tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46482884916289048682024-03-14T04:38:29.948-07:00Road to AddisThe journey of a family to bring home not one, but two little girls from Ethiopia.Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.comBlogger189125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-78489319369076167202011-09-05T14:07:00.000-07:002011-09-05T14:21:07.911-07:00An Unfamiliar RoadThis week, there is a 14 year old boy who is dying. He is the son of some good friends of ours. For the past 4 years, we have read about his situation on a Caring Bridge site. He has been tumor free on some occasions and nearly hopelessly sick on others. This week he took a turn for the worse. Friends were starting to gather at the house. On Saturday night we read, "We don't think he'll make it through the night." I was combing Lizzie's hair into ridiculous little puffy balls. We were all sort of settling in. We'd laid out Sunday morning's outfits and prepared Sunday morning's breakfast.We read the update. Emma and I decided it was time to drive to Burnsville.<div><br /></div><div>Our friends' livingroom was full of people. The kitchen island was full of mostly untouched snacks. There was a hospital bed for Victor up against the wall. And what do you do in this situation? Turns out, you sing every single song you know about Jesus. A couple of them you sing twice either because they are Victor's favorites or because you've run out of ideas. You cry a lot but also laugh some. Then he gets tired after 2 hours and you drive back home.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's Monday and he's still alive, but the latest update said his lips are turning blue.</div><div><br /></div><div>For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. --Romans 8:38-39<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-45172578581158124352011-09-03T13:53:00.000-07:002011-09-03T14:04:55.644-07:00More and LessIn the spirit of homeschooling preschoolers, I checked out a homeschool book from the library. I was curious to find out, just what are 4 year olds supposed to know?
<br />
<br />One concept is more and less. Lizzie has that one totally down. She always has less. It doesn't matter what's in the cup or on the plate or in the bowl. It's less. Than anyone else.
<br />
<br />I learned this one day at Starbucks. Zeke and Liz were splitting the rest of someone's drink. I poured some into her cup, the rest into Zeke's. "Look how much Zeke has," she commented dryly.
<br />
<br />"Liz, you have more than he does. Look." I showed her the two cups side by side. "Who has more?"
<br />
<br />"Zeke does."
<br />
<br />"Liz, THIS is your cup," pointing to the one with more. "Who has more?"
<br />
<br />"Zeke."
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<br />So, the next day, we did lots of more and less. I let Liz control the amounts even though I told her who should get more and who should get less. Then, I had my most brilliant idea. I'd talk about how much we loved her and Zeke using cups of water. I started out showing her, "This is how much we love Zeke." I filled the glass to the very tippy top. She smiled. "And this is how much we love Liz." I started filling the glass. And just then, (all adoption experts are holding their breath,) I ran out of water. Yes, halfway to the top, my cup ranneth dry. I leaped to the sink to put more water in my measuring cup. I didn't even look at Liz, just filled her cup to the top and then let the water spill over the top.
<br />
<br />She smiled at me. But it was the sort of smile that said, "Yea, that was a great lesson, Mom. Now my neurosis is permanent."
<br />
<br />We'll keep trying.
<br />Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-15615316957087073942011-07-22T19:32:00.001-07:002011-07-22T19:49:30.299-07:00Dear Friend in My Hallway<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidTBL6p8emc5-xLI1BhT_I4E0fwOh6dSh_hkGlsy7yt_TlEUzXXC0dZAdbnJlNlsXptSosy0id_wnNb1ws1VnpoiVru7_tG3AijJ-s6gy2oND1b2avX4hWS2vAuaBo80jiRsl1J8p-CeTA/s1600/photo.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidTBL6p8emc5-xLI1BhT_I4E0fwOh6dSh_hkGlsy7yt_TlEUzXXC0dZAdbnJlNlsXptSosy0id_wnNb1ws1VnpoiVru7_tG3AijJ-s6gy2oND1b2avX4hWS2vAuaBo80jiRsl1J8p-CeTA/s200/photo.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632370243615508098" /></a>I have filled out financial disclosure forms that have asked about our assets. After I list our house and our car, I run out of things to say. On one form recently, I listed this: our espresso machine. <div><br /></div><div>It was $7.00 on Ebay. It came with no tray to steady the glass container so Eli built a Lego platform for it. It has made hundreds of espressos, lattes and just plain awesome cups of coffee. While it has performed well beyond its $7.00 price tag, it has been sending pressurized steam through the on/off switch for a good two months. The switch got crunchy sounding. The machine wouldn't turn on. The machine wouldn't turn off. The final blow: the machine wouldn't make coffee. </div><div><br /></div><div>We run out of milk. We run out of bread. We run out of peanut butter and ice cream and cheese and fresh fruit and yogurt and syrup and pancake mix and cereal and even ideas for meals. However, I have not actually run out of espresso machines. I have 3 more from the same maker just for occasions like this. