Six Months and Counting.....

On Monday we hit that magical six months home day. The one where "they" say "they really start to feel like yours" and where "you achieve your new normal."

So, my new normal is:
going to bed at 9 every night because I'm so exhausted.

Kidding.
Well, I'm not, but I hope it isn't forever.

In six months we have:
*taught Iris to eat pizza. so well, in fact, that it's all she wants and drives me crazy about it.
*taught Iris that toilet paper goes in the toilet and not the trash
*taught Iris that she can tell us anything and we'll try not to freak out until she is tucked safely away in bed.
*gone off on a child who ate the same thing for 10 days running for saying "again" when we had Mexican buffet two nights in a row. "get used to it. you can change it up. see all the options?"
*cried more tears than we can even remember
*watched ourselves get old and drawn
*the ability to communicate really well.
*found out our newest child is an "aggressive learner."
*celebrated contact with birthfamily
*begun to "fix" our youngest since "he's only five" doesn't translate. (and shouldn't have this long...)
*given and especially received undeserved love and affection and forgiveness.
*survived.
and lots more.
we've grown.
All of us.

And you know what?

"They" are right.

She's mine. 

Crazy fake smile and all.
(By the way, very excited because she just got pizza....)

But I hope the new normal includes Iris learning to speak in past and future tense. I have a feeling it will be less confusing.

If I Were to Write a Blog Post

This would be it. If you change all the "boy" to "girl," that is.

And I would tell you that this is my sister and we are all in deep mourning.

And these children were friends with my Iris in Ethiopia.

Sometimes I want to scream at the injustices of the world. Those "sometimes" have become nearly "every waking hour" anymore. And sometimes I wake up just for those moments.

It's been a very emotional week and frankly, even though it is contrary to my make-up, I've got no words to describe my chaos anymore. I could tell you a funny story about the first grade field trip to the pumpkin patch in a freezing cold downpour, but I just don't have the heart for it. That sentence just about sums it up without actually complaining about something that is irrelevant compared to life's true problems.

So there you go. My week in review.

Time Warp

It's an interesting thing, leaving and returning to your hometown nearly 20 years later.

I've made new friends and it doesn't bother me at all to see them in the role of "Mom." After all, that's what we are.

No, what gets me is seeing my old acquaintances rockin' the minivan.

I realize this is shallow. I drive a minivan and it is perfectly normal. I rejoiced the day my first one arrived. It was like driving a house. And when my daycare kids were over I wasn't housebound. It was awesome.

But there are people who will never look right to me because I didn't see them transition from muscle car to minivan. They're just.....there. Driving one. All of a sudden. Like time has passed or something.

I am living Marty McFly's nightmare. Thank goodness *I* am still 17.

Hair

Well.....
I'm 37.

I guess I should back up.
Yesterday as I sat in the back row of church and analyzed the heads of women ahead of me, I again had the thought that someday I, too, would be an adult woman who got up every day and "did" my hair. Meaning, I guess, that I would use a blow drier, or curling iron, or flat iron (as if that would be remotely necessary) and have a style beyond, "Hey! I graduated in 1994, the year of the grunge!"

When the thought occurred to me, Well......I'm 37.

I'm not sure you get more grown up than you are when you are 37. Wiser, yes. But grown up? I don't think so. If I was going to do my hair, I would be doing it already. I'm going to quit lying to myself and let myself off the hook. I will probably never grow up and do my hair.

I cut 10 inches off a few weeks ago in honor of a friend in the throes of chemo. If I wanted a style, that would have been the time. I chose, instead, to tell her, "A style that doesn't require style."

Hello grunge, ole friend, ole pal.



 

The Birthday Card

Today I turned 37.

Let's just take a moment and reflect on WHERE in the WORLD the last 20 years have gone.

Moment over.

If I still act like a 17 year old, I'm still 17 in spirit. Right?

Yes, you too can have these beauties for the remarkably questionable price of $89.95. Don't miss the fact that they are tiger striped and will make you six feet tall.

Or, you know, you could feed a child for THREE MONTHS.

