never in a million years...
parenting has brought so much into my life. being a mom has taught me a lot of lessons, given me so much joy, and at times a lot of heartache. it has also made me aware of how weird we are. not "we" as in the human race. but "we" as in my family. i'm weird, tom is weird. and together, we have some pretty bizarre-o kids. i love that about us, and i really love that about them.
living in a land of little weirdlings has led to some pretty strange conversations. here is a potpourri of some sentences i never imagined would come out of my mouth. many of these came out of my mouth in the past 48 hours.
i could seriously do this for hours. but i can't because i have a lot more weird conversations to have. so i want to know...
what is the weirdest thing you never expected to say out loud?
living in a land of little weirdlings has led to some pretty strange conversations. here is a potpourri of some sentences i never imagined would come out of my mouth. many of these came out of my mouth in the past 48 hours.
- (gasp) "he painted the baby!"
- "you may NOT paint the baby."
- "thank you. i like your head too."
- "that is not poop in daddy's pits. it's hair."
- "please stop putting that in your ear."
- "please stop putting that in my ear."
- "if you can't think of anything to do then i will throw away all of your toys." (tom has tried to convince me that this threat is unrelated to the problem, but here was my thinking: if you can't find anything to do, then you don't need all these toys that are lying all over my house, and i can just throw them away. that way, you still won't have anything to do but at least my house is clean.
- "it's right here." (said in response to harper asking "where's yours brains?")
- "i am cooking dinner, you can get your own wedgie like a big boy."
- "well... you really don't marry uncles." (said in response to marlie using uncle jonny as a last resort for for a husband. she's four.)
- "yes, i promise." (said in response to marlie asking "can i really borrow your blue high heels for my wedding?" again, she's four.)"
- "your corn on the cob is NOT a drumstick."
- "harper, honey, there was not a fire in your room."
- "harper, honey, your buns were not on fire." (both of these fire-related remarks took place this morning.)
- "no touch technologies."
- "no touch-a 'tiques." (this is me reminding them, in their own language, not to touch the antique tea set sitting on my bookshelf.)
- "x is not a drum." (at any given time x can = a laptop, my chest, the fridge, the tray on the baby swing, the baby, etc.)
- "no more gremlin crying."
- "i am not a granny."
- "ok, two is not 'millions and millions.' "
- "ummm... i don't know if the birdie has buns."
i could seriously do this for hours. but i can't because i have a lot more weird conversations to have. so i want to know...
what is the weirdest thing you never expected to say out loud?
spiderman.
it seems that as much as i have tried to avoid writing about race, i really cannot get away from the intense desire... or maybe even the need... to write about it. for me, much of my understanding about how others view race and ethnicity has changed over the past 4 years. this is about how long we were openly pursuing adoption.
since we began the adoption process, we have had an array of opinions and concerns from onlookers. family, friends and perfect strangers alike have celebrated, judged and/or criticized our journey. it has been such a medley of responses from people, that i have experienced all the paralleled responsive emotions. i have been shocked, saddened, infuriated and often felt pity toward the opinion-giver. on a rare occasion, i have even felt guilty for adopting an african-american child. before continuing, i would like to say that the overwhelming response from people, both those we know and those we do not, has been extremely positive. almost everywhere we go, people stare, comment, smile and let you know that they are in support.
i always have mixed emotions about the people who go so overboard in an effort to prove they are okay with it. people go on and on about how harper is "sooooo cute, just the cutest little thing ever, never have i seen such an attractive child..." k, i got it. you aren't racist. or another favorite "ya know, he looks just like my very best friend in the whole world's stepdaughter's cousin's half-sister!" ok, i got it. you know somebody else that's black. i say that this over-the-top response gives me mixed emotions because while it seems a little disingenuous to be that enthusiastic about a child you've never met, i also agree that he is the cutest little boy on the planet... so, i let all this slide.
apart from the overly positive remarks, there is the savior-syndrome response. the "how good of you to rescue a poor child" type of remarks. my personal favorite manifestation of this sentiment is "well good for you!" (if you can imagine that exclamation point to symbolize the atta-boy fist-sweep... you will hear the condescension in this better-you-than-me remark.) again, this creates mixed emotions, because some people really do support adoption and i will take all the support i can get... but, some people are just uncomfortable, but like to remain pleasant and upbeat. and it often comes in this "way to go, sport!" form we all know and love.
then we have the occasional openly disapproving (or just downright ignorant) remark. before we even adopted, i was speaking with a man in philadelphia who asked if we were done having children. i said that we were in the process of adopting a child and he boldly stated that one should never "mix real children with adopted children in the same family." this makes me want to puke for a number of reasons. 1) adopted children are still real children. 2) it's none of his freakin' business. and 3) seriously? *i would like to note that this was a hispanic gentlemen, which i only point out to show that it is not always white people, but ignorant people, who make offensive statements.
since then, we have experienced racist remarks clothed in "concern" for us. my personal favorite was a woman i met at a birthday party who was looking at harper in his infant car seat shortly after we brought him home. she gave the usual "wow, well isn't that just the nicest thing you did... blah blah blah." then went right into "now, are you ever afraid that he might become a gang member?"
just gonna take a moment to let that really sink in for you.
yep.
(during moments like these i vacillate between the civil responsibility to educate people who are clearly ignorant, and the fleshly desire to punch a face. so far, i have always opted toward civic duty... but usually with a little metaphoric face-punching sarcasm. i can't help it. i'm a mama and just a touch of a rage-aholic. so, this is the best i can do at this point.)
so, i calmly informed her that "the gang activity amongst infants in our area is really quite low." fortunately for us.
even when there aren't these in-your-face statements... there are the occasional, seemingly harmless, less obvious experiences that are shrouded in poor-taste humor. the "i love his little nappy head" and "did you leave him in the tanning booth too long?" type of comments. our son is often confused for other children of color, no matter how different he looks for them, he will be called by the name of another non-white child... as though they are interchangeable.
once, a bitter old man at the airport airplane was giving me nasty looks as i swayed with harper (a newborn) in my sling. when i boarded the plane, the man stood up as i passed him and unapologetically said "where are you headed...back of the bus?" this was actually my first (and worst) encounter with open and cruel racism since we adopted harper at 10 days old.
now, harper is 2 and 1/2 and the comments keep coming. only this past weekend i was at an event where a woman was inquiring about my family. when i mentioned that we were an adoptive family, she asked for more details about him being adopted from america because she had been told "it takes years and years and years to get an american child." i explained to her that since we were open to a child of any race, it actually was a very quick process for us. without a thought she immediately said "oh, so you just lucked out and got a white one."
i felt physically sick, turned tomato-red as i'm told, and again weighed the benefits of violence vs. education. i replied "no, actually he is african-american, but we still condsider ourselves to be very lucky." in hindsight, i kinda regret not roughing her up just a little.
as i revisit some of these encounters in my mind, playing them over and over... i can't help but consider what some people say about trans-racial adoption. that it isn't fair to the child. that they will never feel like they belong. that we are doing him a disservice. i can't help but wonder if he will experience these types of remarks and worse...
then, i go in and peek at him at night when he's asleep. he is small and dark and sweaty. and i remember that he is my son. he is my one and only boy. he is scared of sharks, and the smallest of bugs. he thinks he actually is spiderman, and is therefore afraid of his own reflection. also, if he gets really, really upset... he will try to shoot a web at me. he wakes up most mornings by sneezing a dozen or so times in a row. (no joke. it's crazy, so much sneezing.) i remember all this, all the little facts about him. that when he grows up he wants to be an "awesome guy eatin' pizza." that he loves his sisters, and trucks, and drinks. probably all the same amount. i remember that he is sweet and precious and valuable, and he's mine. i know all the things that nobody else knows because he is mine and i am his. and in those quiet, still moments the rest of it just fades into the background and i have faith the when he goes through (because he will go through) all the garbage in this world... he will know that he is loved. he is wanted. and he is mine. and i am hoping that at least some of the time, that will be enough.
since we began the adoption process, we have had an array of opinions and concerns from onlookers. family, friends and perfect strangers alike have celebrated, judged and/or criticized our journey. it has been such a medley of responses from people, that i have experienced all the paralleled responsive emotions. i have been shocked, saddened, infuriated and often felt pity toward the opinion-giver. on a rare occasion, i have even felt guilty for adopting an african-american child. before continuing, i would like to say that the overwhelming response from people, both those we know and those we do not, has been extremely positive. almost everywhere we go, people stare, comment, smile and let you know that they are in support.
i always have mixed emotions about the people who go so overboard in an effort to prove they are okay with it. people go on and on about how harper is "sooooo cute, just the cutest little thing ever, never have i seen such an attractive child..." k, i got it. you aren't racist. or another favorite "ya know, he looks just like my very best friend in the whole world's stepdaughter's cousin's half-sister!" ok, i got it. you know somebody else that's black. i say that this over-the-top response gives me mixed emotions because while it seems a little disingenuous to be that enthusiastic about a child you've never met, i also agree that he is the cutest little boy on the planet... so, i let all this slide.
apart from the overly positive remarks, there is the savior-syndrome response. the "how good of you to rescue a poor child" type of remarks. my personal favorite manifestation of this sentiment is "well good for you!" (if you can imagine that exclamation point to symbolize the atta-boy fist-sweep... you will hear the condescension in this better-you-than-me remark.) again, this creates mixed emotions, because some people really do support adoption and i will take all the support i can get... but, some people are just uncomfortable, but like to remain pleasant and upbeat. and it often comes in this "way to go, sport!" form we all know and love.
then we have the occasional openly disapproving (or just downright ignorant) remark. before we even adopted, i was speaking with a man in philadelphia who asked if we were done having children. i said that we were in the process of adopting a child and he boldly stated that one should never "mix real children with adopted children in the same family." this makes me want to puke for a number of reasons. 1) adopted children are still real children. 2) it's none of his freakin' business. and 3) seriously? *i would like to note that this was a hispanic gentlemen, which i only point out to show that it is not always white people, but ignorant people, who make offensive statements.
since then, we have experienced racist remarks clothed in "concern" for us. my personal favorite was a woman i met at a birthday party who was looking at harper in his infant car seat shortly after we brought him home. she gave the usual "wow, well isn't that just the nicest thing you did... blah blah blah." then went right into "now, are you ever afraid that he might become a gang member?"
just gonna take a moment to let that really sink in for you.
yep.
(during moments like these i vacillate between the civil responsibility to educate people who are clearly ignorant, and the fleshly desire to punch a face. so far, i have always opted toward civic duty... but usually with a little metaphoric face-punching sarcasm. i can't help it. i'm a mama and just a touch of a rage-aholic. so, this is the best i can do at this point.)
so, i calmly informed her that "the gang activity amongst infants in our area is really quite low." fortunately for us.
even when there aren't these in-your-face statements... there are the occasional, seemingly harmless, less obvious experiences that are shrouded in poor-taste humor. the "i love his little nappy head" and "did you leave him in the tanning booth too long?" type of comments. our son is often confused for other children of color, no matter how different he looks for them, he will be called by the name of another non-white child... as though they are interchangeable.
once, a bitter old man at the airport airplane was giving me nasty looks as i swayed with harper (a newborn) in my sling. when i boarded the plane, the man stood up as i passed him and unapologetically said "where are you headed...back of the bus?" this was actually my first (and worst) encounter with open and cruel racism since we adopted harper at 10 days old.
now, harper is 2 and 1/2 and the comments keep coming. only this past weekend i was at an event where a woman was inquiring about my family. when i mentioned that we were an adoptive family, she asked for more details about him being adopted from america because she had been told "it takes years and years and years to get an american child." i explained to her that since we were open to a child of any race, it actually was a very quick process for us. without a thought she immediately said "oh, so you just lucked out and got a white one."
i felt physically sick, turned tomato-red as i'm told, and again weighed the benefits of violence vs. education. i replied "no, actually he is african-american, but we still condsider ourselves to be very lucky." in hindsight, i kinda regret not roughing her up just a little.
as i revisit some of these encounters in my mind, playing them over and over... i can't help but consider what some people say about trans-racial adoption. that it isn't fair to the child. that they will never feel like they belong. that we are doing him a disservice. i can't help but wonder if he will experience these types of remarks and worse...
then, i go in and peek at him at night when he's asleep. he is small and dark and sweaty. and i remember that he is my son. he is my one and only boy. he is scared of sharks, and the smallest of bugs. he thinks he actually is spiderman, and is therefore afraid of his own reflection. also, if he gets really, really upset... he will try to shoot a web at me. he wakes up most mornings by sneezing a dozen or so times in a row. (no joke. it's crazy, so much sneezing.) i remember all this, all the little facts about him. that when he grows up he wants to be an "awesome guy eatin' pizza." that he loves his sisters, and trucks, and drinks. probably all the same amount. i remember that he is sweet and precious and valuable, and he's mine. i know all the things that nobody else knows because he is mine and i am his. and in those quiet, still moments the rest of it just fades into the background and i have faith the when he goes through (because he will go through) all the garbage in this world... he will know that he is loved. he is wanted. and he is mine. and i am hoping that at least some of the time, that will be enough.
capuano family tour de USA
we are going on a road trip. not just any 8 hour, day long road trip... we are going across the great u. s. of. a. yes, our van has 160,000 miles on it. yes, we have many, many small children. yes, i only recently got my driver's license. yes, we are clinically insane. but, it's true. we are going to do it.
we are taking a month (well, a couple days shy of four weeks) and driving across the country with four kids. 6, 4, 2, and 6 months. we are in the early stages of planning, but we are leaving the day after our kids get out of school for the summer, and we will get back at the end of july. i am sure i will be blogging about this quite a bit as we make our plans, and am willing to commit to a certain number of blog entries during the trip for a small salary. or a large one. whatever.
so far, we are sure on the following details:
at this point we are just trying to make sense of the route, the gear we need, the budget, the timing, and all the "what-ifs." (my what-if's include... what if we get a flat? what if we gets lots of flats? what if our van kicks the bucket mid-trip? what if tom really does make us drive to astoria, washington to see the museum that makes a brief cameo in the goonies? what if our kids cry incessantly the entire trip? what if a bear starts to eat me or one of my family members? what if we have to turn around after a few days because instead of instilling a sense of adventure and appreciation for nature, our kids develop an aversion to traveling and all things outdoors? what if tom continues to see this as an opportunity to purchase and use a tazer?)
the kids have been very involved in the preparations. we have been making lists of the gear we need, and marlie (4) reports that above all else we will need to bring "a computer to check the weather... or a window." harper (2) said that for our trip (or "chip" as he says) we will need a restaurant. annalee (6) is a little more pragmatic in her request for a tent.
hearing their idea of the essentials suggests to me that they really have no idea what we are about to do. and the reality is, we don't really either. i know that, along with all my worries, i have really high hopes for what we will experience as a family, what we will learn, and how we will grow. in the meantime, i am open to any advice about to prevent bear attacks.
we are taking a month (well, a couple days shy of four weeks) and driving across the country with four kids. 6, 4, 2, and 6 months. we are in the early stages of planning, but we are leaving the day after our kids get out of school for the summer, and we will get back at the end of july. i am sure i will be blogging about this quite a bit as we make our plans, and am willing to commit to a certain number of blog entries during the trip for a small salary. or a large one. whatever.
so far, we are sure on the following details:
- we are camping in a tent. all six of us. in the same tent. all of us.
