Boundaries for Dummies?

So if you're a Christian or been in churchy environments, or even if you watch Dr. Phil, or are just an American living in the 21st century, you've probably heard the term "boundaries" thrown around a lot. There's a book on it, which, to be honest, I haven't read. I hear it's really good, but I'm a little bit of a snobbish pig about reading books that "everyone else" is reading. Which makes me feel like I'm my own person (see? boundaries!) but probably just means I miss out on some good ideas.

Anyways, my close friends can tell you that I always roll my eyes (literally or mentally) when someone mentions boundaries, because I think that in some cases - not all - boundaries have become the "Christian" excuse for selfishness. Here's where you remind me that I haven't read the book so shuttheheckup. I KNOW, BUT... I'm basing my mental eye-rolls on how I've seen boundaries play out, not on what they are supposed to be. So humor me for a sec, okay?

It's become kind of a joke between me and a couple of friends. It's ironic, don't you see? I'm putting up a boundary around Boundaries. Ha ha, I'm hilarious.

Well, now that I'm parenting a child who is old enough for friendships that don't include me, maybe it would be a good time for a refresher course on healthy relationships. He had mentioned that he had a friend at school (let's call him Bob) who always wants to sit by him. We talked about how he doesn't HAVE to sit by Bob all the time, and he can have friendships with other kids too; he just has to be kind and nice to Bob.

Now if that's not great boundary advice, I don't know what is. But, then again, I haven't read the book.

Today Simon said, "Mom, Bob is my best friend."

Well, that's weird, I thought. I said, "Oh really? Why?" Simon said, "Well, that's what Bob said."

Hmmm...

Then he said, "Bob always sits by me. But sometimes he lets me sit by other people. He likes to sit across from me too, so he can see me."

Well, that's just creepy.

Cue the conversation about what it means to be a good friend, and how a good friend doesn't make you do anything you don't want to do. I also encouraged him to continue to be friends with Bob and always be kind to him even if he doesn't want to sit by him (or across from him) sometimes.

(This on a day where I managed to sneak the correct names for pee-pees and hoo-hahs into conversation just so I can not screw up my kids in that department. I also decided it's time for all children to always have underpants on all the time.)

I'm rocking this parenting gig today.

Getting Caught Parenting

Last night, my kids and I went shopping. We were leaving Carter's, me without a stroller, so basically just praying and hoping that the little ones were following me and not getting distracted by things I didn't want to buy. Just as we reached the door, I noticed a really cute mom with her husband and kids. She was beautiful and looked a little familiar, so I did a (rather obvious) double-take, and just as I caught her eye, I saw her clench her teeth and do the angry whisper-yell at one of her kids. You know what I mean. The "I can't yell in public but I'm so freaking angry with you because you're so exasperating" whisper yell.

She saw me catch her. I was mortified. I knew she was embarrassed, and I wanted to run over and say, no really, no judgment here. I know that look, those teeth, the way anger boils over in a way it wouldn't for any other person in the whole world but can't be contained when a three-year-old won't try on the jacket already. I wanted to assure her that I do it too. That I possibly did it this morning. That it was a complete accident that I "caught" her, and that I wouldn't have if she hadn't had such pretty hair (that part sounds creepy), and that I. Totally. Get It.

I managed an empathetic half-smile and high-tailed it out of there to church.

We were having our Thanksgiving Dinner for our ESL students and their families. (More on how awesome this was later). We were supposed to bring our families, but Ben was out of town, so I was accompanied by three hungry kids who don't always respond well to chaos, noise, or you know - expectations of obedience.

I sat them down at a table and my pastor sat with us. Deep Breath. I mean, as if the pressure wasn't on already, this is the man who is preaching a series on Jacob's dysfunctional family brought on by wretched parenting.

Just in time, Simon decided to bury his head in his arms and refuse to talk to anyone. Talya and Charlie just put on a great show of backwashing into the same water bottle. Gross. Simon pulled it together and ended up carrying on pleasantly with our pastor while I tended to the little ones and made really sorry attempts at conversation.

But then disappointment hit. Something he wanted, asked for (nicely), and the answer was no. Crying, whining, oh great, here starts the public parenting. I have no idea what I said to him, but we got through it. We got through dinner. We got through a program and the only casualty was one man after Charlie grabbed an apple from the centerpiece and chucked it at his head from across the room.

