Happy Campers

It is a white, frosty Saturday morning here, and my whole brood is snug inside and all is right in the Lemony Renee' world . . .

The puppy is dragging around his toy rubber chicken; a Christmas gift. He is systematically chewing the toes off and having so much fun doing it.  A little ghoulish, but he's happy. 

Lester is sitting here on my monitor, all puffed up and content.   I love this little bird; she brings me peaceful companionship and all she asks in return is that I let her sit on my head every now and then.

And my husband and my son are where I left them last night . . . on the floor of the family room, sleeping bags spread out in front of the fire . . . this is their version of winter camping.  They cook convenience foods over the open fire of the fireplace and do decidedly "guy things" all evening, night, and the next morning.  Last night, I believe there was a late-night sledding adventure, a nature walk, and home to another log on the fire and a first lesson in poker.  Ten hours later, the poker continues (I suspect they slept at some point, but I can't be sure)  and my son just came streaking through here proclaiming that he just got a straight . . . hair still all askew and wearing his "happy camper" t-shirt, he was quite a sight.

These are the best of days. 

I think I'll pour another cup of coffee and have a bit of that banana bread for breakfast.

I wish you a contented Saturday . . .

When They Hurt

I remember when my son was learning to walk. I was relating to my mother how difficult it is to watch him fall, flinching every time. I hated to see him hurt, even if it was only a momentary jostle. My mother empathized and then added, "If you think you it's hard to take when he deals with that kind of hurt . . . just wait until someone hurts his feelings. That is excruciating."

I know what she meant now.

My son is, of course, extraordinary. He is perfect in every way. To set your eyes upon him is to feed your soul with joy and contentment. At least that's how I see him.

But I also know that my son is a bit different around his peers. He is quite reserved. And, being mostly a nature-nick, he is a bit out of the loop with many of his compulsive-gaming classmates.

That is not to say that he has no friends. He does. He has a small circle of friends. He's more into the scout crowd than the sports crowd which is a considerably bigger and more raucous group.

Imagine our joy when a new boy joined the class last year. A very polite boy, very science minded, very studious. He and my son became fast friends. An answer to my prayers.

Imagine our anguish when this same boy simply decided one day that he no longer wanted to be my son's friend. No reason given. He just dropped him. We even inquired with the boy's parents about there perhaps being more to the story. No. They were no more helpful than the boy. And now, the worst of all -- if you're 10, anyway -- he did not invite him, despite inviting nearly everyone else, to his birthday party.

My son, who is usually quite reserved and stoic when it comes to displays of emotion, is notably sad and hurt.

Being a proper mama-tiger, I, of course, am incensed. How could someone treat my boy this way? I thought it was teenage girls who did this sort of thing? Isn't this supposed to be one of the advantages of being a boy, simple friendships? And after all our coaching and cajoling to our son about being more outgoing, trusting his friends enough to really be himself. This was his first "best friend." I am crushed for him.

Thanks for listening.

End of Year Thunks

1. What did you do in 2010 that you’d never done before?  I began seeing things as they really are.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?  I probably did not keep my new year's resolutions for last year.  It was not a year for refining, more a year for surviving.  This year, though, I will have some good and serious resolutions. 

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?  No.

4. Did anyone close to you die?  No.

5. What countries did you visit?  None other than my home country. 

6. What would you like to have in 2011 that you lacked in 2010?  Peacefulness.

7. What dates from 2010 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?  4/25/10, a day I began seeing truths.  8/20/10, a day of new beginnings.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?  Coming to grips with realities and taking steps toward accepting and advancing them. 

9. What was your biggest failure?  Not being the one capable of fully healing my daughter.  (But I am most proud of finding the people who can.)

10. What was the best thing you bought?  Piano lessons for my son; they have cracked open a whole new facet of his being.  

11. Whose behavior merited celebration?  My son's, my husband's.  I am a lucky woman.

12. Whose behavior made you appalled and disgusted?  If I were to name names here, I would be disappointed in myself.  Several, though, unfortunately.

13. What song will always remind you of 2010?  Ave Maria by Noa.

14. What do you wish you’d done more of?  Relaxing, trusting, accepting.

15. What do you wish you’d done less of?  Worrying, lamenting.

16. Did you fall in love in 2010?  Yes.  I saw yet another side to my husband that makes me love him even more.

17. Who did you miss?  My grandmothers, my mother-in-law, my younger self.

18. Who was the best new person you met?  Shasta.  You amaze me, Sweetie. 

I am looking forward to this new year more than most.  

