It's The Most Horrible Time of the Year...

I know what you are thinking.  After all, THAT day in April is upon us and we have to deal with Uncle Sam and his Band of Merry Men.  But no, I am not referring to Tax Day.


A day or two ago a package arrived in the mail. My girls were positively giddy, and I wanted to throw up.  It was safe enough looking.  An innocent package, gray with dark lettering.  It was a Land's End package.  And it contained bathing suits.


Now lest you think we are extravagant people, I will just say for the record, the reason my girls were so, "over the moon" is because their bathing suits usually come from exotic places like Sam's Club, in between the dog food and the bananas, or Target, my second home.  But this year I wanted a more modest option for my chiquitas and I saw a really cute suit at Land's End that fit the bill.

The top of the suit for the girls.  I bought matching swim shorts as well.  They look adorable!

The suits were not that pricey and I loved them.  A friend had bought a similar one for her daughter and I loved that it came with shorts.  No more "yanking" when the girls come out of the pool.  A bit more coverage would help my growing girls as well.


My bathing suit was one I bought a couple years ago and is now too big.  Plus, it is a bit worn out from a couple years of daily treks to the local pool, and sadly misshapen.  It is a bit embarrassing.  So, I took the plunge and ordered one along side the girls' suits.


Now, although bathing suit shopping is certainly more private when you do it at home, it is no less terror inducing when you have to try on the blasted thing.  It was time to pay the piper.


I avoided the inevitable by joining the girls in their happy dance over THEIR new suits.  They excitedly tried them on and they looked perfect.  Of course.  On the first try.  My youngest is a petite thing and at seven years old she fit into a size 5 bathing suit.  A five.  I come no where close to that number; girl's size, ladies' size or otherwise.  My suit lay waiting at the bottom of the Land's End package like a snake in a pit, poised to strike.  I carried the offending thing up to my room and locked the door.  And then installed a deadbolt and infrared sensors, lest anyone come within 20 yards of my bedroom and witness the stand off between me and the suit. 

I pulled the pretty, innocent, thing out of the bag and looked at it.  It was a nice suit, maybe it would be kind.  Because I have a long torso and am taller (not "freakishly" tall, but tall nonetheless),

I chose a two piece (like a tankini).  It was time.  I could only stare at it for so long.  I took the plunge.  And then laughed hysterically.  Not the kind of laughter that is a form of relief from a stressful situation, but the kind you may hear, say... in a mental institution.  Which may be where they find me if I do not find a new suit soon.  Needless to say, the Land's End suit got stuffed, no rammed, back into the bag.  It will not be making the rounds at my pool this summer.  At lease not on this gal.  


It is back to the drawing board and back to searching, browsing and scouring the web for that perfect suit.  So if you see me in a suit like this one...

...and muttering to myself in between bursts of hysterical laughter, it may be best to stay on the opposite side of the pool.

Mr. Clean is Harassing Me...

Okay, so maybe that title is a bit overstating things.  A bit.  Just a little bit.  For the past few years Mr. Clean has requested a family portrait.  You know the kind.  You get all scrubbed up, put on matching white shirts and trendy jeans, haul the family to some place in the mall and smile, BIG, even thought you want to punch the photographer for saying stupid things, like... "Say Pumpernickel!  Everyone, say pumpernickel!"  I would rather have a mammogram.  

I am not sure what has turned me off of the business side of a camera.  I love taking pictures, and seeing pictures, and admiring other people's family portraits, but the thought of my own stops me in my tracks.  Probably because I have seen pictures of myself and I usually look like I want to bite someone's head off, or I pour on the cheese.  Mega cheese.  And now that I am 30 something, cheese is no longer endearing.  Nor is looking like my great grandmother in pictures from the old country.  Back when you had to wait a hour and a half for the shutter and looked like you were seriously ready to punch the photographer.  He probably said something stupid too, like, "Cha toir a’bhòidhchead goil air a’ phoit."  You know, the classic goofy mall photographer lingo.

