Ode to Joy

 It has been an atrocious summer. Our honeymoon period lasted approximately 12 seconds. And though many things have gotten decidedly better, many things, like the sibling rivalry, have gotten out of control. My newest child very quickly picked up on the fact that whining and tattling works to bring daddy in to the rescue and I am sick, sick, SICK of it.

I was ready for them to move on out.

Rockin' her new bangs.

After four months, I recognize look for what it is: Pure Terror.

He looks happy. He is not.

That hair! I mean, rockin' the hair and the jacket....

Sadness....PM kindergarten. All dressed up with nowhere to go.

Holy.....say it isn't so. How did those 12 years go so fast? HOW are they in the big school?

 I dropped off my babies and lost it.
Brent looked at me and asked, "What's got you?"
To paraphrase Jen Hatmaker: last night I was hip-hip-horray, yippee-skippy happy (this is where the paraphrase comes in, not the whole paragraph) that school was finally starting and I could ship the fighting, power struggle, who-does-mom-love-most, does-she-really-not-understand-or-is-she-working-it-to-get-her-way, play my parents against each other, she is feeding me poison by cooking white sauce, who is the queen bee, I don't have to obey you because you aren't my real mom, gonna pout on the couch since I can't have a popsicle five minutes before dinner, "no eat!," "I small brown, Eldest BIG brown" prejudiced heinie OUT THE DOOR so she can have another "mean" authority figure in her life besides me. And then I realized in my attempt to do so, I was shipping the rest of them with her. And then I had guilt about all of it.

Thankfully, rather than attending the back-to-school bash, I found myself crying on a friend's living room floor, confessing my sins, and she suggested we pray.

It's gonna be a good year.

Please, God.

Joy in the Midst of Chaos

I've had to do a lot of looking for joy lately. It isn't wildly apparent. One could wonder why. I mean, spring came early. Our adoption case looks to be progressing somewhat rapidly after all those months of nothingness. And yet, I feel defeated. I'm exhausted. And then, there will be a moment where joy rises up within me and makes me pause and reflect on how good life is. Sometimes that moment is completely frivolous. Sometimes it is swirled up with frustration. And sometimes, it just is.

 For instance: you might think this is joy in seeing a rainbow. Hey, I like rainbows as much or more as the next guy, but let me tell you, what brought me the most delight is that I was standing in the back of the house doing dishes when Princess pointed out that it was raining and sunny at the same time. To which I replied, "Perfect combo for a rainbow. I bet if you go out front you'll see one." The joy in being right. (Hey, this one comes very rarely.)

As opposed to: yesterday Princess told me a story involving words that rhyme with wonder. I told her, "Cute story, but thunder doesn't rhyme with wonder." She insisted it did. I insisted her teacher was wrong. "Yonder rhymes with wonder. Thunder rhymes with blunder." She insisted I was whack-a-doo.

Dictionary.com: wonder (whun-der). Thunder (thun-der) Yonder (yon-der)
Mom: well, what do you know? I never would have believed it.
Daughter: told ya so.
Mom: if you ever want me to admit I am wrong again, you must be gracious about winning. That was far from gracious. That just made me mad.
Daughter: so can I use the computer?
Mom: After that snotty little remark, no.

This is only a joy story because I take joy in her self confidence.
And that I own the computer.

 He's going to make a great boy scout. Always prepared. In his right fist is his "pocket knife," a piece of wood that is broken in such a way that it looks like a blade. Under his left arm is our emergency first aid kit that he's assumed as his own. If any boogy men attack, he's prepared to fight them off and patch them up. Mind you this is a couple hours after he's fallen asleep.

 Little tiny swimming suit for my little tiny girl. It makes me happy to just look at it.

 The water here drives me insane. All my glasses have this foggy film on them. All my coffee cups are coffee stained. Nothing looks clean. And then last week I happened upon this in the grocery store. Viola! Clear glasses. Coffee stains gone. Just. Like. That.