- we have a mad-tight budget. (and i mean is-it-wrong-to-make-the-kids-do-lemonade-stands-to-help-with-gas kinda tight.)
- we will stay mostly at free campgrounds, but will occasionally splurge on a campground that has shower/bathroom facilities. and about once a week we will stay in a cheap hotel or hostel to do laundry and shower. we will also be visiting friends, family and the occasional friend of a friend along the way. we are open to ideas about free accommodations if you have any. (in other words, does your aunt in utah have a finished basement?)
- we will have to bring a lot of crap. (we will have to use a car-top carrier, which is so obnoxious and embarrassing. my husband says they look like a big mac or whopper or something like that. it's funnier when he says it, or if you actually know the right hamburger reference.) i have a notepad that lists all the things we need to bring. it has a table of contents because there is so much crap you need when you traveling with one kid, let alone four. really, london is the one who is overpacking at this point. babies are so high-maintanence sometimes.
- we are seriously out of our minds.
at this point we are just trying to make sense of the route, the gear we need, the budget, the timing, and all the "what-ifs." (my what-if's include... what if we get a flat? what if we gets lots of flats? what if our van kicks the bucket mid-trip? what if tom really does make us drive to astoria, washington to see the museum that makes a brief cameo in the goonies? what if our kids cry incessantly the entire trip? what if a bear starts to eat me or one of my family members? what if we have to turn around after a few days because instead of instilling a sense of adventure and appreciation for nature, our kids develop an aversion to traveling and all things outdoors? what if tom continues to see this as an opportunity to purchase and use a tazer?)
the kids have been very involved in the preparations. we have been making lists of the gear we need, and marlie (4) reports that above all else we will need to bring "a computer to check the weather... or a window." harper (2) said that for our trip (or "chip" as he says) we will need a restaurant. annalee (6) is a little more pragmatic in her request for a tent.
hearing their idea of the essentials suggests to me that they really have no idea what we are about to do. and the reality is, we don't really either. i know that, along with all my worries, i have really high hopes for what we will experience as a family, what we will learn, and how we will grow. in the meantime, i am open to any advice about to prevent bear attacks.
rant-o-mom
if i read one more mommy blog, or article, or book about how not to be a stressed out mom... i am going to vomit. not because i think de-stressing is a bad thing, because i don't. i actually think it would be nice. i get suckered into reading these things because i actually would like to feel a little less overwhelmed. they all start the same way...
"are you stressed out? are you feeling overwhelmed? having a hard time juggling everyone's schedules?"
ummm, yes.
how about: "are your keys lost, your dinner burned and you haven't shaved your legs since '06? are you considering enlisting in the military because you need to get away and can't afford a vacation? can you remember the last time you showered? do you shower, ever? are you feeling secretly enraged that your husband has to go to work every day?"
my husband is very helpful, and he works at home. so "going to work for the day" means going upstairs. so, you know i've got a serious problem when i'm mad that he's upstairs! ok, so i guess this could be considered "confessions of a dead beat mom, part 2." but, i really feel like these articles might apply to me. so, i get sucked in. some expert swears that if i "just keep reading" i will figure out the key to reducing my stress-level, managing my home and guarantee life-long peace and happiness. i read on. without fail, the same crap advice is given.
1) find time for you. (this might be worded any number of different ways. "make time for you" is a popular alternative. i also love the ever-faithful "put yourself back on the priority list." (gag.) trust me, being more selfish than i already am is NOT exactly the solution i am looking for. it's BECAUSE i am selfish that i don't clean my house. i would rather read a book, or watch a movie with tom at the end of the day... it's because i am totally self-indulgent that i don't have a clean house. next.
2) hire a "mommy's helper." this brilliant suggestion can also entail such words and phrases as "babysitter," "hire out services," and "neighbor girl to play with your kids." of course, this advice is usually combated with concerns of money, to which the advice-giver will undoubtedly reply that "if you refer to piece-of-useless-wisdom #1 (see above) you will see that when you put yourself first you will learn to allocate money for hiring people to do the stuff you should magically be able to do yourself. the problem with this is about 100-fold... so, i'll just scratch the surface with how much i hate this advice. first, if i could afford to hire a housekeeper/butler/nanny/personal assistant i would have done that a long time ago. i did not need permission from some lady who already has those people doing things for her. but, i can't afford those services because i am a stay-at-home mom. that means only one income for us. (yes it's our choice for me to stay home, and yes, i love it. but no, i don't get everything done and cannot afford to have someone else do it for me. and finally, i would like to briefly advocate for the "young neighbor girl down the street" who apparently has nothing better to do than play with my kids. first of all, i don't think there is a young girl on my street. if there was one, i don't think i'd feel right paying her next to nothing (which is what we have to spare) to play with my kids. i used to babysit for my dentists kids and so much was wrong with it. a) he was a horrible dentist and he smelled like bacon bits and rubber gloves. b) his kid used to bite me. c) i really knew nothing about child-rearing and am certain i was a horrible babysitter, which may have been why i kept getting bit in the first place. d) people usually felt guilt-free about underpaying me as an 11-year-old girl, child labor laws anyone? (you know who you are, donna "$1.29" mchenry). but i made up for it by eating so much fruit snacks while i was there. mwah ha ha.
3) don't stress if you aren't perfect. first off, you can't tell someone that the way to not be stressed is to not stress. that is the opposite of helping. and second, i don't think that falling just shy of perfect is what's stressing me out. i am stressed out because at least 3/4 of the square footage of my house is covered with large, obnoxious toys (courtesy of my mother), and laundry. clean, dirty, folded, stacked... it's out of control.
*i realize that i am just complaining and am not offering any solutions to other mothers. if i promised that reading this post would energize you, make you efficient and diligent, i would be lying. i'd rather call this what it is: a rant that will help distract you from all the laundry you should be putting away.
when i ask my daughter marlie (4 1/2) to help with the chores, she will say that "her arms are very broken and tired." i know exactly what she means. i know that she is really saying "but there is so much to do, i am overwhelmed and paralyzed by it all." at the top of my chore list i used to have a bible verse that promises that god will show up and help me, strengthen me and uphold me. i am a desperate women, and i am not above asking jesus to help me do my laundry. it is really the only hope i have that it will get done. not hiring a mommy's helper, not taking a day to myself, not lowering my expectations. i seriously need me some jesus if i am going to get anything done around here. because apart from that, my arms are just very broken and tired indeed.
"are you stressed out? are you feeling overwhelmed? having a hard time juggling everyone's schedules?"
ummm, yes.
how about: "are your keys lost, your dinner burned and you haven't shaved your legs since '06? are you considering enlisting in the military because you need to get away and can't afford a vacation? can you remember the last time you showered? do you shower, ever? are you feeling secretly enraged that your husband has to go to work every day?"
my husband is very helpful, and he works at home. so "going to work for the day" means going upstairs. so, you know i've got a serious problem when i'm mad that he's upstairs! ok, so i guess this could be considered "confessions of a dead beat mom, part 2." but, i really feel like these articles might apply to me. so, i get sucked in. some expert swears that if i "just keep reading" i will figure out the key to reducing my stress-level, managing my home and guarantee life-long peace and happiness. i read on. without fail, the same crap advice is given.
1) find time for you. (this might be worded any number of different ways. "make time for you" is a popular alternative. i also love the ever-faithful "put yourself back on the priority list." (gag.) trust me, being more selfish than i already am is NOT exactly the solution i am looking for. it's BECAUSE i am selfish that i don't clean my house. i would rather read a book, or watch a movie with tom at the end of the day... it's because i am totally self-indulgent that i don't have a clean house. next.
2) hire a "mommy's helper." this brilliant suggestion can also entail such words and phrases as "babysitter," "hire out services," and "neighbor girl to play with your kids." of course, this advice is usually combated with concerns of money, to which the advice-giver will undoubtedly reply that "if you refer to piece-of-useless-wisdom #1 (see above) you will see that when you put yourself first you will learn to allocate money for hiring people to do the stuff you should magically be able to do yourself. the problem with this is about 100-fold... so, i'll just scratch the surface with how much i hate this advice. first, if i could afford to hire a housekeeper/butler/nanny/personal assistant i would have done that a long time ago. i did not need permission from some lady who already has those people doing things for her. but, i can't afford those services because i am a stay-at-home mom. that means only one income for us. (yes it's our choice for me to stay home, and yes, i love it. but no, i don't get everything done and cannot afford to have someone else do it for me. and finally, i would like to briefly advocate for the "young neighbor girl down the street" who apparently has nothing better to do than play with my kids. first of all, i don't think there is a young girl on my street. if there was one, i don't think i'd feel right paying her next to nothing (which is what we have to spare) to play with my kids. i used to babysit for my dentists kids and so much was wrong with it. a) he was a horrible dentist and he smelled like bacon bits and rubber gloves. b) his kid used to bite me. c) i really knew nothing about child-rearing and am certain i was a horrible babysitter, which may have been why i kept getting bit in the first place. d) people usually felt guilt-free about underpaying me as an 11-year-old girl, child labor laws anyone? (you know who you are, donna "$1.29" mchenry). but i made up for it by eating so much fruit snacks while i was there. mwah ha ha.
3) don't stress if you aren't perfect. first off, you can't tell someone that the way to not be stressed is to not stress. that is the opposite of helping. and second, i don't think that falling just shy of perfect is what's stressing me out. i am stressed out because at least 3/4 of the square footage of my house is covered with large, obnoxious toys (courtesy of my mother), and laundry. clean, dirty, folded, stacked... it's out of control.
*i realize that i am just complaining and am not offering any solutions to other mothers. if i promised that reading this post would energize you, make you efficient and diligent, i would be lying. i'd rather call this what it is: a rant that will help distract you from all the laundry you should be putting away.
when i ask my daughter marlie (4 1/2) to help with the chores, she will say that "her arms are very broken and tired." i know exactly what she means. i know that she is really saying "but there is so much to do, i am overwhelmed and paralyzed by it all." at the top of my chore list i used to have a bible verse that promises that god will show up and help me, strengthen me and uphold me. i am a desperate women, and i am not above asking jesus to help me do my laundry. it is really the only hope i have that it will get done. not hiring a mommy's helper, not taking a day to myself, not lowering my expectations. i seriously need me some jesus if i am going to get anything done around here. because apart from that, my arms are just very broken and tired indeed.
when i was in first grade i was in the school spelling bee. i had it in the bag. my biggest competition was going to be this kid whose head was enormous. for a kid's head to be that huge, he had to be packin' some serious brains. he was smart, his spelling was accurate and fast. he knew the method. say the word, spell the word, say the word again.
as the competition neared, señor huge-head started winning the spelling games we would play in class. i imagine him at home doing spelling drills. i was at home cutting my barbie's hair, he was spelling words like humidity. i was sneaking chewable vitamins that came in the shape of various cartoon characters, and he was timing himself spelling athletics. this was not going to be pretty.
it was time for the big night. i had envisioned myself winning the bee, taking the cup, spending the winnings entirely on malted milk balls. i gotta be honest, i thought it would come down to me and huge-head for the championship... and in a deep, slow-motion voice, i would spell something like "barbecue." and i would, inevitably, take the title.
that was not what happened. what actually happened was that i misspelled a word a few rounds in and huge-head didn't misspell anything. his brain-packed head took the prize, while my pathetic, overly-vitamined-brain laid in my mom's lap in the audience... watching him receive his handsome reward, MY prize money. i cried. for the rest of the bee - all 6 grades.
at some point my mom "suggested" that i pull it together and try to "be happy for the boy that won." i couldn't have done that to save my life. i wanted to win. i wanted him to lose. there was no collecting myself. there was no happy.
then, the boy with the alarming head started coming toward me. he was coming to gloat. he was coming to rub my nose in his victory, i just knew it. as he approached, i sort of did the shy, hide your (puffy) eyes behind your mom's leg, hoping to disappear and not have to face his heckling.
then huge-head did something unexpected. he said "good job," and he offered me half his winnings. i think he won like thirty bucks, which is basically the lottery when you are in first grade. he was going to be a millionaire, and he was offering ME half his loot. i don't know if he felt bad for me because i kept crying like an idiot, or if his parents forced him to make the offer as a pity offering, or what... but he did it. he offered to split the prize with me.
