Like Father, Like Son

Sometimes I feel as though I gave birth to my husband. Yesterday, I threw on a T-shirt that has been laying on my dresser for several weeks. It isn't ours; DH borrowed it from my Dad when last we were at their house. He had gotten all sweaty building a deck for them and wanted something clean and dry to wear home. I had washed it, folded it and put it there to return. Well, it just so happened that now it was the only clean shirt available. It is not a new shirt.
I'm in the bathroom finishing my morning routine (deodorant and tooth brushing) when DH comes in. "Baby you are so beautiful. Where did you get that shirt? Is that the one I wore home from your parents'? You look great it in it." So I'm wondering what has got into him? It's not even the fourth night. Whatever.
Fast forward two hours. K looks up from his yogurt and graham crackers. "Wow Mom, you look so pretty today! With that shirt and your hair all pulled back," (that would be my pony tail), "you look really nice!" Weird. Those two scare me sometimes.
My sister and I used to keep a running update on what we wanted be dressed in for our funerals. We didn't discuss it overly much, just liked to get our mother riled up on occasion, and funeral talk always did the trick. So Jen, if I go in the near future, no fancy dress for me. Just lay me out in Daddy's Gander Mountain Shirt, if you please. Apparently, I'm quite stunning in it.

Morning at My House

Just decided to snap some pictures of my kids in their pre-dawn, pre-cognitive states. Yeah, I'm sadistic sometimes. It all started with Baby R. He woke up rip-roaring to go. If he could talk he would say, "Look mommy, look! I can hold my head up and these things just past my diaper, I don't know what they're for, but looky I can kick, kick, kick, them!! Wow......

Next to awaken was I. Seen here, he is consuming his daily ration of coffee milk. Once the caffeine reaches his brain--one to two minutes after intake, he'll be fully loaded, full speed until bedtime.

Then comes A. Don't hate her because she's beautiful. This is what she looks like in the morning. The only other time she has seen Mom with a camera this early is Christmas. "Did Santa leave me presents?"

After about five, "C'mon son, it's time to get up." K appears from beneath the coverlet. "ow, dip uns tsto whopesn..." Who knows? He does not speak English until after coffee. Do you note a trend of dependence here?

Last to awaken is our dear, sweet, morning glory, M. I think that look says it all, don't you? Notice the socks on hands. The habit of sucking her thumb is broken, but now she insists on having her hands taped up. My child thrives on ritual. But since it makes her happy, and will not cost us money--at least until we have to pay for the shrink when she's twenty and still sleeping with socks on her hands--we don the socks.

The last picture is K and M snuggling on the couch. I'm giggling in a sick sort of way the whole time. Flashing the camera in their little dilated eyes. By now, K has found his power of speech, "Mom, what are you doing??!!" Implied, "She has really lost it this time." Side note--can you believe these two did not come from the same gene pool?

Sorry these pics are all jumbled up at the top. I remind you that I do not know what I am doing with this whole blogger thing. I assure you that when I put them in my scrapbook, they will be perfectly placed.

Like Sands Through the Hourglass...

I was going to post my inner thoughts regarding the minutiae of my day. I was happily composing it in my mind for the better part of the morning. In the education world, they call it a "metacognitive exercise." I came to the decision that you would call it boring. I began to bore myself; I began to depress myself. I gave it up. Suffice to say I do many, many, many tasks in an average day, and none of them seem to amount to anything. But, most of you reading this blog are housewives/stay-at-home moms/domestic engineers (you choose your title), so you know what I'm talking about, right? I'm glad I have discovered this creative vent of blogging. I consider myself a pretty creative person, and I don't mind telling you that the monotony of this job occasionally gets to me. Sometimes you just need to step back from the dishwasher and try to remember why you do what you do. Also, who you were before you did what you do.
DH must have seen it on my face this morning as he breezed out on his way to seminary. I love that man. How does he know what I'm thinking? Was it M, wandering around the living room in a t-shirt, no panties and a bucket on her head, that tipped him off? His parting words? "Remember, it's the most important job in the world!" O.K., O.K., I know that is pretty easy for a man to say as he exits the room to go participate in the world. I know him to be sincere, though, so it helps. Coincidentally my aunt sent me a funny e-mail today regarding this same topic, thanks Aunt P!
We got a new table last night. It's beautiful. I'd post a picture, but some of my very messy kitchen might show up. It is huge and should be the last one we have to buy.
I haven't given you a WW update. At my meeting on Wednesday, I had lost 7 pounds total. My clothes are all starting to fit much better, and even have a couple pairs of pants that I can pull down without unbuttoning and unzipping. I don't feel like I'm losing much this week, but the scales will tell. I've made up my mind not to let a bad week or two discourage me. I just hop online and read about those women who have to lose 50, 60, 70+ pounds and it makes my 15 seem really doable.
I know you will come back and catch up on your blog reading Suz, so I want you to know that I've been thinking and praying for ya'll a lot these past two days. I'm sending a great big hug out to you right now.
This blogpals think is pretty cool! I got a card and M got a little gift today. She thought that was the best--something just for her that she didn't have to share. A big thank you going out to my blog pal.
Can someone please explain to me why the word "blog" is not accepted as an English word in blogger's spell check dictionary? There is no logic in this world I tell you.

