Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
OAR #40 Reason For Choosing Open Adoption
There is a new prompt up from Open Adoption Bloggers
What were your reasons for choosing open adoption?
Where do I start?
Well, I start by saying there wasn't any other choice for me.
He has known his birth mother, and her family, since the day he was born. Because they are his family.
He has known my family since he was 2, because they are also his family.
What else do I say about that?
He's got the best of both worlds. He got a family that loves him mercilessly and without restriction from both of us.
But; if I were to choose 1 reason- and only 1 reason- that we initially went with an open adoption, and if I'm completely honest, and ruthless with myself- it's not because I knew how good this would be for him, for us, or for C.
It's because our lawyer, John Ramsey Esq., told us that was the best possible thing to do for our child- then despite D and I trying to convince him to have her declared unfit- our lawyer told us to shut up and listen.
That's right. A lawyer told us to. D and I, at that particular time, we still so young, 22 years old. And we were both still wrapped up in our fury, our anger, our disappointment and our hate for what C had done- not just to Bugs, but to US.
Because it's hard being a young parent. It's fucking hard. And it's even harder when you feel like you weren't given a choice- but responsibility says you HAVE to put a child first. And there isn't any money, or time, or a babysitter for you to be just a 22 year old. You have to be a parent first.
And at that time, we were so furious with her for leaving us holding ALL the responsibility. All the duty of care. All the cost. All the blame from her side of the family. And above all, the fear. That was the worst. The fear, every second of every day that you wouldn't be able to do what was best- that we wouldn't be doing the 'right' thing with our parenting choices.
And so, that's my shame. The years of anger and resentment. But to my credit (and I will take sole credit, because D wanted several times to wash our hands of it all), I insisted on working towards being more open, to having MORE contact, and BETTER contact.
It was a long road for me to work through, getting through all my own anger and resentment, about how MY life had been changed, to what was best for my little boy. To get to a point where I can accept that she was just as scared, just as young as we were. To get through all of those painful, negative emotions and now just celebrate this awesome chance I was given.
The chance to have the single most awesome son on the planet. To have a large, extremely devoted family (on both sides), and be able to say, "I'm his mom. Yes, so is she. And we love him very much."
So, that's what made me choose open adoption. A lawyer who was, Thank God, so very much smarter than THIS 22 year old girl.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Why Bother?
Why bother???
There have been hard times in the past.
There will be hard times again.
And invariably, when it's hard, someone says, "Well, why bother? You don't have to."
My answer is almost always a long, drawn out rant about adoptee rights, birth family rights and, generally, doing the right thing. I don't have to do that anymore. After ten long years, I have the only reason I need, and it takes twenty seconds to tell someone about it.
Last Saturday, at Bugs' first football game of the season, we got the reason why it's worth it.
Open adoption is worth it, because HE is worth it. We are worth it. She is worth it.
Our family is worth it.
C and I sat together on a sleeping bag, talking (well, I was explaining football to her), laughing, taking pictures and watching Monster run about (my hip is still a bit stiff, so it wasn't up to me to chase her around this week).
C's mother and Brat were playing and talking.
C's father and D were chatting about sports, Italy and just about anything else that came up.
And we sat together, as a family, and watched our son play his first real game.
And he lost. Well, they're 12, and they kinda suck (he doesn't read this, so he'll never know I said it), so we fully expected them to lose.
And we more than half expected him to be sour that they lost (he thinks they're really good). We expected him to be pissy and- more than likely- rude about it to Brat.
He wasn't. He came off the field- after the handshakes- all smiles, laughter and warmth. He was so excited that we were all there for him. He came running up, gave us hugs, and said, "Hi mom. Hi mom." To each of us. And smiled so wide I could literally see his molars.
He played with his sisters, took the baby out on the field (she's been wanting to get out there for so long now).
Then, we packed up our stuff, and gave him hugs and kisses, and they left to go have some more time with just C and her family until next week.
All the times I've defended our decision to remain inclusive; to keep our adoption open; to remain a solid family for him to fall back on, all those times when someone said, "Well, that's stupid. How's he supposed to know who his real family is if he's always over there too?" Here:
I say, next week, when my momma flies in, we'll have an even bigger group of family there to congratulate him on his shitty game.
We are all his family- that's why we bother.
There have been hard times in the past.
There will be hard times again.
And invariably, when it's hard, someone says, "Well, why bother? You don't have to."
My answer is almost always a long, drawn out rant about adoptee rights, birth family rights and, generally, doing the right thing. I don't have to do that anymore. After ten long years, I have the only reason I need, and it takes twenty seconds to tell someone about it.
Last Saturday, at Bugs' first football game of the season, we got the reason why it's worth it.
Open adoption is worth it, because HE is worth it. We are worth it. She is worth it.
Our family is worth it.
C and I sat together on a sleeping bag, talking (well, I was explaining football to her), laughing, taking pictures and watching Monster run about (my hip is still a bit stiff, so it wasn't up to me to chase her around this week).
C's mother and Brat were playing and talking.
C's father and D were chatting about sports, Italy and just about anything else that came up.
And we sat together, as a family, and watched our son play his first real game.
And he lost. Well, they're 12, and they kinda suck (he doesn't read this, so he'll never know I said it), so we fully expected them to lose.
And we more than half expected him to be sour that they lost (he thinks they're really good). We expected him to be pissy and- more than likely- rude about it to Brat.
He wasn't. He came off the field- after the handshakes- all smiles, laughter and warmth. He was so excited that we were all there for him. He came running up, gave us hugs, and said, "Hi mom. Hi mom." To each of us. And smiled so wide I could literally see his molars.
He played with his sisters, took the baby out on the field (she's been wanting to get out there for so long now).
Then, we packed up our stuff, and gave him hugs and kisses, and they left to go have some more time with just C and her family until next week.
All the times I've defended our decision to remain inclusive; to keep our adoption open; to remain a solid family for him to fall back on, all those times when someone said, "Well, that's stupid. How's he supposed to know who his real family is if he's always over there too?" Here:
I say, next week, when my momma flies in, we'll have an even bigger group of family there to congratulate him on his shitty game.
We are all his family- that's why we bother.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Cinnamon Buns and Floor Spaghetti.
D and Bugs have only been gone a few hours at this point, and it already looks like a platoon bivouacked in my living room.
The girls look like they haven't been bathed in months (in reality one had a bath last night, and one this morning). Monster is sitting on the far side of the room, shouting "Don't" and Brat has found some spaghetti in the fridge and is eating it cold.
Seriously, having a bum hip sucks.
To make myself feel better, I am going to make cinnamon buns tonight
And THERE IT IS. Right there. As I was typing about cinnamon buns, Brat decided she didn't like cold spaghetti and sauce after all, and proceeded to microwave it. For two minutes. Then she tried to pick it up, stumbled because she's a klutz, and slopped hot noodles and sauce all over the floor and the baby.
By the time I grabbed my crutches (or crotches as Brat calls them), and hobbled across the room to assess the damage, both Brat and Monster were eating noodles off the floor and each other. Brat was crying- because she wasn't getting all the noodles as the baby is sneaky fast.
So, I only have to survive TWO MORE DAYS like this. Unable to walk freely, carry anything or stand for long periods of time. Awesome to the power of time cubed.
I know it's only 6:30, but I am either selling them on Kijiji, or leaving them at a fire station while I go drink beer. Putting them to bed early sounds like it might be a better solution.
MOMMA COME SAVE ME.
EDIT: Now that the day is done and the girls are both back into their beds (where I truly wish they'd stay for the next two days), I can do what I intended to do in the first place, I can post my recipe for cinnamon buns. Read through the entire recipe before starting, because my brain feels all fucky and most likely this won't come out in order. Consider it like a bit of a jigsaw puzzle recipe, it'll make you smarter to have to figure it out on your own.
Dough:
4 cups AP flour
1 cup milk
1 tsp salt
1/3 cup sugar
1/3 cup butter (melted)
2 pkgs of instant yeast (or 4.5 tsps if you are using loose yeast)
1 egg
1. Take 2 cups of the flour, and all the other dry goods and mix them up (save the other two cups of flour for later).
2. Warm the milk, beat in the egg and the melted butter, stir into the dry goods, it will form a very soft dough.
3. Add the last two cups of flour and knead for about 5 minutes, or until the dough is very smooth and stretchified. Let rise until doubled.
4. Roll out into a large rectangle, 1/4 inch thick. Cover with the filling and raisins (if you like raisins). Roll into a log and pinch the seam shut. Slice into 1.5 " slices and place in the prepared pan or tray. Allow enough space for the buns to double in size during another rising session (about an hour and a half).
Filling:
1/3 cup soft butter (not melted, just softened)
1 cup brown sugar
2-3 tablespoons of cinnamon
1. Mix them up. Spread over the dough.
Cinnamon Sugar Caramel:
The girls look like they haven't been bathed in months (in reality one had a bath last night, and one this morning). Monster is sitting on the far side of the room, shouting "Don't" and Brat has found some spaghetti in the fridge and is eating it cold.
Seriously, having a bum hip sucks.
To make myself feel better, I am going to make cinnamon buns tonight
And THERE IT IS. Right there. As I was typing about cinnamon buns, Brat decided she didn't like cold spaghetti and sauce after all, and proceeded to microwave it. For two minutes. Then she tried to pick it up, stumbled because she's a klutz, and slopped hot noodles and sauce all over the floor and the baby.
By the time I grabbed my crutches (or crotches as Brat calls them), and hobbled across the room to assess the damage, both Brat and Monster were eating noodles off the floor and each other. Brat was crying- because she wasn't getting all the noodles as the baby is sneaky fast.
So, I only have to survive TWO MORE DAYS like this. Unable to walk freely, carry anything or stand for long periods of time. Awesome to the power of time cubed.
