Trying to Be Attuned

Adoptive parents often have these little insights that give a window to their child's former life. I never have. Until today. Maybe.

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.

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.

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.

"Only five," she answered, holding up three fingers.

"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.

"Just me," she sighed, and stirred again.

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.
I, in contrast, was reminded of the long path toward number mastery that Liz and I seem to have.

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.

Random photos of the kids

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.

Gardening

I 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.

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.

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?"

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.

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.

Updates and observations

1.Sadie's walking.

2.I'm not supposed to worry about Lizzie's speech (speech pathologist; Stillwater Schools).

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.

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.

5. I planted lettuce.

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..."
"Mom," she replied very matter of factly, "That is probably the one of the last things you need to worry about."

7. That made me think I should have tried just a little bit harder.

8. Ikea has good hotdogs.

Hi Again

I was waiting for just the right thing to bring me back to blogging. It happened about two weeks ago, give or take a week.

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.

They think he homeschooled his kids.

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.

I can't wait until the next person asks me why I decided to homeschool.

Wa-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.

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.

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.

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.

Children's Books to Avoid

I 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.

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."

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.

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:

Mrs. Thompson said, "Herbert, this cannot wait another minute," and she told him about the candy and the baseball bat.

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."

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.

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?"

He doesn't, but the fact that he offers is so completely refreshing. Hooray, hooray for books written in the 1950s.