I had help from several people, and we made it through the night successfully.

<<<>>>>

On the way home, I got an email from my pastor. He took the time to encourage me in my parenting - not the judgmental kind of encouragement that I recently got from an off-duty police officer - but genuine, specific, grace-filled compliments.

The compliment was surrounding Simon's meltdown and me getting him through it, and the truth is the compliment was not entirely deserved. The truth is that I have no idea what I said to him and that I was thinking in my head "God, please let whatever I'm saying work, because I have no plan B if it doesn't."

The truth is that it didn't matter. He knew that that one exchange was not the sum total of my parenting, just like I know that the whisper-yell was not the sum total of the Carters-Mom's parenting. What mattered is that I'm often caught in the angry looks, the impatient sighs, the annoyed threats. Last night I was caught in a moment of grace, and it did wonders for my heart. It made me want to start watching people more, and want to say something when I catch them doing great.

(But I probably won't because I'm generally scared of talking to people I don't know. But growth can happen here, too, I guess.)

When Daddy's Away, it's Easy to Ruin a Good Day

Today was Simon's first day of school. He's doing another year of pre-K, which seems like the best choice given his September birthday, he's a boy, and I'm sorry but when did Kindergarten get so intense? Simon and I both need another year to prep for homework and what I'm sure is an increase in parental commitment to volunteer, understand vague homework assignments, bring snacks, send $5 in for this and that, remember which day is wear-your-pajamas day, etc.

Ben's gone but we skyped with him this morning and Simon was showing no signs of nerves. The weather is beautiful, my kids have been pretty cooperative, and I've gotten to catch up on a year's worth of chick-flicks in the past 4 days. All in all, a great start to what was sure to be a great day.

Of course, it's all a roller coaster. Here's how it went today.

Yea! Everyone is up, fed, dressed, mostly clean, and I even remembered to take first day of school pictures.

Crap! It's garbage day. If there's any reason to be married, it's garbage day.

Yea! We're on time anyway.

Crap! We're actually early. Time to cruise around the parking lot so we don't get any new-to-school jitters while we wait around.

Yea! Off without a hitch. I only teared up a little bit. Time to get Charlie new shoes since of the two pairs he has, I can only locate the right feet.

Crap! I have no idea what size he is, what kind of shoe I need, and I don't have time to double back to Target, which is of course the authority on cheap baby-turning-toddler shoes.

Crap! Charlie fell asleep in the car which means the afternoon naptime is not going to be what I need it to be.

Yea! Made it back to school on time. Simon loved it. Plus, the lady at the metropark gave me 3 coupons for kids meals at Bob Evans, so we're taking Simon out to celebrate.

Crap! This idea kind of stinks because Talya is throwing silverware and she knows better and every time I stand up to deal with my hooligans, Charlie pulls my shorts down in the middle of the restaurant.

Crap! The waitress is somehow annoyed with me for eating here with my kids.

Crap! When I told the waitress about my coupons, she decided not to tell me that I could only use one of them at a time and let me order three kids meals anyway, even though I normally let them share since Charlie likes to throw more food than he eats.

Crap! I have to dig into my sacred "Susie" envelope to pay for the food I thought I was getting for free. Crap! I'm crying about it - why do I always do that? It's just like 6 extra dollars?!

Five craps and no yeas.... obviously things are going downhill. Bob Evans was a bust.

And crap - nap time is going as feared and is already over.

But yea! Bachelor Pad is on tonight which is stupid and trashy but I'm going to watch it with friends and eat the leftovers of the birthday treats that I'm making for Simon to take to school tomorrow.

Things are looking up. Only 5 hours til prime time.

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

Two Conversations

This morning
Simon: Mom, we need to wear sunscreen.
Me: Who told you about sunscreen?
Simon: We need to wear some today because it's very hot outside.
Me: I don't have any, so we'll have to go buy some at the store.
Simon: You don't have any? You're a bad mom.