This is Jose Luis. Today is his birthday. He needs school fees and healthcare. He needs you.

My husband very graciously let me take a long weekend with some other adoptive mams where we learned new methods to parent our children who are used to parenting themselves.

And we laughed a lot.

I might have gone more for the laughter than the stellar parenting advice, but I'll keep that under wraps.

And this morning, after four days off and before I had my first cup of coffee, I pulled the birthday card. My rant speech went like this:

"I hate to do this, but I'm going to pull the birthday card. I have a minimum of three children crying at me for something that is either frivolous or out of my control and not one of you has told me happy birthday. On your birthday, birthday trumps all. So stop."

I said it calmly.

They mostly shaped up.

Today is my birthday. I am 37. I need nothing. I want new carpet because I have seven colors of carpet, none of which I like, but I don't need new carpet. I don't even want tiger striped will make you six feet tall backwards heels. (Which, by the way, other women came and tried on after I did because I made them look so good. Or because they wanted the photo opp. One or the other.)

Today is Jelsy Mary's birthday. She needs protein and water and will eventually need school.

She has no one to pull the birthday trump card on. She needs you.

Today is John Lenard's birthday. He loves math. But he needs someone to pay for his school, to help provide him the water that he carries for his family.

He has no one to pull the birthday trump card on. He needs you.

Me and these three kids, today is our birthday. And we're pulling the birthday trump card. If you have been riding the fence on child sponsorship, today is your lucky day. I have a deal for you. I have three very special kids from three very different countries that would love to have a very special birthday. They would love to hear they have a sponsor. I'm giving you the chance to give that to them.

I have their cards. If you claim one of these kiddos, I'll send you their info with a dozen cookies and my eternal gratitude.

I have been on a World Vision Project. They are legit, people. 

On a Mission

“The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but shorter tempers, wider Freeways, but narrower viewpoints. We spend more, but have less, we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more problems, more medicine, but less wel...lness.

We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom. We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.

We've learned how to make a living, but not a life. We've added years to life not life to years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer space but no

t inner space. We've done larger things, but not better things.

We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul. We've conquered the atom, but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but accomplish less. We've learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we communicate less and less.

These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small character, steep profits and shallow relationships.

These are the days of two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill. It is a time when there is much in the showroom window and nothing in the stockroom. A time when technology can
bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to share this insight, or to just hit delete...

Remember, to spend some time with your loved ones, because they are not going to be around forever. Remember, say a kind word to someone who looks up to you in awe, because that little person soon will grow up and leave your side.

Remember, to give a warm hug to the one next to you, because that is the only treasure you can give with your heart and it doesn't cost a cent.

Remember, to say, "I love you" to your partner and your loved ones, but most of all mean it. A kiss and an embrace will mend hurt when it comes from deep inside of you.

Remember to hold hands and cherish the moment for someday that person might not be there again. Give time to love, give time to speak! And give time to share the precious thoughts in your mind.”
― Bob Moorehead

Chaos here: sadly, Bob Moorehead is an accused child molester.  Goes to show that you can have great thoughts and still be a fallible human being.
Doesn't make his words any less profound, but sure taints 'em.

Conquer Your Fears and “Live to Give” Webcast

 
Thomas Nelson Author and Hoops of Hope founder, Austin Gutwein, to host September 6 online event to focusing on themes his latest release, Live to Give.

 On September 6 at 8 PM EDT, Austin Gutwein will be hosting a live Facebook web event to encourage participants to conquer their fears and use their talents to help others. The webcast will center on the themes Gutwein writes about in his latest release “Live to Give: Letting God Turn Your Talents into Miracles” (Thomas Nelson/August, 2012). At the conclusion of the webcast, the winners of a month-long social media fueled “Get and Give” contest will be announced, including the winner of a Kindle Fire and $250 donated to the winner’s charity of choice.  

Join Austin on the evening of Thursday, September 6th as he shares about his own experiences and encourages others to conquers their fears and “live to give”. Austin will also be taking audience questions and interacting with participants. PLUS – there will be several “Live to Give” giveaways – books, gift certificates and much more! RSVP today and tell your friends.

