risk prevention

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Jafta has acquired quite the collection of costumes in the last year, and dressing up as a knight/superhero/spiderman/fireman is his favorite thing to do. I used to store his costumes in a big box on a ledge over his closet, so he had to ask me to get a costume down. The other day, he came strolling out of his room dressed as spiderman, and I was wondering how he got access to the box. This is what I found:

A chair set on top of a toy chest, with his drumset stool balanced on top. Creative? Yes. A great way to fall and break his kneck? Oh yes.

The costumes are now stored in a toybox within easy reach. ER trip averted . . . for now.

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The Three-Month Hump

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Karis turns 3 months old today. Three months is a beautiful thing, where you start to emerge from the fog of newborndom and you settle into some semblance of normal. Well, a new normal, anyways. I am managing to feel a little less day-to-day crisis, and I'm slowly finding my rythm. I still haven't had a trauma-free grocery store run, but most days I am managing to get showered and dressed and leave the house at least once. And not cry. That is the new measure of success.

I am also getting a little relief from the Post-Partum Crazy I've been dealing with. I'm slowly downgrading from a full-blown DSM diagnosis to my previous baseline of mild neurosis. (Let's just say, in the height of my anxiety, that a part of my decision-making involved weighing out how awkward it would be to check myself in to a psych ward where several of my former students now work). One of these days I'll look back and laugh and write a funny blog post about how balls-out crazy my mind was these last months. But for now, it's too soon. TOO SOON, people.

You know what else it's too soon for? Michael Jackson jokes. Ask me how I know.

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A Fair to Remember

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I am slowly recovering from the Frenzy of Fair we were involved in last week. I am sitting here trying to think of how to explain what lead me to the fair, not once, but TWICE, in one week. Really, I have nothing to say for myself. Mostly I blame Rosie, my housekeeper.

Rosie cleans my house twice a month on Wednesday mornings, in order to keep me from divorcing my husband arguing with Mark about the division of labor in our home. I love Rosie but I have some weird quirks about having a housekeeper. For one, I often feel like she and her crew are talking about me in Spanish. I have paranoid thoughts about them saying things like "Why can't she pick up these toys before we come?" Or "How many liquids can one person spill in the fridge in fourteen days?" Pretty much everything they say to each other, I assume they are saying about me. I'm not really sure why I am telling you this, because it has nothing to do with how I got to the fair. I'm just saying, if you talk in front of me in another language, NAIL SALON LADIES, I will assume it is about me. Me me me.

My other, slightly-relevant-to-this-story quirk about Rosie coming, is that I absolutely hate being home while she is cleaning. It just makes me feel really lazy to sit on the sofa while she cleans around me. So I always try to leave as soon as she gets here. (And when I was pregnant and sick, I would just pretend to be really, really busy while I was laying there. And also I tried to lift my feet up when she needed to sweep under my spot on the couch. Not at all awkward).

So. It's Wednesday. Rosie week. I am trying to figure out where to take the kids after I pick them up for preschool. We need a destination so we don't arrive home before she's done. I remember that it is a book drive day at the fair, and if there is one thing I have no shortage of in my house, it is books. So I pick out a few and stock up the diaper bag, thinking we can just make a quick appearance at the fair. At this point, I'm feeling fun and spontaneous and invincible. I'm actually a little giddy, because this kind of off-the-cuff decision is so unlike me. One might even describe my state as manic. If one were a mental health professional. (Good thing I don't know any of those).

I went to pick up the kids, and I let them know that I had a fun surprise to tell them in the car. They both lit up with excitement! We hurried to the car, where I sat them down, buckled them in, and then turned to give them the big news. "Kids, we are going to the fair!"

Blank stares. And then,

JAFTA: But what's the surprise?
INDIA: Where is my present?
ME: We're going to the fair! THAT's the surprise!
INDIA: But no! I want a surprise! Where is my new thing? I want a new something.
JAFTA: Are we getting a giant spongebob toy at the fair?
INDIA: I wanted a present! A present!! WAHHHHHHHH!
ME: Um . . . this isn't going how I planned . . .

I probably could have switched the plan up and given them both a Happy Meal Toy and they would have been satisfied, but I was determined to shine in my Oscar-nominated role as Fun, Spontaneous Mom Who Takes Her Children To The Fair On A Whim. I drove around my neighborhood looking for a place to park and decided on a spot about a quarter mile from my house. This put us at about a quarter mile from the fairgrounds.

However.

