Stocking Up On Icy Hot

This evening I went on my first solo bike ride. The first was with my husband, Lance. The second ride I took with my mother-in-law because Matt was wary of me going by myself on the bike trail. Let me preclude that by giving you a couple facts:

1. I have two black belts. Sure, I haven't practiced in a decade but I'm fairly certain I could throw a solid punch if need be. And to be completely honest to any would-be attackers, I have been known to engage in a Tae Bo video now and again so yeah, you could say I'm pretty current on skills.

2. Matt's mom weighs maybe 130 lb and is just one of those adorable people, the kind you would accompany to a nice garden party but not to, say, an interview for a bouncer position at a club. I did thank her for protecting me after the ride.

Tonight, though, it was just me. Yes, I had an mp3 player with pink earbuds. No one else seems to be listening to music. I'm sure they're all thinking about recovery times and lactic acids and becoming more aerodynamic. I was wondering how exactly they get the candy coating on M & M's. I mean, I realize it's some sort of machine. I'm not a complete fool. But still, I was a cyclist. Me! Nodding to other cyclists the way athletes do to each other. Those were my people. Sure, I felt a great deal of pride being a part of such an elite group of humans and I may very well develop an unbearable ego. It's the price to pay for greatness.

Head nod. 'Hey, bro. Nice wheels.'

Head nod. 'Sweet calves. Looks like you worked hard on those. Well done, you."

Head nod. 'Looking fast, there, bud.'

Except for this one guy. Didn't even glance at me as he pedaled on by me. Jerk. Stop leaning so far on your handlebars. We get it, you're amazing. But you're mean and your entire skin tight outfit is plastered with company logos. Cooperate sell-out!

Not that I wouldn't take some sponsorship of course. But my luck it would be something like Spam or Bubba Burgers or some such and I would pull on my Bubba Burger Jersey and climb on my GIANT brand bike.

Halfway through the ride I was making pretty time when the top of my head started to itch. Like smack in the middle of my head - no way to reach under the helmet. I tried rubbing the helmet back and forth vigorously on my head. I made sure to call out "I'M COMPLETELY SANE!" to other cyclists to reassure them.

I was really hoping it wasn't lice or something. Darn my luxurious locks!

But it was to no avail. I had to take off my helmet. As I did, one of my earbuds got pulled out of my ear, whipped around and hit me in the eye.

Because I wasn't stupid looking enough on that bike.

Scratched the itch - relief. Then I realized I had to get my helmet back on while pedaling my bike. Lest you think you can ride it with no hands, the way we all did all kids, these wheels are super skinny. Wobbling all over the trail, trying desperately to click my helmet shut with one hand and reminding myself to appreciate my hands more. No way I was continuing without my helmet. If I crashed and lost consciousness, there was no way I was giving some ER staff the enjoyment of taking care of me with my pig bbq shirt and itchy head. Those ER people are mean.

I finally finished my ride and feel pretty darn good.

I may not have been fast and I may not have looked pretty doing it.

But today, I was a cyclist.

I'm Basically a Triathlete

Running

Of course, I don't actually run. I walk for a little bit, then I run, then I walk. Like I'll run for four or five mailboxes or something. It's a very scientific process.

Kate has been begging me to go running. I've put it off for a few reasons: she's only 6 and I really, really like running with my mp3 player and singing whenever I feel like it. Every parent of small children knows that being able to do anything alone is practically a trip to the spa: grocery shopping, mowing the lawn, peeing, getting tires rotated, etc. 12 hour shift at the ER? Yes please. Signing the tax return at the CPAs' office? You betcha. I have an appt to get my TB test done next week and I'm really looking forward to it.

But Katie wore me down so I acquiesced. The night before our first run together she could hardly sleep she was so excited. That's not quite how I feel before a run. She woke up at 4, at 4:30, at 5:30, peeking her head out to see if it was time. She had slept in her clothes and set out her sneakers and socks the night before. We headed out with Toby (our dog). Kate was skipping all over the place, smiling huge. I don't want to be one of those parents who hold their children back, but I really wanted to hold her back. Literally. She chattered excitedly the whole time, not even realizing that I was simply grunting my answers due to the fact that I felt moments away from a lactic acid filled death.