 Little tiny soccer cleats for my little tiny soccer player who has a countdown until his next soccer practice.

 Yesterday after school it was raining, so the kids came home and crashed in front of the TV (not my preference). After approximately an hour, Eldest stood up, turned the TV off, grabbed his headphones and started tidying up the room. Joy, pure joy.

Getting compliments on hairstyles that take about 30 seconds to do. And wearing big fake flowers in my hair. Even in yoga pants.

There was a fuzzy picture here that was me in my yoga pants. You couldn't tell that is what it was, but it was here with a cutsie explanation about it. Somehow the cutsie explanation and the photo got deleted. So, I'm going for no photo, yes cutsie explanation: Yesterday Brent and I both had to leave the house. Which mean we both dressed up. Real nice. We wore jeans. As soon as we got home, I found him in the closet peeling his jeans off, where I also was, also peeling my jeans off. "You, too, huh?" To which he replied, "We'll both be in real trouble if we ever have to actually wear real clothes all the time."

Over spring break, Brent drove me all the way to Arizona. Probably because I told him, "You can come or not, but unless you tell me I can't, I'm going." There was a lot of flex in our schedule, except for seeing the Grand Canyon. That had to happen on Friday. Friday morning we woke to one child complaining of a stomach ache and another barfing. We loaded the van to overflowing, handed the boys barf bags and took off. What we expected to be a four hour trip was closer to seven hours what with all the dipply little detours that his wife wanted to make and all the barf clean up stops. His only request was that we make it to Holbrook in time to see the Jayhawks play in the Sweet 16. (Guess which hotel doesn't have cable? Guess which town doesn't have an Applebees? Guess whose wife sent him out to buy sandwich stuff before she allowed him to go off in search of a crappy sports bar to see the game? (but in my defense, guess whose wife stayed in the cable free hotel room with, by then, three barfing boys so he could go?))

He brings me joy. He takes me on jaunts. He puts up with my crap. He drives me crazy. But he also drives me where ever I want to go.

I love you, B. Happy birthday.

One of those Proud Moments

I came home to find this note from Princess waiting on my computer. I had to share.

TO MOM

M.A.D FOR ETHIOPIA

ETHIOPIA, A POOR COUNTRY, NEEDS HELP AS WELL AS WE KNOW EVERY OTHER POOR COUNTRY DOES.

ALTHOUGH WE CANNOT HELP ALL OF THOSE COUNTRIES AT THE SAME TIME, I CHOSE ETHIOPIA BECAUSE I HAVE A SISTER ADOPTED FROM THERE.

I AM DETERMINED TO MAKE HER BIRTH COUNTRY A BETTER PLACE FOR THE ORPHANS SHE IS NO LONGER PART OF.

THAT’S WHY I MADE UP M.A.D. FOR ETHIOPIA (MAKE A DIFFERENCE FOR ETHIOPIA)

I WILL NOT STAND HERE WAITING IN MY COMFY HOUSE HOPING SOMEONE ELSE WILL MAKE A DIFFERENCE IN THE LIVES OF THOSE DYING CHILDREN.

HELLO PEEPS WE HAVE IT GOOD HERE THOUGH WE STILL HAVE TO PUT UP WITH”THE COMPUTER BEING SLOW” WHEN THE KIDS IN AFRICA HAVE TO WALK MILES TO FIND A SMALL PUDDLE OF DIRTY WATER FULL OF PARASITES.

Hello Spring Fever!

When I was a sophomore in high school, I have a very clear memory of being greeted by my mother with, "Well, hello, Spring Fever!"

Apparently the previous two to four months, I'd worn black and trudged out of my room in time to get to school. (OK, if I'm honest, my wardrobe for the preceding four months was likely a micro mini cheer skirt of the colors maroon and gold, but who's keeping track?) I may or may not be confessing to suffering from a titch of seasonal affective disorder.

