Viva La Colombia

I'll take mine with a side of Guilt, please

I love that Nicolas is practically a genius.  He can hum tunes he's only just heard with amazing clarity.  He can recite entire books without any help at all. 

And . . .

He can make you feel like a complete piece of shit without even trying. 

To wit:  The morning after Halloween, Nicolas (in a stunt of nothing less than cunning stealth) slipped past me and into the garage carrying his Incredible Hulk mask.  Because, apparently, wearing it the first three days before Halloween wasn't enough.  Having been informed by the daycare that the aforementioned mask was the center of considerable strife within the ranks, I told Nicolas that the mask had to stay at home, but that he was welcome to wear it after school and for the rest of the night. 

And in an Oscar-worthy, yet surprisingly subtle number ala the Death Scene in Romeo and Juliet, Nicolas let out a muffled sigh, allowed the mask to slip ever-so-graciously from his grasp and murmured, "Oh well, I guess . . . I'm not special." 

Oh, yes he did.

Short, Dark and Handsome

Nicolas and his pal, William, are the only two boys in his daycare class.  The rest of the class is comprised entirely of blond-haired, blue-eyed hussies, disguised as angelic little girls. 

Exhibit A: 

As I walk Nicolas into daycare this morning, I see Hussy No. 1 (aka "Riley").  Wherein, I exclaim: "Nicolas, look, it's your pal, Riley.  Say 'good morning.' "

Riley:  "Nico's not my pal.  He's my boyfriend."  As she throws her arms around him and drags him over to the play kitchen. 

I say Riley needs to watch a little less MTV and spend little bit more time reflecting on how the baby jesus in the manger would feel about that.  Amen. Hallelujah. Ricky Bobby.

Little Hussy. 

Cowboy Up

Because everybody needs a little country:

Voila

Well, the Big News as referred to in yesterday's post was indeed, as pointed out by my good friend, DD, a new job and possible move. 

Recently, I did some work for a company that does the type of work that my husband does.  To make a long story short, B was offered a job at that company for significantly more pay.  Unfortunately, the job is in another town in the middle of No Where (a/k/a Where the Buffalo Roam.)  Coincidently, I attended a deposition with a fellow law school grad wherein I explained the circumstances surrounding B's employment opportunity.  To make a longer story shorter, I was offered a position at her firm in the same town as B's potential employer for significantly more money. 

Did I mention the location of these dream jobs is less-than-ideal?  When you look at the real estate listings for this town words like, "tundra," "vast open spaces" and "enjoy life with no neighbors!" are a repeating theme. 

Alas, I will be turning down the dream job this afternoon and will continue to plant my Sorry Ass in the same green chair every morning. 

The thing is that I love our house.  Our boys love our house.  It is my dream house.  It is my dream neighborhood.  We got a great deal on a great house in a great neighborhood in the perfect school district.  How often does that happen?  Once a lifetime? 

Then there were the side benefits to staying:  (1) Nico's best pal, William, lives down the street from us and I have this crazy dream that they will grow up together, go to medical school and open up a joint medical practice.  SHUT UP.  It could totally happen.  (2) William's little brother, Gavin, is the same age as Michael, so if William and Nicolas don't fulfill my joint medical practice dream, then Gavin and Michael will pull through.  (3)  Our in-laws live only a few miles away and have a huge farm with animals and all sorts of cool stuff that makes childhood fun.  Nicolas, especially, loves going to the farm and looks forward to it every weekend. 

Sure, we don't have a lot of money now, but we're not unhappy.  We're not starving.  Besides, what would we do with the money?  Buy more stuff?  Aside from the Diet Coke, I'm quite happy going without stuff. 

Oh, and about the Diet Coke:  I officially went without buying it for six months and I'm over it.  I cannot live with Diet Coke.  I'm a weak, weak woman. 

Delayed Reaction, part deux

This post by Kim over at Boy Makes Three really hit home with me when I read it over the weekend.  I felt sorry for Kim, left a comment and then went on with my day. 