Recently my sister-in-law had the complete gall to send us gorgeous photos of her family, taken professionally.  None of them looked like they wanted to hurt someone.  Their photographer was probably mute.  Lucky ones.  But after seeing them, guess who started talking about the lack of family photos in his house. Uh-huh.  Mr. Clean.  The big whiner.  

It made me panic for a minute, as thoughts of me reigning in five kids under hot lights, as my handsome hubby sits looking quite dapper (does anyone actually use that word anymore?), resulting in my forehead so shiny from stressing over what child is, or is not, picking their nose in public and on film, that it could be used as a solar panel, well... makes me want to hyperventilate.  And the mental image of the Mr. Clean clan in their white shirts and trendy jeans all smiling sweetly while Momma is breathing into (or drinking from) a paper bag?  Not so good.

But then the nostalgic Angel kicks in.  The one who can stare off into the atmosphere and dream of a photograph where I look like Rita Hayworth, perfect matte forehead with coiffed tresses, and a three year old who would not dare make his favorite "bad guy face" right before the flash goes off.

This makes me want to call the mall and make an appointment. Or mortgage the house and book a photo shoot with a real photographer, make-up artist, lighting specialist and stand in children who resemble my own, but without peanut butter in their ear or magic marker tattoos.  But then reality kicks in.  And I schedule a mammogram instead.  

My Problem Child

Do you have a "problem child"?  I do. And I am the problem.

During a brief Facebook conversation this morning with an awesome friend that I cherish (thank you, awesome friend), I was reminded that I am not as gentle, loving, caring or as motherly with one of my kids as I ought to be.  Which kid is irrelevant; they all deserve that kind of a mother.


Sanctus Real has a song called, Lead Me, that if you have never heard, you need to stop what you are doing and go listen to it, RIGHT NOW.  I am not kidding, I will wait....   It will give you a lump in your throat.  You know the one.  Or it will make you bawl like a three year old, like I did.  You know... the "ugly cry".  If it doesn't, come on over here and I will smack you in the back of he head for being emotionless.  Maybe that will make you cry.  Either way, the song will be "sniffling worthy". Disclaimer: You know I am just kidding about the smacking thing, right?  I would never do that to you. Unless you stole all my chocolate.  Or said mean things about Ronald Reagan.  Or hate tea.  But I digress...


The song's first verse is about the responsibility a husband has to his wife.  I was all ready to tattoo the words on Mr. Clean's forearm (with much self-righteousness) for him to read daily, when the second verse started.  To say I was humbled would be an understatement.  A puddle on the floor?  Probably a MUCH closer description.


I will not quote the entire song as you have already heard it (right? right?!), but this line was the one that was knee buckling, 

"Show me you're willing to fight, that I'm still the love of your life".  

First instinct, assign this to the hubby.  He is my best friend and the love of my life.  He has always been kind, loving, suportive and awesome.  But there are those days when you need a bit more as a wife.  Next, a brick to the head, when I could hear this plea come from my child.  That child.  To say that it applied to all of them initially would be dishonest.  It does apply to all of them, truly it does.  But for that one particular child it echoed from the mountain tops.

"Show me you're willing to fight..."

Are we?  Parenting is not supposed to be easy, we all know that, we all read the handbook.  But fight worthy?  I know I fight with my kids (because, some days I am, well... twelve years old), but am I willing to fight for my kids?


I do not mean the "momma bear" kind of fighting, which always seems to be about us anyway, but really fighting for them even when you want to sell them to the circus (please, no comments about how that is insensitive to circus folk, that was a fear of mine as a kid, although my kids would probably welcome it).

"...that I'm still the love of your life"

Kids are GREAT when they are new.  Then they grow and have opinions and start to talk and all that messy stuff.  Then they get hard.  Trust me, I have five of them and they are all hard some days. If your kid is still fresh from the cellophane and still "great", I will just smile knowingly.  Get back to me in a few years.  