Has this kid been watching Dr. Oz or something? Oh, right, I know it makes me a bad mom. But, here's why I don't buy sunscreen:
1) My kids are the most beautiful shades of brown I could ever imagine, and it only gets more stunning when they run around in the sun.
2) I'm pasty-fair, but even I don't really burn that much, and if I do, I kind of like it, like I like the feeling of being sore after a work-out.
3) It costs like $10, and that's for the non-natural, standard brands. (This is also the reason I don't often buy/use moisturizer - a friend recently pointed out that sun exposure and dry skin are the leading causes of wrinkles, so check back and see the damage that my cheapness has caused to my face in about 10 years.)
4) As if I needed one more reason, this study came out, and it turns out that almost every brand of sunscreen is PHOTOCARCINOGENIC. Do you know what that means? Um, causes/accelerates cancer when exposed to the sun. Great.
5) God made the sun, he didn't make the sunscreen.

I know that there are about 8,000 ways to combat my logic. But cheapness and vanity trump logic; I hate spending money, and I love being a darker shade of pale for 3 months out of the year.

Oh, but do you know what trumps cheapness, vanity, and a study on photocarcinogenesis? Being told you're a bad mom by your own kid. So, we are now the proud owners of a giant can of (chemical-laden, generic, not-too-expensive) SPF 45.

This Afternoon
Me: Talya, don't throw your food.
Simon (in awe): Wow, mom you sure know a lot about food!
Me: I do? Like what?
Simon: Like how not to throw it. You should go to school and teach kids how to not throw their food.

So, you see, I didn't even need to buy the sunscreen. In my son's eyes, I redeemed myself just by asking my 2 year old not to throw her food. I'm a genius.

(Also, along with my $8 sunscreen, I purchased for myself an $8 moisturizer with sunscreen. Not sure much can be done about the past 31 years of damage, but we'll see.)

Don't Worry, it was Negative

Yesterday was a doozy of a day. All day, alone with three kids, me as sick as could be. The sickness matched up with some other "symptoms" which matched up with some timing that sent me into full-on freak-out mode. Maybe I wasn't actually sick....

In the  last week or so, Simon dug out the "Baby on the Way" book, and I read it to him over and over again (skipping words like uterus and breast - yuck), hoping, praying that he wasn't being prophetic.

Finally, I decided I should put myself out of my misery, and I dragged my three kids to Meijer to purchase a pregnancy test and some other, bulky items that could cover it up in the cart. Because, for real, how embarrassing. To buy infant formula and a pregnancy test in the same trip. To march through a store with three kids strapped to me who appear to come from at least two different fathers. Inviting the stares of judgment - "Doesn't she know how this keeps happening?"

I shoved the test in the cart, behind my diaper bag but not in it - because the only thing that could have been worse than running into someone I knew while carting around two babies and a pregnancy test would be getting arrested for shoplifting said pregnancy test while my three kids watched.

I don't know if this is normal or not, but I promise, everyone I passed in the store peered into my cart and laughed at me. For real. No, really.

The whole time my mind was flooded with scary questions: How will Charlie fit in the bed when my belly gets enormous? How will I do this three-kid thing in a more hormonally-heightened, exhausted state of mind than that which currently grips me? Does the church still offer to bring you post-baby meals if you need them twice in one year? To get those thoughts out of my mind, I began to pray:

I trust you God, I do. I trust you, but you should know, I can't do this.

To which He replied via a line-less pee stick,

"Well, duh."

Pride comes before a fall...

I admit, I was starting to get a little cocky. I'm not going to make the mistake again of bragging about good sleep, but let's just say I'm a little more rested than before. Overall, Charlie has fallen into a routine with the family - a routine that allows me to go to the gym, go to the office when I need to, and get at least a few minutes of nap time all to myself.

In all my arrogance, it was time for me to re-learn the basics of mothering - today was a day of remedial lessons in parenting. Here's what I've had to review:

• Four-year-olds are not old enough to babysit.
• No matter how long the baby usually naps, he will wake up as soon as you get in the shower.
• It doesn't matter if you go to Meijer for one thing, if you bring three kids into the grocery store at 5:00 pm, you will spend at least $50.
• We are always almost out of formula...
• ...and I always need to buy more Diet Coke.
• On the days that Daddy has all three kids and you trot off thinking, "Now he'll see what it's really like," all three kids are perfect, nap for 3 hours, and eat their dinner.

Hopefully, you'll learn from my experiences so you don't have to spend a day in Mommy Summer School.

Yes, Taly is licking the cart. And, no, I don't wipe it down - partly because I'm lazy and partly because I'd rather her eat cart dirt than bleach...

One Month Home

Charlie has been home for a whole month. Like with all things, in some ways it seems like forever, and it seems important to me as his mother to reflect on how short it's been, how fast it's gone, and all that's happened to my son in the 6 weeks since I first met him.

