something son assured us it was "not bad"...yeah, just wait till he hits his mid-thirties.  I will show him "not bad"!), browsing the bazaar (which should be more aptly named "bizarre"!), viewing the silver mine ruins (including the only-recently-covered-seemingly-bottomless-shaft), and getting my head around Spanish menu words (I am all about huevos con tocino y jugo de naranja now).  What we hadn't planned on were three things:

 

1)  The whole city was celebrating Saint Francis of Assisi or, as they call him, "Panchito".  Which makes him sound like a Frito Lay snack item.  Various claims were made the the spirit of Panchito still moves through the city and that he came here to claim the land.  How we all love our legends, no matter how far-fetched.  The celebration lasts for several weekends and includes cannon shots at odd hours (during the day and night, much to our dismay), marching bands, and booths upon booths of chotchke such as peyote pomade (the city is well known to peyote-imbibers), die-cast Virgin Marys, and various and sundry rosary beads.  There were so many vendors with brightly colored, overstuffed tented booths, that it was hard to see the "Real" Real (pronounced Ree-el).  Mental note to self: do not go in October again.

Chotchke Central!



2)  While hiking back down the mountain side, sliding on loose rock and trying in vain to grab onto strongholds other than the prickly cactus, we came upon a very inebriated Mexican man, propped up in his foldable lawn chair.  He told us "everyone was going to the right".  Erin responded that we were heading to the beautiful old church at the bottom.  He responded, "Follow the poop!  Just follow the poop." We will assume he meant for us to follow any sort of trail made by the various donkeys and pack horses that traverse the mountains, i.e. if the horse/donkey can find the best path and mark it with "apples", that would be our best bet, but the phrase "follow the poop" became the running joke of the weekend.  Because, really, it can apply to more than descaling a mountain.  I'm pretty sure there is a lesson about government bureaucracy and corruption in Mexico with such a poetic turn of phrase.  Mental note to self:  if inebriated Mexican man can scale mountain, I have no excuses. 

They call me the "Poopmaker"



3)  We were told by the hotel that we would have to leave Real by 6 AM on Sunday morning or the tunnel would be closed to vehicles and only horse-drawn carts would be traversing back and forth, bringing in the 15,000 - 20,000 visitors that swell the town's under 1000 residents population on the last day of the festival.  We arrived promptly at 5:45 AM only to be told that the tunnel had closed at 12 midnight and would not re-open until 8 PM.  We were so tired, so ready to go, and so cold (Real is up at over 8,000 feet in elevation and not exactly the tropical paradise you think about when you hear the word "Mexico").  After four hours of negotiating with city officials, the owner of the horse cart operation, and the self-appointed tunnel officials, we FINALLY got clearance to go through. 

Dodging horse drawn carts with only inches to spare, we made it through and finally returned to the U.S. of A.  Mental note to self:  Mexicans make up information.  Often.  And prefer to do so rather than to just say "I don't know".  Some strange, face-saving cultural ideal that will take some bridging to understand and adapt to. 

Some pix from our travels:

A view of Real from the top of the Catorce mountain range

Eli with Alyssa, a former summer staffer

Mariachi (see video at bottom) serenades @ lunch

Katybird with Baby Barrett, our youngest traveler

So proud of their peyote (or "magic cactus") that even the napkin holders pay homage!  It's magic all right.  Those who know say it will give you 18 hours of hallucinations. 



A Visit from the Boys in Yellow

We have been having quite a week with our oldest Squirrel.  I think she may have been dropped on her head as a baby or maybe fed paint chips.  I caught her in the pool with her Sunday shoes on (leather, mind you) and when I asked her what possessed her to swim in leather shoes, she told me, "Lots of people exercise in the pool with their shoes on."  I informed her those were Aqua Socks and made especially for water...and that leather does not qualify (sigh). 

Then I catch her with a giant pitcher of orange juice, a Mickey Mouse mug filled to the brim, leaning over on her hands and knees outside, lapping the juice like a dog. 

BRAIN DAMAGED.  I worry about this girl. 