I know it's only 6:30, but I am either selling them on Kijiji, or leaving them at a fire station while I go drink beer. Putting them to bed early sounds like it might be a better solution.
MOMMA COME SAVE ME.
EDIT: Now that the day is done and the girls are both back into their beds (where I truly wish they'd stay for the next two days), I can do what I intended to do in the first place, I can post my recipe for cinnamon buns. Read through the entire recipe before starting, because my brain feels all fucky and most likely this won't come out in order. Consider it like a bit of a jigsaw puzzle recipe, it'll make you smarter to have to figure it out on your own.
Dough:
4 cups AP flour
1 cup milk
1 tsp salt
1/3 cup sugar
1/3 cup butter (melted)
2 pkgs of instant yeast (or 4.5 tsps if you are using loose yeast)
1 egg
1. Take 2 cups of the flour, and all the other dry goods and mix them up (save the other two cups of flour for later).
2. Warm the milk, beat in the egg and the melted butter, stir into the dry goods, it will form a very soft dough.
3. Add the last two cups of flour and knead for about 5 minutes, or until the dough is very smooth and stretchified. Let rise until doubled.
4. Roll out into a large rectangle, 1/4 inch thick. Cover with the filling and raisins (if you like raisins). Roll into a log and pinch the seam shut. Slice into 1.5 " slices and place in the prepared pan or tray. Allow enough space for the buns to double in size during another rising session (about an hour and a half).
Filling:
1/3 cup soft butter (not melted, just softened)
1 cup brown sugar
2-3 tablespoons of cinnamon
1. Mix them up. Spread over the dough.
Cinnamon Sugar Caramel:
1 cup brown sugar, packed
1/2 cup butter
1/4 cup corn syrup
1 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp cinnamon
1. Melt the butter, add sugar, syrup and cinnamon. Spread in the bottom of the baking pan before placing slices of cinnamon roll into it.
Bake the rolls at 350 F for 40- 50 minutes or until golden on top. Invert immediately after removing from oven onto a large rectangle of parchment paper or waxed paper.
If you leave these fucking things sitting in the pan, the caramel hardens and you have to chisel the shit out of it to even get a half of one out. Experience speaking.
That pissed me off more than the day I opened a box of ice cream from the deep freezer, only to find a bunch of beans had been poured in, frozen and a note left on top that said, "Aw, beans." Which seriously pissed me off. Bad. I'm still angry about it.
If you leave these fucking things sitting in the pan, the caramel hardens and you have to chisel the shit out of it to even get a half of one out. Experience speaking.
That pissed me off more than the day I opened a box of ice cream from the deep freezer, only to find a bunch of beans had been poured in, frozen and a note left on top that said, "Aw, beans." Which seriously pissed me off. Bad. I'm still angry about it.
Monday, July 2, 2012
I Told My Mom Everything. Because She'd Catch Me Anyways.
So, let me preface this post by saying, without reservations, I have the best kids ever.
Monster, 1.5 years old, is a smart, funny, loving toddler exhibiting many totally incredible problem solving skills.
Brat, soon to be 6 years old, is charming, sweet, smart, funny, clever, with a penchant for total chaos and devilry.
Bugs, soon to be 12 years old, is awesome. He is helpful, smart, funny, loving, charming and clever. Maybe too clever. Not for me, no child is too clever for me. He's too clever for his own good.
He spent the first couple days of summer vacation with his nana and grampa. They had a good time, and a lovely visit.
The girls and I went to my sister in laws' house for the weekend. I'd spoken with nana, and asked her to have Bugs home at 3pm on Sunday, in time for the Canada Day celebration and fireworks. No problem.
At around noon on Sunday, Bugs refused lunch from his nana, she offered to make something else, and he refused. So he convinced nana and grampa to take him home. That he wasn't hungry, didn't want what she was making, and grampa could take him home.
He was "old enough to know and have my keys to get in. Plus, dad is home."
What he neglected to tell them is that I wasn't home, and dad sleeps in ear plugs.
So, nana said, THREE times that she was going to give me a call and let me know that grampa was dropping him off. Bugs said, "No, don't call her" over and over again. And nana trusted our wonderful boy, and did as he asked, and didn't call us.
So, grampa took Bugs out for lunch, and dropped him off at home.
He didn't have his keys (he knew when he left on Friday that he didn't have keys because I asked him then if he had them). So, his plan was to play outside by himself, and get dad to let him in when he got bored with playing outside.
Only his plan backfired because dad sleeps so heavily. Bugs couldn't get in. He knocked, and knocked and couldn't get in.
And it was +30 degrees outside, plus 35 with humidity. It was HOT. Hot, hot, hot.
So, eventually, Bugs made his way across to his other grampa's house, and hoped that his grampa would be there to let him in (luckily for him, his grampa WAS home). Bugs implied to that grampa that his nana and grampa had dropped him off, willy nilly. Of their own accord.
He neglected to tell grampa #2 that he INSISTED on being taken home at that time. Knowing full well that I wasn't going to be home until 2 pm.
He omitted, thereby lying, that it was his own choice to be left outside. That he pretended to find keys that weren't there, so that grampa #1 would drive off and leave him there.
So, when I spoke with nana, to find out exactly what had happened, from their point of view that caused my child to be left outside (potentially for 3 hours), that is when I found out that Bugs had told them he had keys. Told them he could get in. Told them it was fine with me, and begged her not to call me to double check.
So, I pointed out to nana that Bugs saying, "NO! Don't call mom. Trust me, I know what is okay, and I have my keys, and I'm old enough (BLAH BLAH BLAH)" should have sent up HUGE red flags.
If there is nothing to worry about, then nana calling me shouldn't have been an issue. And I pointed out to nana that Bugs is quickly becoming a teenager, and NO TEENAGERS SHOULD BE TRUSTED.
Not to say that they are all bad, or even that they are all liars. But what's the harm in double checking their stories? What's the cost of letting them know that while we trust them, we are still going to verify what they tell us with someone else- someone older and possibly someone wiser?
I see no harm in letting my kids know that while I love them; would die or kill for them; when it comes to the little stuff- like whether or not a friend's parent said, "Yes, I'll pick them up and drop them off".
Or, "No, I don't have homework this year".
Or, "Don't call my mom, I can get in"- I will spend the two minutes to corroborate their story.
I call that good parenting. Because teenagers lie. Not necessarily to be 'bad' or to do something underhanded, sometimes they lie because it's expedient, and there is something they want.
I remember my own mother double checking EVERYTHING I said. It never bothered me- unless I was doing something I shouldn't have been doing. And yes, we went through a thousand hoops to make our stories more believable. But mom knew anyways. Because she bothered to check. And just KNOWING that she would check kept me from doing a thousand WORSE things- just in case.
Because that's what a good mother does. They double check everything a teenager tells them- until the teen is so convinced of being caught that they stop trying to lie. I told my mom just about everything, because I was firmly convinced she'd catch me anyways. I believed, and still do, that she is omnipotent, omnipresent, and all powerful: all knowing, all loving and all seeing. That's what I think a good mother should be.
And my momma is. In fact, I'm pretty sure she can see me right now. Fine. I put the crackers away. Happy?
EDIT: Bugs' punishment for this little episode was having to call grampa #2, admit that it was his own lie that got him into the scrape (and he did call, albeit bawling his eyes out the entire time) and write a letter of apology to his nana and grampa for intentionally misleading them into a precarious situation (where I could have placed the entire blame on them and been a complete bitch about it).
And the best part, the absolute best, was the part where I told him, had nana called me, I'd have given the okay for him to play outside- I'd have simply come home earlier. He was gobsmacked that he could have done what he'd wanted to do in the first place, simply by asking permission.
Monster, 1.5 years old, is a smart, funny, loving toddler exhibiting many totally incredible problem solving skills.
Brat, soon to be 6 years old, is charming, sweet, smart, funny, clever, with a penchant for total chaos and devilry.
Bugs, soon to be 12 years old, is awesome. He is helpful, smart, funny, loving, charming and clever. Maybe too clever. Not for me, no child is too clever for me. He's too clever for his own good.
He spent the first couple days of summer vacation with his nana and grampa. They had a good time, and a lovely visit.
The girls and I went to my sister in laws' house for the weekend. I'd spoken with nana, and asked her to have Bugs home at 3pm on Sunday, in time for the Canada Day celebration and fireworks. No problem.
At around noon on Sunday, Bugs refused lunch from his nana, she offered to make something else, and he refused. So he convinced nana and grampa to take him home. That he wasn't hungry, didn't want what she was making, and grampa could take him home.
He was "old enough to know and have my keys to get in. Plus, dad is home."
What he neglected to tell them is that I wasn't home, and dad sleeps in ear plugs.
So, nana said, THREE times that she was going to give me a call and let me know that grampa was dropping him off. Bugs said, "No, don't call her" over and over again. And nana trusted our wonderful boy, and did as he asked, and didn't call us.
So, grampa took Bugs out for lunch, and dropped him off at home.
He didn't have his keys (he knew when he left on Friday that he didn't have keys because I asked him then if he had them). So, his plan was to play outside by himself, and get dad to let him in when he got bored with playing outside.
Only his plan backfired because dad sleeps so heavily. Bugs couldn't get in. He knocked, and knocked and couldn't get in.
And it was +30 degrees outside, plus 35 with humidity. It was HOT. Hot, hot, hot.
So, eventually, Bugs made his way across to his other grampa's house, and hoped that his grampa would be there to let him in (luckily for him, his grampa WAS home). Bugs implied to that grampa that his nana and grampa had dropped him off, willy nilly. Of their own accord.
He neglected to tell grampa #2 that he INSISTED on being taken home at that time. Knowing full well that I wasn't going to be home until 2 pm.
He omitted, thereby lying, that it was his own choice to be left outside. That he pretended to find keys that weren't there, so that grampa #1 would drive off and leave him there.