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-56594332165169756562011-07-22T19:12:00.000-07:002011-07-22T19:32:02.853-07:00When The Older Siblings Are Away<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>My parents graciously took Emma (17) and Eli (13) to Ames, Iowa to tour Iowa State University. Next year at this time, Emma will actually be going to some university, Lord willing, we just don't know where quite yet.<div><br /></div><div>Gracie was never planning to go to Iowa since she just got home from a camp. Levi was planning to go until we were able to talk him out of the 4.5 hour car ride, the campus tour and the multiple interviews with admissions staff and professors. He would have gone; we were just afraid he and then everyone else, would have been sort of miserable.</div><div><br /></div><div>Joel took over the Rescue Of Levi Mission. Something for which I am very, very grateful. Not because I could not have thought of anything to do with him, but because I could have thought for millions and millions of years about what to do and would have still not come up with this:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzATqFgVXFALYOpmnH4YqeLiqjQG2pm-juenp6QKnr93bV-OHjVLMoQ5gnDnYzDYbj_oUKsdnOdpk2H_wJgrlxy7uGf_x_7FCNqJZREkadIxicxeeWvbejUfkhTTa-oJCfIO-d9348vScD/s200/photo.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632368624470372114" /></div><div>This is the far right corner of the box of Levi's new BB gun. A Remington Pump Action BB Gun. A Remington Pump Action BB Gun that has completely ignored all of us mothers all over the world who have allowed a son to own a BB gun with the strict, nonbending, unbreakable rule that no live thing will ever be shot with it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Levi seems more manly already. No dead squirrels are in our yard. And maybe my friend with a "Bat Emergency" would give him his first job, if she didn't care about her roof or siding.</div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-3146700286809243632011-07-15T12:02:00.001-07:002011-07-15T12:14:31.011-07:00Who Would Have Known?I can, for some reason, spend quite a lot of time in Target. I do not feel the same way about Walmart. But yesterday, a new and fascinating shopping experience came my way: Walgreens.<div><br /></div><div>Who knew they had organic face wash, body lotion and acne scrub? 2 of them were marked down from $9.99 to $2.59. I bought them both. </div><div><br /></div><div>I went in to find throat spray for Emma but my experience was so much more: Barbies and my favorite candy for $1.69 (licorice all-sorts) and school folders and suntan lotion and a line of beauty products which seem to be made of mostly fruit and beef sticks and pop and passport photos and greeting cards and swim goggles and fake Crocs for toddlers and baby supplies and lawn chairs. All of this was in a space Target uses for just their pharmacy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Not saying I'm a Walgreens convert. Just saying it was refreshing. It was manageable. It had throat lozenges. And maybe even my newly moisturized hands smell sort of organic. In a good way.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-16370672146467336762011-07-15T11:47:00.001-07:002011-07-15T12:02:06.154-07:00July 4th Do's and Don'tsI learned something new while celebrating the Fourth of July: there are definite do's and don'ts and some of them I didn't know until I did them. <div><br /></div><div>If you have 7 kids and two of them are orphans and one of them remembers being an orphan, this may apply:</div><div><br /></div><div>Do:</div><div>Run a race with your 9 year old. Only do the 2 mile because you might have to run back to your car when the race is done. Only do the 9 year old because the rest of the kids will beat you. (did this)</div><div><br /></div><div>Don't:</div><div>Think you can run it with a stroller. It's just not the time nor the place to subject your child to a bouncy ride down a busy road. (didn't do this, but thought about it)</div><div><br /></div><div>Do:</div><div>Cheer for your son as he finishes. (did this)</div><div><br /></div><div>Don't:</div><div>Cheer at your son as he finishes, particularly with these words: "I will NOT let you walk across that finish line. Everyone else RAN across. You will too." When veiled threats didn't work, offering next to finish with him didn't seem all that inspiring either. (watched someone do this)</div><div><br /></div><div>Do:</div><div>Dress your little ones in red, white and blue even though patriotism and bad taste can be next door neighbors. </div><div><br /></div><div>Don't:</div><div>Dress your whole family in red, white and blue. The Fourth of July isn't all about dignity but there's no need to leave it out completely. </div><div><br /></div><div>Do:</div><div>Try to watch a parade if you're in the shade. (didn't do the shade part)</div><div><br /></div><div>Don't:</div><div>Make your 4 year old, who was an orphan 1 1/2 years ago, compete for candy with 9 year olds. (did this)</div><div><br /></div><div>Do: </div><div>Make everyone stay up late to watch the fireworks, particularly if they are set to music, particularly if the song, "Proud to be an American" is played which somehow rouses patriotism in everyone even if the government is shut down.</div><div><br /></div><div>So my Fourth of July 2012 resolutions:</div><div>1. Run</div><div>2. Encourage</div><div>3. Shade</div><div>4. Buy our own candy and throw it straight at Lizzie where there is no one else to grab it.