Three

It's late. I'm partied out, exhausted but grateful for great days of celebrating my kids.

About Talya, I don't even know what to say. She's our free spirit. I've been called that a lot in my life by people who think "free spirit" means "dresses weird" or "paints her house bright colors" or "says things she shouldn't." But, really, freeing my spirit from caring what others think - and what I think God would think - is a long and windy process of growth.

With T, the phrase makes sense. She's completely unpredictable; she's entirely and uniquely herself. She wears her freedom like a beautiful dress that I hope she never outgrows.

(She's also a sister wholly devoted to both of her brothers, which is one part of her that I completely get. )

The singles' scene at Childcare

It's been a particularly horrendous day. Temper tantrums every time I turn around. After 24 hours without any sort of potty-mishap, T peed and pooped in her pants within 10 minutes of each other. While I cleaned her up, Charlie found the vat of vaseline and started eating it.

Whine, whine.

But it hasn't all been bad. First of all, I rocked Zumba today. I picked the two best people in the class to follow and just tried to keep up with them. It was really fun, even though I'm sure I looked like an idiot. (Given my pathetic lack of rhythm, I try to only Zumba at classes where I don't know anyone else.)

Then, I went to pick the kids up at childcare. The teacher handed me Simon's stack of papers and I flipped through them, pulling out one that said "Josephine" and set it on the counter. Next thing I knew, a little girl snatched it up and handed it back to Simon. IT HAS HER PHONE NUMBER ON IT.

Oh my. I hope Josephine's not waiting by the phone because my five-year-old will not be calling her any time soon.

PS, I planned on "retiring" Simon from my blog when he turned five, but I just couldn't keep this story to myself. Sorry.

Potty Training, 2.2

If any of you have stuck with me long enough (hi, Mom!) to have read about my trials with potty-training Simon, this will sound familiar. Actually, it was a piece of cake: the pee part, that is. When it came to #2, it was a year-and-a-half battle. It nearly did me in. I'm surprised my son is even speaking to me at this point, I'm sure I screwed it up so bad.

But whatever, just like you all promised me, eventually he did it. And it was his choice, not mine. If there's one thing I learned it's this: you can put a kid on a potty, but you can't make him poop. Seriously, try it. I dare you.

Well, this summer Talya decided she was ready. She pretty much potty-trained herself. We went a week in underpants (do you know how hard it is to find little girl underpants that don't have freaking princesses on them?!) with no accidents. She was peeing, she was pooping, she was a potty prodigy.

Until.

She decided she was scared to poop on the potty. Without hesitation, I slapped huggies back on those buns and told her to let me know when she was ready because I was NOT going down that road again.

I thought it would motivate her, but I should have known better. She happily wore her diapers until... this weekend. She showed a little spark of interest, so I let her pick out some Minnie underpants (that's panties to you, Adrianne) and I let her wear them.

We did the whole set-the-potty-timer thing and she was back on the horse. She's done great. No accidents at church or the Y or in the car. And I dare say she has the cutest little underwear-butt I've ever seen in my whole life. I would show you a picture but the creep that was on Dr. Phil this morning caused me to rethink that.

But, like her big brother, she's scared to poop on the potty. It hasn't escalated to any sort of emotional level yet, so here's my plan. Let's see how long I can keep it going:

1. I vow to never bring Pull-Ups into this house. That of-the-devil product can only make matters worse. I don't even want her to know that there is any option between "soil yourself" and "be a big girl."
2. I vow to remain cheerful while cleaning up the poop in the pants and remind myself that it's better (though grosser) than the alternative Pull-Ups-of-Doom, which will only prolong this process.
3. I vow to keep her in underpants during naps because she stays dry, but (and here's the hard part) I also vow to get off my internet-addicted butt and get her out of bed when she wakes up so that she can go potty.
4. I vow to make her "practice" when she has poop-in-the-pants accidents (that are in no way accidental), even when I'm in the middle of making lunch and waffles are burning and Charlie has uncapped every marker on the art table. I vow to make these practice sessions of running back and forth to the potty the perfect combination of upbeat and sucky so that she won't fall apart but she'll be motivated to avoid them. Imagine lots of sing-songy "Poopy pants are disgusting!" and you'll get the general idea. Try not to be jealous.

Am I missing something? 

It's Time

Your sister has become obsessed with her baby book - what she looked like as a baby, how she dressed for her first halloween, what Mommy looked like with her growing in my belly. She sleeps with the book, wants it read to her as a story. So, Simon dug his book out too, searching out the matching bracelets we wore in the hospital. Taly doesn't understand why her picture isn't in his book, doesn't understand the concept of "before I was here."

So, it's time. Time for me to sort through mental pictures and digital ones. Time for me to make my way through the beginning - your beginnings. I know so little, and some of what I do know isn't to be put in a book, but to be guarded over in my heart until you ask for it. I'm blessed, and you are so blessed little one, that I have nothing wretched to tell you someday. I have no knowledge of darkness or evil that was once a part of your world.

But in about a year or less, probably less, maybe even now - you'll want your book. You'll want me to read it to you a million times and remind you how much we wanted you. You'll scour those early pictures, sent across the ocean from your auntie's phone, for traces of truth about your home - before you were here.

