Adventures in Walmart 2

Another installation of the continuing drama that is Walmart.

This is the week between Christmas and New Years and my blog post should be one of joy and peace, hope and happiness. But that's not this post. That's not this post at all.

Now you might be wondering why I keep going back to this store. I know I should shop at Whole Foods and eschew gluten and buy things that have no carbon footprint and are lovingly handmade by responsible citizens. But I'm a simple person. Winn Dixie is simply more expensive and it's a bit of a drive to get to Publix. I'll have scruples later, when the kids are older.

Today we stopped in to the store to get a couple things. Just a quick little run-by. A jaunt, if you will. I had to get paint for a dresser we're redoing (boasting pictures to come if it turns out well: if not, forget you ever read that) and potatoes and beans for soup. That was all I had to get. So what if I had three kids with me? We're veterans at this whole shopping thing and they know how to behave in stores (insert maniacal laughter here).

We got the couple foodstuffs and headed to the paint section. The paint section at Walmart is like the Bermuda Triangle. It's full of mystery and people become misplaced. Maybe there will be someone working the counter but maybe there will be no employees within 45 miles of the counter. Hard to tell. As I'm pondering the differences in primer, the kids decide they need to touch absolutely everything they see - playing an intricate and abnormally loud game having something to do with the color of the paint can label. Sometimes it seems to me that every time we go to the store is the very first time. "What should we do? Should we run around crazy? Should we touch anything made of glass? Yes, lets!" It's like amnesia sets in as soon as their feet cross the threshold.

As I'm trying to corral my kids as quietly yet still as menacingly as I can, I spot another mom with kids. She's up at the counter, patiently waiting for an employee. She's so pleasant and patient, I shake my head in sympathy. Must be her first time at the Walmart paint counter.

She has two boys with her, approximately 8 and 5. Their cheeks are rosy, their eyes sparkle with life, they calmly stand next to their mom like a couple of angel statues. Meanwhile, my own children are ferociously debating whether or not a paint can swung at a metal pole would make a high or low noise.

They never discovered the answer, as they were melting under my very authoritative mom glare.

Noah decides he hates his pacifier with a passion so he throws it under an aisle of paint cans. Then he realizes that he loves it more than life itself and starts squealing like a baby pterodactyl being boiled in hot oil and then poked with sharp sporks. Or at least how I imagine that would sound.

He then starts grabbing for me and wailing (while Jack slides around on the floor, hunting for the pacifier). All the while the angel statues are patiently awaiting the phantom employees. I imagine behind their angelic blue eyes they are planning their next charity event.

At this point I flagged down an employee. He pages the paint people. 10 minutes crawl by. He pages them again. Finally, a somewhat disgruntled man ambles over from the hunting section. He begins to work on my request. One measly little quart of paint is all I need.

The pacifier is thrown repeatedly. The children are given a good talking-to. Noah starts to break down for no apparent reason.

I unbuckle Noah and hold him. A horrible sensation comes over me. The jacket of my arm is soaked where he's sitting and so is the front of my shirt, where his legs are wrapped around. Oh yes. It's not like he soaked his diaper with pee. It's...different.

What's the worst place for a baby to have diarrhea? In a megastore...in a person's arms.

Man at Paint Counter: "I can't mix this. It's too dark."

Me: "Excuse me?"

Man: "The computer says it will overflow."

Me: "How do people get that color then? I'm confused."

Man: "I don't work at this station. I don't really know. The people who work here are on lunch break."

Apparently there are multiple people who work at the paint counter but they all take lunch at the same time. 5:12 in the evening to be exact.

So I decided to just check out and get paint somewhere else. Surely, I can endure a few minutes to check out my four items. My jacket is ruined anyway, what's the point?

There are 20,000 people checking out. There are 3 lanes open.

We get in the express lane. The minutes tick by. When we finally get to the front, I realize with a sinking feeling that this particular cashier is agonizingly slow. Very, very pleasant but slow. You can become ensnared in a conversation about show tunes or knitting or paper bags. There I am, kids running wild, fussy baby in my arms, jacket arm soaked in horror. He slowly starts scanning the items, pauses and says dreamily "There are so many people here today. People rushing about. The thing is, people are just too impatient."

I nod in sympathy but I'm thinking "HURRY UP! COME ON!"

He says "Sometimes I wish I was retired. Then it wouldn't be so busy and rushed."

Me: "Yes, indeed."  SHUT YOUR TRAP! GOOD GRAVY!

We then rushed home, me hurrying the kids through the parking lot. I quickly stripped Noah and just washed him off under the tub faucet. After he was scrubbed and freshly pajama-ed, I ran a bath for myself.

What I really wanted was some chocolate but I decided that perhaps I should stop feeding my feelings. So instead I had sliced cucumbers. Cucumbers. For that decision, I should get a medal. Or at least a robust smattering of applause.

If I'm making resolutions, though, it should probably be not to overshare on the internet so much.

One year at a time.

Christmas Night

Speak the words
World is new
Flowers bloom, air is sweet
Walk the garden with me

Sly glance
Whispered words
A choice is made
The scales have tipped

A dark band encircles the Earth
Choking, pressing
Can't catch its breath
Deliver us!
Deliver me

Far above
A plan is made
Trumpets sound
He is coming

Dark night in a little town
She is tired
She is scared
She is full of hope

Sheep watch with sleepy eyes
Cows yawn
It is late
The room is quiet, the room is still
He is coming

A gasp of pain
A baby's first cry

Whitewashed walls
Fresh yellow straw
Through that quiet sleepy night
She delivers him
Prince of Peace
King of Kings
Deliver us!
Deliver me

The soft scent of clean new life
Mingles with sin and desperation
Ten little fingers
Ten little toes
Hope has been born tonight
Love sleeps on the straw tonight

O little one

He has delivered us

He has delivered me

He has come

Fingerprinting is a Serious Business - One that Requires a Certain Kind of Shoe

Two blog posts in one week? I must have a statistics final exam coming up. Procrastinate now!

I do have some good news to share on the adoption front. We had to get our fingerprints done by the US Immigration Place (which is probably not its actual name). We were told all kinds of disheartening things. Once your mail in your packet of paperwork, along with about $1000 (to roll each of my fingers for about 3 seconds), they send you an appointment date and time. In other words, you don't get to choose when you go in. Maybe it will be in two weeks, maybe a month. Maybe early in the morning or smack dab in the middle of your work day. Getting your fingerprints done by the government is like a surprise party. That you're charged for. And with fewer balloons. And less happiness.

Side Note: I have to add a little note here so the rest of this makes sense. A couple weeks ago a coworker begged me to work for her on a certain Friday. I don't work during the week usually. I work one day a week, most often on Saturday or Sunday. The rest of the time I stay home. Because I like being a kept woman. This certain coworker was desperate and she was looking at me with sad bunny rabbit eyes so I said yes.

You can see where this is going, I'm sure. A couple days after I acquiesced I got our fingerprint appointment letters in the mail. Yup, we were due that specific Friday, some three weeks away. The appointment place is about 1.5 hours away from the hospital and they sort of frown on not being in the ER when you're supposed to be there. As a employee, that is. If you're a patient though, the general rule of thumb is if you're not having a heart attack or holding your own head in your hands, stay home.

So yes, of course, our appointment is the one day of the week I had offered to work. Darn my kind heart! A friend of ours who has adopted from China and is in the process again told me that you could try to just walk into the fingerprinting place but it was very iffy. She was turned away cold a couple times and basically harassed by the guards another time and made it by the skin of her teeth once or twice. I'm nothing if not unrealistically hopeful so I decided we should just walk in. I figured that God had this all under control and He wants our little girl to come home quickly like we do. I made childcare arrangements (thank God for wonderful friends!) and we decided to try our luck this past Friday.

Matt suggested we dress nicely so we seem like respectable people. He was going to take a couple hours of vacation time and go during work hours so he was already looking good. For me, though, I had to gussy up a little bit. Makeup, nice clothes, ironed hair. And my secret weapon - fancy witch shoes. These things have ridiculously pointed toes, the kind that make angry red streaks on your feet and make you groan with pleasure when the instruments of pain and torture are removed. That's when you know they're fancy.

Note my calves are not pictured. Nor will they probably ever be again after the boots fiasco of 2012.

Fancy as in "I shop at Pottery Barn and wear pants that button." Not fancy as in "Meet me at Motel 6 in 15 minutes." That's an entirely different kind of fancy.

So Friday morning I dropped the kids off and drove into the big city to pick Matt up from work. We prayed beforehand, that the guards would show us kindness and grace and let us in. I had to admonish Matt to walk more slowly as it's hard for me to hobble along in fancy witch high heels. To which he replied that I might be better off with a broom.