</div><div>5. Dress everyone 5 and under in red, white and blue</div><div>6. Watch the fireworks.</div><div><br /></div><div>Happy July, everyone.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-7735583312225793082011-06-29T14:12:00.000-07:002011-06-29T14:29:34.022-07:00Trying to Be AttunedAdoptive parents often have these little insights that give a window to their child's former life. I never have. Until today. Maybe.<br /><br />Well, to be fair, I did have the Watch My Daughter Run in Her Flip Flops Moment. I felt that I had been transported to an Ethiopian dirt road and was watching my daughter run. That was in contrast to watching my white son, accustomed only to velcro sandals, trip and cry in his quest to keep up with his sister while running in his new flip flops.<br /><br />Today, Liz and I were draping wet clothes over chairs. I had just pulled out my awesome clothes line but I can't find my clothes pins. For now, patio furniture will have to do.<br /><br />When we were done, Liz turned to her ice cream pail full of water and began stirring it with a stick. "Mom! I FINALLY have some food for my sheep." I stopped. It was almost as if her sheep have been waiting for this bucket of food for as long as she's been here. "How many sheep do you have?" I asked.<br /><br />"Only five," she answered, holding up three fingers.<br /><br />"Who helps you take care of them?" I asked next, hoping for any insight to the family of 10 she once knew as her own.<br /><br />"Just me," she sighed, and stirred again.<br /><br />Then I was out of questions. Adoptive parents who are also authors would, by this time, know all about her extended family, their occupations and all of the particularly meaningful and cultural traditions that defined their child's life. By that night, they would be ready to replicate them.<br />I, in contrast, was reminded of the long path toward number mastery that Liz and I seem to have.<br /><br />We came inside and read books about finding a birthday cake, a pea that doesn't want to eat candy and how to mix primary colors. Perhaps I'll just have to keep ice cream buckets and sticks lying around the house. Who knows. If her former family lived on a coffee farm, I'm all over that tradition. Twice a day.Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-53082145796333254502011-05-26T20:20:00.001-07:002011-05-26T20:39:33.142-07:00Random photos of the kids<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Q3iaVD3Ba4lHDbd0S0oyHjhj7TC0OXebGj-w3j9w0LoRcY5rNAbbD46D-PkSHq3rgIOt5GWSvdeU1cFlchyphenhyphenmeIO8LDBlggRmmP-rSanySq2bU7BQLDEKlkwX0cHh9OY5wge-X72Ubny_/s1600/IMG_0310.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Q3iaVD3Ba4lHDbd0S0oyHjhj7TC0OXebGj-w3j9w0LoRcY5rNAbbD46D-PkSHq3rgIOt5GWSvdeU1cFlchyphenhyphenmeIO8LDBlggRmmP-rSanySq2bU7BQLDEKlkwX0cHh9OY5wge-X72Ubny_/s200/IMG_0310.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611234475967295954" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibiNpQ6dsQ8Cr1MaU7UGXDeOwgPjGwlfhb9OOGxlwakHwpckhd2rnolBqY2HTdSVwwwTthysvzf5j7I-2cSPJAFWI4WAdB2folzEx9JwwBKUZWB6WnCp_WG5hUKaMQuJ9oRi48RC3SqNZn/s1600/IMG_3669.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibiNpQ6dsQ8Cr1MaU7UGXDeOwgPjGwlfhb9OOGxlwakHwpckhd2rnolBqY2HTdSVwwwTthysvzf5j7I-2cSPJAFWI4WAdB2folzEx9JwwBKUZWB6WnCp_WG5hUKaMQuJ9oRi48RC3SqNZn/s200/IMG_3669.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611234469041043426" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinaNwca95v6mbHr20bAE_-KBcLLhoIL6sWQCo_1TlJP9yy_Ht1s8SCjODjWi8pp2HaC2d3WdA6LObgmF9U2UyW9SXVlFM6G1wRo0TTFCRM-LqBz8YlQd2HPQhtvmrI-EwL0eDXpqkX3SK2/s1600/IMG_2993.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 141px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinaNwca95v6mbHr20bAE_-KBcLLhoIL6sWQCo_1TlJP9yy_Ht1s8SCjODjWi8pp2HaC2d3WdA6LObgmF9U2UyW9SXVlFM6G1wRo0TTFCRM-LqBz8YlQd2HPQhtvmrI-EwL0eDXpqkX3SK2/s200/IMG_2993.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611234466554754146" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8aUorEhWoaqk_ofTo7JW0Mdfp-1v5cqTxeqOHJeEP15uYNDgvYFjH9IV3fG-tVcHjmF1ySzzURpnNcl5Evy2nB556dghX_HW3Z7hxfe6NhXmmdrS3zPbzjsatw9WrcfGraVlPvi6S_6Vp/s1600/IMG_2577.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8aUorEhWoaqk_ofTo7JW0Mdfp-1v5cqTxeqOHJeEP15uYNDgvYFjH9IV3fG-tVcHjmF1ySzzURpnNcl5Evy2nB556dghX_HW3Z7hxfe6NhXmmdrS3zPbzjsatw9WrcfGraVlPvi6S_6Vp/s200/IMG_2577.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611233426917043042" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIzGBmBqUnwjsHHpUIo-0pA5v-vBwCHEvm3bXV3v8pML-FuLxY2FeGE9l62qdXhL77SFPiN03wg6_OgEInKSK3klaJpkfe5k23di_QSm397EUIir_SRm0jcoh0-8ZPHCnIy2458NOivCCD/s1600/IMG_2276.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIzGBmBqUnwjsHHpUIo-0pA5v-vBwCHEvm3bXV3v8pML-FuLxY2FeGE9l62qdXhL77SFPiN03wg6_OgEInKSK3klaJpkfe5k23di_QSm397EUIir_SRm0jcoh0-8ZPHCnIy2458NOivCCD/s200/IMG_2276.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611233421912991858" /></a>I know all my children aren't in these pictures. That's because it's 10:38 pm and my patience with uploading is all but gone. But here are a few. More soon.Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-21946159829184746362011-05-26T19:45:00.000-07:002011-05-26T20:04:51.706-07:00GardeningI try to garden. It seems so virtuous. When someone says they "garden" (verb), no one sighs in disgust: "What a sissy thing to do." "How can you STAND to eat fresh produce?" "What a waste." etc. If someone tells me they garden, I get a twinge of envy and then think about all the potential that is passing me by.