Talking about Adoption - a basic primer

I had an interesting experience recently, answering a child's questions about adoption.

It occurred to me that your child (or you yourself) might also have questions about adoption. Questions are good! But sometimes children are not equipped to give the answers, or are not ready to discuss their own adoption. Some adults are not comfortable discussing their experiences with adoption either. And that is okay. So the first most important thing I want to say is:

Pay Attention when Discussing Adoption. It is important to say from the start: it's okay to talk about adoption. Adoption is a wonderful amazing thing. BUT some people don't want to discuss it. And that is okay too. If you are getting signals that the subject is off limits - even subtle ones like avoiding eye contact or seeming nervous or attempts to change the subject... you need to drop it. There are lots of reasons why people might not want to talk about adoption. And there are just as many reasons why they want to tell you all about it. So looking for the cues is key.

Let's break it down:

Every Adoption is Different
There is no blanket statement or answer that actually covers every adoption scenario. And every adoptive parent has explained their child's adoption to them in their own way. Asking one person about their adoption will probably not answer questions about another person's adoption. Which means that every time you learn someone is adopted, you might have a lot of questions. And that is okay - but that does not mean you should ask them. Not everyone wants to discuss their adoption. Especially kids. Proceed with caution, and perhaps start by asking an adult rather than a child if you have questions.

Every Person who has had a Personal Experience with Adoption Feels Differently About It
It's true. Just as every person has their own special unique take on everything, the same goes for adoption. Some people are thrilled that they were adopted, some people are not. Some people are in touch with biological relatives, some are not. Some people feel comfortable discussing it, others don't. Some people know the story behind their adoption but a lot of people have no idea. Some people are in therapy to deal with issues surrounding their adoption, and for other people even bringing it up is a trigger.

Adoption is Private
The fact that someone is adopted, or that someone has given birth to a child who was then adopted, is none of anyone else's business until they make it your business. So asking prying or persistent questions is really inappropriate. I want to be clear: asking questions is not inappropriate - I am always down for a good talk about adoption - but if your questions are not being answered chances are that is intentional, and you should drop the subject altogether.

The Concept of Adoption can be Scary
For children, adoption can be a scary subject. The idea that anyone other than your parents could be your parents? Scary. The thought that you could be living in a totally different house with a completely different family in another country speaking a foreign language? Terrifying. So for children in particular, it might be best to keep the subject of adoption light and brief. Their imaginations can run wild and take them to a whole different place you never even considered. And if you leave them with unanswered questions, chances are good they will ask them at a totally inappropriate time. So remember to focus on love. Adoption is all about love.

You May Not Realize You Are Being Offensive
A year ago, I said something so totally insensitive and offensive that it still keeps me up at night and makes me feel terribly about myself. I assumed that someone's child was adopted, and I asked a question that was worded so badly that as soon as it was out of my mouth I wanted to reach over and grab it and shove it back inside me. I cannot even remember exactly what I said word for word, but I remember two things distinctly: what I asked was none of my business, and I - for some reason - thought that because I was an adoptive parent myself, I had the right to ask personal questions about their situation. I did not. It doesn't matter who you are - you could be the grandparent or the sibling or an aunt or uncle - adoptive or biological - but that does not mean you have any right to ask questions, or get answers.
Another time, I referred to someone's biological father as her "dad" and she corrected me - gently but firmly. Her dad was the man who had parented her for many years.

As I have said, every situation is different - so making assumptions, even one you think is totally politically correct and evolved - is wildly inappropriate.

Adoption is NOT SAD
It is not sad to be adopted. Adopting a child is like getting every single gift you will ever receive, all in one package. There can be sad circumstances surrounding the facts of the adoption (which is why it is private and some people may not want to discuss it) but being adopted is not sad. Being adopted is being loved just for being YOU. Being adopted means someone loved you so much that they wanted to take care of you forever. They didn't have to - they wanted to. That is a really big deal.

The best and most basic advice I can give you about adoption is this:
Adoption is all about love.
A parent does not become a parent because of anything they do with their reproductive system.
A mommy isn't a mommy with her tummy. A mommy is a mommy with her heart.
A daddy is not a daddy because of anything he did before the baby was born - a daddy is a daddy once that baby is in his arms.

Mommies and Daddies become Mommies and Daddies because of what they do for their child, with their child, and because of their child. And it takes all three of those, by the way. You can't just choose one of the above actions and label yourself a parent (or grandparent either.)
Family is not about genetics. Family is about love, and support and encouragement and acceptance and above all presence. Not presents. PRESENCE.

You have to be there, in the trenches, to be a mommy or a daddy.
And adoptive parents are ABSOLUTELY the child's "real parents" - they are the people loving and caring for and feeding and educating and otherwise PARENTING. Being a "real parent" has nothing to do with sperm and egg. Period.

And just because you have a personal connection to adoption does not give you any special permission to make blanket statements or ask personal questions. You do not speak for every adoptive parent, adopted child, or biological relative. And neither do I.

Please understand that all I have shared here is my personal take on adoption, and is merely written down to give you something to consider. I am simply adding my voice to what is, admittedly, a very crowded conversation.

If you have any questions that I have not addressed regarding adoption, or explaining adoption to your kids, please comment below or feel free to shoot me an email. I can try to find you an answer. :)

My Love/Hate relationship with Children's Museums.

Let's just be honest.
I don't play.

I'm not the mom lying on the floor building a huge block tower (bad knees) or organizing a massive art project (big mess) or baking 100 cupcakes (takes too long) or out riding bikes or playing tag or - good lord no - going on a family hike.

I like my kids, I want them to be happy, I make sure they can do all of these fabulous things - just not with me.

Is that wrong? It's okay. I don't mind being wrong. I am not going to force myself to do something I didn't even enjoy as a child. As a kid, I liked to read and roller skate. End of story. I still like to do those things, and thankfully so do my kids, so it's all good and they don't want to play with me anyway thank goodness. I do grownup things, and they do kid things, and then every so often we do something special together that we all enjoy wholeheartedly.

Like going to children's museums. I really like taking my kids to museums.
In theory.

However, the children's museum would be a lot more fun without other kids. And their parents.

I know I am not alone. At the Science Center this weekend - a place that is not exclusively for children but is definitely geared towards the grade-school set - there were a bunch of us parents on the sidelines, parents who had spent a crapload of money for an adult admission and were clearly hoping the crowd might thin so we, too, could try that slalom ski simulator, or use our brainwaves to move the ball across the table, or maybe even take that rotating rock climbing wall for a spin. I mean, we weren't going to take the spot from a child. This is all about them, right?
 At least, in theory.

So I shut my mouth and applied more hand sanitizer.

And then two grownups in a row each got on the skiing simulator, despite the line of kids behind them, and went not once, but twice, and continued to stand on the simulator long after the word "DISQUALIFIED" flashed up on the screen and the ride was over. Someone had to actually tap one guy on the shoulder and tell him that his time was up.

During the overly-long wait, a crowd formed. Kids started cutting in front of my kids. And then parents started cutting in front of my kids. And then watch out, because I was no longer going to act like a mature, refined grownup. Who cares if other kids were waiting for a turn?

Dammit, I was going to climb on that skiing simulator and RIDE THE SHIT OUT OF IT.

(Side note, it turns out that riding a skiing simulator is actually much harder than it looks. And you know, kids have a lower center of gravity so these sorts of things come much easier to them. Ahem.)

And then, just as it was about to be my turn, a kid who could not have been more than 6 years old stepped right in front of me and climbed on the simulator, pounding on the start button like he was a game show contestant. I stood there, wondering what, exactly, had just happened. I was clearly in line and had been there for quite some time. I had been walking towards the simulator when he leaped in front of me.

I was not pleased.

His mother must have felt my eyes burning into the back of her neck because she turned around, looked me up and down and said "You weren't waiting to ride this, were you?!" Her eyes widened with surprise (which was really just barely disguised disgust) and when I said, as magnanimously as possible, "Oh, it's fine, he can go" she smiled brightly and turned on her heel just in time to watch the word "DISQUALIFIED" flash on the screen and to see her son begin pounding on the start button to take a second turn.