Are we willing to let them know they are the loves of our life when they get hard?  When we want to pull our hair out or run away and join a rockabilly band (or is that just me?)?  When they do not feel like the loves of our lives anymore?  When it is no longer easy?


This was what I heard from that song.  And that one little face came to mind.  That little face needs me to prove to it that it is still one of the best things that ever happened to me.


Oh and Mr. Clean?  I have an appointment already made for you at the local tattoo parlor.  I promise, it will just "sting" a little.

Yep... It's you. Not them.

I got indignant this morning.  With a five year old.  Simply stating that fact means that the five year old acted a little more mature than I did.  I hate when days start out this way.


Last night I went to a ladies' Bible study held at my church.  When it comes to a Bible study at our church we study... wait for it... the Bible.  Imagine that.  No fuzzy books on living well or putting your best foot forward.  Nope, just the Bible.  So, last night we were in Acts and we were challenged to think about how we compare ourselves/actions.  Do we compare them to others, thus finding a way to "rise above" as Saul did; finding faults in others to excuse our own sin, or do we measure ourselves again the King of Creation, the Holy God, as Paul strove to do?  It was extremely convicting.  So much so, that after I was "Saul like" this morning, I was pretty embarrassed about it.  Especially as I was sizing myself up against a five year old and using his "sins" to justify my own parenting faux pas.  Frankly, laying it all out on the table like that makes me look like quite the moron.


So, in about 20 minutes when the bus rolls up I have some humble pie to eat and a five year old from whom I need forgiveness.  I am so thankful that forgiveness is free, or I would have a lot of work to do...


Until later,
Crow eating Angel

One Thought at a Time Please...

As a mother of five children I rarely have time to mutter a cohesive sentence, let alone ponder anything deeper than, say, the complex relationship between peanut butter and jelly.  But I have had a topic on my brain for the last few weeks.  It flits in and out as it pleases, and I haven't had much time to unravel it, but here it goes...


I think adopting trans-racially is easier than adopting a child that blends in perfectly to your family.  Did that just give you whiplash as you reread it, to make sure you read correctly?


This may ruffle feathers a bit and I get that.  I only can talk about what I have experienced, and again I have not taken the time to sit down and write a dissertation on this subject.  Just remember... peanut butter and jelly.  Okay, now that I have the disclaimer out of the way, I will let you into the vast space in my head that holds the millions of thoughts that float around simultaneously.


You do not know this yet, as it has been AGES since I have checked in, but I am working very part time right now as a parent trainer for our county's department of children and youth.  The county contracts me to supervise visits between children in foster care and their parents, provide training to said parents in an effort to prepare them for reunification, and offer a support to the parents.  Right now I have only one case.  My client has two children who are vastly different in their skin tones and at the last visit we got into the discussion of race and perception.  Hang on while I hop back up that rabbit trail and get back on track...


Anyway, this discussion had me reflect back to other conversations I have had with friends who have adopted and friends and family who are adopted.  Some were trans-racial (or whatever the right "PC" word is right now) and some were not.  You will never doubt that there is a story behind my two youngest sons.  You may not know the story upon meeting us, but it is extremely obvious that there is one.


A recurring theme I hear from people my age that are adopted and from friends who adopted a child who blends in (looks wise) is, "When did you find out you were adopted?  When do we tell our child that they were adopted?"  In our house, it is not an issue, as my five year old can tell you all about the day he was adopted and some of his life before that amazing day last January.  My baby however, is clueless.


We brought home our youngest son at three days old as a foster baby and he has never spent a day away from us or home since.  A year ago we adopted him and while we celebrated, he concentrated on playing with my necklace.  In his world, it was barely a blip on the radar screen.  His sippy cup had more meaning to him that day.  But there will never be a day when he will not know that there is a story to unravel.  My baby boy has beautiful caramel toned skin.  My skin is about the shade of a piece of printer paper and just about as blinding after a long winter.