The part of this story I failed to anticipate is that once you are on the fairgrounds property, there is still about a mile of parking lot until you get to the actual fair entrance. The other minor detail I forgot is that I have a double stroller and THREE CHILDREN. It's been a while since I made this walk, and it literally slipped my mind that Jafta would have to hoof it on this mile-long trek, too. (Incidentally, it was about 100 degrees that day, and we were walking across a mile of black asphalt). About halfway across the parking lot, I actually thought that it might be a good idea to turn around. Jafta was so tired that he was begging me to call a taxi. Had that been an option, I would have.

Once we got into the actual fair, I explained to the kids that this would just be a short fair trip, and that we wouldn't be riding any rides. Then we passed by a huge booth of spiderman toys, and I explained that we wouldn't be buying any toys. Then we passed by a row of food vendors and I explained that we already ate lunch. Then we passed by the midway and I explained that we wouldn't be spending $40 to try to win a Hannah Montana bedazzled pillow.

Just to clarify, in case you are taking notes on my parenting genius: in the course of five minutes I categorically outlawed the entire fair to a two-year-old and four-year-old. Jafta looked like someone had just told him there was no Santa Claus. I tried to act like this was all still a big, huge party, and made a beeline for the "Fun Zone".

The Fun Zone is a huge sauna of a tent that has kid's activities inside. It is pretty much the only free offering at the entire fair. It consists of a huge sand pile, surrounded by stations of toys that most kids own at home (legos, tinker toys, blocks, etc). Fortunately, my kids bought it and they played in there for hours. I was bored so I started taking photos of weird people. This family wins, hands down:

The whole family was wearing matching tye-died shirts, and matching batik-print shorts. You can see some of the family in this picture. Unfortunately two preteen sons were outside of the shot, and I was trying to pretend to take a picture of India, so calling them over was not an option. But may I point out that their youngest son is wearing a girl's bonnet that appears to be straight off the set of Little House on the Prairie.

And then there was this moron who left her purse wide open on top of her stroller while she walked around taking photos of strangers.

Oh wait, that was me.

Once we finished in the Fun Zone I was ready to call it a day, but on our way out we passed by a small tent hosting a little circus show. Jafta begged, so I relented, and we found the only available seats (in the front row) and watched the show.

I have not seen a lot of circus shows, but even with my limited experience I feel qualified to say that this was the WORST CIRCUS EVER. First of all, the M.C. was very old and very frail. He could barely walk. Either this guy really really loves his job or the circus does not have a great 401k plan. He was struggling to get through any of the acts. I should also mention that I believe the props and soundtrack of the show have not changed since the invention of the locomotive. The whole thing was, ahem, vintage. Then another guy comes out to do some juggling, but dropped his props several times during fairly simple moves. So suffice it to say, when he brought out the knives, I was not feeling confident in his juggling abilities. Especially sitting in the front row. Then this same guy, who does not look especially physically fit, does a little trick where he balances himself on chairs, which Jafta thought was the coolest thing in the world. I might have said a few prayers for this man in those five minutes. I also might have had a very small panic attack.

They also did some stale and COMPLETELY OBVIOUS tricks with a dove. And then there was this total moron who breastfed her baby in the front row because her screaming baby refused to drink from the bottle. Oh wait, that was me, too.

NOTE TO SELF- when you sit in the front row with a four-year-old with a bird phobia, and a dove is in 75% of the show, you may end up in a show of your own. It might be entitled Boy Climbs Up Neck of Mother While Mother Exposes Breast.


Once the freak show was finally over (and the circus finished up), I let the kids have some ice cream and we again headed for the exit, but this time we were sidetracked by the petting zoo. Now, if you know me at all, you know how much I love animals. From a distance. A very, very safe distance.

So I was thrilled when this llama decided that my skirt looked like food, and began to eat it. Those llamas are quick, and before I knew it, half my skirt was down this llama's throat. Some chivalrous observer had to wedge himself between myself and the llama and pull my skirt from its esophagus, which was now covered in llama saliva and partially-chewed dog food pellets. And in case you were keeping count, I've now exposed my breast to the audience at the circus, and my underwear to the crowd in the petting zoo.

That was my final cue to leave the fair.

Now, how I ended up returning the very next day is a story for another time . . . and this time, I blame my sister-in-law Sarah.

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Hand-me-downs in Haiti

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Getting new pictures of Keanan . . . it's better than Christmas. He is getting so big. In this picture, he is wearing one of Jafta's old shirts. There is something bittersweet about seeing him in his brother's hand-me-downs, yet so many miles away from us. It makes me long to hold him even more.

No update to report. I believe our file is still stuck in IBESR - the very first stage of the process (our file was sent back there a few months ago). Two years and counting, and no end in sight. And so we wait . . .

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Racism and Sunburns: Lessons from Skippygate

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It seems like every major news outlet has been weighing in on the arrest of Harvard professor Henry Gates. Someone observed Gates trying to break into his home (having lost his keys), the police were called, tensions mounted, and he was arrested on charges of disturbing the peace. Now, the question on everyone’s minds: Was Gates a victim of racial profiling?