And then it hit me.  Today, I get it.

One of the partners in my office found out about our year without shopping and came into my office to make fun of me today.  In a nutshell he said I was:

     (1)  a stupid liberal;

     (2)  too young to know any better;

     (3)  a hypocrite.

He waxed on about how when he was young, he lived on a commune, mixed his own peanut butter (what the fuck?), and wore "earth shoes."  But then, he had to grow up and live in the real world.  Someday I might like to join him.  I get it, at one point you had ideals and then you sold out for an Audi and alimony payments.  Fucking sellout. Then he called me an absolutist and judgmental. 

And you know what?  I might be all those things. 

The reason that we started compacting had nothing to do with the environment.  It had to do with money, plain and simple.  It just so happens that consuming less is also green.  We were given the opportunity to adopt a beautiful, four-year old girl from Pisingos and we had to say, "no" because of money.  And I will never be in that position again.  Ever.  I will never put our family in a position where we have to turn down a child because of money. 

Turning down a child because the child isn't right for your family, or because your family isn't ready for another child, or for whatever reason there might be is always hard.  But, turning down a child because of money is . . . just awful.  If we had turned down Daniela because we weren't prepared to deal with her disability or because we weren't ready for another child, I could walk away with some peace with that decision knowing at least that we had made the right decision for our family.  Money is just, just so stupid.  We could have prevented this.  If I had been more careful in the past we might not have had to say no.  If only. 

While attempting to quietly explain our reasons for compacting to the partner I suddenly and quite unexpectedly broke out into tears.  I don't just mean quiet, soft tears of heartbreak.  I mean sloppy, wet, snot-dripping, body-racking, full-on crying tears of a grieving mother.  In a pathetic attempt to made up for his disgusting accusations, he said, "well, you know, you can't save all of them.  You can't make a difference to everyone." 

Maybe not.  But I could have made a difference to her. 

I may never forgive myself for putting our family in a position to turn Daniela's referral down.  Perhaps our commitment to not shopping is my own veiled attempt at bargaining with God or whoever the fuck controls the universe to give me another chance.  Right now, I don't know. 

What I do know is that right now, there is a little girl who will go to bed in dorm room.  Tomorrow, she will wake up and go to school.  And I wonder if anyone will ask her how her day at school was.  I wonder if someone will comb her hair before she goes to bed.  I wonder if anyone will notice how pretty she is and how perfect she smells.  And I wonder if someone will remember to give her two hugs and kisses before bedtime.  I wonder how long it will be before someone will mother her. 

If it means that I don't own a new thing ever in my entire life, or if it means that we never shop again, I will never let this happen again. 

Ever. 

Congratulations!

My friend (and occassional commenter), Tanya, gave birth to a 7 pound 4 oz. baby girl at 3:30 this morning! 

Tanya and her husband waited a long time for this baby girl and went through several cycles of treatment as well as some losses -- she's been through the minefield like the rest of us. Congratulations, Tanya! 

I don't have any photos of the baby yet, so in the meantime, you will have to enjoy some photos of my babies:

Pals

Every once in a while, some one will look me deep in the eye, as if that will make me more honest, and ask me if I *really* love my children as much as I would have loved biological children. 

***

Tonight, when I came home from work and while my poor husband slaved away at the stove making leftovers, I played with the kids on the floor. 

While we were playing and discussing the angst of his school pals, Nicolas calmly took my cheeks in between his sticky little hands and quietly said, "you are my best friend, mama." 

***

To the people that wonder if adoptive parents love their children as much as biological children, I can confidently say, "more." 

%#)*@&!

On Friday, I was quite sick with the cyst fiasco, but I still had to watch the kids, because we don't have daycare on Fridays (which is a whole other story.)  At one point, both kids were screaming and Nicolas was doing his very best to drive me crazy. 

In a moment of weakness, I exclaimed, "God Damn it. You kids need to go to sleep now! I mean it." 

I know, WWM.