Oh for God to give me the grace to write it well. Your story, our story. Oh for words that speak to your heart and answer your questions. Oh that you would know how beautiful this story is, that you would see God's creative grace weaving across oceans and through the land of a thousand hills.

Indian Summer

At the beginning of the week, the temps nudged into the 60s. People started calling for an Indian Summer and I went off to Ben about how 60s do not equal "summer." Indian or otherwise. (By the way, Indian Summer was one of my most favorite movies in High School. I watched it a lot when home sick from school. Oh, and it has nothing to do with India).

But now it's two weeks before Thanksgiving and so warm that my kids are balking at clothing, so Indian Summer it is.

Today, because snow is but a breath away, I let them eat lunch outside for the second time this week, even though they end up eating more dirt and grass than food.

Because ice will soon turn the ground hard as rock, I let Simon plant carrots and sunflowers in the backyard even though I know they won't grow.

Because I know these days are fleeting, I let Talya dump her lunch off her plate and pile it high with mulch and dirt. I pretended not to care that she took her shoes off.

Because he won't feel it again for months, I let Charlie roll around in the dirt, pile it onto his head, heap it onto his tight coarse curls from which it will never be free, and even eat some.

I let them soak it all up because the winter is too, too long and the next time it's picnic weather, I'll be able to understand everything Talya says and Simon will be able to pump and I'll have one less kid to push higher and higher.

Because I've been trying to let the joy of God's gifts seep into my heart and out my pores, I figured I should let them do it too.

Charlie claimed victory over the slide today. He climbed, determined, up the slide until he reached the top. Then, he focused on the ladder and conquered that too. Then, he perched precariously at the top and laughed at my attempts to get him safely away from the edge. He tried to walk right down that slide instead of sitting on his butt.

And for that reason only, I will welcome winter (a tiny bit less begrudgingly) - because as nice as this is, if Indian Summer goes on for another week, my youngest will end up with something in a cast.

PS - whoever calls this pleasant weather "Indian Summer" has never spent a summer in India.

Obligatory Pictures

Simon: Alright guys, stare into the sun and get this over with.

Talya: I am not holding this thing.  Charlie: Me either.

Simon: I know you're new here Charlie, but try to cooperate so we can go back to playing.

Talya: It's time to paint my nails.  Charlie: whoops, there it goes.

Simon: This is what moms with blogs do in the Fall - make you sit on hay and smile so they can show their friends.

Charlie: Like this?

Good Night

Dear Simon,
You're getting too big. Memories of babyhood are being replaced with glimpses of future teenage attitude. You sneak behind me while I'm cooking and knock my knees so they buckle. It makes me laugh every time, so we both melt in hysterics. Laughing with you has become one of my new favorite ways to chase away a bad day.

Tonight you yelled at me. That's not unusual, by the way. Usually you grunt, but sometimes, you full-on yell at me when I make you mad. Tonight, though, it was cute. It had been a long day of trying to stay out of the house while it was being painted. You'd hung in there pretty well, but just as bedtime was nearing, something came up and 6:55 turned into 7:45 and three tired kids turned into three cranky kids with only one parent to put you all to bed.

I got impatient. Charlie was climbing on the book while I was trying to read you your story. Talya was telling me she had to "go poppy," and I didn't exactly yell at you, but my voice got all loud and fast like it does when I'm only technically holding it together. You, my tender-hearted first-born, are no dummy and don't fall for my only-technically-loving facade. You climbed into bed and flopped down with a scowl. I scolded you (does that sound better than I yelled at you?) for grunting at me - I really hate that - and you gave me the coldest look ever and yelled right back at me: "You ALWAYS whine when we whine."

You were so mad at me for being mad at you guys. It was like you KNEW that I'm supposed to be able to behave a little better than my little kids. Just one of the things that makes you brilliant. We moved on, and you went to bed giggling about one of your books

I love you. Good night, my son.


Dear Talya,
You've taken to screaming "NO!" at me when you don't want to do what I've asked you to do. It never really pisses me off that much, because you are just the sweetest thing in the whole wide world. It seems less disobedient than it does feisty. I know I need to get a handle on that, and we're working on that, but usually while Daddy punishes you, Simon and I sneak secret giggles because really, how can you not?

Tonight a friend came over to help me move some furniture. He's a handsome, funny guy with a great Boston accent that probably any single woman would be falling all over. You brought him book after book, and when he was leaving (though you're not normally one to profess your love to our guests), you yelled out "Lye Lo Lu!" Over and over again. I know I need to get a handle on that too.

You thrilled me all day, but you positively melted me as you quietly sang along to that annoying kids cd you guys make me play in the car. Deep & Wide is my new favorite song, thanks to you.

Lye Lo Lu. Good night, sweet daughter.


Dear Charlie,
For the first six months of your life - you know, those formative months that are so critical to a baby's development - you only heard a smattering of English. And yet, here you are, barely one year old chattering Mama and Dada and All Done and Baba when Taly hands you her baby doll. Your brother and sister were stubborn in their senseless babbling well past this age, but you are my little English student, imitating tone and nuance even when you can't get the consonants right.