As usual, the answers to this question seem widely polarized and subjective. For some, this incidence sparks anger and resentment, and further proves that we are living in a society suspicious of Black men. For others, this is yet another example of African Americans needing to “get over it” and stop being so sensitive.


I wonder, though, if there is more to learn here, and if the answers are not so black-and-white. I’m not even sure if the question of this police officer’s racial bias is even the most relevant question here.


When I do couples counseling, I often educate couples about something I call the “sunburn principle”. It goes a little something like this: If my husband walks up to me and gives me a friendly pat on the back, it probably isn’t something that should be painful to me, and isn’t likely something he is doing to intentionally hurt me. However, if I have a severe sunburn on my back, and he does the same thing . . . it’s gonna hurt. I will be in pain, whether he meant it or not. Now this translates into marriage because most of us are walking around with some level of “sunburn” from our childhood. I’ll give you a minor example from my own life. My mother was frequently late to pick me up from school. Now, if my husband is a few minutes late, it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. But because I have a wounding in that area, if he does arrive somewhere late and I find myself waiting for him, I become really, really hurt.


In a loving relationship, a husband and wife should be in tune with each other’s sunburns. I should know the triggers that make my husband feel insulted or unloved, and he should know mine. It’s not my job to fix him, or tell him he’s being too sensitive, or defend myself by pointing out that it’s his issue. My job is to have empathy for him, and to honor him by avoiding further hurt in his life.


This sunburn principle plays out with my children, too. My son was adopted at six months of age. As a result of being passed around between primary caregivers as an infant, he developed some abandonment issues. He is a sensitive little soul, and if he had his way, Mark and I would never leave to go to work, he would never spend time away from us, and there would be little to no separation, even at home. It’s not comfortable for him. As a mom, to be honest, this can get a little old. I like going out for date nights, or having some time to myself, or walking into a different room without a shadow. I could respond to his feelings by lecturing him on how important my needs are, or by challenging him on his anxiety. But the best thing I can do is try to understand how the world looks from his point of view.


Empathy is a powerful tool. So how does this apply to the arrest of Henry Gates?


Here are the facts we do know: Henry Gates felt that someone was being racist towards him. He asserted this feeling, and from what I can read, he was arrested for saying it out loud.
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Henry Gates is 58 year old. Segregation was a reality during his childhood. We live in a country with an atrocious track record for treating African Americans, and that past is not as distant as we would all like to believe. Racial profiling is real, and it still happens. There is deep wounding in the African American community, and rightly so. It's time for all of America to acknowledge this pain. And White America: we don’t need to defend ourselves, or talk about how it isn’t our fault, or tell them to stop being so angry or sensitive or whatever characteristic we project to avoid blame for that hurt. It is there and it is real, and some empathy is in order


We can argue all day long about whether or not this police response constitutes racial profiling. But here is a man who was inside his own home, who had offered his id, and was still arrested. In defense of the arresting officer, the police department told the public that he was a man who had often educated others about the problem of racial profiling. He knew about the “sunburn”, so to speak. And yet when Gates spoke out about this possibility, rather than backing down, he arrested the man. I can’t help but think that this police officer’s posture was one of defensiveness. How might this situation have played out differently if there were more empathy and less defensiveness involved? I think the answer to that question may be the real lesson here.

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Not Fair People

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I took my kids to the fair today, in a rare moment of sponteneity and self-sacrifice (being usually rather controlling and self-serving). I've always hated the fair, and let's just say that going alone with three small children did not make the heart grow fonder. Lots of fun stuff to write about, but I am exhausted. So for now, I will repost my feelings from last year's fair. Which have not changed. In the least.


- - - - - - -

I am going to say some things in this post that may not be nice. My sentiments here are shallow at best. Juvenile even. But we've been to the fair this week, and I need to process. If my mocking of all things carny is going to bother you, skip down to my nice post where I reflect on social justice. Or go read this, or look at these pretty pictures.

You're still here? Well don't say I didn't warn you.

So the fair. Yeah. The bottom line is this:

WE ARE NOT FAIR PEOPLE

The trouble is, we live right next to the Orange County Fairgrounds. We can barely leave our house during two months each summer without passing by the gruesome eyesore that is the Orange County Fair. And my children, like mosquitos drawn to the garish flourescent light of the bug zapper, turn into zombies who must go to the fair or die.

The are many other awesome aspects of living a block from the fair: the increase in burglary, the insane amounts of traffic, and the hordes of flies who come to hover about the fair food and livestock and then get bored and make their way into my kitchen to spread the germ love around. And, of course, the unavoidable meltdown every time you drive by and the kids see colorful rides and bright lights and they want to go RIGHT NOW. So every summer, we relent.

