How sad is this?

That the only extra time in my schedule comes as a result of being stuck in the Honda Dealer service waiting room with my laptop? I just missed the shuttle, I don't have the files I need to be productive, so, what the heck, free internet and I might as well update the blog.

Here's the deal. I'm a bankruptcy attorney. The economy is in the tank. You do the math. But in case you can't, what I'm trying so say is that I'm swamped with work. I know, wah wah wah, when so many people are unemployed or under-employed, but cheese and rice, I'm exhausted. I've worked every day for months and months. My younger brother comes in and meets my kids after school so I can work until 10:00 pm when he needs to leave to go to work. I take the kids in to my office on the weekends where they watch DVDs and Chuck episodes on the computer. I wasn't able to do any work last weekend because I (a) couldn't face it, and (b) needed to clean the pig sty house so I didn't horribly disgrace the family name when guests arrived on Sunday. I'm paying for it this week. Three of the four kids participated in an expressive dance program thing at 2:00 pm at the school and I skidded into the school just as the program started because I cut the travel time to close because I got stuck on a contentious phone call when I needed to leave to get to the school on time. Driving angry is probably more dangerous than driving drunk, I thinkg. I'm trying to calm down and figure it all out as I drive to the school, knowing I still had a couple hours of work to complete and wondering if other parents go through this calculation: soccer practice? or malpractice? soccer practice or malpractice? I chose soccer practice and stuffing Arby's down their throats on the way back to my office where we stayed until 9:00pm on a school night because I had a filing deadline. Oh well, you do what you have to do, right? Okay, shuttle driver is here, back to work.

How lucky am I?

Very, very lucky. So I'm sitting in the dining room this morning, working from home because, in honor and recognition of house guests who will be arriving Sunday, hey Rebecca, I mean you, I finally made an appointment to have a carpet cleaner come to the house and make the downstairs extra bedrooms habitable for humans after Gladys and Lucy had dueling canine urine wars down there with me so clueless about dog behavior that I didn't get a grip until after Gladys went home (we were dog sitting) and I walked into that room and the smell made me drop to my knees. Damn dogs.

So, anyway, urine is what it is and it had to be cleaned and the nice guy that is here to do the job gave me a "deal" on the kitchen tile, damn kitchen tile, never buy a house with textured ceramic tile on the kitchen floor, it just isn't worth it. Although the price was the same as the last time he was here when there wasn't a deal, I said, yeah sure, I'm to the point of hating that floor so much that I would rather pay someone $100 to clean it because he's here and willing than mop it by myself this week. So he had just brought the hose up the stairs and is starting on the tile and I hear a loud pop. I don't even look up. I figure he hit something and if it he had damaged it, he would stop and then I would look at it and shrug, because what can you do, but he didn't stop. A split second later, he calls from the kitchen, "what was that?" I get up and shrug, look down and hop. A liter of Diet Pepsi (the one and true diet cola) exploded in the wierd pantry room off the kitchen and it is spreading fast. He grabbed his big water sucker upper wand and took care of it in a jiffy. I went behind with a wet rag and got it off the walls and it is as if a full liter bottle of Diet Pepsi never exploded in the pantry.

Can you imagine the horror of walking in on that later this afternoon if I hadn't been home with a professional carpet cleaning technician right at hand when it happened. The horror, the horror.

So, I ask, how lucky am I? Very. Did you know that one time I flew to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, was met by friends, picked up my bag at the luggage carousel, got into the friends' car at the curb and drove away full of excitement for the upcoming festivities and carousing. About 30 minutes away from the airport, I asked who had put my bag in the car? no one? really? let's check. Pull over, my bag is not in the trunk. Head back to New Orleans airport, and it's full on Mardi Gras, hordes of people, and there's my bag on the curb. So, again, how lucky am I? Very.

And then there were these times I went to China and met four beautiful children who didn't have parents and I was able to bring them home and love them. How lucky am I? Very isn't quite the word to describe that level of good fortune, and I'm stuck for a word that could.

Baby Haze

At least once a month, I run with a much younger crowd. I'm like the token old lady: I'm not quite the oldest, but I have the most kids, so that makes me look like the oldest for sure. I'm grateful for this link to the young and vibrant who put the plans together so that the girls and I just have to show up and commence the fun having. Three of the moms in the group have had domestic placements this year: one two months ago and two this week, and oh good hell, this is exciting (and one other Mom just passed the 3 year mark on her wait for the CCAA to gets its act together and make the placement already). So it makes my heart high to know that single parent adoption is still a viable option in this world: the birth moms chose these single mom placements. The kids are gorgeous; two baby girls (one will make her debut tomorrow but I'm all the way confident that she will be muy delicioso also) and one just eat him with pie little baby boy. So my family is part of the lump in the cultural snake consisting of families created through single parent adoption from China. But it has been so good to learn, first hand, that single parent families by choice are still getting created every day. Children are still finding good homes even if not "good" in the "traditional" sense, and I use quotes because I have no idea why my home is not a good home other than the obvious when I'm crashing around with my Dyson and wondering out loud, very loudly, why I'm the only one concerned about hygiene in this house, then my kids might not think they landed in such a "good" home. But I know that there are those out there that would disqualify me from the opportunity of parenting based on my marital status (like I had any control over that). I think those are the same folks who don't think my gay friends (like they have any control over that) deserve equal protection under the law, just guessing. But is still hurts my heart that not all the children still waiting in China will find homes because the Chinese government doesn't think single parent homes are good enough anymore. And that still hurts although I'm past the point of adding to my own family, the Chinese policy to exclude single parents just still hurts. If I were Queen, this bitter rule would not last for long. But my crown has been misplaced because surely, a Queen wouldn't have love handles the size of small dogs. So don't be looking to me for help with this issue even though you know I would cut loose on the CCAA's single parent ban and my love handles in a hot second. You know I would, the only difficulty would be deciding which to do first.

So to Tiffany, Yvette and L, congratulations on your new additions, I just couldn't be more excited for you and your beautiful little families. You make my heart high.

Loving her differently

I’ve been running around the edges of this blog post for over a month. January 10th was the third year anniversary of becoming Nora’s mother. I go back and forth, back and forth trying to get my feelings right about what that has meant to me for the last three years. On every other adoption related blog in the known universe, it seems like the gotcha day remembrances are heart-felt tributes to the power of the universe to bring together just the right parents with just the right child. Of course, I have difficulties with the whole red-thread premise. I take exception to the belief that god with a big G ripped our children away from their birth families on purpose so we could know the joy of parenthood. That can’t be right, right? Gods don’t do that kind of thing to innocent children and grieving birth parents, right? But I can agree that the tragic fall-out of a failed political and economic system made by men, not big G gods, brought four beautiful humans to me to parent as wisely as I can. However, one of those little humans is giving me a run for my money and makes it all a lot harder to parent wisely than it was before she arrived on the scene.

Nora has made me stretch emotionally, and I have to admit, I have absolutely resented her for that. I’m not so good at expressing complex feelings, not good at all. I am not a member of the emotionally mature club. My application is still at probationary caveman status and approval does not appear imminent. But I keep this blog going if for no other reason than having it makes me keep thinking about being Nora’s parent and how that makes me feel and how I need to keep making an effort to put labels on how I feel about this beautiful girl and not just grunt and whine in exasperation.