You run through the house on those little legs, about six steps at a sprint until you're flat on your face, and then you try again. You've been a total pill in the afternoons, screaming and whining for food and then throwing on the floor whatever I give you. If you could spend the whole day tackling Simon and Talya without them getting furious with you, I think you would be the happiest kid in the whole wide world. Already, even in the midst of your implacable protesting, I think you're pretty close.

You've been picking a fight with us at bedtime. We rock you, just as we've always done, and instead of settling in, you sing and hit and pinch my arms. Your daddy and your babysitter give up and put you to bed. But not me, I refuse to let you win this one. It's just you and me and I have nowhere else I have to be, nothing else as urgent as being Mama to my baby. I rock you into submission, clamping you down with my arms. I am not angry, but I am firm in my resolve to not let you take this from us.

Finally, the stressful moments of you thrashing and me clamping subside. You relax and your cries turn to the sounds of you sighing the day away. We rock for a while after your eyes close. I catch up on some reading and silently thank you for one more night of this.

I love you. Good night, my son.

photo by Locke Innovations

Time to Celebrate!

I love birthdays and I love birthday parties. With Charlie turning one (today!) and Talya turning 2 (Sunday) I was in all-out planning mode to give them special days.

Then the insecurities started to surface. For some reason, one of my biggest insecurities is that I would make too big of a deal out of something. It's kind of ironic, I guess, that I am insecure about that, since I'm so dramatic, but it's true. I'm always afraid people are going to think that I'm over-dressed, over-thinking, over-working... Why? There are worse things in the world, but I've decided to obsess about this one.

Anyway, so as I planning a special party for my kids, I started to get anxious that I was going to seem like one of those crazy "party moms" who makes a huge competition out of planning the perfect party. The kind who eventually raise kids featured on "My Super Sweet Sixteen."

And then I thought about it for a second.

There is reason - incredible reason - to celebrate! Two of my kids have reached a milestone. They have changed dramatically, grown up magically, and I am so, so proud of how they've weathered this past year.

Talya returned from her first international trip, survived a summer on the road with her family, and got thrust into being a middle child. She's learning to talk. She's grown hair. SHE'S GROWN HAIR! Now that's a big deal!  She melts me every day. She fascinates me. She drives me crazy because she spends an hour with her hair box trying to pick out just the right pony tail holder or clippy, but then I remind myself, SHE'S GROWN HAIR - Enjoy the accessory drama!

Charlie... where do I begin? He made it through whatever circumstances brought him to Home of Hope, and he kept his thrilling smile. His heart remained open and soft to a family's love, and he has gone from having zero muscle tone to practically doing gymnastics in his attempts to get into everything. He loves electrical cords (we're working on that) and is obsessed with pulling his sister's hair. And, his favorite thing to do is lead his brother and sister in an impossibly joyful screaming match.



We have reason to celebrate these wonders. To invite their friends and our friends to cram into our small house to sing happy birthday and eat farm animal cupcakes. To remind them - our two little babies - how special they are and how we would give them the world every day if we could, and all the plastic noisy toys that they could ever want. (But we'll probably sneak them off to Goodwill as soon as the batteries run out.)

I can hardly wait til September when it's Simon's turn.

I love birthdays.

An anniversary, a "new" computer, and a graduation

I've been a married woman for nine years. Well, actually, I've probably been a married woman for about 7 years. I'm not sure the word "woman" completely applies to a 22-year-old girl, which is what I was when I got married. I didn't clean (I mean, like anything. Not like now, where I just don't clean everything - does that make sense?). Cooking was hamburger helper. Our furniture was part-cardboard from Target.

I think actual adulthood came gradually down the road, later, when I began to experience the pain and uncertainty of trying to get pregnant, the responsibility of home ownership, the sentimental journey of watching baby brothers get married, the heartache of being hurt by people who were supposed to love you, and the hard work of trying to forgive those people when you don't have it in you at all.

I guess if I'm going to look at it that way, I still have some growing up to do.

I married my man when we were but babies, and I'm loving growing up with him.

**********

My "other" baby is my macbook. Oh, how I love it. It's not a baby anymore though - it's a senior citizen in computer years. And, you know how IT guys are most of the time not that helpful? You know how they just tell you to reboot? You know how they like to sit in the dark and invent new ways to confuse you?

Not our IT guys. We have two where we work. They're great, and helpful. One of them is less an IT guy, and more of my senior citizen macbook's fountain of youth.

He gave it a new hard drive, and an upgraded operating system, and just like that, my macbook is a baby again, running like new. Maybe someday we'll have a nine year anniversary together?

**********

My first baby graduated from pre-school yesterday. Everyone was all "oooh!" and "ahhhh!", and I was all, "It's kind of lame. I mean he's going to pre-K next year, and I'm sure they'll do a graduation, and then there's Kindergarten graduation. And then he'll have had three graduations and he'll still be 6."

But, it wasn't lame. It was adorable. His amazing teachers spent countless hours putting together scrapbooks for each kid, and a slideshow, and it's a real tear-jerker to reflect on how much your baby boy has grown up in 9 months.