Shortly thereafter, I pleaded with Nicolas to nap in his room, lest he meet with serious unfortunate consequences, (gasp!) no cartoons for the rest of the day. 

To which he replied, "God Damn it! Fine! I've had it with you, Mama. Damn it." 

DOOL, Toddler Style

And these are the Days of Our Lives . . .

Nicolas goes to a very diverse school (Nicolas insists that it is school, NOT daycare.) His center caters to low-income families and kids who might have some other challenges.  Half of the students are what you might call average, like us; and half of the students are challenged in other ways. 

This makes for some very interesting discussions at the supper table.  Nicolas has always been verbal.  Recently, his verbal skills have catapulted into the realm of the downright supernatural.  Once or twice a day Nicolas will vault into a virtual stream of consciousness conversation that defies the laws of toddler attention spans. 

"Nicolas, what happened at school today."

"Sami, my teacher, she go away and not come back. Kimmy not going.  She stay here.  William is a nice boy; I yike him. The boys go to the park.  No girls. Just boys. Morganne is my girlfriend. Yeah. Emma Jo go to my school, I yike her. Riley, she goes to my school, too. She bites.  Yeah, she bite Emma Jo today. She got time out. I got time out, too, but I had to go to the kitchen. I yike the kitchen.  We got cookies and snacks there. Today we had peanut butter [and] jelly.  Yeah. We get scrambled eggs, toast, cookies and yogurt.  I yike yogurt.  Can I have some yogurt? " 

And so on.

I've tried to record these monologues for posterity, but as soon as the camera comes out, he clams up like a junkie in the back of a police car on COPS. 

This morning, just out of curiosity, I inquired about Riley's vampire tendencies.  As it turns out, she is a biter.  Really, is there any comparison here?  We have a better story line at the center than DOOL has had since Roman was the Pawn. 

Like sands through the hour glass. . .   

What's in a name?

There is controversy in the adoption world regarding the issue of whether adoptive parents should change their child's birthname.  I have always been a big proponent of keeping a child's birthname.  In order to maintain consistency, we kept Nicolas' and Michael's first names as well as their last names as middle names.  The only thing that was added was B's last name. 

Recently, Nicolas has been talking a lot about his birthmother and Colombia and, well, boobies, because he thinks that's where the babies grow.  So, I've been striving to incorporate discussion of birthmothers, biology and Colombia into our everyday conversations. 

This morning, my little munchkin made me realize the importance of self-editing (some names have been changed to protect the innocent):

     Nicolas:  Nicolas Ramirez Berg, that's my name.

     Me:  Good job!  Yes, that's your name.  Do you know why your middle name is Ramirez?

At this point, I was hoping for something terribly mature and insightful, like a discussion of his birthname, birthmother, etc. Instead, he replied, "my name is Nicolas Ramirez so that you can call me that when I'm in trouble and I have to go to time out."

I have officially become my mother.

God Bless Television

Things my two-year old can say, even though I've never said these words to him, so I'm pretty sure too much TV is responsible:

"I'm building a condo." 

"Hmmm, that's tasty." 

"Awesome!"

Who says American education is in the crapper?

Boys and their toys

As a working mother, I have to cram a whole lot of teaching and learning into small, opportune time frames.  I'm always on the look out for new times to interact with Nicolas.  For instance, during our mere five minute commute this morning (yes, I'm too lazy to walk the 1.2 miles) we were discussing the pretty colors of heavy equipment:

"Look Nicolas, there's a Caterpillar.  It's called a back-hoe.  It's yellow.  Do you see the yellow Caterpillar?" 

"Yes, mommy.  But I prefer John Deere." 

Wonnerful-Wonnerful

When I was a kid, we didn't have fancy-schmancy stuff like cable.  Since we lived out in the country, the extent of our television entertainment was limited to just two channels:  NBC and PBS (but only on a clear night.) 

One night a week, my mom would torture us by making us watch the Lawrence Welk show.  Lawerence Welk: the green polyester suits, the big hair and four kids rolling in agony on the living room floor begging my mother to change it to the Dukes of Hazard. 