Certain reality shows on the Bravo network may have given you the impression that all people in Orange County look like this:

If you have been so influenced to think that we live in the land of beautiful people, I encourage you to visit the fair to witness The OC at it's finest. There is still plenty of silicone here, to be sure. But there is also lots and lots of cellulite squeezed into spandex and tube tops, and shirtless people in jeans, and bad teeth, and I'm pretty sure I saw a pregnant lady smoking a cigarrette.

And there's this lady:

. . . who thinks that leather pants and spikey heels are a good idea for walking a mile from the parking lot in 96 degree heat. I don't want to think about how sweaty she's gotta be under those pants. You are welcome for that visual.

But the insanity of the fair does not stop there. Witness people dropping hordes of money trying to win toys that would be $3 at Target. And the food. I've never seen so many fried options in my life. Fried twinkies, even. And if you have a child with you, there is really no way to avoid it. (Especially since they check your bag when you arrive, in case you were trying to smuggle in a carrot or something). Here's a picture of my kids eating some transfat-covered potatoes and thinking they are in heaven.

But the scariest part of the fair has got to be riding in gravity-defying contraptions that were just disassembled from LA's County Fair last week and reassembled with an allen wrench by a guy who looks like this:

Because who doesn't want to put their life into the hands of a high school drop-out who cooks meth in a trailer out behind the 4-H exhibit?

((((((oh, wow, Kristen, that's so mean. how could you judge this guy so harshly? you don't know if he does drugs. ))))))

Sure. And Paula Abdul is just really, really tired.

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two hours from miami . . .

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The island of Haiti is such a devastating place. We feel connected to it, especially since we are trying to bring a child home. It is always on our hearts and minds, and there are some days where I am just overwhelmed by the difficulty these people face on a daily basis. Truly, I don't think any of us can fathom what hardships are faced by those living in Haiti.

This was one of those weeks where several stories broke my heart. Licia, a nurse who lives in a rural village in Haiti, tells the story of a little boy brought to her gate. They run a mission that takes in children close to starvation, nurses them back to health, and then returns them to their family. This little boy had been saved from malnourishment and returned to his mom in February, but the mom brought him back this week:

Here is a child that was abandoned in front of the gate. But….. This child was [previously] returned to his mother. The day that I gave him back to her she told the staff that she did not want to take him home. She said that her new guy said he would not take care of another person’s kid. He said if you die I will bury him with you in the casket. Lovely boyfriend huh? There was also a neighbor of hers that happened to be at the clinic that day. She said she would show us the mothers house. We sent someone from RHFH to go to the mothers house to see what she had to say. She was hiding and would not come out. The judge requested that she come to Cazal on Wednesday to see him. She said she would come if I would give her taxi money. She did not come but she sent word that if she comes and we make her take her child she will leave him along the road on the way back home. This child is abandoned, but has a mother that I know, so it cannot be considered and abandoned child [or adoptive into a family]. Interesting. What to do now? He is here and alive and that is enough right now.

We ran out of IV fluids today. I had two bags left this AM. I had to pick whichkid needed it the most out of three that were severely dehydrated. Dad is in town trying to find some for us as I write this. We have a least 5 kids on IV’s right now. The last few days there has been a bad case of diar vomiting traveling through the RC. It is bad for any child, but when that child is already weak, sick and malnourished it becomes a life and death situation really quick. The kids could use your prayers today. We at RHFH could use your prayers. It is not always easy.

And then I also read this story from another missionary:

It's hard to live here sometimes because the depth of need is SO great. Our family has already been "offered" 11 children. Eleven. ELEVEN CHILDREN.Today probably AT LEAST a dozen people begged me for food or money. At least. It's hard to know what to do. You feel like a jerk if you ignore them, but it takes so much time to engage each one. And the longer you engage them the more you give them hope that you're actually going to give them something. When you cannot give to everyone. You just CANNOT.

Starvation is a reality for people in Haiti. It breaks my heart, as a mom, to think about not being able to even feed my children, or to be so desperate that I would want to leave my child at a gate because I know they could be fed.

I know it is sometimes hard to read stories like this. It's much more fun to check out the buzz on facebook or visit some funny blogs and not think about the awful aspects of this broken world. But truly, I hope you will take a minute to be reminded of the great blessing we live with, and the great need that remains for some people in our world.