Because of this obvious daily reminder that we are not matching salt and pepper shakers in my family, there is always room for conversation.  I remember one day my now five year old told me that his skin was "brown" and mine was "blank" (see? "printer paper").  I got a giggle out of it and it started a great chat about why, and how cool that it was that so many tones can make up one family.  My three older kids who are all biologically linked to Mr. Clean and I, also talk openly about adoption and fostering and all the parts that make up our world.  It is natural, because it is who we are.  But what of our story was different?


Suppose we adopted children who easily could be mistaken for sharing our genes?  Perhaps they were too young to remember being adopted and had no older siblings to tell them about it?  Would it be easy to slip into family life and avoid the topic altogether (whether intentionally or unintentionally)?  I know that happened to my peers and perhaps it was simply due to "the times", but some of them found out about their adoptions in very jarring ways.  


We will never have that question.  We will never have to decide on the right timing to have the "adoption talk". I also find it easier to talk about my boys' ethnic heritage, as their Caribbean tones greet me with each sweet smile.  It just, "is".  Their adoptions are a fact of our lives and a celebrated daily acknowledgement, simply due to the obvious differences.  And please know that I am not ignoring all the other topics that my boys may want to discuss in regard to their skin tones, I am only talking about the joy of having a transparent adoption.


And, I also know families who have always talked openly about adoption to their children who could be exact little replicas of their adoptive parents.  They made the conscious effort to make it a natural part of their world and conversations, even though it may never come up otherwise (you would not believe the "conversation starters" that perfect strangers in the grocery store think they have a right to throw out there to you).  But I know more who would rather sweep it under the rug and talk about it, "later".


I am so thankful that "later" is not an option for us.  Our adoption reality is all over our faces.  Although the big cheesy smile may have given it away already.

So, Here We Are. Now What?

A million moons ago I somehow lost my RSS feeder. It was low on my priority list to try and find it again. You know, with raising children and being a fabulous wife and all. Little things like that. So today, for some unknown reason, I was inspired to find it again and see what was happening in the blog world. Boy, are you all quiet!

Many of the blogs I used to read daily are gone. Others are not updated often, some are still active. I tried to catch up the best I could after being gone for so long. Then there was the question of my own blog. The last entry was in February. Gulp.

I love to write. I have loved it as long as I can remember. As a child I had a writing desk in my room stacked with pens and paper, notebooks and stationary. I wrote all the time. Today, I have my laptop. I rarely write anymore and I miss it. So maybe it is time to dust off the blog, crack my knuckles and get back to it. I am not sure if any of the three people that used to faithfully follow this blog are even around anymore, but regardless, I will start again.

Tomorrow.

The Adoption Happy Dance

There IS light at the end of the foster journey. It is the big train called adoption and we have climbed on board. Again!

Last Wednesday, to everyone's joy, Eazy became legally part of our crazy clan, forever. Life is good...

A Life Full of Good Intentions

I have always wanted to be one of those women who had her friends' birthdays memorized, cards purchased weeks in advance and posted exactly three days before, to arrive precisely on time. Instead, I an one of those woman who can barely recall her own birthday or where the car keys are. Birthday cards? HA!

Once upon a time I purchased a small gift and card for my friend's son who happens to be born on Valentine's Day. His birthday is easy to remember. The gift and the card are still in a bag in my bedroom closet, waiting for delivery. It was supposed to be for his 7th birthday. He will be nine this coming Valentine's Day. I am a wee bit behind.

It is not because I do not love and cherish those in my life, especially my friends. I do. With my whole heart. I just cannot seem to get my brain on board. That is exactly how I feel about blogging and the amazing friends I have made the past few years in the blog world. I love you, really I do. I just can't seem to find the car keys...

So here we go again. Another month completely missed, where I used to blog daily. It makes me sad, as this was the way I used to keep up with the many friends I have all over the States, a great friend in Canada, and those abroad. I have not even had time to read my favorite bloggers. I popped on today because I wanted to read the blog of a friend, and decided I best dust off my own.