How 'bout you?  

My thanks to Thursday Thunks.  Click here to participate or to lurk. 

Saturday 9

1. When was the last time you cried? Yesterday. I have big holes in my life right now.

2. If you could wake up tomorrow with a new talent, what would it be? Sewing, I think. All my life, my mother wanted me to take sewing lessons. As a child and a teen, I could think of nothing more boring, but I should have listened to her.

3. Who is someone you would like to go back into your past and talk to and why? My grandmother. I miss her, I need her support and love, and answers to questions.

4. What is your favorite meal eating out? Oh, I don't know. We're pretty casual right now. A good fish & chips, maybe. Or a big cheesy pizza with all the time in the world.

5. Do you feel energized or drained by being in a group situation?  Usually energized, assuming I know the people well. If they are new to me, or I to them, then I retreat a bit.

6. What word do you use far too frequently? I am ashamed to say, I still say, "Cool." It sounds really, really stupid coming from me at this point in my life . . . but I grew up saying it and it has been really hard to stop. Besides that, probably "absurd." I am finding a lot of absurdity in the world right now, aren't you?

7. What’s a word you’ve invented? Can't tell you until the patent comes through. ;)

9. What is your absolute favorite piece of furniture you have and why? I have an art deco dressing table. It is covered entirely in beveled mirrors, with bakelite handles, three-piece mirror, and mirror-covered bench. I love it, because I like to dream and muse about who got dressed at that table when it was new, what did the room look like, where she was going, what kind of make-up did it hold, what kind of jewelry? I could spend days musing about that. Unfortunately, a small corner got broken in our last move. Anyone know of a way to restore old piece like this? Do restorers replace old mirror with old mirror?  The few I've talked to don't have any ideas. 


Happy Saturday 9!

About My Daughter

 
If you've read my blog long enough, you've probably noticed that I can go on and on about my beautiful boy, but seldom mention much about my daughter.

I've noticed that, too, and rather than continue being self-conscious about it, I thought I would just explain.

As I've mentioned before, we adopted our daughter from Ukraine at 16 months old.  And while most people think she was just a baby when we brought her home, that is not the truth.

The first 16 months of my daughter's life were filled with fear, pain, and utter loneliness.  A healthy baby abandoned at a poor hospital, it took the hospital 6 months to get around to placing her in the nearest orphanage.  Healthy babies don't get much attention at a poor, over-wrought hospital.  She was named by the village registrar as she filled out the transfer forms.  My daughter did not have a name for the first 6 months of her life.

Once she arrived at the orphanage, she quickly became ill with constant infections related to poor hygiene.  By the time we found her in the children's hospital, she had been in the hospital three other times with kidney infections and she suffered with whooping cough, all by 16 months old.

So we did not bring home a baby.  We brought home a cold, hardened little girl who was already world weary and emotionally stunted.  But we believed we could help her and have devoted the past 6 years to doing just that.

We tried to just "love her through it."  We showered her with love, time, and affection.  It made her more frightened and combative.  We tried giving her space and patience.  All she did was retreat further.  We tried family counseling.  My husband and I explored things in our own pasts that may have been complicating our relationship with our daughter.  Our self-understanding improved, but our daughter did not.

Finally, we tried an attachment therapist.  And it was only then that things made sense.  Our daughter has Reactive Attachment Disorder.  She rejects an emotional bond with anyone.  She does not love; she cannot love.  Any emotional intimacy simply terrifies her, on a subconscious level, and she works to repel any emotional connection with anyone.  She operates, emotionally and mentally, as if she is still an orphan.  She feels especially threatened by a parental relationship.  She rejects it openly.  Her heart is locked away, "safe" from all people.  She trusts no one, she loves no one, she believes she needs no one.

Emotionally, she cannot distinguish between strangers and family.  When I explain that my daughter does not love me, it offends the sensitivities of the average person and they argue with me, emphatically believing that she does love me.  They argue partly to spare my feelings, but even more to protect their own understanding of what a child is:  innocent, pure-hearted, vessels of love.  But my daughter does not love me.  And she doesn't love you.  She loves no one.