There are some amazing people in Haiti doing life-saving work, and I am honored to have gotten to know them through our adoption process. If you are interested in ways to make a difference in Haiti, please check out Tara's blog. She is training for a marathon (in the Haitian heat, I might add), to raise money for the Medika Mamba program. The video below explains more, but Medika Mamba is basically fortified peanut-butter that is helping to save the lives of children in Haiti. It also benefits the Haitian economy because the peanuts are all grown locally. Here are some before-and-after photos of children being treated:




The boy above is named Renald, and Tara tells his story:

He came to the Rescue Center on June 3rd. Renald was unable to gain weight up until June 18 because he had so many worms to get rid of and was quite ill. Most of the food he ate the first two weeks came right back out.Once he improved enough to keep the Mamba down, Renald has been receiving Medika Mamba multiple times a day. June 26 (about 20 days ago) was the offical date that he really started to get a few tablespoons each day. On July 14 he weighed 18 pounds even. (He started at 13 and a half pounds.) He has not yet reached goal weight for his age but his progress is astounding. We think by the end of August he will be to his goal weight and then some.

If this moves you into action, please think about sponsoring Tara as she runs in October.






*By the way, buying a purse is still a GREAT way to support local enterprise in Haiti, and to give some women in Haiti a chance to support themselves and their families. The women now have their own website! Check it out at http://www.haitiancreations.com/.

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public service announcement

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(a recycled post. for earth day)


Pssst . . .

Hey, have you noticed that most grocery stores now have a place like this:

where you can put these?

or better yet, start using these:

(my personal favorites):

so we can avoid this:

and this:

because whatever excuse of convenience we've been using does not justify this . . .

. . . so let's keep clean it up for them.

thank you.

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an open letter to criminals about our upcoming vacation

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We have a summer full of family visits. My mom just left after a week stay. My sister Brooke and her family are visiting in a few weeks. The day they leave, my nephews Austin and Derek arrive for a stay. And then we fly up for a week with Mark's brother and family. It will be a fun and full summer.


Oops. I guess you're not supposed to say when you go on vacation on your blog. You know, in case some would-be criminals are reading and decide to rob your house while you are gone.


Well, just in case someone is tempted to burglarize our house sometime in late August to go to an undisclosed city in the northwest that launched the grunge scene and boasts a space needle, here is a disclaimer and some highlights of our valuables:


- Everything in our house is likely covered in trace amounts of breastmilk and urine.

- My laptop is missing the escape key and the right shift key. It has also had water spilled directly on the keyboard and the letter W sticks because a crumb of food is lodged under the key.

- Our television is in the living room. The tube is going out so the screen displays about five inches of white lines across the top of the picture. We've found that you don't really need to see the top of most movies. The DVD player is broken, as is the VCR, though there may be an old bagel inside the VHS slot. Don't forget to take all four remotes - you will need that many to operate the tv due to each being broken in it's own special way.

- There are two 2nd generation ipods in the house. They are both in Jafta's room. Neither works without being plugged in. They are primarily loaded with children's books on tape and broadway soundtracks. I hope you like musicals.

- All of our DVD's are in the armoire under the tv. I hope you like musicals.

- All CD's are stored in the garage. I hope you like musicals.

- My jewelry is kept in the bedroom. There are about 12 plastic necklaces from H&M and Forever 21, and a few Mardi Gras beads that I didn't earn the old-fashioned way.

- BACK OFF the art. It's the only thing of (sentimental) value in my house and they are tripped with laser beams and video cameras just like in the movies. Sure, I might be lying about that. But do you really want to test me?

- The cars are in the driveway, and they are fully insured. If you get hungry, there should be enough goldfish on the floor to feed you for several days.

- The only cash in the house is in the kids' piggy banks. But there is a special place in hell for people who steal from children.

- My husband owns several Oakley golf shirts. That's right. They're Oakley. And they are golf shirts. PLEASE TAKE THEM. They are in the miniscule closet in the bedroom.

- If you do rob my house, at least come back to my blog and leave a comment. It's rude not to leave a comment.

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family fitness

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(Karis's dumbells are actually wooden barstools for a dollhouse that I pretend are weights for children, because I don't want the kids to mess with mine. Now they are just something the kids constantly fight over.)

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crying in public

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I'm not a big "cryer". I usually manage to be pretty stoic, in fact . . . a trait that often belies the junk lying just under the surface. But right now I am insanely sleep deprived, and have a lingering case of The Postpartum Crazy that is, to be blunt, kinda kicking my ass. These two factors have converged today and had me on the brink of tears several times.

I managed not to cry when I picked the kids up from preschool, and Jafta tried to help push Karis's snap-and-go stroller, upended it, and Karis landed upside-down on the ground, hanging from the straps of her carseat. I managed not to cry when I thought about how, had she not been strapped in with the handle up to act as a bumper, I might have had a newborn with a cracked skull on my hands.