You did not miss much in November. We ate turkey, went to some soccer games and sent our oldest daughter to school. Well, that probably qualifies as news. Especially on a blog that started to document my homeschooling journey. So here is the skinny...

Xena has begged to join her brother at the Christian school he started in September, ever since she knew, in the summer, that he was going. We promised to consider it for next year. It just so happened that "next quarter" was a better time frame. K.Z. was offered a partial scholarship that paid half his tuition, and starting Xena a little late meant that we could afford to send her. Not that this was our plan, but it did work out perfectly. So, we sent her on a Thursday to "visit" to see how she would do and by that next Monday she was officially a student and climbed aboard the big yellow bus.

C'sa is still at home with me, diligently working at mastering Kindergarten, while Eazy and Iggy hang out and play. Next year, I may be focusing only on reeling in my toddler. But that is a story for another day. Or month, as it were. Either way, I promise I will be back...

The Big Six

So far in my life I have experienced six events that have changed the path of my life and my legacy. These would be....

1. Salvation - the biggie.

2. Marriage - Becoming Mrs. Mr. Clean was pretty cool, and I love every day I am his bride.

3. My first born son - K.Z. ranks pretty high up there in life experiences.

4. My first born daughter - I had named this child when I was a kid myself, years before I actually met her.

5. My baby girl - "Mini-Me" emerges.

6. Adopting my baby boy - "Wait!", you say. "What!? I have been reading this blog for (fill in time period here) and you did not tell us the big day was coming?! How could you! Humph!"

Please accept my heartfelt apologies. I have been neglecting this blog for quite a while, because life has been a little crazy. I would not mind getting off this hamster wheel for a minute, but for now, it is not going to happen.

So, here is the scoop! Yesterday we adopted our foster son, "Iggy" who has been with us since his birth. He is now and forever home!

Huh? Say what?!

“The (film) festival has been unfairly exploited to secure (Roman) Polanski’s arrest over a case that is all but dead. Despite the philistine nature of the collusion that has now occurred, we came to honor Roman Polanski as a great artist. We hope today this latest order will be dropped; it is based on a three decade old case that is all but dead except for a minor technicality.”

~Debra Winger

Is anyone paying attention to this case? According to Debra Winger, it is decades old and should be dropped. OH! Well, alrightly then. Let's just drop it. Would Ms. Winger think this case "is all but dead except for a minor technicality", if it involved her daughter? Except, that she does not have one. But I do.

And let me say for the record Ms. Winger, if she were drugged and raped at 13, by a sleezy 43 year old director/producer, you better believe I would not want to see the case dropped for any reason. Even if that rapist was a celebrated (pardon me while I spit for a moment) film maker.

What is happening in our country? I know that there are many things in this country that are not as they should be, but when it comes to child rapists, even the most hardened jailed criminal knows pedophiles have reached the very bottom of the scum pit. They even have "jailhouse justice" for people like this. Yet Hollywood is offended when a film festival's carefully planned events are disrupted by the arrest of this man after he fled punishment 30 years ago?

Cry me a river.

That is not to say that we shouldn't be praying for this man's redemption. I will admit I have a hard time doing that, but that is my own failure. I would rather see him get justice here on earth than the punishment that he (that we all) deserves in eternity. This whole case just makes me so sad for the way our country sees right and wrong. It's not as if we are the first however. Remember Rome?

Pray for Roman Polanski and pray for our country.

We Will Never Forget...

America has stood down enemies before, and we will do so this time. None of us will ever forget this day. Yet, we go forward to defend freedom and all that is good and just in our world.

- George W. Bush
43rd President of the United States
September 11, 2001

Has It Really Been a Month?!

Apparently I have not written in over a month. I knew that there would be times of famine on this blog, but my sakes; a month! And what a month it has been...