nothing makes you feel like a jerk more than looking back on your life and realizing that you actually ARE a jerk. i, of course, did not accept the prize money, and i have felt guilty ever since for secretly wishing for his demise and for fixating on what is now a probably successful, and average-sized head. i'm not sure if or how that experience changed me, but i will say that it set the stage for the understanding that people may not always be what they seem.
i think a lot of moms, myself included, are terrified of having their kids turn out like them. i used to be so scared that they would be selfish like me, overly-sensitive like me, competitive like me. lately, i have gotten to see my kids, especially annalee, become something so different than i was. i get to see her sharing her faith with kids at school, praying for them "ten times" in her bed. i get to see her cry when they struggle or fail, or when they miss a parent who has passed away. i have seen her pulling for and praying for her friends to do what is right, and grieving when they don't.
i am learning to be a little less afraid of them becoming me, and a little more intentional about helping them become themselves. someday, they will be in a spelling bee. they may win, they may lose, they might even cry themselves to sleep over losing. or they might just be the kind of kid that wins the spelling bee only to think about the wretched kid who won't stop crying. all i know, is that for now, they are shaping up to be something special, something a little like huge-head.
as the competition neared, señor huge-head started winning the spelling games we would play in class. i imagine him at home doing spelling drills. i was at home cutting my barbie's hair, he was spelling words like humidity. i was sneaking chewable vitamins that came in the shape of various cartoon characters, and he was timing himself spelling athletics. this was not going to be pretty.
it was time for the big night. i had envisioned myself winning the bee, taking the cup, spending the winnings entirely on malted milk balls. i gotta be honest, i thought it would come down to me and huge-head for the championship... and in a deep, slow-motion voice, i would spell something like "barbecue." and i would, inevitably, take the title.
that was not what happened. what actually happened was that i misspelled a word a few rounds in and huge-head didn't misspell anything. his brain-packed head took the prize, while my pathetic, overly-vitamined-brain laid in my mom's lap in the audience... watching him receive his handsome reward, MY prize money. i cried. for the rest of the bee - all 6 grades.
at some point my mom "suggested" that i pull it together and try to "be happy for the boy that won." i couldn't have done that to save my life. i wanted to win. i wanted him to lose. there was no collecting myself. there was no happy.
then, the boy with the alarming head started coming toward me. he was coming to gloat. he was coming to rub my nose in his victory, i just knew it. as he approached, i sort of did the shy, hide your (puffy) eyes behind your mom's leg, hoping to disappear and not have to face his heckling.
then huge-head did something unexpected. he said "good job," and he offered me half his winnings. i think he won like thirty bucks, which is basically the lottery when you are in first grade. he was going to be a millionaire, and he was offering ME half his loot. i don't know if he felt bad for me because i kept crying like an idiot, or if his parents forced him to make the offer as a pity offering, or what... but he did it. he offered to split the prize with me.
nothing makes you feel like a jerk more than looking back on your life and realizing that you actually ARE a jerk. i, of course, did not accept the prize money, and i have felt guilty ever since for secretly wishing for his demise and for fixating on what is now a probably successful, and average-sized head. i'm not sure if or how that experience changed me, but i will say that it set the stage for the understanding that people may not always be what they seem.
i think a lot of moms, myself included, are terrified of having their kids turn out like them. i used to be so scared that they would be selfish like me, overly-sensitive like me, competitive like me. lately, i have gotten to see my kids, especially annalee, become something so different than i was. i get to see her sharing her faith with kids at school, praying for them "ten times" in her bed. i get to see her cry when they struggle or fail, or when they miss a parent who has passed away. i have seen her pulling for and praying for her friends to do what is right, and grieving when they don't.
i am learning to be a little less afraid of them becoming me, and a little more intentional about helping them become themselves. someday, they will be in a spelling bee. they may win, they may lose, they might even cry themselves to sleep over losing. or they might just be the kind of kid that wins the spelling bee only to think about the wretched kid who won't stop crying. all i know, is that for now, they are shaping up to be something special, something a little like huge-head.
london bridge is falling down, my fair lady
i do not love being pregnant. i love having babies. but, being pregnant... not so much. i cannot express the relief i am experiencing now that i am no longer pregnant. but, when i was just into my second trimester and i started bleeding... i would have given anything to stay pregnant.
it was the middle of the summer, and i hadn't been outside for months apart from the car ride to the doctor, hospital or acupuncturist - all attempting (in vain) to alleviate the severe morning sickness that was slowly stopping my body from functioning properly. i was about 15 weeks along when my mom and my sister had come from michigan to help take care of my kids since i was bed-ridden and attached to a home IV. i started throwing up (not unusual), but i also felt cramping (unusual). i realized i was bleeding quite a bit and i was instantly terrified.
i collected myself before i went downstairs because i didn't want tom, my mom and sister to panic. i think i was calm, but i am not really sure about that detail. i just said that i was bleeding and that we needed to go to the hospital right away. we left immediately and in the car ride, the bleeding got much worse. i was sure i was having a miscarriage. i was crying, and just kept saying "no, no, no, no..." tom was crying too. we sort of took turns being stable. i would panic and he would calm me down, and just when i started to believe him, that maybe "everything will be okay..." he would take his turn to freak out and i would take a shot at being rational and calm.
it was a horrific drive to the hospital. in my mind i felt like i knew i was having a miscarriage, but i never would have said it out loud. when tom called our obgyn to tell her we were on our way to the ER, he said "yes, hello. i think my wife is having a miscarriage." i couldn't believe it. i knew I was thinking that, and i knew that HE was thinking that. but i didn't want it to be true, and in that moment, i felt like saying it out loud would make it true.
we got to the emergency room and it was packed with people who were groaning, sleeping, or just waiting patiently. i walked in sobbing, checked in and sat down next to a groaning lady in a wheelchair. i waited. and waited. nobody called my name. i looked down and realized that there was blood on the bench. tom went to the desk to ask when we would be seen, saying that i was getting worse. the man handed him a towel and said to wait.
we left and went to another hospital. i couldn't believe that i was getting back in the car. i was in so much pain. i felt like i was having contractions, and all i could think of was the long days and nights that i had spent throwing up, feeling like i had the flu for 4 solid months, and how i prayed for the nausea to go away. i thought of how i couldn't even keep a sip of water down. how i felt like i was dying. and how i prayed for the pain to stop, for the slow, miserable death to come quickly.
now, here we were. on our way to hospital #2, and my prayer was coming true. god was going to grant me this one horrible wish, that the nausea would go away, but so would my baby. i felt so guilty, as though wanting the miserable pregnancy to end, had actually brought on a miscarriage. i regretted every single thought i had. every second i had wished away, every prayer for relief... i knew that i was responsible, and this was my punishment.
when we finally got into the second ER, we were seen almost immediately. i still remember the nurses asking all the questions, and their sad faces when i gave my answers. they gave that face where you put your lips together, pull them both in tight, kinda more to one side than the other. the face that says "you poor thing." the pity face. i knew what was happening. i know what bleeding this much during your second trimester means. i didn't need tight, crooked lips to tell me that much.
we waited for a while for the ultrasound technician to come in to give us the final say. at this point, the bleeding had slowed down a bit... so i had some hope. i laid in the cold, sterile bed imagining the scene that would play out in the coming moments. the tech would come in. she would search for a heartbeat, and she would not find one. she would say "i'm sorry, i cannot find the heartbeat." i pictured myself getting enraged. i pictured myself grabbing the little microphone thingy and yelling at the lady. i pictured myself screaming that "this baby was created by the god of the universe, so don't tell me that there is no heartbeat. there will BE a heartbeat." and i imagined a heartbeat. i believed that there could be a heartbeat.
about 5 minutes later, the tech walked in. she squirted the gooey stuff on the microphone and she pushed the wand into my still-flat belly. i thought of how small the baby must be in there, all alone, hard to find. she searched on my right side for a while, then slowly slid the wand over the middle, then finally down to the left side. she seemed to listen for so long. several times we heard the swishy sound, but it was too slow... it was the sound of a big heart, my heart, and it was breaking. we needed to find a tiny heart, with a quick beat.
finally, just as i had imagined the scenario going, she said it.
"i'm really sorry. i'm not finding a heartbeat."
i hesitated. just for a moment. did i believe my pretend monologue i had daydreamed about giving in this moment? did i really believe that the creator of the universe had knit this baby together in my womb? did i really believe that he could restore it's life, which had surely been lost by this point?
i did. i believed all of that. so hanging onto a hint of faith that god would restore the quick and tiny beat of my baby's heart, i put out my hand and said "can i just try?"
now it was her turn to hesitate. i think out of pity for my desperation, and that alone, she relinquished the ultrasound wand to my control. i laid my head back and closed my eyes. tears were rolling down my face, but just like she did, i swept the wand around my tummy. first on the right side. nothing. then down below my belly button. still nothing. then finally over to the left side. and there it was. that perfect, sweet, swishy, little washing machine sound.
my baby was alive and also a warrior. i was a rock star for not giving up until i could prove it. and my god had breathed life into her that was meant for something big.
this would mark the beginning of what would become the longest pregnancy of my life. riddled with various complications, including an amniotic band which threatened to harm, deform, or even kill our baby, the pregnancy dragged on until i was 8 days overdue. my wonderful hippy of a midwife broke my water and told me "do whatever my body told me to do." and five hours later, my body told me to push. then, she came. little london claire. a perfect peach of a head, and the sweetest little piglet nose you ever saw. a fine and elegant lady, she was.
my friend erica was capturing every perfect moment, expertly avoiding any scandalous pictures. and i might have imagined this, but i am pretty sure my other friend sam leaned over and whispered "she is a masterpiece." i am not totally sure that happened, because it was all a haze at that point. but, even if i made that part up, it was true. she was a masterpiece. knit together by the god of the universe. fought for by her mother. and welcomed by a roomful of family and friends who already loved her.
matthew 15:28 "then jesus answered her, 'o woman, great is your faith! Be it done for you as you desire.' and her daughter was healed instantly ."
it was the middle of the summer, and i hadn't been outside for months apart from the car ride to the doctor, hospital or acupuncturist - all attempting (in vain) to alleviate the severe morning sickness that was slowly stopping my body from functioning properly. i was about 15 weeks along when my mom and my sister had come from michigan to help take care of my kids since i was bed-ridden and attached to a home IV. i started throwing up (not unusual), but i also felt cramping (unusual). i realized i was bleeding quite a bit and i was instantly terrified.
i collected myself before i went downstairs because i didn't want tom, my mom and sister to panic. i think i was calm, but i am not really sure about that detail. i just said that i was bleeding and that we needed to go to the hospital right away. we left immediately and in the car ride, the bleeding got much worse. i was sure i was having a miscarriage. i was crying, and just kept saying "no, no, no, no..." tom was crying too. we sort of took turns being stable. i would panic and he would calm me down, and just when i started to believe him, that maybe "everything will be okay..." he would take his turn to freak out and i would take a shot at being rational and calm.
it was a horrific drive to the hospital. in my mind i felt like i knew i was having a miscarriage, but i never would have said it out loud. when tom called our obgyn to tell her we were on our way to the ER, he said "yes, hello. i think my wife is having a miscarriage." i couldn't believe it. i knew I was thinking that, and i knew that HE was thinking that. but i didn't want it to be true, and in that moment, i felt like saying it out loud would make it true.
we got to the emergency room and it was packed with people who were groaning, sleeping, or just waiting patiently. i walked in sobbing, checked in and sat down next to a groaning lady in a wheelchair. i waited. and waited. nobody called my name. i looked down and realized that there was blood on the bench. tom went to the desk to ask when we would be seen, saying that i was getting worse. the man handed him a towel and said to wait.
we left and went to another hospital. i couldn't believe that i was getting back in the car. i was in so much pain. i felt like i was having contractions, and all i could think of was the long days and nights that i had spent throwing up, feeling like i had the flu for 4 solid months, and how i prayed for the nausea to go away. i thought of how i couldn't even keep a sip of water down. how i felt like i was dying. and how i prayed for the pain to stop, for the slow, miserable death to come quickly.
now, here we were. on our way to hospital #2, and my prayer was coming true. god was going to grant me this one horrible wish, that the nausea would go away, but so would my baby. i felt so guilty, as though wanting the miserable pregnancy to end, had actually brought on a miscarriage. i regretted every single thought i had. every second i had wished away, every prayer for relief... i knew that i was responsible, and this was my punishment.
when we finally got into the second ER, we were seen almost immediately. i still remember the nurses asking all the questions, and their sad faces when i gave my answers. they gave that face where you put your lips together, pull them both in tight, kinda more to one side than the other. the face that says "you poor thing." the pity face. i knew what was happening. i know what bleeding this much during your second trimester means. i didn't need tight, crooked lips to tell me that much.
we waited for a while for the ultrasound technician to come in to give us the final say. at this point, the bleeding had slowed down a bit... so i had some hope. i laid in the cold, sterile bed imagining the scene that would play out in the coming moments. the tech would come in. she would search for a heartbeat, and she would not find one. she would say "i'm sorry, i cannot find the heartbeat." i pictured myself getting enraged. i pictured myself grabbing the little microphone thingy and yelling at the lady. i pictured myself screaming that "this baby was created by the god of the universe, so don't tell me that there is no heartbeat. there will BE a heartbeat." and i imagined a heartbeat. i believed that there could be a heartbeat.
about 5 minutes later, the tech walked in. she squirted the gooey stuff on the microphone and she pushed the wand into my still-flat belly. i thought of how small the baby must be in there, all alone, hard to find. she searched on my right side for a while, then slowly slid the wand over the middle, then finally down to the left side. she seemed to listen for so long. several times we heard the swishy sound, but it was too slow... it was the sound of a big heart, my heart, and it was breaking. we needed to find a tiny heart, with a quick beat.
finally, just as i had imagined the scenario going, she said it.
