But of Course...

Recently I was interviewed for a research study on international adoption. One of the questions the researcher asked was whether any of my children seem to struggle with their self-image/esteem because they are A.) Adopted, and B.) Transracially Adopted.

I gave her that "you've-got-to-be-kidding-me" look.

Consider the evidence--

Mia: Gracie, what is something you are really good at?

Grace: Mowing the lawn.

Mom: What?! When have you ever mowed a lawn? Did you 'help' Daddy mow the lawn?

Grace: No. But when I grow up I will mow lawns and I will be VERY good at it.

Pills, Princesses, and Lessons Learned

Last night the girls told me that they went for a litter walk at daycare. They solemnly informed me that they found some of "those bad smoking things." This opened an entire discussion about cigarettes, smoking, and just saying no to harmful practices. As usual, their favorite part of the discussion was role-playing different situations where someone might ask them to do the Bad Thing, and practice different ways of refusing.

Being the astute Mommy that I am, I saw an opportunity to throw in other potential peer pressure situations, involving other potentially harmful things/practices (or things that aren't kosher within our religion or just within our family). What if your friend wanted to show you her underwear? What if she wanted you to drink coffee? What if someone told you to take a toy from the store without paying? You get the idea.

I tried to bring up drugs in a way that a barely 5- and almost 6-year old could understand.

"What if your friend said, 'Hey Mia, want to try some of these cool pills I got? They're like medicine and they make you feel all weird and good.'"

Mia looked confused.

I tried again.

"Hey Mia, my older sister said they're really great. You just pretend they are medicine and swallow them. It will be fun--wanna do it?"

Mia still looked confused.

I stepped out of my role-play to be Mommy.

"Remember how we talked about not pretending anything is medicine, Mia? And only taking medicine when Mom or Dad gives it to you?"

Mia nodded.

I tried one more time.

"So, Mia, do you wanna take these pills? They're super fun."

Mia still looked confused. I decided to terminate this particular role-play for a round of more didactic teaching. Just as I opened my mouth Mia spoke up.

"I just have one question about the pills..."

I nodded encouragingly.

In total barely-5 year old earnestness she whispered in a scarcely-daring-to-hope-voice,

"Will they turn me into a princess?"

Ah, innocence is such a sweet and fleeting thing. Is there a way to wrap a little bubble around my wee ones, and keep them in this place where the only reason anyone could offer a *magic* pill would be setting their inner royalty free? Where a friend asking to see your underwear, or, heaven forbid--offering a sip of coffee--, is the worst temptation you might encounter?

Maybe that's why we guard childhood so fiercely, and enact such harsh penalties against those who destroy youthful innocence. We know how brief--and how very, very precious--these short bits of eternity are.

"Let them be little,
'Cause they're only that way for a while.
Give them hope, give 'em praise,
Give them love every day.
Let 'em cry, let 'em giggle,
Let them sleep in the middle,
Lord, let them be little."

The Junior Princess Turns Four

Mercie's birthday party was last week.

Things I learned:

• When a group of four-year old girls get together, they are completely unintelligible. They sound something like a room full of poodles and parakeets.
• Four year old girls have complex and discriminating tastes. One girl would not eat her cake because the frosting was pink and she doesn't like pink frosting. A short time later I noticed her bringing a chunk of something gummy & squishy to her mouth, and I wondered where she got the fruit snack, since we weren't serving fruit snacks. Then she repeated the motion and I remembered that four year old girls are still firmly in the "booger eating" phase. That ended my appetite for pink frosting. Or cake. Or anything else.
• Four year old girls are much smarter than older girls. I told the girls the story of the Princess who kissed a frog. I put bright red lipstick on the girls and pointed to a computer-generated picture of a frog taped to the wall at four-year old height, and told them they could try kissing the frog. S. and C. were terrified that a prince would pop out and scare them. E. was afraid she would get slimy on her lips. Mercie just wanted somebody else to go first. I finally coaxed them all into doing it, and there were neat rows of little lip prints all over the white edge of the paper around the frog. I asked the girls what they thought of that story and E. said, "It's kind of dumb." Excellent observation! We girls must get stupider as we get older, to believe that the slim possibility of getting a prince is worth kissing a blechy frog.
• A big bag of M&Ms is more than enough to decorate four birthday cakes, with plenty left over. Mia had a rainbow cake, Mercie got the tastefully simple crown and trim you see above (yes, I know pink and brown is so *last year* but four year old girls are not yet that style conscious), Eric is getting a car that will test my M&M artistic abilities, and Grace wants some kind of rockstar image--she's voting for a portrait of Hannah Montana in the medium of candy-covered chocolate--with the last birthday of the bunch she'll be lucky to get a cupcake with sprinkles.
• Four year old girls like to giggle. A lot.
• Four year old girls like to hug and kiss each other. A LOT.
• Four year old girls are just the cutest thing out there. Except Adi, because she's my favorite cutest thing. And Adam, who doesn't want to be my favorite cutest thing anymore. Still, totally adorable.