Today, though, was the end-of-year picnic. I'm going to be honest - I usually hate picnics. It's either rainy or 100 degrees. Today's picnic was of the HOT variety. Just me and three kids, and buckets of sweat, (surprisingly delicious) hot dogs, and a bouncy house.

Of course, the only kid I have who WANTS to get in a bouncy house is my little girl. The teacher told me I would have to get in with her. I tried to explain that I was more likely to get hurt in that thing than Taly. I didn't try to explain that those things make me pee my pants. I just found someone to hold my baby while I scrambled into an inflatable oven with a bunch of kids and bounced my heart out.

After that, it was hard to contain my misery. I tried to psych Simon up for going home, but he was having none of it, so we (I) suffered. I kept looking at all the other parents, trying to identify someone who would stand in the shade with me and complain, but everyone else looked so happy. I was confused and lonely - maybe I just smelled and people were trying to stay away.  Or, there's a small chance I have an attitude problem, but I doubt it.

*********
All in all, it's been a week of celebration. Next week, we pick it back up again with birthday celebrations for two of my kids, and I plan to eat a lot of cake. (Thanks for all the help with girl-party suggestions!)

No Princesses, Please

We've got some big days coming up. Talya's 2nd birthday and Charlie's first birthday are right around the corner. I've begun thinking of how to celebrate so that it's special for both of them, even though they'll have to share the big party, since their birthdays are only 3 days apart. (We can't really expect our friends to upend their lives to come to our house for pizza and cake twice in one week.)

So, here's the thing. I don't know what Talya's "thing" is. She doesn't really talk yet, although she's learning more and more. She's kind of into babies, but I don't really want to add more to the collection of naked dolls that must be located throughout the house so they can go to bed with her at night. As it is, we have a naked white doll (thank you Lucy), a naked black boy baby doll (from Simon's potty training days), a half-naked peek-a-boo doll (thank you Grandma), and another naked baby of mysterious ethnic origin (thank you Megan Aunty).

So, no dolls.

She's not into princesses. I don't think she knows what a princess is. Same with Barbie. I'm not completely against them, I just want her to get interested in them on her own, and I know that this is utter sacrilege in our culture, but I don't think dolls with boobs are age appropriate for a two-year old. When she likes them on her own, she can have them. One. She can have one, not one thousand. Those are words I'm sure I'll be eating shortly.

So, no princesses and no Barbie.

She's not into Elmo or any character. I *may* have told my kids that Dora lives in Colorado, and can't come to Ohio very often. She likes Elmo and Curious George and Clifford well enough, but she's certainly not obsessed with them.

So, no cartoon characters.

I guess, I'm just not big on telling her what she should like. I'm waiting to see what she decides she likes. But, I don't know what it is. Is this some sort of maternal failure on my part - either my failure to recognize her interests or my failure to encourage her to have one? Are we so busy going places and cleaning yogurt up off the floor that she hasn't had time to begin an unhealthy interest in Minnie Mouse? (Because, I swear, all we do is go places and clean yogurt off the floor.)

She likes to get new clothes and shoes. She likes me to do her hair, sometimes. She likes to play with any toy either brother is holding. She likes to color on the coffee table. She likes to throw yogurt on the floor. She likes to smash eggs. She likes to use q-tips to smear toothpaste all over her face. She likes to kiss her baby brother... and then push him over.

I'm just not sure how to make a cake that will really pull together all of these "hobbies" into something special.

Round Here

Simon asked me the other day, "Mom, so what are we going to do about our wedding?" When pressed for details, he revealed that he was talking about his wedding where he will marry Talya. I assured him that when he was old enough to get married (in about 35 years), he wouldn't want to marry his sister. He promised me that he would, and anyway, "I can get married when I'm 16. Some people do."
I'm not sure who these "some people" are who marry their sisters when they're 16, but whoever they are have quite an influence on my son.

I settled it by promising him that when he's 16, if he still wants to marry his sister, we could talk about it then. That seemed easier than explaining the ins and outs of in_cest and child marriage.

**********

As gentle as Simon is with his little brother and sister, Talya has yet to appreciate it and learn from it. Her affection for her baby brother comes all rough and tumble. I read other families in our adoptive group describing how their kids are afraid of squirrels and family pets and Sesame Street characters, and they only thing I can think that Charlie is afraid of is his sister, who at any moment might try to carry him across the room or shove a bottle or a plastic french fry in his mouth.

**********

Obviously, race is going to be a topic of discussion that comes up now and again in our house. Just the other day, Simon seemed to notice Charlie's skin for the first time. "Mommy, his skin is different than mine!"
"Yup - how so?"
"I'm brown and Charlie is white!"

We might need a diversity training seminar here at home?

************

My living room looks like this. All the time. Even though I clean it 48 times a day. And by clean, I mean pick up a few things. And by 48, I mean 3 1/2.

***********

Baby-led weaning update: We have successfully taught Talya to have a good relationship with food by letting her feed herself. When she learned how to navigate the step stool around the kitchen, she subtly expanded her skills into helping herself to whatever she wants whenever she wants it. Like an entire box of Cheerios, which her brother was happy to help her eat.

Jiggity-Jig

We're home again.