At one point I was struggling along thinking things like:

Breathe from the diaphragm, don't raise the shoulders.

Man, it is super hard to keep my arms going while holding onto a leash and a mp3 player...

I wonder if they make ultra compression shorts so nothing moves at all.

If I keeled over right now, how long would the batteries last on my mp3?

I look up and Kate is practically leaping ahead, kicking up her shoes because she likes the way they sparkle.

"Are you running while holding a rock?"

"Yeah, it looks like a piece of pizza and I like it."

Because running wasn't hard enough before without a happy little gazelle running with me.

Aerobics

Even though she's borderline abusive, I feel like I get a good workout with Jillian Michaels. The kids and the dog just add a little extra level of difficulty. Basically like working out on a minefield. I should give myself an extra gold star at the end of the day for getting through a workout while: changing diapers, grading papers, getting told that I'm not doing anything as well as the people in the video, etc.

I lay back to do a sit up with a weight and oh, hey! There's Noah on a yoga ball, guzzling my water bottle:

I crunch my way up and do a bicep curl (because Jillian likes to work multiple muscle groups - it's evil) and there's Toby. A lick on my hand while I'm curling? Sure, why not?

Then I'm doing mountain climbers and look over to see the older two whipping each other around by the ankles and laughing. Some women can just bounce right back after having multiple kids - I am not so elastic.

Biking

Matt and I took my new bike on a spin the other day. We have a great bike trail about 15 minutes from our house. My fabulous mother-in-law popped over to watch the kids and we headed out. Matt knows what he's doing and looks it: sport sunglasses, cycling shorts, moisture-wicking shirt. I'm wearing a tank top and workout capris and nothing whatsoever protecting my eyes. When I questioned Matt on why he didn't clue me in, he said he assumed I knew I would need glasses - it's so obvious. Yes, of course it is. For someone who has never been on a road bike and doesn't even have padded shorts, glasses to protect my eyes from the sun and wind never crossed my mind. I've never gone fast enough to need them. In fact, my most recent memory on a bike was when I was about 8 or 9. I was pedaling around our big neighborhood when I stumbled upon a garage sale that was closing up. Perhaps I was especially charming that day or they took pity on my horse teeth and knobby knees but they gave me a huge teddy bear and a sombrero. I pedaled my way home rather precariously, a teddy bear as big as me on my lap and a huge red and green sombrero on my head. So you could say I definitely have some experience on a bike.

Remember how much I loathe running with Matt - how he doesn't run at all but could easily sail past me and win a 10k whenever he'd like? Biking is worse. It's like riding next to Lance but without the doping. He looks like a commercial for Brita or an allergy medication or something, where people are doing these great athletic things. His calf muscles bulge in solid ropes as he stands up on his pedals and charges ahead, urging us to 'sprint' forward a bit. My butt hurt when I sat on my unpadded shorts, my legs shook with exertion when I stood up. It was just a matter of choosing which body part I wanted to torture at any given time. What made it worse was that I was struggling on a bike which has the brand name GIANT splashed on the side. That's a self-esteem booster.  Matt schooled me on clipping my shoes into the pedals and which gear I should be in. At one point, the sun was streaming through the trees and we were enveloped by dandelion fluff floating slowly through the air. The peace was shattered by Lance, calling out "Push! Push!"

Yeah...no.

They say that exercise helps with memory but just tonight I bathed a child in her diaper and didn't realize it until a few minutes in so that doesn't bode well for that theory.




Finally, a thought:

Have you ever seen someone after a couple months and they suddenly look so trim?

You gasp and say "My goodness, look at you! You look great! What have you been doing?"

And they smile and shrug a little, "Oh, you know. Eating celery, doing jumping jacks. Just eating right and exercising."

You walk away a little defeated, sucking in your gut and vowing to plank it up that weekend.