And that is when it dawned on me that the only thing worse than a badly behaved child  - or a museum full of them - is a badly behaved parent. After 3 hours of coaching our children to "let the next person have a turn", and "make sure you aren't cutting in line", and "please let everyone off the elevator before you get on", and all of the other constant gentle reminders of manners and courtesy that parenting requires, only to watch other parents set the poorest example possible (and their children behave accordingly) it occurred to me that, actually, none of us were having much fun at all. Rather than feel shame at wanting to try out an activity or exhibit, I felt disappointed that the adult admission cost twice as much as the kids, and yet I was not able to actually experience the center without getting all Lord of the Flies-meets-Survivor in order to actually touch anything, never mind enjoy myself.

As we went to leave, I looked around. At the hands-on activities, where parents and kids were jostling for position, at the building room, where kids were stepping up and knocking down other children's creations - or commandeering them entirely, at the outdoor exhibit, where children were running and screaming and shoving, even in front of the snack bar, where some kid threw his popcorn on the ground and kicked it all over because he didn't get a Slush Puppy, while a mother fed a toddler hard boiled egg and managed to smear egg on every surface, along with spreading both egg and pieces of shell liberally across the floor for everyone to step in. A hard boiled egg? Really?

This was not fun. This was like being in a psych ward. Parents wandered past in a daze, holding juice boxes and coats, clearly wondering what the hell they had been thinking and why they didn't serve alcohol at the snack bar.

Silly parents, that's what your fancy Hydroflask is for.

But taking my cue, we left. And went straight to a pub where we could all relax and have a conversation, and I could teach kids the important stuff like how to choose a wine, what the different kinds of beer taste like, and how ordering several appetizers is just as acceptable as choosing one entree. Better, even. And they even gave out crayons and paper, then hung the resulting masterpieces on the walls with titles, descriptions, and prices.

Though I think we can all agree, the work is priceless.

Bully

As a child, I was never particularly successful socially. I was loud, intense, and too smart for my own damn good. I was awkward, and while my behavior was simply a desperate attempt to fit in and be liked, a lot of the time, it totally backfired.

As I got older, I got more awkward, and the kids just got.....meaner.

Which made me more awkward.

Which made me more of a target.

This was a cycle. This may also explain why I was smoking by the age of 12.

These days there is a lot of talk about bullying, and a lot of Zero Tolerance policies, and a lot of ways that kids can be horrible to each other away from the supervision of grownups. Even if the adults know that something is going on, a bully is going to bully.

It can be hard to tell whether the line has been crossed from teasing to bullying. There are checklists, and message boards, and all manner of experts who would be happy to break it down for you - but when you are in the thick of it, it is very hard to decide: how far is too far?

This morning I was informed that my son came up with the term "Donkeyhole" and felt that it was an acceptable - nay, hilarious - turn of phrase.

Clever little monkey, isn't he.

Donkeyhole. This is definitely a highlight of my parenting career.

Is it bullying to call someone a Donkeyhole? I can't say for sure. Maybe I am too close to the situation to make a call on that. I want to believe that when my son called someone a Donkeyhole, it was not meant to be mean, probably more to entertain and get a laugh. I can't imagine that it could even be said with a straight face. But I suppose anything is possible.

What about calling someone a loser? Can that be said in jest? I'm sure it can. But if my son called someone a loser, he would be spending a very long time in his room thinking about all of the privledges he had just lost for using that word. WHO'S THE LOSER NOW, DONKEYHOLE?

I heard about this Donkeyhole business during a meeting - a meeting during which I had to keep a straight face and pretend to be the grownup in this situation because OH THAT'S RIGHT I AM THE GROWNUP. We had this meeting because last week, which began with the infamous Teabagging of 2012, ended with my son being called "gay" a "loser" and told that he "sucked" a number of times.

I am having trouble finding the humor in that.

Do you remember 5th grade? Unfortunately, I do. And the next year - I didn't believe it was possible, but it was: middle school just got worse. In fact, I was absolutely miserable until I got to high school. And I have no intention of watching history repeat itself.

So what does it say about me as a parent, when my child came home day after day with these stories, and I was supporting him by asking things like "What did you say or do to make them act like this?"

How is it that I immediately assumed that my child had somehow egged them on, or brought it upon himself? And then one day, he came home completely defeated. "We were singing, and this kid said I tried to kiss him, and then his friend said to me 'Stop touching your dick.' AND I WASN'T Mom, I swear I wasn't doing that. I was singing."

My jaw dropped open. I realized at that moment, when my son felt he needed to defend himself to me, his own mother, that something was terribly wrong. Something had shifted - the balance of power, the tone of the conversation, the personal - sexual - nature of the teasing.

Is that the line? Could someone please show me the line so that I know when to get all batshit mama bear crazy? And when to just give my kid a hug and go out for ice cream?

It's not like the adults haven't been addressing this issue all week long. Letters of apology were written and received, tears were shed, rules were clarified. And still it continued - and escalated. And my boy defending himself by calling the other guy a Donkeyhole.

Because my son, for all his many human weaknesses, truly doesn't have the ability to be cruel. Obnoxious, yes. Absolutely. Bossy? Yep. Emotional? That's putting it mildly. But he's not mean. Donkeyhole was his way of fighting back. A real tough guy.

I'm surprised I didn't find him tied to the flagpole.

So what, exactly, is the solution? If the kid tells a teacher what is going on, he's tattling. If kids are just joking and one of them over-reacts or feels picked on or gets his feelings hurt, was he bullied? I called a little girl a bitch once on the playground. I was six. And just for the record, she was a total bitch. Was I a bully?

Maybe I should have called her a donkeyhole instead.

My kid just asked me if "teabagging" was a real thing.

I'm walking by his room and I stick my head in the doorway and say "G'night, see you in the morning."

And he says "Hey mom, is teabagging really a thing? Or  is *** just kidding?"

And I say "What the WHAT?!"

Whatever happened to "Goodnight mom"?

Dammit.

So I took a deep breath and stepped into his room and said "I'm sorry, I think I misunderstood you. What did you just say?"

AND HE REPEATED IT.

If there was ever a moment when I wanted to run screaming out of a room, this was IT. I stood there, clenching and unclenching my fists, and trying like hell to figure out what to say. And hoping that when I opened my mouth I didn't puke.

Okay, mama, think. First, I need to figure out what he knows. Or what he *thinks* he knows.

"Hm." I played it very cool. "What did *** say it meant?"

"Well, he kept bending his knees and kind of squatting and saying he was teabagging. He did it over and over again. And while he did it he said "Teabagging, oh yeah, I'm te-"

"Okay, thanks I get it."

Oh my god.

I was gagging. I couldn't breathe. I did NOT want to talk about this ANYMORE.

" Max, that kid is awful. Yuck. Gross. If he ever does that again walk away - quickly. And please, do not ever repeat that phrase. I never want to hear you say 'teabagging' and if you say it in front of anyone else and I find out about it I will SPANK YOU."

His eyes got wide and he said "Yes mom, I won't ever say it again mom."

Which is the right answer DING DING DING GIVE THIS BOY A PRIZE because he is only 11, after all.

Yes, that's right. My 11 year old heard about teabagging from another 11 year old.

Their testicles have barely descended. Oh, good god.

I am skipping my mug of Lipton tonight, I just don't think I can stomach it.

6 things you really need to teach your kids RIGHT NOW

Today I was in the shower, minding my own damn business, when I noticed something.

A....spot? A piece of something. A piece of something stuck to the wall, there. Right on the tile.

Hm. I bent closer. It was low, a few inches above my knee over in the corner. As I got closer and peered through the shower spray, I realized that there was another.......something. Stuck there. On the tile.

And then, a little higher. Another spot. What was that? I reached out (even though every fiber of my being was screaming "DO NOT DO THIS") and gingerly touched one of these......things.

And then, my hand shot back. I knew what this was.

Snot.

Someone had stuck buggers on the shower wall. Someone had gotten into a nice hot steamy shower and began to relax in the warm water and then, one thing led to another and THEY STUCK THEIR FINGER IN THEIR NOSE, PULLED OUT A BUGGER AND STUCK IT ON THE WALL.

I gagged. I washed my hand. I scrubbed my hand with body scrub. I climbed out of the shower soaking wet and went over to the laundry closet and pulled out the bathroom cleaner and got down n my knees and scrubbed the wall of the shower like I was trying to clean my SOUL. Like, my life depended on getting that shit off of that tile and making sure that it was well and truly gone. Like if I scrubbed hard enough I might scrub the memory from my brain.