One day he woke up in the home he'd always known: a crowded, dusty orphanage. He was held and fed by the nannies who always cared for him and his 25 baby roommates. Then, all of a sudden, a woman came down, picked him up out of his miniature crib, dressed him in unfamiliar clothes, and marched him and three of his roommates out into the sunshine, where he was plunked into new arms.

He didn't cry. He stared at us, and appeared to be simultaneously confused, blinded by the sun, and interested in what was going on. He didn't cry for 2 days, just stared at us and enjoyed the attention. As the shock wore off, he woke up more at night, waking up between his new parents, who were sharing their bed with a child for the first time.

In the following couple of weeks, he spent hours on a bus, got stuck with needles, flew across the ocean, met his new siblings, got placed in a new crib that probably seemed enormous, and had to start eating vegetables. America - his new home - was a freezing place and everywhere he went he had to get strapped in a car seat and bundled in blankets. Where was the sunshine now?

I feel like the mother of a 6 week old baby - beyond tired, beaten down by sleeplessness, and thank goodness you started to smile just now or I couldn't go on. Charlie's been smiling for the duration of our time together, and his friendly nature has gotten me through many a weary day. His smile, though, has changed, become new in this last week. It's gone from a charming, attention-grabbing smile with which he greets new people (the smile we knew for the first several weeks) to a familiar, peaceful, content, joyful smile that seems saved just for us. I could live off of that smile alone (well, plus diet soda and baked goods).

The nights have turned a corner, and not a moment too soon. For weeks we were getting up several times a night and there were periods of screaming at night-time, exacerbating all of my mothering insecurities. My familiar, stand-by tools of motherhood (breastfeeding and cry-it-out) weren't options to get me through the middle-of-the-nights, and I was getting a bit stressed.

Big sigh of relief - things have calmed down. He usually wakes once before we go to bed for a snuggle and once in the middle-of-the night for some milk and peaceful rocking. Once I drag myself out of bed, I actually enjoy the quiet moments... I play solitaire on my phone to stay awake, dragging myself further into a severe iPhone addiction (which I've sadly passed on to my 4-year-old) but that's another post for another day.

In my most frantic moments, other Rwanda adoption mamas have been my voice of encouragement and perspective. Sometimes because they're struggling more than I am, sometimes because they've made it to the other side, and sometimes just because they get why I'm not going to let him scream at night just so I can sleep, and always just because I trust that they get it.

The most valuable piece of advice that I've been letting sink into my heart is the idea that two of them have passed on to me, via blog comment and email, that there is a cost to being this family. Some days it costs me my blog/email time, or a work-out, or time to take a shower. They shared this with me in love, I think knowing that I would instantly agree that any price for being OUR family of five is worth paying.

Every child added to this family has taken a bit of my free time, my independence, and my previous pre-kids identity. It hurts each time, and I would be lying to say it doesn't.  But of course it's more than worth it - I love being the mommy of each of these cuties and I love our family of five, and there is not a price I would not pay.

Mommy Guilt

I think it always comes harder when a new child has been introduced into the mix. Those first moments of going from 0 to 1 or 1 to 2 or, in this case, 2 to 3 bring with it a season of trying to find the groove. And, while it's all normal and natural, at the time, it really just feels like trying to find the way to LEAST neglect everyone you love.

How do you bond with the new one while not completely cutting out your oldest's naptime routine? How do you still take time to sing to your daughter before bed without letting on that you have one foot out the door to hold the baby?

Don't get me wrong, it has been overwhelmingly happy to add a child to our home, and to watch the older two kids learn to love their baby brother - who overnight went from picture and idea to in-the-flesh always-hungry human being. It has been overwhelmingly happy to sit back and watch them become siblings, and watch us become a family.

Having enough love for one more is never the issue. It's having enough time to love the way you want to.  And having enough patience, enough grace, enough sleep....

On Attaching

I've gone to bed early every night this week. And by early, I mean as soon as I can toss my kids under their covers, I am under mine. Except for Monday night, because the Bachelor was on, and even then I fell asleep right before Jake was hit with the bombshell that Ali was leaving - gasp!