So, when I spoke with nana, to find out exactly what had happened, from their point of view that caused my child to be left outside (potentially for 3 hours), that is when I found out that Bugs had told them he had keys. Told them he could get in. Told them it was fine with me, and begged her not to call me to double check.
So, I pointed out to nana that Bugs saying, "NO! Don't call mom. Trust me, I know what is okay, and I have my keys, and I'm old enough (BLAH BLAH BLAH)" should have sent up HUGE red flags.
If there is nothing to worry about, then nana calling me shouldn't have been an issue. And I pointed out to nana that Bugs is quickly becoming a teenager, and NO TEENAGERS SHOULD BE TRUSTED.
Not to say that they are all bad, or even that they are all liars. But what's the harm in double checking their stories? What's the cost of letting them know that while we trust them, we are still going to verify what they tell us with someone else- someone older and possibly someone wiser?
I see no harm in letting my kids know that while I love them; would die or kill for them; when it comes to the little stuff- like whether or not a friend's parent said, "Yes, I'll pick them up and drop them off".
Or, "No, I don't have homework this year".
Or, "Don't call my mom, I can get in"- I will spend the two minutes to corroborate their story.
I call that good parenting. Because teenagers lie. Not necessarily to be 'bad' or to do something underhanded, sometimes they lie because it's expedient, and there is something they want.
I remember my own mother double checking EVERYTHING I said. It never bothered me- unless I was doing something I shouldn't have been doing. And yes, we went through a thousand hoops to make our stories more believable. But mom knew anyways. Because she bothered to check. And just KNOWING that she would check kept me from doing a thousand WORSE things- just in case.
Because that's what a good mother does. They double check everything a teenager tells them- until the teen is so convinced of being caught that they stop trying to lie. I told my mom just about everything, because I was firmly convinced she'd catch me anyways. I believed, and still do, that she is omnipotent, omnipresent, and all powerful: all knowing, all loving and all seeing. That's what I think a good mother should be.
And my momma is. In fact, I'm pretty sure she can see me right now. Fine. I put the crackers away. Happy?
EDIT: Bugs' punishment for this little episode was having to call grampa #2, admit that it was his own lie that got him into the scrape (and he did call, albeit bawling his eyes out the entire time) and write a letter of apology to his nana and grampa for intentionally misleading them into a precarious situation (where I could have placed the entire blame on them and been a complete bitch about it).
And the best part, the absolute best, was the part where I told him, had nana called me, I'd have given the okay for him to play outside- I'd have simply come home earlier. He was gobsmacked that he could have done what he'd wanted to do in the first place, simply by asking permission.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
What I Want To Say To You on Fathers Day.
Time for another OAR prompt: Someone else in the adoption constellation- what do you want to say to them on Fathers Day? Open Adoption Bloggers
Today it's for Fathers Day.
Well, I want to write to my dad. He's not a part of the 'open adoption' community per se, but he's mine.
Dad,
You were not there when I was a child- mom didn't know you then, so that doesn't surprise me.
You were there when I was a preteen- and lacked all common sense.
You were there when I was a teenager- in other words a total shithead.
You were there the day I left for University.
You were there when I called from school whining because I was cold.
You were there the day I called home and said I wasn't going back to University.
And all of that surprised me then. It doesn't surprise me any more. I have learned to expect that you will be there.
You were there the day I told you I was moving to Winnipeg. You sat and listened while I cried and explained that I needed to go spend time with my biological father- needed to understand him. You didn't say anything. You didn't say I couldn't (or shouldn't) go. You didn't chastise me for being 'stupid' or leaving school a month before the school year ended.
You were there the day I called home and said I'd met 'the one'. The day I brought him and my son home.
You were there the day I got married.
You were there the night I called home to tell you and mom about my pregnancy with Brat, and then again with Monster.
You were there through it all.
You are the kind of father I needed. The kind of father I married in D. The kind of father I hope I am raising my son to be.
I love you very much, and all the times I was a shit as a teenager and pulled the "You're not my REAL dad- you can't tell me what to do!" bullshit still haunt me. But you don't want my apologies for those times- you say, "I wasn't a perfect father either sweetheart." But you were. Because you were there.
You love me, with all my faults, through all those trials you loved me anyways. And you were there. Thank you for always being there.
Today it's for Fathers Day.
Well, I want to write to my dad. He's not a part of the 'open adoption' community per se, but he's mine.
Dad,
You were not there when I was a child- mom didn't know you then, so that doesn't surprise me.
You were there when I was a preteen- and lacked all common sense.
You were there when I was a teenager- in other words a total shithead.
You were there the day I left for University.
You were there when I called from school whining because I was cold.
You were there the day I called home and said I wasn't going back to University.
And all of that surprised me then. It doesn't surprise me any more. I have learned to expect that you will be there.
You were there the day I told you I was moving to Winnipeg. You sat and listened while I cried and explained that I needed to go spend time with my biological father- needed to understand him. You didn't say anything. You didn't say I couldn't (or shouldn't) go. You didn't chastise me for being 'stupid' or leaving school a month before the school year ended.
You were there the day I called home and said I'd met 'the one'. The day I brought him and my son home.
You were there the day I got married.
You were there the night I called home to tell you and mom about my pregnancy with Brat, and then again with Monster.
You were there through it all.
You are the kind of father I needed. The kind of father I married in D. The kind of father I hope I am raising my son to be.
I love you very much, and all the times I was a shit as a teenager and pulled the "You're not my REAL dad- you can't tell me what to do!" bullshit still haunt me. But you don't want my apologies for those times- you say, "I wasn't a perfect father either sweetheart." But you were. Because you were there.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
WHICH ONE? WHICH ONE?
There are several things I am quite accomplished at (don't worry, this isn't shaping up to be a post about how awesome I am- but I am).
One thing I'm good at is baking. I enjoy baking. Baking relaxes me. I will attempt to bake most anything (in fact I want to make a baked Alaska this summer).
Two, I'm really good at reading. Constantly. I can tune out 3 fighting children and read quietly by myself without hearing a thing. I'm real good at that.
Three, being by myself. I am really good at being alone. I get much more accomplished when I don't have a gaggle of children following me.
Four, though I'm awesome at being alone, I'm even better at being around people. Children specifically, I enjoy hanging out with children (not that I would be able to do it for hours every day as a job, but I can do it for a weekend or an evening). Mind you, I'm good at that because I will feed a kid anything. Chocolate syrup on rice krispies and fruit leather? If you'd like, sure I'll give that to you. You aren't my kid, and I don't have to put you to bed. There's a reason kids love me. I am not a very good grown up.
And finally, number five in the list of things I'm good at, touching my tongue to my nose. That's not super impressive, and I'll never get anywhere because I knew how to do it; but nonetheless, it's a talent I possess in abundance.
Now, a skill I've had cause before to suspect (but which I've never really considered at great length) might be lacking something is my (self) hair cutting abilities. I can cut YOUR hair just fine. I possess eyes, and a steady hand. In fact, I've given my husband a mullet (intentionally, and at his request), I've also cut friend's hair and childrens' hair several times without any complaints. So, obviously it's not my scissor skills that are the problem.
It's my judgment. I have poor judgment. I gave Brat a trim tonight before I put her to bed. I should have cleaned up immediately, and put the scissors back where they belonged. I didn't. I left them in the washroom to be picked up when I was alone.
Except that when I picked them up when I was alone, this thought FLEW into my head, "Gee. It's been quite some time since your hair was trimmed. You've done that before. Just tip your head over and lop the end off your ponytail."
And without any further thought, that's what I did. Only then did I remember that I hadn't brushed my hair out, so it was hanging at all different lengths. So, I had to wet it, brush it and try to level it out.
It took 25 minutes, but I got the back of my hair even (well, even enough- no one ever sees my hair down). Then, as I stared at the mirror, this thought rushed through, "You haven't had bangs since 1997. You should see if they look good on you still*." And once again, without further thought, or consideration, I took the razor and began layering in bangs. Luckily they aren't heavy, or chunky or straight ruled across. But still. Bangs?
The question could be "What was I thinking?" But the truth of the matter is "I wasn't."
I didn't think it through at all.
I didn't think this through any more than I thought through putting a water balloon in my grandfathers' bed when I was 7 or 8 years old, spending the summer in South Carolina with my grandparents.
So when Soph said, "I bet it would be funny if we hid a water balloon in gramma and grampa's bed, and when they got into bed, it'd break." I laughed.
Now, Soph probably wasn't serious; but we had a great laugh. And I (henceforth to be known as "Queen of Forethought and Filtering") decided to go ahead with the plan. It was fool proof.
Grampa always sits in the same spot when he gets ready for bed at night. Always. Without fail. The same exact spot.
So I filled a balloon with about a litre and a half of water, and placed it in that spot on the bed. I rumpled the covers, like Soph and I had been playing there, and left the room.
I did it just after lunch. And Soph and I went about the rest of our day with glee, and joy and with typical childlike attention spans, forgot about the balloon by dinner time.
Gramma and Grampa tucked us into bed that night. Me, in the bed with wee doggie sheets, and Soph tucked up with the lambs. They gave us our kisses and left the room. That's when we remembered the water balloon- Soph and I stared at each other giggling.
Not a full minute later, Grampa (who never cussed because it "sounds low class and unintelligent") was at full roar. Curse words I hadn't even heard before that night. Rage. Pure, almost unintelligible, rage.
I looked over at Soph, all the blood was gone from her face. And she was creeping lower and lower under her blanket. I was frozen. I remember holding my breath.
The door to our room flew open, smashing into the wall, I'm pretty sure it took two tries to open because it bounced closed again after the first crash- but I could be mistaken (I'm not).
Grampa was standing in the hall outside the room, trying to lever himself into the room by the doorway. The reason he couldn't get into the room was Gramma, she was behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist. She was leaning backwards and using her feet on the door's frame to brace herself.