This is not the first time I have found snot in inappropriate places. It damn well better be the last.

So as I squatted there with the shower beating down on my back, scrubbing frantically at the tiles and muttering under my breath, I began to think of other disgusting habits that I want to make sure I break my children of before they leave my direct supervision and go off into this great big world as an example of my parenting.

1. Snot goes in a tissue. Or a hankie if that's your thing (but it is definitely not mine *shudder*). Or some other appropriate place. Not your clothing, the wall, the floor, or any other damn spot you find convenient. You blow your nose into something, and then you get rid of it. You do not display it for all the world to see. And while we're at it, feel free to excuse yourself and go blow your nose in private. I don't need to listen to you clear your sinuses, thanks.

2. The toilet seat is always left in the closed position. This is imperative. I work in an office that has a communal half bathroom right off the reception room. There is no stall, it is just a toilet and sink. All day long, people use that bathroom. It is located not 5 feet from where I sit and work all day. And yet they see absolutely nothing wrong with leaving the seat up, the light (and exhaust fan) on, and maybe even a paper towel on the floor. I find myself compulsively turning off the light and closing the door, but I just cannot bring myself to lower the toilet seat. A lady shouldn't have to do such things. It is unbecoming. And it should go without saying, but I'm going to say it anyway: wash your hands every time you use the bathroom.

3. Brush your teeth before you leave the house. Please. For the love of god. It's not just the stinky breath. (Although the stinky breath is really gross.) It's the fact that having dirty teeth - just the very concept of having scummy, unbrushed teeth, is absolutely disgusting. Sometimes I can SEE the stuff on people's teeth. I'm not talking about "Hey, you got a piece of spinach stuck there". I"m talking about YOUR TEETH ARE DIRTY GO BRUSH THEM. And when you're done? RINSE THE SINK. I am tired of seeing the bright blue smears of toothpaste every time I wash my hands. Which is every time I use the bathroom, by the way.

4. Clear your dirty dishes from the table. Unless you plan on leaving me a tip - cash only - I expect you to bring your dishes to the sink or where ever you are directed to leave them. Every time. Same goes for eating in a public space like a food court where they provide you with a tray to carry your food to the table. If you eat a meal, if you have a snack, if you drink a glass of WATER you had best clear your place and return the empty plate/bowl/glass/container/tray to the appropriate place. And the silverware too. And your napkin.
You don't use a napkin?

Were you raised by wolves? USE A NAPKIN.


5. Put your dirty clothes in the hamper. Eventually we will move on to do your own damn laundry, but frankly their father hasn't quite gotten that one down yet and has ruined so many of my clothes that he is now terrified to operate the washing machine. He certainly never puts anything in the dryer anymore. And it's better that he doesn't, because after replacing a few cashmere sweaters we decided it was a very expensive way to "help". But if there is one thing I cannot stand, it is finding a pair of damp, dirty, balled up socks on the floor just inside the back door. Or next to the couch. Or in my car. Or the pair of pajama pants on the floor outside of the shower. Or in a heap on the floor in front of the toilet. Both of which are mere feet away from the hamper. And while you're in there? Wash your hands.

6. Take care of your sheets and towels. While we are on the subject of laundry, there is a spirited debate about how often one needs to wash sheets and towels. When they smell? When they are visibly dirty? When they have lost that fresh feeling? Weekly? Monthly? Daily? When you have company coming? This topic is important to me. Important as a woman who has broken up with men because of their dirty sheets.

There are ground rules. Always having clean sheets and towels for company is obvious. Washing your sheets and towels regularly is imperative whether you have company or not. Haven't you seen the investigative news shows with the blacklight in the motel room? That shit gets nasty. Wash it. My mom used to strip the beds and wash the sheets every Sunday. Including the mattress pad. It was a nice little ritual to start the week with fresh sheets and towels. And between washes, your damp towel should be hung (preferably across a towel bar) so that it can dry thoroughly. Otherwise, bacteria will flourish and you will basically get dirty all over again (possibly dirtier than before you showered) as soon as you towel off. Living in the tropics, we wash towels frequently. Maybe not every time we use them, but frequently.

Even more important than washing your OWN sheets and towels, is washing the ones you use at someone else's house. When staying in someone's home, offer to strip the bed and collect all of your towels and other linens, and ask your host if you may wash them before you go. It's just the nice thing to do - after all you are a guest in their home. If they don't have a washer and dryer, all the more reason to make the offer - bring them to the laundromat down the block and drop them off - paying for the wash yourself of course.


I think that if my kids can master these basic concepts, they will move through life without embarrassing me completely. There is more, of course. Much more. These are just a half-dozen things I have realized (some more recently than others) are important.

Because it is important not to be gross.

What the hell kind of mother ARE you?

The other day I was standing in the grocery store, holding Dude, in my work clothes.

In any other place ON EARTH my work clothes would be, well, just regular work clothes. But here on Maui, in my favorite little grocery store (where shirts and shoes are optional) when I wear a heel any higher than a flip flop, people react as though I have cloven hooves for feet. Add a pencil skirt to the heels, and it just Blows. Their. Mind. 

Add to that the fact that I was balancing a baby, a purse, and an armload of groceries, and I swear to god, you would have thought I was in a ballgown, parting the red sea, and spinning straw to gold. Simultaneously.

I love that the bar is so low here.

As one person after the other remarked on how dressed up I was, or how brave I was to wear heels, or offered to carry my bags or breastfeed my baby so I didn't have to spend money buying all of that formula, I got to thinking: What is the big goddamn deal? Sheesh! Aren't there other moms walking around this store with newborns and high heels and cans of formula in their cart? (This required a quick jaunt across the store looking up every aisle to investigate - the result? Absolutely not. Though I did see one mom rocking a pair of clogs. Who is she trying to impress? Whore.)

I have never really thought anything about what I wear compared to other mothers, or what I do compared to other mothers. I have always just followed my instinct and the rule of law, and hoped for the best. 

The best being survival. 

Like I said, the bar is very low.

Is it so strange to be different? Does it mean I am doing it wrong? And if so, am I okay with that? What kind of mother am I, exactly? Just who the hell do I think I am?

I am the kind of mother who - when asked as a child what she wanted to be when she grew up - always said she wanted to be a mother.

I am the kind of mother who refused to buy a water gun for her kid - until she finally caved. And then brought home the biggest water gun she could find.

I am the kind of mother who spent a year researching the safest toddler carseat, and then strapped it into the passenger seat of a Mazda Miata convertible.

I am the kind of mother that buys chocolate for the candy holidays instead of the cheap crap, because why bother.

I am the kind of mother that carries her 3 month old on one hip, and her 7 year old on the other hip, down the hill in the rain - in stilettos and a mini skirt.

I am the kind of mother that choked on her tea while driving, and as she gasped for breath, handed her travel mug to her son - who sniffed it like he was checking for booze.

I am the kind of mother that took her 3 year old daughter to Capezio in NYC for her first pair of ballet shoes, and let her try them on and hold onto the barre with all of the professional ballerinas.

I am the kind of mother that - when she told her daughter that dinner was going to be chicken nuggets and mac and cheese - was met with a drop-jaw stare and the comment "Mom. That is not like you AT ALL."

I am the kind of mother that sometimes has to go outside and have a smoke get some fresh air all by herself.

I am the kind of mother that sits around in her underpants and doesn't really give a shit.

I am the kind of mother that takes her kids with her to bars for dinner - because bar food is delicious.

I am the kind of mother that doesn't worry about buying organic milk, but insists on organic grapes and organic root vegetables, and hates corn syrup and food coloring unless we're talking about HoHos or red velvet cake, in which case beggars can't be choosers.

I am the kind of mother that hates taking the kids to beaches that don't have a shower to rinse them off afterwards, because she really needs the kids to be clean before they get in her filthy car.

I am the kind of mother that walks past her bedroom that is piled high with laundry and papers and might qualify for an episode of Hoarders, and tells her kids that they have to clean up their rooms.

I am the kind of mother that does not play with toys. Ever.

I am the kind of mother who remembers the toys she loved (or coveted) as a child, and buys them for her kids to play with. Which is why her kids have both a Snoopy Sno Cone Machine and an Easy Bake Oven.