My heart was beating so fast as we stood at the door, waiting for the guard to come out and inspect us. She told me to throw away my gum (oh, government agencies) and took our licenses and appointment papers. She made sure the names matched then guided us in with a smile. That's right. She didn't even look at our appointment date. We went through the metal detector and on into the fingerprinting area. The lady there noted that our dates weren't for a few more weeks but shrugged it off. We were in and out in about 7 minutes. It was fantastic. I managed to hold in my squeal of glee until we were in the car, in case they became suspicious that we had gotten away with something devious.

Really, though, it's so like God to do things like that. He sets before us a task, a purpose and then makes sure it happens. This adoption thing is all God and we're just along for the ride.

Matt and I had a nice little lunch together before he had to get back to work. I drove because it was just more convenient since I was already in my car. Of course, this meant I had to endure all sorts of little snipes about my driving. It's like having the Grand Vizier of Transportation riding shotgun. At one point I was remarking on some architecture across the street when Matt practically screamed at me to turn faster. Really, that big truck wasn't going to hit us. At least I'm pretty sure it wasn't. So when I dropped him off at work he gave me his sexy yet rugged smile and said "Be safe. And aware. So be safe and aware."

What an arrogant punk. A cute punk but a punk nonetheless.

And then I drove out of the parking lot and promptly traveled 7 miles in the wrong direction. At least the Dictator wasn't there for that snafu. Whew.

Random Ramblings

Once again, a mixed up jumble of random things.

You're welcome.

Wanderings

Recently, Jack got lost in a store. He became engrossed in a kids' movie on one of the tvs and failed to follow me down an aisle. When I realized he was gone and came back, he wasn't there. My heart started to race as I frantically searched for him, all the while Kate was begging me to allow her to stay and watch the tv while I looked for Jack. Um, no. Jack is a fairly responsible 7 year old and sure enough, I heard my name summoned over the loudspeaker. He had went straight to customer service. After a few hugs and tears, we went over the scenario. I asked him what he said to the employees at the counter. He said "My mom is lost" and gave them my name. I asked him why he didn't say he was lost and he replied "Well, I knew where I was the whole time." Indeed.

What probably helped is that he also wore his doctor outfit to the store that day. I had bought him a coat a few months ago and a friend embroidered his name on it with the words "Cardiovascular Surgery" under it. He will not wear a t-shirt under the coat, only a collared, button up dress shirt. And he almost always has a stethoscope around his neck too. So perhaps this only gave Jack an advantage as a misplaced child. Any would-be kidnapper would think "Oh, it's just a tiny (midget, little person, etc) surgeon, here on lunch break." Dougie Houser at Wal-Mart, just buying some post-it notes or something.

Please don't bother the good doctor; he'll be late for a triple bypass.

       Statistics

Of course, a little update on the most horrendous math in existence. I swear that on the last test, she was just making things up. Because really, who's going to call her on it? A student stands up "Uh, excuse me, I believe it's Sigma multiplied by the sum of Beta and the Y-value, not Sigma multiplied by the sum of Beta squared and the Y-value."

So on the last test I didn't know what any of the wording meant and I had forgotten all the equations I'd ever learned in my entire life. I basically just started square rooting things and multiplying them together, hoping she'd give me credit for all the hard work I did in making things up.

While at the library the other day, I was checking out some sitcoms and joking with the librarians that it's the only way I can handle doing my statistics homework. The elderly gentleman at the counter said "My wife didn't finish her PhD because of that class."

I hope you're happy, statistics. You're ruining people's lives.

Boots

Boots are incredibly popular nowadays. If you're not convinced, look down. Chances are you'll see some boots. Maybe they'll be on your own feet. If you didn't realize that before, you have some serious problems, my friend.

Anyway, I thought I'd get some boots. I usually stay away from trendy things (although my childhood of curled bangs and miniature backpack purses say otherwise) but I happen to like the way boots look. With skirts, leggings, cute skinny jeans tucked into them.

Let me back up a minute here and begin by stating that I've never really given much thought to my calves. Stomach? Yes. Thighs? Absolutely. Weird little packets of fat behind the arms? Sure. But my calves? Eh, haven't really thought of them much.

I do now.

In my quest for boots, I've discovered something rather disheartening: My calves are simply too fat for cute boots. Pair after pair of mid-calf or knee-high boots were discarded in a pile of broken dreams. Guess me and my big ol' legs are sticking with flip-flops.

Speaking of legs...

Treadmill

We recently acquired a used treadmill. I'd rather run outside (well, not really) but it's hard enough to force my body to run when it's just me, let alone a jogging stroller with a toddler inside. What do I do with my arms? Do I push the stroller ahead and run normally until I catch up? Do I run with one arm on the stroller and one pumping for the run? Those are the only options I could think of, and neither worked. So I decided to get a treadmill and then I could run inside. Well, the first two weeks we had it were rough. I could only run for maybe 20 minutes (the length of an Office or something) and my legs would be burning. Now, I'm not in the best shape (see above paragraph) but good gracious, I didn't think I was that bad. After two weeks, I noticed that the back of my thighs were really sore when I walked. Normally it's my calves that burn (hey, maybe my calves are just athletic!) so this was really odd. An idea came to me. I went to the treadmill and son of a buttered biscuit! Look at that incline!

Ok, it doesn't look that high. But it is! I swear!

My best friend told me that it was a good thing. Think of all the calories I had burned without even realizing it! But the elation is short lived. What does that say about me that I didn't even notice my treadmill was slanted so much?

Nothing good, I can tell you that much. Nothing good.

Christmas Letters (aka We're better at Life Than You)

All Christmas letters follow the same basic principle: our family is awesome and our life is better than your life. Most Christmas letters look like this:

To our family and friends:

Happy Holidays! We've had quite the year here at the McFabulous house. Every year I wonder if the next year will be as good as the last. This year was no exception, knock on brand new granite counter tops! I'm sure you're wondering what our precious angel darlings are up to, so without further ado:

Allister (18)  - It's been a whirlwind year for him, what with winning the Nobel Prize for Physics and the National Spelling Bee. I had to give up my Louis Vuitton purse room so sweet little Allister-kins could study. The sacrifices we make for our children are never-ending, are they? Allister decided to accept Harvard's offer of a full scholarship, even though the offers from Stanford and Princeton were quite appealing as well. But we couldn't pass up having a library named after our little boy! The solid gold plaque dedicating the library to Allister is a little tacky if you ask me (see attached photo). I told them that platinum would be perfectly acceptable; we're not showy people. But you know how Harvard can be!

Buffy (14) - Hard to believe our sweet little princess is in high school already! Of course, it won't take her long to graduate, not with all the advanced placement classes she's taking. She handles her classes pretty well and has found time to audition for Julliard as well. I keep telling her not to take on so much but I admit it was a proud moment when our beautiful Buffy won this year's Miss Teen America (see attached photo). She has to decide whether she wants to wear the diamond tiara or the sapphire tiara at her various Miss Teen America functions. Sometimes she's downright stressed, wondering which tiara to choose. It's tough as parents, isn't it, to see our precious babies going through hard times. But I keep telling her "That's life, sweet little heart of my own heart, that's life." 

Victoriana (12) - Our other little princess really enjoyed being an ambassador to the UN this year. We weren't sure if she was ready or not but the UN pleaded their case, as Victoriana is fluent in ten languages. We acquiesced and her gifted teacher told us she would be able to make up her work. It was a little tough for our youngest after Buffy won Miss Teen America even though we assured her that qualifying for the US Olympic Croquet team was no small feat for a 12 year old. But you know how siblings are!

As for me and Preston, we're still madly in love after all these years! Of course, our monthly vacations to Fiji (see attached photo) certainly help to set a romantic mood. Don't think life is all roses for us though. We had a scary situation in August when we got into a little fender-bender in Paris. How frightening! Luckily, our Porsche had just a teensy tiny little dent in it but we certainly have a new appreciation for life after that. 

We finished up our busy year dancing our cares away at the Governor's Ball (thanks Mitzy darling for inviting us!). I have to say it was quite an honor meeting the President and First Lady (see attached photo) and they could hardly tear themselves away from a little slide show we put together of the children. Thank goodness we had a back up iphone - Preston's battery died after only 4 hours! How embarrassing! It was a lovely evening and a wonderful way to ring in the New Year.

Hope you all have a joyous holiday!

Love, the McFabulous Family (see attached photo)

Once, just once, wouldn't you like to read a letter like this:

Happy Holidays! We've had quite the year here at the Smith house. Things aren't exactly wonderful but they could be a lot worse and we're thankful for that. 

Barney Jr (18) - Our oldest was accepted at Billy Joe Bob's Community College. Whew! What a relief! We did have to write a letter to the admissions office explaining the 7-11 incident but all is clear now. Of course, it will be a little tougher in college for Barney Jr after that unfortunate hunting accident left him with only two fingers on his right hand. I didn't even realize it was possible to shoot yourself with a rifle! We're also pretty sure we have a grandchild on the way although the paternity test hasn't come back yet. It was quite exciting to be on the Maury Povich show. What a thrill! All in all, we're proud of Barney Jr, provided he doesn't keep spending most his days at the dog track. But he has a head for investments, so who can blame him?