Based on the John 6 story of Jesus feeding the 5000, in “Live to Give” Gutwein challenges his readers that regardless of age and talent, God can use them to make a difference. Even though God could take care of everything Himself and doesn’t really need our help, He desperately WANTS us to help Him care for others. Gutwein walks young people through discovering and embracing their unique God-given strengths and abilities, then figuring out how to use those talents to help others. Sometimes doing that takes a leap of faith on our part, and often becoming fearless in the process.

 More about Austin: At eighteen years old, Gutwein speaks with wisdom and has the experience to reinforce his message. When Austin was just nine years old, he watched a video that showed children in Africa who had lost their parents to AIDS. Gutwein realized these kids weren’t any different from him—except they were suffering. Feeling called to help, he took his love of basketball and decided to shoot free throws to raise money for orphans in Zambia. On World AIDS Day in 2004, he shot 2,057 free throws to represent the 2,057 kids who would be orphaned during his day at school. Through sponsorship from parents and friends, Gutwein raised over $3,000 that day to give hope to eight orphans in Zambia. Over the past eight years, Gutwein’s efforts have created Hoops of Hope, the largest free throw marathon in the world. With an estimated 40,000 people in more than 25 countries participating, Hoops of Hope has raised more than $2.5 million to build schools, medical clinics, dormitories for orphanages, and the only computer lab in Zambia.  

Enter to win a Kindle Fire and have $250 donated to your favorite charity. Click for the banner for details and entry or visit http://litfusegroup.com/blogtours/13528976/livetogive. Learn more about Austin and Hoops of Hope at www.AustinGutwein.com and www.HoopsOfHope.org. + Unending Devotion, Jody Hedlund

The power of fives

Iris and I have been noticing a lot of fours around here.

Our table fit four kids. Had to get a new one. (Now it fits 6. She is petitioning for another.)

Four matching frames with photos of me with my three week olds.
      (OK, I missed the boat with Princess. Rectified with the next two.)

She's a really big three week old. This saddens me.

Remember my silver van issue? Solved with the cheezy Kansas family. Finally got another girl on there.

Great Granny used to get each new great a silver cup. Granny found one for us the other day.

Slowly , but surely, we're getting our fours up to fives.

I'm not sure if she feels any more a part of us or not, but each time she discovers a five, it makes her smile.

I'm thinking she might even smile for a family photo now. Time to get out the awkward family photo matching outfits.

Whispered Sweet Nothings

Oh the things Brent and I whisper to one another over turkey carcasses. The cleaning up of after, which makes the children scatter.

Me: I just had a bad thought.
Him: What's that?
Me: Middle school dances.
Him: I want to die.
Me: You don't have to die; you just have to chaperone.
Him: I think I'd rather die.


I feel the need to tell you that the "I want to die" comment is incredibly melodramatic for Brent. He doesn't say things like that. I am often heard saying "kill me now" but that usually irritates him. Which means he is really in agreement with me regarding those dances.

Kill me now.

All My Free Time

Well, we're in day four of school. Day. Four. As I type this looking at my clock, that would indicate I just finished my eleventh "free" hour.

Any time I run into someone who knows me, they seem to feel obligated to ask me what I'm doing with All My Free Time.

What I thought I would be doing with All My Free Time:
Systematically cleaning and organizing every room of the house without people watching in case they need to rescue a treasure from the donation pile.
Preemptively starting supper so as to not have the rush crush from 4-6.
Blogging.
Working at the greenhouse
Helping out with school parties.
Starting a fundraising auction for my new nieces.
Finally putting all those photos from the last 12 years into scrapbooks.
Writing the book that has been festering for months, years maybe.

Well, for the last twenty-six hours I've been fighting off a sense of pervasive panic and despair, thanks for asking.

You know what I do with my three "free" hours a day? I play catch-up on all the things I didn't get accomplished in the preceding twenty-one. I make mental lists of what things most need to be done so as to have the fewest people complaining to me at bedtime for whatever thing wasn't done.