In order to preserve this emotional solitude, she must repel any and all close relationships.  All she knows is that she feels happier and more comfortable when there is distance, the more the better.  Distance is created by tension.  Tension is created in any number of ways; open defiance or passive aggression.  All you will know, if you are around my daughter long enough, is that you feel bad around her.  If she is around you enough, you will feel bad all the time, even after she's gone to school, gone to bed, is off playing alone.  You start to shut down emotionally, yourself.  You stay within yourself; you feel so heartsick that you begin to believe you have nothing to offer anyone; nothing anyone would want.  If your own child does not want you, who else would?  That is the state my daughter, subconsciously, works to affect in anyone close to her. 

This is where my family is right now with my daughter.  It happened slowly and systematically.  First, it was just me, and I thought I was just having difficulty adjusting to a challenging child.  I began loathing myself for my seeming weakness in the face of her challenges.  And I had help from others in this self-loathing.  People have perceived me, at times, to be cold toward my daughter, not hugging her enough, etc.  When I was weak, I agreed with them, pushing aside the reality that, unless there was someone else watching, she recoiled at my touch, my hug, my affection.  I began to believe that., somehow, I was the problem for my daughter.

Then my husband began to struggle.  He was surprised at how quickly and deeply he would lose his temper with her.  Always a remarkably patient person, the change in him was notable.  He began to hate himself for how easily angered he was with her.

And now it has happened with my son.  The nicest kid in the world, he is no longer interested in playing with or even really speaking much with his sister.  She does all she can to hurt him because she has finally figured out that the easiest and most undeniable way to incense us is to hurt him.  And she is right.

We have been working diligently and tirelessly to save our daughter and to save our family.  We have become a "therapeutic family" for her which is a "through the looking glass" type of parenting that, to see it, appears bizarre and harsh; emotions are removed, seemingly, and unbending rigidity is replaced.  Again, onlookers perceive that we are hard on our daughter.  The reality is, our daughter is hard on us, and we are fighting for our lives here.  If my daughter cannot be healed, she will live a life of emotional and moral turpitude, and the rest of us will suffer as we watch her live so miserably.

The one blessing out of this struggle is that it allows us to see and love and appreciate every moment with our son.  We take very little for granted.  We appreciate that he is happy to see us in the morning and that he says goodnight with a kiss before bed.  That he hugs us and smiles and means it.  That he will not malign us when our backs are turned.  That we can see him enjoy things and that he enjoys things that we enjoy.  That his heart is at peace when we are happy.  It is a blessing to appreciate his touch and to notice that his eyes meet mine.  It is a gift that I look forward to seeing him, and he smiles when he sees me.  It is an act of love that he tells us when he is sick or hurt and that he calls for us after a bad dream.  Do you know that a child makes a choice to depend you when she is sick?  Do you realize what an act of trust it is when a child calls for you after she has thrown up in her bed?  Do you know that some children would choose to sleep in their own vomit than give over enough of themselves to ask for help?  This is the perspective my daughter has brought to our lives.  And this is why I have endless moments to cherish with my son.  And why I struggle so with so little to write about my daughter.

It is not that I don't love my daughter, I do; with all my heart.  But loving my daughter, in all honesty, is about withstanding pain more than it is about enjoying moments of love.  And that is not something easy or pleasant to write about.

So please forgive me if my writings seem to exclude my daughter.  It is not for lack of love, but for lack of beautiful moments.

 




For more information on Reactive Attachment Disorder, I recommend: ATTACh

One more thing, there are more of us out there than you might think.  If you see a family where the dynamics seem to be just a little bit "off" and you are about to conclude that the mom is just "mean" or cold or controlling, please consider for a moment that there may be much more to the picture than you can see . . . and then say a prayer for strength for her and peace for the child.  I would appreciate it so much.  Thank you.

Saturday 9

Happy Saturday!

Here's this week's Saturday 9. Check out Crazy Sam to read other entries or to participate yourself.


1. Is there anything that you tend to do to cheer up when you are having a bad day?  Not really.  I am not very good at pulling myself out of moods, I'm afraid ~ usually have to sleep it off.
 

2.What’s the last card game you played, and with whom did you play?  Taught my little guy how to play Double Solitaire . . . I used to play with my grandma until the wee hours of the morning; he hasn't taken to it the same way.  Drat.


3.What’s the last board game you played, and with whom did you play?  Masterpiece.  Remember that game??  Just found the original version from 1970.  Love it!

4.What’s the last computer game you played, and with whom did you play?  None, I blog -- that's game enough. 


