Questions and Surprising Answers

Being an adoptive parent you never know when you are going to get sideswiped by a question. They can come from anyone, at any time, and the person doing the asking usually has no idea that their words have quickened my pulse, and made me raise my protective mama hackles. In the past two and a half years I have gotten to the point where I can pretty much predict how certain lines of questioning will go, and have my answers down pat.

And then there are the times I am totally surprised.

The other day Meg and I were in the grocery store when her favorite bagger came up to give her some stickers. He is her favorite bagger because of said stickers, and if he doesn't come find us, Meg makes sure we find him. Meg was putting the stickers on her arms when this kid (he's maybe 17), looked at her, then at me, and asked "Is she adopted?"

Hackles up.

"Yes, she is" I answered, very calmly. Well, calmly on the outside. On the inside I was going through my mental rolodex, trying to determine what he would ask next, and how to keep the questions from escalating, especially since they would be asked in front of Meg, who still doesn't quite understand what "adopted" means. Would it be the "where" or the "when" question, or something else totally bizarre? I waited.

"Oh, I figured it was either that or your husband is black. One or the other. Do you want paper or plastic today?"

I almost started laughing with relief; or laughing with glee because this stocky teen had presented me with such a pleasant surprise. I almost reached over and hugged him.

Instead I just hugged Meg, and let her put a sticker on my hand.

Hackles down.

Something in My Boot

My feet are in constant danger -- and I blame Pixar.

Yes, that Pixar, the one that makes adorable movies for children using computer animation and the voices fo A list celebrities. You may recall that several of their movies, in fact, their sole franchise, feature a cowboy named Woody. Woody is not only a cowboy, but a toy as well, one that spouts various phrases when someone pulls his string. One of those phrases is "there's a

snake in my boot."

I wear boots almost every day. I love my boots. Meg loves Woody. Meg loves saying "there's a snake in my boot."

I think you can see where this is headed. Thank God we don't have any snakes in the house.

Every morning now I have to shake out my boots to see what treasures may be inside waiting to hobble me. Jewelry is one of Meg's favorites. Refrigerator magnets are too. The other day I put my foot in a boot without checking it first and pulled it out to find a plastic ballerina impaling my instep. I swear it was laughing at me.

Today's boot haul. The hat belongs to you know who...

Of course, every time I find one of these treasures Meg is right there to make sure I say the right thing, with the right inflection. With every thing I pull out and catalog her laughter gets a little louder. Then I ask her if she knows who put it in my boot and she says "no," even harder. I grab her and tickle her, asking over and over "did you put something in my boot" until she collapses into my arms for a cuddle. Then I put my boots on, and go off to work, thankful for the great kid I have.

Maybe I shouldn't blame Pixar. Maybe I should thank them. After all, what's a little toe pain in exchange for moments like that?

Still, I'm glad we don't have any snakes.

Color and Race

I bungled my first conversation with Meg about race. To be fair though, I wasn't expecting it -- especially not in the middle of watching "Toy Story 3."

We were watching the movie the other night when Meg asked me if Woody's hat is black. No, I said, it's brown. Then she asked about Mr. Potato Head, was he black? Nope, I told her, he's brown. She asked about slinky dog next, and Mrs. Potato Head, and about Buster (the dog in the film). I told her none of them were black, they were all brown.

Then it dawned on me what was going on.

Somewhere Meg had picked up that she is black, and that it has to do with the color of her skin. Being the smart kid she is, who knows her colors, including the difference between black and brown, there was now some confusion. And I was doing nothing to help the situation.

I paused the movie and looked at Meg.

"Baby," I said, "your skin is the color brown. People may call it black, but it's color is brown. And no matter what color it is it is wonderful skin, and I love you very much."

"Is your skin brown," she asked.

"No, it's pink," I said. I figured that would be easier than explaining "pasty."

"Is Daddy's skin brown?"

"No, his is pink too, but we are your Mommy and Daddy and we love you."

Then she asked me to turn the movie back on and snuggled in.

After she went to bed I laid awake for about two hours after that wondering how I could have better handled it. Her skin isn't black, but she is. That black really has nothing to do with color and more with racial construct. That there are some people that have much darker skin than hers that will never be identified as black.

I started wondering if I should have brought up Dr. King. Then I remembered she is two.