More often than not, you find out that person had some sort of procedure. Gastric bypass, gastic sleeve, Lapband, what have you. Which is totally fine but let's just all make an agreement to get those disclosures out in the open and not pretend it was simply eating more vegetables and jumping on a treadmill. It reminds me of this clip from Sinbad when he's talking about hair:

The part about the hair starts around 5:50. But the whole thing is funny so just relax and enjoy.

"Listen to me now, you can't be 300 lb in February and 175 in April..."

Random Ramblings

One of these things is not like the other...

An interesting aspect to adopting a child of another race is noting other people's reactions. We really haven't had any negative reactions to Tali (although I'm sure we will encounter some along the way). In fact, it's been really positive. Strangely positive sometimes. I'm noticing that people comment on how cute Talitha is. A lot. Like, a whole lot. Not a grocery shopping trip goes by the people don't go out of their way to tell me how cute she is. They are almost falling over each other to get to the cart to tell me.

Is Tali cute? Absolutely. Sweet and little and pretty. Is she cuter than my other kids? Eh, I don't know. But I sure never got that kind of attention carting around my blue and brown-eye, blonde headed babies as I do my almond-eyed, black haired baby.

It struck me recently that it might not be that they're just telling me she's cute: Perhaps it's a subconscious effort to make sure I know that they're not racist. That they're ok with my Asian daughter. If I really think about it, maybe I do those types of things as well, without even really realizing it. Maybe I'm overly friendly to an interracial couple, a disabled person, a homosexual couple, a person of a vastly different religious/ethic/cultural background from me, whatever. Things that people may assume make others uncomfortable and so I want to make sure everyone knows I'm ok with whatever it is.

Certainly I could be over thinking this but it makes me really think about all the ways I consciously and subconsciously interact with others.

A Race To The Bottom

Matt recently got back into biking again (like the pedaling kind, not the leather jacket kind) and we're looking for a bike for me to ride with him, because I don't have a low enough self-esteem about my physical abilities. This is a man who rode across the country on a bicycle, up to 150 miles a day - and I'm not just throwing a number out there, that's what his actual mileage was (it makes me want to just go eat ice cream and give up already). The only bright side is that he looks pretty darn good in cycling shorts because I'm sure to be lagging behind him always.

We found a bike on Craigslist that we will hopefully be picking up soon. I'm happy to have one, if only to end the incessant teasing by Matt about how short I am and how he's not even sure they make bikes for people that short. I'm a very respectable 5'4" but apparently it's not respectable enough.

This bike listing had everything - a bike my size, shoes my size, a helmet, a speedometer, and a few other bikey-type things that look really professional but I can't quite recall what they are at the moment.

I told Matt that she wrote that she only rode the bike "marginally" and that we may not be able to trust her based on her wording.

"Why wouldn't she say that she rode the bike sporadically?"

"People don't use that word."

"They do if they want to be correct."

Maybe it was the fact that I've been beaten up by Jillian Michaels every morning for weeks but I was really miffed by the wording. I told Matt that marginally should be used when comparing things - This cake is marginally better than the other, He has a marginal lead in the polls, etc. Matt chimed in "Or, I'm marginally better than everyone else."

What makes that so funny is that Matt truly is one of the most humble people I've ever met. He's able to fly a plane, race a bike, drive a motorcycle, make furniture, fix the cars, play a few instruments, and understand the stock market with ease and yet he has almost no ego. Which is really good for our marriage because I have plenty. If I made that statement, people would simply assume I was telling the truth.

"And it's a pretty good price, that must make you happy, Matt."

"Marginally."

The Days Are Just Filled...

On Wednesday we had Tali's 6 month follow up cardiology appointment. She had another echo and ekg and our sweet cardiologist said everything looked good but that Tali had to go home with a Halter monitor, which straps on her chest and captures her rhythm for 24 hours, just to make sure the surgery didn't cause any arrhythmias and such.