It’s hard to be emotionally evolved when you lack the introspection gene. You know those people who can listen to a problem or observe a situation and see past the externals and really try to understand the ulterior motivation for the result? I truly admire those people but I am not one of those people. Not even close. I don’t live in the same country. I can’t even figure out why I react to things the way I do not to mention trying to figure out someone else’s reason for their behavior. Sometimes I feel like I need one of those emotion boards therapists use for non-communicative kids so I can point to the mad or sad face to even get close to labeling my own feelings.

And labeling my feelings about Nora is so much more complicated than the mad/sad faces on the kiddie feelings chart. Without the half-composed blog posts constantly running through my head, I think I would still be sitting here with my finger on the mad face. I wouldn’t be doing any constructive thinking, I’d just be knee-jerk reacting and letting her push my buttons like a .10 ocarina from the Chuckie Cheese prize counter that ends up costing you $20 in game tickets. Writing about Nora in my brain (even though I seldom get those kinds of posts written down and can think of a bazillion reasons not to make them public) makes me page through my mental thesaurus to try to find a more nuanced vocabulary words and ways to describe my feelings. My relationship with Nora does not represent the simple, straightforward and beribboned basket of slobbering love that I hold in my hands for my other three daughters. My relationship with Nora can make me brittle with frustration and despair that she will live with me forever because she will never learn to navigate by herself in the big world. But then I can go for long calm stretches where I can just begin to enjoy who she is and what she brings to the family.

I am riding the emotional roller coaster with this child. I find it difficult to hold onto my emotional sanity with my hands tightly gripping the crash bar. Whatever slobbery love basket I had for her flew out on the first big hill and once in awhile I catch it again and throw my hands up to enjoy the ride, but just as soon, I’m gripping the bar again, basket loose in the wind. Like last week, Nora’s teacher sent two exasperated emails (this from a woman with a pretty high tolerance level for exasperation) about some abominable new behavior Nora was engaging in at school and I felt so angry and embarrassed that I wanted to punish her until she was 21. Three days later, Nora’s teacher sent an email to let me know that Nora got her first 100 for the year on a test and it brought me to tears. I know how hard Nora has to work to understand the class work and to keep up in school and how doggedly determined she is about completing her homework and how it hurts her to be the cellar-dweller in her class. We made a huge, HUGE, freaking deal about the 100%. But see, the other girls bring home their occasional 100% papers (all four of my daughters are hell-bent on defeating the Asian academic stereotype, apparently), I don’t have to make a big deal, no extra effort is expected on my behalf, they know they are just meeting my basic expectations, they get a high five and life goes on. But with Nora, everything seems to take extra from me, whether dealing with her bad behavior choices or filling her big black emotional hole of need to help keep her on the right track. I have struggled and flogged myself and I did so desperately wanted to disrupt during that first year but never ever acted on that feeling because what in the world would that say to my older three? I had to get over my self-pity and myself. I had to let go of the happy family fantasy that I had created and recognize that NONE of the things that Nora does is aberrant or unusual or intentional or the product of some clinical condition. She is a pretty normal little kid who is academically challenged and emotionally immature. That’s all, nothing personal, that’s just how she came pre-loaded at birth and after 4.5 years in an institution.

She was born in the year of the Snake and I was born in the year of the Pig and we are mortal enemies according to Chinese zodiac lore. But just as I don’t buy the red-thread story line, I really don’t buy the idea that the course of our lives is prescribed by a zodiac prediction either, Chinese or otherwise. I have to constantly remind myself (and it is a good thing when the parent rooms at Shriners Children’s Hospital are full and the wise Mrs. Ellison is forced to bunk with us and reminds me in person, thanks Stefani), that being a parent is not about our children meeting our needs, it is about how we meet the needs of our children. Compared to my other three children, Nora has big needs. I have to remind myself to hitch up my big girl panties and give this child what she needs even when I’m staring at the last end of my last wit as it fades in the rear-view mirror. She does make things harder and I give myself that. Everything about parenting has been harder since Nora walked into that conference room in the Lottery Hotel in Nanning and stripped the Groovy Girl out of my hands and proceeded to rip the clothes off the doll and scatter them on the floor.

For not being very introspective, I did come with good instincts, and my instinct that morning was to grab up YuYu and run, run fast and far from the challenge that pounced into the room with tons of attitude and fake curly pigtails attached to her head. I instantly knew that she was the kind of kid I don’t usually like to be around. The kind of kid I smile at patiently and benignly when I take my kids on school field trips but can’t wait to give back to the teacher or parent responsible for the little miscreant at the end of the day. Nora is that kind of kid for me. She might be someone else’s cup of tea, but she wears me out. So that morning in January 2006, I stood up for her out of obligation but I am learning to continue to stand up for her out of love. I will continue to fill in my own emotional deficits in order to become her best parent because Nora, my perfect and innocent child, is NOT the one with the problem.

So if you thought that big lead in was going to result in a beautifully written and inspirational thesis statement about raising a challenging child, you would be wrong. After three years of living with Nora, I have reached this conclusion: Loving Ellie, YuYu and Mimi is easy, loving Nora is hard. I love them all differently and that isn’t bad.

Angel Eyes

She is THRILLED. She kept nagging and nagging, "Has Costco called yet?" "Are my glasses ready yet?" We ran down to the Costco after dinner on Tuesday and she hasn't stopped beaming since she put them on her face. She can't stop looking in the mirror and she's going to starve because she would rather look at her reflection in the kitchen window than eat dinner. These are her sturdy glasses and I'll need to get a picture of her hip and kicky frames. I never knew anyone could get so worked up over wearing glasses, but YuYu can. My myopic angel.

I stand chastened

The same school district staff member who insulted me so deeply with the implied criticism that I righteously griped about in the last post also sent a vision screening report home about YuYu and it said that YuYu also flunked her eye test.
So, being the heads up parent that I imagine myself to be, I hustled her skinny butt into the optical shop and sure as shooting, my babe has become near-sighted since her last school district vision screening test. She needs glasses on her sweet face which I thought would be more of a challenge to choose. YuYu's face is practically bridgeless, just a blank spot where the bridge of her nose should be, but totally yummy and gorgeous, just not much to hang her specs on. But we picked a tough frame for everyday and a fun frame for the back up pair. She just beamed when she put on the fun pair. I'm sure she thought she looked like a hip teen-ager. Thank the fates that Costco was having a $25 off the second set of glasses sale this week because the moths are flying out of my pocket book what with YuYu's rotten teeth and my own adventures in oral health. I learned a new vocabulary word this month, trismus. It's getting better, but who knew that wasn't supposed to happen after a root canal?

So, yay, you go school district vision screeners, you rock. Unless, of course, I think you are being critical of my parental care-taking skills, then not so much rocking.

