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.