I am the kind of mother that considers Veggie Booty to be a vegetable and has served it for dinner so that there is something green on the plate.

I am the kind of mother that doesn't mind shaving her son's hair into a mohawk.

I am the kind of mother that makes her own BBQ sauce, and cooks hot dogs in beer.

I am the kind of mother that told her kids they couldn't join the soccer league because there was no way she was sitting around 3 days a week and every Saturday morning watching them kick a ball back and forth for hours.

I am the kind of mother that remembers what it was like to be a kid, and hopes her kids are having a better time of it than she did.

I am the kind of mother that doesn't mind being called a MILF.

I am the kind of mother that took her son to the store before he hit puberty and made him choose a deodorant by sniffing every single one on the shelf. And then forced him to use it every day even though he didn't need it yet, just so he would get in the habit. Because, as she explained, she didn't want him to be the stinky kid.

I am the kind of mother that tells her kids to choose a cereal that is on sale and has less then 10 grams of sugar per serving - and then lets them figure it out while she gets the rest of the grocery shopping done.

I am the kind of mother that charges her son for leaving the seat up, and charges her daughter for saying "I know" every time she tells her something. 

I am the kind of mother that loves her kids, but isn't always crazy about other people's kids.

I am the kind of mother that will stop at Krispy Kreme when the hot light is on.

I am the kind of mother that really *wants* to be the mom who bakes her kids elaborate birthday cakes from scratch, but knows she isn't that mom, and has ruined more than one birthday cake at a very inopportune moment. So she bakes a tray of cupcakes from a mix and lets the kids decorate them themselves with big bowls of icing and candy, to ease her guilt.

I am the kind of mother that uses reusable lunchbags, but keeps a case of Ziplocs on hand "just in case".

I am the kind of mother that tells one of her kids that they are her favorite, and then as she gives that kid a hug mouths "YOU'RE my favorite" to the other kid so that neither one of them is really sure who's her favorite. But they are both beginning to suspect that her favorite might be the dog.

I'm the kind of mother that ooohs and ahhhhs over their creations, and then throws about 75% of it away. Because really, how many play dough cookies and hand print turkeys does a mother need to save.

Bottom line - I am the best kind of mother I can be. It might not be good enough for some people, and it may not be "traditional" but it's all I got. 

The birthday party saga continues. With guns.

Last week I was all verklempt because Lucy's sleepover devolved into a puddle of tears and nosebleeds.

I should have been counting my lucky stars.

Max informed me that the birthday party he has been invited to next month requires a gun.

Yes, it's an Airsoft gun. I know, it's not a real gun. But it sure as hell looks like a real gun. And he is going to use it to shoot his friends. He may be shooting them with little plastic bb's, but still. When the hell did a birthday party turn into war games? The birthday boy's mother told me with a resigned voice that all the boys had these guns. That she didn't like it, but that they seemed safe, and they wore protective gear. And this was what her son wanted for his birthday - an Airsoft war with his friends.

He wants to hide in the woods and shoot at his friends for his birthday.

DOESN'T ANYONE PLAY WITH LEGOS ANYMORE? I have about $5,000 worth of Legos, and apparently my kid is the only one still enamored with them. Everyone else is dressing in camo and trolling the woods waiting for a clear shot at his buddy.

In the movie "A Christmas Story", we are all hoping he gets his Red Rider BB gun. And when his mother says "You'll shoot your eye out" we all roll our eyes at her paranoia. I mean really. It's a bb gun. How bad could it be.

Now I find myself firmly in her shoes, and the idea of arming my child with anything stronger than a garden hose makes me nauseous. He has slowly been chipping away at my resolve, and I have been steeling myself as we have marched slowly towards the gun toy aisle. First, small water pistoles. Then, eventually, big huge water guns that could squirt water 75 feet. After all, it was only water. What harm could there be in buying him a water gun? But he wasn't satisfied with the water gun for long. It took him years to talk me into the Nerf gun, and when I finally acquiesced he spent every penny he had on those little orange foam darts. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had managed to survive getting my kid a gun, and thought I had done my part. You wanted a gun, I got you a gun. Are we good?

No. Not even close. Because apparently, Nerf guns are the gateway weapon. As soon as they get their fix, they need something that shoots harder, faster, further, louder. Something with a little more panache. A little edgier. A little more realistic.

So the guns get heavier, plastic turns to metal. Gray turns to camo turns to black. Big foam darts turn to bb's turn to.....bullets?

No. I don't want guns around me. I don't want my kid getting comfortable shooting guns. I have never shot a gun, My husband has never shot a gun. Nor have we ever needed to. If we lived in a rural area, or if one of us was a police officer, or a member of the armed forces, or a hunter, then this might be different. Maybe. I can't say, because in reality we live in a small, residential neighborhood in the middle of town, and we aren't cops or soldiers or hunters - and neither is our 11 year old. But he has this invitation, and a gleam in his eye. He cruises Amazon putting guns of all sizes, colors and style in the cart for me to "look at". And I dutifully look, and then look away.

I have been told that I am being ridiculous. That boys like guns. That buying them guns is unavoidable - whether it's a Red Rider bb gun in the 50's or an Airsoft rifle 60 years later. It's just something boys do. Some friends and readers have suggested that instead of saying no, I should educate him. Send him to gun safety classes. After all, he's a boy. Boys have been shooting things since the beginning of time.

Isn't time up yet?

Are You Glad You Chose Me? Talking about adoption.

"Are you glad you chose me?"

Did you hear that?
That little gasp of air? It was the sound of my heart. Breaking.

Lucy is six. She's in first grade. She knows that she is adopted - we have never hidden the fact. When she started asking questions, we answered them. At first, she was a little confused, and was somehow under the impression that we had gotten her at the mall. But we cleared that up, and we had - I thought - a solid story. The party line we were going to stick with. Everything she needed to know all rolled up into one simple sentence.

"Mommy's belly is broken, so another lady grew you for me - isn't that wonderful?"

Over-simplified? Sure. SHE'S A KID. My belly is broken. Another woman did grow her. And she is mine. Anyone who has ever met her will tell you - she is ALL mine. A clone if every there was one. Her teachers sit back and watch the results of nature v.s. nurture. Mannerisms, sass, enthusiasm, and a serious flare for the dramatic all point to me as her parent.

Case in point: Last week she climbed into bed with me at 7am and said "Mama, I just can't decide. Should I use an accent in the play today, or not. Because I *do* have an accent you know."

Oh honey, I'll just bet you do. You got those from ME.

However, last week Sam veered off the party line in response to some of Lucy's questions. Because let's be honest: the man seriously cannot handle the hot seat when it comes to our kids.

Now, to his credit, he was getting a bunch of ground-breaking questions last week. On Friday he admitted to Max that there was no Santa Claus. This was a significant departure from our standard response to the question "Is there really a Santa Claus?" Our agreed upon answer was supposed to be "Do you like what Santa Claus brings you? Then don't ruin a good thing by asking a bunch of questions. If there is no Santa, Santa can't bring presents. You dig?" But Sam was tired of the lies and half-truths. And frankly, he didn't want to buy the gift Max was going to ask Santa for this year. So he caved.

The next day, when Lucy started to ask some pointed questions about where - exactly - she came from, Sam was already worn down from the Santa Claus fiasco - he was basically a broken man by the time his sweet little pumpkin started digging around for her genealogy. He totally fell apart under pressure.

Under the pressure of a six year old asking a simple question.

He is not witness-stand material, and would never tolerate cross-examination, as evidenced by the following conversation:

"Daddy, where did you get me?"

"We got you at the hospital."

"Who gave me to you?"

"The nurse."

"But where did I come from?"

"Well, this nice lady grew you in her belly, but she couldn't take care of you so she asked us to be your parents and-"

"LUCY I NEED YOU IN HERE RIGHT NOW SO I CAN BRAID YOUR HAIR." I had to interrupt. Sorry, but I had to. I am not her mother because someone couldn't take care of her, or wasn't ready to be a parent right now. I am her mother because I am her MOTHER. But she is a smart cookie, and she was not so easily distracted. I really couldn't blame her when she tried to continue to the conversation in my room while I braided her hair.

"Mommy, are you glad you chose me?"

"I didn't choose you, sweetheart. No one chooses their children. Children are a gift. You are my daughter. Can you imagine it any other way?"