"i'm really sorry. i'm not finding a heartbeat."
i hesitated. just for a moment. did i believe my pretend monologue i had daydreamed about giving in this moment? did i really believe that the creator of the universe had knit this baby together in my womb? did i really believe that he could restore it's life, which had surely been lost by this point?
i did. i believed all of that. so hanging onto a hint of faith that god would restore the quick and tiny beat of my baby's heart, i put out my hand and said "can i just try?"
now it was her turn to hesitate. i think out of pity for my desperation, and that alone, she relinquished the ultrasound wand to my control. i laid my head back and closed my eyes. tears were rolling down my face, but just like she did, i swept the wand around my tummy. first on the right side. nothing. then down below my belly button. still nothing. then finally over to the left side. and there it was. that perfect, sweet, swishy, little washing machine sound.
my baby was alive and also a warrior. i was a rock star for not giving up until i could prove it. and my god had breathed life into her that was meant for something big.
this would mark the beginning of what would become the longest pregnancy of my life. riddled with various complications, including an amniotic band which threatened to harm, deform, or even kill our baby, the pregnancy dragged on until i was 8 days overdue. my wonderful hippy of a midwife broke my water and told me "do whatever my body told me to do." and five hours later, my body told me to push. then, she came. little london claire. a perfect peach of a head, and the sweetest little piglet nose you ever saw. a fine and elegant lady, she was.
my friend erica was capturing every perfect moment, expertly avoiding any scandalous pictures. and i might have imagined this, but i am pretty sure my other friend sam leaned over and whispered "she is a masterpiece." i am not totally sure that happened, because it was all a haze at that point. but, even if i made that part up, it was true. she was a masterpiece. knit together by the god of the universe. fought for by her mother. and welcomed by a roomful of family and friends who already loved her.
matthew 15:28 "then jesus answered her, 'o woman, great is your faith! Be it done for you as you desire.' and her daughter was healed instantly ."
sometimes i feel bad about being white.
lately i have been contemplating all things race and adoption. we adopted our son harper (2.5 years) when he was 10 days old. my husband and i are white, and we had two biological daughters at the time we brought harper home. harper (whose birthparents are both african-american) is very obviously an adoptive addition to our family. i have done unbelievable amounts of research on the topic of adoption, specifically trans-racial adoption. this what i have discovered: you can't do the right thing. well, at least not in everyone's eyes.
first, you've got the people who are overly-sensitive about race. (i can say this, because i am probably more on this end of the spectrum. i think that racism is still a huge issue and i think it is negligent and naive to pretend that it's not.) but, i think some people take it over board. people don't know if you are supposed to say black or african-american, hispanic or latino, person of color or person of colour. i mean... it is terrifying to be in front of someone of a different ethnicity, use the wrong language and look like an ignorant butthole. there are people who will be offended no matter what you say. when i recently described harper as a minority in our family, one woman said she found my use of the word minority disturbing. i mean... if you've got 5 pennies, 5 nickels and a quarter, i think we all know that the quarter is the minority. just means: not as many. doesn't mean not as valuable. in this case, the quarter is actually worth more... there just aren't as many of them. that's sort of how my family is too. harper's worth is not being described when i say he is a minority. in a family with three white sisters, his reality is being described.
next, you've got my personal favorite: the "colorblinders." these people are great. they just say "i don't see color," and that somehow solves the racism issue. i mean, you don't see color? with all the colorblindness happening, it's a wonder how these people get their socks into pairs. i just think it a bit naive to say you can't see differences. again, it is not about worth or value. it's about reality here, people. i can SEE the difference between blonde hair and brown hair, brown skin and cream skin, purple socks and red. to pretend we can't see our wonderful and unique differences, cheapens the experiences of people who have been discriminated against for those very differences. seriously people, stop saying that. saying you don't judge people based on color is different than saying you don't SEE color. it's foolish, and it's a lie. (*author would like to note that this does not apply to those who have an actual diagnosed colorblindness problem. she is sorry to hear that... she permits you to continue using the phrase "i don't see color." and, to make amends for her offensiveness... she will gladly fold your socks into pairs.)
in the early 90's nike launched an advertising campaign featuring michael jordan and spike lee saying phrases like "the mo' colors, the mo' better." (my brother was in high school at the time, and he wrote an award-winning essay about embracing racial diversity in which he quoted this spike lee original.) the point of the campaign was, of course, to sell shoes. but, the secondary issue was to spark some dialogue and some thought about embracing people of all colors... not to deny that we are all covered in skin of varying colors, or to intimidate each other with so much political correction that we can't speak openly about race and ethnicity.
i am a tall, brown-haired, heterosexual, white, christian woman. i'm a youngest child, a child of divorce. these things are not a matter of better or worse, they are a matter of my reality and if i'm honest they do define a lot of who i am. i cannot speak for what life is like as a man, a muslim, a homosexual, or as a small black boy in a white family. i raise the question: what might it be like for him, now and down the road. i ask, not because i love him differently than i love my daughters... but, because i love him so much i feel obligated to acknowledge that his life experience will be different than my daughters' and sometimes it will be harder. i think i would be doing him a disservice if i were to take people's advice and treat him the exact same as my biological kids. i tried using the same eczema cream and it fried off his tiny baby mustache. HE IS NOT THE SAME! nor should he be!
today, when playing a board game with harper and marlie, she gave him a gamepiece and said "here harper, you'll be blue." he pulled up his little pantleg and pointed to his skin and said "noooo, i be browwwn." then, he looked at me proudly, flashed a huge smile (showing just the bottom row of his teeth), he raised his eyebrows once and said "harper handsome." he's also proud to tell you that he is adopted, just like jesus was adopted by joseph, and that he has handsome brown skin, and that the bottom of his feet are pink. he'll tell you that i am his forever mama, but that he has a birthmama too. my girls can't say any of that. they. are. different. to pretend otherwise wouldn't only be ridiculous, it would be sad.
i'm glad we adopted, and we are going to do it again. (yes, that will make five kids in all.) i am glad harper is "browwwwn" and i'm glad he thinks that it's handsome. i don't care if people think that "black children belong in black families." i think that in a perfect world children belong in the home with BOTH of their biological parents... but until we live in a perfect world, i think children belong with whoever is willing to love them, believe in them, and take the time to make them feel good about who they are... similarities, and yes, differences.
first, you've got the people who are overly-sensitive about race. (i can say this, because i am probably more on this end of the spectrum. i think that racism is still a huge issue and i think it is negligent and naive to pretend that it's not.) but, i think some people take it over board. people don't know if you are supposed to say black or african-american, hispanic or latino, person of color or person of colour. i mean... it is terrifying to be in front of someone of a different ethnicity, use the wrong language and look like an ignorant butthole. there are people who will be offended no matter what you say. when i recently described harper as a minority in our family, one woman said she found my use of the word minority disturbing. i mean... if you've got 5 pennies, 5 nickels and a quarter, i think we all know that the quarter is the minority. just means: not as many. doesn't mean not as valuable. in this case, the quarter is actually worth more... there just aren't as many of them. that's sort of how my family is too. harper's worth is not being described when i say he is a minority. in a family with three white sisters, his reality is being described.
next, you've got my personal favorite: the "colorblinders." these people are great. they just say "i don't see color," and that somehow solves the racism issue. i mean, you don't see color? with all the colorblindness happening, it's a wonder how these people get their socks into pairs. i just think it a bit naive to say you can't see differences. again, it is not about worth or value. it's about reality here, people. i can SEE the difference between blonde hair and brown hair, brown skin and cream skin, purple socks and red. to pretend we can't see our wonderful and unique differences, cheapens the experiences of people who have been discriminated against for those very differences. seriously people, stop saying that. saying you don't judge people based on color is different than saying you don't SEE color. it's foolish, and it's a lie. (*author would like to note that this does not apply to those who have an actual diagnosed colorblindness problem. she is sorry to hear that... she permits you to continue using the phrase "i don't see color." and, to make amends for her offensiveness... she will gladly fold your socks into pairs.)
in the early 90's nike launched an advertising campaign featuring michael jordan and spike lee saying phrases like "the mo' colors, the mo' better." (my brother was in high school at the time, and he wrote an award-winning essay about embracing racial diversity in which he quoted this spike lee original.) the point of the campaign was, of course, to sell shoes. but, the secondary issue was to spark some dialogue and some thought about embracing people of all colors... not to deny that we are all covered in skin of varying colors, or to intimidate each other with so much political correction that we can't speak openly about race and ethnicity.
i am a tall, brown-haired, heterosexual, white, christian woman. i'm a youngest child, a child of divorce. these things are not a matter of better or worse, they are a matter of my reality and if i'm honest they do define a lot of who i am. i cannot speak for what life is like as a man, a muslim, a homosexual, or as a small black boy in a white family. i raise the question: what might it be like for him, now and down the road. i ask, not because i love him differently than i love my daughters... but, because i love him so much i feel obligated to acknowledge that his life experience will be different than my daughters' and sometimes it will be harder. i think i would be doing him a disservice if i were to take people's advice and treat him the exact same as my biological kids. i tried using the same eczema cream and it fried off his tiny baby mustache. HE IS NOT THE SAME! nor should he be!
today, when playing a board game with harper and marlie, she gave him a gamepiece and said "here harper, you'll be blue." he pulled up his little pantleg and pointed to his skin and said "noooo, i be browwwn." then, he looked at me proudly, flashed a huge smile (showing just the bottom row of his teeth), he raised his eyebrows once and said "harper handsome." he's also proud to tell you that he is adopted, just like jesus was adopted by joseph, and that he has handsome brown skin, and that the bottom of his feet are pink. he'll tell you that i am his forever mama, but that he has a birthmama too. my girls can't say any of that. they. are. different. to pretend otherwise wouldn't only be ridiculous, it would be sad.
i'm glad we adopted, and we are going to do it again. (yes, that will make five kids in all.) i am glad harper is "browwwwn" and i'm glad he thinks that it's handsome. i don't care if people think that "black children belong in black families." i think that in a perfect world children belong in the home with BOTH of their biological parents... but until we live in a perfect world, i think children belong with whoever is willing to love them, believe in them, and take the time to make them feel good about who they are... similarities, and yes, differences.
confessions of a d.b.m.
i forgot my baby in the car.
it's true. i opened the door to the van, i unbuckled harper (2) and helped him climb down onto the sidewalk, while i got marlie (4) down and helped put her backpack on. when i looked over at harper, he was playing with the automatic locks on my door. he hadn't ever touched the buttons before, so i explained to him that it wasn't okay, because we could get locked out. (wouldn't that be just a nightmare.)
then i closed the door and walked them both into preschool to drop marlie off. (end scene. cut to parking lot, zoom in on silver van.)
little london claire is sitting quietly (like a lady) in her infant car seat. just 8 weeks old. i left her in the car. i know, i know... that is a common mistake for a scatter-brained, sleep-deprived, new-mother-of-four. but, that isn't even the worse part. the part that makes me a d.b.m. (or dead beat mom for those of you who aren't family members) is that i didn't realize that harper hadn't just pushed the locks, he also rolled down the passenger side window. so, london was not only alone and unattended, she was also cold and available for burglary. (fade out, return to scene of me dimly walking back to the van like an unaware simpleton.)
i slid the van door open and realized what i've done. my heart sank. now, since i just ran in and ran out, she was neither too cold, nor had she been burgled. but, it was still one of the worst parenting-lows in 6 years of motherhood.
i have had some pretty crazy low-points in 6 years. i once threw my daughter's breakfast out the window on the highway, because i felt obligated to follow through on (what should have been) an empty threat. i said "if you do that again i am throwing your waffle out the window." she did it again, and i frisbeed that waffle right into the median. low point.
even lower than that, was when we put our oldest daughter, annalee (now 6, but 3 at the time) on a sort of privilege lock-down because we believed she had repeatedly been picking at holes in her wall that had been patched and painted over, then lying about it... swearing it wasn't her. only recently (3 years too late) did we realize that when the walls or the floor in that room are pounded on, the dried spackle starts to crumble and work its way out on it's own... leaving, what appears to be a small, freshly picked-at hole in the wall. super-low.
when i got to the van and inspected for signs of frost-bite or attempted baby-napping, london opened her eyes and she smiled at me. so forgiving are our little ones. it blows my mind how often i can fail them, and how much they still love me. i hear people talk all the time about how god loves us like a parent loves a child, but lately i am feeling like maybe god loves us like a little child blindly, and unequivocally loves her mama.
it's true. i opened the door to the van, i unbuckled harper (2) and helped him climb down onto the sidewalk, while i got marlie (4) down and helped put her backpack on. when i looked over at harper, he was playing with the automatic locks on my door. he hadn't ever touched the buttons before, so i explained to him that it wasn't okay, because we could get locked out. (wouldn't that be just a nightmare.)
then i closed the door and walked them both into preschool to drop marlie off. (end scene. cut to parking lot, zoom in on silver van.)
little london claire is sitting quietly (like a lady) in her infant car seat. just 8 weeks old. i left her in the car. i know, i know... that is a common mistake for a scatter-brained, sleep-deprived, new-mother-of-four. but, that isn't even the worse part. the part that makes me a d.b.m. (or dead beat mom for those of you who aren't family members) is that i didn't realize that harper hadn't just pushed the locks, he also rolled down the passenger side window. so, london was not only alone and unattended, she was also cold and available for burglary. (fade out, return to scene of me dimly walking back to the van like an unaware simpleton.)
i slid the van door open and realized what i've done. my heart sank. now, since i just ran in and ran out, she was neither too cold, nor had she been burgled. but, it was still one of the worst parenting-lows in 6 years of motherhood.