Lost in Translation

I know that I do go on about how charming I find YuYu, my DD#3 in acronymland, to be. I find everything about her to be, objectively speaking, adorable. I don’t get aggravated when I ask her to go see if we have any more milk in the downstairs refrigerator (necessitated by the 1950’s size fridge nook in the upstairs kitchen) and she comes back up, hands empty, and says “yes.” I don’t get too upset when I go through her assignment folder and find finished homework packets that should have been turned in weeks ago but she “forgot to remember.” I have vast patience for her new developmental phase where she has to ask me to choose between two impossible and/or unlikely events: “Mom, would you rather step in goat’s milk or vinegar? Which would you rather lose an arm or a leg? If you were a dog, which would you prefer, Booda bones or jerky treats?” etc., etc., etc., ad nauseum. All cute, all good, all adorable, classic YuYu, I'm so excited to know the adult she will become, she is really something. Objectively speaking, of course.

So one of the things I like best about YuYu is her “good ear.” Most people wouldn’t consider a good ear (and I just don’t have a better shorthand way to describe that she can carry a tune, so good ear it is) to be particularly remarkable, but I do, I really do. I come from a family with a deep genetic legacy for ears of the tin variety. We, my parents and all my brothers, lack the ability to carry a tune in a bucket, or as the French would say, we sing like casseroles. And even though the genetic link is missing, my other three DDs will sadly carry this family trait forward into future generations, but not YuYu. YuYu of the lilting voice will sing for us all, or not, because she’s so shy about it. Don’t’ misunderstand, YuYu is not shy socially, but no way no how is she going to sing in front of people by herself, not on her life, isn’t going to happen, mores’ the pity.

But I give you this background only to illustrate her current use of her talent. Her good ear gives YuYu the ability to memorize and repeat movie dialogue verbatim and with the right accents. And don’t you know, her knack for listening and regurgitating is a cool parlor trick and can be hugely entertaining on long road trips. However, her newest source of material has made me more aware that I have to start being a lot more careful about what she ingests and spews back out. She is starting to use this talent to entertain friends and non-family members and certain words of which she has no understanding of the meaning are creeping into her vocabulary and it might not reflect well on my parenting.

And by certain words, I mean “bollocks.” The first couple of times she used it, and appropriately I might add, I just hooted. Hearing my 8-year-old American kid saying bollocks, a British curse word, it was funny, I just thought it was funny. She watched “Mama Mia” a zillion times during the Christmas holiday and memorized all the words to all the ABBA tunes and flits around the house singing “money money money, it’s a rich man’s world.” She also picked up the word bollocks from the Colin Firth (yummm, Colin Firth) character who exclaims “Bollocks!” in fine BBC English when he misses the ferry to the island. I should be happy because the Pierce Brosnan character exclaims a word that is universally renounced as a bad potty word and she didn’t pick that one up, thank the fates.

But here in the Western United States, at least as far as I know, we don’t so much know from bollocks, so I have just let her use it for my own perverse pleasure because I think it is cute and not too many other people know what the word means. Can it be a curse word if no one knows the meaning? I say no. But this morning, we were hustling around, cleaning up and getting ready for Ellie’s sleepover friend to leave with her mom and YuYu dropped her box of many toy horses, the pieces scattered and YuYu exclaimed “Bollocks.” The word did not seem to resonate with the mom who was here to pick up the sleepover friend, or at least she showed no reaction which could have just been gracious good manners, which would have been different from me if I heard someone’s kid say bollocks, but it made me think.

I fired up the computer, went straight to the definitive source (she typed facetiously in reference to folks (okay, my mother) that don’t understand that Wikipedia isn’t a reliable and irrefutable source of information) and found out that the “relative severity of the various profanities, as perceived by the British public, was studied on behalf of the Broadcasting Standards Commission, Independent Television Commission, BBC and Advertising Standards Authority. The results of this jointly commissioned research were published in December 2000 in a paper called "Delete Expletives?". This placed "bollocks" in eighth position in terms of its perceived severity, between "prick" (seventh place) and "arsehole" (ninth place). By comparison, the word "balls" (which has a similar literal meaning) was down in 22nd place. Of the people surveyed, only 11% thought that "bollocks" could acceptably be broadcast at times before the notional 9pm "watershed” on television (radio does not have a watershed).”

Oh, well, now that I am educated about the relative severity of profanity (I love that phrase) and since I wouldn’t let my kids say either of the other swear words that bookend bollocks on the BBC list of bad words, it looks like I better weed bollocks out of YuYu’s vocabulary before her potty mouth spreads and she starts sounding like a British sailor, assuming that British sailors still curse as badly and richly as the stereotype would lead us to believe. Now I just have to figure out if I was bird, would I rather land on a branch or a telephone wire and if I missed either perch and crashed into a wall, would I say bollocks or balls?




(I had to add this photo of YuYube, the bruise on her chin? otherwise preoccupied, she walked into a wall, the blood blister on the inside of her lip was huge, HUGE, that's my girl)

Does not respond well to criticism

Whether implied or direct, when I feel unjustly criticized, I can get my back up so fast you might mistake me for the Incredible Hulk.

Ellie brought home a Salt Lake City School District Vision Screening Referral Form, again. Every year the same drill: Could not see the line on the chart appropriate for child's age. But this time, the district staff person who conducted the screening test checked and circled "3rd Referral!!" on the Symptoms line item and I can't help but feel criticized by that, like I'm somehow to blame that my kid with the glasses thicker than pop bottles can't see the eye chart and shouldn't I be aware of that and what kind of parent lets their kid go to school without 20/20 vision and good hell woman, this is the "3rd Referral!!", so do something already, what more do we need to tell you so you will stand up and be a better parent and do right by this child already. You can see that implied criticism of my parenting in "3rd Referral!!", can't you? It seems so obvious to me.

I can only speculate that the five prior referral forms upon which I have diligently obtained the signature of her pediatric ophthalmologist (which requires cover letters and SASEs and more time tracking it down by phone and busy work I just don’t need) who practices at the world famous Moran Eye Center and who has treated her since she was four were missing from the file that the district staff member was referring to when she conducted the vision screening test on Ellie. I guess the brand new and stylish pair of pop bottle lens on my child did not give the district staff member any confidence that a concerned parent was on the job and everything that could be done was being done so this child can see the damn white board and get an education.

Here is the measured response I just dropped in the mail. The first draft was a lot fiercer, a lot, this is milk toast comparatively, but I’m nothing if not measured and thoughtful in all things:

To Whom It May Concern:

I have enclosed an unsigned copy of the vision screening referral form for my sixth grade daughter E* (Ellie) H*. I have also enclosed a copy of her most recent optical prescription dated September 12, 2008, written by Robert O. Hoffman, M.D., Moran Eye Center. Her vision is corrected to the best possible extent. Ellie is wearing a brand new pair of glasses with lens ground to the most current prescription. Nothing more can be done to improve her vision. Everything that can be done is being done for her, she is not being neglected. Ellie will continue to fail all vision screenings even though she is wearing glasses as thick as pop bottles because her vision cannot be improved any more than the current prescription allows.

I am not forwarding the vision referral form to Dr. Hoffman for signature. You can confirm that Ellie is his patient and under his continuing care and has been since she was four-years-old by calling his practice at 801-581-2352.

If you have any further concerns about the level of care Ellie is being provided for her bad eyesight, please call me at either number referenced above.