5.Is there somewhere you’d like to visit but have not, and where is it?  Anywhere, really.  Right now, a sleepy little village with great food and friendly people appeals to me.


6.Think of your favorite movie (or a movie you really like, if you can’t think of a favorite). Some people say that the reasons you love your favorite movie are related to what you value in relationships. How is this true or untrue in your case?  Enchanted April.  Lottie's character inspires me to try not to mete out love and measure it to match exactly what I think I receive from the other person, but to love to my own heart's content and with abandon and generosity.  In relationships outside my own family, I need to remember that at times. 


7.What physical attributes do you find the most attractive?  I like a good smile, nice teeth, big hands, broad shoulders; mostly, kind, "listening" eyes.


8.How many people live in your house? Tell us about them.  4.  The usual:  my husband, my son, my daughter, and myself.  I think you know plenty about us.  



9. Ever punch someone in the face?  Only with my eyes!

Nothing-to-Say Day

My new friend, Jabacue at Ocean Breezes has done me a great service and shown me just how to handle that "nothing to say" mood today. If you haven't checked out his relatively new blog, you should. It is warm and soothing and enjoyable. Say hi to Sophie if you do visit.

So, since I have nothing to say today, I'll just talk about my day as it happened. . .

It was a half-day for my kids. (One more half day left and then they're all mine.)

They bickered all the way home, but they bonded over the decision of what to have for lunch. I told them I would cook nothing until they came to a consensus on their choice. I hereby nominate Chef Boyardee for a peace prize. ;)

After lunch, we colored. I love to color and so does my daughter. My son? Not so much. And his handwriting shows it; his lack of artistic patience is evident. So I did what any understanding mother would do. I forced him.

My daughter colored a lovely picture of a giant yo-yo. She took many risks with her color palette and was rewarded with a bold image of neon pink and forest green with red highlights. It sorta strobes if you look at it too long. 

I colored a picture of a little bear painting the word, "NOEL", on the page . . . I got "stuck" with the Christmas coloring book. (Cry no tears. Secretly, that's the one I wanted and I played it just right. ;) I took great care in selecting predictable colors for the letters and surprising pastels for the bear's hat and scarf.  Quite daring.

My son, begrudgingly, took on a picture of two giraffes. He went with a very uninspired three-color palette and less than careful technique to preserve the contrast in the giraffes coats, I thought. In fact, the second giraffe was colored in all brown, except for the strawberry pink ears. He was finished -- and snacking -- in 5 minutes flat. You can bring art to the kid, but you cannot bring the kid to art. Oh well, I tried.

I am now the proud owner of the highly desirable plastic dog from my kids PlayMobil set. Ongoing bickering brings me lots of goodies. Said dog is now resting next to the giant rubber ball with a pig in the middle on my kitchen windowsill. Said ball was confiscated over a year ago. Unfortunately for its previous owner, I like it and it goes with my kitchen.

Not surprisingly, the confiscation of this prized possession brought on bonding between my two lovely children. I am the common enemy and the one thing they seem to share in common this afternoon. That's a deal I will take any day.

Now that they've played out every policeman/bad guy scenario, they have commandeered my television. Rather than the financial news show I usually have on at this time, it is now tuned to The Electric Company. If anything important happens, someone email me, because after The Electric Company comes Arthur.

And to think summer hasn't even begun yet.

Family Schools?

Today is the first day of the last week of school.  Quite the event. 

It is to be a week filled with class parties, teacher gifts, pool parties, and more parties, hugs, kisses, and tearful goodbyes from the teachers. 

Somehow, when I was a kid, I don't remember the last week of school being so packed with festivities. 

I remember one day devoted to cleaning up the classroom and cleaning out our desks.  (I remember the year I found a birthday card I was supposed to mail on the way to school.  Wups.  I wonder what Auntie Judy thought she had done to be ignored that way.)  

And I remember the obligatory class trip to the zoo.  Always the zoo. 

And then we were free . . . and the fun began.  And we couldn't wait.

What fun?  Nothing, really.  Just a summer of kicking around the house, spending more time with my parents,  and hanging around the neighborhood with our friends.  No extravaganzas, but we were home and fun was just an organic byproduct of summer.   

I gotta tell ya, after this week of fun and frolic at school, I don't know if life at home can measure up for my kids.  Sometimes I think schools have gotten so far out of being schools, and have endeavored to be a second family to kids, that it is detrimental to families. 