I am hoping the next time I am better prepared. I am also hoping the next time is as innocent, and doesn't involve her feelings being hurt because of racism, or feelings of rejection due to a realization about the differences in our colors and what they mean.

I know those conversations are coming, I am just hoping that I am better at this when they do.

Oh, and that she still wants to snuggle with me after we are done talking.

It's NOT for Dinner

One of the New Year's resolutions made in this household is to not eat out as often. We are doing it for all the normal reasons: to save money and cut calories -- in addition to the fact that restaurants currently seem to turn Meg into a Tasmanian devil type creature bent on destruction and visiting the bathroom at least a half dozen times.

Things have been going pretty well. We only ate out once in the past seven days, and that was with my parents, so among the four of us we each only had to take Meg to the bathroom twice. I had this week planned out perfectly too. Not only had I bought all of the food for (some of it with coupons!) but I had made a menu plan using items we already had in the freezer and the pantry.

It all went to shit tonight.

I had made Cholent before. Barley, beans, brisket -- beautiful and basic. Of course, before I had just let it cook on high in the crock pot for four hours. Today I had a meeting so I thought it would be okay to leave it on low for nine.

When I got home there really was no sign there was anything wrong. The house was still standing, and there was a lovely smell of beef and garlic in the air.

And that's when I looked in the crock pot.

What I found can best be described as cremains. Cremains covered in beef fat. All of the liquid was gone. The beans and barley had formed a crust around the pot that I am still trying to soak off four hours later. The beef was more than jerkified. I took a bite, thinking maybe it just looked bad, only to find it tasted worse.

All of that work. All of that planning. All of that not admitting I hate cooking at home, and smilingly making grocery lists and menu plans. All of it was now laughing at me, and filling my nose with the smell of ruined dinner.

I almost threw the damned thing through the plate glass window.

Ryan walked in during the middle of all of this and saw what was going on. With few words he scooped Meg up and took her to eat and see the bathroom at the burrito place down the block. I took the crock pot to the garbage outside and emptied the sludge, then went inside to make some pasta. Then I called my Mom and ugly cried about the whole thing.

And now?

Now I am just hoping the crock pot is clean by tomorrow so I can make chicken and noodles.

After all, a resolution is not a resolution if it only lasts until January 17th.

Unnecessary Qualifier

I have a new pet peeve: pointing out when a child is adopted in any form of media.

Why do we have to mention that a child is adopted? We don't point out when they are born c-section, or conceived via IVF, or delivered by surrogate (except perhaps at birth in People magazine), so why is it so important to point out that adopted children came into a family that way? What is added to the story by knowing that detail?

I find it particularly disturbing because in most cases where adoption is mentioned, it is seemingly excusing the bad behavior of a parent, or trying to deify them for "saving" a child. For instance, in the past two months I covered two stories involving children that were very pointedly described as being adopted. In one case a father had raped several of them repeatedly. In the other the mother had killed her child, but now was begging to get out of prison to take care of her "biological" kids.

My daughter is adopted. However, I never think of her as my adopted daughter. I don't think of her adoption when I comb her hair in the morning. I don't think of it when we are driving in the car singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" at the top of our lungs together. I don't think of it when she has a nightmare and crawls into bed with me, rubbing the peach fuzz on my cheek to go back to sleep.

That is not to say I don't acknowledge and appreciate her adoption. I do every day. I see her birth mom in her all the time, and we talk about her "Mama" (I am Mommy). However, the fact Meg is adopted does not affect how I care for her, or my hopes for her, or how much I love her. I definitely would never use it as a justification for ways I failed her, or hurt her, nor would I ever use it to try and make myself seem like a better person.

No one else should either.

So, here's my thought: unless it is absolutely pertinent to the story, adoption status should not be mentioned. Oh, unless the adoptee themselves wants it so. After all, most of them had no say in the adoption, so they should have a say in how it is perceived now.

Deal?

Itsy Bitsy WHA?

Meg has become a voracious reader. Luckily, ever since the day she was born the people in our lives have given her tons of books. Unluckily, I think some of them didn't read them before they passed them our way. Or maybe they did, and thought we would find them quaint. Or maybe they didn't, and it was a regift. Hell, whatever the reason, we ended up with the most bizarre collection of books of children's songs ever.