Story Time

"Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them." -James Baldwin

I have a few choice words in my vocabulary that I am not proud of. My children have known by some instinct that, though Mom uses these words, they will not be permitted to. At least the first two have.
We're sitting on the couch before naps reading "Franklin and Harriet." I never wants a story just read, he wants a performance. He loves to add the sound effects to my narration.

Me: "...Franklin helps his little sister zip zippers..."
I: "ZZZZZZZIIIIPPP!!"
Me: "....Franklin pushes Harriet on the swings...."
I: "SWOOSH"
Me: "Franklin helps Harriet on the see saws..."
I: "WEEEEE!"
Me: "Franklin held Harriet's hand on the slide, but he didn't see the puddle of mud at the bottom...."
I: "Oh, CRAP!"

Hope that little glimpse into our day makes you laugh. I sure did. I couldn't help it. I did sober up enough to tell him that he should not use that word and that Mommy shouldn't use it either and she would try to do better. So, people who read my blog (I know you're out there) what words/phrases do you say that you would not want your kids/grandkids to? I've changed my blog settings so that you non-bloggers can comment. Just click on the little "comments" link below. You know you want to. C'mon, give me some validation, here.
Watch me find out that I'm the only potty mouth I know.

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

That is what it seems like for M. One day I can't get over how far she has come. How she has just grown and blossomed from that scrawny baby with the funny shaped head that we brought home a year and a half ago. But then we have mornings like this one.
K and A are transfer students to a neighboring school (our home district is a terrible school system, long story, whole nuther post). To drive them all the way to school is a twenty minute drive. Luckily, the school has agreed to pick up its transfer students from this area at a mid-way point. Thus, we only drive ten minutes. But, only if we are there at 7:20. I try to leave the house at 7:00, just to be safe. We don't always have time to have a sit down breakfast, and it is pop-tarts or granola bars in the car. Now, I'm really a penny pincher, and I don't like to buy a lot of these type of prepackaged (read $$$$) things. I'm more of a cinnamon toast, pumpkin muffins, egg omelets, kinda gall. At first, I would give everyone these "breakfasts in a bag," but it really grated on my miserliness, because people, that is half a box or more for ONE breakfast. When we get back home from the bus stop the little ones would want a second breakfast of whatever I was fixing for DH and Me, anyway. And also, the little ones were spilling quite a bit of $$$$, I mean, breakfast, in the van. M isn't even really hungry that early in the morning and half the time would just play with the bag until the contents were mush. So, the last five or six times A and K have had to eat (and I mean had to, because they would much rather have the breakfasts I fix), I have carefully explained our time constraints, I have assured M that she will be fed as soon as we return and then given the prepackaged things to A and K. Whereupon she has begun to yell. That child can sho nuf yell. I hate the sound. I've hated it since the first night in Moscow, when I was certain someone was going to call the Russian police and DH and I would be sent to a gulag somewhere in Siberia. Because if you heard this yell, you would think we we were murdering her. Not telling her, "wait 15 minutes for breakfast." We have never (not one single, solitary time) given in to her tantrums. Even that very first night. Let the secret police come, I will not yield. Didn't someone once say that consistency is the key to effective discipline? Well, they never met M, that is certain.
Last Friday, I was doing the mail run and DH was running the morning show. Same scenario. He laid down the law as only Daddy can lay it down for throwing the tantrum. So, I was like, "Great! Maybe she has gotten the breakfast bar message." But here we are on Tuesday, out of time, and it's 7:05. Preparations for homemade pancakes are laid out beside the griddle. I show them to M. I say, "Look! We are going to have yummy pancakes when we get back from the bus stop!" Then I give the last two granola bars to K and A. She puts her hand out. Oh, please tell me we are not going here again?! "No, M, you will have breakfast when we get back." We are! "WWWWWAAAAAAAAAAA." The siren yell. Did I mention it was loud? And it is not high pitched like you might expect of a two year old. No, it is rather deep--think baritone, not soprano. And it is LOUD. GRRRRRR! Why can she not get this? I pop her bottom and tell her she better stop that yelling speedy quick. At this point, she decides she will add a little drama to this morning's tantrum by throwing herself back onto the hard wood floor. Rolling and thrashing and flopping around like a dying fish. She hasn't put on a performance like this in several months. I know from experience that she has reached her Point Of No Return. So, I'm down on the floor with her in a full nelson, holding her mouth shut (she is still yelling), and she is kicking and foaming at the mouth. You might thing I put that last part in to add color and interest to my description. People don't actually foam at the mouth, do they? I tell you they do. There was foam coming out of my child's mouth. Not the first time. Probably won't be the last.
After about two minutes of this, it always seems like two hours, she suddenly stops. Hiccups. Takes a shuddering breath, and her whole body goes limp. I wait for about three more breaths, and release her. She stands up and goes to the door, ready to start her day. She sails through the rest of the morning as Miss Mary Sunshine. I, on the other hand, am left in a much darker place, emotionally and physically spent, wondering.
Why does she do this? Is it the orphanage? Is it the heroin? Is it just the tooty side to an otherwise wonderful little personality? When will she really be over it for good?
I thought I had mastered trust when we were going through the adoption. You know, "Everything I Needed to Know About Trust I Learned in My Russian Adoption." OK, Lord, you can definitely mark "trust" off Your list, because I believe I'm done here. Ha! Guess He's not. He's not finished with me or her yet. That's a good thing. But it ain't easy. No, it sure ain't easy.