I managed not to cry when I ran to the store on our way home because I realized, just before naptime, that I had no milk, and it was just as disastrous as my previous attempts to buy groceries with the kids. I managed not to cry when Karis and India had simultaneous, ear-piercing meltdowns in aisle 7, while I tried to stifle a suffocating realization that I am overwhelmed by the simplest of tasks right now, and do not feel qualified to leave my house.

And then in aisle 11, out of the blue, Jafta asks me why Keanan is taking so long to come home. I don't know, I tell him. To which he says: "I think the president in Haiti said no."

Cue tears.

Cleanup on aisle 11. We've got an ugly cry.

I've been trying really hard to keep it together about our ever-delayed adoption. I seem to vacillate between total hopelessness, total denial, and total depression about the whole thing. I can remember reading someone's blog, years ago, who had to wait a few years to bring their child home from Haiti. I remember thinking that the situation was one of the worst things I could imagine someone going through. It is surreal to now be experiencing it. We continue to have no updates and no idea of what is happening with our files in Haiti. I just know that he's not coming home any time soon, and my feelings about that are deep and complicated and overwhelming at times. Like in the grocery store.

I don't know where Jafta came up with what he said. I've never talked to him about the process, or that fact that we really are getting hung up by presidential approval, but I guess he understands that there are some powers-that-be who aren't cooperating.

Oh, and if you are reading this and thinking that maybe you could console me by saying something like, "Well, maybe Keanan not being home right now is a mixed blessing, since you are struggling with three . . ." PLEASE do not say that to me. It's already been said, several times, and clearly I am a hormonal woman on the edge of sanity and may just smack the next person who says it. I would never tell a friend who is having a hard time with their kids to ship one off to an orphanage for a while and call it a blessing. Keanan not being home is one of the very reasons I am overwhelmed. It's exhausting trying to keep that grief down all day.
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Blech. This post has taken a turn for the worst and I am depressing even myself. If you are still reading, you should go do a google search for funny pictures of cats in toilets or something,

Okay, in better news:

My sister had a baby today!!

And so did my friend Amy!!!

And India finally put a poop in the potty and got to wear the Tinkerbell costume we've been dangling in front of her for three weeks (photo forthcoming)!!!!

And So You Think You Can Dance is a really good show!!! And exclamation points will cancel out all the wallowing drivel I just wrote!!!!

Oh, and India's grocery store meltdown? Over my refusal to buy her this:



High School Musical cereal. Strategically placed at her eye level, and chock full of red dye, high-fructose corn syrup, and photos of Troy Bolton. Someone at Kellog's hates me.

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orphan movie, orphan stigma

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One of the most discouraging things I have heard people say about adopting a child is that "you never know what you are going to get." I supposed there is some truth to that statement, but I feel that it is usually said with some air of genetic superiority . . . that somehow a person's own familiar chromosomal makeup would be preferable to the "crap shoot" of adopting. It's interesting to me that this notion is held in a society that seems to blame bad parenting on every childhood deviation from perfect behavior. I also think it is interesting that anyone should think that their own family blood line to be better than another without taking into account the mitigating factors of education, privilege, prenatal care, and good parenting. In fact, even in the presence of these things, families from all walks of life have some blips in the tree here and there. Which is why I always find it a little rattling when I've been asked about Jafta's birth family in a way that indicated the answer would be some sort of an indictment on his character or potential. (This is also why I am tight-lipped about it, because I know the prejudice of "guilt by genetic association" is still pervasive).

Don't get me wrong, I realize that there are genetic components to things like mental illness, addiction, cancer, diabetes, etc. But if those were deterrents to parenting, then Mark and I should never have had our own biological children, because Lord knows we've got enough of that crap in our own family of origins. Most of us probably do. Then there are a host of other issues that can crop up during pregnancy or childhood that have no foreshadowing in the genetic code. Because the universal truth is, when you decide to be a parent, whatever way that happens, you don't know what you are going to get. That's a risk you take whether you get pregnant or adopt. So forgive me when I get annoyed at that truth being applied so liberally and exclusively to adoption.

The reason I'm feeling a little testy about this today is that I just saw a preview for a movie called Orphan. Now I am so not the type to send out boycott emails, or jump on the latest bandwagon of Things to Be Alarmed About. But one of the things that stuck out to me in a preview is someone whispering that very warning to a prospective adoptive couple: you never know what you are going to get. I've not seen the movie, but from the looks of the preview, the couple adopt a little girl who ends up being some sort of a monster who wreaks havoc on the lives of an idyllic suburban couple. I am not blind to the fact that the adoption of hurting children can really wreak havoc on a family, but an exploration of attachment issues does not seem to be the goal of this movie. (I would love to see a mainstream movie about that). Orphan is a horror film, and it's perpetuating an insidious notion about parenting orphans. I think it is bringing unneccesary fear and stigma to the adoption of older children, and I'm kinda pissed about it. And yes, I'm rattling off about a movie I haven't even seen yet, and I HATE when people do that. But based upon the entire plot premise I don't think I need to waste my time, and no matter how it ends, the moral of the story is clear: this couple shouldn't have adopted.

