A woman stands at the stove, stirring.
Her husband walks through the door and into the kitchen to greet his wife.
She turns and curls her finger, beckoning him closer.
Perplexed, he walks until they are face-to-face.
She smiles a slow, seductive smile and begins to wrap his tie around her hand, drawing him still closer.
He smiles a shy smile.
She puts her face close to him, the tie now rolled to the knot.
Her eyes are fiery with passion.
"I want you...to give me 5 minutes. To myself. I want to pee without toddlers getting into the cabinets, without a 2 year old saying "What's that? What's that?" while pointing to various places on my body. I want to take a shower without someone opening the curtain. I want to take a shower without a kid shouting into the room "Mom? I know you said not to bother you if it's not an emergency but this is an emergency. I can't find my lip gloss. Also, what are we having for dinner? If we don't eat then we'll die and that will be an emergency." Just 5 minutes. Now. Please. Before I go all Lizzie Borden up in here."
End of scene.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Friday, January 24, 2014
What Happened Last Night
You know, with a title like that, I really wish this were a more interesting post. Like on our wedding night, Matt and I went in search of an all night diner and got hopelessly lost at 1 am in a bad part of town. We got picked up by a cop who was driving a deliciously steaming stack of pizzas back to his precinct (or whatever that's called) and taken back to our hotel and I was slightly miffed he didn't offer us a slice because it was our WEDDING NIGHT and we were hungry.
But that's not this story.
It's been pretty cold here in FL lately. Like frost at night and bundling up for the sunny 45 degree afternoon and feeling like your face is going to crack with cold.
We've become wimps about the weather. Sometimes we'll turn to each other and say "How did we survive Alaska in the winter?" Of course, it was Kodiak Island, which is pretty darn south of most everything else in AK and it was basically rainy all the time. We did get snow in the winter and I vividly remember one day our heat went out and we took the dog to a local state park and trudged through the falling snow waiting for the oil to get delivered. You could see your breath in our house. And yet we were pretty nonchalant about the whole thing. The saving grace to all of that was that Kodiak Island is hands down one of the prettiest places ever. On a sunny day, you almost crawl out of your skin with the sheer beauty of it all.
But the fact is, I love the Sun. I really really do. I like flip flops and floating in my pool with a book and feeling the warmth on my face.
Now if it's cold we wear multiple layers and make a fire and drink hot beverages and curse our very existence. It's like 50 degrees outside. Pathetic really.
So last night we dressed the kids in fleece pajamas and sent them to bed with lots of blankets. Our room and the girls' room are on the outside walls so they get pretty cold in the winter. We put a heater in the girls room for these nights. On our bed is the top sheet, the quilt, the down comforter (hauled down from AK) and a fleece blanket. I was wearing a long sleeved shirt and flannel pajamas and slept on a heating pad because that's how ridiculous we are now.
Maybe it was the heating pad or the avocado dip last night. Whatever it was, I had a dream last night. I dreamed Matt and I were adopting two 4 year old boys from different countries - Greece and Albania (it was here in the retelling that my friend Rosie said "So a nightmare?"). I woke up and my right hand was asleep, probably exhausted from trying to slap me awake.
This morning Noah woke up at 6:30, which is the usual time for all of time (We keep saying "You guys can sleep in as late as you want! No school! You have no idea how lucky you are!). Strangely, all the other kids were still asleep. So I brought him back to our bed and he fell asleep for another hour. At 7:30, Matt was in the shower and Kate and the dog, Toby, rushed into our room. Toby licked me as he ran past the bed and I said "Aw, no."
Noah: "What, Mama?"
Me: "Toby licked my head."
Noah cocked his head and pointed to mine and asked quizzically "That one?"
But that's not this story.
It's been pretty cold here in FL lately. Like frost at night and bundling up for the sunny 45 degree afternoon and feeling like your face is going to crack with cold.
We've become wimps about the weather. Sometimes we'll turn to each other and say "How did we survive Alaska in the winter?" Of course, it was Kodiak Island, which is pretty darn south of most everything else in AK and it was basically rainy all the time. We did get snow in the winter and I vividly remember one day our heat went out and we took the dog to a local state park and trudged through the falling snow waiting for the oil to get delivered. You could see your breath in our house. And yet we were pretty nonchalant about the whole thing. The saving grace to all of that was that Kodiak Island is hands down one of the prettiest places ever. On a sunny day, you almost crawl out of your skin with the sheer beauty of it all.