Sincerely,
M* H*
Parent

Although the signature line would have been more accurate if I had typed:

Sincerely,
M* H*
Touchy Touchy Touchy Parent, Back Off You Overbearing Officious Creeps

Defensive much? Who me?

smells like a holiday card

Here's to our friends whose addresses I didn't get updated on the master list and the card I mailed just barely before Christmas bounced back, undeliverable. You know what I love though? when USPS returns a card mailed to an address with an expired forwarding order with the recipient's new address listed on the yellow sticker. Hey, USPS, just keep moving it forward I'm thinking, why bounce it back? but there must be bigger brains at work who reached the decision to make me put another stamp on a new envelope, see? there are big brains at work at USPS. But blogspot and I showed them a thing or two, hah! take that USPS, no stamps needed. And so, without further ado:


(l-r, Nora, YuYu, Ellie and Mimi)

Hanson Family Christmas Letter 2008,
or
If the Hats Fit, Wear Them, Again

Yes, the Santa hats are a rerun, you’ve seen them before, two years ago, when a similar lack of foresight found me lining the kids up in front of the fireplace and snapping picture after picture trying to get one shot with all four sets of eyelids lifted higher than half mast. Some day, some day, they’ll all be wearing matching holiday outfits while standing in a field of new fallen snow, wearing the hats, of course, but the effect would be so much jollier. Some day, or not. I mean, I’m a single parent of four active kids and I work, a lot, so while you’ll likely see the hats again, don’t hold your breath for festive. It’s just a real good thing for me that the girls are flat out gorgeous and don’t need any fancy props because it isn’t going to happen.

Ellie is 12 and finishing her elementary school career this year. Will someone tell me where the time went? Hard for me to believe that my baby will be in junior high school next year. I’m not sure how that happened because I haven’t aged, so, you know, who knows.

YuYu, my funny, sweet and flighty little third grader is 8 and over the top excited to see her foster family when we travel to China next summer. We are going to see her foster brother graduate from college, well, a military university, sort of the West Point of China, so it’s a big hairy deal and I’m willing to break the bank to get us all over there for his big day. This trip is like a vacation budget black hole, sucking travel money from this year, next year and many years to come, but to reunite YuYu with her beloved foster family? So worth it.

Mimi and Nora are in second grade this year. Mimi is 8 going on 15 and mad about Hannah Montana and begging for a cell phone. Nora is 7.5 going on 4 and crazy about Webkinz and playing dress up. Real studies in contrasts are these two girls: no cookie cutter parenting allowed. It doesn’t make it easy for me, but who needs dull, boring and predictable when you can have Nora?

Merry Christmas from the Santa Hat Gang. We hope your holidays are full of cheer and great memories this year.

Seeing Red

This is the fourth year for these dressses (although the size four did have to be retired this year). If the little girls continue on their slow growth arc, who knows, dare I hope for one more holiday out of them? I bought these red dresses from Lands End, on sale, big discount, I felt like a winner, for Christmas 2005, pre-Nora, but soon to have Nora, and only Ellie has out grown the dresses and the whole concept of wearing matching outfits with her sisters, actually.

Sometimes I feel sorry for the folks who get our hand-me-downs, who needs three or four of everything, often the same size? But hey, I didn't plan to have triplets, it just kind of happened that way because that's the magic of building your family through interational adoption. I look at other families with stair step children, not lots kids all bunched at the same height and weight, and I think hmmm, that's odd, how did they pull that off?

And I thought it was the last year for all my kids to believe in Santa, but a report from our friend who treated Ellie to a viewing of the tween sensation "Twilight" this afternoon, thanks Lisa on so many levels, most of all that I didn't have to watch it, makes me think that maybe Ellie, 12, still believes, or wants to believe, but I don't dare ask her directly because then she may ask me some hard questions that I don't want to answer yet. Yes, that's me, the textbook example of open communication with your children about the hard facts of life.

But if he does exist, I'd like to give him a piece of my mind, stupid old fart, he has no self-discipline, he brought way too much crap again this year after I specifically instructed him to hold back, but nooo, does he listen to me? Stupid old fart gets all the glory and I get stuck with cleaning up all the mess. As Nora would say, not fayoh.

Good Night Nurse, She Moved to China

While I'm playing hookie from work today, I thought I would share my amazement and admiration for an e-friend who up and moved her family to China this month to become a house manager for a foster group home for Chinese orphans (one of three supported by this charity). I don't know all the details, here's link to the COAT website for more more background information about the charity and its good works in Jiao Zuo, He Nan Province.

My friend's name is Donna, and after much planning and packing, she took her three youngest kids with her to set up housekeeping on the sixth floor of the building that houses one of the foster homes COAT calls Eagles Wings II. I know I tend to the hyperbolic, but good hell, I can't even begin to imagine the preparation and courage needed to turn the life you've built on it's ear and pack it up and try something so different and so generous for five months. Five months is her commitment for now, due to other big events back here in the states she must attend, but I guess she can cross that bridge when she comes to it. For selfish reasons, I want her to still be in China when we make our trip next summer just because I think that would be so stinking cool.

Here's her blog link The Lauries Go To China, and I've added it to the side bar for future reference, because I don't know about you, but I'm hanging on every word.

My Best Christmas Gift Ever

And to think I almost didn't get that prescription filled yesterday afternoon because I was doing so well with ibuprofen, what a dummy. So, I haven't been acting responsibly re: my cracked tooth, #19 to be exact, left lower jaw. A chunk fell out a few months ago. I just got used to the jagged edge because I was in big time denial about the necessity to DO something about it other than put my tongue in the hole every waking minute. But, of course, I knew, in my best most grown-up brain, that I couldn't neglect it forever, but the last time I had a crown put in, I agreed to have the permanent tooth glued onto the pretty and attractive stub of the old tooth (is that the creepiest thing in the world?) without novocaine, to avoid the numb slobber mouth effect, and when the glue hit the exposed nerves in the dentin, well, I passed out. I was crying, I had the dentist crying, it was very very unpleasant.

So, with that memory hovering in the back of my nervous system, it was easy to tune out the voice of responsibility that kept nagging at me and saying: geez woman, get into the dentist before it gets bad and becomes an emergency and there you are, in throbbing pain over the Christmas holidays and no way to do anything about it except indulge in buckets of self-recrimination. So, I finally listened to the voice of my better self and the dentist was able to fit me in yesterday afternoon to take a look at the crater I've been neglecting. He didn't want to mess with it, said he'd be "cranking" on my tooth for hours and an endodontist would be in. out. zip. zip. zip in an hour. More expensive (me = self-employed = no dental insurance), but less time in the chair vs. more dollars, no contest. So I walked out of the dentist's office with a referral and two prescriptions: penicillin and Lortab. My very first thought, oh heck, I don't need pain pills, I've been getting along with this pulsing penumbra of pain for many weeks, I don't need any stinking pain pills. But for the bargain price of $5.98, what the heck Mr. Pharmacist, fill 'er up while I run next door to Big Lots and do some last minute panic shopping for stocking stuffers. Two birds, one stone, love it when that happens.