Now that I'm the Mom, lots has changed, except for the fact that we still don't have cable. 

Last night, Nicolas and I were cuddled up on the bed watching my favorite PBS show, GlobeTrekker.  After GlobeTrekker, it was time for some toe-tapping fun with a rerun of the Lawrence Welk show.  Imagine my surprise when my change of the channel was met with much protest from Nicolas. 

"Mama, mama! Go back, go back!" 

We spent the next hour dancing to big band music and enjoying the soothing voice of North Dakota's pride, Mr. Welk.  So, from now on, we have a weekly date with our TV:  the Lawrence Welk show.  Come one, come all. 

I guess it's a good thing the Dukes of Hazard isn't on the air anymore, otherwise, Nicolas and I would have to fight over who gets to watch what show. 

A test of the emergency-ready husband

Sleep was hard to come by at our house last night, what with the puking and all.  First, there was the inner debate yesterday morning, is it pink eye or isn't it?  Then, there was the trip to the doctor in which he refused to verify pink eye, stating it was simply a virus.  Finally, there was the late night barf-fest in which I came the closest I've ever come to wanting a divorce based on my husband's pathetic lack of crisis-parenting skills. 

Let me tell you, girlfriends, educate your husbands!  In order to assist you in your continuing education spousal-credits, I've devised this handy-dandy multiple-choice quiz for you to administer to your respective mates. How will your mate stack up???

Question number 1:  When your child is heaving big chunks of curdled milk, hot dish and canned fruit, is it acceptable for you to:

     a)  hand your spouse one (1) wet-wipe hoping that will take care of things and roll over to catch some more shut eye;

     b)  spray Lysol cloud around sick child so as to cover any puke-funk so that you can sleep a few more hours without that pesky after-puke smell;

     c)  stand there (doing nothing) and blame the chunk-blowing episode on the birthday party from two days before; or

     d) none of the above.

Question number 2:  acceptable forms of help in the above-described chunk-blowing episode include, but are not limited to:

     a)  sprinting to get a washcloth and several towels in order to assist in cleaning up aforementioned curdled milk, hot dish and canned fruit;

     b)  retrieving a glass of water for said young child in order to avoid life-threatening dehydration;

     c)  placing chunk-riddled pajamas in wash so as to avoid puke-funk bedroom in the morning; or

     d)  All of the above. 

We are currently 0-2 on the pop quiz.  Don't let this happen to you!  Prepare your household.  Any further continuing education requirements will be posted as necessary. 

You're welcome.

Yay!

First, please go over to Jen's site and give her a big ol' congratulations on her new addition.  Yay!

Secondly, I was tagged by Besty and I'm totally going to do it, but I'm swamped at work. 

Third, I'm going to write soon about a rather unpleasant professional experience I had in the courtroom, which was interesting, but pretty freaky. 

Be back soon, Promise!

And . . . we're home (sigh)

Top ten things I missed about home while in Colombia:

10.  Cold Diet Coke

9.    Driving

8.    English television

7.    Internet in bed

6.    Chinese food

5.    Italian food

4.    Mexican food

3.    My dishwasher

2.    Ice cubes

1.    My clothes dryer.  Air dried clothes are ishy.

Top ten things I now miss about Colombia:

10.   Room Service!

9.    Someone to cook every meal (notice that I did NOT miss cooking while in Colombia.)

8.    Over-the-counter muscle-relaxants

7.    $5 bouquets of enormous flowers

6.    Hearing Nicolas greet the staff in Spanish every morning, "Hola, Ninas!" 

5.    $5 pedicures

4.    Happy hour by the fireplace with the other parents

3.    Chilean wine

2.    The smell of fresh brewed Colombian coffee to wake to everyday.

1.     Spending all day with my kids

Why can't Americans make a cup of fucking coffee?  What's with that?

Shipwrecked

Cricket's post on her son's latest feline-related present got me thinking about my own childhood and some of the crazy things we did. 