I also may or may not have thought my mother was completely crazy. But I have a matching memory of practically skipping into school, past a blooming crab apple tree, wearing polka dots and a purple hair ribbon with my mother's words still ringing though my mind.

And they continue to do so, each and every spring.

I'm relatively certain I was created for spring. I love tulips, daffodils, hyacinth, lilac, pansies and crocus. I love flowering crabs, redbuds and even those stinky pear trees. I love to shuck the three sweaters and one pair of jeans that I make do with for months on end, in favor of my wardrobe of sundresses, tank tops and strappy sandals. I secretly harbor fantasies of rolling in the grass like a puppy. I love the smells, colors, textures, the feel of the breeze, the songs of the birds, the early sunrises and the amazing sunsets. I love driving though the burning fields at night and I love the thunderstorms. I love the budding trees and the new growth and the smell of the first lawn mow. I throw the windows open and revel in the fresh air as early and as long as possible.

So it is one of life's great disappointments to me that my son get sick as a dog in the spring. I sent him to school with scary red eyes, sneezing his brains out. I had to take the lilac back off my kitchen table and put it outside and tonight I will probably have to shut down my house in favor of suffocating, pollen free air.

Whimper.

Every year I forget block it out. And every year I go though mourning. And then, every year, I suck it up and be the adult and remind myself that he is much better than lilacs.

And turn on the AC with hepa filters.

Well.....

I would write a new blog post, but I literally can NOT find five minutes all together in order to do so.

I thought I would get to this morning since Charming was up until 10:30 and would surely sleep until nine.

Alas, Eldest, home with a "stomach ache" yelled at me from across the house and woke [less than] Charming.

It is all over for the day.

Come back when he's 20.

Yeesh.

Charming is 5!

But what I want to know, is how we got from here:

To here?

And how fast the rest of it is going to go.
*sob*

The third child.

My eldest sister was the homecoming queen. She got the lead in many musicals because she could sing like a canary and act as well. She was a cheerleader. She did well in school and teachers liked her. I idolized her.

My middle sister was valedictorian. She could act believably. When she was lead in Our Town she cried and made the entire audience join her. She was a cheerleader. She OBVIOUSLY did well in school and teachers liked her. (She would probably add in, at this point, "except for Mrs. X who hated me." We all have one.) I idolized her.

I went through the eighth grade simply on my sisters' reputations. Oh, here's another H girl. She'll be OK. Teachers liked me because they liked my sisters. I got privileges, not on my own account, but because of the family name my sisters perpetuated. This one will cause no trouble. I did everything in my power to make sure that was true. I flew under the radar. I was an above average student, but not top tier. I was a cheerleader, but not a great one. I can't act to save my life, but could sing passably well. Enough to be on stage, but not lead. I could find my way into StuCo, but not hold a big office. I excelled in triple jump....until I taught another friend how to do it. She beat me at the next track meet and eventually won state. I consistently took 3rd or 4th. I lived my school days in the top 20%.  I know life in the shadows of a shining star.I remember crying to my parents my senior year of high school, "Second!Or third! NEVER first! I will NEVER be first, or most important, or great and ANYTHING!"

So, you can imagine my HORROR when I find myself surprised at parent-teacher conferences that my Frodo is doing very well. He's a "solid student." He is "interested in lots of things." He's "a great reader." He's "no problem." He's "a great kid."

When I opened his grade card last month, and saw all A's it surprised me.

And why? Well, partly I can blame his first two years of school when we started him and shouldn't have. I wanted him to go to school with his buddies who were mostly 6 months older than him and far more ready for school. Reading didn't click until Christmas and by then he'd already labelled himself as "dumb" because many of his friends were reading pretty fluidly by then. Partly it's because he just doesn't give a rip about things academic and what he doesn't care about, he doesn't put much effort into.

And partly, it's because he is the third in a line of overachievers.