But the fact is, I love the Sun. I really really do. I like flip flops and floating in my pool with a book and feeling the warmth on my face.
Now if it's cold we wear multiple layers and make a fire and drink hot beverages and curse our very existence. It's like 50 degrees outside. Pathetic really.
So last night we dressed the kids in fleece pajamas and sent them to bed with lots of blankets. Our room and the girls' room are on the outside walls so they get pretty cold in the winter. We put a heater in the girls room for these nights. On our bed is the top sheet, the quilt, the down comforter (hauled down from AK) and a fleece blanket. I was wearing a long sleeved shirt and flannel pajamas and slept on a heating pad because that's how ridiculous we are now.
Maybe it was the heating pad or the avocado dip last night. Whatever it was, I had a dream last night. I dreamed Matt and I were adopting two 4 year old boys from different countries - Greece and Albania (it was here in the retelling that my friend Rosie said "So a nightmare?"). I woke up and my right hand was asleep, probably exhausted from trying to slap me awake.
This morning Noah woke up at 6:30, which is the usual time for all of time (We keep saying "You guys can sleep in as late as you want! No school! You have no idea how lucky you are!). Strangely, all the other kids were still asleep. So I brought him back to our bed and he fell asleep for another hour. At 7:30, Matt was in the shower and Kate and the dog, Toby, rushed into our room. Toby licked me as he ran past the bed and I said "Aw, no."
Noah: "What, Mama?"
Me: "Toby licked my head."
Noah cocked his head and pointed to mine and asked quizzically "That one?"
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Parenting: Where Everything's Made Up and the Points Don't Matter
Social media sites seem to make life more complicated sometimes. Not a day goes by that there's not an article posted on the danger of a certain food or something.
If you buy inorganic apples, you are basically biting into a big ball of pesticides.
If you cut up an onion, it immediately starts a downward spiral into poison.
If you drink cow milk, you are pouring yourself a cold, refreshing glass of hormones.
If you keep your cell phone in your bra, it is attracting carcinogens to your lymph nodes like a siren song.
You read these posts, put down your onion sandwich, take your phone out of your bra and think "Well, now what?"
Throw parenting advice into the mix and it's enough to make parents want to curl into a fetal position and whimper.
If you vaccinate your kids, you are deliberating injecting them with autism.
If you don't vaccinate your kids, you are standing on the front porch just hollering for polio to come on over and make itself at home.
If you let your children watch tv, their little brains will dissolve into a puddle of mush.
If you don't let your children watch tv, they will never see Leapfrog and learn their phonics because you sure as shootin' don't have the patience to sit there and teach letter sounds for 6 months. Also, you will never make dinner. Or mop the floor. Or write a blog post.
On top of all this often contradictory advice, it seems like parents, and especially moms, have some sort of amazing talent. Like it's not enough to keep small humans alive and fed, but now I've got to make quilts or take professional style photos or make ruffle pants or bake souffles.
It is all I can do to make it through the day sometimes and all this pressure to be crafty and quirky and fabulous just ends up making me feel inadequate.
In all honesty, I don't know what I'm doing almost all of the time.
For instance, did we make the right decision in taking away Noah's bink bink at such an emotionally perilous time for him? I have no idea. He's doing great now, by the way. Sleeping through the night and all. So it feels right but perhaps there is some unseen damage done to his little psyche. I imagine him lying on a therapist's couch, wailing through Puffs about the time his mom stormed into his room at 2 am and told him his binkies were gone and to stop crying and perhaps gritting her teeth and cursing those magical and terrible knobs of rubber.
Throw in parenting an adoptive child, with so many unknown psychological issues, and it is sheer terror sometimes. Tali screams and cries whenever I put sneakers on her. In a bio kid, I would chalk it up to the fact that she likes her soft leather mary janes and shrug my shoulders. But that little doubt creeps in because I don't know her past - is there some sort of sneaker trauma? Was she made to sit by herself in a room for punishment, wearing only a pair of sneakers? I don't know. She screams and cries often for no apparent reason. All my other kids threw little fits at that age but we always knew why. They were denied a toy or juice or the ability to run footloose and fancy free into oncoming traffic.