Sometimes, I think single parents have more opportunities to be extreme in their parenting style.  In a single-parent family, there are inherently less checks and balances to a single parenting style.  Sometimes, the lack of checks and balances can be a good thing, because it gives a parent the freedom to fully engage in their children's life without having to compromise with a partner. 

And then there are people like my father, the extreme single parent.

During his 20's my Dad traveled Europe and Africa while working for the Foreign Service.  Growing up, our house was filled with spoils from around the globe:  a camel saddle from Morocco, a velvet bullfighter painting from Spain, machetes from the Congo, a wooden shoe collection from Holland.  In order to stifle our winter boredom, my brother and I would occasionally plunder the storage room where the booty was kept.  We would dress up in the Asian silk gowns, put on the eye patch (God only knows where he got that thing) and pretend we were in another place. 

With the various interesting sundries around our house, we were the hit of weekly show-and-tell.  Sort of. 

My father is, well, colorful.  And a really good storyteller.  He is such a good storyteller, that, as children, we believed anything he said.  ANYTHING.  Like, when he told us that he was a pirate and he got all this cool stuff because he plundered ships on the high seas -- we believed him, and told everyone on the bus and in our classes that our dad was a real-life pirate.  Real life.  And, we had the evidence to prove it -- an eye patch!  a machete!  a stuffed parrot!  People, these are all proof-positive of pirateness!  I mean, how many other fathers have wooden shoes? Huh?

We were the talk of the teacher's lounge for years. 

Sadly, I have many examples of the many lives my father led.  Coincidentally, my father looks exactly like Gene Kelly.  Should it really have surprised anyone when we brought the tap shoes in and told everyone our Dad was Gene Kelly?  Seriously, they look EXACTLY the same. 

Sometime in those early years, my father told us about the interesting things he had eaten while traveling:  turtle, rabbit, horse, pig's feet (eww.)  My little brother and I became enthralled with the idea of growing and eating our own rabbits.  We lived in the country, so it was inevitable that we would stumble upon a rabbit carcass at some point, which we did.  Lucky for us, our trusty wagon was just the right size to cart Thumper back to our Dad and excitedly show him what we thought would be that night's supper. 

I know now that what we had for supper was really chicken, but I'm glad my Dad let us think we were so cool for finding that dead rabbit.  I mean, what's a little rotting flesh among family?   

Got Moo Juice?

When we adopted Nicolas, his fast referral was a bit of a surprise.  After we were in Colombia, I discovered that some adoptive mothers were able breastfeed.  I was moderately intrigued by this and as is my nature, I researched the subject ad nauseum. 

I did actually try to induce lactation, but wasn't very successful.  I blame my failure largely on the fact that we lived some 30 miles from town at the time and the commute in combination with the new job was killing me.  I simply couldn't maintain the required pumping schedule and didn't want to take any of the recommended drugs. 

Since we are now living closer to our respective jobs and I'm more comfortable with my position at this firm, I thought I would give the lactation-thing the old college try.  I officially started this weekend.  I'm trying to do it naturally without the drugs, so we'll see what happens. 

My husband is totally into it and very supportive, but I'm a little worried how his sister will react, since she is coming with us on the trip.  She's weirded out by anything that's not totally normal and B's family are annoyingly hypercritical.  I'm afraid they will find the adoptive breastfeeding thing a little too hippy-ish. 

I guess I should break out my dangle earrings, Birkenstocks and black crushed velvet skirt.  Does this mean I get to stop shaving my pits, too? 

On the upside, once the milk comes in, some women stop getting their period to which I say, "whoo-hoo!"  I HATE my period.  I hate my broken girly bits.  And I really hate cramps, which - btw - I have right now.  Is that obvious?

If anyone out there has advice on this subject, for the love of God, please comment.

A-shopping we will go . . .

Very interesting things have been happening lately.  Very interesting.

B and I were waiting to buy a house because we didn't want to leave for Colombia with a closing over our heads.  Not to mention the stress of packing, moving, etc.  Well, we are throwing caution to the wind and looking at a house tonight. 

