So much to tell about this weekend. Here's a preview:
Whenever the boys are away, the girls and I have a tea party. I don't remember how this was started, but the tradition has stuck. It's pretty simple - I lay a blanket out in the middle of the kitchen and brew some herbal tea. India invites a doll or two. Karis sits in the bumbo so she doesn't upend the tea. We sip.
Tonight was a tea-party night. Mark took the boys to the barber shop, and as soon as they were out the door, India pulled out the blanket and ordered me to start the tea. I needed this tonight. I've been feeling pretty down lately . . . having a lot of guilt about my parenting. The fact is, we've been in sheer survival mode for five months now. Maybe longer, if I'm honest. There is not a lot of "fun" in our lives right now. It feels like I am just going through the motions to keep things from falling apart each day. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, bathing, diapers, bedtime . . . there is not a lot of space for intentionality, creativity, or spontaneity. Over the past few weeks, I've been feeling this nagging sense that I should be doing more/bigger/better. Maybe I should be doing more crafts with the kids. Maybe we should be saving for those Disney passes. Maybe I should be taking them to new parks instead of the usual. Maybe I should be making themed dinners. Etc.
Our tea party today was a reminder that I don't have to do elaborate, ambitious things to create special moments. I can keep it simple. They don't require a tap-dance to feel special. Just a little quality time and a special moment. Even if it's on the floor of the kitchen. With a guest princess.
In my online world, I tend to overshare. I'm usually okay with that (thought I think a few family members might prefer me to filter a bit). It's rare that I feel regret after sharing something embarrassing. I have no problem talking about our sex life to half of Orange County, or discussing the time I flashed the crowd at a circus, or the fact that I occasionally eat stale candy off the floor of my car. But the footage I took Mark and I tonight, as we got in touch with our Latin sides in new and exciting ways . . . something tells me that I've gone too far.
(And no. It's not that kind of footage. Good Lord, get your mind out of the gutter).
This evening we were both on our laptops, Mark practicing his Spanish with his newly acquired Rosetta Stone, and me attempting to learn a rather fast-paced salsa/mambo/boy band routine for a flashmob (that's right, FLASHMOB) that I'm in this weekend. As we were both practicing skills we've not used since college, in our kitchen by the glow of our laptops, I had the realization that we might be having our dorkiest moment EVER. And so, of course, I had to film it. Because nothing gives me greater joy than letting others laugh at my expense. (Unless I'm laughing at your expense, that is).
So, here is a taste of a hot night in the Howerton house. Please try not to be jealous of how worldly and exotic we are.
A few highlights I'd like to point out:
wwI've been way behind on linking, which is why this is gonna be a long list. But here are some of the posts I've enjoyed in the past few weeks:
I love everything about Catherine's writing at Her Bad Mother, especially her bad mother manifesto, so it's hard for me not to link to pretty much everything she writes. But I loved her post entitled Love Is A Many-Splendored And Sometimes Sort Of Exhausting And Anxiety-Provoking Thing. I think that sort of says it all.
I think Cecily speaks for many of us when she talks about that feeling that other moms are somehow reading the secret manual, and maybe even cut from a different cloth as we fumble and try to figure this thing out.
Tami, of What Tami Said, wrote a fascinating article for Psychology Today inquiring if religion breeds racism.
Aaryn Belfer talks about the state of distraction we all live in due to the dawn of the internet.
Ali Bray has a great post at Mama Manifesto about food, and where it comes from, and why we should care.
Kristen at We Are That Family is ready to give you a guilt trip. You should go read it. I dare you.
My sister-in-law is a week away from traveling to pick up her new son, and she talks about how nesting is not only for the pregnant moms-to-be.
Amy at Amalah is hilarious when she's talking about anything. Even the flu.
Maggie of Mighty Girl wrote a list of twenty things she wish she's known at twenty. I was nodding my head to the wisdom of this list, and thinking I should try following some of her sage advice. Now that I'm in my early mid-30's.
Alice at Finslippy talks about her ambivalence as her first book is published, and the difficulty in enjoying the achievement instead of immediately setting her sights on the next. (And while most of us aren't writing books, I think the challenge in enjoying the ride is universal).
Remember Newsies? This is an awesome mashup. (via Stuff Christians Like). Watching it makes me want to take part in some sort of a secret flashmob next Saturday in honor of my favorite broadway show. Or something.
We got back from New York last night. It was a whirlwind, and I think it will forever be dubbed our Ultimate Date Night Weekend. We got in around 10pm on Tuesday night, and The View had a driver to pick us up. Having our own driver made us feel very self-important. We tried to work the phrase "our driver" into as many sentences as possible over the weekend. i.e. "Should we have our driver drop us at the restaurant?" "Do you give the driver a call to tell him we're heading down?" . . . and so on. I think it really gave people the impression that we were a big deal . That, and the map and the camera hanging from my neck.
I am typing this from a plane. I am flying through the sky and surfing the web. We live in crazy times. I can't stop thinking about that routine that Louis CK did on Conan, about how quickly we lose perspective on it all.
Whew. I am tired.