<div><br /></div><div>Well, all the potential did NOT pass me by today. Joel and I were standing, waiting to cross the street, by the bridge in Stillwater. Wisconsinites were gunning their vehicles to make it before the dinging started, the bar came down, the bridge was going up and whatever plans you had were now going to happen at least 15 minutes later.</div><div><br /></div><div>A minivan was one such Wisconsin vehicle. It was also loaded with garden potential. It also had its big back door open. As it roared past me, out dropped a flat full of....garden. I stared at it for a moment. Then Joel and I began to pick it all up, perhaps thinking that the van would somehow notice a box fell out the back as it was speeding over the still unlifted Lift Bridge. Joel peered into Wisconsin. Maybe they would come back? Five minutes, 50 cars must have gone past before Joel turned to me, the Accidental Gardener, and said, "Well? Do you want these?"</div><div><br /></div><div>My garden is now sitting on my front porch. Being dropped from a van at 30 mph does not give plants the greatest of beginnings. I just checked on them, gave them some water and wondered who will be lying flat on the porch tomorrow. </div><div><br /></div><div>However, for now, welcome to: Wee Willie Dianthus, Fresh Look Gold Celosia, Obsession Blue with Eye Verbena and Scarlet Runner Beans. May you prosper. Unless you're an annual. Then you've got about three good months. </div><div> </div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-73939909579686718862011-05-16T17:54:00.000-07:002011-05-16T18:03:59.282-07:00Updates and observations1.Sadie's walking.<br /><br />2.I'm not supposed to worry about Lizzie's speech (speech pathologist; Stillwater Schools).<br /><br />3. I'm pretty sure Lizzie wore flip flops when she was in Ethiopia. She walked and ran in them the very first time she put them on. Zeke, in contrast, is not only incapable of putting them on the right feet but also incapable of getting the little plastic thing between the right toes. Nevermind trying to walk in them.<br /><br />4. We're almost done with school. Our last official class day is May 25. May 26th we clean and go to the Mongolian Barbeque for all we can eat, which is a lot.<br /><br />5. I planted lettuce.<br /><br />6. Emma and I did a junior visit day at the University of St. Thomas. As we drove in the parking garage, I noticed several moms who had clearly allotted more than 15 minutes that morning to get ready. "Oh, Emma," I said. "I don't want to be an over eager mom..."<br />"Mom," she replied very matter of factly, "That is probably the one of the last things you need to worry about."<br /><br />7. That made me think I should have tried just a little bit harder.<br /><br />8. Ikea has good hotdogs.Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-22443262696251666422011-05-16T17:16:00.000-07:002011-05-16T17:54:48.745-07:00Hi AgainI was waiting for just the right thing to bring me back to blogging. It happened about two weeks ago, give or take a week.<div><br /></div><div>I was listening to news and then more news and then more news about Osama Bin Laden: the wife, the helicopter, the landing, the secret military unit, the confrontation, the compound... but then came the blog-worthy news.</div><div><br /></div><div>They think he homeschooled his kids. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, the joy I have when I find out that not only did I have something in common with Michael Jackson, but with Osama Bin Laden as well. </div><div><br /></div><div>I can't wait until the next person asks me why I decided to homeschool.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-20152227243654219612010-12-21T13:51:00.001-08:002010-12-21T14:03:51.431-08:00Wa-Hoo!!!We have a Christmas tradition that I think is a good idea though it admittedly can make me crabby when all is said and done. After Halloween, the kids each have to earn money that is used solely for sibling Christmas presents. That sounds great until one realizes 2 things: quite a few worthwhile jobs need to be created and once the money is earned, quite a few things need to be purchased. <div><br /></div><div>Today was the day. We went to the mall. We divided and conquered. We drank coffee and divided and conquered some more. The kids did a terrific job. They bought thoughtful presents. They are excited about the gifts they are giving. There's a wahoo in that, but the Wahoo Title comes from a time that Emma was walking with Lizzie in the mall. </div><div><br /></div><div>A woman stopped Emma and asked who did Lizzie's hair. If she had stopped me, I would be instantly sweating, instantly apologizing for being white, instantly agreeing that my daughter's entire life's worth of self esteem was riding on the look of her hair and of course I had fallen short. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, but Merry Christmas to me. The woman, a black social worker, said, "Is your mom biracial? She did a really good job." This Germanic/Danish/Other Things White Mom is celebrating a cross cultural victory.