Mind you, this was certainly not on our agenda.  BUT!  I was perusing the home listing site last night and ran across a house in an exclusive neighborhood that is such a great deal, that we'd be insane to pass it up. 

I'm not going to tell you the price, because frankly, the house is such a bargain that it's a little embarrassing.  The house needs work:  new siding, new cupboards, etc.  However, we could still move in and live there happily while working on some of those things this summer or next summer.  There's nothing majorly wrong with it that would require large amounts of cash or that we couldn't live with for a while. 

I present to you our possible, maybe future home:

It's quaint, right?  A little small, but for this neighborhood, it's a great price.  I just can't pass on a great bargain.

The Red Baron

As a single father, my Dad took a lot of short cuts.  It was a simpler time.  Our lives were uncomplicated by modern conveniences like television, answering machines or microwaves.  Back then, the one-skillet supper wasn't a part of the spending habits of the collective unconscious.  What does a single Dad circa 1980 cook for his four young whelps?  I'll tell you what:  Red Baron pizza. 

That's right.  Red Baron pizza.  Pepporoni to be exact.  With a side of milk and one apple (Dad would, of course, take the time to cut all the apples into individual slices and pour sugar on them, but couldn't cook a real supper.)  Our nightly communion consisted largely of carbs, fat and dairy. 

Grocery shopping in those pre-Price Club days was down-right sad.  My brother would push the shopping cart carrying 3-4 specially ordered cases of Red Baron pepperoni pizza.  My sister would push the shopping cart carrying the case of Washington apples (the cheap kind, not the good kind) and frozen Tyson chicken; and Dad would push the cart with the frozen popcicles and five or so cases of cheap pop.  If that didn't get the attention of social services, I don't know what will. 

To this day, I remember the taste and texture of Red Baron pepperoni pizza.  I remember its soggy crust and slightly cardboard smell.  Red Baron doesn't rank as being among the finer culinary delights in pizza.  Red Baron overexposure in my early years has tainted me for life.  If I were on Fear Factor, the lizard heads would be more appealing than two slices of Red Baron pizza. 

Recently, I asked my Dad, "why Red Baron?"  It's certainly not the cheapest, which would be more in line with my father's child-rearing philosophy. 

His response was, "it was the only brand I could buy by the case." 

Recently, I've noticed I have my own version of the Red Baron in our house:  Frozen Lasanga.  It's great stuff.  It comes in packs of two, you can cook it in the microwave and there's just enough left over to make a decent lunch the next day.  It's a little luncheon miracle in a box. 

My question is this:  what's your Red Baron?  Are you committing any Red Baron atrocities on your hapless children? Or, did your parents force on you Red Baron-esque foodstuffs?  Over, and over, and over. . .

I'll take my question off there air, Red.

The Pupper Master

Me:  [After throwing my back out, again, while having the stomach flu]  Oh, shit.

Nicolas:  Oh, shit.  Mama!  Shit! Mama, shit. 

Nico's savings account

Instead of working, I often read blogs.  I realize, ahem, this comes a big shock to most of you, since you would never do such a thing, but I'm not a very good employee.  And in reading some of these blogs, I feel pretty superior when it comes to the Wee Fellar.

Nicolas is, quite possibly, the easiest baby that was ever born.  To wit: 

(1) He prefers fruit to cookies and will refuse cookies, but regularly asks for fruit.  Small fact, but important, because I would likely let him have more cookies than I should in order to keep him content. 

(2) He happily goes down to sleep at night without so much as batting an eyelash.  When we place him in the crib (at 7:00 p.m., no less)  he smiles, rolls into his blanket and goes to sleep.  No, I'm not kidding, this is really how is goes.   

(3) He naps twice a day for at least one hour per nap.  For nap procedure, see number two. 

(4) He is the daycare lady's favorite child, because he shares and is gentle with the other babes.  I would be worried that he is a pushover, but since the other babes are all girls, I prefer to think of him as "prematurely valiant."  He's nothing if not a gentleman.