We spent the day at an outdoor musical festival. We had a booth there to sell our Haiti t-shirts. Our booth was in the family section of the venue, right in front of four bounce-houses. It was a Christian festival (hence the name Fishfest), and let me tell you. I was praising the Lord on high when I saw that placement. We had all four kids with us, and I had been worried how we would keep them entertained. We got there around 2pm, and the three bigger kids ran straight for the bouncehouses. They bounced themselves silly for FIVE HOURS. No kidding. We did drag them out at one point to make them eat dinner. And then they were kicked out when it got dark and the crew came around to deflate them. Oh, and there was one point when Jafta came out and staggered around a bit, holding his stomach. I thought for sure he had finally had enough. I was wrong. He looked like he might upchuck for about 20 seconds, and then went straight back in.
We didn't even make it in to the stadium. Our babysitter extraordinaire came with us, and she helped maintain a visual on the jumping kids, and helped with Karis while we were selling t-shirts. Thankfully a couple friends came to help, too. It was a lot of meeting new people and schmoozing - which is not always my best milieu. But we had fun, and we at least sold enough t-shirts to cover the booth and $40 worth of amphitheater pizza. We also got to pass out Rage Against the Minivan stickers . . . which, apparently, many people find quite offensive (as shown by the look of horror and disgust on their face when they approached the booth, read the sticker, and then huffed away). But perhaps those people would have been more interested in the "I was saved by someone getting nailed" t-shirts that were being sold at another booth. (Okay, that might not have been the actual verbage. But there were some baaad t-shirts, for realz).
Also, rumor has it that Toby Mac went on stage with one of the stickers on his shirt. This has not been confirmed. I will keep you posted. I know you will be anxiously awaiting my follow-up on this important bit of news.
We also got a chance to see The Supertones play their reunion show. (Only because their set was after the bouncehouses had been deflated - otherwise we would have had a mutiny). This was the first concert for Kembe and Karis, and what a fun band to start out with. Mark has known the Supertones since they were in high school - urban legend has it that they played their first show in Mark's backyard. But even if we didn't know them, we would still be fans. Because, hello? Who can resist ska music?
My kids had a blast. They stood up on a picnic table to get a better view, and I thought they might break it. Kembe was mesmerized.
So . . . some big news.
I am going to New York on Tuesday to do a taping for The View. It will air on Friday. It is for a segment about adoption.
Oh my word. I am not usually the nervous type. I AM NERVOUS.
I'm excited, too. They are flying Mark and I out. For the first time in my life, I will get off the plane and one of the drivers holding a sign up will have MY NAME on it. I think I might be most excited about that.
And New York City. Even thought we will be in the city for less than 24 hours.
I started thinking today about everything I want to say about adoption. I started planning the points I wanted to make, and the myths I wanted to dispel, and the realities that need to be heard. And then I remembered the handfull of interviews I did after the earthquake, and how fast it goes. And how you think you know what you want to say, but the questions may not give way to the points you've planned, and before you know it they are wrapping up. And suddenly you and Don Lemon are having a bumbling moment of confusion on live tv because he doesn't realize that Kembe isn't a baby, so when he refers to the baby you think he's talking about Karis, so then you explain that the baby came home from Haiti, and then he's confused because he thought your child was still in Haiti, and OH MY GOSH WHO'S ON FIRST?
And The View. I mean, those ladies. Who can keep up with them? My only hope is that I'm just talking to one of them, not ALL FIVE. Yeesh.
Only I hope it's not Joy. Because all I will be able to think of is Fred Armisen saying, ""So what? Who cares?"and talking about his brazier.
So today, because I couldn't handle the stress any more, I decided to focus on the one thing I can control: my outfit. (in psychology, we call this sublimation). I had two hours to hit the mall and try to find something that would look good on camera. Only, I imagine I will be sitting. Which means, anything I wear needs to look good while seated. And . . . yeah. That's not always so flattering. So, I went looking for an outfit that will hide the inevitable tummy spilling situation. So I'm looking for a shirt, with maybe some well-placed puckering or ruffles . . . but nothing too bulky. Then maybe some sort of short jacket in a good fabric? And then, I can't really wear a skirt because I don't want to be stressed about not showing my undies while I'm sitting there. But jeans seem too informal. And I don't really do slacks. And a long skirt looks too matronly. And . . . yeah. I pretty much came away from the mall with nothing but a clear conviction that I'm gonna need some Spanx and more than two hours to shop.
(And if you are someone with a finger on the pulse of psuedo hipster fashions for post-baby 30-somethings who pretty much only wear black and need something that hits below the knee, I am all ears. Seriously. HELP.)
While at the mall, I took a few pictures of the latest hideous Brooks Brothers display.
I spend a lot of time pondering the disparity between the mom I thoughy I would be, and the mom I am. I was such a good mom before having kids. I had dreams of my children playing with quaint wooden toys, learning piano at a young age, and having picnics in meadows (eating only organic food, of course). Somehow my reality of motherhood involved a lot more plastic, McDonalds, and trips to Target than I ever imagined. That meadow picnic? Yeah, that's never happened.