I would like to be the one to take my kids to the pool for the first time this summer, thank you, but the school has arranged that honor for themselves. 

 This afternoon, the "teachers' party," complete with cake and punch and scrapbooks and gifts from the kids much resembles a grandma's birthday party. 

And speaking of birthday parties, is it really good for the kids to walk around in a crown all day at school on their birthdays?  Is it fair to the families when the child is, basically, "de-crowned" just before they have to leave school and go home to their ordinary lives? 

They go trick-or-treating at school, the Friday before Halloween . . .

And Santa comes for breakfast . . . at school . . .

And the loot they receive at school when they lose a tooth?  Even the tooth fairy cannot compete with that. 

And what about movie night?  My school never had movie night.  Watching a movie with our parents was a rare treat and a family event.  Now schools put on movie nights as fundraisers.  Parents are not invited, and kids are encouraged to wear their pajamas and bring their teddy bears. 

Am I the only one having a problem with all of this?

My daughter suffers from Reactive Attachment Disorder, so this is an especially challenging issue for us.  Basically, she rejects the parental relationship at every turn.  She repels an emotional bond with anyone.  It is taking an enormous amount of therapy, dedication, and hard work on our part to get her to a healthy emotional state.  But all this "school as family" stuff really, really confuses and even harms our daughter. 

And it's gotten me to thinking, wondering whether it is really good for any family.  Personally, I don't think it is.  I long for the days when school was for teaching and families were for everything else.   

 Thanks for listening,

My Girl, Lester

Have you met my Lester?  Lester is my little mourning dove girl. We raised her from a naked, featherless nestling. We tried to be careful to preserve her "wildness," but somehow she imprinted on our dog. She now lives a dog's life.

She bathes in and drinks from the dogs' water dish. . .

She sleeps in the dog's bed:

She greets family members at the door when they arrive back home . . . how she doesn't get stepped on, I'll never know . . .

She likes potato chips on the occasion we crumple a bit for her . . .

When she feels giddy, she'll attack our toes and tickle, tease, and play . . .

She is a nosy little girl and must know all things my kids are into, especially if they are on the floor:

She hangs around the yard and expects to be let in at her pleasure:

And she feels quite entitled to my son's favorite blanket . . . her favorite, too:

She recently took up residence in a houseplant . . . laying her eggs and then sitting on them for almost 3 weeks, her personal best so far in her almost 2 year life.  I didn't get a picture as I didn't want to push my luck.  I was the only one allowed to approach her or even enter the room, so I didn't feel it was appropriate to intrude on her with a camera.  So you will have to imagine the picture of a broody mourning dove all hunkered down in a past-its-prime poinsettia plant in the window of the kids' playroom.  I would sprinkle some seed and refill the little medicine-cup water-dish each morning and each night, and she would thank me with a little hum and a nestle.  She finally gave up on her nest two days ago, and I am so happy to have her back. 

(Though not on my head! . . . which is her favorite perch . . . she knows it drives me buggy . . . teaser that she is.)

I just love that little bird.

PROMPT: A Time When I Was Really, Really Scared

As he made his way to the door, he stopped. "One last thing," he whispered, "when you're out alone, try not to let anyone hear you speak English.  It will only bring you great trouble."  With that, Vlad, the man who would facilitate the adoption of our Ukrainian daughter, strode down the dimly lit hallway, leaving us alone for the night.

The next few days were a blur of bureaucracy.  Meetings.  Files.  Cold, unsmiling faces; suspicious eyes.  We came to Ukraine to find our child, a daughter . . . with red hair just like mine, adopt her, and bring her home.  Whatever the obstacle course, we would handle it; we were together, we were strong.

After an overnight train ride to Kharkiv, we squeezed into a sub-compact car -- all five of us:  My husband, our four year old son, our translator, our driver, and me.

First, we were taken to more offices.  More papers in an unrecognizable language to sign.  More stony, staring faces.

Finally, midday, we were taken to our apartment.  A cold, concrete tenement much like this:

 
No number on the building, no name on the street.  A meager, but clean space inside, appointed this time with twelve locks.

We dropped our bags and were off to more meetings, more mysterious papers to sign.  No sleep, no shower, barely any food.  We were squeezed into the tiny backseat of a seatbeltless car careening through streets with no signs, no lines, and no rules.  I had begun to profoundly regret bringing our son.  We knew the trip would be a challenge, but we had not realized it would be dangerous.  