From the outside they look normal, even kinda cute. But it's inside that things go wrong. I first noticed it when I heard Ryan reading Meg "Wheels on the Bus." The bus driver doesn't say "move on back," but rather "beep, beep, beep"; and the bus doesn't go "all through the town" but instead "all day long." I pointed it out to Ryan, and he said it was probably just a regional difference, and that maybe in Delaware that's how they sang it. I told him I had been to Delaware. He gave me that look that let me know I am slowly driving him insane.

I was going to leave it alone, until I heard him reading Meg the book containing "row, row, row your boat." The end of that one was enough that I went in to examine the page, and even took a picture.

That's right, life is not a dream in this version of the song. Instead it is a place where carnivorous reptiles can pop up at any moment and you have to scream your lungs out and pray to God that someone can hear you.

Oh, and that's not even the most bizarre one. That comes to us from "the animals marching two by two." First of all, I didn't know this was a "beloved" children's song, and second of all, I had no idea it ended like this...

Apparently the rain is so bad the singer lost all grasp of the English language. Never happened to me, but maybe I've just never seen that type of rain.

Thank God for "Good Night Moon." And thank God we own at least four copies of it. Maybe ten.

Have Fun

There is an amusement park near my house, and on every ride, right before you take off, the 12-year old running it tells you to "have fun." It doesn't matter how terrifying it is supposed to be, or vomit inducing, the last instruction you receive is to "have fun."

I always hated that.

I mean, of course we were all going to at least try to have fun, weren't we? After all, we had come to an amusement park, hadn't we? It wasn't like we had come to "root canal land," or "tax audit town." I always wondered why the forced merriment. Now, though, I have figured it out, largely because I have stared saying it too.

It started as a joke. When a reporter would head out the door to cover a particularly gruesome, or mind numbingly boring story, I would tell them to "have fun." Depending on their religion they would flip me off, or groan. Over the years though it moved from being a joke, to just being how I say good-bye -- and I have found it annoys some people almost as much as it did me at the amusement park.

My husband in particular isn't fond of it. When he has a meeting he doesn't want to deal with or is heading back from a school break it makes him especially grumpy. I try to tell him I'm not mocking him, that it's just something I say, but he doesn't buy it. Once I tried to tell him that it was just my way of reminding everyone that life is precious, and that we should look for the fun in every moment. He looked at me like body snatchers had taken his wife and replaced her with an automaton.

So, now I need to find a new good-bye. I want something catchy, but not too "slick." Maybe something with an ironic twist, like "hello, or is it?" That seems to wordy though. Maybe I could stick with the amusement park thing and tell people to "hold on tight" or "please don't puke."

So many possibilities.

Until a new one is found though -- have fun.

I mean that.

New Post, Just Not Here

So, I have some news, but it's not here... It's over at Tired and Stuck.

Hope you all are enjoying 2012. I mean, since it is the year the world will end and everything...

Holi-dazed (See What I Did There? I KNOW! Super Clever!)

I am sitting here at my dining room table, surrounded by a holly, jolly mess. I have more than a dozen Christmas cards that still need to be written and addressed to the right of me, and a pile of presents that have to be wrapped from Santa to my left; in front of me I have two half finished blankets I am crocheting, and on the counter behind me I have neighbor gifts that need to be assembled, and have witty notes attached to them.

So which one am I focusing on right now? The computer in the middle of it all, and the glass of wine in my lap.

You were expecting something different?

I don't know why I am overwhelmed and surprised by this predicament. Every year, it doesn't matter how early I start, how organized I am, or how good my intentions are, I always end the season in a holiday frenzy. There is always one gift I have forgotten, or one gift I can't find that I know I have bought, but hidden somewhere in the house so well that not even I can remember where it is. Christmas cards ALWAYS seem to run out long before the list of recipients does, even though I swear we haven't made any new friends in at least three years, and the number of cards we order increases. Oh, and don't even get me started on figuring out the logistics for seeing Ryan's family, my family, and friends and relatives who happen to be in town.

I'm actually starting to think it's my starting early and feeling organized that gets me into this jiggle hell each December. It gives me a false sense of security, and makes me think I'm ahead of the game. When the cards came in mid-November I thought "I have plenty of time, I don't want to get them out too early." Now I am just hoping my signature is legible and I don't write "fuck" in any of them accidentally -- or at least not the ones going to Ryan's family.