Scenario:
Tali is eating in her high chair. All of a sudden, high pitched wailing.
"What is it? Did you bite your tongue? Food too hot? What happened?"
She suddenly stops and begins eating. Scream. Eat. Eat. Scream and turn her head. Eat. Drink her bottle. Scream.
Later that day, she is looking at a picture book when she suddenly flops over and begins rolling on the floor crying.
Most of the time I don't know what sets her off and even though I intellectually know that adoptive kids often come with a range of abandonment and institutionalized behaviors (even the really young ones), it's still hard. Still exhausting.
It's difficult not knowing how this whole parenting experiment will end and hoping that despite all my mistakes and failures as a parent, it will be ok.
Yes, there are moms who kept seemingly impossible standards on their house. They do yoga to relieve stress and praise their children often with meaningful words. They make wreaths and send handwritten letters. They know which foods are GMO and how to turn a cloth napkin into a work of art.
The real truth is that no one, not even the superparents, really and truly knows what they're doing. We read books and articles, seek advice from our friends and family but for the most part, we're winging it.
Sometimes you're not the most talented mom or the best-dressed or most patient.
Sometimes you're simply good enough.
And your good enough is often...good enough.
So to all the average parents out there, even mediocre some days, I raise my glass of ice cold hormones with a generous dollop of high fructose corn syrup chocolate sauce to you.
You're good enough, you're smart enough, and gosh darn it, our kids are going to be ok.
If you buy inorganic apples, you are basically biting into a big ball of pesticides.
If you cut up an onion, it immediately starts a downward spiral into poison.
If you drink cow milk, you are pouring yourself a cold, refreshing glass of hormones.
If you keep your cell phone in your bra, it is attracting carcinogens to your lymph nodes like a siren song.
You read these posts, put down your onion sandwich, take your phone out of your bra and think "Well, now what?"
Throw parenting advice into the mix and it's enough to make parents want to curl into a fetal position and whimper.
If you vaccinate your kids, you are deliberating injecting them with autism.
If you don't vaccinate your kids, you are standing on the front porch just hollering for polio to come on over and make itself at home.
If you let your children watch tv, their little brains will dissolve into a puddle of mush.
If you don't let your children watch tv, they will never see Leapfrog and learn their phonics because you sure as shootin' don't have the patience to sit there and teach letter sounds for 6 months. Also, you will never make dinner. Or mop the floor. Or write a blog post.
On top of all this often contradictory advice, it seems like parents, and especially moms, have some sort of amazing talent. Like it's not enough to keep small humans alive and fed, but now I've got to make quilts or take professional style photos or make ruffle pants or bake souffles.
It is all I can do to make it through the day sometimes and all this pressure to be crafty and quirky and fabulous just ends up making me feel inadequate.
In all honesty, I don't know what I'm doing almost all of the time.
For instance, did we make the right decision in taking away Noah's bink bink at such an emotionally perilous time for him? I have no idea. He's doing great now, by the way. Sleeping through the night and all. So it feels right but perhaps there is some unseen damage done to his little psyche. I imagine him lying on a therapist's couch, wailing through Puffs about the time his mom stormed into his room at 2 am and told him his binkies were gone and to stop crying and perhaps gritting her teeth and cursing those magical and terrible knobs of rubber.
Throw in parenting an adoptive child, with so many unknown psychological issues, and it is sheer terror sometimes. Tali screams and cries whenever I put sneakers on her. In a bio kid, I would chalk it up to the fact that she likes her soft leather mary janes and shrug my shoulders. But that little doubt creeps in because I don't know her past - is there some sort of sneaker trauma? Was she made to sit by herself in a room for punishment, wearing only a pair of sneakers? I don't know. She screams and cries often for no apparent reason. All my other kids threw little fits at that age but we always knew why. They were denied a toy or juice or the ability to run footloose and fancy free into oncoming traffic.