I took two of the penicillin tabs the minute I got home, where good friend Marque was watching all our kids to cover my late arrival home, we ate take and bake pizza, drank a glass of wine, and glory glory, no pain, the penicillin was kicking some cracked tooth butt, or so I thought. I was so happy. Until 12:18 am when the pain woke me up like a lightening strike and I wanted to pull my own tooth out of my head with beading pliers. It took a few minutes, but I rememberd the Lortab and convinced myself that it was worth it to stand up and drag my butt into the kitchen several throbbing steps away.

I've never needed pain pills in my adult life, no surgery, no accidents, very lucky woman, so who knew, who knew?? One small medical marvel later, and sweet bliss, the pain went away. I slept well for the first time in weeks. To hell with my freakishly high pain tolerance, I don't need it anymore, someone has invented a reason not to just grin and bear it. What a gift, what a wonderful Christmas miracle. I'm a little vulnerable right now, what with the throbbing pain on and off and sleep deprivation, so in this weakened state, it might be possible to convince me of the existence of a higher being. Of course, not in the biblical sense, more like a benign and kindly chemist or pharmaceutical researcher in a white lab coat and half-moon spectacles pushed up on his balding forehead, smiling sweetly with a prescription bottle in his out-stretched hand. Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, to mix a few metaphors, because I got my gift two days early this year and there you have it, proof positive. Of course, next week, root canal, but until then, I have a way to deal with the Fred Flintsone (remember when Barney would smack Fred's toe and it would pulse big, little, big, little?) effect going on in my head. Who knew? Life is good.

My Little Buddy, reprise

Remember my Little Buddy? Well, we were intimate with each other several times yesterday. One time right on the 400 block of Main Street, right out there in the open, ooh la la, and we even had a three-way in the parking garage behind 404 South Main, racy stuff. I love my Little Buddy and I’m not too proud to show it, although I think the Honda van is jealous because it started screaming at me when I was preparing for our last episode of togetherness as I was leaving work yesterday evening. I still love the Honda van, but not like I love my Little Buddy.

So yeah, this time it was the dome light over Nora’s seat after getting home late on Saturday evening and not moving the car until Monday morning. I know, I know, you would think I would have taken the advice of the Sisterhood of the Honda Odyssey, but that button on the dash the disables the lights? I don’t like it. I don’t like entering and exiting a dark car, and since it feels like it gets dark shortly after 1:00 pm around these parts, the lights stay on, dammit, becuase, after all, I have a Little Buddy. The funny thing, I was aware of that button, but did not reach any independent opinion about its purpose, so I just ignored it for four years. That’s called not thinking outside the boxy van.

But, I am educable in other ways. I did remember to throw Little Buddy in the back of the van as I left the house because I knew I wasn’t driving far enough to recharge the battery. The thought that didn’t cross my mind? Little Buddy in the back cargo area is hard to get to when the electronic hatch won’t open because the battery is as dead as the doornails. Hope no one had their video going to catch my middle-aged contortionism as I crawled back through the van to get my hands on my Little Buddy.

And the three-way? Well, after my creditors’ meeting in 405 South Main, I FINALLY, and I do intend the caps, because good hell, the cobbler’s children have no shoes, dropped off the readoption petitions for YuYu and Nora (makes the state produce Utah delayed birth certificates) at the state courthouse that is through the block to the East of 405 South Main. And I was walking past the parking garage to get to the courthouse, I looked up to see a couple with the hood up on their car on the first level (open grill work on the garage so you can see, no solid walls) and I asked gallantly: “Hey, battery trouble?” And guess what, yes, battery trouble and my Little Buddy saved their bacon too. My Little Buddy, my hero. Talk about serendipity.

But on the final jump last night, something something, Owner’s Manual something something, after opening the door with a key, something something, alarm will sound, something something, hook up Little Buddy, horn BLARING in my face with hood lid up and head buried by battery, oh good hell, I jumped out of my skin. Honda van, you have no right to act jealously. My relationship with Little Buddy has grown and deepened because of your own weaknesses. Stop crapping out on me and maybe we can try again.

In the meantime, Little Buddy goes everywhere we go, do you hear that? Everywhere. Get used to the idea.

Utah Mom Sir, Utah Mom Am I, Ki Yi

You might have heard of me, I live across the green? My gang it is the jolliest that you have ever seen? You know the one, catchy tune, loud staccato Ki Yi-ing at the end of the chorus? sure, you do. (And for those of you not familiar with the University of Utah fight song, make sure you really project on the Ki Yis!!! Because that’s how we do.) Well, I hadn’t heard of a Utah mom either until just the other day and I’m so glad I heard about it with a time delay, because I might have embarrassed myself a little bit in public if I hadn’t had a minute or two to digest my new label, Utah mom.

My YuYu, my dear one, my heart, prepared a power point autobiography at school. Many weeks ago, YuYu and I sat down at our computer and picked out pictures for her life story. We copied a couple dozen photos that her teacher scanned in for her in the computer lab (if I had known that it was for a computer presentation, I would have copied them to a disky thing, I’m pretty sure I can do that). She used the photos to prepare her Life of YuYu autobiography and I’m sure it was lovely, but I haven’t seen it yet, but I will, it’s saved, we can see it any time . . . I’m not screaming into the parking lot at 6:00 pm to pick them up from aftercare, the last nuts on the tree and they’re locking the doors behinds us.

So the kids in YuYu’s class invited the parents to attend the autobiography presentation on election day. I had back to back hearings at exactly the same time way across town from our school and there’s just the one of me. The one whose clients pay her to remember to show up at the hearings and not commit malpractice, so I just couldn’t be there for YuYu this time. And I get so resentful when that happens. I can’t volunteer in their classrooms for two reasons, really: I work like a mad woman during the hours they are at school and, a classroom full of randomly churning kids? it makes me nuts. There’s a reason I never considered education as a career, ever, I would be a tragically inept teacher. But I do what I have to do to my schedule to make sure that I drive or chaperone on at least two field trips for each of them (that’s eight field trips, so I’m in there pitching), and I make it a priority to attend any special productions their classes put together for parents. But I couldn’t make it to YuYu’s autobiography, so I asked her to tell me about it at dinner that night.

She told me how Ms. L taught them to start with the most important picture: her foster mom.



And then the next one: her foster mom and dad.



And the next one: her whole foster family:



And then, finally, she slipped in photo of her sisters and her Utah mom.

And I have to tell you, her order importance for the photos?, referring to me as the Utah mom?? it got to me a little. I was a little rattled. There we were, looking for all the world like a normal family (well, if normal families only had one parent and the parents and the kids don't match) all sitting around the dinner table, and I’m doing my level best not to act like an jealous pre-teen because I just found out that to YuYu, I'm distinct from her foster mom not by permanence, but by location. You know, really mature stuff. My precious love nugget thinks I’m just a Utah mom. Not a forever mom, not her real mom, just her Utah mom. And then I thought, oh thank gawd I wasn’t in a room full of other parents with YuYu narrating her story and labeling me as the Utah mom. They would not have understood, and I wouldn’t have been able to explain and I would have just died sitting there thinking that they thought I wasn’t a “real” parent. That I was just a space filler and YuYu's "real" parents were pining away for her, the victims in a sordid kidnapping scenario, which they kind of were, they wanted to adopt her but just couldn't afford the fees.