i have had some pretty crazy low-points in 6 years. i once threw my daughter's breakfast out the window on the highway, because i felt obligated to follow through on (what should have been) an empty threat. i said "if you do that again i am throwing your waffle out the window." she did it again, and i frisbeed that waffle right into the median. low point.
even lower than that, was when we put our oldest daughter, annalee (now 6, but 3 at the time) on a sort of privilege lock-down because we believed she had repeatedly been picking at holes in her wall that had been patched and painted over, then lying about it... swearing it wasn't her. only recently (3 years too late) did we realize that when the walls or the floor in that room are pounded on, the dried spackle starts to crumble and work its way out on it's own... leaving, what appears to be a small, freshly picked-at hole in the wall. super-low.
when i got to the van and inspected for signs of frost-bite or attempted baby-napping, london opened her eyes and she smiled at me. so forgiving are our little ones. it blows my mind how often i can fail them, and how much they still love me. i hear people talk all the time about how god loves us like a parent loves a child, but lately i am feeling like maybe god loves us like a little child blindly, and unequivocally loves her mama.
life on the run
when you read the title of this post you might assume that i write "life on the run" to mean "life on the go," or "life as a busy mom," or even "my life is so busy and important, and it just never stops..." i don't mean any of those things.
sure, life is busy and all. annalee is in kindergarten, marlie is in pre-school, harper is a maniac, my fetus won't let me sleep... life is sure busy. but, that is not what this blog is about. when i say "life on the run," i mean life on the run. i am talking about my life as a fugitive. the following information is all factual, unless it is used to make a case against me in a court of law. then, it is actually just a fun and lighthearted blog post with no actual facts.
ya see it goes back far, and it goes back ugly. but, i am not going to relive my whole criminal life for all to see. i am just going to start with the most recent criminal activity... which took it's root in pennsylvania. i moved to PA about 8 years ago. i moved there to go to school at e@stern univer$ity. i became a resident of PA to decrease the tuition amount at a local community college so i could take some inexpensive summer credits. i never actually enrolled at the community college, so fat lot a good that did me. but, it was all worth it when i saw the picture on my pennsylvania driver's license.
my first driver's license was issued to me in michigan. i was 16 years old, and a poor driver. but, worse than my driving was my picture on the license. i had wet hair (which for me translates to a flat wet look on top, and frizzy bush-fest near the ends of my hair. picture a frizzy pyramid, and that was my head. i call it my mufasa.) i was also unusually pale, almost yellowy. and my eyes were completely closed. i looked like a jaundiced mufasa in a choma.
not a big deal to have a bad license picture right? well, mostly right. that statement is true for every driver's license you have, EXCEPT that first one. the first one is the one all your friends ask to see. that FIRST driver's license is the one you proudly (or shamefully) pull out of your crispy, fake-leather wallet to display to your other bad-driver friends. it was traumatic.
so, imagine my joy at seeing a normal-colored, awake, okay-haired version of myself in my pennsylvania driver's license. not to mention, the words "organ donor" were printed in green, right underneath my picture. in the picture i am wearing a sweater in the exact shade of green. it really did look like a custom match job. i was pleased as punch.
then i moved to new york. i refused to trade in my license. it was a good picture, yes. but it was not vanity alone that prevented me from surrendering my license. there was also a little voice reminding me that PA was a swing state and if i stayed a PA resident, i could vote in PA via absentee ballot. (hey - every vote counts. rock the vote.) that voice was small though, and the voice of the custom-matched license was loud and proud. so, i kept my PA license, despite my new york residency. then, after time... a LOT of time... that license expired.
new york law states this: if a resident of another state moves to new york and does not surrender their license in exchange for a NY state license... and if the out-of state license has expired more than 12 months ago, then you must be subjected to humiliation far worse than what you may/may not have experienced when showing a bad driver's license photo to your friends at 16 years of age. oh, and you will be sorry. very, very sorry.
yes, my license expired over a year ago... yes, i have been driving without a "legal" license for a very long time... yes... i have crouched behind the steering wheel in fear of police officers every time one passes me. (i feel like i can really understand the fear that fugitives experience when living life on the run. it really is terrifying) ...yes, i have gotten pulled over during the time in which i have been driving illegally... no, i have never been ticketed... yes, i am proud of how my charm rescued me from jailtime... no, i never cried or flirted my way out of a ticket, thank you very much.
here is the punishment that the wicked ladies of the dmv have brought down upon my criminal behavior:
ok, nobody has slimed me just yet... but, a lot of laughing and pointing has already taken place. i don't think people understand how taxing the fugitive life can be. the laughing and the pointing, really not needed. you know what else i didn't need? the driver's manual my father-in-law sent me in the mail. inside the front cover, this was inscribed:
to lara, from mom and pops:
study hard!! if you want to practice parallel parking, we've got just the spot! we know you're going to be a great driver someday!! we love you!
again, with the laughing and the pointing. that is when i accidentally called him an @s% w*pe.
anything written in this post, was again inspired by a true story but was intended for comic relief only. it should not be used against me in a court of law. names and locations may have been altered to protect the identity of me, the negligent criminal. i am very sorry for my behavior and am looking forward to becoming a contributing member of society once again.
sure, life is busy and all. annalee is in kindergarten, marlie is in pre-school, harper is a maniac, my fetus won't let me sleep... life is sure busy. but, that is not what this blog is about. when i say "life on the run," i mean life on the run. i am talking about my life as a fugitive. the following information is all factual, unless it is used to make a case against me in a court of law. then, it is actually just a fun and lighthearted blog post with no actual facts.
ya see it goes back far, and it goes back ugly. but, i am not going to relive my whole criminal life for all to see. i am just going to start with the most recent criminal activity... which took it's root in pennsylvania. i moved to PA about 8 years ago. i moved there to go to school at e@stern univer$ity. i became a resident of PA to decrease the tuition amount at a local community college so i could take some inexpensive summer credits. i never actually enrolled at the community college, so fat lot a good that did me. but, it was all worth it when i saw the picture on my pennsylvania driver's license.
my first driver's license was issued to me in michigan. i was 16 years old, and a poor driver. but, worse than my driving was my picture on the license. i had wet hair (which for me translates to a flat wet look on top, and frizzy bush-fest near the ends of my hair. picture a frizzy pyramid, and that was my head. i call it my mufasa.) i was also unusually pale, almost yellowy. and my eyes were completely closed. i looked like a jaundiced mufasa in a choma.
not a big deal to have a bad license picture right? well, mostly right. that statement is true for every driver's license you have, EXCEPT that first one. the first one is the one all your friends ask to see. that FIRST driver's license is the one you proudly (or shamefully) pull out of your crispy, fake-leather wallet to display to your other bad-driver friends. it was traumatic.
so, imagine my joy at seeing a normal-colored, awake, okay-haired version of myself in my pennsylvania driver's license. not to mention, the words "organ donor" were printed in green, right underneath my picture. in the picture i am wearing a sweater in the exact shade of green. it really did look like a custom match job. i was pleased as punch.
then i moved to new york. i refused to trade in my license. it was a good picture, yes. but it was not vanity alone that prevented me from surrendering my license. there was also a little voice reminding me that PA was a swing state and if i stayed a PA resident, i could vote in PA via absentee ballot. (hey - every vote counts. rock the vote.) that voice was small though, and the voice of the custom-matched license was loud and proud. so, i kept my PA license, despite my new york residency. then, after time... a LOT of time... that license expired.
new york law states this: if a resident of another state moves to new york and does not surrender their license in exchange for a NY state license... and if the out-of state license has expired more than 12 months ago, then you must be subjected to humiliation far worse than what you may/may not have experienced when showing a bad driver's license photo to your friends at 16 years of age. oh, and you will be sorry. very, very sorry.
yes, my license expired over a year ago... yes, i have been driving without a "legal" license for a very long time... yes... i have crouched behind the steering wheel in fear of police officers every time one passes me. (i feel like i can really understand the fear that fugitives experience when living life on the run. it really is terrifying) ...yes, i have gotten pulled over during the time in which i have been driving illegally... no, i have never been ticketed... yes, i am proud of how my charm rescued me from jailtime... no, i never cried or flirted my way out of a ticket, thank you very much.
here is the punishment that the wicked ladies of the dmv have brought down upon my criminal behavior:
- i must get an "official" copy of my birth certificate. (apparently i wasn't really born unless i pay $45 for the county office of vital records to stamp some photocopy. they are also far too good to accept a passport that expired 8 years ago. well, la dee dah.)
- i must submit the expensive version of my birth certificate, along with 1 million other pieces of paper that i cannot find.
- then, and only then, can i apply for MY LEARNER'S PERMIT. yes, you read that right. i have to get my learner's permit. again. at 28 years of age.
- i have to complete a 5 hour driver's education course. (i am really looking forward to doing this while i am 7 months pregnant. my friend abby pointed out that i look young for my age, so people will just think i am a pregnant sophomore in high school. that was really comforting.)
- i have to take a driver's test. (chances are i will be older than the twerp testing me...)
- then if i don't back over any cones this time... i can apply for a big-girl license.
- then i do a walk of shame down a plank, they push me into a pool of slime while all of my friends and family laugh and point. this part isn't really required by the state, but as it turns out, those closest to me have already done this (figuratively speaking...)
ok, nobody has slimed me just yet... but, a lot of laughing and pointing has already taken place. i don't think people understand how taxing the fugitive life can be. the laughing and the pointing, really not needed. you know what else i didn't need? the driver's manual my father-in-law sent me in the mail. inside the front cover, this was inscribed:
to lara, from mom and pops:
study hard!! if you want to practice parallel parking, we've got just the spot! we know you're going to be a great driver someday!! we love you!
again, with the laughing and the pointing. that is when i accidentally called him an @s% w*pe.
anything written in this post, was again inspired by a true story but was intended for comic relief only. it should not be used against me in a court of law. names and locations may have been altered to protect the identity of me, the negligent criminal. i am very sorry for my behavior and am looking forward to becoming a contributing member of society once again.
don't take anyone's crap.
when i was a baby, i ate my sister's poop.
it's true. we are only 18 months apart, so when she was potty training i was apparently very interested. what happened was this... she went #2 on the potty (which we are all still very proud of) and i guess my mom had left the bathroom or something for a second. when she returned this is what she saw: my sister, swirling a comb around in the poop water and sliding down the length of her hair. (i always imagine that part in slow-motion.) and me: with my sister's big achievement caked to the roof of my mouth. (this part, i fast-forward through in my mind.)
my mom was, naturally, horrified at the sight, and began frantically cleaning out my poop-mouth and then my sister's poop-hair. it was a disgusting mess. now, this was not the last time i took crap from my older siblings... but it was the one and only time that it ever happened this literally.
sometimes i wonder what possessed me to venture into the pot for something to eat. sometimes i wonder why kids do a lot of things. i just can't wrap my mind around their minds, and how they work. my daughter marlie is something like myself... which oftentimes means she is a bit eccentric, but this gives me just an occasional peek into the thought life that i must have possessed as a child. last halloween she insisted on being a chicken-mermaid. when i couldn't (despite my best effort) find a suitable chicken-mermaid combo... she settled for being a "mermaid princess" (i may have swayed her by using a glorious red ariel wig, but i can't say for sure.) a more recent example of the unique inner-workings of her brain is her upcoming birthday party theme. she will be turning four at the end of this month, and has politely requested that the theme and decor be aliens and strawberry shortcake. i am very confused, but a little excited to make the party hats out of tin foil.
but, back to the poop fiasco. why would i eat something out of the toilet, when i'm certain my mom had an adequate lunch in mind for me? you see i never technically ate poop again... but, figuratively speaking, i eat crap every single day. every time i settle for what i think is best, and ignore what god thinks is best... i might as well go back to the toilet and dig in. why do i settle for my crap plan for myself, when god as a nice lunch-type plan waiting for me? it makes about as much sense as a chicken-mermaid.
if i am being really, truly honest with myself (and with whoever you are)... i could tell you why i choose my own crap ways, instead of following god's way 100% of the time. it's because deep-down, in the pit of my dark, depraved soul... there is still that poop-eating little girl who is scared to trust a god that would let me go through so many painful things in life. intellectually, i KNOW that god's plan for me and my life is far better than the comfort-filled life i would give myself, that would build no character or endurance in me. i KNOW that god is real and true and that he loves me more than anyone else has ever loved me. i really do believe that with all my heart. but there is a tiny corner of my heart that remains so self-protective that i would rather take familiar poop than wait to see the mystery of what god has for me.
i am pregnant, expecting baby #4. we have had a pretty rough journey through this pregnancy. i have essentially been on bed-rest the entire first half of this pregnancy. i have been into the ER on numerous occasions, have experienced two different complications that put me at risk for pre-term labor, one of which poses potential risk of various deformities and birth-defects to the baby. if i could choose the outcome for myself and for this baby, i know that it would be crap compared to the outcome that god will determine for us. still there is the poop-loving part of my soul that is still being changed by god, that is still learning to trust in him, that is still surrendering myself to him every day. or at least trying to.
it's true. we are only 18 months apart, so when she was potty training i was apparently very interested. what happened was this... she went #2 on the potty (which we are all still very proud of) and i guess my mom had left the bathroom or something for a second. when she returned this is what she saw: my sister, swirling a comb around in the poop water and sliding down the length of her hair. (i always imagine that part in slow-motion.) and me: with my sister's big achievement caked to the roof of my mouth. (this part, i fast-forward through in my mind.)
my mom was, naturally, horrified at the sight, and began frantically cleaning out my poop-mouth and then my sister's poop-hair. it was a disgusting mess. now, this was not the last time i took crap from my older siblings... but it was the one and only time that it ever happened this literally.