</div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-9374996364234350122010-12-08T18:40:00.000-08:002010-12-08T19:08:31.113-08:00Children's Books to AvoidI think I have just read the official winner of the Worst Book in the World. I checked it out from the library because of the cute wind up soldier on the front. I will return it tomorrow because of everything that comes after that. <div><br /></div><div>Summary of "I'm Number One": Soldier makes everyone else wind him up. Soldier makes fun of all the other toys' things so that they give them to him (a hat, a scarf, a backpack). Soldier mocks all the other toys. Other toys start repeating and changing the mean things Soldier said: "We're the no so bad, the no so worst, and the so no good," said Maddy, laughing. Then the soldier laughs, gives back the things he manipulated away from the other toys and announces that he is now "one of the gang." </div><div><br /></div><div>I think Maddy the Goose, Sally the Doll and Sid the Pig need some counseling. I'm not a big believer in self esteem but honestly. The soldier needs a big ole spanking but of course that isn't in the book. </div><div><br /></div><div>In contrast, is one of my favorite series: Mrs. Piggle Wiggle. In this book, kids are selfish, slow, sassy, forgetful, etc. In the chapter I'm reading to Levi, Dick Thompson is shamefully selfish. His mother watches him hit another child with a bat and hoard peppermint sticks. His mother calls his father and has the following conversation:</div><div><br /></div><div>Mrs. Thompson said, "Herbert, this cannot wait another minute," and she told him about the candy and the baseball bat.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mr. Thompson said, "Why not give him a good hard spanking? Tell him that you are going to give him something that he can keep all to himself."</div><div><br /></div><div>Mrs. Thompson began to cry, partly because she felt so humiliated over Dick's selfishness and partly because she knew that crying was one way to get action out of Dick's father. </div><div><br /></div><div>Dick's father said, "Now, now, dear, tears won't help. Let me see--shall I hop into a taxi and come home and thrash Dick?"</div><div><br /></div><div>He doesn't, but the fact that he offers is so completely refreshing. Hooray, hooray for books written in the 1950s.</div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-68523418943295234552010-12-07T21:08:00.001-08:002010-12-07T21:28:09.496-08:00Recent pictures 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio2_6b37xN6BuGvxO8WD1msjbaVl56ZnKGXjn40QZ2aLiGmCgvkB9nH8R6Un2Bo7FRwSIbCvbnESA3uoFvQc8UZgD05p7ejWoaXeoV2oZmlox7EMUoIh6cIHnO1oxlhNrXQC1374srulj1/s1600/IMG_3106.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio2_6b37xN6BuGvxO8WD1msjbaVl56ZnKGXjn40QZ2aLiGmCgvkB9nH8R6Un2Bo7FRwSIbCvbnESA3uoFvQc8UZgD05p7ejWoaXeoV2oZmlox7EMUoIh6cIHnO1oxlhNrXQC1374srulj1/s200/IMG_3106.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548177213037990962" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Emma is returning to Ethiopia in February. She sent out this picture with her support letter.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6ggkXmBwbdYoesjUfXUwtAA-UXqTQwJQNyFS5mwZ6RgxgKTGB0zYyGfAtl3jN_J8rd_gdEWypWyVxtDzW7JT7kmZ_oTeDzQGMBpTpVJvSz3-o42KpiWWuGY0Q6gCgZuOqCcempW6tH8Y/s1600/IMG_3004.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6ggkXmBwbdYoesjUfXUwtAA-UXqTQwJQNyFS5mwZ6RgxgKTGB0zYyGfAtl3jN_J8rd_gdEWypWyVxtDzW7JT7kmZ_oTeDzQGMBpTpVJvSz3-o42KpiWWuGY0Q6gCgZuOqCcempW6tH8Y/s200/IMG_3004.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548177203697895874" /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Sadie has teeth and can eat an entire gingerbread man.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbRGJsKntGoFueoburBVj3fAkD7v9JIfR4LxR5zWGfcMPwqv8FLyXs4xsU4UbSdViiGSdP_aV1MTP4MqOZBdgofvRcgGOZDNsErciZDjIJuBBEXCKRSAfFmFHAVH9RqoOaZ317SO8JeIS/s1600/IMG_3001.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbRGJsKntGoFueoburBVj3fAkD7v9JIfR4LxR5zWGfcMPwqv8FLyXs4xsU4UbSdViiGSdP_aV1MTP4MqOZBdgofvRcgGOZDNsErciZDjIJuBBEXCKRSAfFmFHAVH9RqoOaZ317SO8JeIS/s200/IMG_3001.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548177199702300626" /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Emma was Candy Giver Outer for part of Halloween.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEHquV5vhKRy_7SsGYV_IyVkjCjau3b8fh01sbu7xrNXB-GahDnGLj1iIp9tNbXYuZOr0FiQ9jjP_Qw6Axh6eV1psbY2THeO-FHXMmHDAUMFd8cRpdT1KUa_oQY_4aVAa0lufTbkRw-GWI/s1600/IMG_2998.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEHquV5vhKRy_7SsGYV_IyVkjCjau3b8fh01sbu7xrNXB-GahDnGLj1iIp9tNbXYuZOr0FiQ9jjP_Qw6Axh6eV1psbY2THeO-FHXMmHDAUMFd8cRpdT1KUa_oQY_4aVAa0lufTbkRw-GWI/s200/IMG_2998.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548174499006188754" /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Zeke was either a pirate or a patriot. After an hour, it didn't matter. He had to put his coat on.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghiNnQVLgrWhtL9B2XHzCFE14uc_Q5iMQInUxq0rffoDs9tLXnXOe-GB_UMalBfbbxbCY7JrTmu8zYfs5KYXYS2TmiBnKdXNFueHUgF3w2gcdGnv88FwDuH_YzxePa9VhYhA-YMy6L5wX1/s1600/IMG_2992.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghiNnQVLgrWhtL9B2XHzCFE14uc_Q5iMQInUxq0rffoDs9tLXnXOe-GB_UMalBfbbxbCY7JrTmu8zYfs5KYXYS2TmiBnKdXNFueHUgF3w2gcdGnv88FwDuH_YzxePa9VhYhA-YMy6L5wX1/s200/IMG_2992.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548174492711796930" /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Emma and Grace followed the Button Rules for Costumes: you can be whatever you want (with, you know, the normal sorts of boundaries) as long as you can find whatever you need in our house. Hence, Liz the Princess who also needed a winter coat very early on.