Do not get me wrong. It was only a twinge of hurt and jealousy. I am so grateful to and thankful for YuYu’s foster family. Sharing this beautiful girl with her wonderful foster family and being her Utah mom is Ay Oh Kay with me. But I wonder what the other parents were thinking, or did they even hear/care/note the difference.

I still have huge guilt for taking YuYu from her foster family after they watched her grow and grew to love her for four years. I am so happy for YuYu that she had such a strong start in less than ideal circumstances. She had a wonderful warm mother, a truly doting father and a very proud and protective big brother who adored her, still adore her, who wouldn’t? YuYu is adorable. I get misty, still, when I think of the pain YuYu’s adoption caused these good people. Wanting the best future for their treasure, wishing that future could have been with them. I know that YuYu thinks of them often and with great fondness, no grieving, just acceptance that she is here with a family she loves and the other family she loves is in China, loving her back. YuYu is so well-adjusted, so in love with her other parents, so content and in love with me, but always her foster parents are in her thoughts and I am the Utah mom. Not the only mom, not the forever mom, the Utah mom. And I can live with that.

We just celebrated our fourth year together. If YuYu went into foster care when she was probably nine months old, I’m quickly rounding up on the day when I will have had YuYu with me longer than her foster parents had her with them. But it is apparent that all of the changes in her family life haven’t quite settled out in YuYu’s mind. She knows that this is now her home and her life, but she has such wonderful memories of her life and family in China. Being reminded that I am a Utah mom was a good thing for me. I need to be more aware of what YuYu lost and make sure she knows that I know and that I remember and that I love her even more for what she had to give up to be my daughter.

And it was especially good to be reminded of YuYu’s connection to her foster family since I am already flipping out about taking time from my practice (and I really mean my business and livelihood, practice is a word that doesn’t adequately convey the cash flow aspects of a legal career, it’s not all parsing statutes and writing briefs) next summer to travel back to China to attend her foster brother’s college graduation. Not to mention how much this is going to cost for all of us to travel, makes me cringe to think of the $$$ it will take to just buy the plane tickets. But YuYu will see and feel her beloved foster family and they will see and feel her and even if I end up piling more $$$ on the big mountain of debt, I can’t think of any better reason to do it. YuYu talks and thinks about the upcoming trip all the time. She is ready to fly there tomorrow. I can’t even imagine how exited her parents are for her arrival, can’t even imagine. This is one very special child who has the potential to become an incredible adult and the honor of being her Utah mom, considering how deep YuYu’s love runs for each family, is plenty enough for me. I am a Utah mom sir, Ki Yi!

My Little Buddy

So last summer, another adoptive family with a daughter from the Guilin SWI who shared time in the institution with my Nora although my Nora has a memory like a colander so remembers NOTHING of her first 4.5 years in China, good and bad I guess, but anyway, this great family was going to stop by on their way back out to the toolies so our kids could hang. Being the excellent hostess of renown that I am, I wanted to have the take and bake pizza at least took before they arrived, but the Honda was dead like the doornails. When Jane arrived at my door, I had to make her do the pizza run. Lord knows what she was thinking of me at that point, how conniving, how cheap, all true, but not my purpose that day.

But I was not without hope because the Honda is always dead like the doornails because pokey little children can't keep their pokey little fingers off the dome lights and the big brains at Honda didn't anticipate that eventuality and the damn car dies a slow death over night in hotel parking lots in Las Vegas, or, you know, wherever or whenever it would be most inconvenient. To that end, last Christmas, I asked for and received from my father (he will not shop or initiate gift giving, but if you relay through mom that you need something that Dad feels comfortable picking up for you at the auto parts store or Lowe's, he is okay with that, as long as it does not exceed approximately $75, more than that and he'll piss and moan until you think you've asked him for his PIN), a portable battery charger. What I also should have asked for was a short training session because Jane and I got that sucker all hooked up to the Honda and turned it on and it made a satisfying noise for several hours, but did not give the Honda back it's mojo in the slightest. So I'm thinking, Dad bought me the cheapest POS charger he could find and if I even knew where to recycle all the AA batteries we go through (where do you recycle used batteries?) that sucker would have been in the recycle bin too.

That day I borrowed a plug into the wall charger from my across the street neighbor George (an able-bodied early retired airline mechanic who would no more offer to help me as he watches me struggle with huge bags or topsoil or mountains of leaves or porch light fixtures or mountains of snow, or squat, he doesn't have to, sure, but hell, bad neighbor) and got the car recharged. For the next several months, I would cast disdain laden glances at the POS battery charger on its shelf in the garage, wondering what to do with it, not sure how to dispose of it, but sure that I needed to dispose of it and soon because it's very presence was an aggravation to me: POS charger.

So the weekend before Halloween, the little girls had their last soccer game and if they don't arrive on time, the team forfeits because the team roster drops below six if my kids don't play since they represent more than one-third of the team membership. I tell the kids to go load up in the car as I top off my mug o'joe and while I'm pouring my low-style flavored non-dairy creamer (I'm sorry, I like this stuff, shoot me), the little ones come back in through the garage and tell me that the van is acting funny. Oh shoot. It's dead. I can tell that George isn't home, wouldn't matter, the plug in the wall charger takes overnight to recharge. I call Stewart, no answer (what good is a best friend when he won't answer his cell at 7:40 am on a Saturday morning?). I spy Ron two houses up raking leaves, trot up to ask if we could get a jump, sure thing he says, I trot back down, realize that the Honda is so dead that I can't get the gear lever out of park and, therefore, can't back the car out of the garage to get access to the battery for a jump. I run back up the street to tell Ron, thanks, but no thanks, and he says: "We've got lots of cars, take one or ours." I'm am stunned by his generosity, really, we've spoken on maybe four occasions in three years. I don't go to church in the ward, so I don't know my neighbors as well as my neighbors know each other. I overcome my innate reluctance to ask for or accept help. I accept graciously, get the kids, three soccer balls, my camp chair and blanket loaded and off we go in Ron's sedan. I rack my brain for a way to thank him for his generosity and after too long really, this idea should have been immediate, it was so obvious, it hits me, fill up the tank stupid. So I put $30 of gas in Ron's car and return it to him only 20 miles worse for wear.

I call my dad and let him know that the POS Honda is dead, it COULDN'T be related to dome lights because I had been the last to close up the car when I put Hannah Montana in the back the night before, so would he please buy a new battery for me on the way into town and could he also install it for me and I won't be tormented by the disloyal battery anymore.

Dad and Mom arrive, without a new battery, but with his portable charger. He asks if I had tried to use my charger. I admit to him that the charger he gave me is a POS and that all it does is make a lot of noise and then eventually it dies without ever lifting the spirits of the target dead car battery. He hooks up his portable charger and I watch in disbelief as he turns it on and it makes no noise. I think, wow, his charger is really good, silent and all, no big noises like mine. Then he sits in the driver's seat and turns the key! What are you doing? I ask. I'm starting the car, he says. But don't you have to wait for the battery to recharge? He looks at me through the windshield with such a quizzical expression. But the car will not turn over all the way anyway. He says; let's hook it up to your charger. I say, okay, but it won't work beacause my charger is a POS. He hooks it up to the POS, he turns it on and THERE I see my critical error. I laugh, ha ha. In my previous attempts to use what I had assumed was a POS charger, I had turned something on, for sure, but I had turned on the COMPRESSOR, not the battery charger, hence the satisfying but mis-directing noise. He hooked up my new Little Buddy, no noise, and the Honda came back from the grave with one tell tale dome light left on over Mimi's seat where she had been pouring over her haul of cheap prizes and candy on the way home from the school carnival the night before. Kids, can't trust them.