She did great through the echo and the technicians kept commenting on it but I'm pretty sure relaxing on a pillowed table watching Mickey Mouse and getting slathered with warm gel sure beats whatever she got in China. By the time they started sticking on the tabs for the EKG, she had had enough. She kept saying "No" forcefully in her sweet little tinny voice.

A couple weeks ago Jack asked me to email our cardiologist to ask her if she could please see if there was a pediatric heart surgeon available to talk with Jack. Have I mentioned how much I love our doctor? She told Jack that there was a heart surgeon whose case was canceled that morning and he was waiting for us. How awesome is that? We trooped across the street to the main hospital and made our way to the doctors' building.

The surgeon was super sweet and kind, taking lots of time to answer Jack's questions. Apparently our cardiologist told the surgeon about Jack's surgical tools and he asked to see them. Jack pulled them out of the diaper bag and spread them on his desk. He went through each one, showing Jack how to use them. He and Jack discussed oxygen distribution to the various organs and how much education is involved in becoming a surgeon. My favorite part was when he went through the questions and got to "What's your favorite part about your job?" and he got this look of contentment on his face and stated "When the patient wakes up after surgery and they get to go home with their families and live their life." That is good stuff.

He made Jack promise to come back to visit every year and keep him informed of how he was doing in his quest to become a surgeon. This guy is one of the good ones.

The surgeon was really smiley, I just didn't capture it.

We ate lunch at the hospital's Chik-Fil-A (Jack about had a coronary about a fast food place in a hospital) but we made it better by sharing fries and nuggets and drinking water. Looking forward to meeting him every year at Tali's appointment!

Later that day we had small group at our house. As soon as people were filtering in, a friend in the group pointed out the fact that Noah had no underwear on and was walking around with...evidence of a certain body function hanging from his behind. We rushed to get him cleaned up. I'm in the bathroom, desperately cleaning water and toilet paper off the floor and wiping down the toilet seat with Lysol (Noah tries to get to the toilet and it gets a little sloppy) while I am calling out a welcoming greeting to people coming in. Oh, and the septic was still sluggish from all the rain we've had so it was hard to hide the evidence.

Later in the evening we noticed Tali had wiggled out of her diaper and was strolling around the group members cool and free. We are just classy like that. I began the day shaking hands with a heart surgeon and ended it chasing toddlers around with baby wipes. Yes indeed.

Adventures with Toddlers: Potty-Training Edition

Yesterday morning I sat down at the computer and was looking up information on Mali (because we're all intellectual and multi-cultural like that) when Jack called out for me. He didn't sound desperate so I asked him what he needed. He then nonchalantly strolled into the homeschool room and let me know something had happened in the bathroom involving Noah and a certain bodily function. I sprinted past him, as fast as my flannel pajama pants would take me.

Remember that scene in Princess Bride in the Pit of Despair? The horror, the shrieking? It was like that. Feces and urine and water. All over the floor. A toilet roll was slowly absorbing the mess; a toilet bowl brush was laying on its side, defeated. Poop on the wall, the stool, the outside of the toilet. Noah has no pants and has taken off down the hallway in order to prove his absolute innocence - despite the copious amounts of fecal matter on his legs. No matter - run away, run away! She'll never guess it was you!

Talitha is standing sans pants in the mess - happily brushing her teeth with one of the big kid's brush. There is poop on her shirt. She is laughing. I put both toddlers in the bathtub (Noah is wrangled and most likely perplexed as to how I figured out the culprit - boy, that mom is good...) and have Kate wash them up while I start the cleaning process. One of the side effects of potty-training is that the stock of Bounty paper towels has gone up considerably. You're welcome, economy. But..not environment, I guess. It's a wash. 

There I was, mopping up my dignity along with unspeakable things. I was really upset because it's right next to the toilet, c'mon now. So I was working up some pretty strong words, which in our family amounts to things like "Gosh darn it!" and "Why the heck did you do this?" I know - powerful.