Grampa was shouting, "WHICH ONE? WHICH ONE? WHICH ONE?" over and over, and looking from me to Soph and back again at me. I'm positive he knew full well which one of us had done it. He might have suspected it was Sophie's idea, but he knew right away I was the only one shortsighted enough to actually have done it.
Gramma said once, years later, "It was like looking at my US flag. Red, white and blue. Grampa was red from screaming, Soph was white as a ghost in terror; and Sarah had stopped breathing altogether- her eyes were big and blue and her lips were purple."
After Gramma and Grampa left the room that night, I remember sitting there, looking at Soph, thinking, "I am going to be in so much trouble tomorrow." I wasn't. My grandparents are incredible and simply dried the mattress and told us not to pull such stupid stunts again. And over the years, this story has been told over and over, with more laughter than I ever would have suspected all those years ago.
I wish someone could dry my hair so I'd be off the hook for these bangs- and I could laugh about it instead.
I still might not think things through as thoroughly as I should, but at least some of my decision making skills have improved. Apparently, the self hairstyling department isn't one of those things I've learned to keep a handle on.
* This is the actual word I remember thinking to myself. "Still" as though, for one millisecond, I hadn't ever seen my own grad photo of myself with bangs. Looking like a dufus. So I don't know why my subconscious used the word "still" to convince me. Yes, I do know why. My self conscious Sarah, a snarky bitch apparently, is sitting back and laughing at stupid regular conscious Sarah who is still gullible in the extreme.
One thing I'm good at is baking. I enjoy baking. Baking relaxes me. I will attempt to bake most anything (in fact I want to make a baked Alaska this summer).
Two, I'm really good at reading. Constantly. I can tune out 3 fighting children and read quietly by myself without hearing a thing. I'm real good at that.
Three, being by myself. I am really good at being alone. I get much more accomplished when I don't have a gaggle of children following me.
Four, though I'm awesome at being alone, I'm even better at being around people. Children specifically, I enjoy hanging out with children (not that I would be able to do it for hours every day as a job, but I can do it for a weekend or an evening). Mind you, I'm good at that because I will feed a kid anything. Chocolate syrup on rice krispies and fruit leather? If you'd like, sure I'll give that to you. You aren't my kid, and I don't have to put you to bed. There's a reason kids love me. I am not a very good grown up.
And finally, number five in the list of things I'm good at, touching my tongue to my nose. That's not super impressive, and I'll never get anywhere because I knew how to do it; but nonetheless, it's a talent I possess in abundance.
Now, a skill I've had cause before to suspect (but which I've never really considered at great length) might be lacking something is my (self) hair cutting abilities. I can cut YOUR hair just fine. I possess eyes, and a steady hand. In fact, I've given my husband a mullet (intentionally, and at his request), I've also cut friend's hair and childrens' hair several times without any complaints. So, obviously it's not my scissor skills that are the problem.
It's my judgment. I have poor judgment. I gave Brat a trim tonight before I put her to bed. I should have cleaned up immediately, and put the scissors back where they belonged. I didn't. I left them in the washroom to be picked up when I was alone.
Except that when I picked them up when I was alone, this thought FLEW into my head, "Gee. It's been quite some time since your hair was trimmed. You've done that before. Just tip your head over and lop the end off your ponytail."
And without any further thought, that's what I did. Only then did I remember that I hadn't brushed my hair out, so it was hanging at all different lengths. So, I had to wet it, brush it and try to level it out.
It took 25 minutes, but I got the back of my hair even (well, even enough- no one ever sees my hair down). Then, as I stared at the mirror, this thought rushed through, "You haven't had bangs since 1997. You should see if they look good on you still*." And once again, without further thought, or consideration, I took the razor and began layering in bangs. Luckily they aren't heavy, or chunky or straight ruled across. But still. Bangs?
The question could be "What was I thinking?" But the truth of the matter is "I wasn't."
I didn't think it through at all.
I didn't think this through any more than I thought through putting a water balloon in my grandfathers' bed when I was 7 or 8 years old, spending the summer in South Carolina with my grandparents.
So when Soph said, "I bet it would be funny if we hid a water balloon in gramma and grampa's bed, and when they got into bed, it'd break." I laughed.
Now, Soph probably wasn't serious; but we had a great laugh. And I (henceforth to be known as "Queen of Forethought and Filtering") decided to go ahead with the plan. It was fool proof.
Grampa always sits in the same spot when he gets ready for bed at night. Always. Without fail. The same exact spot.
So I filled a balloon with about a litre and a half of water, and placed it in that spot on the bed. I rumpled the covers, like Soph and I had been playing there, and left the room.
I did it just after lunch. And Soph and I went about the rest of our day with glee, and joy and with typical childlike attention spans, forgot about the balloon by dinner time.
Gramma and Grampa tucked us into bed that night. Me, in the bed with wee doggie sheets, and Soph tucked up with the lambs. They gave us our kisses and left the room. That's when we remembered the water balloon- Soph and I stared at each other giggling.
Not a full minute later, Grampa (who never cussed because it "sounds low class and unintelligent") was at full roar. Curse words I hadn't even heard before that night. Rage. Pure, almost unintelligible, rage.
I looked over at Soph, all the blood was gone from her face. And she was creeping lower and lower under her blanket. I was frozen. I remember holding my breath.
The door to our room flew open, smashing into the wall, I'm pretty sure it took two tries to open because it bounced closed again after the first crash- but I could be mistaken (I'm not).
Grampa was standing in the hall outside the room, trying to lever himself into the room by the doorway. The reason he couldn't get into the room was Gramma, she was behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist. She was leaning backwards and using her feet on the door's frame to brace herself.
Grampa was shouting, "WHICH ONE? WHICH ONE? WHICH ONE?" over and over, and looking from me to Soph and back again at me. I'm positive he knew full well which one of us had done it. He might have suspected it was Sophie's idea, but he knew right away I was the only one shortsighted enough to actually have done it.
Gramma said once, years later, "It was like looking at my US flag. Red, white and blue. Grampa was red from screaming, Soph was white as a ghost in terror; and Sarah had stopped breathing altogether- her eyes were big and blue and her lips were purple."
After Gramma and Grampa left the room that night, I remember sitting there, looking at Soph, thinking, "I am going to be in so much trouble tomorrow." I wasn't. My grandparents are incredible and simply dried the mattress and told us not to pull such stupid stunts again. And over the years, this story has been told over and over, with more laughter than I ever would have suspected all those years ago.
I wish someone could dry my hair so I'd be off the hook for these bangs- and I could laugh about it instead.
I still might not think things through as thoroughly as I should, but at least some of my decision making skills have improved. Apparently, the self hairstyling department isn't one of those things I've learned to keep a handle on.
* This is the actual word I remember thinking to myself. "Still" as though, for one millisecond, I hadn't ever seen my own grad photo of myself with bangs. Looking like a dufus. So I don't know why my subconscious used the word "still" to convince me. Yes, I do know why. My self conscious Sarah, a snarky bitch apparently, is sitting back and laughing at stupid regular conscious Sarah who is still gullible in the extreme.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
You Just Don't Want To!
My lovely little children, demonic monstrosities from a hell dimension that they are, have sicked me up. Again.
Or maybe it was my darling husband. Again.
I don't know which one is responsible. I also don't care which of the jerks did it. All I know is that I want a) relief from this and b) retribution.
I don't know how to achieve either.
Tylenol hasn't helped. Advil hasn't helped. Naproxen hasn't helped. Not a damned thing has helped.
Hot shower? Tried it. Popsicles? Tried them too. Temporary relief at best- and false hope at worst.
My throat feels like I ate a brick, chased it by chewing lit cigars and swallowed really old bong water (not that I would know anything about that). My body aches, I have a manic depressive fever that comes and goes with insane, completely unpredictable randomness. And I can't hear out of my left ear. WTF? What kind of sickness did they give me? It's like some horrid cross between a viral strep infection and a inner ear gnome who eats crackers on my ear drum.
Obviously, my family will be 'ground' zero for the next global pandemic of 'feeling crappy' (without having something curable). Complete chaos reigns in my living room right now, because I feel too icky to fix it.
This is balls. I'm going to start sterilizing myself after every form of interaction I have with any of these people. I'll put my universal precaution skills to the test. Glove up to tuck them in, wash my hands after hugging them, and changing clothing before leaving their bedroom.
Not that I'm complaining (yes, I bloody well am). I love them. Very, very much. But I am sick of being tired, sick of being achy and sick of being sick.
My momma called tonight, and when she found out I was home from work, we chatted for a very brief time (because my damned throat was too sore to talk to her). And I suddenly remembered being sick, at age 9, with the chicken pox.
And I remember SCREAMING at her (as a 9 year old), "You know how to make me feel better! You just don't want to!"
And now, looking back on it, she probably did know how to cure the chicken pox, but letting me suffer was the only form of retribution she could exact from a 9 year old.
I hope my kids get sick again, so I can withold a vital cure, like oatmeal baths. That'll learn them.
Or maybe it was my darling husband. Again.
I don't know which one is responsible. I also don't care which of the jerks did it. All I know is that I want a) relief from this and b) retribution.
I don't know how to achieve either.
Tylenol hasn't helped. Advil hasn't helped. Naproxen hasn't helped. Not a damned thing has helped.
Hot shower? Tried it. Popsicles? Tried them too. Temporary relief at best- and false hope at worst.
My throat feels like I ate a brick, chased it by chewing lit cigars and swallowed really old bong water (not that I would know anything about that). My body aches, I have a manic depressive fever that comes and goes with insane, completely unpredictable randomness. And I can't hear out of my left ear. WTF? What kind of sickness did they give me? It's like some horrid cross between a viral strep infection and a inner ear gnome who eats crackers on my ear drum.
Obviously, my family will be 'ground' zero for the next global pandemic of 'feeling crappy' (without having something curable). Complete chaos reigns in my living room right now, because I feel too icky to fix it.