She was quiet for a minute. Then she broke into a gap-toothed grin. Because she also has my teeth. (Sorry about that, sweetheart.) "That would be ridiculous. OF COURSE you're my mama."

"Yup, I'm your mama and you're my girl. My amazing beautiful girl. And you are just like me in every way."

"Well......" she paused. I raised an eyebrow. "Well, mama, I am almost like you in every way."

"How are you not like me?"

"DUH. I don't have gray hair."

Such a smart ass. That's my girl.

I get to referee at home AND on the track, and p.s. Croup Crap

I was at practice Sunday, and I managed not to actually hurt myself. I can't believe it either.

I don't think ANYONE ELSE was surprised, however - because in order to achieve this I opted out of most of the drills. Especially the scary/dangerous ones. Like, for instance, the tomahawk stop. The tomahawk stop is notable for it's potential to cause me to fall forward OR backward depending on which way the wind is blowing.

Since I already have a very-well developed ability to bond with the concrete, I chose not to increase my odds by attempting this technique. IN brief: the tomahawk drill involved skating fast as I could along the track, suddenly reversing direction and then going up onto my toe stops to come to a halt. The entire concept involves 3 different ways to hurt myself - when really, I don't need to do anything more then walk through the grocery store with a stretched out flip-flop to cause a major crash and burn. I am not the most graceful girl on the planet. So I certainly wasn't going to be taunting the gods by spinning around like a lunatic. If I had any sort of control I would be more inclined to give it a try, but honestly, just staying upright and moving forward is a notable achievement.

After they had finished with drills and I was asked if I wanted to scrimmage, I am not sure if the look in my eye said "SHEER TERROR" or "Are you out of your fucking mind?".

All of this is leading up to learning at practice that I am going to be one of the team members refereeing the bout on May 22nd. I am relieved and (in an unanticipated twist) vaguely humiliated. First of all, I am so glad I am not going to have to be involved in getting my ass kicked in front of an audience, that I almost burst into tears when they told me. But then, slowly slowly slowly (it takes me a while) I realized that I was perhaps chosen to referee because I was a liability on the track. Not good enough to, you know, actually skate.

I brushed that thought aside. OF COURSE I'm not good enough to skate. Who gives a shit. Refereeing means CUTE REFEREEING OUTFIT

.

I just couldn't be more honored. Really. Did you know I get to carry my own whistle? *Squeee* indeed.

So, flying high on my newly assigned role within the team, it stands to reason that life would get in the way. Nothing brings a roller girl who is skating at top speed away from mid-life to a crashing halt faster then a 5 year old with a nasty cough. (Or that damned tomahawk stop. That maneuver is SUCH a bitch.)

Thigh highs with police badges and vaguely obscene referee phrases on hotpants be damned, my girl needs her mama. Wicked Skatewear I'll be back.........

Yesterday her little cough had turned into a big, barking, extravaganza by the end of the school day. Last night, she spent most of the night coughing. At first, I thought it was her allergies - she's not asthmatic, per se, but she has an inhaler because she does tend towards respiratory inflammation. Which we had in spades last night. So we fired up the cool mist humidifier, rubbed some vapor cream on her chest, gave her water to sip, and lay awake all night listening to her struggle.

I'm keeping her home today. I looked online and it said croup is contagious.
Her teachers didn't seem concerned yesterday and she doesn't have a fever, but I am going to play it safe.
I'm good at that.
Even a referee doesn't know all the rules.

The Best Day of My Life

I have, in the past few months, really agonized over my son's place in the world. School, friends, family - it seemed like everything has been such a struggle for him. I kept telling myself that it was going to be OK. That he just hadn't found his spot. That eventually, he would find more people who knew and understood and loved him and recognized him for the great, amazing, generous and loving soul that he is. Have I mentioned his eyes?

When people describe eyes as "the windows to the soul" they are talking about these eyes.

And over the past few months, these eyes were sad. The whole boy was sad. He was lonesome and confused and frustrated and sad. And I have been trying to hold him up, to help him find his way, find his place in this big crazy world, because I am his mama, and that is my most important job.

And then this week, three things happened. First we got another rejection letter from a local private school - one we had hoped he would be attending next year. One that, in retrospect, clearly, definitely, absolutely wasn't the right place for him. (Because how could you say no to those eyes? Are you made of stone????)

But really, that letter was the best thing that could have happened to me. It was as though someone had taken me by the shoulders and looked me square in the eyes and said what my friends had been murmuring for a few months but which I had refused to hear until now. "This is not the right place for your boy. Find a place that is right for HIM - not one that looks right on paper, not a school that is right for you, find the one that is right for HIM." And that voice - my little mama voice in the back of my head, that had heard the whispered gentle coaxing of my friends - that little voice put her hands on her hips and hauled up her big girl panties and said at the top of her very powerful lungs "Stop fiddling around. Get serious. This is YOUR BOY and he NEEDS YOU TO HELP HIM."

So I listened to the voices - the ones both real and imagined, and that mama voice I really should listen to more carefully anyway.

And I pulled up MY big girl panties and put my hands on my hips and I said "I know just the place." And I took my sad, brokenhearted little boy and I put him in the car and I drove him out to the far reaches of the island where the wild ocean meets the cliffs and the grasses blow in the breeze and the trees whisper and the birds sing and the children play in the garden and I said "Here. This is your place. It may not be my place, but I know in my heart it is yours." And he looked at me with such hope, such trust, and he hugged me hard and he took his little sister's hand - the one who seems like she could just float along happily anywhere we set her but who really only wants to be with her brother - and they walked into a big sunny room filled with children and sat down on the rug at the feet of a teacher with golden hair and a sweet voice.

And I left them there, with these children and these people who had greeted them with open arms and big smiles and bare feet and a warm welcome. And I turned and walked away.

Six hours later I returned, to find them disheveled and muddy and grinning from ear to ear, clutching papers and tumbling over each other to tell me stories about their day and Max ran right at me across the yard and swept me up in a huge hug and looked me right in the eyes and said "Mom, it was the best day of my life." And I have to say, that this was more important, more thrilling, more affirming then any acceptance letter would have been.

So that was the second thing.

And then that night, I read something on The Bloggess that just......explained it all. Explained my broken little boy who was so sad and now was miraculously so full of joy that it was spilling out of every pore.

A special note to every single person reading this who thinks that they are alone or different or forever broken…you are not. You are part of a special tribe that you just haven’t found yet and we need you. All the best people are broken. Keep fighting until you find your place. It does exist. I promise.

My boy, he found his tribe yesterday. And this morning, with a trembling hand, I emptied my savings account to pay the tuition to ensure that my beautiful wonderful lovely boy will be loved and cared for and nurtured and encouraged and protected from some things in this world that I am just not ready to accept myownself, and certainly don't want for him. He may not be a baby anymore, but he is still my baby, and he is still a little boy, and he deserves to hang on to that for just a little longer. Starting now. Max is officially enrolled, and attended his first day today. The second best day of his life, he says. Homeschooling is over, he has found a place - his place - in the world.

And next year, when she is old enough, my sweet baby girl will join her beloved brother, my great big boy, at the school in the field by the ocean, with the gardens and the barefooted children and the jungle all around.

It all comes down to this.

Today we had our parent interview at the school we hope to send the kids to next year.

I wore my pearls and my dress pants, Sami put on a (gasp) button down shirt, and we made our way over to the school, trying not to seem too overwraught. Okay, desperate. We were trying not to seem desperate.

Hah.

We sat outside in the wind, waiting to be let in. Their was another set of parent shaving their interview ahead of us. The mother kept going outside to talk on the phone - so the interview was running long. I was annoyed.  I thought it was rude to make us wait without acknowledging us sitting there alone outside, locked out of the building "because the secretary wasn't there."  I thought it was incredibly rude of the other parent to not SHUT HER FUCKING PHONE OFF for her parent interview with the principal of the school she wanted to send her kids to. So I was already in a bit of a snit by the time the principal opened the door and let us actually come INDOORS. It was like some weird test, to see if we had the strength of character to sit and be uncomfortable and Wait Our Turn, and then graciously accept her half-hearted apology which was something along the lines of "Thanks for waiting, at least it wasn't raining."

Wow.