Making His Blog Debut

Here is Baby R getting his first massage. Isn't he just about the most beautiful thing you've ever seen? I can't get over his cuteness.

Wardrobe Blues

I'm posting tonight. I don't want to pick up my task of wardrobe sorting. I love my big family and like Dr. Suess's Lorax, we plan to keep biggering and biggering. BUT--I despise the seasonal clothing thing. If we had the money, I'd fill up garbage sacks with all the things that don't fit them any more and I'd haul it all to Goodwill. Next stop would be Gymboree, where I'd buy them everything they needed for the upcoming fall. Since we don't have the money, I put the Wardrobe Sort off as long as possible. It usually takes two good Sundays of complete clothing crisis to motivate me. This morning's frantic scramble made Sunday #2.
How the Su_____ Were Attired for the Sabbath:
Baby R-Diaper, one piece jumper (but he is a baby, so it doesn't really matter what he wears.)
M-red, white and blue sundress (o.k., because temperatures are still well over 90 here) red tights (not o.k., because, well, because temperatures are still well over 90 here, but no Sunday School socks could be found), navy blue mary janes (don't really go with whole sundress look, and are 1/2 size too small)
I-black wranglers (about 6 inches too long) red t-shirt with navy blue stripe (yes, that isn't a typo he was wearing navy with black. Plus, the shirt was a size too small and had a grease stain right up front.), Spider Man tennis shoes.
A-Baby blue with yellow and white dandelions sundress(not quite so o.k. because it SCREAMS summer. A has worn it two summers. We bought it at the second hand store and it is beginning to pill badly), school sandals. Once we arrived, I realized that her hair had not been brushed, because we had been so busy with finding clothes.
K-Navy blue plaid shirt size 7 (he wears size 8) navy blue slacks size 7 (two words- High Water), white sport socks (which could clearly be seen because the pants stopped a good two inches before his leg did), brown dress shoes.
I know the good Lord doesn't care what you wear, but it really bothers ME. I think I feel more stress for everyone to look nice because I don't want people to think, "Oh, look, there goes the Su______, they have so many kids, they can't even get them dressed decent." Which, maybe we can't! But I don't want any body to know that! Also, people do look at the pastor's family. It is not like we can slip into a back pew after the service has started and then slip out again as it closes. Nope. We gotta stand there and shake hands and hug necks of every single person as they exit.
So, after naps today, I nagged DH into bringing in the tough totes from the shed. A dozen Rubbermaids were eventually lugged in and placed in the various bedrooms. Boxes marked, Su_____ Boy 0-3 months, Su______ Girl Winter 3T, Su______ Boy Summer 2T/3T. I have to go through every box. Check size, length, fading, style. "Will M, be able to wear this this winter? Hmm, looks short. Best pack it back up. What about these? Yes, this should fit just right, but where is the top that went with it? Oh, this is so cute, but the hem needs to be replaced...." And on and on it goes--forever! I stop and make notes, like, "A needs brown boots to go with brown butterfly outfit. K needs four pair dress socks. Pink bottoms missing for kitty cat sweater. Need size 2T." When that is done, all the old clothes that are in good enough condition or will be the right season/sex/style for X child to inherit have to be packed up in the appropriate tote, all the others taken to Goodwill. After I drop the sacks off at the front door, I drive around to the front and shop for the things on my list! If I don't find it, we move up to resale, then I have to shop for remaining items at the mall. And when do I have the time or money for mall shopping? It is just a BIG, BIG job and I don't like it. But you probably already guessed that.
That's my Sunday night vent. Hey, I lost two pounds this week. Yeah, me!
Sorry about the spelling errors, but for some reason blogger isn't letting me run spell check.