While we were at our last meeting of the day, a taxi strike erupted.  Our driver had been moonlighting as a private driver; his regular employment was a taxi driver.  We had no ride home.  We didn't even know where "home" was.  Our translator assured us we could find our way back on the subway and rode along with us.  She walked us to the street level and pointed us down the street toward our building, assuring us we would be fine.  Before we could protest, she disappeared down the subway tunnel, off to her own apartment.

We started down the street.  It was dark now.  I held my son's hand, reminding myself not to clutch it fearfully, but to hold his hand firmly, confidently, assuredly.  I choked back the impulse to speak out loud to my husband, remembering Vlad's warning.  People were all around us.  I trembled inside.  We walked until we came to the building.  Amazing how different and unfamiliar the building looked now, alone, in the dark.

People loitered around the entrance, a stout old woman perched on a stool, broom in her hand.  I breathed in deeply as we approached the building.  I heard my husband do the same.  Just as we were about to cross the threshold to the concrete building, the woman dropped her broom handle across the doorway, blocking our way.  She did not recognize us, therefore, it was her duty to deny us entry.  I looked back, frantically, in the direction we last saw our translator.  Only darkness.  My husband motioned that we wanted to enter.  The woman shook her head sternly.  People began to lean in, crowding.  My husband held up one finger, signifying we were in apartment #1.  No, still no.  Her face grew more grave, an angry expression beginning to evolve.  People began speaking in Russian.  I felt my son's hand in mine, so small, so tight; he had clutched his fingers into a fist.

My eyes scanned the lot behind us.  No cars, just trash and a few people bedding down for the night.  We weren't even sure where we were.  No address; no street name.  Everything looked darker and meaner.  My heart beat so hard and so fast, it felt like one continuous boom in my chest.  The sensation of water poured down my body as adrenaline flooded my flesh.  My mouth opened to capture more air, to catch my breath.

I looked around again at the crowds of people smoking, laughing.  At the figures lying on the strip of grass next to the road, bedding down for the night.  We couldn't spend the night out here.  Could we?  Would we?  My poor son.  He must be so scared.  Would our driver be back in the morning?  What if he wasn't?  Would our translator be back?  Without the driver, maybe not.  What then?  Who would we call?  We didn't even know where we were.          

My husband looked at me, parting his lips to speak.  Then his eyes left mine, fixing on a point slightly above my head. 

Another building.  And another, and another . . . probably ten all in a row.  Why had we not noticed this earlier today?

Perhaps this was not our building.  With an equally angry scowl on our faces, lest we appear afraid, we stomped off, amazed we weren't followed.  As we came to the second building, we could see this was, indeed, our building.  I remembered the dumpster in the parking lot now that I saw it again.  No one was monitoring this doorway.  We slipped in the open entrance, fumbling with the keys, hands shaking.  Once inside, we bolted all twelve locks.  Never would we be out at night again. 

As we laid down to sleep that night, my husband and I on the floor, my son on the sofa -- not all families have bedrooms in Ukraine, I replayed the walk back to the apartment in my head.  To calm myself, I recalled the all the locks on our only door.  Some were thumb-turn locks, some were key locks.  No one could get in here, I assured myself.  Then I began to think about the iron grates over all the windows.  Iron grates on the windows, twelve locks on the door. . . No one could get out, either . . . and there were gas stoves next to wool curtains in every kitchen.

It would be twenty more days before we could leave.  It would be twenty more nights before I really slept again.

***

My thanks to Tina at Life Is Good for generously supplying this prompt and reigniting my will to write.

Do You Share?

Thanks to all for your advice and commiseration about my seeming writer's block these days. You have definitely inspired me. Tina, I invite your prompt! I think that would be fun. Chicken Boy Randy, how could I not think to write about you!  I will definitely share more recipes.  I have a recipe for blueberry sherbet that will make you love me.  ;)  I think I can get back on track again.

But while you wait for me do dig out my favorite recipes or brace yourself for family stories or await Tina's prompt, here's something I've been thinking about:

I have not shared my blog with most people I know "in real life." My husband, of course, reads, but I haven't shared this blog with the rest of my family or irl friends (except you, Kathleen -- hi!). And the more I think about it, the more I am unsettled by it and wonder why.

Am I trying to hide something?  I don't think so.