We sat down and talked about the kids, about what we were looking for in a school, and were basically told that Lucy was going to be offered a spot, but that they hadn't decided about Max. His test scores were low, he wasn't very motivated during the testing, etc. etc . etc.

I am not going to make excuses for Max. He has his challenges, but is a sweet-natured, bright kid. He responds well to structure, and to authority. He is pretty compliant and well-behaved. He is also, well, maybe kind of, um....how to explain. The public school here does not expect much from their students, and so he learned to do the bare minimum to get by. Which is, ironically, WHY we are trying to get him into this private school. We want him to do better, and we want his teachers to expect him to do his best.

I have concerns about the fact that they tested him before he had ever visited the campus, or met the teacher, or interacted with any of the students. It seems like the entire admissions process is based not on my kid - but on his test scores, and how he behaves when he is being tested. Lucy tested like a champ, she was in a good mood that day, and loved the teacher, and was excited about the classroom. For her test she got to draw pictures and answer questions. She had - from start to finish - a totally different experience then Max did.

I am left to wonder if I am being defensive because he's my kid, or if this admissions procedure is just proof that this is not the right school for him. Either way, I didn't feel good about the interview. I feel like maybe they were just feeling us out, to see if we would send Lucy if they didn't offer Max a spot as well. Which of course, we won't.

But maybe I am being cynical. Maybe they were giving us the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they were trying to learn more about Max, to see if the issue was his response to testing, or his grasp of basic math concepts and ability to write an essay. Because he definitely CAN. He just doesn't WANT to.

This is one of those times when I hate being the grownup.

Nappy McNapper

I'm a napper. Oh, the naps I have enjoyed over the years.

I didn't used to nap, but now that I work at night and get up early in the morning with the kids, napping has become a critically important part of my day. So important that I will fight for my right to nap. People talk about napping as a recreational activity. Something that's nice to do. Something that they enjoy when they have the chance. A luxury few can afford. And I get that - I do. But with a cumulative 3 or 4 hours a sleep a night, napping is not optional for me. It is a survival technique. Because I would not be able to drive to or from work safely if I didn't get some sort of rest, at some point prior to my shift.
 
My point is......I get up early, I work late, and I have insomnia. If I don't get some sleep during the day I Lose My Shit. I am not fooling around. I am VERY SERIOUS. And my husband can tell you just how serious - as soon as he gets his hearing back and I untie him from the doghouse he is residing in this evening. Because that man Fucked With My Nap.

Every week, it feels like we have the same conversation. I ask what jobs he has lined up for the weekend, we discuss the other plans we have made, and my work schedule, and we make a plan. And because I work Saturday night, I need to get some sleep at some point on Saturday afternoon. Which means he needs to be here, or take the kids with him wherever he goes. Period. End of story. Full stop.

And this Saturday was no exception. We had commitments in the morning, and the afternoon was already blocked off for MY NAP. We had a very full day planned, so he was going to do his work on Sunday - we talked about it several times during the morning, in fact. Which is why at 2:30pm, I was surprised to hear that he was leaving to go do some work, without the kids. Because, of course, that would make it nearly impossible for me to sleep, between making snacks and breaking up fights and repeatedly asking that the television volume be turned down. I was confused. But maybe that was just the extreme fatigue, coupled with a debilitating hangover. More on THAT later.

So he left, and I tried to sleep, but that went about as well as I expected, which is to say not well AT ALL. Not well at all.

Which is why tonight, after The Most Boring Shift Ever, I'm simultaneously exhausted and wired from being So Damn Tired for so long. I am on this crazy second wind (third wind? Fourth?) that has left me feeling sort of twitchy and cold. All I want to do is sleep, but my mind is racing and I drank a cup of coffee during work to keep myself awake and fuuuuuuuuck I am miserable. And twitchy. Did I mention twitchy?

I just wanted some peace and quiet.

Note: This post was scheduled to publish later, and instead it published right away, and ended up in people's feeds. As we all know from my last post, I have no idea what I am doing, even with Blogger, which was designed for people who don't know what the hell they're doing. And yet, it still confounds me. I have no idea why it published, and no way to fix it, so I pulled the post till I could put it up manually.....LATER. But of course, THIS post is the one post that all of the sudden everyone loved and wanted to comment on. WTF?

So, back by popular demand -

Yeah, I should have been mopping the floors. Absolutely. It's been raining for weeks, the floors are filthy, and I should be cleaning them now that the kids are in bed. I know that, and yet.....I just wanted some peace and quiet. And some ice cream. I like ice cream with my peace and my quiet.

Don't judge me.

The kids were finally asleep. I had a documentary cued up on Netflix. I went to the kitchen for ice cream. Spoon, bowl, cookies and cream...it was all coming together. I dig into the carton, get a nice big scoop and oooooh look how many pieces of cookies are in that one ! "Good job" I think to myself. "That is a lovely scoop of ice cream, if I do say so myself." And right about then - right at that moment when I was admiring my lovely scoop of ice cream, it came loose from the ice cream in the carton and went flying. Onto the filthy dirty floor.

Fuck.

So I bend over, of course, and pick up that scoop of ice cream, and throw it in my bowl and stare at the hair that is now stuck to the side of this formerly epic scoop of deliciousness.

It will still be delicious. I just need to remove that hair. Oh, and the mud. There seems to be some mud, there, On the side. Where it hit the filthy dirty floor. Ah well, a little dirt won't hurt me.

"What are you doing Mama?"

Shit. Small voice. Little people are coming out of their rooms and I can see my dreams of a quiet night with a documentary melting right along with my hairy, muddy scoop of ice cream.

She comes around the corner and steps squarely into the small puddle of ice cream there. From where my formerly perfect scoop of ice cream landed when I threw it on the filthy dirty floor by accident.

"Oh, I stepped in something."

Shit. Fuck. This is not going well.

"What are you eating, Mama? Is that ice cream? MY ice cream? Why are you eating MY ice cream that I picked out? You picked out ice cream for you, and I picked out ice cream for me, and you are eating MY ice cream. Why aren't you eating YOUR ice cream?"

Because I ate that ice cream last night, I thnk to myself. But I don't say it. I do the natural thing. The only thing I could do.

"Daddy ate all my ice cream, honey."

So we clean up the floor and change pajamas, and use the potty one more time and I promise to buy her more ice cream and then she climbs back in bed and I return to my bowl of what used to be the most perfect scoop of ice cream in the whole world and is now just a puddle of melted ice cream, with some hair and mud swirled in it.

Netflix is frozen, my internet explorer has stopped working, I have to restart the computer and now I am wishing I had just eaten a cookie and mopped the god damned floor like I had originally planned.

Instead, I eat the entire can of whipped cream - sprayed directly into my mouth - and pass out on the bed with the New York Times magazine. Because all I really wanted was a little peace and quiet.

I cannot comprehend reading comprehension, and so I curse liberally. Note: This post will not make any sense

I can see it so clearly now. Reading comprehension homework, with it's damned essay questions and complex thinking and analysis, is going to be a thorn in my side, that my son repeatedly jabs into me.

Over and over again.

This? This is awful. This is the worst part of homeschooling. I can handle anything BUT this. The tears and the frustration and the sheer rage that comes shrieking out of my kid when he has to read something and then ANSWER SOME FUCKING QUESTIONS. You would think I was asking him to write his DOCTORAL THESIS.

You have to understand, I love to read. And write, And write about things I read. And answer questions. Oh, I love answering questions. Tests. Memes. Quizzes. Even some dumbass phone survey. I will sit and patiently answer Every Single Question. I can even, when asked, avoid using profanity. I like a challenge.

Now, to be fair, my son is happy to answer (verbally) any question you might pose to him.......or rather, he might not actually answer the question, but he'll talk at length in response to any question asked.

But damned if he is going to pick up a pen and write that answer down. Or write anything down, for that matter. And he certainly is not interested in grammar and punctuation. Spelling? Also not important.

So in order to save my sanity, I am going to just ask him the questions, and try to get some sort of clear answer out of him. Something that actually relates to the question, and comes in the ballpark of answering it. And if I can get him to write any of it down, I will consider myself worthy of a Pulitzer. Don't worry, I'll make sure to thank him in my acceptance speech.