This is balls. I'm going to start sterilizing myself after every form of interaction I have with any of these people. I'll put my universal precaution skills to the test. Glove up to tuck them in, wash my hands after hugging them, and changing clothing before leaving their bedroom.
Not that I'm complaining (yes, I bloody well am). I love them. Very, very much. But I am sick of being tired, sick of being achy and sick of being sick.
My momma called tonight, and when she found out I was home from work, we chatted for a very brief time (because my damned throat was too sore to talk to her). And I suddenly remembered being sick, at age 9, with the chicken pox.
And I remember SCREAMING at her (as a 9 year old), "You know how to make me feel better! You just don't want to!"
And now, looking back on it, she probably did know how to cure the chicken pox, but letting me suffer was the only form of retribution she could exact from a 9 year old.
I hope my kids get sick again, so I can withold a vital cure, like oatmeal baths. That'll learn them.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
There I am.
This song pulled my heart out and wrung it completely dry. What would I do without them here to keep me awake? Every single line in the song resonated so deeply for me.
Where Am I- by Tara MacLean
My favourite lines are:
"Birthday parties. Bedtime stories. And I haven't slept through the night. Where am I?
Between the breakfast and the bandaids, bathtime and the braids- it's up to me to keep you alive. Where am I?"
One of the best songs about being a mother that I've ever heard. Love it.
There is no standing ovation for being a mother, and it is constant. And I almost always have at least one minute every day where I look around and say, "Where am I? What was I doing?"
And yes, when I look into their eyes, there I am. That's what I was doing. And what I'm doing I'm doing well.
And again yes, I liked the song so very much that I went and bought it.
Where Am I- by Tara MacLean
My favourite lines are:
"Birthday parties. Bedtime stories. And I haven't slept through the night. Where am I?
Between the breakfast and the bandaids, bathtime and the braids- it's up to me to keep you alive. Where am I?"
One of the best songs about being a mother that I've ever heard. Love it.
There is no standing ovation for being a mother, and it is constant. And I almost always have at least one minute every day where I look around and say, "Where am I? What was I doing?"
And yes, when I look into their eyes, there I am. That's what I was doing. And what I'm doing I'm doing well.
And again yes, I liked the song so very much that I went and bought it.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Summertime fun.
I love summer.
I love the sounds of summer.
I love the long days, the warm evenings, the cool nights. I just plain love summertime.
I love to swim, and to spend hours down by our pool with the kids. Letting them swim in the summer sun, play with friends, have frozen fruit kabobs.
The smell of their skin after a day of sun and sunscreen. The way it makes them happy to play in the water with each other.
Going to my fathers' cabin out of the city for a couple nights, and that feels like a holiday. Staying up late and talking while I toast my feet over a bonfire that is too big.
Using the BBQ to cook everything- even when that is slightly unreasonable. Having a crab bake with friends, making huge vats of potato salad, and ribs and pineapple delight (I'll leave a recipe on my "Cookies" page- my gramma used to make it, it's so easy, and sooooooo good).
The fact that this year my son is in football, and we'll get to go cheer him and his teammates on during his practices and then during football games. That Monster will be having her very first swimming lessons at the YMCA (I think it's incredibly important that children learn early to swim independently so they don't drown). The fact that Brat will get to do swimming, and gymnastics and have sleep overs.
All in all, on this fine May day, I can't wait for summer. Because after summer is fall. And the only season I love more than summer is fall. Happy days. Enjoy your summer, enjoy your fall. Enjoy ALL your days.
I love the sounds of summer.
I love the long days, the warm evenings, the cool nights. I just plain love summertime.
I love to swim, and to spend hours down by our pool with the kids. Letting them swim in the summer sun, play with friends, have frozen fruit kabobs.
The smell of their skin after a day of sun and sunscreen. The way it makes them happy to play in the water with each other.
Going to my fathers' cabin out of the city for a couple nights, and that feels like a holiday. Staying up late and talking while I toast my feet over a bonfire that is too big.
Using the BBQ to cook everything- even when that is slightly unreasonable. Having a crab bake with friends, making huge vats of potato salad, and ribs and pineapple delight (I'll leave a recipe on my "Cookies" page- my gramma used to make it, it's so easy, and sooooooo good).
The fact that this year my son is in football, and we'll get to go cheer him and his teammates on during his practices and then during football games. That Monster will be having her very first swimming lessons at the YMCA (I think it's incredibly important that children learn early to swim independently so they don't drown). The fact that Brat will get to do swimming, and gymnastics and have sleep overs.
All in all, on this fine May day, I can't wait for summer. Because after summer is fall. And the only season I love more than summer is fall. Happy days. Enjoy your summer, enjoy your fall. Enjoy ALL your days.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Thank You Time Magazine.
Thank you Time Magazine.
Thank you for starting yet another round of "Mommy Wars". Thank you for making what is a natural, and beautiful process into something seedy and gossip worthy. Thank you for making being a mother just a little bit harder for all of us this particular Mother's Day.
Thank you. And suck my t**.
Will I nurse my children until they are 3, 4, 5, 6 or even 7 years old? No. But I won't do it, because the girls chose to wean themselves. Not because I believe it's gross or wrong. It's not. It's a natural process.
And for anyone who thinks it's "wrong to sexualize a child"- get a grip. There is nothing overtly, or covertly, sexual about nursing a child. Nothing (even if the mother on the cover of Time Magazine was beautiful).
And for anyone who says it's 'unnatural'- well, if it were 'unnatural' there would be a shelf life on how long breasts produce milk after a child is born. There isn't- which means it's not unnatural.
For anyone who says it 'emmasculates' or causes little boys to be effeminate- L.O.L. Seriously. Laughing. Out. Loud. Here's something for you to mull over:
In the Northern communities here in Canada, and surely some parts of Alaska (not to mention third World countries), children are regularly breastfed until they are around 7 years old. Yes. And it is for a practical reason- there is little fresh milk to be had, and what milk is available is simply too expensive to buy. And in third world countries- well, it's all the nourishment those mothers can provide.
Statistically, look at the health and fitness of the grown children in Aboriginal communities who were nursed 'too long'.
Statistically, they have healthier body image, body weight, eating habits and emotional stability than many of the children weaned 'appropriately'.
Not only do many of the young boys of the North West Territories (Nunavut, and Iqaluit too) nurse until they are older, they are nursed that way when the girls are given bottles soon after birth. The Aboriginal women know the benefits (and don't give two shits about the science- since they've done things this way for a thousand years) of nursing the young boys as long as possible. It helps their boys grow stronger, develop solid muscle tone, fight infection, lower rates of cancer, and maintain a good familial bond. It helps their young boys grow into healthy men.
Men who can hunt, fish and trap successfully enough food to see them and their families through another winter. So, yes, naysayers- I guess you're right. Those Northern Aboriginal men are 'femmy'.
Right. I'd put $100 up on the side of a man who hunts to feed his family, against a redneck from Texas (or any damn place at all)- and then just piss myself laughing when the "Indian" out shoots the redneck every time.
Why don't I believe I'll see any of THIS in your article?
Because you are only trying to sensationalize the topic, to make breastfeeding mothers the topic of ridicule (again). Well, forget it, I've just decided I WILL NOT read your article. I won't even read your magazine again. You've managed to take yourselves from being something most consider somewhat 'literary' to being entirely too much like the "Enquirer". Well done Time Magazine.
For the record, out of my three children, my girls were breastfed, and my son was bottle fed. I support whichever way a mother feeds her children. Whether that's boob, bottle, supplementary system or simply rice cereal. To each their own- and bugger anyone who doesn't like it.
And what would I say to anyone who has an opinion on how a mother 'should' be feeding her children? Get. Fucked.
Thank you for starting yet another round of "Mommy Wars". Thank you for making what is a natural, and beautiful process into something seedy and gossip worthy. Thank you for making being a mother just a little bit harder for all of us this particular Mother's Day.
Thank you. And suck my t**.
Will I nurse my children until they are 3, 4, 5, 6 or even 7 years old? No. But I won't do it, because the girls chose to wean themselves. Not because I believe it's gross or wrong. It's not. It's a natural process.
And for anyone who thinks it's "wrong to sexualize a child"- get a grip. There is nothing overtly, or covertly, sexual about nursing a child. Nothing (even if the mother on the cover of Time Magazine was beautiful).
And for anyone who says it's 'unnatural'- well, if it were 'unnatural' there would be a shelf life on how long breasts produce milk after a child is born. There isn't- which means it's not unnatural.
For anyone who says it 'emmasculates' or causes little boys to be effeminate- L.O.L. Seriously. Laughing. Out. Loud. Here's something for you to mull over:
In the Northern communities here in Canada, and surely some parts of Alaska (not to mention third World countries), children are regularly breastfed until they are around 7 years old. Yes. And it is for a practical reason- there is little fresh milk to be had, and what milk is available is simply too expensive to buy. And in third world countries- well, it's all the nourishment those mothers can provide.
Statistically, look at the health and fitness of the grown children in Aboriginal communities who were nursed 'too long'.
Statistically, they have healthier body image, body weight, eating habits and emotional stability than many of the children weaned 'appropriately'.
Not only do many of the young boys of the North West Territories (Nunavut, and Iqaluit too) nurse until they are older, they are nursed that way when the girls are given bottles soon after birth. The Aboriginal women know the benefits (and don't give two shits about the science- since they've done things this way for a thousand years) of nursing the young boys as long as possible. It helps their boys grow stronger, develop solid muscle tone, fight infection, lower rates of cancer, and maintain a good familial bond. It helps their young boys grow into healthy men.
Men who can hunt, fish and trap successfully enough food to see them and their families through another winter. So, yes, naysayers- I guess you're right. Those Northern Aboriginal men are 'femmy'.