sometimes i wonder what possessed me to venture into the pot for something to eat. sometimes i wonder why kids do a lot of things. i just can't wrap my mind around their minds, and how they work. my daughter marlie is something like myself... which oftentimes means she is a bit eccentric, but this gives me just an occasional peek into the thought life that i must have possessed as a child. last halloween she insisted on being a chicken-mermaid. when i couldn't (despite my best effort) find a suitable chicken-mermaid combo... she settled for being a "mermaid princess" (i may have swayed her by using a glorious red ariel wig, but i can't say for sure.) a more recent example of the unique inner-workings of her brain is her upcoming birthday party theme. she will be turning four at the end of this month, and has politely requested that the theme and decor be aliens and strawberry shortcake. i am very confused, but a little excited to make the party hats out of tin foil.
but, back to the poop fiasco. why would i eat something out of the toilet, when i'm certain my mom had an adequate lunch in mind for me? you see i never technically ate poop again... but, figuratively speaking, i eat crap every single day. every time i settle for what i think is best, and ignore what god thinks is best... i might as well go back to the toilet and dig in. why do i settle for my crap plan for myself, when god as a nice lunch-type plan waiting for me? it makes about as much sense as a chicken-mermaid.
if i am being really, truly honest with myself (and with whoever you are)... i could tell you why i choose my own crap ways, instead of following god's way 100% of the time. it's because deep-down, in the pit of my dark, depraved soul... there is still that poop-eating little girl who is scared to trust a god that would let me go through so many painful things in life. intellectually, i KNOW that god's plan for me and my life is far better than the comfort-filled life i would give myself, that would build no character or endurance in me. i KNOW that god is real and true and that he loves me more than anyone else has ever loved me. i really do believe that with all my heart. but there is a tiny corner of my heart that remains so self-protective that i would rather take familiar poop than wait to see the mystery of what god has for me.
i am pregnant, expecting baby #4. we have had a pretty rough journey through this pregnancy. i have essentially been on bed-rest the entire first half of this pregnancy. i have been into the ER on numerous occasions, have experienced two different complications that put me at risk for pre-term labor, one of which poses potential risk of various deformities and birth-defects to the baby. if i could choose the outcome for myself and for this baby, i know that it would be crap compared to the outcome that god will determine for us. still there is the poop-loving part of my soul that is still being changed by god, that is still learning to trust in him, that is still surrendering myself to him every day. or at least trying to.
why getting older is the new getting younger.
it's 4:30 in the morning, and i am almost thirty.
ok, that isn't entirely true. it is actually 4:40am and i won't be thirty for two years. i just turned 28. i am almost sure that that is true. (since i have had kids, i have had a very difficult time remembering my age. i think it is due to a cocktail of hormones, exhaustion and trying to pretend that my kids' birthdays are more important than mine, when secretly i love my birthday the most.) but, i went an entire year thinking i was 28, only to turn the real 28 this past june. repeating that year made me take my actual-age-remembering more seriously. now, i won't forget. i am 28, two years until i turn thirty.
i realized this so fully, because i just woke up from a dream where i was sitting on the floor in the back seat of my grandfather's car telling everyone that i was thirteen. i kept saying it, over and over (like an actual thirteen-year-old would. how annoying would it be to be thirteen again? i can't even stand the thought of myself.) anyways, i kept saying it "i'm thirteen, really... i am!" the car was jam-packed with so many people, yet was still somehow unusually spacious. i was sitting on the floor, and on the seat above me was my friend lexi's brother, lindy. (don't ask me why he was there, i am pregnant and my hormones are even making my dreams do irrational things. i am completely out of control.)
so, when lindy looked at me skeptically at my last profession of being thirteen, i slipped. i vowed "i really am fifteen!" busted.
he looked at me with a little pity, and patted my back like i was his elderly grandmother. (i have met lexi and lindy's grandmother, she's seriously cooler than i am, and isn't really elderly elderly at all. but, when she gets super elderly, i know how her back will feel when it gets the you-poor-old-thing pat from lindy.
the thing that startled me out of this dream was not what one would expect. it was not the sudden realization that thirty "looms" in the distance. it was not how roomy grandpa's car inexplicably was, it wasn't the fact that lindy would let a pregnant teenager sit on the floor, while he took the seat... it was the fact that i lied about my age (and probably also because i was sleeping on my back, which forces my fetus to squish my bladder, which is always packed to the brim.)
but the real shocker here was that in my dream, i did not want to be older. in my dream, i was ashamed. i was so ashamed in fact i was willing to be thirteen again. that is the true horror that made this go from dream to nightmare. the reason this is so shocking to me is because a long time ago, i read a stupid article, by a stupid woman, in a stupid magazine that focused on stupid topics. in this article the woman seriously lamented over turning thirty... how thirty was the beginning of the end, how much your thirty-year-old body has changed since you were 20, how all the good times were behind her... on and on it went. she alluded to not being able to find a good man, and believed in large part that it was because she was getting old. even in my irrational dream state i could have told you that she couldn't find a good man, because she was so bitter about being thirty she couldn't see past the end of her nose... not because there was actually anything wrong with her, or being thirty.
from that article on, i vowed to embrace what would inevitably come. the age 30. i've actually collected a great deal of data in the past several years, and have found a few things out. 1) most of the woman i knew in their thirties had more money than i did, were smarter, had decent husbands (with the exception of the bitter article-writer who hates herself), and many had jobs that they loved, and/or children they loved even more than the dream job. 2) most the women i knew seemed a little more comfortable than i did. they knew what they believed in, and were fine with it. they dressed how they dressed - whether good or not great - and they were fine with it. they seemed to be in a stage where they kind of accepted who they were. they weren't unchangeable or anything, but they were done with the uncertainty of the twenties.
here's is what all my data-collection has taught me. (now i am only a stupid twenty-something, so i am probably wrong... but here goes nothing.)
the teenage years are marked by one major thing: we think we know everything. we are immature, kind of awkward for most of these years, and despite knowing everything... we are extremely insecure. for me personally, these years were also marked by big hair and being gangly. seriously, my brother-in-law dan, used to come to my volleyball games in high school and say that my knees looked like oranges on toothpicks. unfortunately, i graduated from high school in 1999, so i don't have the 80's to blame for my bad hair... unlike those lucky thirty-something subjects of my research at the time.
if the teen years are marked by thinking you know everything, then the twenties are marked by realizing you know nothing. if you thought you were insecure in your teen years when you knew everything, imagine the insecurity that comes when you move in to a dorm with strangers and realize you possess none of the knowledge you swore you had, and your parents lacked. in reality, the twenties are spent figuring out what you believe, who you are, who you hope to become and other tid bits of the like.
i started my family in my early twenties, so i can't say that it was a bad stage for me, just a lot of not really knowing enough about who i was. i got pregnant before i was married (exhibit a. in the case to prove that i knew nothing as a 20-year-old) so figuring out who i was and who i wanted to be, was perhaps a little difficult, because i was "wife" and "mama" while i was also "student" and "waitress." i know that not everybody knew as little as i did, but if we are honest, we were all pretty stupid in our late teens/early twenties. this is a safe place, and you can admit it here.
enter turning thirty. i think the thirties seem to be marked by self-awareness, improved self-worth and self-acceptance. i think the self-focused self-discovery of the teens and twenties, free women in the their thirties to be more focused on others (in a good way.) having done the research, turning thirty is not at all scary to me. in fact, i cannot wait to turn thirty. i really am completely excited about being in my thirties. i once told my friend kathy that for my thirtieth birthday, i was going to throw myself a huge party, and i was going to send out invitations that said "come to my party, i am turning 30, and i want to celebrate with all the people who helped to make me fabulous in my thirties!" kathy pointed out that that sounded a little arrogant of me, and that maybe i shouldn't brag about how fabulous i was in my thirties, since i was only 26 at the time. i think kathy was right, but she was also 29, three years closer to being thirty... which explains why she saw the flaw in my invitations, while i thought they were brilliant. stupid twenties.
i am going to skip to the forty-somethings now. women in their forties seem to go one way or the other... if they embraced their thirties and loved every minute of it, they are even greater in their forties. if, however, they fought their way through the thirties kicking and screaming, this is when the mid-life crisis hits. i think that the women who go bananas during their forties, are the same women who were afraid of turning thirty. you can't stop it, so it makes you crazy. for the women who don't go bananas, the forties are a time where the start putting themselves back on the to-do list (again, in a good way), and they buy things they have always wanted, but didn't really need at the time. the forties are when i will get really nice bedroom furniture. i am forty, i have waited a long time for this, i want a nice headboard.
fifty and beyond are admittedly, a bit of a mystery to me. i am currently conducting research about these years. i will say, the earliest trends in the data suggests that the more women fight the aging process, the more likely they are to go bananas. these are scientific studies, and i can't expect all of you to understand... so just try to keep up.
it's like this: my first car was a chevy something. i think it was mostly a chevy celebrity, but i don't for sure what kind of chevy it was because it was such a piece, that it had a trunk from a different kind of car... which is where the car type is written. (i'm sure it is written elsewhere as well, but i was a teenager - i knew nothing, and didn't know it.) the car was a gray matte finish, with a black trunk with a glossy finish. i had one hubcap, total, and no spare tire. i did, however, have a spare steering column in my black trunk, which was a bonus. so, the car was obviously not a lease from a dealership. the fact was that it was a piece of crap, but it was my car, and it was the only one i would have.
so, when i kept putting mile after mile on that car... i had two choices. i could pout and whine and complain about what was inevitably coming... or i could throw myself a little party every time the odometer hit a big number. the big number was coming either way. sure, it was tempting to covet the nice honda accord with all it's hubcaps, when i was out of gas at a busy intersection (with a tail light out and my keys locked in the car) but what good would that have done? i was still going to have to pry my foggy window down, climb in my crap car through the window, fish out the keys, dig in the trunk for the empty gas can (next to the spare steering column) and walk to the gas station. when i did that, i would drive my car until it hit 250,000 miles or until it died... whichever came first.
turning thirty, or turning 130 is sort of the same thing. you either will or you won't. i will either turn thirty or i'll die, whichever comes first. as far as i can tell, we can't stop it... nor should we want to. i would never want to go back to knowing less, being more confused, less sure. i especially wouldn't want to go back just so i could have my 20 year old body again... it would be nice, but i wasn't crazy about it when i was twenty, who's to say i would appreciate it any more now? so, the fact remains... it doesn't matter what kind of car you are driving, it's the only one we got and we're packing on the miles one way or another. if my odometer reads a big number, that just means i went a long way and the car didn't die. how can this be a bad thing?
i have to pee again. and eat a plum. happy aging!
ok, that isn't entirely true. it is actually 4:40am and i won't be thirty for two years. i just turned 28. i am almost sure that that is true. (since i have had kids, i have had a very difficult time remembering my age. i think it is due to a cocktail of hormones, exhaustion and trying to pretend that my kids' birthdays are more important than mine, when secretly i love my birthday the most.) but, i went an entire year thinking i was 28, only to turn the real 28 this past june. repeating that year made me take my actual-age-remembering more seriously. now, i won't forget. i am 28, two years until i turn thirty.
i realized this so fully, because i just woke up from a dream where i was sitting on the floor in the back seat of my grandfather's car telling everyone that i was thirteen. i kept saying it, over and over (like an actual thirteen-year-old would. how annoying would it be to be thirteen again? i can't even stand the thought of myself.) anyways, i kept saying it "i'm thirteen, really... i am!" the car was jam-packed with so many people, yet was still somehow unusually spacious. i was sitting on the floor, and on the seat above me was my friend lexi's brother, lindy. (don't ask me why he was there, i am pregnant and my hormones are even making my dreams do irrational things. i am completely out of control.)
so, when lindy looked at me skeptically at my last profession of being thirteen, i slipped. i vowed "i really am fifteen!" busted.
he looked at me with a little pity, and patted my back like i was his elderly grandmother. (i have met lexi and lindy's grandmother, she's seriously cooler than i am, and isn't really elderly elderly at all. but, when she gets super elderly, i know how her back will feel when it gets the you-poor-old-thing pat from lindy.
the thing that startled me out of this dream was not what one would expect. it was not the sudden realization that thirty "looms" in the distance. it was not how roomy grandpa's car inexplicably was, it wasn't the fact that lindy would let a pregnant teenager sit on the floor, while he took the seat... it was the fact that i lied about my age (and probably also because i was sleeping on my back, which forces my fetus to squish my bladder, which is always packed to the brim.)
but the real shocker here was that in my dream, i did not want to be older. in my dream, i was ashamed. i was so ashamed in fact i was willing to be thirteen again. that is the true horror that made this go from dream to nightmare. the reason this is so shocking to me is because a long time ago, i read a stupid article, by a stupid woman, in a stupid magazine that focused on stupid topics. in this article the woman seriously lamented over turning thirty... how thirty was the beginning of the end, how much your thirty-year-old body has changed since you were 20, how all the good times were behind her... on and on it went. she alluded to not being able to find a good man, and believed in large part that it was because she was getting old. even in my irrational dream state i could have told you that she couldn't find a good man, because she was so bitter about being thirty she couldn't see past the end of her nose... not because there was actually anything wrong with her, or being thirty.
from that article on, i vowed to embrace what would inevitably come. the age 30. i've actually collected a great deal of data in the past several years, and have found a few things out. 1) most of the woman i knew in their thirties had more money than i did, were smarter, had decent husbands (with the exception of the bitter article-writer who hates herself), and many had jobs that they loved, and/or children they loved even more than the dream job. 2) most the women i knew seemed a little more comfortable than i did. they knew what they believed in, and were fine with it. they dressed how they dressed - whether good or not great - and they were fine with it. they seemed to be in a stage where they kind of accepted who they were. they weren't unchangeable or anything, but they were done with the uncertainty of the twenties.