Maybelle (14) - She is quite the reader (she's finished all of the Captain Underpants Series) and this looks like her year to finally make it through fifth grade. Bless her heart, she tries her best. Some crayons just aren't meant to be the sharpest in the box, though. She has been busy though, collecting all of our beer can tabs and making things with them. To me it just looks like she glued a bunch of them to a piece of paper but it's good to have a hobby I suppose.

Larry (12) - Well, it wasn't the best year for our Larry. After getting suspended from school 4 times this fall, he set fire to our garage. It wouldn't have been so bad except for all the vodka and deer meat. Boy, that's a smell you'll never forget!

As for us, Barney and I are still married. Separate bedrooms certainly help. Despite my record breaking gallstones (see attached photo), we're still planning on heading off for a little vacation in January. I heard the Motel 6 now has top sheets so that's something to look forward to. Also, Barney is off on parole for the holidays this year so it will be quite festive. My mother-in-law is also staying with us but after the Thanksgiving gravy episode (she swears she wasn't deliberately trying to poison us, although I do wonder how she mistook antifreeze for broth), I'll be cooking Christmas dinner.  I saw a recipe to mold Spam into the shape of a turkey so I think this will be the best holiday feast ever!

Thank goodness for boxed wine, am I right?

Love, the Smith Family

Conversations with Matt

Matt and I are pretty similar in a lot of ways but like most married people, we have our differences. Opportunities for growth, if you will. One of these things is our view of money. Matt is a financial advisor so I suppose it comes with the job.  Matt wants to save for retirement, I want to buy flip-flops. Matt wants to contribute to a 401k, I don't even know what that is.

Here is a sampling of such conversations:

M:  You get holiday pay for working Thanksgiving, right?
J:  Yes, and a free meal.
M:  Who cares about the meal?
J:  I do.
M:  What's the holiday pay rate?
J: I think I'll get turkey. Possibly ham. Definitely mashed potatoes.

He gets very passionate when he speaks about finances. He has to stand up and possibly pace a bit while telling me about pensions and retirement and mutual bonds (or is it mutual stocks? I can never remember). Eyes ablaze, hands gesticulating. It's quite a show. Recently Matt was going on about something but all I could concentrate on was his adorable little dimple in his right cheek. After he was finished I said "You're so cute when you talk about finances. It makes me want to rip that sweater vest right off."  He stared at me for a moment and then said in a disgusted tone "Oh my gosh " and walked out of the room.

Matt can probably tell you, down to the cents, how much we have in our checking account on any given day. It takes me a minute just to remember which bank we use.

We also differ on our views of books. I love them. I love the smell of them - wood and ink. New pages that are crisp and full of promise. Old pages worn with love and soaked with the scent of time. If I loan a book out, even one I don't even like, I miss it. Like I've given away a part of me. Matt basically considers books, with few exceptions, to be a waste of space. We have about 6 bookcases and I can count on one hand the number of books that belong to him. In fact when we were moving to our current house, Matt started grousing that most of the boxes were filled with books. He just started labeling them 'Crap.'

While watching the election, at one point Matt exclaimed "Look at that! Only 193 votes separate the candidates in Florida!" He looked over to get my reaction and said, again with disgust, "Are you reading a book about dragons right now?"

You betcha.

The Question of Suffering

When we first talked about adoption, it was simply a good thing to do. Selfless, generous, and all that. When Matt and I really started to get serious about it, it was because God was impressing upon us his heart for orphans. The most surprising part about this journey is how it is changing us. Changing our marriage, our relationships with our kids, our view of a hurting world. We have just started this process and yet it is clear that this is no easy task. Sometimes it painfully stretches our relationships. We have to confront just how selfish we are with our time and our money and our comfortable little lives. Adoption is forcing us to come to terms with our need for control, racial stereotypes and tensions, and our all consuming focus on ourselves.

One of the greatest questions in all of human history is why does a supposedly loving God allow suffering? It keeps both believers and agnostics awake at night, tossing and turning on pillows damp with tears.

I have been to Honduras and the Dominican Republic and Matt has been to those countries and Mexico and Haiti. We have been to New York City and Chicago on mission trips. We have seen toddlers whose bellies are distended with hunger, liquid brown eyes round with suffering. Homeless men and women bundled in their belongings, faces etched with a lifetime of poor decisions and unfortunate circumstances. Women whose only thought is keeping their children alive one more day.

We have read accounts of the horrific conditions in Russian orphanages, teenagers who weigh as much as toddlers and spend their whole lives in cribs. Babies in Ethiopia and Haiti who are fed mud mixtures to keep bellies full because there is no food. Rooms filled with cribs in China, babies peering out with dull eyes. The hopelessness, the suffering, the complete and utter injustice.

The question is not why does God allow suffering. The question is - Why do we allow suffering? Why do I?

The desire I have to be comfortable and content is strong. I want to keep my money in tight fist-fulls and spend it on shoes and clothes, products to make my hair shinier and my teeth whiter.

This past election I heard a lot about rights. Specifically my rights as a woman. Defend them! Vote for them! Protect them!

And yet...I have given up my rights. Though I fail often, I give up the rights to myself everyday. My right to spend my money however I want, my right to be comfortable, my right to treat my unborn children however I choose, based on convenience. I choose to exchange my temporary and fleeting rights for something much greater.

To adopt is to value someone else's comfort and contentment more than your own. It is a dent in the great ocean of suffering and injustice that covers this world.

I can't change the suffering of this world. I cannot stop the horrors that happen every minute of every day. But I can teach my sons that their strength is measured in helping the helpless, their honor in loving the unlovable. I will whisper to my daughters that to be a life-giver is an unspeakable joy. I will tell them that it is a struggle to be you-first in a me-first world. That laying one's life down for another is the greatest of all things. It is hard and it is painful but it is a battle worth fighting.

Adventures in Walmart

I thought about trying to come up with an incognito name for this infamous store but didn't for several reasons. First, it was just too long of a nickname to call it 'The store I go to simply because there is no Target or Publix in my town.' And second, everyone knows what store I'm taking about anyway.

The first incident happened a couple weeks ago. We needed to get the tires changed on the van and Matt works so much that it just doesn't make sense for him to go. I happily (and stupidly) offered to take the van in while the older two were in homeschool PE at the Y. It's an hour class, surely I will have enough time.

Sometimes my optimism gets in the way of real life.

So I dropped the van off, fending off ridiculous questions such as "Would you like to add the $8 lifetime rotation service fee?" and "Do your tires have (some weird name) screws?" I don't know the answer to any of that. Always happens when I take the cars in to get fixed. If Matt can't take them in, I'm stuck with it. I just rattle off the phrase that Matt told me to say, such as "We need to have the tires aligned and can you please check the inside of the left tire?" I dread follow up questions like "When was the last time they were rotated?" or  "Does this car happen to have a winglehopper?" or some such nonsense. Let's be honest here. Do I look like I would know the answer to any of these questions? I haven't seen my hairbrush for months and my toddler son has a pretty pink pacifier. Don't come to me looking for answers.

Anyway, right after I handed the attendant the keys, I noticed something about Noah. There was a cloud of stink surrounding him. Normally this would not be a problem, I'd head on home and change his diaper (I stopped carrying the diaper bag on quick grocery trips years ago).

Once again, my optimism failed me.

There I was, stuck in Walmart, dirty diapered baby in my arms. I bought a small bag of diapers, closing my eyes for a moment to imagine the huge box of diapers I had just bought that were sitting in Noah's room. I didn't buy wipes. At the time, I reasoned that it was just one diaper and I could just use wet paper towels in the bathroom. I now realize that the reason I didn't buy wipes is that I am an idiot.

I put him on the changing table and began the process. The paper towels were the cheap ones (obviously) and practically disintegrated upon contact with water. He was fussing and wailing the whole time. After the change, I put him in the cart and took a good look at him. Shirt all gross from lunch, nose snotty, big bruise on his forehead from trip down the stairs, dirty bare feet. It was like a screen shot of "Babies of Walmart."

The cashier that day told me I should keep a spare diaper in my car. Yes, thank you. How helpful.

And gosh darn it if I didn't find a diaper in the trunk of the van later that day.

The second incident happened a couple days ago. It was election day and I stocked up on some things for the long night ahead.  I got in line behind a lady who seemed quite normal. She had a separate little bundle of items after the main bulk of her items had been paid for. She told the cashier that she was price-matching that section with the Winn-Dixie ad. They were all buy one, get one deals. The cashier explained that they have to match it with WD's price, not Walmart's. Made sense to me but apparently it befuddled the nachos out of this lady. She began to get all huffy and a manager was called over to try and placate the customer. I quietly loaded my items back into the cart and got in the next line. That cashier and I exchanged knowing glances as the lady next to us began to get more and more vocal. My cashier rang up my items and I stated "Nothing says election night like moscoto and Cheetos. This is why I love America." Every time alcohol is rung up at Walmart, the phrase "Does customer look over 40?" pops up on the screen. Sometimes they will slide their eyes over to my face and push a button. You did not just say yes. That's right, you'd better card me.