Same thing with gifts. Amazon and I had it all figured out long ago. Of course, Amazon forgot to remind me that Meg has two teachers at her play group, and that two of our friends have new babies in addition to the older kids I am used to buying for. Oh, and it also said nothing about stocking stuffers or the fact I have co-workers. Stupid Internet jerk. I just hope babies and TV news people alike appreciate the glory of holiday M&Ms. After all, they were two for 3 bucks today at the grocery store. I had to growl at some people, but I think I got enough.

As for the family arrangements? I am really thinking next year I am going to hire people who look almost exactly like us and send them out while we go to Fiji.

Actually, I might hire them to do the whole damn thing.

Happy Holidays!

Princess Proliferation

I used to think that Disney Princesses were evil because they give the wrong message to little girls: that you're looks and catching a man are the most important things in the world.

Oh, how wrong I was.

Now, I am not saying the Princesses don't give that message, they most definitely do. I am just saying that is not the real reason they are evil.

The real reason? Because they are on EVERYTHING, and are out to bankrupt the parents of little girls everywhere.

These were add ons. The Princess Nativity is not available -- yet.

Really, the next time you are in the store, ANY store, take a look around. You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a product with a princess on it (you shouldn't be swinging dead cats anyway, but that's another post). They are on clothes, shoes, toys, make-up, band- aids, vitamins, books, diapers, cookies, tooth brushes, fruit snacks, and pretty much anything else you can imagine.

Little girls are trained to track them down, too. I swear Disney has a subliminal message in every one of it's movies showing them every princess and the products she is on. Sounds crazy, right? Then how can Meg identify every princess, even though she's only seen two of the movies. Yes, it could be that we went to Disneyland and I pointed them all out, or it could be an evil plot. I think we all know which explanation is more plausible.

It's getting to the point where I am just resigned to see the princesses everywhere, and fork my money over to Disney. We are in the process of buying new tires for our car. My husband and I were discussing options and I asked him if he thought "Tangled" was a better option than "Princess and the Frog." Luckily, Tiana does not have her own brand of steel belted radials -- yet.

If only feminism was still my only concern... After all, it doesn't have a friend named "Toy Story."

Ocupado

When we had a daughter I knew there would come a time when it would be impossible to get her out of the bathroom. I just thought it would start around the age 12 and would be because she was obsessing over her hair, her skin, and her make-up. I had no idea it would start at age two and a half and be because she is (in her words) trying to be "snuggly warm."

Caught in the act...

We live in an old house. It's drafty. We know that. Winter is a time of undershirts, socks, slippers, and more blankets on the bed. Meg, though, apparently needs a little something extra. Not necessarily because she's cold, but because she doesn't have that "fresh from the dryer" feeling. The only place you can get that feeling in our house? The bathroom.

I mean, I guess you could get it in the dryer, but that would be dangerous.

Our bathroom is especially warm for many reasons. It is the smallest room in the house, with the biggest heat vent. It has stone tile that absorbs heat. Oh, and because we have jerky cats who like to destroy toilet paper, the door is always closed. It creates an atmosphere that could be used for raising chicks -- or Meg.

Now, whenever the heat goes on, we hear Meg's little feet running, and the bathroom door closing. When we go in to find her she is always wrapped in the robes that hang on the back of the door, her back to the vent. She is always "snugly warm."

She has even tried to improve the situation, dragging all of the blankets from her bed with her as she heads in there, or bringing a book or two to keep her occupied. We drew the line at the iPad though, at least for right now. After all, we don't want to spend the whole winter with the entire family in the bathroom.

Although that does sound cozy... And clean.

Thank You

First of all, thank you for all of your kind words. Thank God for the Internet, because if you knew what a bitch I am in real life you never would have said them. Kidding. Just kidding.

I am thankful not only for all of you though, strangers scattered throughout the globe who have my back, but also the person who created my back: my Mom.

When all of this was going on my Mom sent me an email and told me to "LIGHTEN UP." I, of course, took this the wrong way, and called her to tell her just how little she knows about me. She, in turn, reminded me about just how much she knows.

My Mom and (baby) Meg. they have the same good heart.

She told me that I need to stop thinking that if I don't do something miraculous and life changing immediately that I should destroy myself. She told me to look at the little things that are actually big. She told me that in telling myself I am a failure that I am missing out on my successes. She told me I am loved, and that sometimes just truly accepting that could be the real key to unlocking happiness and potential.