So all's well that ends well: I rented the neighbor's car for $30, found out that its my Dad who actually owns the POS portable charger because mine worked when his wouldn't and my new Little Buddy is a life-saver, works like a champ and I'll never be parted from it or disparage it to friends and neighbors ever again. And the moral of my story is: get yourself a Little Buddy (make your Dad get you one for Christmas, it will make him feel useful), keep it close to your heart and turn on the right ON switch when the need for its services arises and you will feel safe and happy forever, but don't let your friends know that you have one and they will still have to pick up and buy the pizzas. The End.

two more cents

So I'm up late, working, I’m tired sleepy and tired mentally, but I've been trying to jump back into the blog, but the longer I go between posts, the lazier I get. I'm picturing myself, watching the rope go around between the two twirlers on either end, both of my hands up and down, up and down, timing my jump, but every time I've tried to jump the past few weeks, I been sucked back into the real world where filing deadlines nip at my ass every time I try to sit down to blog and end up losing the rhythm and just put my head back into the job, but hell, I could really use the diversion and sustenance writing provides, especially when I feel like I'm stretched so thinly.

So I’m corralling my thoughts about the election and how it feels to finally, finally be represented by a leader who reflects my values, and the best way I can describe it?: it feels like a party in my patriot’s heart. And I AM a patriot, I AM a real American even though I AM a big D Democrat and I didn’t realize how very hopeless eight years of
GWBush and a lifetime of being a big D Democrat in the reddest of the red states had left me feeling. I am proud of my country, I am proud that Utah did not have the highest percentage of support for the Republican candidate like it usually does in presidential election years, Idaho and Wyoming beat us out of that distinction this year. I am proud that more of my fellow Westerners figured out that voting Republican is truly voting against their own self interest. But most of all, I am happy that at least 37% of the voting citizens in this state don’t think that I am in league with the devil because I voted for the Democrat because they did too and we can’t all be in league with the devil. I don’t think it works that way, too public, doesn’t the evil one work on a more discreet scale?

I am a life long Democrat and a life long resident in the reddest of the red states. Where, not only as a non-Mormon, but a non-Republican, and a single parent, I have certainly experienced what it feels like to be suspected of being in league with the devil because of the choices I make on my ballot. We pretty much have a one-party political system in local and state government, and seriously, it hasn’t been working all that great for us. You have to go back to the Great Depression when most Mormons were Roosevelt Democrats because the depression walloped our state so badly and like they’re aren’t any atheists in a fox hole, there aren’t many Republicans in a depression, but since World War II, the trend has been decisively red. Well, not so red anymore, you can see streaks of purple and my zip code; forget about it, blue, blue, blue, blue.

But one positive thing of learning to get along as a Democrat in a Republican stronghold, you learn to adapt strategies that keep you from screaming obscenities at the neighbors. I like to think that it has made me a better person, or maybe just caused me to retreat from a fight, but either way, no bloody noses over politics is a good outcome. So when my ancient neighbor Cuma (I really need to ask her the origin of her name one of these days) came down the street the day after Halloween to chat while the girls and I were out front raking leaves, she launched on how many other good causes for which the money Obama (although she said "that man") spent on his infomercial could have been used and that she was just livid about the waste. I was pretty gentle, I told her there were restrictions on campaign funds, he couldn't just spend the money on anything he wanted to, although I’m sure he agrees that hungry people should be fed, because the people who donated to him did so to help him get elected, not to feed the hungry, but she shook her head and said, "well, there's a reason those Democrats are known for their spending." Then she asked if the girls were still collecting for UNICEF and put a $5.00 bill in each of their boxes and marched them up to another ancient neighbor's house so she could donate too. I've lived my whole life trying to gently disagree with my neighbors without offending them because I know that (a) I can't change their minds and pretty much, they can’t change mine, and (b) they are good people who would give $20 to a “radical” cause (US out of the UN is a permanent metal sculpture at a house near my folks' home) because it made my kids feel special.

Living in the reddest of the red states makes me understand that, red or blue, most folks just want what they see as best for the country, and we all see “what’s best” through the prism of our own political biases. Although, each year when the Utah state legislature convenes, I do the mental equivalent of plugging my ears and singing Dixie at the top of my voice for 45 days so I don’t know what those yahoos are doing to the laws of my state to further disadvantage the weak, poor, vulnerable, voiceless and disenfranchised citizens of our state.

So can I just tell you, the relief I felt to wake up on November 5 to a country lead by a man who reflects my values? It felt wonderful, like a party I get to go to where I'll know lots of people and I won't have to feel like I'm a second class member of society because I'm a Democrat. And I do not over-exaggerate; so many people in this state think you are not a real American if you don't vote for Republicans. But there is no more sappily patriotic American than me and I have the trophies to prove it (grade school patriotic speech champion, two consecutive years, I was on fire). Now I have a leader who reminds me of the pride I felt and expressed out loud to a “multi-purpose room” full of fourth, fifth and sixth graders when I was just a girl and still full of hope. See, was I wrong?, sappy sappy sappy.

When bad things happen to good apples

Oh, and while I'm still in the playing hookie from school mind set, I just have to share the pinnacle of my culinary achievements. This is what happens when impatient mom slops a little more water in the carmels to make them melt faster so we can all get on to the next fun seasonal event. Look at me, I'm Queen of the Kitchen.

I ran away from my own office today

I ran away from my office today, boy did I need to. A mom and daughter came in at 10:30 (wrong day, they were supposed to be here Tuesday). Daughter is a newly minted professional person (she went back to professional school later in life) and while she was freshly divorced, in school and not making ends meet, she intercepted credit card offers in her mom's mail and opened accounts without permission, bad bad bad scene. Especially since, well, that’s criminal behavior and that kind of behavior could get daughter’s newly minted professional license yanked in a hot second should her mom choose to press it. And things between them started to get so tense, they have not reached a point where they can talk about what happened without tears and recrimination, there is so much anger and guilt spilling out all over my desk, respectively: daughter guilt, mom anger, so I faked a hearing at 11:00 (since they were here on the wrong day anyway) and fled.
I fled my own office to get away from angry sad people who love each other but are wrecked and ruined over what has happened between them. But the help I could offer, the mom didn't want to take, and I am not a counselor/listener/it's going to be all right personality, so I fled. I flew away from them, I cannot fix it for them, I think the mom thought I could wave a wand, and maybe attorney Samantha Stevens could wave that wand or crinkle her nose, me, not so much.