Anyway, toward the end of my shopping experience, the irate customer said "I have no words for how angry I am. I am just so angry I'm shaking. I can't tell you how angry I am. Something will be done about this. There are just no words."

I leaned over to my cashier and whispered "Sure seems like she has words, doesn't it?"

Vegetable, Dessert - Whatever.

Another stupid post. I really should be posting more on serious things - adoption, parenting, homeschooling, politics, blah, blah, blah. But everyday stuff is so ridiculous sometimes that I feel this desperate urge to share it. Maybe it's a gland problem.

So today my mom and I took the kids to a local corn maze/pumpkin patch/tractor ride thing. Afterward we drove to the nearest little town for lunch.

I was telling her that I remembered a college classmate of mine years ago telling me that this specific town had the best chicken sandwich he'd ever had. I didn't get the name, I guess I just thought it was be obvious once I saw it. Surprisingly, we didn't see a place with a name like "Best Chicken Sandwich You'll Ever Have." We did, however, see a BBQ place called - wait for it - Boston Butt Hut. You can't pass up a place like that. Don't even try. So we pulled into the little place and get out, smoke wafting around us. At that moment, my mom notices a little restaurant across the street. It touts old-fashioned southern cooking. My mom is intrigued, I can see, little elfish ears perked up. So we decide to head over there. In between these two restaurants is a four lane highway. A main artery, as my mom kept calling it. Lots of semis. We all hold hands and are about to cross when we decide to drive over. We get back in the van and begin the back up. My sensible surgeon of a seven years old states "We're in the parking lot of a restaurant and driving to another restaurant. This doesn't make any sense."

And darn it if he isn't almost always right about these things. But the people with drivers licenses control the cars, so off we go. It is probably about oh, 10 feet away? No wait, that's two of me. Maybe 20 feet. Our ride was like this:

"Ok, everyone, buckle up. *Click*
Ok, time to get out."

We walked in to a restaurant that was started in 1948. Original booths, carpet, and tables, from the looks of them. We sit down and order our drinks. The girl taking our order is decked out in Georgia gear, little bulldogs gracing her cheeks. Mom asked "So you are you rooting for on Saturday?'

Our waitress (blink): "Ha."

It's going to be a good lunch, I can tell.

While we sip our drinks, Mom looks longingly over at the restaurant we came from. "You want to go back to the Butt Hut, don't you?" Jack shakes his head, he's disgusted with us. If he knew the phrase 'You've made your bed, now lie in it,' he would've said that.

On the menu, under Vegetables, is a dish called "Chocolate Delight." We are told it is chocolate pudding and cool whip with a cookie crust. "Yes," Mom says, "I'll have that for my vegetable."

She goes to the bathroom and when she gets back she states "You have to see the bathroom."

Indeed.

When I go, I discover that there are two stalls but you must go through the first one to get to the second. That's right. We imagine the scenarios:

"Could you please hand me some toilet paper on your way back?"
"No, go right ahead, I'll just pick up my feet."

If I had thought to bring my camera, we could've acted out some of these scenarios and that would've made this post that much better.

The second stall is larger, like it's the wheelchair accessible one. No matter that the wheelchair would never get through the first stall. They have one on the premises and legally, that's all that matters.

From now on, I can say in any argument "Hey, I can't trust your judgement. You chose the restaurant with chocolate as a vegetable and the bathroom built for two."

I'm pretty sure I win.

Conversations in a Minivan

                 My oldest has a deep, passionate hatred for fast food. Especially McDonald's. It stems from his desire to be a cardiologist. Usually he says "I hate you. McDonald's - blech" as we drive by. Kate will tease him by either telling him she's going to work at Chik-Fil-A when she's adult or by sprinkling his food with salt (Mom! She put salt on my peas - now they're covered with sodium!)

The other day, as we were driving by McDonald's, this was the conversation:

Jack: "I would hate to be a construction worker. My boss might make us build a McDonald's and I would be very unhappy. When I'm a surgeon, I'm going to tell all my patients that they can only eat fast food once a year. Maybe once a month but definitely not once a week or day."

Katie in the backseat pipes up, hands on her hips: "You can't tell those people what to do."

Jack: "It's my job, I'm their doctor."

Katie: "They already know what to do. A couple weeks ago I saw a yellow pick-up truck at McDonald's and it's not there now so he knows."

Meanwhile, Jack is rolling his eyes.

I can't really remember how the rest of this conversation went because I started wondering how Pooh Bear got his honey pots. It seems to me that they are pretty complicated for such animals to make. You may say at this point "But Jess, they have furniture. Surely pottery isn't too far of a stretch." But those are just roughly hewn things. A couple small trees cut for legs of a table, a coarse slab thrown on top. That's not rocket science. But pottery require skill, finesse, some sort of pottery wheel. It bothers me a bit.

And then it bothers me that I'm wondering about furniture and household accessories in a children's book of fiction.

Back to fast food. I respect Jack's conviction on fast food. Although really, if you unwrapped a McD's burger and gave it to him, he would happily eat it. It's only if he knows it's fast food that he becomes a purist. A couple weeks ago, we went to Five Guys with my mom. When the food came, he remarked "That was really quick." And then with a quickening sense of panic, he asks suspiciously "Wait a minute - is this fast food?" Likewise, he went to Wendy's with my mom a couple weeks ago and she told me how she had to talk him into going in while out in the parking lot. He exclaimed with alarm "But I've already eaten fast food three times this year!"

Katie has decided that she will be a "haircutter" and will make cupcakes and muffins and such for the clients to enjoy while she does hair. She, at least, is not concerned about the risk of diabetes. And sometimes, if she's feeling particularly snarky, she will tell McDonald's she loves it as we drive by.

Oh, those minivan conversations.

School Plans Fall 2012 Part 2

You've just been welling up with anticipation for this post, I know.

Science

We use the Apologia Exploring Creation series. I did a lot of research and like Apologia because not only is it Creation-oriented but it's very thorough. There are a lot of ways to use this program too. There are the textbooks (along with test books and journals), audio cds, full course cd-roms, online courses for high schoolers, lab equipment, conferences, etc. Right now we're going through the General Science course. It's middle school level but I'm reading it aloud and then we do the experiments.

Lots of other fun stuff -

Bill Nye videos (find episodes on youtube)
Wonderopolis -a new wonder to learn about every day
Edheads - great for my budding surgeon. Even though the questions are at a middle to high school level (he just skips through them), the activities are fun for him to do. I can't count the number of times he's done the aortic aneurysm repair surgery.
How Stuff Works - like everything, you'll have to preview some of this stuff but the videos are pretty cool

Latin

This is honestly a really fun time for us. My kids (and I) enjoy learning Latin. We use Song School Latin but there are tons of good programs. We're going to add in Spanish in a few years. I know we'll never speak these languages like natives but hey, we're going to do what we can. Latin seems to be a lost art. I know, I know, it's a dead language. But there are lots of reasons to learn it. Especially as a kid - here's an article, and another and another. It's pretty interesting to discover the roots to lots of English words. Plus, it sounds really smart to say we're learning Latin.

Geography

Eh. We do a little. Print out maps to color, point on various things on the globe. When we're in the car, we listen to these songs. I can only stand them once a week, on the way to the library though. Oy.

History

This is my sweet spot. We do the four year history cycle, as outlined in Well-Trained Mind. Last year we did Ancient Times and now we're onto Middle Ages/Renaissance. History is so much fun. So many books and documentaries to choose from. It's never boring. We use Story of the World for our main book and supplement with lots of others. Here's a smattering of books we're using this year:

Obviously, a lot of the Middle Ages and Renaissance centers around Europe, particularly England. Part of my problem with the way history is taught in the public school system is that it's mainly European-American centered. Obviously there is no way to learn everything but there is a world outside of us. I remember learning about the Pilgrims quite a bit but really, how many times do we really need to go over that? There was (and is) amazing stuff happening in Japan, India, Australia, Central America, etc. I want to broaden our idea of history. When I taught preschool, we taught them social studies in this order: you, your family, your town, your state, your country. Everything boiled down to "How does this relate to me?"  It was very egocentric. The four year cycle in Well-Trained Mind is: Ancient Times, Middle Ages/Renaissance, Early Modern and Modern. The idea is to expose kids to the vast scope of history and all that has come before us and then learn about our place in it. We are really just a pin point on the page of time.

I stumbled across this youtube channel: Crash Course . It's awesome. The history ones are really good. The science ones aren't as good, in my opinion. The guy who does the history ones is laugh out loud funny. They're short (like 12 minutes) but really enjoyable and informative. You might want to preview them, as some humor isn't appropriate for kids. Or just ignore the joke, like I do, and they don't know the difference.