I'm trying to see the entirety of the sweetness of it all through the haze of jet lag. I am so tired. If my mom wasn't here, life would be rough. As it is, I'm not sure I can envision the day that I'm not wearing these red pajama pants.

But, it is so sweet. Simon and Talya are so excited to have their baby brother home, and Charlie is handling the dramatic increase in affection quite nicely. Watching Talya meet Charlie was hysterical. She simultaneously tried to smother him in kisses while ensuring that he didn't touch her at all. Simon insisted on holding him, feeding him his bottle, and sharing his room with him right away. He continues to be worthy of Big Brother of the Year award.

We can see the jet lag taking a toll on Charlie as well. He just seems a little out of it, except at 3 or 4 in the morning, when he is the life of the party - my thanks to Ben for being willing to attend that party while I try to sleep.

We took Charlie to the International Adoption Clinic at Cincinnati Children's Hospital, and everyone there was fantastic. It was amazing to talk to people who are experts in the health and well-being of children brought home from overseas. Charlie hammed it up for all of them, and convinced them that he is perfect. Tests run on stool samples (um, gross) and blood will let us know if we're dealing with any problems. The only sad part was trying to draw his blood. It took two techs and lots and lots of screaming to determine that they couldn't find any veins. So, we still have to figure that out.

While we were gone, my kids grew like crazy. Especially Talya. She is huge. Yesterday, she was my baby. Today, I stare at her and think, what the heck is she doing in diapers - she's a giant! More beautiful than ever, but big enough to take my breath away every time I pick her up.

Simon is even smarter than I remember. When I woke him up on Superbowl Sunday, I said, "Today is the day of the biggest football game of the year!" He said, "Really?!? Are there going to be three teams playing?" Now seriously, people, why has no one else thought of that?

Counting Down

Less than a week until I know if he's really, truly mine forever, and if I get to be really, truly, forever his.

Less than three weeks until I hold him and introduce him to his new Mommy and pray like crazy that he likes me.

One month until my kids meet Baby Brother, and we begin to sort out what all that means.

About 15 days of Life As I Know It before we pack up the car again and drive into Something Else to catch a plane to Change to fly back to Home Rearranged.

New Year's Resolution time has come and gone and it's inconveniently coincided with a time in my life that I am working towards personal growth. So, I don't resolve, but I do re-focus and mentally take stock in preparation for the year's first meeting with the women who help me grow.

The last year has been one of piling on the things that make life fun - blogging, working, working out, time with friends, getting out, taking advantage of a babysitter, sewing, learning new things, errands every waking moment. (So, for me that's kind of fun)

This year brings with it Child #3, and the realization that growth might mean shedding some things piled on. I want this year's growth to mean a more focused, present, calm mother for my children. Less stress. Fewer moments with frustrated, frazzled mama, and many more moments of serenity. Maybe we'll watch more movies, but hopefully we'll watch them together. Maybe we'll eat cereal for dinner, but hopefully because I skipped the store to read some stories.

I want to do this year with grace, for the sake of all of my kids who watch me so close. I want to find contentment within the walls of this house. I will still enjoy the museum, the library, the gym, but I don't want to need them for my sanity. I want to see Home through my baby's eyes, and get a kick out of staying there.

And for the next 15 days, I want to remember that this is the easy time.

Yesterday we were at the allergist, which meant another round with my son, pinning him down so he couldn't kick the nurse, while Talya stood on the sideline with nothing left to do but join the screaming. I didn't cry this time. The nurse probably thought I was crazy (even though I totally saved her from a kick to the teeth) to see the smile on my face - but I was playing the mental loop - reminding myself that in another month, I'll have three kids, and I'll look back on this horrid moment and laugh at myself for not knowing how easy I had it.

This is the easy time - when I only have 6 sippy cups to wash at the end of the day, and 4 laundry baskets overflowing, and one set of poopy diapers to step out into the frigid winter to dispose of.

I'm counting down many things, so I can remember to enjoy what I've got while I look forward to what's on its way.

Happy 2010!
(This year, I'm going to have to be okay with being late a lot.)

When God Builds a Family: a letter to all my kids

When God builds a family, He doesn’t always like things to be all matchy-matchy. It’s not like when you’re redecorating a bedroom and you go buy the bed in the bag because that’s the easiest and you know for sure that your comforter will match your shams which will match your valance.

When God builds a family, he doesn’t care much that the shams match the valance.

God doesn’t build a family the way some people shop at JCPenney’s for ensembles. God likes to build families like the seasoned, well-traveled buyer for an exotic boutique, who with an unlimited budget, scours the Earth for the perfect pieces that come together to tell the perfect story at just the right time.

Did you know that when God set out to build our family, He criss-crossed oceans to find us all? It wasn’t easy, let me tell you. You see, for God to build our family, He had to get Mommy and Daddy together in the same place so that we could fall in love.

Well, in many cases, it’s not that big of a deal for God to arrange a meeting between Mommies and Daddies. But, our story was a little trickier – it took a lot of advanced planning to make it work out just right.

You see, before Daddy was born, when He was just God’s Really Good Idea, your Amma & Appa lived far, far away in India – where jackfruit grows rampant and elephants walk the streets. And, before Daddy could be born, God had to bring Amma & Appa together so that they could get married.