I got it cleaned and vowed to write a really nice letter to whoever invented Lysol. Noah made it through his nap time in his underwear and then we headed off to the store. He dutifully told me he had to go to the bathroom so we hustled into the family bathroom. He does his thing and I wash his hands and then tell him not to touch anything because store bathrooms are yucky. I wash my hands and he strolls right over to the toilet and starts picking up the seat and touching the rim. I quickly yell "No!" and run to grab him to wash his hands again. He proceeds to throw a monster fit face down on the floor in the Walmart bathroom (If I remember correctly, one of Dante's circles of Hell takes place in a Walmart bathroom). He literally has to be carried out of the bathroom yelling and then strapped into a grocery cart (at this point we now have two carts, one for each toddler. We're like a parade but with no balloons or happiness).

Today it was a downpour all morning and our fantastic septic system stopped working around 2 pm (when I walked in on Tali and Noah in our bathroom, playing in the seat-high water in the toilet bowl).  I was really hoping to get through the afternoon with nary a bowel movement. I'm looking in the fridge "Now let's see, what causes constipation?" I tried just having Noah pee into the yard along with Jack but it's like taking out a chihuahua - Ooh, this patch of grass looks nice - No, this one! - Oh look, a bird!

After 20 minutes of standing out in the rain with him, I stomped back inside and slapped a diaper on him.

I've probably just obliterated the training done this last week, holding a single gummy bear in my hand so that he'll pee in the toilet. These things tend to happen just as I'm feeling smug. By the third child I feel like I've got this - sleeping through the night, potty-training, eating vegetables. Just when I feel like I can sail through solely on my experience and, let's be honest, intellectual prowess, bam! You're elbow deep on the bathroom floor, mopping up a mixture of fecal matter and pee, wondering where it all went so terribly wrong. You think you're pretty awesome at this whole parenting thing and then a toddler comes along and suddenly you're Googling "How to get Vaseline out of a Shop Vac."

I was such a good parent before I had kids. The best. Now? I just don't know.

Half a Year Home

6 months.

It's been 6 months since we scooped up a tiny little girl on the other side of the world and promised to love her for always.

Sometimes I look at the pictures of before we adopted her, right after we adopted her, and now and cannot believe how she's changed.

The referral picture - the very first time we saw her sweet face.

Right after her heart surgery in Shanghai (July 8). She looked so forlorn and alone. Her face haunted me when I tried to sleep at night. I would whisper to her "We're almost there, Tali. We're almost there."

One of the last pictures we got before we left for China. This was the end of July.

When we first met her, I was struck by how little she was, how frail. She couldn't walk or stand on her own at 21 months. She gorged on food if we didn't parcel out the noodles or fruit or whatever. She loved tentatively.

Oh how Talitha Ruby has grown. We've watched her transform from a thin baby who guarded her heart so fiercely to a toddler - a little girl! - who runs on her almost chubby legs to the arms of a parent, a brother, a sister, where a hug and kiss is reciprocated with laughter. 

The first few months were a big learning curve, much like bringing home your first newborn. I never ever knew if I was doing anything right but prayed that God would fill in the gaps of my parenting. There have been a lot of struggles with attachment and putting love into action even when the emotion is not there. Sometimes it's so real and so right and she reaches up to pat my face or kisses me with her eyes closed tight with anticipation. Sometimes it's not. It just isn't. But everyday I make the choice, over and over and over again, to love. To mother. To be present.

The last few months have still been difficult but there is so much sweetness, so many moments where it is obvious that she has chosen to love us. To be a daughter and sister. She engages us, she grabs our faces and demands we look her in the eyes and connect. She smiles and scowls, she throws fits and gives long hugs and pats on the back. 

The last three pictures were taken today - I wanted to have the most recent pictures for her 6 month update. Yes, they were taken in the bathroom while Noah sat on the potty and made random observations in an attempt to get out of peeing.

I can see that Talitha's changed a lot over the past 6 months but these next two pictures were really astounding. Noah has changed too, of course. But Tali? A different person.

The week we came home, September 2013

Six months home, February 2014

And for the next 6 months and then rest of our lives together? I can't hardly wait.