There are 140 million orphans in this world, and I can't think of a population in greater need of compassion. Why a movie company would choose to vilify orphans for a cheap thrill is beyond me. I'm not going to link to a petition or call for a boycott. I don't really think that stuff effects much change. Instead, perhaps it's a call for all of us to contemplate how we can honor and respect the least of these when our entertainment industry does not.

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corporate napping

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My kids just completed their second week at their new preschool. So far, both Mark and I have been really impressed with the program, and Jafta and India seem to be having fun, too. I think Jafta is slowly realizing he doesn't need to follow India around on the playground to protect her from things like pretend guns (which he is doing in the photo). And India has managed to wait to poop her pants until after she gets home.

Um, yeah. The potty training. Not going so well. Every day when I pick her up, my heart is racing as I enter the classroom and I hope beyond hope we've made another day without the teachers discovering my charade of potty-training completion, which I BOLD-FACE LIED about on the application. She manages to stay clean at school, and that is all I care about for now. Those three hours on M/W/F mornings are more precious to me than I can say.

The school they attend has a full-day and a half-day option. Based on the emptiness of the parking lot at 12:15 and the number of kids still there at pickup, I think my kids are the only ones who don't stay all day. Every time I pick them up the teachers are laying out mats for the afternoon naptime, and my kids both have their own unique reactions to leaving before the rest of their classmates.

India throws a complete tantrum when I pick her up. She begs and begs and begs to "stay at my class forever". Forever, in her mind, meaning longer than right now. Jafta, on the other hand, seems to be completely panicked that someday he should have to take a corporate nap on the floor of his classroom. Every day he asks me if he will ever have to take a nap at his school, and every day I assure him that mommy does not want to pay an extra $35 afternoon care fee to have that happen.

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this american life

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{our independence day: a story in pictures}

We had a great 4th of July yesterday. Mark started the day off with one of his favorite activities: putting something together. We bought a trampoline and Mark and his dad mulled over the instructions to make sure they got it right.

Five hours later, here is the assembled trampoline. Except, somehow, the net is not aligned with the frame, so the entrance is askew and the whole thing must be taken apart. Two hours, five beers, and several curse words later, the trampoline is finally ready for the inaugural jump.

India and cousin Tanner declare the trampoline to be in good working order.

Our neighborhood has a rockin' block party every year for the 4th. The morning started off with some face-painting. India already thinks my friend Andrea is the coolest chic ever, but the face-painting put India's esteem of Andrea over the edge.

After the face-painting, we took a little nap to prepare for the neighborhood parade. Upon waking, each child was refreshed and excited to be donned in obnoxious patriotic gear. Here is Karis showing her enthusiasm:

And I think this shot accurately captures India's patriotism:



Jafta had a wee bit of a meltdown because he didn't have an ATV hummer to ride in the parade like several of his friends. I tried to explain to Jafta the impact of driving such a large vehicle on the environment and his personal carbon footprint, and the benefits of bike-riding in combating childhood obesity, but he did not seem to care.




Then I told Jafta that I thought his bike was bigger than most of the other boys' bikes on the block. He was then convinced to join the parade. Never underestimate the negotiating power of machismo.

Tanner was the most contented of the bunch, and demonstrated his mad scooter skills.

The girls finally came around and moved from screaming to merely scowling:

The parade is a highlight every year, and some families are overachievers. This family wins for best homemade float, and also for homeschooling, musical talent (see below), parenting five perfectly mannered children, general adorable-ness, and being way too nice to actually mock even though it would make me feel better about myself:

The dads conspire about the fireworks show. Cool guys don't look at explosions. They blow things up and they walk away.

After the parade, Mark hosted the annual waterballoon toss. Jafta illustrated his knightly chivalry with the ladies by trying to over-hand pummel several girl's faces with water. Smooth.

The balloon toss was followed by the WORST TALENT SHOW EVER. The show featured completely obvious magic tricks, knock-knock jokes written by seven-year-olds, father-son light saber duels, and a drum solo by Jafta:



India did not have a scheduled act in the talent shoe but did decide to do an impromptu cheerleading routine between acts:



And then some other girls got up to do a dance routine, and, oh wait, there is India on stage again . . .