The crowning moment was when she threw a hissy fit after being told to make her bed on Saturday.  Granted, she was running on a half night of sleep because I let her stay up late on Friday night, trying to finish her big library book so she could get 32 accelerated reading points for school (evidently, very important) and she was up very early in the morning.  She went off into hysterics, stomped to her room, packed a suitcase with who knows what, stood in the doorway and shouted that she was running away. 

This isn't the first time she has said such...and we usually nonchalantly tell her we sure are sorry to see her go but if she feels she must, she must.  She took off down the street and went around the corner. 

In typical fashion, she was back 10 minutes later cheerfully shouting out a greeting of "I'mmmmm bbbbaaack" (imagine this in sunshine, sing-songy tones). 

15 minutes after that, the doorbell rang and we were greeted by...the McAllen Police Department...in their neon yellow polyester shirts.  We were informed that a neighbor had called the police stating that someone in a red vehicle had tried to get Elisabeth to into his or her car.  SAY WHAT? 

We asked Elisabeth and she denied that anyone in any car said anything to her.  She did finally remember that she saw a red convertible waiting to turn onto the highway from our subdivision but swears up and down that the driver did not say anything to her. 

We were heavily scolded by the police who told us that our children cannot even bike in the neighborhood alone until they are 14 years of age.  He asked us what we would have done if Elisabeth was kidnapped.  At that point, she had ticked me off so much that I had to bite back a retort of "I would say that the kidnapper would be calling us to BEG that we take her back!".  Instead, I sheepishly muttered that we were unaware that the laws were so restrictive on her being able to bike or walk around the block and it wouldn't happen again. 

So we don't really know what happened.  Our guess is that there was no attempted kidnapping but that the neighbor was concerned because Elisabeth was out by the highway with a suitcase.  Whatever the case may be, I now will be doing a lot more biking with the kids until they are old enough to go by themselves.  We are definitely not in Cougarville anymore!

Delusions of a Wannabe CIA Spy

No sooner had we settled in South Texas then it was time to leave for a week of family vacation with my awesome sisters and 20+ nieces and nephews.  We go as a family every two years and so this vacation was planned two years in advance...and we just happened to pick the hottest week ever in Branson, MO. 

I won't go much more into that week - suffice it to say that I had vacation brain the whole time - but it was the start of watching past seasons of the TV show "Alias", the far-fetched J.J. Abrams series involving a grad student working undercover as CIA Operative Sydney Bristow.  Erin had long told me that the show was addicting - at least the first three seasons - and so she became my pusher and my other sisters willing accomplices to every episode. 

From Branson, Husband, Squirrels and I headed out to Palmer Lake, CO for three weeks of missionary training at Mission Training International www.mti.org - a program called SPLICE as it covered Spiritual, Personal, Language, Interpersonal, Cultural, and Endurance/Enjoyment experiences we would anticipate on the field.  The class had 44 adults and about 30 kids and we had the privilege of meeting extraordinary (and hilarious) people from all over the US that were going all over the world - to places that make drug-riddled Mexico look like Kindergarten.  As I looked around the room, I thought to myself that this line up of characters would never be picked out of a lineup as looking like the typical flowered, flounced dress with lace collar Christian.  And I loved them for it! 

Halfway through the second week, as we were discussing who we are under conflict when we were led into a hostage simulation.  We were told that rebel forces had forced a coup and we had to go into hiding until we could find a way out of the city.  We split into two teams and crammed 22 people each into two small plywood shelters.  That is a lot of oxygen depletion and sweating bodies in one small space.  We had to keep quiet and try to figure out what to do as secret messages were smuggled back and forth between the groups. 

This is when my Sydney Bristow-infused brain became dangerous.  I began to imagine that I could karate kick the gun out of the rebel's hand, train it back on him, and allow my fellow hostages to escape out the door.  In real life, this would have seriously backfired as my athletic prowess was missing in my DNA since birth but in my head, I was Xena Warrior Princess! 

Thankfully, the simulation ended before my crazy thoughts turned into actions, and a week later, we were saying goodbye to dear friends who completely understand this leap of faith and all the emotions that surround it.  We returned to South Texas where the only hairy part of my day is trying to dodge all the bridge vendors selling oversized die-cast Virgin Marys, large plastic cowboy boots, and window washing services.  No rebel forces or plywood hostage shelters in sight .