Right. I'd put $100 up on the side of a man who hunts to feed his family, against a redneck from Texas (or any damn place at all)- and then just piss myself laughing when the "Indian" out shoots the redneck every time.
Why don't I believe I'll see any of THIS in your article?
Because you are only trying to sensationalize the topic, to make breastfeeding mothers the topic of ridicule (again). Well, forget it, I've just decided I WILL NOT read your article. I won't even read your magazine again. You've managed to take yourselves from being something most consider somewhat 'literary' to being entirely too much like the "Enquirer". Well done Time Magazine.
For the record, out of my three children, my girls were breastfed, and my son was bottle fed. I support whichever way a mother feeds her children. Whether that's boob, bottle, supplementary system or simply rice cereal. To each their own- and bugger anyone who doesn't like it.
And what would I say to anyone who has an opinion on how a mother 'should' be feeding her children? Get. Fucked.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Open Adoption Roundtable #38: What I want to say to you on Mother's Day.
From the Open Adoption Bloggers: Roundtable #38: What I want to say to you on Mother's Day.
Write to someone else in the adoption constellation (someone specific or a general group). What do you want to say to them on Mother’s Day?
HARD. Hard. Hard. This hurts. And maybe it should. Maybe this is something I've needed to 'say' - even though I don't think you read my blog.
I love (and hate) Mother's Day. Sometimes I feel like it should be about me, not you. Sometimes I know it's about both of us.
So, this is how I feel about Mother's Day- right now. But it still hurts come Sunday morning.
It hurts because I do the 'work' day in, day out. I hold Bugs' hand when he's throwing up with his fevers, or when he wakes up scared. I work HARD to be a mom. I sometimes get only an hour of sleep before I have to climb out of bed and make lunches, get dressed, go to work, come home make dinner and keep Bugs (and the girls) clean-ish looking, make sure he does his homework, get him back and forth to his activities.
Being a mom is hard. Being a 'mom' is something so important and yet so intangible. Sometimes, honestly here, I feel like I am the "only" mom. Sometimes I know I am not his only mom.
Oh, those 'only me' days aren't often; BUT, they are the days when you haven't called him in weeks- then you call him from the bar so your friends hear you saying, "I love you and miss you soooo much." Or, when you tell him calling is too expensive- and he hears "I'm not worth it to her. But going to the bar and taking 100 pictures to post on facebook is." Or, when you used to tell him you'd be here, then not show up for hours- and lie to your family about it. Or skip picking him up completely because you'd rather go to a party with Scott. On those days, I never, ever, felt you were his "mom". Not even a bit. You had given birth to him, and that was special, but on those days, I did not feel you gave him the respect a mother would give to her children. You didn't treat him as though he mattered to you at all.
Then there are the days when I KNOW you are a mother, and how hard it was being pregnant and 19. How scary it was raising a child for two years (even with total support from your parents and D's- it couldn't have been easy). Giving birth. Trying to breastfeed. Those are not things that can be dismissed- even when I disagree with so much that came afterwards.
So Mother's Day hurts. And it's hard. The only things I ever want for Mother's Day are craft made by the kids. I want someone to think I am special enough to sit down and help the children make them for me, to honour how difficult it has been, how hard I work, and what a good mom I am. And often, no one does. But year after year, your mother helps Bugs make you something. Year after year, you receive a gift in the mail, a gift I wish I could have. A gift I would be thrilled to have (not that I don't like perfume or cards and crap like that). A gift I'm not convinced you give two flying effs' about.
The last time Bugs made me something, was a necklace that said " I LOVE MOM" on it. I wore it for two whole years, never once taking it off, because I loved it, and it reminded me of him. I would still be wearing it if the leather hadn't gotten so weak I was afraid it would break. He made you something similar a year later with my help, for Christmas, and you didn't ever wear it. Because it didn't match your outfits. I remember the day, you said, "You always wear that? Really? I haven't worn mine- the soccer balls look funny with all my earrings. hahahahaha."
So, Mother's Day is a day that hurts; because I wish you put as much energy into showing him how much you love him, as you do towards convincing your friends you love him. It's a day that hurts because since you've moved to Scotland- you have gone through so many phases of trying and then not trying that leave Bugs hurting and waiting, and hurting and waiting. And he loves you, and I love you.
So, I love Mothers' Day; because we are both an integral part of him, of who he is, and we both matter, and I'm glad for the days when we can all hang out together and go swimming in the summer. I love Mother's Day, for all the times we've sat up laughing on the phone over something completely unrelated to our child. For all the times we've spent hours hashing out what we think is best for Bugs.
So, Happy Mothers' Day to both of us- for all that you did, for all that I do. For all that we do together to raise a healthy, happy, well adjusted young man.
Write to someone else in the adoption constellation (someone specific or a general group). What do you want to say to them on Mother’s Day?
HARD. Hard. Hard. This hurts. And maybe it should. Maybe this is something I've needed to 'say' - even though I don't think you read my blog.
I love (and hate) Mother's Day. Sometimes I feel like it should be about me, not you. Sometimes I know it's about both of us.
So, this is how I feel about Mother's Day- right now. But it still hurts come Sunday morning.
It hurts because I do the 'work' day in, day out. I hold Bugs' hand when he's throwing up with his fevers, or when he wakes up scared. I work HARD to be a mom. I sometimes get only an hour of sleep before I have to climb out of bed and make lunches, get dressed, go to work, come home make dinner and keep Bugs (and the girls) clean-ish looking, make sure he does his homework, get him back and forth to his activities.
Being a mom is hard. Being a 'mom' is something so important and yet so intangible. Sometimes, honestly here, I feel like I am the "only" mom. Sometimes I know I am not his only mom.
Oh, those 'only me' days aren't often; BUT, they are the days when you haven't called him in weeks- then you call him from the bar so your friends hear you saying, "I love you and miss you soooo much." Or, when you tell him calling is too expensive- and he hears "I'm not worth it to her. But going to the bar and taking 100 pictures to post on facebook is." Or, when you used to tell him you'd be here, then not show up for hours- and lie to your family about it. Or skip picking him up completely because you'd rather go to a party with Scott. On those days, I never, ever, felt you were his "mom". Not even a bit. You had given birth to him, and that was special, but on those days, I did not feel you gave him the respect a mother would give to her children. You didn't treat him as though he mattered to you at all.
Then there are the days when I KNOW you are a mother, and how hard it was being pregnant and 19. How scary it was raising a child for two years (even with total support from your parents and D's- it couldn't have been easy). Giving birth. Trying to breastfeed. Those are not things that can be dismissed- even when I disagree with so much that came afterwards.
So Mother's Day hurts. And it's hard. The only things I ever want for Mother's Day are craft made by the kids. I want someone to think I am special enough to sit down and help the children make them for me, to honour how difficult it has been, how hard I work, and what a good mom I am. And often, no one does. But year after year, your mother helps Bugs make you something. Year after year, you receive a gift in the mail, a gift I wish I could have. A gift I would be thrilled to have (not that I don't like perfume or cards and crap like that). A gift I'm not convinced you give two flying effs' about.
The last time Bugs made me something, was a necklace that said " I LOVE MOM" on it. I wore it for two whole years, never once taking it off, because I loved it, and it reminded me of him. I would still be wearing it if the leather hadn't gotten so weak I was afraid it would break. He made you something similar a year later with my help, for Christmas, and you didn't ever wear it. Because it didn't match your outfits. I remember the day, you said, "You always wear that? Really? I haven't worn mine- the soccer balls look funny with all my earrings. hahahahaha."
So, Mother's Day is a day that hurts; because I wish you put as much energy into showing him how much you love him, as you do towards convincing your friends you love him. It's a day that hurts because since you've moved to Scotland- you have gone through so many phases of trying and then not trying that leave Bugs hurting and waiting, and hurting and waiting. And he loves you, and I love you.
So, I love Mothers' Day; because we are both an integral part of him, of who he is, and we both matter, and I'm glad for the days when we can all hang out together and go swimming in the summer. I love Mother's Day, for all the times we've sat up laughing on the phone over something completely unrelated to our child. For all the times we've spent hours hashing out what we think is best for Bugs.
So, Happy Mothers' Day to both of us- for all that you did, for all that I do. For all that we do together to raise a healthy, happy, well adjusted young man.
Eat Your Dinner.
What's the point in yelling at a kid? What's the point in insisting a child eats ALL their dinner? What's the point in forcing a child to look 'neat and tidy' all day long?
I'll tell you something, something I'm not ashamed of. I don't yell very much. Well, okay, I certainly shout a lot from one room to the next, "Stop hitting please" and "Please stop yelling!" (I see the irony of that statement given my typical volume levels). I will snap some mornings, "Get your shoes on. NOW! It's time for school." "You have three minutes to get dressed. Then I am going to start taking away privileges." And so on, various other normal 7 am statements. But, if I have to be at work at 9 am, I generally try to leave the house no later than 8 am. That gives me a full hour to drop a baby off at daycare and drive 7 minutes to my workplace. I leave that early because I got in the habit when Bugs was little.
He took FOREVER to do any-damned-thing at all. I was furious one of 'those' mornings, and I was shouting at a 3 year old because he wanted to do up his seat belt himself. And I didn't feel like I had three minutes to let him do it. And I stopped and thought to myself. Three minutes? I'm screaming over a seat belt? That's wrong. Something is wrong with me.
And I decided that day, then and there, if I had to be some place at a certain time, I would figure out exactly how long I needed to get there. Then I would leave a half hour earlier than that. That way, if it takes the kids ten minutes to put coats on, fine. Ten minutes to walk to the car. Fine. Ten minutes to do up their seat belts alone. Fine.
It doesn't always work. Sometimes we do run late- and I do get stressed and snap at them. But once we're underway, and my blood pressure drops thirty points again, I apologize. Because they are just being kids. And they're good kids. And I'm only human (well, I'm an awesome human, but still just a human).