Fancy Feast

On Saturday we had friends over for dinner. The mom is a hospitalist (physician) where I work and I've had a playdate with her and her little one. Saturday was the first time we met her husband. They stepped out of their car and I noted with dread that he was nicely turned out in a crisp sport coat. I slowly looked down at myself - 'Oh please don't say that I...yup. I'm still wearing my yoga pants and t-shirt that I had put on that morning with the intent of cleaning and making dinner all day. Are they sufficiently flour-encrusted from the bread I made? Sure are!'

No matter. They were wonderful. It's always a bit nerve-wracking inviting new friends over for dinner. You never know how comfortable it will be. Will Matt and I be making imploring eyes at one another as the evening drags on close to midnight? Will they recite a detailed monologue about their toenail fungus while you are trying to enjoy your pudding? Will they drone on and on about something or other while you drop weighty hints about the kids bedtime - "Oh look at the time! We all have bobsled practice in the morning, better hit the hay...Oh, still talking huh? Alright then. I'll check back in an hour"

This was quite comfortable. Jack was really excited to meet the dad - he's a cardiologist. Jack greeted him at the door in his heart shirt and doctor coat, surgical tools in his pocket and his heart model in his hand. They hit it off. The dad was impressed by Jack's passion, excitedly pointing out things on Jack's shrine to the heart in the homeschool room. Exhibit A - Jack's desk and wall:

Honestly, it's just a teensy bit creepy. You know that scene in A Beautiful Mind where the woman opens the shed and all those mathematical papers are plastered on the walls and she stares in horrified dread? It feels a bit like that. It's all he wants to draw and all he wants to write about. Let's get real for a moment - how much excitement can you truly muster when told about the aorta multiple times a day everyday? Yes, it's amazing. We know.

But this guy and Jack are kindred spirits. He happily read Jack's illustrated book on the heart (complete with Fast Facts on every page). He quizzed Jack on topics such as "How does a heart attack occur?" which Jack answered with gusto. I was pleasantly surprised by Jack's social graces when the cardiologist pulled out his phone to show Jack a video on heart bypass surgery. We've seen the video several times already but Jack didn't say anything and let the good man point out the arteries and such without cutting him off with a curt "I know."

I'm not showing his face as I don't know if he's ready to handle the inevitable fame that will come with being shown on my blog. Some people can't handle becoming an instant celebrity.

All through dinner, the guy kept complimenting my cooking:

"You made this bread? How did you do that? It's amazing."

"Your mom is a wonderful cook, you know?" (Jack shrugs "I guess.")

"You made these cookies too? You should open a bakery!"

We are definitely having this guy over again for dinner. They might have me beat in IQ and income but I can follow recipes like a champ. They brought with them two containers of Haagen-Daz ice cream and a bottle of wine. 

We set out the ice cream with the cookies and the kids immediately began pouring cheap chocolate sauce and sprinkles on it. 

NOOOOO! Don't put that crap on there - this is Haagen-Daz! I know that name means nothing to you as we've never ever bought such expensive ice cream but this isn't cheap Wal-cream. This is special. Savor it.

Nope, they just swirled the sauce and sprinkles and the ice cream together to make it soupy. It's painfully obvious that we're used to covering up the taste of poverty.

Later that evening, Matt opened the wine. A few things I noticed: 

It's not in a box. There are no pictures of animals on the label, no "Uncle Billy Bob's Mississippi Moonshine." The top didn't twist off. I can't pronounce the type of wine it is. It all came to a head when Matt brought out the corkscrew. He shows me the cork and states "Is that a real cork?" We stared at it, slightly dumbfounded. Not a plastic cork. A real one. 

It dawned on me - the sports coat, the good wine, the Haagen-Daz. We have fancy friends!

(Now before you get all insulted that I'm implying you're basically an uncultured swine, be rest assured I'm not talking about you. The rest of my friends? Absolutely. An uncouth group if ever I've seen one.

But you...you are a shining beacon of dignity and sophistication.)

So that was our Saturday evening. Next time we'll probably bump it up a notch (pants that button and non-Crocs on our feet) for our fancy friends.