(5) He's obedient.  Nicolas takes his own diapers to the garbage when we are done with them and places his dirty clothes in the laundry basket.  (I can't take credit for this one, my mother taught him how to do it.)

(6) He loves Sesame Street.  This one, per se, doesn't make him the easiest child, but it sure is nice when you've got a motion that positively has to be done.  Nicolas will happily dance around watching Bert and Ernie giving Mom a few hours peace.   

(7) In the face of chaos, Nicolas is a pillar of serenity.  When we were in Colombia, there was a party at our hotel, which was booked to overflowing.  Most of the parents, including us, had a bit too much to drink.  Dinner was late, and the babes were getting cranky.  During dinner, all the  toddlers erupted into a frightening fit of crying and refused to sit or eat.  Once the toddlers started, the babies were scared and they started crying.  It was a veritable thunder dome of youngsters screaming their lungs out with tired, drunk parents trapped inside.  But not Nicolas.  He just sat in his seat looking around, smiling. 

I read some blogs and can't help but feel like this is really the calm before the storm.  Wouldn't it be better to get at least a few challenges now?  I feel totally unprepared for when Nicolas actually does start to become a challenge.  I've had absolutely no experience dealing with this kid in a way that will help me understand what works and what doesn't work in disciplining him. 

Hey, maybe I'll get really lucky and the challenges will be few and far between.  In the meantime, I guess we'll sit back and let Nicolas continue to make us look good. 

Thanks, kid. 

The Boogey Man

Where were we?

Oh yeah, I think I already mentioned the annoying fact that my period is officially back to being fucked up.  I loathe my broken girly bits. 

Last night something really frightening happened and I'm in desperate need for someone to tell me I'm not insane.  Help a girlfriend out, won't ya? 

I dreamt B and Nicolas and me were at a hotel with a pool.  At the pool were all sorts of parents and a lifeguard.  B was supposed to be watching Nicolas.  When I came into the pool area, Nicolas was strapped in his infant car seat (which he doesn't use anymore, btw) and at the BOTTOM OF THE POOL!  I desperately dove to the bottom and fish him out, begging him to be okay.  I was trying to scream for B, who was no where to be found and trying to scream at the lifeguard as to why he wasn't watching.  But I had no voice. 

I woke up after that.  Just thinking about the dream is making me sick to my stomach. 

Here's the really sick part:  right before I woke up I was trying to scream at everyone to give me there names so I could start a witness list, because apparently, I was planning on suing the bastards into oblivion. 

You can take the girl outta the firm, but you can't take the lawyer outta the girl. 

NO.

Last week I went to the Big City for a Legal Ed Conference.  My mother came with me so that she could watch Nicolas while I suffered through nauseating lectures on the proper way to stab opposing counsel in the heart outsmart your opponent. 

I have to preface this story by saying that my mother watched Nicolas a little over a month for an entire week.  Everyday she raved about him.  Each night she called her husband to check in tell him how things were going and each night she would gush over how wonderful Nicolas is.  She would rave, "he's so easy!  He's so enjoyable! He's so obedient!"  That was after a whole week.  She still thought he was the best tot EVER. 

During the recent conference, she was with him for two days.  Let's just say she's not really the gushing grandma anymore.  The telephone calls during this visit were more like, "well, he's exploring his independence now."  And, "he's learning where his boundaries are."  And, "He says 'no' a lot." 

"No."  That is, indeed, the flavor of the day.  I say, "Nicolas, would you like something to eat?"  He responds, "no." 

Me:  Would you like to play?

Nicolas: No.

Me:  Should we go for a ride?

Nicolas: No.

Me:  Should we brush your teeth?

Nicolas: No.

Me:  Mommy bought this brand-new, fancy electric tooth brush for you, because you don't like getting your teeth brushed and now maybe you will think it is fun.  Look, the toothbrush has Elmo on it!  And Cookie Monster!  Nicolas, if you don't brush your teeth, your teeth will get all ishy and maybe fall out.  That wouldn't be very nice would it? 