I guess we never really finish being our parents' children.

I just hope I can be half the Mom to Meg that Ellen has been to me.

Reason

I do not want to be the depressed mom.

Last night, when I was writing my latest "depression and I are fighting again" post, I was sitting across from Meg as she played with her new hand me down princess make-up kit, and watched "Toy Story 3."

I started crying. I didn't mean to, and I don't like to cry in front of Meg, but the tears just started.

She looked at me and said "don't be sad." I said I wasn't, that I was okay. She said "I'm getting down for you," and hopped out of her chair. She walked around the table and took my hand. "C'mere," she said, and led me back to her side of the table. "Sit down," she said, and I did. She climbed up on my lap, put her head on my chest, and we watched the movie together.

I was really touched. I felt so loved, and so safe. I was going to blog about how wonderful she is, and how we take care of each other. Then, this morning, I woke up and I felt so angry. Not at Meg, but at me. No 2-year old should have to comfort their parent. I mean, maybe in a bruised knuckle situation, but nothing like this.

She deserves better. The dog? Maybe not...

So, now I have another reason to make changes. Actually, I have the biggest reason to make changes. My child will not grow up wondering when Mom's next crying fit might come, or if it's one of those "crazy" days. She will not have to feel like she is my emotional support, but will know I am hers. She will be the child, and the most loved child, at that.

It's been easy in the past to let myself down. After all, I thought I was a failure to begin with. Now, though, I am not going to let Meg down. She deserves more.

Operation better attitude starts now.

Attitude Adjustment

My attitude, as of late, sucks.

There is no other way to say it. No way to sugar coat it, or chalk it up to "low self esteem" or "seasonal malaise." It isn't a funny, crumudgeonly "you kids get off my lawn" type, or a snarky "what is Ann Curry wearing today" kind. It's a dark, and bitter attitude; one that wallows in defeat, and sees little hope in the future. It laughs at motivational techniques, or looking on the bright side. It's demanding too. It will wake me up in the middle of the night just to remind me what a failure I am, how I have let all of my potential go by, how it is too late to do anything about it, and how it is all my fault.

I told you: it just totally sucks.

And you were wondering why I haven't been blogging more often. I figured you could just read some Bukowski.

I would love to say this is just depression, but this doesn't feel the depression of the past. With that it feels like something outside of me. Something that I could alter with my medications or with therapy. This feels different. It feels organic, and deep rooted. However, unlike the regular depression, this doesn't feel like something I have to treat with drugs, or therapy. This feels like something I can take action to change. Actually, I think the only way to fix it is to make changes. To do something.

I just need to figure out what that something is.

Running?

Writing? If so, about what?

Erotic French Cooking Classes? No, I'm afraid of the oil burns. I don't think a trip to the ER would give me the sense of accomplishment and well being I seek.

Learn how to play an instrument? Do people still appreciate the Sousaphone?

Maybe saying one nice thing a day about my life, and concentrating on that? Could it be that simple?

Well, that would at least be slightly less sucky... I guess that's something.

Wallet Woes

I am considering having my wallet surgically implanted in my arm. I think it's the only way I can guarantee I have it when I need it. You know, like when I need to pay for something.

I never used to have a problem remembering my wallet. It was always in my purse, right where I needed it. However, with a toddler, the number of things I have in my purse has grown, and the frequency of my taking those things in and out has increased, meaning that sometimes something gets left behind. When it's my sunglasses? No problem. Tic Tacs? Still not a problem, as long as we can avoid tantrums. The wallet though, that's a problem.

You would think that after the first, or fifth time getting up to the cash register and realizing I have no way to pay I would just get in the habit of making sure my wallet is in my purse before I leave the house or enter a store. Or, maybe the fact that on several occasions it has lead to me technically shoplifting because I leave the store with Meg eating a treat we haven't yet paid for would do it instead. Yeah, I would think that too. Apparently though, I like lugging a toddler in and out of stores, wasting time rerunning errands too much, and risking being the target of dicky store security to start giving myself little reminders.

Luckily, it appears I am not the only idiot in the world. Pretty much every time I have forgotten my wallet the clerk has just put my stuff aside, and then continued the transaction when I return. Either that, or I am the only idiot in the world, and they take pity on me because I look so pathetic.

They won't pity me though once I have my awesome arm wallet though...