"This would not have been possible without the assistance of the most Obstinate, Bullheaded, Selectively Deaf, Argumentative Son that there ever has been and ever will be. If he had not pushed me so close to the edge, if he had not driven me to distraction, had he not been forced to find a way to summarize a 100 word essay using 10 words that were simultaneously lacking in punctuation of any kind and spelled phonetically, so as to be completely unintelligible, then I would not be standing before you today. I would also not have this bald patch over my right ear, and the twitch in my left eye. Huzzah !" And then I would pick up my bottle of Jameson and wander off into the sunset - bottle in one hand, Pulitzer in the other.

A beautiful sight to behold, I'm sure. Unlike this fucking reading comprehension worksheet, which is NEVER GOING TO BE COMPLETED. GAH !

In which I am incredibly thankful that I decided to pull the rug out of the living room before I went to bed

Last night, we stayed up late, moving the living room rug to our bedroom. The weather has been so cold that bare floors are just not an option anymore, so we decided to get a new rug for the living room, and use the current living room rug in our room to try to keep it slightly warmer then the outdoor temperature. Not much, just something. Just a nod to the fact that we actually had walls and floors and windows and a roof and all of that good stuff. Things that really should keep the room vaguely warmer then, say, the driveway. It seemed to do the trick. So after getting the rug moved, and furntiure repositioned in our room, we decided to leave the living room dismantled until we brought home a new rug the next day. Exhausted, we collapsed into bed, in our new slightly warmer bedroom. It was thrilling.

At about 3:30 we heard "the voice"

The little voice, from the side of the bed. Quavering. "Daddy? Mama?" (sob, cough cough gag) "My froat hurts."

Oh dear.

We both got out of bed, and went running in different directions. One to examine the sore throat, one in search of Motrin. Parenting is never more of a team sport then during a middle-of-the-night illness.

With Motrin found and throat examined, Lucy snuggled up on the sofa and watched "Suite Life on Deck" (which led to some significant gagging - on my part.) About an hour later, she sat up. "Mama, I have to go to the bathroom, can you pause the movie?" As I leaned forward to hit the pause button, I heard a cough and a splash. And suddenly my right foot was warm. And it dawned on me - more slowly then it should have - that Lucy was standing there throwing up. No warning, no hesitation, no run for the bathroom. She calmly stood up, opened her mouth, and let 'er rip.

I grabbed the quilt and held it under her chin, murmering soothing things to her like "It's OK." and "My goodness sweetie!" and, after a few minutes, "Sam. Hey, SAM! SAMI I NEED YOU NOW." Poor Sami came staggering out of the bedroom trying to hold his robe closed, and got a good idea of what was going on. He headed for the kitchen trashcan, and in the rush to get it, he slid, sideways, skidding on one hip across the wood floor until he came to a stop lying on his side, with his head under a barstool, still clutching his robe around himself.

Lucy did not pause, did not look up from the Job At Hand, which was, apparently, to empty the contents of her stomach onto my floor.

I held the quilt steady and glanced up. "What the hell are you doing" I snapped, as though he was trying out some new choreography. "Would you get up and stop fucking around?"

"I SLIPPED" Sami protested, as he scrambled to his feet and made another attempt to get to the trashcan.

He raced towards us, holding the can out in front of him like he was passing off a baton in a relay race. I traded him one wadded up quilt, and smoothly switched to holding the bin in front of Lucy, who was still totally calm, and totally puking.

He headed for the bathroom to dump the quilt in the shower. I followed with Lucy, who had stopped hurling and was now full of wonder at the turn of events.

"I got puke on my jammies." she announced.

"Sure did!" I replied cheerfully.

"My tummy feels MUCH better now."

"I am so glad sweetheart. Let's get those jammies off, OK?"

So we took off the jammies and washed hands and Sami found clean jammies and while she finished washng up Sami and I started spraying every surface in the house with Lysol. Because clearly, Lysol was in order.

As we wiped and scrubbed and sprayed and rinsed, Lucy slowly got dressed, and waited patiently for the all clear. I dried the floor and got the movie going again. I brought a clean blanket. Sami got back in bed. I lay down on the couch in the now-freezing living room with a cold (oh so cold) wooden floor.

At 8am, I woke up and surveyed the scene. Lucy, still awake, now joined by Max. The laptop battery had run out, so they were both just sitting there quietly, Lucy giving Max the blow by blow recap of the evening's excitement. I called the doctor and we headed to town, got her checked out complete with chest x-ray and stickers for being a good patient. We bought a new rug to put down in the living room and returned home in the rain. I am going to go grab a nap now, though I must admit I am still wary of hearing a meek voice and a muffled cough in the distance, through my sleepy haze. But god knows I am not letting her into bed with me, man. I have fallen for that one before. Besides, I have a new rug in there.

Frantic

I have taken a few days to digest a conversation I had on Thursday with Max's teachers. As I mentioned before, we withdrew Max from public school during the winter break, and signed him up with a small learning center to complete third grade. I withdrew him because of a variety of social and educational concerns that I had. But it turns out, the biggest problem we are dealing with is something completely different.

It started innocently enough. He went from being pretty good about cleaning up after himself, to just....not. He stopped putting clothes in the hamper, or throwing away dirty tissues, or putting his dishes in the sink. His room slowly became a complete trash heap, filled with discarded cereal boxes and empty bottles and ripped paper and pieces of erasers and god knows what else. He started acting strangely, spastic, unable to sit still or concentrate on anything more then his legos or erector set for more then a few minutes. Even then, he would have trouble actually COMPLETING anything he was making...he moved from project to project, leaving things scattered far and wide, throughout the house. Then flying into a rage when he couldn't find some key piece for his next project.

I have asked Max's teachers for YEARS if they felt he had a learning disability. If he had ADD. He has always struggled with his writing, it took him forever to read, and spelling for him is just a no mans land. It's not even phonetic spelling - it's just...letters scattered on a page, sometimes forming words, but sometimes....well, not so much. My concern wasn't about being hyper or having a lot of energy - that all seems fairly normal "boy stuff" to me, but my mother, who works in a grade school, felt differently, and had commented on occasion that Max had an unusual amount of energy, and a hot temper......something that she felt was perhaps more then just "boys being boys". But because my two brothers, the boys she raised, are pretty mellow guys, I felt like perhaps she wasn't aware of how nuts little boys can be in their free time, and how completely normal it was. And his teachers and pediatrician have always told me that he was VERY normal, just your average wacky little monster who needs room to run and time to play. Which I have always given him. In public, his behavior seems fine, normal, nothing out of the ordinary. Other parents of boys scoff at the idea that there might be something out of the ordinary about Max - their boys are just the same, they assure me - Max is completely normal. A typical boy. He has lovely manners, is very conversational, makes eye contact, can joke and play and interact with other kids. But in private, when he is alone or with his sister, he is becoming increasingly odd, spastic, and out of control. He runs around in very detailed costumes, creating a full backstory to go along with each character. His sweet nature and incredible imagination and need to create thrills me to no end. I don't want anyone to ever discourage him from expressing himself creatively. But now that he is home with me, and now that I have to try to rein him in for a few hours to work on his schooling, his lack of focus has become a real concern.

Thursday morning, we sat for two desperate hours, trying to get him to write down 5 sentences. He got the first one down, and then it started......standing up, sitting down, kicking his feet, fiddling with erasers, pulling on his ears, looking around, staring into space, talking to himself. I sat with him, we discussed the question, and what his one-sentence answer would be. He repeated it to me, took his pencil in hand, and I walked off to fold laundry. 10 minutes later, he was exactly where I had left him. Nothing had been written. When I asked what was up, he looked at me with a blank stare. We started over again. And again. And again. Only eventually, there were tears, and bursts of anger, papers ripped up and thrown, pencils broken, drawers slammed.

I sat down and composed an email to the learning center. I asked, once again, if they felt like maybe he had some sort of issue, a problem that they might have noticed with actually completing tasks.

And the answer came back almost immediately.

They had actually had a meeting that morning, for over an hour, about Max. And yes, they did feel there was a problem.

And so, it begins. Assessments, new techniques, changes to diet, supplements, chiropractic, perhaps some medication if his pediatrician thinks it might help. Because it's more then just school work. He has begun eating compulsively: bowl after bowl of cereal unless someone stops him. And today, he made himself a bowl of yogurt, added granola, and in the time it took to put away the granola completely FORGOT he had made the snack, and walked away to play. I had to call him back and remind him that he had said he was hungry, and ask him if he wanted to eat. He sat down and ate, then wandered off again.