K.Z. started attending a small, local, conservative Christian school two weeks ago and he is in love with it. I am sure that the honeymoon period will wear off eventually, but I have a feeling that when that does happen he will still really like the school. His teacher, I have been told by two very, "in the know" nine year olds is, "funny". I liked her when I met her as well. I also like that she takes no prisoners.

The first day of school I watched the clock. I missed him terribly and wanted to know what he was doing every moment of the day. The third day of school, I almost forgot to get home in time for the bus. I think we both will be just fine. I have also decided in my head that he is simply attending a very long "homeschool co-op". After all, the school uses a popular curriculum with homeschoolers, so that scenario works in my head. Please do not inform me otherwise.

Although Xena has now informed me that she too would like to try a year at this academy, we are still homeschooling the rest of the kids this year. Xena is my star student and frankly, I really enjoy working with her. So second grade in her pajamas is right where I want her and that seems fine with her. Besides, she is a night owl like her mom and the school bus comes at 07:25. We are not usually even up then. Well, until two weeks ago when I was forced to against my will when I gladly got up to see my boy off for his first day and every day thereafter. Someone send reinforcements...






C'sa started Kindergarten and is not sure she loves it anymore. She was anxious and excited and bouncy until she saw the commitment. Now she wants to bounce away and play. Frankly, I want to go with her, but being the dutiful mother that I am , I gentle poke her with the cattle prod until she sits up straight and does small amount of seat work. I mean, this is just Kindergarten after all!







Eazy just turned four and has made so many leaps and bounds after being placed with us last December. He is definitely one of us now and I want it to be forever. That process however is just starting and will be sure to take a while. You know how I know?

Eazy

Because after 20 months of fostering and adoring Iggy, we are close to an adoption!! We are talking weeks now and I could not be more thrilled. There will sure be more to come on THAT!

C'sa and Iggy

So hopefully it will not be another month before I post again. I do not want to see this blog die a slow death after almost 4 years of writing. I would be sad to stop. So don't stop reading! I promise I will never be gone long!

Pardon Me, Your Epidermis Is Showing...

..."I couldn't help but notice your shade of melanin."

This past weekend the family and I went home to Maryland for two family reunions. One was on my mother's side and the other was my stepmother's family. Fortunately for us they happened the same day, not too far from one another, and we were able to enjoy both.

My stepmother has a large wonderful family and I have grown up with them. My late Aunt Lena, her sister, had seven children who now almost all have children of their own. Her brothers have grown children as well and I was able to see a lot of my cousins.

As a child I was very close to Lena's children and whenever I was with my Dad and Stepmom, I would hope to be able to see them. They were a great family and I wanted a family just as large and loving as theirs.

This weekend I got to introduce Eazy and Iggy to my cousins for the first time, as some of them live on the west coast or just not very close. My cousin Margie stayed at my parents' with us and got to spend more time with them. At one point, she was holding Iggy and I was noticing how her coloring was barely a shade lighter than his.

Both of my foster sons are hispanic. Iggy's bioparents are from Puerto Rico, as is Eazy's father. His mother is Spanish. They both have darker skin than I do, but in varying shades. Frankly, I could not care less. This weekend, I realized that my boys have a wonderful gift.

My cousin Margie and her six siblings are half hispanic. Their father, my uncle, is Puerto Rican. Because I grew up in a very diverse world, this was never odd or strange to me. The fact that my uncle had an accent and darker skin was natural to me. So natural that I forgot the significance to my boys until I saw the same coloring in Margie and Iggy.

More than likely these two little ones will be part of my family forever. Although we are a diverse family with varying skin tones, there will be no doubt to the boys as they grow that their skin is different than Mommy and Daddy's. But not Margie's. Or my 6 other cousins and their children who sport darker skin. They will have people who look like them in their family.

They may never care or feel out of place. That is my desire. But just in case, the Lord has provided them many family members that do look like them and share the same heritage. He is so good.

dc Talk - Colored People