Am I not really myself with them? I think I am.

Is it just me?

Do you share your blog with everyone?   

Does your family read your blog? Do your parents? Your children?

Is there anyone you keep your blog from?  Who?  Why?

Home Again

Sometimes I marvel at the effects of the internet on our lives today.  Sometimes, in my darker moments, I question whether the relationships we make on the internet are as real as we believe.  Events in my life over the past few weeks have removed that doubt and shown me that cyber-friendships can be as real as those in the flesh.

Thank you all for the kindness and support shared in your comments to my last post.  I was away from home and reeling.  I logged on here and posted what was in my heart, and you didn't let me down and responded.  And I realized I wasn't as far away from home as I thought.

As I said in the last post, my parents' rejection shakes me to my core.  As much as I reject their concept of me, part of me cannot shake it completely, and it remains as my own doubt about my character, my heart, and my worth.

When you stepped up with understanding and reassurance and even shared some of your own painful experiences, it meant the world to me.

I'm back home now.  Both with my cyber-friends and my real family.  And I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I'm Leavin' . . .

 So I'm going on a little trip this weekend.

Would you believe I haven't been on a plane in 5 years?

When did I get so boring?

Actually, I'm not boring. Ido lots of things. And travel. By car.  Kids and pets will do that to you.  But this weekend, I'm going all by myself . . . like a big girl.  On a jet plane.

And I don't mind telling you, I'm a little nervous.

How is it, the older I get, the more of a baby I become?  

I really hope I don't grab the hand of who ever is next to me and squeeze it for dear life as is my usual ritual upon takeoff. My husband never minds.

So . . . you're rid of me for a couple of days.

I'll be back next week to see what you're all up to.

Until then . . . whatever you do . . . don't talk about me.

Spring Brakes

When you're a parent, you do things for your children.

Right?

Whatever they need, you do. You're a parent.

Me, I'm a mom.

I would lay down my life for my children.

You know I would.

There is no sacrifice too large for my children.

I have been pregnant. I've watched my feet swell beyond my own recognition. I went months without eating any salt. (Oh, yeah? Try it for, like, 4 hours.) I endured hours of labor only to submit to a c-section in the end.

There were sleepless nights of rocking and lullabying, and kicking and flailing (no, not me).

There are the adventures with food. Things they like, things they don't and whatever ramifications thereafter flow.

I don't think I have to mention the soiled diapers . . . and pants . . . and socks . . .

There are the nightmares.

And the first days of school.

The fevers. The scrapes and bumps. The stitches.

Hours spent watching shows starring purple dinosaurs, green grouches, and animated rabbits

And round-the-clock, on-demand psycho-therapy regarding the delusion of monsters existing under the bed.

But all those pale in comparison to what I am being asked to endure today.

Today.

ugh.

This may be it for me today.

As you may know, it is spring break in our little kingdom. We did the usual things, Easter, picnic, playground, shopping, cleaning rooms (yes, it's not all beer & skittles, even when you're 9).

But we planned something special for these last few days of spring break.

A water park.

Not just any waterpark.

Great Wolf Lodge.

If you're not familiar with Great Wolf Lodge, allow me to elaborate:

Indoor waterpark.

Six story water slide.

Wave pools.

Splash mountain.

And much, much more.

That's right? Who needs sleep? Who needs food? When you can just swim and splash and swim some more.

I watched with horror as my son pulled a robe that caused a pail to overturn and dump water onto an unsuspecting boy on the level beneath him.

I sat forward, ready to jump up and save my son from the certain pummeling he richly deserved.

But the unsuspecting victim just wiped the water from his eyes, laughed, and went on his way.

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE??

Surely, they are not my kind.

This is my kind:

I hate the water.

I don't like water on my face.

I get mad.

My maiden voyage on an innertube in the wading pool ended with me grabbing for my husband and screaming (between gulps of water), "Help me! I hate you! HELP ME!!"

I got water up my nose and, obviously, on my face.

(Think back to yesterday. Remember that weird little moment in the afternoon when the sun was suddenly covered over by a black cloud and a strong, mean breeze blew through? Yah, t'was me.)

I have a new strategy today.

You. See how you're protecting me? Here I sit with my cherry mocha from the in-house Starbucks, still in my pajamas.

Nice and dry.

The kids and my husband have already gone ahead to the waterpark.

Interestingly, no one implored me quite as passionately to join them this morning.

Too bad.