Scenario:
Tali is eating in her high chair. All of a sudden, high pitched wailing.
"What is it? Did you bite your tongue? Food too hot? What happened?"
She suddenly stops and begins eating. Scream. Eat. Eat. Scream and turn her head. Eat. Drink her bottle. Scream.
Later that day, she is looking at a picture book when she suddenly flops over and begins rolling on the floor crying.
Most of the time I don't know what sets her off and even though I intellectually know that adoptive kids often come with a range of abandonment and institutionalized behaviors (even the really young ones), it's still hard. Still exhausting.
It's difficult not knowing how this whole parenting experiment will end and hoping that despite all my mistakes and failures as a parent, it will be ok.
Yes, there are moms who kept seemingly impossible standards on their house. They do yoga to relieve stress and praise their children often with meaningful words. They make wreaths and send handwritten letters. They know which foods are GMO and how to turn a cloth napkin into a work of art.
The real truth is that no one, not even the superparents, really and truly knows what they're doing. We read books and articles, seek advice from our friends and family but for the most part, we're winging it.
Sometimes you're not the most talented mom or the best-dressed or most patient.
Sometimes you're simply good enough.
And your good enough is often...good enough.
So to all the average parents out there, even mediocre some days, I raise my glass of ice cold hormones with a generous dollop of high fructose corn syrup chocolate sauce to you.
You're good enough, you're smart enough, and gosh darn it, our kids are going to be ok.
Friday, January 10, 2014
BinkyGate 2014
We're nearing the end of this process.
I think. I hope.
Wednesday was terrible. Noah screamed during naptime, waking Tali up as well. It was about two hours of this back and forth. I had planned on folding laundry during that time but instead I sat on the couch, sending curse-laden texts to Matt and Rosie and wishing for the sweet release of death to overtake me.
I barely managed to make dinner and when Matt casually asked if I happened to make cornbread to go along with the goulash, I about flipped.
Wednesday night was also pretty bad. Matt determined that Noah needs to just cry it out instead of us leaping out of bed all the time. So from 3 am to almost 5, he screamed. I did go in once or twice and I was torn between threatening him and cuddling him. I wanted to kiss his tear-streaked cheeks and tell him "If you love something, let it go. There's no use fighting anymore. Your binkies are dead to you."
Sometime around 3:30, I laid back down on top of the blankets. Matt asked why I wasn't covered up, as it was chilly.
"Whenever a child of mine is in distress, my heart beats faster and I get overheated. You, on the other hand, have a heart of stone and don't care."
"That's true." He said as he tucked the blankets around his neck.
Sleep deprivation does funny things to a person, as any parent knows.
I laid in bed, determined to use this time for good. Might as well put this amazing brain to work, solving the complex problems of our time.
Pretty soon though:
'I wish I was taller, I wish I was a baller, I wish I had a girl and if I did, I would call her...'
Eyes wide, with a sudden realization. Hey, I do wish I was taller. Not crazy high, but a couple more inches would be nice. Like 5'6 or 5'7. Enough that I don't step on my favorite pair of yoga pants when I'm barefoot and Matt can't look over my head and make snide comments on how he can't see me.
Also, I hope that baller actually does mean a basketball player and not some strange innuendo. I merrily sang "Little Red Corvette" for years until I heard it on the radio at 25 years old and realized that the song wasn't simply about a girl who likes to drive fast.
Noah alternated between calling out for Mommy and Daddy and once perhaps an impassioned "Curse you all and your circadian rhythms!" He eventually fell into an exhausted heap. When he woke up in the morning, he was happy. He always wakes up grumpy so that was a new development. Tali, however, took the opportunity to throw fits all morning. It's hard to throw a good tantrum being so tiny but she gives it her best. It's like they were just passing the baton of misery back and forth. If it's not one, it's the other.
Last night I gave the littles a bath and was getting Tali in her pajamas. Noah was running around naked (I always have to choose who to diaper first) and he climbed on top of the air purifier near her crib (which we use as white noise to drown the sounds of Noah's soul being ripped apart by the absence of binkies). He then proceeded to pee into her crib.
I just don't have any more to say about that.