Nicolas:  No.

No. No. No.  There is no cure for the "No's."  Having a child come down with the No's is a waiting game.  You must time your response in such a way as to avoid a power struggle, but still maintain your dignity, just in case somebody else is watching. 

Anyone have a cure for the No's out there? 

No?

Ode to Sunblock

This weekend we traveled to my sister's place, which is actually 52 miles south of my "real hometown."  When you live in the great expanse of tundra, you generally refer to the the larger town by which you live as the place from which you come.  It's just easier that way.  My real hometown had its 100th Anniversary this year, so there was much drunkeness all the way around. 

I did not attend the festivities, as I prefer to spend my time mooching off my sister's country club membership sipping cocktails and trying to avoid the sun.  Nicolas and I spent some time in the pool.  Brian got an interesting sunburn.  I'll post pics of it later.  He's a little embarrassed about his protruding belly, so only make fun of it behind his back. 

Speaking of backs, I emerged sunburn-free this weekend.  I'm pretty pround of myself.  Not even a spot of color on my nose.  My sunblock applying skills are nearing perfection.  I slathered Nicolas with tons of sunblock too.  I'm not really sure it was necessary, especially when I think of the bizarre looks I got from the Moms of the pasty white kids. 

This weekend, we saw a few different babies.  Everyone ooo'ed and aaahh'ed over the little tykes.  Things were said like, "isn't s/he just the cutest thing?"  A funny thing happens when you parent a child of a different race.  You start to see your own kid as what a normal, healthy baby should look like.  This weekend, when I saw the new pasty white babes, my first reaction was to think to myself, "what's wrong with that baby? Is it sick?"  Then I have to remember, "oh, wait.  It's not sick, it's just white." 

I guess they all can't be as perfect as Nicolas. 

If there was Ever Any Doubt. . .

Karen over at the Naked Ovary recently posted some interesting and challenging thoughts on when a gal *really* becomes a mom.  For breeder-type people, the road to official parenthood has some pretty concrete steps.  You get the pink line; you see an expanding belly; you feel the morning sickness; you get a heartbeat.  All of these things signal the impending arrival of a baby.  A pregnancy might have some scary moments along the way, but the traditional symbols of babyness are available for the parents to appreciate and absorb over a nine-month period (give or take.) 

Adoptive parents don't have the traditional markers of impending parenthood.  For us, there are more abstract notions of potential parenthood.  In our case, there were repeated (ad nauseum) telephone calls to our social worker, "are you sure we're getting baby?  Is this some sort of horrible trick the fertile world is playing on us? I mean, are you REALLY sure we're getting a baby?"  Three to four weeks before you travel there is actually a photograph, also know as "the referral."  The referral pic hangs on the fridge, along with several copies in purses and wallets.  Other than that, there are no physical reminders of baby. 

So how do you know when you become a mom?

Some would say at the time of placements, others would say at the time your dossier is registered at the chosen country or with the agency; some would say at the time of referral.  It's hard to really pinpoint the *exact moment* an adoptive parent becomes a mom or dad. 

I think it's different for everyone.  Some women feel like a mom before they even submit their application for adoption.  I don't know when any given person feels like a parent, but I have been thinking deeply about when your status as a parental unit is confirmed for all the world to see.  In the interest of scientific research, ala Tom Cruise style, I have come up with a definitive answer to the eternal adoptive mom question of "when you are a confirmed Mommy." 

Do you wanna know when it becomes official that you are a real "mom?"  It's when you run out into the parking lot of your building in your bathrobe and scream profanties at two kids lighting off ENTIRE PACKS OF FIRECRACKERS at 10:00pm demanding to see their parents and threatening to call the cops because they've awoken your sleeping toddler and if they don't take those illegal fireworks somewhere else you're gonna take those firecrakers and stick 'um where the Sun. Don't. Shine.

Do I know I'm a Confirmed Mom?  Hell, yeah, I do.