Also in my dreams of motherhood, our home would be free of toys that represent weapons. My oldest was a boy - but I imagined that somehow, with careful guidance, I could free him from the gender expectations that give way to a desire for violent objects. Unfortunately, no one warned me that a predilection for destruction seems to be coded in the DNA. Despite providing my son Jafta with a playroom full of peaceful, docile toys, he seems to be drawn only to things that produce explosions, loud noises, or (best yet), wounds of the flesh. He was begging for a sword by the time he could talk. Once he got wind of this light-saber business, everything in the house (paper towel roll, umbrella, drumstick) was brandished as a light-saber. And now, despite the fact that he's never seen a movie much darker than Stuart Little, he is totally and utterly obsessed with guns.
I blame this on the tawdry influence of some of his older, more worldy friends. (The friends in question actually being the children of our pastor and one of the church elders. So, you know, unseemly influences). These friends have given in to the obsession and allow their kids to play with pretend guns, and on more than one occasion we've been on a playdate where he has observed these kids gleefully chasing each other with said toy guns, whereby I scramble to distract him with some benign fire truck or other object that seems incredibly boring in comparison to A GUN! A GUN! I'M FIVE AND I WANNA PLAY GUNS!
I finally confessed my concerns to one of the other mothers, who is the mom of several kids older than my own. She laughed knowingly, and patted my shoulder, and said, "Oh, that's right. Jafta's your oldest. I remember feeling that way, too. But now that I've watched three boys go through this stuff, I gotta tell ya: you're fighting a losing battle. All boys want to play with guns. You can do everything you can to outlaw it, and they will make a gun out of a stick. Just let it go."
I suspected she might be right, but I was sticking to my guns (or lack thereof). At this particular playdate, I encouraged Jafta to find other things to play with, as he stared longingly at the other, seemingly cooler kids as they ran and chased and rendered each other dead. I tried to distract him with Legos and trains. He stared longingly as every other boy ran by, brandishing a weapon. He also spent the playdate alone - excluded because his mom wouldn't let him engage in what everyone else was doing. I left the playdate questioning my judgement. Jafta left the playdate devastated.
A few weeks later, we went to another playdate with the same group of boys. As soon as we arrived, I could see that the other boys were enraptured in another game of gun play. Jafta looked forlorn, and I had a little moment where I decided that my value for Jafta being included with his peers was more important than my rule about guns. I told Jafta to go get a gun, and start running. He looked at me like I was crazy. And then I heard myself saying, "Seriously, Jafta. You can do it. Go get yourself one of those guns. Get it! And RUN!!"
And as those words I never thought I would utter came out of my mouth, I reminded myself that parenting is not predictable. I have to be willing to change, to reconsider, and to budge a little. I watched Jafta look confused, and then hesitant, and then I saw a huge grin break out on his face as he joined in with the other kids. He had a great playdate, and he felt included.
We still have a no-gun policy at our own house. Although, he seems to be working his way around it.
This is a repost of our talk-back on Mama Manifesto today. I'm copying it here because, well. . .
Help.
Many adoptive parents create a Lifebook for their kids - it's basically a scrapbook that tells the story of their life before placement. We made one for Jafta when he was young, and it includes pictures of him with his birth family, with his foster mom, and pictures of us on the day he joined our family. We still read it often and it has been a great way to make adoption a part of our daily language. (It's also probably one of the reasons that India inquires about her own adoption so often. She's a bit disappointed that she doesn't have her own adoption book).
I ordered one for Kembe a few weeks ago. It has been really helpful for us. The circumstances of his homecoming were so different than we imagined. Because of the earthquake, we never got the chance to bond with him over several days in Haiti, and spend time with his caregivers and allow him to see us relating to the people he came to know and trust in his formative years. We had also been concerned about the way he has refused to talk about life in Haiti. I read a lot of adult adoptee narratives, and I often hear about how damaging it can be when parents ignore the life their child had before adoption. But with Kembe, he seemed to be rejecting that life on his own. Since his first month home, he has refused to speak in Creole, and gets angry when we do. When we talk about Haiti, or ask about his nannies, he will angrily say, "Don't say that!" If I pray for his nanny by name (the one I know he adored), he will say "I don't like Fifi." I know this is not true. But I think in his 3-year-old brain, he feels like he has to close off that part of his world in order to fit into ours.
I am still processing so many things from my weekend in Utah. I went to the conference to speak on a panel about blogging and faith (or, as one commenter put it, "blaith"). The panel went well, but I feel like somehow the whole weekend was really a lesson in faith for me.
But these [feminine] powers are the most potent when used to love other women. To support. To carry. Lift. Encourage. Serve. Fight alongside. And in my experience, this is also the hardest part about being a woman. There are forces at work designed to turn woman against woman in an effort to completely destroy the massive amount of good we can do when united. But I also know that I feel the strongest as a woman, when I am helping another woman, or being helped by another woman -- whether she is someone I know or a someone who lives across the world. I'd be smart to unceasingly search for opportunities to serve.