Literature, Music, Art

I've worked into our schedule time to learn about poetry, classic short stories, famous composers and music, works of art. There are lots of websites to introduce kids to music and art (Classical Music for Kids, NY Philharmonic, etc) as well as art. I love this book to introduce kids (even toddlers and babies) to art.



Lots of books on Aesop's Fables, Shel Silverstein poetry, Dr. Suess, Rudyard Kipling's Just So Stories, short stories from around the world. One of my favorites is Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare for Children, edited by the fabulous Edith Nesbit. I'll often read a story aloud while the kids have lunch.

I also play classical music in the background while they do math or handwriting. Not because I think it makes them smarter but because it's calming. Also, the kids recognize a lot of the songs from movies and always ask "Is this song famous?"

A trip to the library occurs every week to get books (whatever coincides with our lessons that week for me, science for Jack, princess books for Kate). The kids have the process down and each go to their favorite sections and pick two books.

 Oh and visits to our local science museum, field trips, playdates, homeschool PE at the Y, swim team for Jack every spring/summer, dance for Kate during the school year.

It's a pretty cool gig sometimes, this learning life of ours.

Walking Through the Valley of the Shadow of No Pants

Though a post is hardly necessary with such a title, I will tell my story. I promise I haven't forgotten about homeschooling part 2, but this needs to be told first.

The other day I was wearing white capris. I don't know why I do things like that. Past experience tells me it probably won't end well. But it looks so bright and springy that I can't help it sometimes. So I'm wearing my capris and walking into Kohl's. It's raining (of course it is) and I'm carrying Noah (of course I am) when my ankle decides to simply stop working. I got weak ankles from my mother's side. My grandma always says that the Beamer women tend to have big bottoms. Combined with our chicken ankles, it's a wonder any of us can walk.

As it so happens, I fell into a puddle. In white capris.

Apparently such was the force of the fall that I ripped a gash into the left knee of the pants and scraped my knee to the point of bleeding. Thankfully, I held onto Noah until about the last 6 inches. He landed on his diapered bottom with so little force that he didn't make a noise, just nonchalantly looked about. "Seems like I'm on the ground now - this is quite interesting."

My mother came rushing out from the store and scooped up Noah, fretting over his damp overalls while her daughter limped into the store, blood trailing behind.

This leads me to another point: it seems to be universal that children fall considerably in the eyes of parents once grandchildren come along. In introductions, it's always "This is Jack, Kate and Noah. Oh, and their mother." You can't even remember my name anymore, can you?

My kids squeal with glee at the mention of either set of grandparents. Books, toys, ice cream, restaurants. It's like a holiday every time. Whenever the kids find out we're meeting mom at the shopping center, Katie says happily "Ice cream!" I try to tell my kids that Mamaw is not my mom. Mamaw buys Trix yogurt (there are no words) and doles out Pixar movies and kisses and s'mores like every day is the last. Mom once broke a wooden spoon over my bottom. Mamaw keeps delicious chocolate cereal stocked in case of sleepovers. Mom would shove us out of the door in the morning and we'd hear the click of the lock. No sense in faking that stomach ache anymore - off to school we'd trudge, glancing wistfully behind us.

Back to the puddle of humiliation. As we're walking into the store, Mom says "Well, guess we'd better get you some pants." Fantastic. My mom has a platinum Kohl's card - jeans on mom! I found a pair, somewhat normalish (see last post). They do have some subtle dyed streaks and a small little river of rhinestones on the back pockets. I'd take a picture but posting pictures of jeans is a slippery slope. Pretty soon you're posting pictures of your meals and playlists on your ipod. Eventually you just lose all sense of normal.

They are nice, though. And at $32, they're nicer than ones I would've bought myself.

Later that evening, I was telling mom about my friend who gets upset when her mom books and pays for hair appointments. Sometimes I just want to shake my friend by her overgrown roots, "What's the matter with you? Take the free haircut!" My mom replied "Yeah, you dropped your baby just for a pair of jeans!"

Next I'll be kicking my own leg, "Break, darn you, break - maxi dresses are on sale!"

Random Ramblings

I'm just going to be honest with you all right off the bat. This post is just going to be a bunch of unrelated things for no reason at all. Just things I've recently thought about or has happened. My idea for this blog was to capture things in this season of life that I want to remember.  Sadly, the majority of this blog is stupid things I've done or thought. You know when you look back at yourself ten or twenty years ago and think "What a moron."? It's pretty much inevitable that I will think that in ten or twenty years from now.

Without further ado, this post of unrelated topics.

Jeans

What is going on with jeans today? For starters, it seems like the general population has moved away from basic, $30 jeans at Target or Old Navy. Fashionable people today think nothing of plunking down their credit card for a pair of jeans that cost over $100. That's like 3 pairs of normal jeans. Not only that, they all look like a 12 year old designed them with a bedazzler. Horseshoes, fleurs-de-lis, skulls, the face of Elvis - all are rhinestoned to the back of jeans (you can bet your sweet bippy that I googled the plural of fleur-de-lis). Some of my girlfriends (sounds so fun when said like that, doesn't it? Slumber parties and lip gloss abound!) have told me that it's an investment. An investment in what, may I ask?

That's not the worst part. Men's jeans have become just as ridiculous. There is no way you can defend this pair of jeans. Don't even try.



It looks like a unicorn on the bottom right and, oh I don't know, the wheels of an upturned covered wagon on the left?

Matt asked me recently to find him some more jeans. He probably bought his current pairs in 1997. At Walmart. They're Waljeans. He doesn't even care enough to pick out his own jeans. He's too busy changing oil and hammering pieces of wood together. In short, he's a man. He gave me his measurements and said "I don't care, just find some. Maybe try Ebay." This is a step up from a guy who used to shop for clothes at Goodwill (and not in the hipster way). Another plaid shirt? Score!

But even Ebay is not safe. A lot of jeans in his size are either skinny or have manufactured bleach stains or rips or hurt your eyes with the shine of a thousand sparkles. If I bought Matt a pair of those jeans, he would either laugh or ask bluntly "Why do you hate me?"

Guests

We recently had a guest over for dinner. He and his wife are also adopting from China and are leaving quite soon. He and Matt went to high school together so it was fun to catch up. While the men were getting coffee, Matt asked our guest how he took his coffee. He said "Cream or milk if you have it. Sweetner/sugar would be nice." During the course of the conversation, Matt remarked that he took his coffee black. Without thinking, I said quietly "Like a man." Our guest sputtered on his coffee and asked if I was making fun of him. Actually, yes, yes I was. Let's be honest - it's fun.

Exercise

I'm trying to do Jillian Michael's 30 Day Shred. I'm at the point in the video where I suddenly remember that I hate it. The other day I was in the middle of a beating when Jack bounds into the room excitedly exclaiming "I love this exercise!" Then he proceeds to join me saying "This is easier for me because I'm stronger than you, I'm younger, and I'm skinnier."

Meanwhile I scold, between gasps "There's no talking during plank jacks! And also, I can still take you down. Maybe not physically but intellectually. Don't roll your eyes at me! And at least could you try to act like this is hard? You know what? Just go. Go run around the house 17 times. And I don't want to hear about your resting heart rate or no snack today."

Math

What would a post be without an update on Statistics? The last class our teacher flat out told us that most of us, if not all, will not use this material ever again. She said that it must be taught as some people go onto a career in Statistics. So I raised my hand and said "Why don't we take a poll on our career intentions? If all of us plan on non-mathematics careers, can we skip some of this stuff? We could make pie charts from our poll." She chuckled and continued teaching. Nothing irks me more than people assuming I'm being sarcastic when I'm quite serious.

(I read this post aloud to Matt and at the end he said "Our poor kids. Someday they're going to read this and think 'What was wrong with my mom?'")

School Plans Fall 2012 Part 1

The school year is off and running for us. My plans for us are to quietly and politely discuss philosophy, maybe in Latin, passing each other wheatberry scones. When I ask "Who would endeavor to diagram this sentence?" I would be met with an eager chorus of "Please, Mother! Allow me the honor!"

The reality is that we are usually discussing how much toilet paper to use so as not to clog the toilet. And what I usually ask is "Would you please, for the love of all that is good in this world, stop picking your nose?!" And what we usually eat is Goldfish, right out of the box (in fact, as I write this, Noah is eating Goldfish off a metal folding chair).

Nonetheless, hopes run high. I'll go into my plans for this school year in a little more detail (probably, if I remember) but right now I'll just give you an overview of what we do. This probably won't interest you unless you homeschool but you'll just have to suck it up and wait for the next post and hope it's funny.