here's is what all my data-collection has taught me. (now i am only a stupid twenty-something, so i am probably wrong... but here goes nothing.)
the teenage years are marked by one major thing: we think we know everything. we are immature, kind of awkward for most of these years, and despite knowing everything... we are extremely insecure. for me personally, these years were also marked by big hair and being gangly. seriously, my brother-in-law dan, used to come to my volleyball games in high school and say that my knees looked like oranges on toothpicks. unfortunately, i graduated from high school in 1999, so i don't have the 80's to blame for my bad hair... unlike those lucky thirty-something subjects of my research at the time.
if the teen years are marked by thinking you know everything, then the twenties are marked by realizing you know nothing. if you thought you were insecure in your teen years when you knew everything, imagine the insecurity that comes when you move in to a dorm with strangers and realize you possess none of the knowledge you swore you had, and your parents lacked. in reality, the twenties are spent figuring out what you believe, who you are, who you hope to become and other tid bits of the like.
i started my family in my early twenties, so i can't say that it was a bad stage for me, just a lot of not really knowing enough about who i was. i got pregnant before i was married (exhibit a. in the case to prove that i knew nothing as a 20-year-old) so figuring out who i was and who i wanted to be, was perhaps a little difficult, because i was "wife" and "mama" while i was also "student" and "waitress." i know that not everybody knew as little as i did, but if we are honest, we were all pretty stupid in our late teens/early twenties. this is a safe place, and you can admit it here.
enter turning thirty. i think the thirties seem to be marked by self-awareness, improved self-worth and self-acceptance. i think the self-focused self-discovery of the teens and twenties, free women in the their thirties to be more focused on others (in a good way.) having done the research, turning thirty is not at all scary to me. in fact, i cannot wait to turn thirty. i really am completely excited about being in my thirties. i once told my friend kathy that for my thirtieth birthday, i was going to throw myself a huge party, and i was going to send out invitations that said "come to my party, i am turning 30, and i want to celebrate with all the people who helped to make me fabulous in my thirties!" kathy pointed out that that sounded a little arrogant of me, and that maybe i shouldn't brag about how fabulous i was in my thirties, since i was only 26 at the time. i think kathy was right, but she was also 29, three years closer to being thirty... which explains why she saw the flaw in my invitations, while i thought they were brilliant. stupid twenties.
i am going to skip to the forty-somethings now. women in their forties seem to go one way or the other... if they embraced their thirties and loved every minute of it, they are even greater in their forties. if, however, they fought their way through the thirties kicking and screaming, this is when the mid-life crisis hits. i think that the women who go bananas during their forties, are the same women who were afraid of turning thirty. you can't stop it, so it makes you crazy. for the women who don't go bananas, the forties are a time where the start putting themselves back on the to-do list (again, in a good way), and they buy things they have always wanted, but didn't really need at the time. the forties are when i will get really nice bedroom furniture. i am forty, i have waited a long time for this, i want a nice headboard.
fifty and beyond are admittedly, a bit of a mystery to me. i am currently conducting research about these years. i will say, the earliest trends in the data suggests that the more women fight the aging process, the more likely they are to go bananas. these are scientific studies, and i can't expect all of you to understand... so just try to keep up.
it's like this: my first car was a chevy something. i think it was mostly a chevy celebrity, but i don't for sure what kind of chevy it was because it was such a piece, that it had a trunk from a different kind of car... which is where the car type is written. (i'm sure it is written elsewhere as well, but i was a teenager - i knew nothing, and didn't know it.) the car was a gray matte finish, with a black trunk with a glossy finish. i had one hubcap, total, and no spare tire. i did, however, have a spare steering column in my black trunk, which was a bonus. so, the car was obviously not a lease from a dealership. the fact was that it was a piece of crap, but it was my car, and it was the only one i would have.
so, when i kept putting mile after mile on that car... i had two choices. i could pout and whine and complain about what was inevitably coming... or i could throw myself a little party every time the odometer hit a big number. the big number was coming either way. sure, it was tempting to covet the nice honda accord with all it's hubcaps, when i was out of gas at a busy intersection (with a tail light out and my keys locked in the car) but what good would that have done? i was still going to have to pry my foggy window down, climb in my crap car through the window, fish out the keys, dig in the trunk for the empty gas can (next to the spare steering column) and walk to the gas station. when i did that, i would drive my car until it hit 250,000 miles or until it died... whichever came first.
turning thirty, or turning 130 is sort of the same thing. you either will or you won't. i will either turn thirty or i'll die, whichever comes first. as far as i can tell, we can't stop it... nor should we want to. i would never want to go back to knowing less, being more confused, less sure. i especially wouldn't want to go back just so i could have my 20 year old body again... it would be nice, but i wasn't crazy about it when i was twenty, who's to say i would appreciate it any more now? so, the fact remains... it doesn't matter what kind of car you are driving, it's the only one we got and we're packing on the miles one way or another. if my odometer reads a big number, that just means i went a long way and the car didn't die. how can this be a bad thing?
i have to pee again. and eat a plum. happy aging!
90 minutes is really just too long.
okay. let's pretend we are now in the first week of march.
we are clinically insane people. here's why.
every year we drive to florida. we pack up pretty much everything we own (including our kids, ages 5, 3 1/2, and then 17 mos.) and venture out on the drive which is approx. 24 hours. there is actually a test to see if you are clinically insane. phase four of the test is this question: would you drive three small children to florida in one shot? if you answer yes, you are truly insane. phase five of this test is this question: when driving three small children to florida in one shot, would you, under any circumstances (including duress), take route 15? (now taking route 15 is the equivalent to taking a bike path. through a retirement community. in a snow storm.) if you answer yes to this question and anybody with authority finds out about it... i'm pretty sure they just put you in right in jail.
so far, my father-in-law is the only human to ever answer that phase five question with an enthusiastic yes. but, that is neither here nor there.
so. we're in florida, and we have two beautiful little girls who actually believe that you can grow up and be a princess for your profession. it's just what they do. they dress up, have royal balls and tea parties, talk in nearly perfect british accents, call each other "lady" (with a really sharp T sound, like "lay-Tee") and call their baby brother the grand duke. they wear hats, gloves, scarves, jewels, glass slippers, sunglasses, tiaras, and bunny ears... usually all at the same time. they are divine.
so, can you bring two of that species to florida and not take them to disney world? it would feel a little criminal not to. so, we saved up garage sale money and lemonade stand money to go to the magic kingdom for one day. it was like bringing them to their motherland.
they both carefully selected which ball gown they wanted to wear and i allowed one accessory. annalee settled on an ariel gown - post human transformation... so neither fin nor seashells were involved, trust me i would not have allowed it. marlie went as a blond snow white. they both decided on bunny ears with sequin detailing. very classy touch. the weather was beautiful, the tickets were overpriced and it was american capitalism at it's finest. a little disgusting, but for my girls... it was truly a dream come true.
now, when i went to disney world as a child, you could do disney in one day. at least we did. my mom would force us to sprint from attraction to attraction, mapping out show times and distances from one thing to the next. we would inevitably be the pale northerners running around frantically, wearing socks and tevas, and we looked like idiots (especially because i am pretty sure i also wore a fluorescent orange fanny pack, covered with a fine black mesh, set a little more toward one hip than the other. try not to covet.)
but, the point is we did it in a day. i can't imagine the disney world people are struggling financially... but i have a theory here. i am convinced that they have carefully and cruelly figured out how to make it almost impossible to do it in a single day. for example, when i went in the early 90's, you could be on your way to space mountain (which we peer pressured my mom into deviating from her map-plan and letting us go on several times in a row) and you would happen to run into your favorite character... mickey mouse, alladin, cinderella even. but, noooooooo... that's not how it works in the 0's. in 2009, they lock the characters up in some building and make you wait in line to see them. this, of course, takes anywhere between 60 and 90 minutes. even if you are sprinting as fast as your tevas will take you, you are NOT going to meet characters and hit pirates of the caribbean on the same day. it is impossible.
so, like good parents, we tried to convince the kids that they didn't really care about meeting the beautiful princesses in real life. then annalee, who is five years old, put on her lawyer face and made her case. in her mind, meeting the princesses in person was sort of like job-shadowing. she simply had to do it in order to become a real princess herself. could we deny them this right of passage? probably not, but we were gonna try. annalee leveled with us. she said "mommy, even if it takes all our hours, i really want to see ariel."
so, we caved. we went to ariel's grotto, which is a smart set-up. ariel herself is hidden back in a cave (so that the poor people who could barely afford this one day at disney, have to choose between seeing her, and doing anything else that day) and there is a long line of parents standing in a roped off area around the outside of a little sprinkler park. the kids can run around and play in the water - in their ballgowns - while the parents wait forever. i think this appeases the parents because we feel like "at least are kids are doing something while we wait."
we walked up to ariel's grotto and their was a sign there letting us know how long the wait would be until our little girls would fulfill their destiny. 90 MINUTES. we had an hour and a half to wait in line. if you break down the cost of disney world minute by minute... i think we spend about 40 bucks just in that line. but, this was why we were there, so we got in line and the kids ran wild in the water. harper, 17 months at the time, was very intent on fleeing the grotto and returning to the carousel ride - and he spent the entire time trying to escape. so, naturally... my attention was mostly focused on him. plus, i know the girls knew better and would never DREAM of leaving that area without an adult. they simply know better. or so i thought.
i look up. marlie, 3, is missing. i am completely frantic - only a parent who has temporarily misplaced one of their humans knows what i mean. i am terrified, angry, nervous (with a dash of embarrassed)... and running around like a crazy person looking for her. then i see her. she is holding the hand of a disney world employee and she looks busted, she has her head (which looks a little like a small bowling ball, covered in wild tumbleweed-like hair) hanging down very low, but her eyes are looking up. right on me. i run up to them and apologize to the lady. as i am walking marlie firmly back to the bench to get the whole story, i see another disney world employee going down the line of parents waiting to meet ariel, shouting "is anyone missing a snow white?" i was mortified. i went and told the lady that i had found her, and all the parents give me that look of "you negligent parent... losing your child like that. you should be ashamed of yourself." which i was. so i hope they're happy.
marlie and i are sitting on the bench. i explain to her how relieved i am that she is safe, and how disappointed i am that she disobeyed. then the story came spilling out. what happened was this... marlie (who is my strong-willed, free-spirited second-born... who pretty much has my personality and lack of delayed gratification. oh, and my attention span.) she is innocently playing in the play area... running around the large rocks in the middle, and weaving in and out of the water, when she discovers that from the very end of the play area, you can see the back of ariel's cave. this is where those lucky girls and boys who have waited 90 minutes to meet ariel, have their photograph taken by a disney picture man and of course their parents or other supervising adult, and then they joyfully exit the cave through a turn style. this is what all the good american boys and girls are doing. not my marlie. she sees that turn style. and more importantly she sees just past that turn style. into the cave, just far enough to see ariel herself. sitting on a rock, calling children up, one by one, talking to them in a perfect ariel voice, and posing for a picture with an exact ariel smile.
this was simply too much for marlie. she apparently could NOT contain herself. she would later report this to me. she crawled under the gate (aka the turn style) and walked up to the front of the line. ariel said "come sit next to me." so marlie did. marlie, i'm sure, showed ariel her shoes and her dress, and quietly whispered her name when ariel asked. at this point i don't think anybody realized that she shouldn't have been there. but, when marlie asked for her photograph to be taken, they realized there weren't any adults involved here.
first of all, i am completely shocked that she would do this. i can't believe that she would leave our supervision (which clearly wasn't adequate), cut off all those people, then have the audacity to get up there and demand that the photograph be taken! so, as she was telling me this (i am in complete disbelief) i asked her "did they actually take your picture!?" she said on the verge of tears "no, because they said i didn't have the right lady with me!" i then explained to her furiously, that i was the right lady, her mother... that she needed to stay with ME!
after many lectures and some time of sitting alone to think about what she had done while tom and i discussed whether or not we would allow her to meet ariel and get a legit picture taken with her... she knew she had one chance to redeem herself. here is what she said in her needlessly loud three-year-old voice, "mommy, i know that i disobeyed and it was dangerous. it was disrespectful to all the other customers. but mommy..." (insert long pause, as if this was the crowning moment of her argument. this was her chance to explain why she did it. knowing it was wrong, why she had no choice but to take that chance...) "...but mommy... ariel is not a statue... and her tail was real."
that is a three-year-old way of saying, "i'm sorry, but what were my options!? i had to see that tail."
in a blend of anger, and trying not to laugh out loud... i left her there alone to stew in fear that she would never have that photo to relive this adventure, while tom and i stepped aside to discuss her fate. tom's parents, who came with us to disney, gently reminded me that this was, for her, a once in a lifetime opportunity and maybe today wasn't the day to drive home that lesson. they pleaded her case, and tom and i did end up letting her have a legitimate meeting with ariel and many pictures were taken - both by the disney picture-taker, and by me... the right lady.
we are clinically insane people. here's why.
every year we drive to florida. we pack up pretty much everything we own (including our kids, ages 5, 3 1/2, and then 17 mos.) and venture out on the drive which is approx. 24 hours. there is actually a test to see if you are clinically insane. phase four of the test is this question: would you drive three small children to florida in one shot? if you answer yes, you are truly insane. phase five of this test is this question: when driving three small children to florida in one shot, would you, under any circumstances (including duress), take route 15? (now taking route 15 is the equivalent to taking a bike path. through a retirement community. in a snow storm.) if you answer yes to this question and anybody with authority finds out about it... i'm pretty sure they just put you in right in jail.
so far, my father-in-law is the only human to ever answer that phase five question with an enthusiastic yes. but, that is neither here nor there.