You would think I would know better. I, who had migraines beginning in the fifth grade trying to be as good as or better than those who had gone before me. (Not only my sisters, but anyone who I perceived as better than me in any way.) I tried to fit the H girl mold. I didn't break out of it until we moved and when I got here, my reputation was based on the new kids that came before me: trouble makers. Yay. So then I had to work my way out of THAT.

College was a welcome diversion. I found out that I can be my own self with my own interests and it was OK.

I do think that I have gone above and beyond to encourage the things that I know Frodo is good at. He is an amazing artist. He is an amazing politician. He can make friends with a door knob.

I try pretty hard to not try to make him into his siblings: hard worker, athletic, can run like the wind, compassionate and giving; or brilliant, outside-the-box thinker, spiritual, world aware.

And maybe I have tried too hard to make them individuals and forget there can be some crossover. As in: artist whose academics come so easily that he doesn't even have to bother thinking about them while he's drawing.

And Dad....no treatise of "all the things Jamie was good at." This isn't about me. I am a relatively mentally healthy adult. Not casting blame upon my parents. We all do the best we know how to do. OK? OK. No one tried to make me into my sisters but me.

I'm OK. You're OK. We're all OK.

Enough With the Pregnancy Illustrations Already

You know how when you're overdue and you don't want to go out in public because you know everyone, and I mean everyone, is going to ask you when you're due?

I'm the freaking size of a house. I was due last Saturday. Shut the bleep up.

When we got home from Ethiopia I didn't want to go out because I didn't want to answer, "How was it?" "How did it go?" "Was it amazing?" "Is she just so excited to be adopted?" "How was your trip?" "How sick did you get?" "How was the food?" "Insert whatever your question would be?"

I was numb.

Mostly Brent answered.

I finally landed on my standard answer, "Hard. It was hard." If they looked like they might be genuinely curious and might actually want a real answer, (or if I was just ready to explode emotion all over them) I might elaborate.

Occasionally I'd drop a "You really don't want to know."

Actually, sometimes I still do.

Most of the time I act like a grown up and pretend the person on the receiving end actually does want to know.

Let me tell you right now; If you are comfortable in your life, you don't really want to know.

I don't want to know.

I'm carrying around an ache in my chest that feels like a bowling ball is sitting there and I can't breathe and I can't put it on the shelf so that I can talk about it or, frankly, much of anything else, sorry.

I finally got to where I could go out in public in small doses. I live in a pretty small town and most of the people who were going to ask, have asked and I don't have to deal with it most days.

Except now the questions have changed.

"So when will you get her?"

Oh dear.

{insert raging lunatic overreaction of your choice--my assumption is that it would sound something like IHAVEZEROCONTROLOVERANYTHINGIHAVENOIDEAWHENSHEWILLCOMEHOMEANDI'MSCAREDTODEATHABOUTWHENSHEDOES}

Thank you, friends, for caring.

I'm going to just go curl up into a figurative ball over there in the corner now.

Call me when it's over.

Feeding

I used to tell people I wanted boys. All boys. My speech went a little something like this:

"I've been a teen girl. I know the drama that girls give their moms. I want boys. You feed them and they love you."

I did NOT take into account that if they aren't eating, they are thinking about eating. They have opinions about what they should eat and when. There is no break. If they've just eaten, they will ask you to make something else. If they are awake,they root through the cabinets for food. You have to go to the grocery store every other day and you will fill your cart to overflowing every time.

I am forever peeling apples, washing grapes, opening bananas, offering yogurt, cheese sticks and tortillas. Saying no to single serve chips, agreeing to opening a new box of cheez-its. All while preparing a spectacular rendition of the cheeseburger, pizza, grilled cheese, lasagna and/or tater-tot casserole...all which will be demolished in less than thirty minutes. They will likely disappear for approximately 30 seconds while I look around me in confusion wondering where all that food I bought and prepared went, where all these dirty dishes came from, and then they'll reappear and declare, "I'm hungry. What can I eat?"

Why did I ever think this would be easier than drama?