But last night, little Charlie didn't want to go to bed. He wanted to sleep, but only in my arms, not in his bed. I've been tired and a bit sick, so my patience was draining. But still, I couldn't shake the thought that every time he cries, I have a chance to tell him that he has a mommy now. As I'd lay him in his crib, he would go from sound asleep to wide awake screaming as soon as his back touched the mattress. Then, as soon as I'd pick him up, his body would go limp - peacefully asleep.

It is so frustrating! But, it is so beautiful - this needy attachment. 3 weeks ago, he could fall asleep by himself. Now, he needs a mama (or a daddy or a grandma) to snuggle with.

Still, my weakness is greater than my appreciation of this beauty. At 10:00, I collapsed into bed - 2 hours past my bedtime - and let grandma take over the rocking until Daddy got home. After that, he slept great.

As for me, I'm off to the doctor. Grandma is only here a few more days and I'm going to need medication to help me out in her absence.

How we're doing

Charlie is asleep on the bed next to me. He's starting to get attached to the blue lion that we brought him, and seems to take comfort from it when he wakes up. It's been five days of knowing him, and we are still overwhelmed with thankfulness.

Sorry I stink at updating this....I have been reminded that there are people waiting for an update! (I'm sorry, Adrianne's friend!) Well, here's an attempt at it.

As a mother, I am at a loss as to how to parent a boy I just met whose situation requires that I don't jump into my default motherhood tasks - cry it out, independence, boundaries, etc. (Who am I kidding? I don't have many boundaries other than when it's naptime, you need to stay in your freaking room please.) However, I am secretly loving living life on the other side of the great Mommy-hood divide: attachment parenting. I am loving holding him all the time, picking him up when he cries, and accessorizing all of my outfits with the Ergo Baby Carrier. I don't know what the heck I'm going to do when I get home and need to adjust back into life with a schedule, but for now, this feels really great.

I am also overwhelmed with learning and experiencing so much of the heavy reality that has brought Charlie to us. I have been awash in Rwandese history (see, all this time, I've been saying "Rwandan"), and that is tough stuff. Today was spent at the genocide memorial, which is a beautiful tribute to the lives lost during one of the most horrific 100 days on this planet. All I could think about was the fact that Charlie's birth mom lived through this (I assume. I don't actually know anything).

We have learned a bit more about how Rwandese orphans can get put up for adoption, which makes his being part of our family seem all the more miraculous. There is only one orphanage in Rwanda that puts the work into getting their kids adopted, and Charlie was brought to it. In Rwanda, it is illegal to abandon a child, and children can only be adopted if there are no relatives found. It is sad to me that he will probably never know his specific family, but I hope to always help him know and love Rwanda and the Sisters who cared for him.

Yesterday, we went to visit Home of Hope and say goodbye to his caretakers and friends. It was a blur of activity, but I got to see his crib, and see the faces of those still waiting for families.

Charlie is doing fantastic. In the five days we have known him, he has grown to recognize us and get comfortable with his. Yesterday we had a major victory when a friend picked him up and he started screaming. When I went to get him, he settled down right away. Score 1 for progress in attachment.

To us, he already looks like he's put on a bit of weight, and we're working on building strength in his legs and trunk. He started waking up in the night to eat, which I think is a great thing (though not fun for sleepy mommy) because it shows me his appetite is growing.

He babbles and giggles, and says Dada all day long. Right, I know he's too young to talk, and if he could, he wouldn't magically speak English just because some Americans picked him up. We're still taking it as a sign that he loves us.

We are an Indiwandan family. (Kirsten, is there a cuter way to say that?) And we are loving it.

To my baby's first mama

I know nothing about you, whether you've passed from this world after birthing a baby you grew inside yourself, or made the excruciating choice to allow others to care for him. If you're alive, and you chose this path for your baby, I'm sure you have hopes for him - high hopes for his new life with a mommy & daddy who can place fresh meals in front of him and keep the mosquitoes at bay.

I think of you often, and only in part because of the gift that I hope to receive from you someday soon. I think of you because I want to know every detail of your life, of the moments that brought us to this point, where our lives begin to anonymously intersect for eternity. I want to know your favorite memory, the sound of your voice singing lullabies, the comfort food that you ate from your grandma's kitchen. I want to see your eyes smile.

I want to promise you that I'll always love him, and that I'll tell him how much you loved him too.

Someday we'll bring him back to visit the land of his mother, and I believe he'll feel the familiar comfort of your breath in the smell of the breeze.