I'm not sure what Mercie thought, but Mommy had a blast :).

I Think They Have a Future In Politics...

Dinner last night at our house:

Children: Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you! Happy birthday, STINKY-DIAPERHEAD, Happy Birthday to you!

Mom: That doesn't sound very nice.

Silence.

Children: Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday, BOOGER BRAIN! Happy Birthday to you!

Mom (every child knows this mother-warning tone): C-h-i-i-i-l-d-r-r-r-e-e-e-e-n.....

Children: Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday, LITTLE POOPY BUTT, Happy Birthday to you!

Mom: Okay, the next person who sings something ugly is going to try the new purple soap to clean those ugly words right out of her mouth.

Silence. Whispered consultation.

Children: Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday, SKINNY MOMMY! Happy Birthday to you!

Sharktooth

If you can see past this embarrassingly bad picture, taken with my embarrassingly old camera, because the much better picture I took with my cell phone can't be uploaded, as I'm embarrassingly technologically illiterate,

You will note that my daughter Mia has a double row of teeth.

Two of her adult bottom teeth have grown in behind her baby teeth.

The dentist assures me that this is normal, and since her baby teeth are a weensy bit loose, we're just going to wait for them to fall out. In a few years we'll know if she needs braces or not. Hoping for not.

Personally, I think it's extremely cool that Mia is a five-year old sharktooth. She's rather sensitive about it, and has been keeping her lips together ever since the first tooth broke the gums. I had to threaten and bribe to get the picture.

With one row of teeth or two, she's still the prettiest little newly-minted five year old around.

The March List

What I'm thankful for this month:

HOME TEACHERS!

We have the very best home teachers, for lots and lots of reasons. See the sandbox above? It is filled with sand, with a lid to cover it, thanks to our home teacher Keith. Oh, and all the sandbox toys, too. The best part? As Grace said, "They sneaked to our house and put sand in the sandbox while we were sleeping! Home teachers are so sneaky!" The kids played in the sandbox for FOUR hours last Saturday (which gives Mommy a whole new list of reasons to be thankful...). When I called to thank Keith and Susan for not only providing the stuff, but also doing all the work, Susan said that Keith loaded the sand up after dark so the kids would be surprised the next day with their new sandbox. It worked!

A few weeks ago we went out for a Sunday afternoon walk. The kids were running far ahead when one of the girls accidentally bumped Eric and knocked him down. In what looked like something from a Three Stooges movie, their friend Adalyn couldn't stop her bike in time and ran right into Eric as he bawled on the ground. I ran for him, but our home teachers got there first. Lindsay was down on the ground, Eric in his arms, wiping his face and telling him he was a brave boy, letting Eric wipe his snotty, teary face all over his suit.

My favorite thing about official home teaching visits is watching my kids dogpile the home teachers. Once upon a time we started out with Mom and kids on the long sofa, and the home teachers sat on the loveseat. It has now become Mom alone on the long sofa, with two home teachers on the loveseat, wedged in all around and under small children. If one of my kids can't find a lap, she will drape herself across the top of the loveseat, just to be close to the home teachers.