So on my mental health break fleeing from the scene of sadness, I picked up some kid costume things at a here just for the month gone November 1 Halloween store, some new casual black shoes because I was in Fred Meyer (I know, now Smith's, but it took me so long to get used to calling it Fred Meyer). But the Fred Meyer has shoes and it is close to my office and I will never make it to the mall, I only just kid myself that it will ever happen so, there it is, I'm into convenience not fashion don't you know and you that know me IRL as the kids say, know. I filled my tank and ran the van through the car wash because I must have driven through a couple of swarms of bugs between here and Kaysville the past few trips to visit the old folks. I'm loving the new Legacy Parkway even though I don’t drive on it, but others are and that leaves I-15 all open and maneuverable, just like I like it. So I feel SO MUCH better now and even better after I do a little blogging during work hours, ooh, look at me, I’m wasting time, ooh.
I even called my mom while I was running those errands and said, hey, although you think I'm spinning out of control a lot, it could be worse, I could be running up debt on your accounts without your knowledge or consent, so think about that, see, not such a disappointment although my freezer is packed to the gills with sacks and sacks and sack of Bertolli meals. But show me a working mom out there who doesn’t need a few, or many, meal time crutches crammed away in the freezer, huh? Am I right?

It's just that I have been so busy at work, which is a good thing. Mo' money to hack away at the Nora adoption debt mountain caused by the lack of (a) cash flow, caused by my lack of (b) foresight. For a few months before and well over a year after bringing Nora home, I was not creating a big old pile of steaming debt that is not related to Nora specifically, but caused by the Bankruptcy Reform Act for which I didn't adequately or even at all predict the whammy it was going to put on my income at just the same time I was bringing home No. 4 mouth to feed. But with the economy in a tail spin, I haven't slowed down for a few weeks and mom is coming in again to watch the kids after school so I can work late to try to catch up on things. I'm having bad interrupted sleep and really strange stress dreams that I remember because I'm waking up so much which is a sure sign that I’m under a lot of pressure, that and the bad impatient parenting, that’s a pretty sure sign too.

And maybe it's here, while I’m really feeling the strain of being the sole provider, that I'll air my pet peeve (chuckle, like I have just the one). When a member of a two parent household says to me, "I don't know how you do it, when Jack or Jill Sprat is out of town for business, and it's just me and the kids; it just makes me spaz out." Well Mrs. and/or Mr. Sprat, try that scenario without the absent Sprat's paycheck hitting the automatic deposit into your checking account on a bi-weekly basis and THEN we can talk, you know? But I don't say anything; I graciously accept the compliment, keep my lips zipped and smile. Hey, what can I say anyway? I asked for this, I sure did, so don't let me hear myself complaining now that I got what I asked for, but, seriously, sometimes I don't know how I do it.

Pretty much perfection

A wise friend, who I'm sure is not aware of my blog and is too busy for it anyway, peeled off a little piece of advice at our last bookclub meeting that I gamely hosted at my house a couple of weeks ago (one-half hour after I emptied the house of too many 8-year-old Hannah Montaniacs from Mimi's b-day party) which my suave and elegant friends gamely attended and graciously looked past, over and around the dust bunnies big enough to have reserved parking spaces in the hall and the full size cut-out of the aforementioned secret pop star.

I was at my end of the table lamenting work load and loads of laundry and the general penumbra of guilt that comes part and parcel with more than full-time work, full-time house keeping and full-time single parenting (the genuinely single kind without the benefit of monthly support payments, although many may disagree with my definition of genuine because I don't have to deal with the emotional cost of a reviled ex-spouse that may or may not be forthcoming with said support payments and may or may not be poisoning my childrens' minds). My friend, who is a judge and a good parent, very credible and, as I already mentioned, wise) said to me, very directly, well, yeah, there's all that, and there will always be all that, and sometimes more of that, but just concentrate on making one memory a month and call it good.

Well, yesterday, it was good, very, very good, pretty much perfection, and I'm here to wrap it in waxed paper, tie it with string, and call it good.

Another wise mother of my acquaintance, who seems to have come instinctively loaded with the making memories strategy in her parenting quiver, generously shared her inside scoop (get it?) on the top secret pumpkin patch location (yeah, top secret, about 2 miles from where I grew up, who knew? I thought pumpkins came from the front of Albertsons and that was that, well they get to the front of Albertsons from this place). Equipped with empty bladders and warm jackets (you never know what kind of facilities, or lack thereof, one may encounter), we headed North yesterday on a morning that just screams for a cliche: picture perfect. Good heck, mid-October in our great state known world wide for what? oh yeah, snow, and it was dry, warm and so sunny, so really? other than what that damn electoral college does to my vote, what is so wrong with this place? Rhetorical, purely rhetorical, no need to answer.



Last one in the pumpkin patch is a rotten squash.



Wait, we don't need no stinkin' coats, where do you think this is? Utah?

alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259003091785087538" />


(Don't know how I just stranded that line of magic code, can't seem to fix it either, oh well)

Come on sis (they call each other sis, is that too much? I love it) let's ditch the little losers, they're slowing down our pumpkin hunting mojo.



Come on sis, let's take the high road and we'll be in Scotland afore ye.



Who you calling loser? Look at us Ma! Top of the World, um, top of the hay bale maze!



So many pumpkins, so litte time. Come on, you knew I had to say it, they're standing in the middle of a big honking pumpkin patch, how could I not say it?




Ellie, cut your hair, we don't get paid when you wear a logo sweatshirt if the logo isn't visible. Go Utes anyways. And that is about the most I can rev up for my alma mater, I so don't get the wearing 'o the red, unless the Utes play the Ys, then, yeah, GO UTES, I can spend a few more capital letters for that.



We learned in school that some eggs have a long incubation period, wait, wrong science unit.



Sis, come look, I found the perfect one, oh, crud, shouldn't have blinked, look sis, I found the other perfect one!



Mom, if I don't get me some help with this cart, your Social Security payments won't be able to even touch my therapy bills.



YuYu, we drove all the way to Farmington for pumpkins, come on, go big or go home, or well, yeah, we'll go home too, but come on little gal, load up, we're in the middle of a big honking pumpkin patch.



Total cheesecake, but did you notice, matching themed $4 t-shirts? I was in it to win it yesterday, they'll remember the matching t-shirts for sure.



Okay, cart is full, time to bring it on home, many hands make light work.



Many hands also make cart crooked.



Okay you amateurs, let the big sis have at it, I'll show you how it's done, although this is my first time in a pumpkin patch too because until today, Mom thought pumpkins came from the front of Albertsons. I feel so cheated, hope Mom's Social Security payments will be enough to cover all the therapy.



Okay, finally, the last 20 yards to the car, Mimi finally pitches in to help. I don't call her the princess of everything for no good reason.



Sorry girls, all sales are final, too late to take any back. Just start lifting, it's only 80 pounds of pumpkins. Put your backs into it, tote those bales.



No really, my hands are full with the camera, just keep lifting, it will be done before you know it, really, trust me, I'm your mother, would I lie to you? oh yeah, well I really thought that pumpkins came from the front of Albertsons.



And despite Mimi's pained expression, a good time was had by all and a good memory was stored in the childhood memory banks, I'm pretty damn sure. One month down, infinity to go.

Irrefutable Logic

 

Can't really argue with it, just find it kind of odd and, truthfully, a little disturbing,coming from a second grader, but that's my kid, just kind of odd and disturbing and totally gorgeous.