Jack and Kate are in first grade and kindergarten (respectively, of course). Jack could be in second but his birthday is August so I red-shirted him ( Definition here). That way, in case he gets into the system at some point, he'll be one of the older ones instead of younger. Of course, it doesn't really matter for us what 'grade' they're in. Everything is kind of tailored to whatever stage they're in (for example, Jack is doing 2-3 grade math but is only 20 lessons ahead of Katie in reading). Noah basically just lumbers around and grabs pencils and eats bits of food off the floor. It's real fun.

Homeschool Plans Fall 2012

Math

Math U See is the program we use primarily. The kids watch a lesson on the dvd (they each have their own level) and do a worksheet. Math U See has manipulatives that the kids can use to solve the problem and they really like them. I plan on using Teaching Textbooks next year for Jack as he is getting more independent and would appreciate being able to do his lesson on the computer.

We also love Life of Fred. We have the entire elementary series. The kids love reading the books and doing the problems at the end of each chapter. I can definitely see us using this series all the way through.

This morning we didn't do either of those things for math.

Instead we read this book and solved the problems in it which lead to watching a video on Fibonacci's Sequence.

There are so many cool videos on math and reasoning (Khan Academy, Donald Duck in Mathematics Land, Schoolhouse Rock,etc) it never gets boring. If one way of explanation doesn't make sense, try another.


Reading

This has been a tough issue for me the past few years. I am a natural reader. Jack is not. It bugs him to no end that rules concerning phonics don't apply for a lot of the words. So I can tell him "Two vowels go walking, the first one does the talking" and he'll accept it and apply it to every word he reads with two vowels in the middle. Oh wait - don't use that rule with 'boot' or 'steak' or 'boil.' And then he'll ask me what the point of the rule is. He likes that 2+2 always equals four and that operating a lever or pulley will follow the laws of physics and give the same result every time. So I have to tell him not to use phonics to sound out the sight words (of which there are about 220) because he'll get frustrated every time. Over the past few years, I've tried countless reading programs, read books about reading and spoken with lots of people whose opinions I respect concerning education. Should I really push this issue, requiring a lesson a day and plowing ahead because goodness sake - look at all those kindergarten students reading fluently! I have failed! I'm a terrible person, holding my kids back from enjoying novels at age 6 all because I don't know what the heck I'm doing! Or...should I take a laissez-faire approach to this? Based on numerous articles, boys especially may not be cognitively able to read well until about 8 or so. And maybe this is one of the pros to homeschooling. I can step back and say "Ok, now what do I know about this one kid? Is this is a reading disability and one that requires specialists, tools, interventions? Or is this just plain the way he is wired? Do I give him a little freedom to be who he is? Do I take into account that his glasses prescription is so strong that only one place in Jacksonville can make it - and he's only 2/3 of the strength he actually needs?" Obviously, a basic education is being able to read and write reasonably well and to do everyday math. But there is a little leeway here. A kid who is a buttoned down scientific type will probably struggle a little with something as loosey-goosey as the English language. Let's be honest here. Our language is a little whacked out sometimes.

Katie takes these rules and exceptions in stride. It doesn't bother her one bit. Sweet little Kate, she breezes through life without much of a worry. And that's a good thing (as opposed to her big brother, who - at 7 - is worried about getting into a good medical school.)

They are both at normal levels for reading. It's hard, though, not to compare your kids to others, wondering if you're doing a good job. Or at least good enough.

Anyway, I told that long rambling background story to say that we use Click N Read phonics. I tried so many reading programs but Jack would get frustrated, trying to learn all the different tricks of each program and stating that the words were so small his eyes would hurt. Finally, after thinking about it and doing so more research, I tossed the workbooks aside and tried this program. I was initially hesitant because I try to limit screen time. They don't get to watch tv on a regular basis. Anything I usually show them is almost always educational in value. Every once in awhile they get to watch a movie and it's a big deal to them. I'm the same with computers. I'm all for kids knowing how to navigate their way around one but at 5? I don't really see the value in that. Anyway, we really like this program. Every lesson incorporates blends, letter sounds, sounds at beginning or end of words, sight words, and reading sentences.

We also use Bob books and Spelling City. We play games with sight word flash cards where the person has to jump up and say the word when they see it. Or they'll take their clipboards to the couch and write the words I say. Sometimes they'll copy sentences or words on primer paper.

Since I pretty much took a whole day to cover just reading and math, I'll have to make a part 2 for everything else. I'll try not to blather on so much.

Republicrats

In honor of the upcoming election, I thought I'd put a political twist on my post.  If you are really passionate about politics and are loyal to a specific party, don't read this post. Really. You're just going to get your blood pressure all high as you rant and rave and I don't want to be responsible for that.

Try as I might, I have a hard time caring too much about politics and elections.  If the person I vote for wins, my response will be something like "Oh, well, that's good, I suppose." If the other person wins, my response will be something like "Eh."  It still ticks me off a bit that we have just two people to choose from. Two. (I know there are technically more than two but we all know it is an illusion of choice. Truth is tough sometimes, Mr. Perot).  Here is a list of things that have more choices:

1. Which cereal to have for breakfast
2. Amount of yoga pants I own (black with foldover, black with pink band around top, black with no foldover, you get the picture)
3. Size of catheter for IVs (If you tell me you're allergic to Tylenol and Motrin and can only have Morphine, you will get the largest size IV I can fit)
4. Number of pacifiers that Noah has

Side note: The other day at CVS Noah started to get fussy and cry. Quite unusual because he is easy-going (being the third kid, it's probably more like resigned). I asked him if he wanted a binky and he started to reach into my purse to get one. Of course, there is not one there. So I went to the baby aisle and found a two pack of the brand he uses. All that's left is pink. Noah is wailing. With not a moment of hesitation, I rip open the package and pop one in his mouth. Noah is a big guy for 14 months. He runs full tilt most of the time, crashing into things. He carries plastic baby bowling pins around and bangs the wall and laughs hysterically. Some of his nicknames are: Noah the ark, Bam-Bam, Bear, etc. You get the idea. Let me tell you - he rocks those pink binkies. He owns them. Darn right, this pacifier is pink. What of it?

Back to politics, I'm sad to say. Like a lot of people, I've looked into the different political parties and affiliated myself with one. Yet on election day the choices look like this:

Choice #1 - millionaire with nice teeth
Choice #2 - millionaire with nice teeth

Similarly, each party's stance on the other party is basically the same. The Republicans think that the Democrats are running this country into the ground and will tax the snot out of you and they eat baby kittens for breakfast. The Democrats think the Republicans are running this country into the ground and will tax the snot out of you and they eat baby kittens for breakfast.

The funny thing is that I'm Facebook friends with two people of starkly opposite political views. Especially as election day draws near, my feed looks positively bipolar sometimes as their statuses get more and more rabid. One person is just the quintessential Democrat - labor unions, gay marriage, pro-choice. The other would happily leave her husband for Rush Limbaugh, if he showed the slightest hint of interest. Or knew she was alive, even. Although I have my opinions, few things give me greater pleasure than jesting with these types of people. To such a Republican I might say something like "You know, Obama has a really nice smile. That's reason enough for me to vote for him." And to the Democrat, I might throw out a sentence like "The name Mitt has a really comforting ring to it, doesn't it? Like he's going to cradle us all in a big oven mitt of security." Or I might outline my plan of choosing a candidate based solely on how interesting I find their bumper stickers. Look! Patriotic colors and a catchy phrase that exudes optimism! Consider my vote cast.

Another thing that gives me joy in life is seeing the bumper sticker "Stand up for America! Be American!" on a Toyota. Also, I was in the store earlier this week and was next to a couple discussing a product. The man had on a muscle shirt, had dirt on his hands like a mechanic and was nursing a wad of tobacco in his cheek. I overheard him say "But look at the calorie count on this one. And the sodium - it's almost a whole daily allowance!"

It's election year. Find your joy.

Salvation in Suburbia

Some people have fantastic salvation stories. They are filled with angst and joy, sadness and hope. There is often a moment of epiphany, a light-bulb realization of who God is and His purpose for their lives.

For those of us raised in church, there is usually no such moment. It is a steady progression from Sunday to Sunday. One moment you're marching along to 'Father Abraham Had Many Sons' and the next you're donning a white baptismal robe. It is a logical conclusion, an ends to a mean.

To my intermittent sadness, my story is one of those. I have no early memories apart from church, from Sunday School and VBS, from the story of the Gospel - told with felt figures on a storybook and in the droning words of preachers. We were told that Jesus came to redeem us, to pay for our sins, to save us.

The question was, saved from what?

My parents had, and have, a wonderful marriage. Case in point, when I was about 10, my parents disagreed with each other on how long to microwave peas. Calling it an argument would be hyperbole. There were no raised voices, no smashing of plates against the floor in rage, no slamming of doors. And yet my sisters and I huddled together on the top step, convinced our parents were on the brink of divorce. My older sister gathered us two younger kids beside her like an overprotective mother hen. We stared into the abyss of our impending future. Who would we live with? Would we be split up and forced to take sides for the holidays? Would we ever see each other again?

