Literally

We were at a restaurant recently when a group of little people came and sat at the table right next to us. Meg, having never seen little people before, was curious; and because she was curious, was staring. I could almost see the thought bubbles above her head. Were these kids? If so, where were their parents? And why were they acting like parents to some of the kids with them? 


While I understood her curiosity, and I wanted to answer her questions, I also did NOT want to be the person with the ill mannered, staring child. So, I leaned over to her and very quietly said "Meggo, it's not polite to look at people when they may not want you looking at them. Do you understand?" She nodded, and I assumed I had handled the situation and could explain to her about little people later. I went back to my dinner and talking to others at the table. Then Ryan nudged me, and inclined his head towards Meg. 


She was eating with her eyes closed. 


If she happened to open them, say to figure out exactly where something was on her plate, she would clap her hands over her eyes if she happened to catch sight of the little people at the table next to us. Turns out that while I thought I said "please don't stare," Meg heard "don't look at them at all." As they were directly in her line of sight, the only thing to do was to close her eyes. 


I should have known to pick my words more carefully, since every word that comes out of anyone's mouth right now is taken as the total, unabashed truth to Meg. The other day when her Dad told her to hold a baseball bat higher, meaning choke up on it, she instead waved it above her head like she was fighting off birds of prey. When Luke and his friends were screaming they were "taking over the ship" as they played on the jungle gym in my mom's backyard Meg became distraught because she assumed it meant she could never get to play there again. 


And don't even get me started on how she doesn't get sarcasm. 


I guess it was about the age of five when Luke stopped being so literal and started getting the "gist" of things. That means we have about two more years of having to explicitly explain everything. 


After all, we don't want her going through life with her eyes closed. 

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Meg Has Two Moms

When we first brought Meg home I was all about semantics. If someone asked questions about "her mother" I was quick to come back with answers about "her birth mother." I practically snarled it at times, making sure they got the point that I was THE mom as far as Meg is concerned.


Now, I am ashamed I did that.


I may as well have lifted my leg and peed on Meg, because that's all I was trying to do, claim ownership of her. Let the world know that I am her mother, and no one can take that away from me. At the time I was bewildered, and unsure of how this was going to all work out. I was still angry over the fact my own body had failed me, and felt any control I had over the situation was tenuous at best. I wasn't sure if I would be a good mother, and, above all else, I was scared. I was scared for me. I was scared for Meg. I was scared for Meg's Mom. I didn't want all of us to be making a huge mistake. I was parenting from a place of fear, and that is never a good place to start making decisions.


Meg has two Moms. There is nothing wrong with that. Neither one of us wins when a qualifier is placed before the title of the other. By trying to place a qualifier on either I think the real loser ends up being Meg, because it implies she is something other than what she is: a kid who is lucky enough to have many, many people who love her, and want to see her grow and succeed. I don't want her to ever question that there is a hierarchy of people who love her.


Also, the standard qualifiers are kind of stupid if you ask me. "Birth Mom" implies that all Meg's Mom did was pop her out. It doesn't take into account all the time she spent with her in the womb, all of the genetics and history she passed along to her, or the care, love, and concern she has showered on Meg since she came into this world. And "Adoptive Mom?" This one I guess I closer to the truth, I did adopt Meg, but I like to think that was just the beginning of it all. Since then I have been "Mom who buys band aids," "Mom who chases imaginary frogs," "Mom who yelled when she probably shouldn't have," and many, many other kinds of Mom. I think it's easier just to keep it short and sweet.


Now, I am not saying that this is easy. I know there are going to be times I will want to have a "Meg's Mom" tattoo that I can show her if/when she decides to have tantrums centered around the argument "you're not my real Mom." However, I think I will just have to remind myself in those moments that she is coming from a place of hurt, or disappointment, or just being a brat, and that good decisions never come from those places either.


Then I will take a long deep breath, and be thankful for that child.


Oh, and for her Mom.






*Inspired by Kelly at "Monkey Soup." Really, go check out her blog. 

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Buying a Cage -- For the Fight

I am sitting here trying to write this post, which is supposed to be about very important things, but I am being distracted by the mounting rumble in my living room. Did bikers move in, I am sure you are asking. Or ruffians? Or circus people? No, no, and no. The battle royale is between my 2-year old, and her 8-year old cousin, Luke. 


In the past ten minutes I have heard the following: 

• "Meg called me stupid." 
• "Luke is stupid." 
• "Meg, I'm going to put you in a black hole."
• Meg screaming.
• "Get out! Get out! Get out!"
• "Don't hit me with 'Tangled,' Meg."
• Luke screaming. 
• "Don't touch that! Don't touch that!" 
• "Get your feet off my back!"
• Both of them screaming. 
• "She can't be Johnny Cash! I'm Johnny Cash!" (They saw "Million Dollar Quartet.")
• "I'm Johnny Cash!"
• "Give it back! Give it back Give it back!"
• "Am I a pancake?" (Yeah, I'm really not sure where that came from.)

I have gone in there twice when I have been pretty sure bloodshed was imminent, but I am really trying to make them work it out on their own. Well, that, and I am trying to write this very important post. 


There was one moment of peace, but it involved Luke playing his guitar while Meg played her accordion. I guess it was nice that for a short time neither one of them was in danger, but it still burned my ears and sent the dog running for cover. It was only for a few seconds though, until Meg decided she wanted to be in the guitar case and the brawl began again. 


Hell, I might as well give up. I am never going to get this very important blog post done with all this racket. 


I guess you'll never know what I think of this fabulous invention: 

Oh, wait! Maybe if they make them in kids sizes as well as babies all my problems will be solved. 


I mean, as long as I don't hang Luke and Meg within kicking distance...

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