Is my laundry caught up? Mostly.
Are my dishes done? Finally.
Is my sink clean? sorta.
Is any room in any part of the house even remotely organized, much less clean? NO.
Is supper in the crock pot? Yes.
Will anyone eat it? Doubtful.
Yes, I have blogged. This post took 12 minutes.
Haven't been to the greenhouse.
I took one look at those party sign-ups last night and nearly burst into tears.
Haven't started an auction.
Scrapbooking? *hysterical laughter*
And that book? Ask me when I'm fifty.

I've gained three pounds since the kids started school. You'd think I'd have time to walk. No. And I'm shoving chocolate chip cookies in my face like they are my lifeline.

I'm suffocating under a deluge of unmet expectations. Mine. Brent's. The kids. And that phantom woman who I dread showing up at my house and seeing what it looks like when there is a stay-at-home wife whose children are all off at school

After all, I have All This Free Time so the house should be spotless, the scrapbooks predominantly displayed, while I'm off volunteering somewhere and making money with my side business.

My Other Diva

As I saw my Princess moving around the kitchen this morning, I was struck with the difference.

Sheesh, she's nearly a teenager. I mean, look at her.

See the wrinkled nose? "Mooooom, why are you taking this??"

She can now put an outfit together.
Thanks to some generous (and slightly larger) neighbors, she even has some rockin' clothes to compose those outfits.

I'm reminded of when she was seven and I would send notes to Mrs C that said, "I let her make her own clothing choices and do her own hair."

If I were on top of things, I'd find a "before" photo. Alas, Princess at 7 is trapped in Photoshop which I don't think has even been installed on this computer. 

But, trust me, based on Princess there is hope for Iris yet.

Today......not so much. But someday.

In the Continuing Saga

 So tonight I thought I'd be proactive. I offered to do braids. She told me the braids she wanted, I did my best  to provide. I even did the external cornrows rather than the under braid like I usually do.

Whew, dodged that bullet, I thought.

 Let's focus on the sparkly eyes, shall we?

 Alas.....she found the clips she wanted to add.

Awesome.
I'm so proud.
Like my mother was when I raided Dad's closet for his plaid shirts and added a huge black belt and some leggings and called it Rad.

I'm sure tomorrow I'll fixate on something else.

In other news, Iris learned to ride bike without training wheels tonight.
That makes five out of diapers.
Five out in school.
And five out of training wheels.
Next up: five readers.

For Andrea

I had finally decided I was exaggerating.

And then I picked her up from school

Here's my dirty little secret: I fear that when people see her like this, they think, "See? I told you she can't handle five kids. What was she thinking? Look at that hair. I told you she couldn't do that hair. And those clothes! You can afford to adopt a child, but not to clothe them nicely?"

This afternoon, her daddy said, "Didn't mom tell you you don't match?" (thanks dear)
She said, "Huh?"
He said, "Your clothes don't match." (better)
She said, "Yeah, I know."

Awesome.

Oldie

With all the kids in school, I find myself with three hours a day to do "what I want." Which currently translates into sorting paper.

I ran across a note to self I imagine I wrote trying to keep enough info on it so that I could write a blog post when I had time. Years later, I have time. If only because I am procrastinating the real work. I give you (six year old, yes three years ago) Frodo sez:

Deer were overpopulating a local park a few years ago. There was some concern that with the increased deer population, there would be increased ticks and with that, increased Lyme disease, if I'm remembering correctly. The city finally came to a decision to bring in bow hunters and euthanize some hundred or so deer and donate the venison to a local shelter. It was on the news a lot for a couple weeks. Protesters. People worried someone would get killed with an arrow. People worried that the meat would go to waste. People worried that the deer would die. People worried that the meat might be tainted and homeless people would die. Conflict.

Frodo overheard the statement, "The deer were euthanized today."
He piped up, "That means destroyed, right?"
A sibling (probably Eldest) said, "Yeah, they killed it."

My final note says, Even kids know, without the politics.