And then the overachieving homeschooling awesome float family did a number that was really, really good. Children singing, playing guitar, drumming . . . harmonizing even. That is, until a certain Howerton decided she needed just a few more minutes in the spotlight. Can someone please remove my daughter from the stage? Her need for attention is embarrassingly familiar.

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the conundrum with an ornate feather

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I have grossly underestimated my four-year-old.

We are having some issues with sleep in our house. People are often asking me how Karis is sleeping. And for a newborn, she is sleeping okay. It's the other two that decided to up the ante since Karis was born. I am pretty sure that the three of them have a daily meeting where they discuss the shifts they will cover to ensure an even spread of waking us up throughout the night. Generally, India starts screaming bloody murder around 1am. Then around 2ish, Jafta will wake us up to inform us he went potty and needs his worship music turned back on. Jafta falling back to sleep is Karis's cue to cry. India usually hits another screaming fit around 4, and again Karis takes her cue for round two from India falling back to sleep. At 6, 6:15, 6:30, 6:45, and 7am, Jafta will enter our room and ask if it is time to wake up yet. We will tell him no and make various threats of bodily harm if he asks us again, which he ignores since he knows we are all talk and too tired to actually get up and discipline him. And also because we don't spank, and putting him in a time-out in his bed is kind of a moot point when he's already there.

After weeks of this, I am pretty tired, and a dear friend suggested that I try a kind of incentive for Jafta, since he's the one of the three likely old enough to bribe with a prize understand a token economy. I was a little skeptical, primarily because Jafta feels the need to announce to the world every time he uses the bathroom. We have been telling him for years that he no longer needs to tell us every time he has to go. But still, every night we are woken several times with Jafta at the foot of the bed declaring "Mom, I'm going potty!" Not annoying. AT ALL.


We devised a clever little system where we rigged up a hanging star lamp (or SMILA STJARNA, to be precise) and plugged it into a Christmas tree timer. I bought a 4 watt nightlight bulb so it doesn't really illuminate the room, it just gives off a little glow. It hangs right above his bed. The timer turns the light on at 8pm, and the light turns off at 8am. We gave Jafta specific instructions to stay in bed until the starlight goes off. We also gave him specific instructions to quietly use the bathroom without telling us if he needs to go during the night.


I underestimated three things in this scenario:

1. Jafta's math skills
2. Jafta's desire for a knight costume
3. The availability of a knight costume in the greater OC Metro area


I told Jafta that if he stayed in bed for five nights in a row, he could earn a knight costume. He has been begging for a knight costume for the better part of a year, so I knew it would be a good incentive for him, but I really thought it would take weeks for him to have the self-control to get through a whole night of not coming in our room. The first night, I was shocked to hear Jafta use the restroom by himself around 1am. I was so shocked by hearing someone walking quietly down the hallway that I actually thought it was a burglar. After a few minutes I peeked into his room and he was back in bed. The next morning, Jafta woke me up at 8am ON THE DOT. "Mommy, my starlight went off and I went to the bathroom at night all by myself and in four more nights I can have a knight costume."


Somehow his concept of time had eluded me, because usually I like to make ambiguous and generalized promises to him about things in the future. Like, "you can chew gum when you are 7" or "you can have skate shoes when you are 10" or "you can stop going to school when you have an MD behind your name". So I was thrown off when, three nights in, I realized that I had better find a knight costume, and FAST, because he was reminding me every second of the day that he was a mere two days away from knighthood. And he was very specific about the kind of knight costume he wanted. He wanted the kind with an ornate feather. Yes, his words. No clue where he got that idea.


I hadn't really planned out the acquisition of the knight costume. On the evening of day four, I casually ran to Target to pick up some toilet paper and a knight costume. There were 5,732 varieties of princess costumes at Target, but no knight. Then I came home and sent Mark to Walmart. No knight costume there, either.


I knew we were going to have a coup d'etat on our hands if a knight costume did not materialize by the morning, so after much searching and calling and gnashing of teeth, Mark had to drive all the way to Tustin to get a knight costume. (And yes, I know Tustin is only 15 minutes away. But I have been living in the OC too long and have some very fixed ideas about not veering out of the 5-minute radius surrounding my house. Anything further than that is a road trip by OC standards).


So, we now have a respectfully earned knight costume, complete with an ornate feather/fountain grass plume from the backyard. Jafta is really, really excited about it. For the last few days he has worn it everywhere, on bike rides, to a pool playdate, to pick up my mom from the airport, and even to bed. Every time I have a phone conversation Jafta wants to know who I'm talking to and if I've told them about the knight costume yet.
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I am extremely proud of Sir Jafta and his dedication to a better night's sleep for those in his kingdom. If only we could get the princesses sleeping through the night, we could have our own version of Camelot.

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