And then we were called to dinner, where we happily ate the perfectly microwaved peas.

That is the closest I came to crisis as a child. Perhaps there was a broken snap bracelet or two that resulted in tears. 

Ridiculous.

This question of salvation has bothered me on and off for as long as I can remember. People with childhoods of horror, of teen years and adulthoods shaped by terrible decisions can drive a stake in the landscape of their lives. Right here - here is the moment I was saved. Here is the moment I was changed and my life was never the same. A way out of the pit.  Hope, purpose, redemption - salvation in a life that was lost. 

I was baptized one Sunday morning when I was eight. In a church I knew, in front of people I trusted. We celebrated with doughnuts and went about our daily lives. I didn't say "Thank God. No more crack cocaine for me, no sir!"

We church kids can be cynical, jaded. We've heard the 'good news' so much it becomes redundant. It's boring even. 'Yes, I know I'm a wretch, thank you. Geez, will this guy ever stop blathering on? We won't get a table by the fire at Cracker Barrel.'  Every Easter it's 'Jesus died on the cross for us - up from the grave He arose - He's Alive! He's Alive! - blah, blah, blah. Are there any more Peeps left?'  Heads so filled with bible facts and catchy songs that we cannot see the truth right in front of us. Those are the tough youth group kids. The ones from broken homes? From horrible childhoods? They are so desperate for love and attention that they know a good thing when they've found it. Finally, a place to belong. An escape from the cycle of divorce, teen pregnancy and hopelessness. Someone has their back, at long last. But us church kids? Stuffed with knowledge, we raise our hands at church camp, eager to proclaim that we found the verse - we know that parable! There is a danger there. We can coast through this childhood and fall apart at the first professor who challenges our belief, scoffs at our outdated worldview - cut your mother's apron strings! Join the world of the intelligent, the realists, the ones who haven't been brainwashed ("You're deluding yourself" said a professor). We either cast aside the truth (I know, I know - what is truth? Truth for whom? And all that jazz...) or we just get so caught up in the religious trappings and so puffed up with knowledge that love has no place. Sometimes the ones who don't seem to need to be saved end up needing it the most.

And so the question is again, saved from what?

Of course, even the most dull saved story is salvation in its fullest. Saved from damnation, saved an eternity without God - sanctified in the matchless name of Christ who bore the crushing weight of my Godlessness on His shoulders. Not dull at all. And yet my life did not change that I could see. I could not see the course I might have taken, and the new life stretched out before me. And yet here are moments I glimpse a life without Him. A life spent without meaning. Chasing things that cannot fill me in the desperate hope that they will. Perhaps broken relationships, children borne out of a bottomless desire to be loved? An addiction to something fake in the search of something real? A life of more and more yet never enough. The truth hits me over and over again.

I was saved. Absolutely and completely.

Saved from me.

'It wasn’t so long ago that we ourselves were stupid and stubborn, dupes of sin, ordered every which way by our glands, going around with a chip on our shoulder, hated and hating back. But when God, our kind and loving Savior God, stepped in, he saved us from all that. It was all his doing; we had nothing to do with it. He gave us a good bath, and we came out of it new people, washed inside and out by the Holy Spirit. Our Savior Jesus poured out new life so generously. God’s gift has restored our relationship with him and given us back our lives. And there’s more life to come—an eternity of life! You can count on this.'

                                                                                                         Titus 3:3-8

                                                                                                         The Message

Math and Popularity

Oh statistics.

Things would be so much easier if the teacher didn't seem to assume that we all enjoy the class. She makes little quips like "Real statisticians would never actually use the standard deviation of the median. It's too unpredictable." Then she'll chuckle and shake her head, like we're all sharing an inside joke. Those wacky statisticians!

I keep telling myself inane platitudes like "I love this class." and "Statistics is the best!" but I know I'm lying so it's not really working.

Language is really my thing, not numbers. During class, my fingers itch to reach into my purse and pull out my Kindle. Open a book. Where things are safe and happy.

The teacher launched into a tutorial of our TI-83 calculators and one of the students was having trouble finding whatever Greek function we were supposed to be locating. The guy behind me snickered "This is so easy. I mean, I took calculus."

And yet here you are, taking a night class at a community college. Professor.

Because of such shenanigans, I observe the other students and wonder about them. Community college is interesting because there are so many different types of people. Unlike the large state college I attended right out of high school, which contained mostly people 18-22 who liked a good frat party. And by good, I mean ridiculous and slightly pathetic.

Anyway, one of the girls that sits close to me in class is one of those physically perfect people. Her nails are perfectly shaped and matched, her hair falls in attractive tendrils around her lightly bronzed face. She has one of those big weird purses, with the name of the designer slashed obnoxiously all over the purse in primary letters. But it's outrageously expensive, so people forgive its ugliness.

If I was 17, I might have been slightly jealous of this girl. Maybe I would've even rushed home to exfoliate my face and paint my stubby nails the same coral shade. But today I thought 'Wow, her sandals are sure sparkly...I wonder if I have any gum in my purse?"

After class I struck up a conversation about statistics (we were walking next to each other down the hall and it seemed like the right thing to do). She's finishing up her prerequisites for nursing school so we talked about that for awhile. She was fabulously nice as well, which always strikes me as slightly unfair. If someone is very attractive and their personality is either dull or unbearably egotistical, it's a always a small comfort. If you're heavy on the looks, you should be dumber than a box of rocks and/or have a terrible personality. Otherwise it's not fair to average persons like myself. We are the renegades, sailing through life on neither looks nor brains. If I happen to get into a conversation with someone about natural talent and bring up the obvious (that I have none), people are always quick to disagree with me - like I'm fishing for compliments and need them to buoy up my esteem. "That's not true," they say, furtively groping for compliments, "you do so many things." Which is true. Here is a list of my talents:

-I know all the words to 'American Pie' by Don McLean. It does get a little iffy on the part about Helter Skelter, though.

-My hitch hiker's thumb is nearly perfect and I can touch my thumbs to my wrists.

So there you go. It's a wonder my head isn't huge.

Roughin' it in a Superpower

The other day I was out in the pool floating around and reading a book. All was well until I realized that I forgot to put my water in an insulated cup, causing the condensation to get all over my hands when I picked it up. Then my pages would get damp from the cup. While I'm getting all huffy from this indignation, I noticed a little frog on the side of the pool. So I put down my book get out of the float, causing the pool water to run into my cup. Irritation. I had to scrounge around for a little plastic toy shovel to scoop the frog out and after all that, it was hardly even worth the effort to get back in the pool. Thanks a lot for almost drowning and ruining my float, frog.


These sorts of incidences are what are called 'First World Problems.'

I have traveled to a couple Third World countries, but that is a post for a different time.

For the time being, let's take a moment and discuss how absurd our struggles are sometimes.

On Tuesday I went to the grocery store (Jack and Kate have homeschool PE those afternoons so I go shopping with Noah. It's almost like a vacation. I think about how stressful it was to go grocery shopping with one child when Jack was a baby. The diaper bag, the little sanitary grocery cart covers, the pacifiers and toys. Come on. Nowadays I might give the cart handles a quick swipe if they're available, otherwise we  throw caution to the flu-ridden wind. Noah's not even wearing pants most of the time, let alone carting around an educational toy.)

Anyway, while at the store I saw that my favorite brand of peanut butter was sold out, causing my to get a different brand. The only thing left in that brand was crunchy. Which makes me shudder. Don't even try to tell me that's peanut butter. PB is supposed to be creamy and smooth and wonderful. Butter is in the name, for goodness' sake! No one thinks of butter as having great huge chunks of stuff in it.

Forced to buy another brand of food - First World problem.

Your cell phone is only getting 3G when 4G is available. This causes slightly lower data uploading. Critical when your large screen tv and tablet are on the other side of the house and you only have your smart phone with you. Those episodes of Ice Road Truckers won't watch themselves.

First world problem.

Sometimes you go to a gas station and realize there's no little metal thing under the handle.  Instead of being able to put that little metal thing down so the gas pumps itself while you put your credit card back in your wallet, you're instead made to stand there and pump your own gas. Like a peasant.

First World problem.

Or when the air conditioner is so strong you have to go put on a cardigan.

Or you look in the fridge to get the carrots for a recipe and see that you only have baby carrots, not the big ones. Which wouldn't normally be a problem except you have to grate these carrots. So there you are, grating each tiny carrot for about 5 seconds, before it gets too small and your fingers hurt from the grater and then you're left with a pile of tiny, half-grated baby carrots.

Like this:

It's world class dining in this place, people.

So many problems. It's a wonder we survive in this cruel, cruel, world.

S'more chocolate, please.

Today was a bad day. It started out so well, too, which makes it even worse. My hopes were so high. Those are the worst kind of bad days.

We got all our homeschooling done by 10:15. Two math programs, Latin, the Fall of Rome (and a concurrent discussion about Constantinople), reading and writing. I was giving myself all kinds of mental high fives. Fantastic job, me.