so. we're in florida, and we have two beautiful little girls who actually believe that you can grow up and be a princess for your profession. it's just what they do. they dress up, have royal balls and tea parties, talk in nearly perfect british accents, call each other "lady" (with a really sharp T sound, like "lay-Tee") and call their baby brother the grand duke. they wear hats, gloves, scarves, jewels, glass slippers, sunglasses, tiaras, and bunny ears... usually all at the same time. they are divine.
so, can you bring two of that species to florida and not take them to disney world? it would feel a little criminal not to. so, we saved up garage sale money and lemonade stand money to go to the magic kingdom for one day. it was like bringing them to their motherland.
they both carefully selected which ball gown they wanted to wear and i allowed one accessory. annalee settled on an ariel gown - post human transformation... so neither fin nor seashells were involved, trust me i would not have allowed it. marlie went as a blond snow white. they both decided on bunny ears with sequin detailing. very classy touch. the weather was beautiful, the tickets were overpriced and it was american capitalism at it's finest. a little disgusting, but for my girls... it was truly a dream come true.
now, when i went to disney world as a child, you could do disney in one day. at least we did. my mom would force us to sprint from attraction to attraction, mapping out show times and distances from one thing to the next. we would inevitably be the pale northerners running around frantically, wearing socks and tevas, and we looked like idiots (especially because i am pretty sure i also wore a fluorescent orange fanny pack, covered with a fine black mesh, set a little more toward one hip than the other. try not to covet.)
but, the point is we did it in a day. i can't imagine the disney world people are struggling financially... but i have a theory here. i am convinced that they have carefully and cruelly figured out how to make it almost impossible to do it in a single day. for example, when i went in the early 90's, you could be on your way to space mountain (which we peer pressured my mom into deviating from her map-plan and letting us go on several times in a row) and you would happen to run into your favorite character... mickey mouse, alladin, cinderella even. but, noooooooo... that's not how it works in the 0's. in 2009, they lock the characters up in some building and make you wait in line to see them. this, of course, takes anywhere between 60 and 90 minutes. even if you are sprinting as fast as your tevas will take you, you are NOT going to meet characters and hit pirates of the caribbean on the same day. it is impossible.
so, like good parents, we tried to convince the kids that they didn't really care about meeting the beautiful princesses in real life. then annalee, who is five years old, put on her lawyer face and made her case. in her mind, meeting the princesses in person was sort of like job-shadowing. she simply had to do it in order to become a real princess herself. could we deny them this right of passage? probably not, but we were gonna try. annalee leveled with us. she said "mommy, even if it takes all our hours, i really want to see ariel."
so, we caved. we went to ariel's grotto, which is a smart set-up. ariel herself is hidden back in a cave (so that the poor people who could barely afford this one day at disney, have to choose between seeing her, and doing anything else that day) and there is a long line of parents standing in a roped off area around the outside of a little sprinkler park. the kids can run around and play in the water - in their ballgowns - while the parents wait forever. i think this appeases the parents because we feel like "at least are kids are doing something while we wait."
we walked up to ariel's grotto and their was a sign there letting us know how long the wait would be until our little girls would fulfill their destiny. 90 MINUTES. we had an hour and a half to wait in line. if you break down the cost of disney world minute by minute... i think we spend about 40 bucks just in that line. but, this was why we were there, so we got in line and the kids ran wild in the water. harper, 17 months at the time, was very intent on fleeing the grotto and returning to the carousel ride - and he spent the entire time trying to escape. so, naturally... my attention was mostly focused on him. plus, i know the girls knew better and would never DREAM of leaving that area without an adult. they simply know better. or so i thought.
i look up. marlie, 3, is missing. i am completely frantic - only a parent who has temporarily misplaced one of their humans knows what i mean. i am terrified, angry, nervous (with a dash of embarrassed)... and running around like a crazy person looking for her. then i see her. she is holding the hand of a disney world employee and she looks busted, she has her head (which looks a little like a small bowling ball, covered in wild tumbleweed-like hair) hanging down very low, but her eyes are looking up. right on me. i run up to them and apologize to the lady. as i am walking marlie firmly back to the bench to get the whole story, i see another disney world employee going down the line of parents waiting to meet ariel, shouting "is anyone missing a snow white?" i was mortified. i went and told the lady that i had found her, and all the parents give me that look of "you negligent parent... losing your child like that. you should be ashamed of yourself." which i was. so i hope they're happy.
marlie and i are sitting on the bench. i explain to her how relieved i am that she is safe, and how disappointed i am that she disobeyed. then the story came spilling out. what happened was this... marlie (who is my strong-willed, free-spirited second-born... who pretty much has my personality and lack of delayed gratification. oh, and my attention span.) she is innocently playing in the play area... running around the large rocks in the middle, and weaving in and out of the water, when she discovers that from the very end of the play area, you can see the back of ariel's cave. this is where those lucky girls and boys who have waited 90 minutes to meet ariel, have their photograph taken by a disney picture man and of course their parents or other supervising adult, and then they joyfully exit the cave through a turn style. this is what all the good american boys and girls are doing. not my marlie. she sees that turn style. and more importantly she sees just past that turn style. into the cave, just far enough to see ariel herself. sitting on a rock, calling children up, one by one, talking to them in a perfect ariel voice, and posing for a picture with an exact ariel smile.
this was simply too much for marlie. she apparently could NOT contain herself. she would later report this to me. she crawled under the gate (aka the turn style) and walked up to the front of the line. ariel said "come sit next to me." so marlie did. marlie, i'm sure, showed ariel her shoes and her dress, and quietly whispered her name when ariel asked. at this point i don't think anybody realized that she shouldn't have been there. but, when marlie asked for her photograph to be taken, they realized there weren't any adults involved here.
first of all, i am completely shocked that she would do this. i can't believe that she would leave our supervision (which clearly wasn't adequate), cut off all those people, then have the audacity to get up there and demand that the photograph be taken! so, as she was telling me this (i am in complete disbelief) i asked her "did they actually take your picture!?" she said on the verge of tears "no, because they said i didn't have the right lady with me!" i then explained to her furiously, that i was the right lady, her mother... that she needed to stay with ME!
after many lectures and some time of sitting alone to think about what she had done while tom and i discussed whether or not we would allow her to meet ariel and get a legit picture taken with her... she knew she had one chance to redeem herself. here is what she said in her needlessly loud three-year-old voice, "mommy, i know that i disobeyed and it was dangerous. it was disrespectful to all the other customers. but mommy..." (insert long pause, as if this was the crowning moment of her argument. this was her chance to explain why she did it. knowing it was wrong, why she had no choice but to take that chance...) "...but mommy... ariel is not a statue... and her tail was real."
that is a three-year-old way of saying, "i'm sorry, but what were my options!? i had to see that tail."
in a blend of anger, and trying not to laugh out loud... i left her there alone to stew in fear that she would never have that photo to relive this adventure, while tom and i stepped aside to discuss her fate. tom's parents, who came with us to disney, gently reminded me that this was, for her, a once in a lifetime opportunity and maybe today wasn't the day to drive home that lesson. they pleaded her case, and tom and i did end up letting her have a legitimate meeting with ariel and many pictures were taken - both by the disney picture-taker, and by me... the right lady.
bamboozled, quite literally.
so i have not posted in a long time. after a little bit of verbal abuse from my fanlets, i have decided to post - or at least try to post - more frequently. twice a week as my friend sam firmly requires. (i say fanlets because i don't think they can technically be called your fans if a) they are the only twelve friends you have, b) they are related to you, or c) they are willing to verbally abuse you a little bit. also, i say fanlets because as far as making up your own words goes, i'm... fine with it.)
so, this is how we're going to do it. i am going to take my fanlets on a journey back in time... to all the dates i meant to post but didn't. for today's journey, we are going to go back to valentine's day. *i would like to apologize in advance for my reckless and excessive use of parentheses in this post.
for valentine's day tom and i unknowingly got each other the exact same gift. this story of our gift buying and exchanging shows the major differences in our personalities. but the fact that we ended up getting each other the exact same gift, in the most polar opposite way possible kinda says a lot about us and our relationship... and about how i believe god paired us uniquely together - to both irritate the junk out of each other, and also to complement each other in the most profound ways.
many years ago, for a wedding present, some of my wonderful friends decorated tom and my first "apartment" while we were away on our honeymoon. (now our first apartment was a beautiful deluxe penthouse suite in a big city high rise, it was gorgeous. wait, actually... it was a bedroom in my sisters basement. i was knocked up and we were broke. it happens.) part of the lavish decorations included a lucky bamboo plant, which we have always called "our love fern." (this plant nickname is in reference to one of my favorite movies, "how to lose a guy in ten days," which for the longest time i couldn't remember the title of, and i kept calling it "ten things i hate about losing a guy." but that is really neither here, nor there.)
so. the love fern. while i took excellent care of it for many years, and in many homes... from the den of our poverty (my generous sister's basement)(grand haven, michigan), to a converted horsebarn with a mold problem (wayne, pennsylvania), to the top floor of a home we shared with an elderly man named lefty (willow grove, pennsylvania) to a great little apartment above a couple from singapore (landsale, pennsylvania) to our very first owned home (rochester, ny). it survived many moves and many spils, and the many rough pulls and grabs from lots of little chubby hands. until, one day... inexplicably, the love fern died. actually, it's totally explicable. i overwatered it and put it in direct sunlight - and you bamboo lovers out there know that both are ill-advised. fried it to a crisp.
the bamboo plant died about a year ago, and tom (being unable to let go...) has kept the plant remains on his desk, wrapped in a paper towel that says 'RIP love fern.' so, for v-day, we both unknowingly bought each other a replacement fern (which, if you haven't picked up on yet, isn't a fern at all... but rather a lucky bamboo.) i bought mine at the florist in our local supermarket, and it is beautiful - but looks nothing like the original. now, tom went to great lengths to find an exact replica of the original. he ordered his online from a florist in california. he had it shipped to new york just in time for valentines day. it looked exactly like the original love fern, and was dead upon arrival. apparently he didn't open it up soon enough and it died in the box. when he actually did open it, there was a piece of paper inside that said to 'open immediately.' he was not happy that the warning was INSIDE the box that should have been opened immediately.
when we sat down to celebrate valentines day, i gave tom several ryhming clues that sent him and the kids on a scavenger hunt to find cards, treats and the grand finale... our lucky bamboo. when i saw tom's face... deflated and disappointed, i thought maybe it was a little too early to replace the love fern that died. maybe it was just too soon. or perhaps, after all is fried and repurchased, you really can't replace such a beloved fern to begin with.
then, tom sadly goes to fetch the crispy, air-deprived lucky bamboo that he has special ordered from california, had delivered, and had stored in a drawer. in the box. on its side. not so lucky. but...he was right. i would never find it in there.
so, this is how we're going to do it. i am going to take my fanlets on a journey back in time... to all the dates i meant to post but didn't. for today's journey, we are going to go back to valentine's day. *i would like to apologize in advance for my reckless and excessive use of parentheses in this post.
for valentine's day tom and i unknowingly got each other the exact same gift. this story of our gift buying and exchanging shows the major differences in our personalities. but the fact that we ended up getting each other the exact same gift, in the most polar opposite way possible kinda says a lot about us and our relationship... and about how i believe god paired us uniquely together - to both irritate the junk out of each other, and also to complement each other in the most profound ways.
many years ago, for a wedding present, some of my wonderful friends decorated tom and my first "apartment" while we were away on our honeymoon. (now our first apartment was a beautiful deluxe penthouse suite in a big city high rise, it was gorgeous. wait, actually... it was a bedroom in my sisters basement. i was knocked up and we were broke. it happens.) part of the lavish decorations included a lucky bamboo plant, which we have always called "our love fern." (this plant nickname is in reference to one of my favorite movies, "how to lose a guy in ten days," which for the longest time i couldn't remember the title of, and i kept calling it "ten things i hate about losing a guy." but that is really neither here, nor there.)
so. the love fern. while i took excellent care of it for many years, and in many homes... from the den of our poverty (my generous sister's basement)(grand haven, michigan), to a converted horsebarn with a mold problem (wayne, pennsylvania), to the top floor of a home we shared with an elderly man named lefty (willow grove, pennsylvania) to a great little apartment above a couple from singapore (landsale, pennsylvania) to our very first owned home (rochester, ny). it survived many moves and many spils, and the many rough pulls and grabs from lots of little chubby hands. until, one day... inexplicably, the love fern died. actually, it's totally explicable. i overwatered it and put it in direct sunlight - and you bamboo lovers out there know that both are ill-advised. fried it to a crisp.
the bamboo plant died about a year ago, and tom (being unable to let go...) has kept the plant remains on his desk, wrapped in a paper towel that says 'RIP love fern.' so, for v-day, we both unknowingly bought each other a replacement fern (which, if you haven't picked up on yet, isn't a fern at all... but rather a lucky bamboo.) i bought mine at the florist in our local supermarket, and it is beautiful - but looks nothing like the original. now, tom went to great lengths to find an exact replica of the original. he ordered his online from a florist in california. he had it shipped to new york just in time for valentines day. it looked exactly like the original love fern, and was dead upon arrival. apparently he didn't open it up soon enough and it died in the box. when he actually did open it, there was a piece of paper inside that said to 'open immediately.' he was not happy that the warning was INSIDE the box that should have been opened immediately.
when we sat down to celebrate valentines day, i gave tom several ryhming clues that sent him and the kids on a scavenger hunt to find cards, treats and the grand finale... our lucky bamboo. when i saw tom's face... deflated and disappointed, i thought maybe it was a little too early to replace the love fern that died. maybe it was just too soon. or perhaps, after all is fried and repurchased, you really can't replace such a beloved fern to begin with.
then, tom sadly goes to fetch the crispy, air-deprived lucky bamboo that he has special ordered from california, had delivered, and had stored in a drawer. in the box. on its side. not so lucky. but...he was right. i would never find it in there.