You know, he'll so badly wish he could know you, even if he doesn't want to talk about it. I won't make him, but I'll listen if the words escape. I'll tell him how I prayed for you, how I loved you in a way I can't express with words.

When he's older, I'll try to explain the complicated things. How though I love him as sure as I breathe, I really wish for him that he never had to leave you. How I will always be grateful for his sweet voice calling me "Mommy," but how I know it comes at a cost for you and for him. How my gratefulness will always be mixed with a tinge of guilt (no....regret or wistfulness, I'm not sure what the right word is here) for being the one that held him tight on the airplane as it climbs towards the sun that shines down on you.

I'll explain so that he knows I that I know. Not that I understand, because I never will, completely. But that I know these things are not easy to fathom. I want him to know he never has to have it figured out for my sake.

He's going to grow up, our little boy. He's going to surpass those expectations you treasure in your heart right now. And when I'm cheering him on, I'll give him an extra pat on the back from you. But someday, his heart will break, and mine will too. And as the tears fall down my face, I'll cry for you too. I'll cry the tears you would cry and I'll wonder if your mother's heart would know just the right thing to say.

Some days I will think of you with longing, and wish I could channel the instincts that took root as you felt him kicking around inside you. Other days I know my fragile heart will fear you, and the prominent place you will hold in my son's dreams. But every day I will remember you, and every day I will thank you.

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.

Advent Thoughts as I Wait for My Son

Advent hangs over me thick this year - like a bulky, itchy cloak when you're 9 months pregnant and can't get comfortable and feeling like I've been riding this donkey for-freaking-ever.

I think I get it a little more this year - how Mary might of felt, what advent means. How it's not a celebration as much as it is a Waiting. A hopeful waiting to be sure, waiting for a son. But we both wait in uncertainty, which makes the uncomfortable and scary hide the hope sometimes. I wait in the uncertainty of when, and how big and what are his needs. She waited in the uncertainty of when and where and what will all of this mean, and I better not have been dreaming that Angel Thing.

But we both wait for the Promise. Of a son.

Finally, for Mary, it happened. And as blood soaked the hay and she felt her stretched-out skin settle back into place while shepherds crowded her desire for modesty, I wonder if she thought: Is THIS what I've been waiting for?

And when He said to her, this son whom she birthed and nursed, "Woman what does this have to do with me?" did she wonder with indignance - Is THIS what I waited for?

And when she heard with horror of His arrest, did her wonder turn to anger? Did she shout at the God who moved over her in conception that this is NOT what I've been waiting for!

And when she went to visit the tomb, feeling mournful, lost, hopeful, crazy, and heartbroken - what was she waiting for then?

How many years went by after she buried her Son? How many years more did she have to wait before her own death could finally bring her answers....

....and open arms
and a mansion
and a warm embrace that would know no end
and golden streets
and vanquished enemies
and an end to oppression
and a faithful son's promise that "Mama - THIS is what you've been waiting for"

This Advent, I don't celebrate the past as much as I accept the invitation God has given me to know what it's like to wait for a son. This son I don't look to as my Savior - I won't put that kind of pressure on him - but I can identify with another woman and a nation's long, arduous, mostly hopeful and but too-often hopeless Wait.

There's sadness in waiting because it's a constant reminder that what you're hoping for isn't here... yet. But there's hope too, and that's where my celebration rests.

Owning my "It"

Did you know that this is NaBloPoMo, or National Blog Post Month? This month, bloggers are supposed to post every day for 30 days. I hear it's fun. I failed on day 2. Kirsten is giving it a go, though, so go read about her cute family while I slack off.

Anymommy, who is also on a NaBloPoMo writing streak, had a great post today about the age-old "How Do You Do It All" question. The answer is, of course, not doing it ALL, but doing IT, whatever your It is. Her It does not involve cooking dinner.

It was really a freeing/guit-inducing/self-realizing few minutes to think about what my It is, and what my It isn't. Have I lost you with all of the Its? Bear with me. Or not - there are other bloggers posting every day this month if you get bored.

I have long been a proponent of the idea that something has to give. Yes, I can give you a clean house and healthily-fed children, but in exchange you will get a very cranky, Type-A, overly-focused, no-fun-at-all Mommy.

I can give you creative crafts and freedom for playing, but in exchange you get a house strewn with yarn and tiny pieces of paper plates that have been cut with safety scissors.