Last night was better, he woke up one time, at midnight. I tiredly asked him to please stop crying and go to sleep. He said "Ok" and went to sleep.
We've gone through the stages together: anger, grief, peeing on things, tantrums, xanax, bargaining, chocolate and acceptance.
As we seem to near the end of this horrific ordeal, I would like to give the good Lord thanks for my mother-in-law. We've always gotten along well and I'm so happy they are living near us once more. She's always helpful, always supportive. She'll often come over and take Noah for the morning or one of the older kids for a trip to the library. Or she'll come and read books and help clean. All this without being asked. Never more has she been appreciated than this week. She took Noah for the morning Wednesday and yesterday came over and washed dishes, swept the floor, watched the kids so I could go to the college bookstore and get my books for this semester. She never judges the often atrocious nature of my house and will tell me stories of how she thought she was going to lose her mind as well in the day to day dealings with small children.
It helps to know that people have survived this time in their lives and have gone on to do amazing things, like read a book in a morning or take a shower without interruption.
There's always hope.
I think. I hope.
Wednesday was terrible. Noah screamed during naptime, waking Tali up as well. It was about two hours of this back and forth. I had planned on folding laundry during that time but instead I sat on the couch, sending curse-laden texts to Matt and Rosie and wishing for the sweet release of death to overtake me.
I barely managed to make dinner and when Matt casually asked if I happened to make cornbread to go along with the goulash, I about flipped.
Wednesday night was also pretty bad. Matt determined that Noah needs to just cry it out instead of us leaping out of bed all the time. So from 3 am to almost 5, he screamed. I did go in once or twice and I was torn between threatening him and cuddling him. I wanted to kiss his tear-streaked cheeks and tell him "If you love something, let it go. There's no use fighting anymore. Your binkies are dead to you."
Sometime around 3:30, I laid back down on top of the blankets. Matt asked why I wasn't covered up, as it was chilly.
"Whenever a child of mine is in distress, my heart beats faster and I get overheated. You, on the other hand, have a heart of stone and don't care."
"That's true." He said as he tucked the blankets around his neck.
Sleep deprivation does funny things to a person, as any parent knows.
I laid in bed, determined to use this time for good. Might as well put this amazing brain to work, solving the complex problems of our time.
Pretty soon though:
'I wish I was taller, I wish I was a baller, I wish I had a girl and if I did, I would call her...'
Eyes wide, with a sudden realization. Hey, I do wish I was taller. Not crazy high, but a couple more inches would be nice. Like 5'6 or 5'7. Enough that I don't step on my favorite pair of yoga pants when I'm barefoot and Matt can't look over my head and make snide comments on how he can't see me.
Also, I hope that baller actually does mean a basketball player and not some strange innuendo. I merrily sang "Little Red Corvette" for years until I heard it on the radio at 25 years old and realized that the song wasn't simply about a girl who likes to drive fast.
Noah alternated between calling out for Mommy and Daddy and once perhaps an impassioned "Curse you all and your circadian rhythms!" He eventually fell into an exhausted heap. When he woke up in the morning, he was happy. He always wakes up grumpy so that was a new development. Tali, however, took the opportunity to throw fits all morning. It's hard to throw a good tantrum being so tiny but she gives it her best. It's like they were just passing the baton of misery back and forth. If it's not one, it's the other.
Last night I gave the littles a bath and was getting Tali in her pajamas. Noah was running around naked (I always have to choose who to diaper first) and he climbed on top of the air purifier near her crib (which we use as white noise to drown the sounds of Noah's soul being ripped apart by the absence of binkies). He then proceeded to pee into her crib.
I just don't have any more to say about that.
Last night was better, he woke up one time, at midnight. I tiredly asked him to please stop crying and go to sleep. He said "Ok" and went to sleep.
We've gone through the stages together: anger, grief, peeing on things, tantrums, xanax, bargaining, chocolate and acceptance.
As we seem to near the end of this horrific ordeal, I would like to give the good Lord thanks for my mother-in-law. We've always gotten along well and I'm so happy they are living near us once more. She's always helpful, always supportive. She'll often come over and take Noah for the morning or one of the older kids for a trip to the library. Or she'll come and read books and help clean. All this without being asked. Never more has she been appreciated than this week. She took Noah for the morning Wednesday and yesterday came over and washed dishes, swept the floor, watched the kids so I could go to the college bookstore and get my books for this semester. She never judges the often atrocious nature of my house and will tell me stories of how she thought she was going to lose her mind as well in the day to day dealings with small children.