Now, I'm not anti-bow hunting, so I presume I was going to tie it in to human euthanasia. Call it what you will, killing is killing. Even kids know.

And now I can pitch that piece of paper into the recycling bin.

Thankyouverymuch.

My Little Diva

This morning I sent Iris off to school in a purple floral tank top with green floral leggings and crystal encrusted sandals. She had pulled the top half of her hair into a silver bowed, slicked down pony tail that hung next to her face and the back was in a loose low pony at the nape of her neck. She topped it off with bug-eyed sunglasses.

I feared that if I took a picture she would think it was because I thought her choices quite excellent and she might repeat the experiment.

I took the above photo yesterday so she could see how ridiculous her new fascination with "bangs" looked. As you can see, the bright eyes and smile make the bangs almost unnoticeable.  In fact, she looks dang cute. I decided maybe I was overreacting and let her wear them. Sadly, that led to today's half head bang/bowed-pony.

Sigh.

I did try to talk her into matching her clothes. I did offer to help with her hair. She wanted none of it. And, because I have to say no to ever so many things, I sent her out into the world, clashing clothes and all, biting my tongue so that I wouldn't tell her she needs a mother, looks like an orphan, or looks ridiculous.

I looked at her, so proudly strutting her stuff and was overwhelmed with her independence.

What were we thinking, sending an independent child of seven, with the street smarts of a 35 year old, into first grade? She's too old for all of them. Sometimes I think she's too old for me.

I figure today could go one of two ways: The kids will see her lack of fashion sense and mock her into conformity OR (and I suspect this may be the case) she will announce her presence with confidence and next thing you know, all the little first grade girls will be begging their mothers for pony tails that hang in their faces and insisting that Iris doesn't match her clothes and they should also be able to wear purple stripes with red plaid with a rockin' orange floral hair bow.

You are welcome.

What's One More?

Last night, Princess had a friend over for several hours and the two of them somehow persuaded me to allow a sleepover.

Today, our church had a potluck in honor of the returning college students.

And, though this seems redundant, I think it plays in, so I'm adding it: it is Sunday. If you don't know that Satan and his minions work overtime on Sunday, you must not go to church with kids and a spouse.

Last night I made my brownies. This morning, I got up, got the coffee started, mixed up the casserole and loaded it in the crock-pot. I sat down and read my Bible. Some of my boys came down and chatted me up while I drank my coffee. I went upstairs and had a shower. Turned on the light for my younger children to waken somewhat naturally. Got dressed. Came down and found most of the kids eating. Ate breakfast. Had more coffee. Sent the kids up to get dressed. Fed the two stragglers who stumbled in in their jammies. Sent them up to change. Went up to do my hair. At which point Brent asked how I was doing.

It's Sunday morning. Potluck Sunday. And I have six children in the house. It's a freaking recipe for disaster. That's what it is. But I told him, "OK." And then I realized, it really was OK. No one was crying. We were all going to make it to church on time. Everyone would look presentable and the food would be done. And I thought, I can do this! This is totally do-able.

I think there may be hope for us yet.

Hello? Salam?

We called Ethiopia yesterday. Five different numbers.

Have I told you our daughter unearthed phone numbers for every known relative that had a phone? First, we had her translate what was written, who the person was and their number. We told her we'd call "soon." I wanted her to be comfortable enough in our home that she wouldn't tell them we were horrid people who only ate cheese and white sauces and were starving her to death with our protein laden meals. I wanted her to be fluent enough in English that she could tell us what they talked about. And I wanted her to still be proficient in her native tongue, so she could talk.  As recently as three weeks ago she was asking to call them.

Yesterday, when we offered, she said, "Maybe tomorrow."

Nope, today's the day, chica.

We called her mother's number first. We got a message telling us the phone had been "turned off." Well....what does that mean? Powered off? Ran out of minutes, off? Disconnected? Several calls, same message.
So we started down the list. One number connected, but we couldn't hear them.
Two numbers connected, but they couldn't hear us. Or couldn't understand. We just kept yelling, "Iris" and "America" and her mother's name, over and over. They both ended up hanging up on us.