I told the kids they basically have the rest of the day to swim, play outside, to just enjoy the fact that I am their mother. There was the little matter of a messy room but that is easily remedied. Told the kids to clean up before their day of ecstasy and went about my business of the next round of adoption paperwork. After an hour of mounting frustration, calling different companies and departments of health and never once speaking to a person, no matter how often I pressed '1,' I went to call the kids to lunch. The room looks like a rabid weasel has been set loose. Perhaps two weasels. Both rabid. I told the kids to clean up, this time lowering the level of nice. Warnings were repeatedly given on not messing up one's room.

Lunch, quiet time.

Side note: It's hardly ever actually quiet time. There is a note of irony every time I say that phrase.

During quiet time, Kate came out to ask me a question (a necessary one, as they always are during times of rest or sleep). She went back in and closed the door loudly. Noah's room is right next to theirs so I went in just to tell her about the door acoustics. The floor is covered with toys and clothes. The door will hardly open as Jack has towered books and toys behind it. Sometimes I think of how, when Jack was tested a few months ago, he scored highest in listening comprehension. Ironically, I said "What?" several times after being told this. It still confounds me.

After a long, frustrated tirade on obeying and such (even after their eyes glaze over, I still rant on. I can't help myself), I went back to my adoption paperwork. Here are some highlights:

An employment verification documentation was signed in one state and notarized in another. It's a fail.

Our marriage certificate from NY state is $30. It will take about 3 months to get here. Of course, we can expedite for a mere $45 - it will only take a month! My, so fast! Our birth certificates are each $10, and each have it's own long, complicated form to fill out.

Wait for it.

After we get the certificates, we send them back to whichever state they came from and for $15 each form, they get sealed. Then we send them to Tallahassee, where they get sealed again for $15. Then they go to the Chinese Embassy in NY, where they get sealed again for a fee. Then in China they each get stamped and verified. For a fee, of course.

If that doesn't make you want to stuff chocolate in your face, I don't know what will.

Side note: Thank goodness I had chocolate. My mom, who I love (not just because she brings me food), brought some over the other day. She told me it was to make s'mores. Which I did, just without the graham crackers. Or marshmallows. Or fire. Thanks for the s'mores, mom!

So there I was, downing chocolate bars and feeling my yoga pants get tighter (which really helps with the bad mood, by the way. Being too fat for yoga pants is no way to be).

To cap off the day, I had statistics class tonight. Let me tell you something. Nothing cements a bad day like sitting in a community college classroom taking notes on bar graphs. The teacher is passionate about statistics, going on little rants about surveys bias and whatnot. I never realized that statistics could be so sinister. She makes it sound as if they're in an office somewhere, plotting to mislead people over population data. "Excellent," they cackle with delight, "distort the graph using irregular widths!" And she was emphatic about not using pie graphs. Apparently, they are riddled with deceit.



You know what? With my s'mores and my pie chart, I'm feeling a little better.

Adoption Update

We had our first homestudy visit the other night. It was a little nerve racking, like a first date but without anyone buying me food. I spent the day cleaning and taking Jack's temperature (he had a bit of a fever all day.)  Twenty minutes before the scheduled time I received a phone call from the case worker:

Her: "I'm earlier than expected. Is that ok?"
Me: "Sure, no problem."

This was said nonchalantly, almost breezily. Then I hung up the phone and sprinted to the bedroom, causing Kate mild alarm. I had planned on using the last twenty minutes to make myself look presentable. It's my good fortune that I was already wearing nice clothes. And by nice I mean non-pajama.

I had a small crisis - to put on makeup or straighten my hair? I usually only wear makeup two days a week, the day I work and Sunday (if I work on a Sunday, well then, my make up time is cut in half.)  Or for a special occasion, like buy one get one free with coupons at Publix. Of course, it seems to do me little good. I had a coworker tell me that I'd look really pretty with some makeup. After a beat, I narrowed my eyelinered eyes and said "I am." I'm not good at applying makeup and generally go very light because I'm terrified of looking like a raccoon. On a corner.

So I decided to straighten my hair instead, periodically calling out last minute advice to the kids like "If she speaks to you, answer politely" and "Please don't talk about your colon, Jack."

The bright spot to her coming early was that we were just finishing up dinner. It was baked eggplant and steamed broccoli. If she saw it, it would save me the trouble of having to prompt the children to talk about their vegetable-laden meal. "What's that on your shirt, Kate?" "Oh, that's just the organic broccoli mom. No pesticides for kids in this family!"

She was very kind and sweet and even though she told us not to worry if she scribbled notes, I still did. Before bed I laid awake imagining her notes:

'What's that smell? Diapers? Socks? The acrid stench of fear?

Or:

'Is this a joke, Susan? Because it's not funny. These people can't be trusted with an electric can opener. I'm so getting you back for this on Monday.'

During the interview, she asked us how we handled conflict. In his answer, Matt said something to the effect of us both agreeing that he's the head of the house, even though we tend to decide things together. I told him later that it's a good thing I wasn't drinking anything at the time, I might have choked. He wagged a finger at me and sternly declared "I make the rules here." Then I had to rush over and hug him because he knows that whenever he tries to be authoritative, it's so adorable I can hardly stand it.

After the interview we gave a tour of the house and oh my goodness hooray for nightfall.

It was the best cleaning I could do with a toddler and a 7 year old who looked up at me with soulful sad eyes whenever I even hinted at cleaning. "But mother, my rheum..." Not to be left out, Kate would quickly stop her joyous jumping whenever I looked her way. "I'm starting to have a sickness."

There was a little apprehension of the tour, like maybe I had completely overlooked an entire room or there would a line of roaches somewhere. Most of it was presentable, though.

"This is our meditation room and this is the foyer where we discuss our hopes and dreams and NO, DON'T OPEN THE CLOSET!"

The whole thing was actually a very pleasant experience. We got to hear all about our case worker's current adoption from Haiti and the mission work she does and hopes to expand someday. Amazing, encouraging stuff. We talked excitedly after she left of everything that is and could be.

At the end of the night, we were one step closer to our little girl. And thank God for His grace and goodness that stretches farther than we could see or imagine.

Setter of Low Standards

In regards to my last post, learning to sew is on my list of things to do. I hate the term 'bucket list' because, well, it's dumb. But I suppose it is a bucket list. Along with learning a foreign language, playing the guitar, and getting rid of that fat where your arm meets your torso. I have yet to check any of them off.

My mom knows how to sew. Or at least, she did. Whenever I was pregnant, I heard about how she sewed her own maternity clothes, none of this running out to Old Navy for a top (like the wimp I apparently was). I've seen pictures of her in those clothes, what flattering smocks they were! Enormous bows sewn jauntily onto the front - for the carefree mother-to-be. Permed hair and curled bangs proudly standing a good foot off of the head. Of course, I was also told that she sewed clothes for us and our dolls. "Don't you remember?" she asks, an unspoken 'all the sacrifices I made for you' added to the end of the sentence. "I used to make homemade doughnuts," she'll say, passing a box of store bought eclairs. Apparently there was also homemade applesauce, spaghetti sauce, jams, cinnamon rolls, and other such culinary delights. I have no memory of this. "Remember when we took you guys to the Baseball Hall of Fame?" No. "Remember Niagara Falls?" Not really. "Disney World?" No. "Surely you remember the time we went to England and you stayed up all night with the Queen, giggling and trying on tiaras. Then you were so tired the next day you slept on the plane to Tahiti and missed riding the dolphins." No, can't say that I do. Then I ask why none of these trips and hand-sewn clothes and homemade food was there when I was old enough to remember it. The answer is: We were too tired. Which makes me realize that perhaps their standards for early childhood happiness were simply too high.

We set ours pretty low. Then it's easy to reach. This year I instituted a policy that the kids could pick out a box of cereal for their birthdays. Any cereal they want. It was like they won the lottery.  They each spent about 20 minutes in the cereal aisle, cautiously running fingers over Cookie Crisp and Apple Jacks (Katie called them 'Jacker Backs,' a nickname Matt has for Jack). They know the cereal rule is 6 grams of sugar or less per serving so they were heady with lawlessness. They eagerly clutched boxes of never-before-tasted goodness, eyes shining with joy, little feet pattering in anticipation. Even my speech about generic vs brand and cost per ounce did little to dampen the mood. Jack had a personal code of ethics crisis and debated whether to get the cookie cereal he's desired for months or to go with a healthier (albeit blander) cereal. In the end, the lure of eating miniature cookies for breakfast was too strong. I don't think he regretted it.

Or I'll take them to the dollar store and say magnanimously "You can pick out any three things you want." "Any three?" they squeal, hardly able to believe this landslide of good luck. "Oh, mother, you're the best, the very best!"

I know. Now finish your bowl of Fortunate Marshmallow Shapes.