That was a tricky case too. Things started of smoothly because Amma & Appa lived in the same town. But, when Appa got to be a little bigger, he had to go fight in the army. He traveled all around India and China and Bangladesh fighting for his country. It was very dangerous, and a long time went by when no one knew where Appa was. Everyone assumed that he had died.

This is what we call a “turning point” - because at this point in the story, Amma’s family was looking for a match for her. They looked at many boys, but they never looked at Appa because they thought that he was dead.

Now, God knew that if He was going to build our family, He was going to have to get Amma & Appa together. So, he saved Appa during that dangerous war, and one day, Appa walked back into that hot Indian village. A match was made, and your Amma & Appa got married.

Well, I’m sure that God was pleased that He’d accomplished that tricky match that almost never was. But, He still had a big job ahead of Him.  God knew that if Mommy & Daddy were going to meet, it sure wasn’t going to happen if Daddy lived all the way over in India with the jackfruit and the elephants.
God knew that Daddy had to be born in America.

There are people who will tell you stories that will make you believe that it’s easy for immigrants to come to this country. But, the truth is that your Amma had to work really had to come here, and even after all of her hard work, she still needed some miracles to make it all happen.

But, God was building our family, so He made those miracles happen. And, finally, one day your Amma flew to America with eight dollars and the hope that a letter she had written months before would result in someone picking her up at the airport.

I know it seems like the hard part was over. But Grandma & Pop-Pop weren’t easy to get together either. And, if Grandma & Pop-Pop didn’t get together, there would be no Mommy. And, if there had been no Mommy, then you wouldn’t be here either.

Grandma & Pop-Pop look like they match, which makes it seem like they were easy to put together, but back when Mommy was just God’s Really Good Idea, they didn’t match at all. You’ll have to see pictures to believe me, but basically, the point is that God had to get Pop-Pop into the churchy world if Pop-Pop was going to meet Grandma, and Pop-Pop was nowhere near the churchy world.

Pop-Pop had decided just like Appa to join the army. Like Appa, he didn’t have the opportunity to go to college, and so the army seemed like the next best thing. This was when God saw His opportunity to get Pop-Pop over into the churchy world where Grandma was. God sent a man named Bob to tell Pop-Pop that Jesus loved him. Pop-Pop eventually believed him, but Bob thought that if Pop-Pop didn’t get into the churchy world, he’d probably get himself into some trouble in the army.

So, Bob got Pop-Pop a chance to play basketball and go to college at the very place that every single person in Grandma’s family went to college.

When Grandma met Pop-Pop, he was scraggly and skinny, and a little uncomfortable having just been transplanted into the heart of churchy-ness. The odds were stacked against them, for sure, but Pop-Pop moved fast and married Grandma before she could even finish college.

So, now, the stage had been set and most of God’s preparation work had taken place. Mommy & Daddy were still just Really Good Ideas, but ideas that would at least be born in the same country.

I don’t know how old you’ll be when you realize that Mommy & Daddy don’t look the same. We’re alike in a lot of ways, but we’re different colors. For the most part, no one really notices, but there will always be people who think that’s a big deal. You know what? I actually think it’s a big deal too.

I think it’s a big, cool, amazing deal.

The fact that we don’t look alike is my little reminder that God had to work extra hard to match us together. It reminds me that we are not a bed-in-a-bag family, but that we were hand-selected to coordinate and complement and make each other shine.

You too, kids. You are all amazing, interesting products of an extravagant treasure hunt that has spanned the globe. We are not a matchy-matchy family, but we are a family a built by God.

All My Children

All of my kids are killing me right now. Charlie - yes, we've officially named our newest son - is just too dang far away, and I can't even begin to adequately describe the crazy emotions with waiting for him.

The biggest thing right now is reminding myself to trust. I am so thankful for the caretakers in his life. The Sisters, orphanage volunteers, and our POA love him, and they have seen him through his life so far. So far, I have done nothing for him, and he is (I am told) happy and healthy. I remind myself always to trust them, and their concern for his well-being. It is they who have cared for him in his first 6 months of life, and they are eager to get him into a forever family. I cannot wait to meet them and thank them in person.

Simon and Talya kill me too, but mostly in ways that make me alterately crazy-frustrated or all-out-giggly. I'm posting a video of them "Preaching." If you're not interested in spending precious minutes of your life watching my kids, please skip it. I think it's funny though. I'm not sure where Sy gets his material - if you listen carefully to his sermon, he talks a lot about Jesus being Champion (as well as the pizza guy I think). He also has taken on the style of a bossy worship leader that is always ordering you to raise your hands or else.

Taly just wants to keep up with her big brother, and can only do so by trying to match him in volume.



Thanks again to all of you who weighed in with resources on adoptive breastfeeding. I have spent a lot of time on the phone with our hospital's lactaction consultant, and am starting a protocol that should help. We'll see. If not, no big deal - formula's certainly never hurt anyone. (But it does cost a pretty penny.)

3 Hours Later, half-way Vaccinated

My kids haven't really gotten sick. I mean, they've turned into hacking snot-buckets several times, but our house has never really known the feverish-pukey plague. I am so thankful for that, and am trying my best not to tempt the Flu Bug to visit. But all that relative health has lulled me into a comfortable state of denial about the flu - even the dreaded H1N1.