A recent conversation with Mercie:

Mommy: Who are all the people who love you?
Mercie: Gwace and Mia and Ewic and Mommy and Daddy.
Mommy: Who else?
Mercie: Gwampa and Aunt Sue!
Mommy: Who else?
Mercie: Gwampa Bob. And Emily.
Mommy: Anyone else?
Mercie: HOME TEACHERS!

For some reason lately I've been thinking a lot about the term "ministry" and how we don't often use it to describe what we do in our family relationships and in our church responsibilities, and how maybe we should. The most important ministering seems to be the personal, one-on-one ministry that constituted so much of Jesus Christ's life.

I'm counting us lucky-- okay, blessed-- to have home teachers who follow His example.

Here's to wonderful, caring, "sneaky" home teachers!

Defining the Terms

Grace: Mommy, what does "adore" mean?

Mommy: Love something a really, really lot, like more than anything else.

Grace: Ah. So that's why you say you adore me.

Yup.

Every Kid Should Have An Uncle Dan

Can you tell that they love this guy?

A Tale of Two Babies

http://www.ksl.com/?nid=333&sid=5887942

Abandoned newborn found alive in clothes dryer
March 18th, 2009 @ 9:44am
By Phil Archer, NBC Newschannel
A newborn's cries may have saved her life. The baby, who was just about an hour old, was discovered stuffed in a trash bag and left in an old dryer in southwest Houston, Texas on Tuesday. Investigators said the baby is safe, but they are worried about her mother.

I know, I know, this is an all-too familiar story. Abandoned baby story always make me teary-eyed, and this one was no exception.

The baby weighed six pounds 12 ounces. She was taken to Texas Children's Hospital. The hospital's staff is calling her "Mia."

That's where I started sobbing.

Five years ago I was sitting in my doctor's office, listening to him tell me that a routine pregnancy test (years of infertility and assorted hormone-type drugs make pregnancy tests routine for every dr. visit, regardless of how inane and pointless they may be) was, no shocker, negative. My cell phone rang. It was Yvonne, a caseworker for the agency where we'd adopted my then-9-month old daughter Grace. "Are you sitting down?" She proceeded to tell me that Grace had a biological sister due to be born in a couple of weeks, and their birthmom wanted us to adopt her.

Of course we said yes.

I love telling this story because, really--how often do infertile women do a pregnancy test at the dr's office, read a negative result, and leave the clinic expecting a baby in two weeks?

On April 6, 2004, at just over 6 pounds, my little Mia entered the world, with a full head of fluffy hair, beautiful almond skin, a perfectly shaped nose, and a ferocious stare that has only been honed with time.

And oh, there just aren't words to tell how this girl has blessed my life. I love her big, generous grin that mirrors her birthmom's gorgeous smile. I love her belly laughs. I love her excited giggle when she figures something out or learns something new. I love the way she headbutts me when she wants a hug. I love watching her pull Mercie onto her lap and stroke her hair & face & back and call her "sweet baby." I love Mia's magic 'looking eyes'--that girl has an uncanny knack for finding lost objects. I love telling Mia she's beautiful just so I can see the embarrassed grin pop out on her face. I love spelling out words to her so she can write letters. I love Mia's bravery, doing things that her older sister is too scared to do. Even when it exasperates me, I love that Mia can't bear to see anyone else scared or hurt or sad, and that she'll sacrifice her own treats or comfort or safety to make the world right for someone else. I love her tender heart. She has a gift for kindness, a gift for peace.

I want to say all of that to the other Baby Mia's mommy. I want to tell her that this is what she threw away. This is what she literally tossed in a garbage bag and nearly took away from the world. I'm guessing there's a load of hurting behind a choice like that. Just like my little Mia with her younger sister, I want to hold Baby-Momma on my lap and rock her back and forth and stroke her hair and sing lullabies and call her "sweet baby" and tell her that there is hope, and there is redemption, and babies don't have to be left in garbage bags in abandoned dryers, and even if she doesn't know love in her life, she can choose to give Baby Mia a life filled with it.

Thanks to alert strangers and a civic structure that does still value life, even small six-pound, hours-old life, the other Baby Mia will be fine. I will sit at my computer and say a quick prayer for Baby Mia and those caring for her and loving her, and a little longer prayer for Baby-Momma, because wherever she is, she needs it.