</div><div><br /></div><div>I do have other children who don't seem to ever get fairly represented in pictures. Sorry Eli, Grace and Levi. When it's not almost midnight, I'll look through iphoto a little longer. </div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-89759238963471920122010-12-07T20:57:00.000-08:002010-12-07T21:03:40.227-08:00Christmas PresentsI've been trying to stay ahead of and out of the Christmas present hysteria. To that end, Joel and I went out on a casual shopping date to Target. We picked out two toys. We put them in our cart. We picked out stocking stuffers. We put them in our cart. We got to the check out. "Are these gloves yours?" I ask Joel. "No, I don't know where those came from." So, we unload the cart, give the cashier the gloves, pay for what is pretty much the last of our shopping and go home. <div><br /></div><div>We unload the bags. There are no toys. I search the bags. I scan the receipt. I read the receipt line by line. There are no toys. </div><div><br /></div><div>When did we exchange carts with someone who wanted to buy large black gloves?</div><div><br /></div><div>*Sigh* I'll try again tomorrow. Maybe our cart will just be sitting there waiting for me to come back.</div><div><br /></div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-76847736429916150772010-11-03T10:38:00.000-07:002010-11-03T11:59:19.202-07:00<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz7zXt3H6wCtvD9qzlPLRkJ943NJCTVvBNMS7mgIOvKm7Ig50uUPU3NqRfNZVkg_t0WfTscEtTFRzcr7fRS7A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><div><br /></div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-49317350411247795562010-10-31T13:01:00.001-07:002010-10-31T13:04:09.268-07:00PicturesI love watching slides/video set to music. Now, after nearly 8 months, I am just about done with pictures from Ethiopia set, yes, to music. <div><br /></div><div>Goal: totally drain my itty bitty reservoir of artistic talent.</div><div>Check.</div><div><br /></div><div>Pictures coming soon.</div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-21680250854688987402010-10-24T14:34:00.000-07:002010-10-24T14:47:14.201-07:00A Book I Actually FinishedA good friend of mine sent me a book called <i>Baby, We Were Meant For Each Other, </i>by Scott Simon. Simon is the host for NPR's "Weekend Edition." He wrote the book to explain his and his wife's journey to adopt two girls from China.<div><br /></div><div>It is fitting that I finished the book today for on Wednesday, my birthday, we will go to the Washington County Court House to</div><div>formally adopt Lizzie and Sadie.</div><div><br /></div><div>On page 173 (of 178) was this quote: "We wanted a child. We heard you needed parents. We wanted a miracle in our lives. Darlings, it was you."</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTy_mSsEd89jx3t3FzmYGGRup6sLNKIVE1576_2DU1BzYeJGt7E_iifdTxR6mUypb8TMDqyX_0OaQJ_tHtxbJYJ-ghLCyR1P6DVxcHA8b5lM8Qb7CW08AXotw7OxZiyF1PnfN3xtzSSdD1/s200/IMG_1526.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531732198223918466" /><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgED71yfVsW5KjFvgqIo13y3WgMc5MsGjZNUpsZRhF-EHH_wy0T65esghp38Xzqs12T8XQQBRqSaZkqXwZTBKJH4cY72hgQQcSw_dZ1fNQ0Zzd2vPFDcNRa_pZME1k_LO_haoV3ZCxOPT1Q/s200/IMG_1169.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531731717496218770" />Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-30468510825952746772010-10-23T12:16:00.000-07:002010-10-23T12:20:17.543-07:00That's IT!!!I was, yes, in Walmart. Why? Now I don't know. Oh wait. I do. I had a gift card. I bought diapers and hamburger. I was carrying Sadie; Grace was with me. <div><br /></div><div>At the checkout, I asked Grace to hold Sadie. Sadie turned around, reached for me and whined. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Ohhhhhh," cooed the Walmart checkout woman. "She wants Grandma."</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-50894378956819640822010-10-14T20:37:00.000-07:002010-10-14T20:49:52.894-07:00Hmmm...I have been casting about, trying to think of a new post. I guess what it comes down to is that while things get funny, things also get....settled. That is good news. <div><br /></div><div>Lizzie is still falling off footstools in the bathroom as she tries to get toothpaste at the EXACT same time Zeke does. She is also spinning out of her crib and hitting the wall as she tries to show me, "Bizzie do it!!" She'll be the one in our Christmas card picture with a helmet.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sadie can bark. Drool. Eat. Poop. She's made quite the impression on Zeke as he now asks, "Did she make those little ball things come out?" referring to the diaper gel balls that explode out of her pajamas a couple mornings a week.</div><div><br /></div><div>We cleaned up the yard just before 80% of the leaves fell.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm going to try to make my own pita bread tomorrow. </div><div><br /></div><div>Eli has an American History Project due on Monday. The history of New Jersey. Of all the places. My synopsis of New Jersey's history is that everything interesting happened nearby or while passing through. Apparently even then, no one really wanted to put down stakes or interesting patriots (I've googled) in New Jersey. Thank goodness some of them signed the Declaration of Independence. That gave Eli's Trifold Project Board its necessary content. Oh, and George Washington graciously had a couple battles there. We would have had to talk about the history of gambling otherwise. </div><div><br /></div><div>I love fall.