I can give you time outside for bikerides and trips to the park, but in exchange you get frozen pizza for dinner - the cheap kind.

I have been learning to continue to pursue personal growth (how can I become better at the things I really enjoy doing) while I embrace my It. I just got through the whole Martha Stewart Living magazine in 16 minutes, because I skipped over all of the projects and recipes that just would not be a reality for me.

So, here's my It:
I don't clean. I've been getting better, but if you stop by and the house is spotless, it was Ben. If you stop by and there are at least two clean surfaces (for example one counter and the kitchen floor, or the table and the living room floor, or the dishwasher is empty and groceries are put away), then there's a good chance I have worn myself out with my cleaning efforts.

My It no longer involves coupons. A little, but not a lot. My It involves Trader Joes, and my happiness with the food I buy and my budget have both improved. Shopping has become a fun family activity, and I feel less guilty about frozen meals when they say "organic" or "natural" or something like that on the label. Also, I feel like from buying from a smaller chain, I am contributing less to the monstrosity that is our food industry. I may be wrong on most counts, but I am right about the parts about it being more fun and less money, and that's enough for me.

My It involves very little time spent on the floor playing. My It involves more trips to the library and the museum than to the basement. I like to get out.

My It involves obsessively checking my email, my reader, and facebook. My It involves PBS Kids so I can do those things.

My It involves having a lot of people over a lot of the time into our messy house. My It involves trying to cook for those people, because I really enjoy it. 

My It currently involves a lot of felt, a new sewing machine, and stacks of pool noodles as I attempt to make some special Christmas gifts for the little ones in my life. My It does not involve organizing those things or putting them away.

What's your It? Are you still trying to find it, like me? Have you embraced it? Or, are you really able to do It All?

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.

Reason to Celebrate

This was a rough week for me... as you can tell from what was probably an overly-dramatic post last week. Ben was out of town, I am waiting for word on my baby, I got the rough and stressful fundraising news, and did I mention Ben was out of town?

Another low-light of the week incuded watching Taly face-plant off some playground eqipment. Um, hi? Montgomery County? Playground rails are more helpful if they don't start at the child's head. Oh? What's that? Playgrounds are only really safe if parents are vigilantly watching? Right. Thanks. Learned my lesson.

Thankfully, she was fine. And the scrape on her chin and bloody lip healed just in time for her face-plant on the sidewalk yesterday. The only things to blame for that one are little feet that can't quite keep up with the rest of a toddler's body.

But, there is reason to celebrate! A huge reason, actually. My year-and-a-half ordeal that some would call potty-training, but that I lovingly refer to as Mommy's Worst Nightmare, has ended.

Remember back to the doctor's appointment of tears and trauma? In the midst of all the wailing (mine) and screaming (Sy's), I mentioned Sy's poop problems to the doctor. She told him that once the pull-ups in the bathroom were gone, there would be no more and he'd have to go in the potty.

My kid is not stupid. He told her, "Don't worry, we can go to the store and buy more."

I said (in my head), "Whatever lady. I am SOOOOO done with this poop nightmare. If he wants to poop in pull-ups until he's 10, then so be it." And then I never brought it up again.

Well, recently, Simon announced that once the pull-ups were gone he was going to poop in the potty. Yeah, okay, like the time that once you turned 3 you were going to poop in the potty? And, once you turned 4 you were going to poop in the potty? Mmmm-hmmm.

Ben talked him into sitting on the potty wearing a pull-up to poop as a sort of baby step toward the goal. That baby step only resulted in me cleaning poop up off the floor, and I thought the trauma would set us back another year.

But, the other day, Sy walked out of the bathroom, pants around his ankles and announced that he had pooped in the potty. Since he'd already flushed, I had no way to verify his claim. So, I did what any skeptical, frustrated, husband's-out-of-town mom would do, and I checked his butt. Sure enough, there were traces of poop. TMI?

Well, it's done. He keeps pooping in the potty, and now he's taking care of all wiping duties as well. I feel like I've graduated from some sort of disgusting boot camp, and I deserve a major graduation present.

And, Simon, now that you're finally doing all of your bathroom duties in the bathroom, Mommy officially considers you old enough to keep your bathroom stories to myself.

So, to the Longest Poop Saga Ever, I give a hearty "The End!"

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.