I'll wipe the tears away and go back to the birthday party I was planning for my own precious Mia, thanking God for the gift of this sweet girl and the daily miracles she brings into my life.

The name Mia means "much-longed for child."

The Corpse in My Closet

Warning: photo illustrations in this post are not for the squeamish or faint of heart.

I have a little secret, which up until now was only known to one other person. Why I'm broadcasting it to all of bloggersville I do not know...therapy? sympathy? snickers? boredom?

Here's the deal: I hate mice.

I mean, I really, REALLY loathe mice. A lot. More than just about anything.

This is not a problem so long as mice obey the rules and stay in their wild and natural OUTDOOR habitat. Unfortunately, some maverick mice exploited a small crack they found in the garage floor and ended up INDOORS, specifically, inside my basement food storage room. And let's face it--a basement food storage room is pretty much Mouse Nirvana. Just like Lehi called to all of his family to come taste the fruit of the Tree of Life, my rodent invaders apparently invited the clan over for a tasting fair, compliments of Wendy's grocery stash.

My specific complaint with mice is their tendency to bring out the most freaky aspects of my character. I pride myself on maintaining control in all situations, keeping a cool head under stress, and dealing with life in a mature fashion. Mice blow that all to heck. Even dead mice. The one and only time I dealt with a dead mouse in a mousetrap all by myself was not a pretty scene. It took me three days to talk myself into doing it, which was enough time for the mouse to start decomposing and smelling rank(er). I changed into old clothes that could be thrown away afterward. I tied plastic grocery bags over my shoes so that I wouldn't accidentally track rodent-germs anywhere else. I used three garbage bags--one to put the mouse & trap in, another to put the first bag in, and yet another to hold that double-packaged parcel before dumping it all in the outdoor garbage bin. I used latex gloves, but still couldn't bear the thought of picking up the mousetrap, so I found kitchen tongs--very long kitchen tongs--and tossed them in the garbage after The Deed was completed. If I'd had a spare Hazmat suit sitting around the house, you can bet I would have suited up. It took ten minutes to get down the half-flight of stairs into the basement, mostly repeating positive affirmations out loud, like: "I can do this, I can do this, I can do this, I can do this--for crying out loud, Wendy, get a grip! It's just a dead mouse. YUCK! A dead mouse!!! I can do this, I can do this..." By the time I got to the mouse I was hyperventilating. And crying. And feeling extremely grateful that no one could see me. I only screamed a tiny bit, though, so I think the positive affirmations worked.

Loads of De-Con and cases of mousetraps later, not to mention several sealed-off holes in the garage floor and the passage of nearly a year, I have just recently started to feel semi-comfortable going down to the basement again. It's been about ten months since the last mouse sighting; I'm starting to hope that my home has been taken off the list of top-ten rodent vacation spots. The thought of cleaning out the room is a bit overwhelming. For the past few weeks I've been making a weekly trip down to the storage room, filling one garbage bag at a time with junk, and hauling it out. Just knowing that mice have been there is gross, but since there aren't any actual mice, I've actually been handling the cleaning task with a modicum of maturity and sanity.

Until today. I pulled out a bag of pasta and came eye-to-eye with this:

Yeah, that would be a mostly-decomposed mouse corpse, surrounded by mouse feces and I-don't-want-to-know-what-else.

You bet your sweet booty I screamed. Loudly. I made it up that half-flight of stairs in one leap, and that's no small feat for a chubby, huffy, nearing-middle-age Mommy.

I won't tell you what it took to get me back down there to take the picture, but it involved ingesting pills that made me feel all floaty and nice and even able to think about mice with only a little bit of shuddering and whimpering. This is SOOO not cute.

On the other hand, these folks have the right idea. If only their aim were better.

I think my plan at this point is to lay big ol' cinder blocks across the doorway to the storage room, with thick layers of mortar between them. The mouse vault can be sealed off from the rest of the house. I'll keep food storage items in the laundry room. The rodents can rest in peace and I can give the happy pills back to B.