Iris just shrugged and asked if she could go play now. She claimed she had no idea what they were saying and had no idea how to say, "Hello! This is Iris, daughter of XXXX, in America," in Tigrinya anymore.

Does she or doesn't she? It hasn't been all that long since she was still trying to talk to her friends in her language. But for the last week, she's been info-dumping on us. Horror stories, the likes of which you hope are made up, but probably aren't. Death and death and death. Bad people and fighting and death. It's almost as if she's going to tell us all about it, and then put it behind her. Brent thinks we need to view it less as truth and more as therapy. Did she really witness all that? Did she just hear the stories of some of it and pass them on? We may never know.

What I do know is that I don't know enough.
And my precious child has decided she's home.

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.

More Notes from the Canyon's Rim

Scene: Mom has just indicated to Princess that she might want to change before she goes to 6th grade orientation. Princess exits, dressed, stage left. Thirty seconds pass.

Princess: Mom!
Frodo: .....and he said that she said that he meant that.....
Princess: Mom!
Iris: ....and I went like, PISSA!.....
Princess: Mom!
Eldest (now speaking to his out of touch family):......rode bikes and then went to.....
Princess: MOM!
Dad: Come down here! Maybe Mom isn't answering because you are interrupting which you would know if you weren't yelling from the top of the stairs!
Frodo:....and then he threw his web and caught a frog.....
Princess: I can't!
Mom (interrupting Frodo's endless story): Yes, you can, if you want to talk to me! (aside) just a minute, buddy.
Princess: I don't know where my black pants are!
Eldest:....but going to the pool so he can't......
Mom: Probably in your bag from Sunday!
Princess: *whining* no! they aren't! are they in the laundry basket?
Iris: Mom can I have a gum?
Mom: How would I know? Come look! (aside) eat your lunch first.
Princess: I'm in my underwear!
Mom: Put on some clothes! (aside) I really am listening, Frodo.
Charming: Mom, can you get me some milk?
Princess: I can't! I can't find my black pants.
Frodo:....and he caught the owl and....
Mom: THEY AREN'T DOWN HERE I HAVEN'T WASHED DARKS YET!
Dad: *yelling over Mom* PUT ON THE CLOTHES YOU JUST TOOK OFF!
Eldest: *snickering* (mutter, mutter, and they say I'm in a canyon mutter mutter)
Dad: They need a class for problem solving, but instead of math they give real life challenges. Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello! You have just taken off your clothes, clothes, clothes, clothes. you don't know where your clean pants are, are, are, are. What do you do, do, do, do? A) stand at the top of the stairs and yell for your mom. B) put on the clothes you just took off and go look for the clean pants.
Mom (standing in front of the fridge where she has just finished pouring milk): *maybe pees herself just a little bit*  

Notes from the Canyon's Rim

Eldest has hit the stage where he thinks his parents are out of touch. He's moody. And he punishes me when the school tells him he has to change for PE like I made the rule or something.

The following is an actual conversation that happened at our house today, the beginning of a new series on this blog titled, "Parenting with Mockery and Sarcasm."

Dad: Mom tells me you have a bad attitude today and you are taking it out on her.
Eldest: *silence* *no eye contact*
Dad: Why is that?
Eldest: *silence* *no eye contact*
Dad: What are we going to do about your attitude?
Eldest: *silence* *no eye contact*
Dad: Apparently he's fallen into the canyon of adolescence and I'm talking to myself now.
Eldest: *silence* *no eye contact*
Dad: Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello!
Can you hear me? .... hear me? ....... hear me? ......hear me?
Do you need help?.....need help? .....need help?.........help?
It's an abyss!......abyss!.....abyss......abyss......
Eldest: *cracks smile*
Mom: *dies laughing*

And because we are awesome like that, he's talked to Eldest in an echo all. day.

Goodnight! Goodnight! Goodnight! Goodnight! Goodnight!
I love you! I love you! I love you! I love you! I love you!