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm running a 10k on Saturday. That's more miles in one morning than I have run in the last 2 months.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you so much for caring about what happens in our family.</div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-70693590768951813462010-09-26T13:38:00.000-07:002010-09-26T13:52:08.769-07:00All At The Same TimeThis is a story about deer, diapers and baths. <div><br /></div><div>Joel and the 4 older kids went to a homeschool conference on Saturday morning. Joel was giving a presentation; the kids were visual aids.</div><div><br /></div><div>I stayed home with, you guessed it, the toddlers and the baby. </div><div><br /></div><div>I got Sadie up. Her diaper had BLOWN OUT. This means the little gel balls in the diaper had exploded out of the top, had spread all over her onesie and onto her stomach. One swipe with a wipe just moved the gel balls around; it accomplished nothing in the way of actually cleaning.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, suddenly breakfast time became bath time. Just before the bath, Zeke asked if he could go outside on the front porch and blow the Whistle That Used to be Mine When I Was A Soccer Coach. I was coaching soccer back in the day when people said it was easier to wait for adopted children to come home if one kept "busy." It didn't work for me, but I got a pretty loud whistle out of the whole deal. </div><div><br /></div><div>I said yes, Zeke could go out on the porch and blow the whistle. That moment of permission giving meant that in nanoseconds, Lizzie would come careening over from wherever she had been to say: "BIZZIE OUTSIDE WHISTLE ZEKE GO??????!!!!!!!!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, Liz. You can go out too.</div><div>Mom? Bizzie potty.</div><div>Ok, you go potty first, then outside.</div><div><br /></div><div>I kept Sadie lying still in the urine soaked gel balls by giving her a bottle. However, when Lizzie was done going to the bathroom, she needed me. "Stay there," I commanded my 1 year old. </div><div><br /></div><div>I helped Lizzie, came back to the livingroom and found U.G.B. (urine gel balls) in a line where Sadie had rolled over and tried to crawl to find me in the bathroom.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sent Liz out with whistling Zeke. Picked up Sadie, plopped her in the bathtub. </div><div><br /></div><div>10 minutes later, I hear a strange, muffled sound. It's crying. It's hysterical crying. It's crying and Mommy all put together from someplace I can't find.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's Lizzie and Zeke and the whistle. And.....the 8 point buck who has come to play with the toddlers. The toddlers have smashed themselves up against the back door. Zeke sort of likes the deer. Lizzie hates him. I finally arrive on the scene, naked baby wrapped in a towel, tear soaked Lizzie who looks like she's just seen a bomb go off and Zeke who says, "The deer came to me when I whistled."</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-31971776032941760052010-09-26T13:32:00.001-07:002010-09-26T13:38:25.421-07:00A New QuestionI was at the store yesterday with the toddlers and Sadie. A woman turned and smiled at us. I was expecting the standard:<div>1. Are all these yours?</div><div>2. Do you have a daycare?</div><div>3. My, you must have your hands full.</div><div><br /></div><div>Instead, I got, in reference to Lizzie and Zeke:</div><div>"Are they twins?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Ummmm. Well. There's a thought provoker.</div><div><br /></div><div>"They are the same age," I answered. And then I stared hard at them. Am I missing something? Have we spent so much time together that we are ALL starting to look the same? </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm including a picture. Zeke's on the right, just in case you can't tell them apart.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKs-reCQWTB1JdVWSNkVTEy_eC3MASSfv_FKctkQ62QU4n5qvejQgmVsuAUyyxec9pevmQgDNmrECFVo1EIS0f4T9zoODppxaS1CcsLCcgHzshbRkj3TRKztgtC1bexdOJJCLU5osz2pCl/s200/DSCN4197.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521323625000992146" /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-25676048356047751562010-09-12T13:46:00.001-07:002010-09-12T14:22:25.976-07:00Hanging Clothes/Mrs. Jean Belz #3Mrs. Belz rarely told me what to do. She made "suggestions," usually only one time. I learned to listen for them: they were few, far between and valuable.<div><div><br /></div><div>One beautiful summer day she remarked, "This is a perfect day to hang clothes on the line." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Done," I thought. I pulled the still damp clothes out of the dryer mid-cycle and took them to the clothesline. I hung them carefully over the line, felt accomplished and went back inside.