I was't really planning on the vaccination - for a number of stupid reasons. One: seriously, ANOTHER shot?! This is just getting cruel. Two: how bad can the flu be? Three: I don't do lines, especially when it's chilly. Four: I'm getting more and more natural in my old age - trying to subtract chemicals from our life, not add them.

But, I read at Sy's school that our county's H1N1 clinic was happening yesterday, and so I started to wonder if I should brave it. Honestly, I wouldn't have thought twice about it had the weather been cold and rainy, but I knew it would be a nice day.

Not knowing what to do, I posed the question to the all-knowing Facebook. It's kind of like "Ask the Audience" on Millionaire. If you don't know what to do, ask the audience, and they will tell you. I got one no, four yeses, and two votes for Oil of Oregano, which I have never head of before. The Yeses win, especially since one came from a doctor, one came from a nurse, and one came from a mom who recently brought her child home from the hospital.

So, I sucked up all my moans and groans about personal comfort, and piled the kids in the van to head out to the Fairgrounds, where the clinic was being held. First point: The Fairgrounds sounds fun, but when there is no fair, it's just a really big gravel parking lot and some empty barns.

The clinic was scheduled to start at 2:00, and since I Don't! Give! Up! Naps! Ever!, we arrived at 2:15, at which time we got in the back of a line that was probably already two thousand people long. We waited and waited, shuffling forward every two and a half minutes. The first hour of the line was on the side of a road, so I vigilantly protected my one-year-old from dashing into traffic. With all of my energy focused on the traffic, I gave up all pretense of protecting my kids from eating rocks, picking up trash, holding hands with potentially germy kids, etc.

Two hours into the line, as the end started to come faintly into view, the line moved in front of some sort of corrals for cattle. In mass proportions, all the kids dashed over to what looked to be the first thing more entertaining than gravel. I had to rescue my kids twice from getting locked into the corrals, and am now wondering if there is Cattle Flu, which they probably got there.

I will say this - my children were fantastic. I had no idea they were capable of standing for three hours, doing nothing. (I had no idea I was capable of that.)

Simon brought a backpack full of books, and near the end, he got a good little story time going with a bunch of other bored kids. It really was precious.

Eventually, we made it into the building, where I had to make some game-time decisions. Like: is now the time to tell them that when Mommy said, "We're going to get some medicine," Mommy meant, You are getting shots? Thankfully, Sy could get the nasal spray, and both of my kids barely made a peep when they got their injection/mist. They even let me get the vaccine, which I only did because it was a spray and I am wussy about needles - would rather have the flu, thankyouverymuch.

It is then - after the three hours of waiting is over, when you are congratulating yourself for mere survival - that they tell you, "By the way, the kids need to come back in 4 weeks for a booster." Awesome.

But, Ben just called to tell me that Sy's classroom has a large sign announcing that someone in there has H1N1... so I guess half-way vaccination is better than nothing.

Liking My Kids

In a recent post (in which she was more than gracious to me, though I've never met her), Amber reflected on liking her kids. Maybe it's just the Fall weather that breathes some coziness into our hearts and homes, but I've been having the same thoughts lately.

I find myself sitting back and staring at them, thinking, "When did you guys get to be so much fun?!" The way she phrased it was, "I've enjoyed giving them my attention." How true that often I don't. Often, they distract me from the things I want to give my attention to.... like, um this white box with buttoms that's sitting on my lap right now. Or my Christmas crafts that have already started taking shape. Or a trip to Meijer to get whole milk for the 18th time this week.

Here's what I like about my kids today:

• I like their independence (which has led to my freedom to do Christmas crafts in October and start an adoption fundraiser that I didn't have time for a month ago). They play well together. Sy is the perfect big brother, chasing his sister around the house, bringing out her best giggles. She is the perfect baby sister to a boy - tumbling and tackling and laughing when she finds herself thrown on the floor in good fun.
• They play Rock Band. Sy knows how to work the old CD player downstairs, and he loves to turn the music up. They climb onto whatever coffee table they can turn into a stage and sing, taking turns with the plastic microphone, the bootleg Mickey Mouse guitar from India, and old board books that I guess are their song sheets. Then Taly hops off the table to spin and twirl and dance, and I just want to eat her up.
  
• They love helping me around the house, and they're getting to the point where they are actually helpful. Instead of dumping 3 cups of detergent into the fabric softener dispenser, Sy carts laundry baskets of darks or colors or whites to and from the laundry room. Taly moves everything into the dryer, and I only have to pull out a handful of already clean laundry that she lifted from the other room. They empty the dishwasher with me every morning, and I know Taly is going to break the door because she stands on it to reach the top shelf, and I know I'll regret this someday, but she is too stinking cute for me to do much about it. (Although since Ben found out about this latest trick, I sure am trying).
• Talya is the smartest little girl who can't talk I've ever seen. I've always heard "girls are verbal" and I expected her to be an early talker, but she is following in her achachen's footsteps and squeezing by with sign lanugage and grunts. She is talented though. She can make "baba" sound like whatever words she is trying to say. She can follow detailed instructions. We had soup the other night and she crumbled her crackers up into her bowl with her hands and then ate the whole thing with the spoon. She hides her sippy cups and her apple cores in her play kitchen, and I usually remember to get them out before things start to smell funny. I love her.