All I want if for his mind to slow down enough for him to focus and achieve and perhaps find a quiet joy in observing the world around him - his head is so busy, so loud and so bright and turning so quickly, that he cannot stop and smell the roses. Instead, he stops, rips off a rose, and then pulls it apart in a frenzy, scattering the petals in the ground. I wonder if he even realizes the beauty before the destruction, or if he is just frantic to see the end result, to satisfy some sort of compulsion that exists within him to create enough chaos to make the world inside his head seem calm by comparison.

I never said I was the perfect mom

The past 24 hours has been a perfect exercise in how NOT to be a perfect mom.

Step One. Even though you know your child has been a bit under the weather, but has no specific glaring symptoms other then a low grade fever off and on, you dose them up with Motrin and Cheerios, and send them to nursery school anyway. Actually, they are one of the first to be dropped off.

Step Two. Work late, and forget to check messages until you leave work. In fact, forget to call the mommy who is supposed to be picking up your other kid, just to make sure everything is still happening as planned. Thank god, everything happened as planned.

Step Three. Get to nursery school later then expected for pick-up, and find daughter sound asleep on the floor. They don't close for another hour, and the teacher says your daughter has been complaining about an ear ache. Leave her asleep on the floor. Go home to shower and change, and make a doctor's appointment for that evening. End up being one of the last parents to pick up at nursery school, so that you can just grab her on the way to the doctor's office, since it's on the way.

Step Four. Keep both kids out until 9pm on a school night trying to fill a prescription for the ear infection your daughter has.

Step Five. Take older child to school an hour late, because you neglected to deal with homework the day before, and let him sleep in in the morning.

Step Six. Completely ignore the new rule of always wearing pants to take child to school. Squeal into school parking lot an hour late, in bathrobe and thong. Wave and smile, and shout "I love you honey" out the window as you peel out in the sand. Son is horrified.

Step Seven. When daughter suggests playing a new game, you continue to type, and say "Maybe Later." When she scoops up a handful of change and says the new game is "Make all of mommy's money disappear" say "We play that game every damn day" and continue typing.

Step Eight. When you have finally decided to shower and dress for the day, take child to library for story time, and leave her in the children's section while you go read the New York Times in the back of the library. Return to children's area only when your daughter says she is getting nervous and needs you. Bring New York Times. Do not sing or clap or dance. Sit and Read and ignore the adults acting like idiots.

Step Nine. Instead of going to yoga and doing the grocery shopping, return home to work and let your child watch TV for 3 hours. Give her a peanut butter and jelly. Almost out of jelly. Crap.

Step Ten. Fall asleep on the couch, and forget to pick up your kid until the school calls and wakes you up and the secretary announces in a cheerful voice that "you forgot your son". (OK, that one happened last month, but it could happen again at any time.)

Why, yes, that IS a cone around my neck.....

Yeah. Today was one of THOSE days.

I spent what should have been "my day" running around looking for a hiding cat, then wrestling that poor cat into a cat carrier, driving to two different schools to get the kids, explaining that all I had for snack was a ziplock baggie of dinner rolls, then taking the cat to the vets to have the wound on his face drained and sutured, PAYING FOR IT - and driving the cat back home for a week of medication and hot compresses with firm pressure. And using up about $10 worth of gas in the process.

Wait - did I mention it's NOT MY CAT ? Or that I really, truly honestly wholeheartedly do not like cats ?

Fucking A.

Oh, and I read a note in Max's assignment book that I guess he copied off the board, saying he needs two hardboiled eggs, some easter grass and some snacks for tomorrow.

And we are leaving Friday to go camping, as soon as I get off work.

And Lucy's birthday is Saturday.

And I need to bake cupcakes tomorrow.

And pack.

And tomorrow is story time at the library which always seems to take up the entire morning.

And it's supposed to rain all weekend - especially in the area where we have a permit to camp.

Needless to say, I have opened a bottle of wine, and I am planning to consume it while I boil eggs and bake cupcakes and fold laundry and track down the camping gear and wash the sleeping bags and find a place to board the dog for a few days. Because if today taught me anything, it is that the dog should always go to a kennel, so that I know he won't escape or hurt himself trying to escape, or get lost after escaping.

I am seriously considering getting myself lost after escaping. Who's with me?

That mushy gushy post I promised you with lots of sunshine and reasons why I love being a girl.. I mean, a mom.

I Got Tagged.
Never before in the blogosphere has my participation been requested. And they may just regret their kind offer after reading what I have to say. I haven't read any of the other answers yet, so that you can get my honest-to-goodness responses, without my having to worry that what I have written sounds like someone else's answer. That drives me bat-shit crazy.

So, here goes.

5 Things I Love (or actually, not so much) About Being a Mom:

1. I love that my children are a real life, wonderful example of the power of tenacity. I overcame infertility two ways (that sounds like chinese food) and by following two very different paths, had the same wonderful result. Happy, healthy, well-adjusted children - one biological, and one not so much. (See, I know that not so much exemption would be useful.)

2. I love that my children have introduced me (via other children they have befriended) to some of my favorite mommy friends. People I never would have met, had we not had children of similar ages and interests.

3. I love that my children have brought napping back into my life. Oh, how I love to nap. And napping, I missed you so. A small but important piece of my soul was missing when you were not part of my day.

4. I love that my husband and I have this secret parent code now, where we can just glance at each other and KNOW what needs to happen. One single raised eyebrow can signal the "it's time to go" exit strategy. And when someone gets in trouble around here, we present a united, solid front, no conversation required.

5. I love the feeling of pride that I have in my family. I know, in my heart, that I am raising Good Kids. They have manners, they are cute and personable, and they can charm the pants off of anyone even remotely charm-able. They are my most successful endeavor, by far. Career ? Meh. But let me tell you all about my kids !

OK, one of my little darlings just dropped my brand new Blackberry on the floor. Which is how my last cellphone was destroyed. I am not really feeling the love at this particular moment, so best to stop and post now, before I change all of my answers.

Why ? Because I said so.

Tonight, I stood at the kitchen counter and glared at the children until they meekly finished their desserts. Because I am (pause for effect)

Exhausted.

Dude. I am getting old. Because of Mr Barf-o-rama, last night I slept on the couch, far far away from our comfy but contaminated bed. And I use the word "slept" very loosely, as there was very little sleep, and a lot of tossing and turning and thinking mean thoughts. I woke up sore and cranky, and went to work. It was a quiet morning. In the first hour, I had only had one table, and I was really giving it my all. I gave them a rousing description of the specials - and sold 3. Seared Ahi Benedict ! Mango Blueberry stuffed French Toast ! Sausage Gravy and Biscuits ! My heart sang !

(The fourth customer at the table got the basic breakfast......sooooo boring).

So anyway, they all got big breakfasts. I gave them many coffee refills. I brought condiments, I fetched pastries, I chatted and smiled and really - I thought we were all having a lovely time !

And then, they paid and left. Do you see the important part of this picture that is missing ?

No ??????

THE TIP. They did not leave a tip. On an $80 tab. No. Tip. At all. None.

So, here are my tips for the day. (HAHAHA - get it ? My TIPS for the day. sigh.)

OK, let's get to it. Public Service announcement number 43.

1. Always get a good nights sleep before work or school.

2. When mommy is tired, just go to bed. Seriously. It will be more fun in your room alone, then trying to tell me some long drawn out story or show me some new Lego creation. I don't care. I am tired and sore and cranky and I love you but I will love you EVEN MORE after I get some sleep. You can stay up As Late As You Want. Just keep it quiet so I can pretend I don't know you are still awake, and so that I can fall asleep.

3. When you eat in a restaurant, and someone comes to your table and takes your order and brings you food and/or drink, leave a fucking tip. You cheap bastard. If you don't want to tip, don't sit down - take it to go and get the hell out.

4. When you are sick and you have contaminated the bedroom, it is important that once you are feeling better, instead of going to your friends house and playing WII, that you decontaminate your room. Change the sheets. Do some laundry. Open a DAMNED WINDOW for the love of God.

OK, that's it. Vent over. I am going to bed. In my own bed. That I decontaminated myself, and probably will come down with the barf bug as a result.

You have been warned.