It helps to know that people have survived this time in their lives and have gone on to do amazing things, like read a book in a morning or take a shower without interruption.
There's always hope.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
The End of an Era
Whenever Noah loses his binky at night, he wakes up crying and we have to run in there to find it and pop it back in before he wakes up Tali.
I've not made it a big deal because he's still just 2 and he's had a lot of changes in his little life with a brand new toddler on board and I figure he can use whatever comforts he has.
In addition to his binky love affair, he always takes a very nonchalant stance on potty training. My bestie Rosie's son, who is the same age as Noah, has begun potty training. I speak of Andrew's underwear-toting in glowing terms in hopes of persuading Noah to take the plunge (well, in a figurative sense in this case for obvious reasons). But Noah just shrugs and goes back to his trucks, completely unfazed that his friend is basically becoming a man.
"Wow, Andrew is peeing in the potty! Don't you want to wear underwear and go in the potty?"
"Nope."
"Really? You like your wet, stinky diapers?"
"Yup."
And that's the end of it. I am getting tired of leaping out of bed to feel around under his bed for a binky several times a night. So I gave him an ultimatum. You give up your diapers or your binkies.
He chose the binkies. I told him we could give them to Rosie's baby Henry, who needs them. Two days ago, we gathered them up in a plastic bag and Matt drove him over to Rosie's house, where she accepted them on behalf of Henry with great ceremony.
The first night was...hmm, how should I phrase this without using swear words? Terrible just doesn't seem strong enough. Up every couple hours, crying with wordless sorrow. By 3 am, I ended up sleeping with him in his little twin bottom bunk, on sheets that smelled faintly of pee. I had to sleep on my side, instead of on my stomach in the shape of a swastika and when I awoke, my left hand was painfully asleep. I thought 'Well, at least something slept.'
I've not made it a big deal because he's still just 2 and he's had a lot of changes in his little life with a brand new toddler on board and I figure he can use whatever comforts he has.
In addition to his binky love affair, he always takes a very nonchalant stance on potty training. My bestie Rosie's son, who is the same age as Noah, has begun potty training. I speak of Andrew's underwear-toting in glowing terms in hopes of persuading Noah to take the plunge (well, in a figurative sense in this case for obvious reasons). But Noah just shrugs and goes back to his trucks, completely unfazed that his friend is basically becoming a man.
"Wow, Andrew is peeing in the potty! Don't you want to wear underwear and go in the potty?"
"Nope."
"Really? You like your wet, stinky diapers?"
"Yup."
And that's the end of it. I am getting tired of leaping out of bed to feel around under his bed for a binky several times a night. So I gave him an ultimatum. You give up your diapers or your binkies.
He chose the binkies. I told him we could give them to Rosie's baby Henry, who needs them. Two days ago, we gathered them up in a plastic bag and Matt drove him over to Rosie's house, where she accepted them on behalf of Henry with great ceremony.
.jpg) |
| One of his last days of happiness |
That morning, yesterday, we were both exhausted. Matt graciously let me sleep in as long as I wanted before trotting off to work. The whole day was awful. Noah was cranky from lack of sleep and the general unfairness of life. He was sweeping books off the coffee table with his arms, crying, yelling. It was like he was in withdrawals.
 |
| The face of recovery. (Note: this is not an actual picture of this process. He will not allow himself to be photographed in his current state. It brings up too many emotions. Probably of happier times being photographed with the binky.) |
I imagine a group of toddlers at a rehab center:
"Hello, my name is Noah and I'm addicted to bink-binks."
"Hello, Noah."
"Hello, my name is Isabelle and I've been off the bottle for three days."
"Hello, Isabelle."
Last night at dinner I swore we would not have a night like that again. I was twitching just thinking about it.
You may have seen me yesterday evening at the store, bottles of moscato and melatonin in hand.
Last night? Not too bad.
One step at a time.
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