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mrs. Belz came over. She was suppressing a smile. "Sometimes it's easier if you use clothespins." She put an ice cream bucket of clothespins on the kitchen floor. </div><div><br /></div><div>I left that first load out on the line. They had been nearly dry anyway when I draped them; it seemed silly to interrupt the whole natural drying process now. But for the next week, I watched the clothesline. There was an art to hanging clothes. Shirts, pants, towels, all were hung with an obvious plan inmind that went beyond draping.</div><div><br /></div><div>After watching, I began my quest to Hang Clothes. For awhile, I found very little satisfaction in the whole thing beyond the importance of having followed Mrs. Belz's suggestion. Then I noticed that I was beginning to enjoy the process. When life got busier or came apart completely, there were my dish towels, flapping in silent testament to the fact that there was someone who knew and could keep order.</div><div><br /></div><div>Two years after my hanging clothes started, Mrs. Belz called me. "That's a very attractive clothesline you've got out there."</div><div><br /></div><div>I called my friend. "SHE LIKES MY CLOTHESLINE!!!"</div><div>My friend didn't miss a beat. "Marty, you've arrived."</div><div><br /></div><div>The day after her funeral, I hung three loads of wash outside with Mrs. Jean Belz clothespins. It then rained for 2 days straight so I had to stick them in the dryer after all. But it was worth it.</div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV4zkKNQMaz_ybrkcGXZRc-fvr2WfkllLBiKep2zuWIqT_m4bZyuU1mWSuogJxD8U3NhkU86exv17m9fYzhO9xFoVZaJ-Kk6iFdI2dJrWbUOkhacfkPUjO6Zp98z24I67owXUqMZ0-JIO2/s200/IMG_2347.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516139481059090514" /></div></div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-8007376607228078202010-09-09T19:56:00.000-07:002010-09-09T20:00:44.868-07:00A Weird Week1. The toddlers went to preschool.<div><br /></div><div>2. Sadie will turn 1.</div><div><br /></div><div>3. Eli will start classes at a co-op.</div><div><br /></div><div>4. Emma got her driver's license.</div><div><br /></div><div>September 7-September 14</div><div><br /></div><div>For You, O Lord, have made me glad by Your work; at the works of Your hands I sing for joy.</div><div>Psalm 92:4</div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4648288491628904868.post-11847329711335972392010-09-05T19:26:00.000-07:002010-09-05T20:54:34.994-07:00Mrs. Jean Belz Story 2Mrs. Jean Belz helped to plant 5? 12? evergreen trees when she was 84? 85? years old. I was at her house on the tree planting afternoon. She asked me to help her into bed saying she didn't feel "quite right." While this was much more common in the last 5 years, it was not at all a common occurrence then. I helped her to her room, then she asked me to call her daughter in law, MaryAnna. I called, but Mary Anna was off campus. She would be back in 1/2 an hour. I sat on the other bed, stared at Mrs. Belz and thought about how bad I am at handling medical situations. She asked me again when Mary Anna would be back. That question filtered through some medically alert section of my brain and became, "Can you call 911?"<div><br /></div><div>I went in another room in case her well known frugality extended to ambulance calls as well. Perhaps I also didn't want her to know that I didn't know what I was doing, that MaryAnna coming home in 28 minutes seemed like forever. The call felt like it was more for me than for her at this point. </div><div><br /></div><div>The dispatcher asked me what the problem was and then asked, "How old is she?" </div><div>"She's in her 80's," I said.</div><div>"Ohhhhhhh. Well, we'll be there as soon as we can."</div><div>Now another section of my brain whipped into high gear translation. It became clear to me that this dispatcher had no idea that we were talking about a dorm parent, a Latin teacher, the Manners Teacher for Wayward Teens and International Students, the founder of a school and the calmer of not just students but staff as well. Like me.</div><div><br /></div><div>"You have to come now," I told him. "I need this woman here. It doesn't matter how old she is. She is really, really important."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Of course," he says, we'll be there as soon as we can."</div><div>"How soon?"</div><div>"We can be there in 15 minutes." </div><div><br /></div><div>I hung up. I looked at my watch. I looked at Mrs. Belz. I called 911 again. It had been 3 1/2 minutes. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I just called."</div><div>"We know."</div><div>"You need to come."</div><div>"We are."</div><div>"Yes, but you're not fast enough."</div><div>"We're coming as fast as we can."</div><div>"I know. Come faster."</div><div>"Mam......" (cue slightly patronizing tone.....)</div><div><br /></div><div>The ambulance came. I felt sheepish/apologetic/awkward and entirely relieved. What if she had been just tired? Maybe it had been no big deal. Now her insurance would probably skyrocket all because I called an ambulance for her fatigue and my panicky incompetence.</div><div><br /></div><div>She'd had a heart attack. </div><div>She lived for another 7 years. </div><div>She died after having a massive stroke.</div><div>As many as 500 people gathered yesterday for her funeral. </div><div><br /></div><div>Blessed are those whose strength is in You, in whose heart are the highways to Zion. Ps. 84:5 </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16049340831517679047noreply@blogger.com3