Thanks for letting me brag about my kids. What do you like about yours today?

Bonus Malayalam vocab word of the day:
achachen=older brother. In our house often shortened to Cha-cha.

Rwandans in my Home, Rwanda in my Heart

Some friends of ours hosted a basketball coaches' clinic this weekend that about 20 international coaches attended. Last night, we had the whole group over for dinner. (Ben once again proved his amazing-ness by planning and ordering the food. I cut up some fruit and vacuumed.)

Anytime we're around people from another country, I am truly blessed. It's like you can just feel the richness, perspective, and depth that comes from Somewhere Else.

What made last night special, though, was that four of the coaches were from Rwanda - the homeland of the son we're waiting for. It's a teeny-tiny country, so I was shocked that basketball is big enough there to produce a fifth of our guests.

I wanted to corner them, make them sit and tell me their stories while I wept. I wanted to ask a thousand questions - Where were you 15 years ago during the genocide? Who did you lose? What do you remember? After all of that, what do you believe in?

But instead, I just stared, dumbstruck that this huge world is so small. I watched Talya steal food off their plates. I felt the words freeze somewhere in my chest as I muttered things like, "Thank you for coming" and "Your country is already in my heart."

Four men who are my son's People.

When I was pregnant, Ben and I used to wonder in the night who our baby would like. We knew they'd look like him, but we wondered what parts of me would be strong enough to stand up to his strong, dark genes. The first time I saw my babies - even Elijah, whose features looked as though they'd just been created a minute ago - it was an immediate game of, "Oh look, he has your dad's nose," and "I think those eyes are from my side."

But with this next one, there is no mental image to reference; no genetic data to catalogue in my dreams. His eyes will come from someone else, as will his lips. His appearance is a complete mystery to me...

...Then these four men walk into my house and eat at my table. Each of them looks so different from the other, but they all bleed Rwandan blood - the blood my son bleeds. One is very tall, others are shorter. They have no relation to my boy, but I still stare - in their faces I see the appearance of men my boy could become.

And they are so beautiful.

I hug them all tight. We tell them of our son and make plans to meet up in Kigali. They see our Rwandan flag on the dinner table, and tell us they finally feel at home.

My eyes well, my heart warms, and I wait.

Working it, Bollywood style

Our cousin Riju took these pictures at our nephew's baptism. More on that later. For now, look at my little ones enjoying the festivities.

 

 

 

Simon Says....so Mommy shouldn't, and other random things

Nearing the end of a rough day, I needed my daughter (who had just pooped in a bathtub full of toys) to come into the living room.

I stood outside the bathroom door, watching her try to get the toys I was soaking in disinfectant. Repeatedly, with increasing volume, I heard myself shouting things like,
"Talya come here!"
"Taly you need to come to Mommy!"
"Sweetheart please come"
and probably something along the lines of
"Dangit Mommy is tired, would you just get over here?!?!"

After watching me suffer, Simon summoned all his four-year-old wisdom and suggested, "Mommy, you just go. She'll follow you."

I stormed into the living room, followed by my suddenly obedient daughter and know-it-all son. He looked at me and said, "Mom, are you having a rough time?"

**************

Quick commercial:

I made these hobby horses for my kids today. 

They LOVE them. I got the directions here, linked to by Lier at Ikat Bag, who has inspired me to create things for my kids. She does it much better than I - but I have fun looking.

**************

Back to today's topic of things Simon says and things I shouldn't.

I am now watching my language. It's taken four years, but my son has finally picked up on my potty mouth. Really, I don't say anything that bad, but when Sy was born, I promised Ben that when our innocent baby started saying "sucks" "crap" and "pissed off," I would try to stop.

Well, he did, and I'm trying. Simon is holding me accountable - very vigilantly I might add. So "stinks," "shoot," and the all-purpose "ugggghhh" are making their way back into my vocabulary from wherever I left them in 8th grade.

While we're on the topic, Ben also thinks that "Dangit" is inappropriate. I wholeheartedly disagree. What do you think?

(I find that it's generally healthy to poll the internet world when I disagree with my husband, don't you?)

*******************

Yesterday, Simon came into the kitchen and said, "Mommy, can I have some beer?" Being that we don't keep alcohol in the house, neither of us like beer, and I haven't had one since trying to impress an older-than-me ex-boyfriend years ago, I was a bit surprised.... and ready to call his preschool and find out who brought what to show & tell.

"Where did you learn about beer?" I asked Simon as casually as I could.

"From you."

Okay. So I won't be calling the preschool.

"Remember when we were watching tv and we saw...." He proceeded to recount a public service announcement we saw months ago about drunk driving. At the time, he asked like a thousand questions, which I tried to answer as simply as possible. But you try to explain drunk driving to a four-year-old and not have it come back to bite you in the butt.

I have a feeling Sy's preschool will be calling me. That would suck.

See ya, or as Sy has lately taken to saying, 

Peace out Suckas.