As to whether or not Brat eats her dinner. I. Don't. Care. She is the only one who can tell me how full, or 'unfull' her tummy is. I offer her a healthy meal, and she either eats it, or she doesn't. She has a normal appetite and eats when she is hungry, and not when she isn't. She has a normal, healthy body. Me forcing her to eat when she isn't hungry will teach her to ignore what her body tells her, and force food in, even when she doesn't want it. And I tried that approach once already. It's bullshit and it's stressful for the parent and the kid.
When Bugs was little, we followed what we were 'told' to do by the 'grown ups' and argued with him. Fought and fought and fought with him over his meals. To be fair, he was having more issues than just food, but since THAT was the only aspect of his life he felt he could control, he tried. He would refuse to eat anything homemade. And because his grandparents regularly took him to McDonald's (he had just 'lost' C, so no one wanted to tell him "No, that is not healthy"), or they made him KD, he would not eat anything healthy. Ever. He would intentionally throw up on the table if you tried to 'make' him eat- if you refused to buy him a 'hannaburger' he would vomit at you. That's all kinds of fun.
Eventually, we stopped trying to 'make' him eat at dinnertime. We started to tell him it could be his choice- but that if he didn't eat any of his dinner that night, it would go in the fridge and be his next day's meal. There would be no other substitution later for a "better" bedtime snack. If he got hungry, dinner would be re-served. Eventually, he stopped fighting against healthy food, and began to enjoy his meals. So, when we stopped trying to force, he made the decision- with a wee bit of coercion- to eat his healthy food first. Why didn't I think to let him do that sooner? To choose to eat healthy, by simply REFUSING to allow the fast food at all? Kids won't starve themselves. They'll eat when they get hungry. Just like I do.
My kids are also always messy. Brat's daycare teachers call her the "Disaster bird"- I went to pick her up the other day, she had half of her uniform undone, one leg out of a pair of tights (still wearing the other leg) and one boot on. I can't even discuss her hair. She likes it long, and loose. I can braid it, and spend half an hour fighting with her to get it smooth and flat. The minute she gets to school, she yanks the elastic out anyways. When she dresses herself, she layers like a homeless man trying to stay warm in February. But, she's happy, and she loves the way she looks. Why would I change that? Also, since I rarely brush my own hair, who the Hell am I to say she "must" brush hers?
So, how do my kids look to other people? I don't know. I don't care. My kids know that they are loved. We don't need to fight with them constantly over the small stuff (and thanks Dad), it's ALL small stuff. I will save my arguments for the teenage years, when I will need the energy even more than I need it now.
I could have freaked out last week because the 15 month old was playing with marbles; or yesterday when she picked up a 'throat sized' rock at the sitters- and put it directly into her mouth. I didn't. I trusted her to spit it out once she'd had it in there long enough to realize it didn't taste all that great.
What's the point in freaking out? I don't have the energy to do that. If she'd started choking- I am CPR certified, and have never once panicked under pressure yet. So, the fact that I haven't 'baby proofed' my home doesn't mean I don't worry- it means that I trust my children to listen, to learn, to respect and to stay safe (well, safe enough). And occasionally I do yell. I do shout. When it's warranted- not just because I want to be the boss. I AM the boss- but yelling isn't what gets me that respect- treating my kids with respect is what gets me that respect.
And yes, we tease, we bicker, we argue- but first and foremost is the love. And my kids have better senses of humour than most grown ups I know. So I KNOW I'm doing something right. Eat. That.
I'll tell you something, something I'm not ashamed of. I don't yell very much. Well, okay, I certainly shout a lot from one room to the next, "Stop hitting please" and "Please stop yelling!" (I see the irony of that statement given my typical volume levels). I will snap some mornings, "Get your shoes on. NOW! It's time for school." "You have three minutes to get dressed. Then I am going to start taking away privileges." And so on, various other normal 7 am statements. But, if I have to be at work at 9 am, I generally try to leave the house no later than 8 am. That gives me a full hour to drop a baby off at daycare and drive 7 minutes to my workplace. I leave that early because I got in the habit when Bugs was little.
He took FOREVER to do any-damned-thing at all. I was furious one of 'those' mornings, and I was shouting at a 3 year old because he wanted to do up his seat belt himself. And I didn't feel like I had three minutes to let him do it. And I stopped and thought to myself. Three minutes? I'm screaming over a seat belt? That's wrong. Something is wrong with me.
And I decided that day, then and there, if I had to be some place at a certain time, I would figure out exactly how long I needed to get there. Then I would leave a half hour earlier than that. That way, if it takes the kids ten minutes to put coats on, fine. Ten minutes to walk to the car. Fine. Ten minutes to do up their seat belts alone. Fine.
It doesn't always work. Sometimes we do run late- and I do get stressed and snap at them. But once we're underway, and my blood pressure drops thirty points again, I apologize. Because they are just being kids. And they're good kids. And I'm only human (well, I'm an awesome human, but still just a human).
As to whether or not Brat eats her dinner. I. Don't. Care. She is the only one who can tell me how full, or 'unfull' her tummy is. I offer her a healthy meal, and she either eats it, or she doesn't. She has a normal appetite and eats when she is hungry, and not when she isn't. She has a normal, healthy body. Me forcing her to eat when she isn't hungry will teach her to ignore what her body tells her, and force food in, even when she doesn't want it. And I tried that approach once already. It's bullshit and it's stressful for the parent and the kid.
When Bugs was little, we followed what we were 'told' to do by the 'grown ups' and argued with him. Fought and fought and fought with him over his meals. To be fair, he was having more issues than just food, but since THAT was the only aspect of his life he felt he could control, he tried. He would refuse to eat anything homemade. And because his grandparents regularly took him to McDonald's (he had just 'lost' C, so no one wanted to tell him "No, that is not healthy"), or they made him KD, he would not eat anything healthy. Ever. He would intentionally throw up on the table if you tried to 'make' him eat- if you refused to buy him a 'hannaburger' he would vomit at you. That's all kinds of fun.
Eventually, we stopped trying to 'make' him eat at dinnertime. We started to tell him it could be his choice- but that if he didn't eat any of his dinner that night, it would go in the fridge and be his next day's meal. There would be no other substitution later for a "better" bedtime snack. If he got hungry, dinner would be re-served. Eventually, he stopped fighting against healthy food, and began to enjoy his meals. So, when we stopped trying to force, he made the decision- with a wee bit of coercion- to eat his healthy food first. Why didn't I think to let him do that sooner? To choose to eat healthy, by simply REFUSING to allow the fast food at all? Kids won't starve themselves. They'll eat when they get hungry. Just like I do.
My kids are also always messy. Brat's daycare teachers call her the "Disaster bird"- I went to pick her up the other day, she had half of her uniform undone, one leg out of a pair of tights (still wearing the other leg) and one boot on. I can't even discuss her hair. She likes it long, and loose. I can braid it, and spend half an hour fighting with her to get it smooth and flat. The minute she gets to school, she yanks the elastic out anyways. When she dresses herself, she layers like a homeless man trying to stay warm in February. But, she's happy, and she loves the way she looks. Why would I change that? Also, since I rarely brush my own hair, who the Hell am I to say she "must" brush hers?
So, how do my kids look to other people? I don't know. I don't care. My kids know that they are loved. We don't need to fight with them constantly over the small stuff (and thanks Dad), it's ALL small stuff. I will save my arguments for the teenage years, when I will need the energy even more than I need it now.
I could have freaked out last week because the 15 month old was playing with marbles; or yesterday when she picked up a 'throat sized' rock at the sitters- and put it directly into her mouth. I didn't. I trusted her to spit it out once she'd had it in there long enough to realize it didn't taste all that great.
What's the point in freaking out? I don't have the energy to do that. If she'd started choking- I am CPR certified, and have never once panicked under pressure yet. So, the fact that I haven't 'baby proofed' my home doesn't mean I don't worry- it means that I trust my children to listen, to learn, to respect and to stay safe (well, safe enough). And occasionally I do yell. I do shout. When it's warranted- not just because I want to be the boss. I AM the boss- but yelling isn't what gets me that respect- treating my kids with respect is what gets me that respect.
And yes, we tease, we bicker, we argue- but first and foremost is the love. And my kids have better senses of humour than most grown ups I know. So I KNOW I'm doing something right. Eat. That.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Open Adoption Roundtable #36: Agreements
Open Adoption Roundtable #36:
"Write about open adoption agreements. Is there one in your open adoption? What effect does it have on your relationships? If you could go back in time, would you approach the agreement differently?" From: http://openadoptionbloggers.com/2012/04/10/open-adoption-roundtable-36-agreements/
Well, to be honest, I don't think about our agreement much anymore. We see her every summer when she comes back to Canada. I could probably dig up our original agreement; but since it's invalid now, we go by what works year to year.
By adopting, I agreed to do whatever was in Bugs' best interest. I cannot speak to C's personal view of our adoption; but I can, and will, say that I think we're doing a bang up job of honouring the spirit of our open adoption agreement.
But here's how it started out:
First off, as we're all Canadian, our original adoption agreement was legally binding- which I realize is not the norm for most adoptions. But it should be. And luckily for us, and C, we had an extremely moral and ethical lawyer- who presented open adoption to us as the BEST and only 'right' course of action (at the time, when we were both so hurt and angry, we might have tried to close her out if we got irritated with her).
Our adoption agreement was 2 days a month, under supervision. It was legally enforceable had we not held up our end. But we did follow though, and even offered completely unsupervised visits (I wouldn't 'supervise' my mother spending time with my kids, why would I supervise her family????) 1 day/ week instead. That was C's stipulation. 2 days/ month.
Our stipulation was much different. Ours was that since we'd had abandonment issues in the past, we wanted a firm commitment that she would not leave Canada again for more than 30 consecutive days. In short, we wanted her to promise she wouldn't run out of his life after we invited her back in. We were afraid a 4 year old could not handle that loss twice.
We spoke with C and her new husband and both agreed that they were here to stay. Less than two years later, C came to me crying because her husband was moving back to Scotland- with or without her. She didn't want to stay either; but, she was afraid we would stop contact. She was afraid we'd shut her, and her family, out completely for breaking the agreement.
We had family members tell us we should. We had friends tell us that the "open" part was null if she moved overseas again. We would be within our 'legal rights'. My moral compass and overall ethics said otherwise. We took a lot of 'flak' from certain family and friends for the decision to accept her choice and simply agree to summertime visits instead. But it was the right thing to do, then and now.
We were no longer talking about a 3 year old who didn't know her at all. We were talking about (an almost) 6 year old who'd spent one day every week with C and her (fuckhead) husband for the last two years.
It did hurt. It still hurts that she chose that bastard and his fucked up family over our shared son.
It breaks my heart that she gave up having a steady relationship, weekly one on one time, with Bugs. For what? To stay with a guy who doesn't give a flying fuck for our son? Who calls her names in front of her family? A man whose mother came to visit but didn't want Bugs over when she was there? A man whose mother once hung up on Bugs when he called Scotland to talk to C- then she lied about doing it?
It hurts that Bugs was passed over TWICE for this family- he's got a better heart, and a more loving spirit than that whole family combined.
In the end though, it's not about what I needed from her. Or what I wanted from her. It's about Bugs and what he needs.
He needs to know her, to know her parents, her brother, her cousins, her aunts, uncles and grandmother. To know he is loved. And if that means he only gets to see C, herself, in the summertime- well, we take what we're given and we make the best of it.
He has been let down repeatedly over the years. Ignored; treated like a show piece; picked up late; returned early; passed over so C could go to concerts and parties; or, have her in laws around instead. But he loves her, and he is supposed to. I would do nothing to change that- even if I could.
The way I look at it is this: no family is going to be perfect, or get along without a hitch. We are doing the best we can.
And it's a work in progress. Maybe by the time he's 30, I won't still wonder if things might have been different had she chosen Bugs over the D-bag husband. But then again, maybe I will.
As to whether I would approach the agreement differently, I would insist that neither her husband, nor his family, be introduced to my son- ever. The man is an emotional abuser, plain and simple. And that is something I don't believe any child should be exposed to- especially not my child. Intentional neglect and disrespect can do as much harm as a fist.
Agreements? Ours is now totally on the honour system. My honour. I know what's right, what's important and what's best for him and for the rest of us. That doesn't mean we don't run into snags sometimes- when more than 1 family member decides to visit during the summer, at the same time as C is here- but we work around it.
We find a way- because THAT is what family is supposed to do.
"Write about open adoption agreements. Is there one in your open adoption? What effect does it have on your relationships? If you could go back in time, would you approach the agreement differently?" From: http://openadoptionbloggers.com/2012/04/10/open-adoption-roundtable-36-agreements/
Well, to be honest, I don't think about our agreement much anymore. We see her every summer when she comes back to Canada. I could probably dig up our original agreement; but since it's invalid now, we go by what works year to year.
By adopting, I agreed to do whatever was in Bugs' best interest. I cannot speak to C's personal view of our adoption; but I can, and will, say that I think we're doing a bang up job of honouring the spirit of our open adoption agreement.
But here's how it started out:
First off, as we're all Canadian, our original adoption agreement was legally binding- which I realize is not the norm for most adoptions. But it should be. And luckily for us, and C, we had an extremely moral and ethical lawyer- who presented open adoption to us as the BEST and only 'right' course of action (at the time, when we were both so hurt and angry, we might have tried to close her out if we got irritated with her).
Our adoption agreement was 2 days a month, under supervision. It was legally enforceable had we not held up our end. But we did follow though, and even offered completely unsupervised visits (I wouldn't 'supervise' my mother spending time with my kids, why would I supervise her family????) 1 day/ week instead. That was C's stipulation. 2 days/ month.
Our stipulation was much different. Ours was that since we'd had abandonment issues in the past, we wanted a firm commitment that she would not leave Canada again for more than 30 consecutive days. In short, we wanted her to promise she wouldn't run out of his life after we invited her back in. We were afraid a 4 year old could not handle that loss twice.
We spoke with C and her new husband and both agreed that they were here to stay. Less than two years later, C came to me crying because her husband was moving back to Scotland- with or without her. She didn't want to stay either; but, she was afraid we would stop contact. She was afraid we'd shut her, and her family, out completely for breaking the agreement.
We had family members tell us we should. We had friends tell us that the "open" part was null if she moved overseas again. We would be within our 'legal rights'. My moral compass and overall ethics said otherwise. We took a lot of 'flak' from certain family and friends for the decision to accept her choice and simply agree to summertime visits instead. But it was the right thing to do, then and now.
We were no longer talking about a 3 year old who didn't know her at all. We were talking about (an almost) 6 year old who'd spent one day every week with C and her (fuckhead) husband for the last two years.
It did hurt. It still hurts that she chose that bastard and his fucked up family over our shared son.
It breaks my heart that she gave up having a steady relationship, weekly one on one time, with Bugs. For what? To stay with a guy who doesn't give a flying fuck for our son? Who calls her names in front of her family? A man whose mother came to visit but didn't want Bugs over when she was there? A man whose mother once hung up on Bugs when he called Scotland to talk to C- then she lied about doing it?
It hurts that Bugs was passed over TWICE for this family- he's got a better heart, and a more loving spirit than that whole family combined.
In the end though, it's not about what I needed from her. Or what I wanted from her. It's about Bugs and what he needs.
He needs to know her, to know her parents, her brother, her cousins, her aunts, uncles and grandmother. To know he is loved. And if that means he only gets to see C, herself, in the summertime- well, we take what we're given and we make the best of it.
He has been let down repeatedly over the years. Ignored; treated like a show piece; picked up late; returned early; passed over so C could go to concerts and parties; or, have her in laws around instead. But he loves her, and he is supposed to. I would do nothing to change that- even if I could.
The way I look at it is this: no family is going to be perfect, or get along without a hitch. We are doing the best we can.
And it's a work in progress. Maybe by the time he's 30, I won't still wonder if things might have been different had she chosen Bugs over the D-bag husband. But then again, maybe I will.
As to whether I would approach the agreement differently, I would insist that neither her husband, nor his family, be introduced to my son- ever. The man is an emotional abuser, plain and simple. And that is something I don't believe any child should be exposed to- especially not my child. Intentional neglect and disrespect can do as much harm as a fist.
Agreements? Ours is now totally on the honour system. My honour. I know what's right, what's important and what's best for him and for the rest of us. That doesn't mean we don't run into snags sometimes- when more than 1 family member decides to visit during the summer, at the same time as C is here- but we work around it.
We find a way- because THAT is what family is supposed to do.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Things My Momma Taught Me.
I found an old email- and I modified it to better reflect my own experience. This is a list of why I have the All Time Best Momma ever.
1. My mother taught me to appreciate a job well done: "If you're going to kill each other, do it outside. I just finished vacuuming."
2. My mother taught me Religion: "You better pray that will come out of the carpet."
3. My mother taught me about time travel: "If you don't straighten up and fly right, I'm going to knock you into the middle of next week!"
4. My mother taught me logic: "Because I said so, that's why."
5. My mother taught me more logic: "If you fall out of that swing and break your neck, you're not going to the store with me."
6. My mother taught me irony: "Keep crying, and I'll give you something to cry about."
7. My mother taught me about the science of osmosis: "Shut your mouth and eat your supper."
8. My mother taught me about stamina: "You might be able to run fast; but I can run for a long time..."
9. My mother taught me about weather: "This room of yours looks as if a tornado went through it."
10. My mother taught me about hypocrisy "If I've told you once, I've told you a million times. Don't exaggerate!"
11. My mother taught me the circle of life: "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out."
12. My mother taught me about anticipation: "Just wait until we get home."
13. My mother taught me ESP: "Don't think I don't know you're making a face right now."
14. My mother taught me humour: "When that lawn mower cuts off your toes, don't come running to me."
15. My mother taught me wisdom: "When you get to be my age, you'll understand."
16. My mother taught me about justice: "One day you'll have kids, and I hope they turn out just like you!"
And my all time favourite which taught me everything I need to know about parenting: "Keep it up. And I will rip off your arm at the elbow and beat you with the wet end."
1. My mother taught me to appreciate a job well done: "If you're going to kill each other, do it outside. I just finished vacuuming."
2. My mother taught me Religion: "You better pray that will come out of the carpet."
3. My mother taught me about time travel: "If you don't straighten up and fly right, I'm going to knock you into the middle of next week!"
4. My mother taught me logic: "Because I said so, that's why."
5. My mother taught me more logic: "If you fall out of that swing and break your neck, you're not going to the store with me."
6. My mother taught me irony: "Keep crying, and I'll give you something to cry about."
7. My mother taught me about the science of osmosis: "Shut your mouth and eat your supper."
8. My mother taught me about stamina: "You might be able to run fast; but I can run for a long time..."
9. My mother taught me about weather: "This room of yours looks as if a tornado went through it."
10. My mother taught me about hypocrisy "If I've told you once, I've told you a million times. Don't exaggerate!"
11. My mother taught me the circle of life: "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out."
12. My mother taught me about anticipation: "Just wait until we get home."
13. My mother taught me ESP: "Don't think I don't know you're making a face right now."
14. My mother taught me humour: "When that lawn mower cuts off your toes, don't come running to me."
15. My mother taught me wisdom: "When you get to be my age, you'll understand."
16. My mother taught me about justice: "One day you'll have kids, and I hope they turn out just like you!"
And my all time favourite which taught me everything I need to know about parenting: "Keep it up. And I will rip off your arm at the elbow and beat you with the wet end."
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
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