Wednesday, September 19, 2012
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Saturday, September 15, 2012
Homeschool Dorks
Ahmm...
This is awkward. Bear with me.
Yesterday, I went to a picnic feeling like a seventh grader with a big pimple on her forehead. It was, you see, a picnic for a homeschooling support group. After some internal wrestling, I had decided to join. The name of this particular group of homeschoolers is so flagrantly velveeta-esque in christian cheesiness I can barely palate it. I prefer to use the acronym, so I don't have to string this particular combination of words together - you know, out loud. In fact, if there wasn't already an acronym I would have made one up, just so I wouldn't have say I belong to a group by this name. I've always felt that if Christians are going to be dorky, they should at least try to be a little covert about it.
Yet there I was, four kids in tow, not sure if I should try to fit in, or burn my bra in some misguided attempt at defiance towards christian sub-culture dorkiness. Not that I actually would burn my undergarments, but can you imagine? All those homeschooling mamas shielding their babies' eyes? The very thought makes me giggle. Alas, I am not that bold, and my tween children would never forgive me. It would cost a lot in therapy, for them, and I am too cheap to send my kids to a counsellor for nonsence like that. They'll just have to wait until we really screw them up.
But, I digress.
Thing is: I have 4 kids; I homeschool them, and I am a Christian.
So, I look the part. Heck, I AM the part.
But I get a little itchy with it. 'Cause I was going to marry a rich guy so I could hire a maid, and a personal secretary. Then, I was going to do a little work with an NGO, and do a little writing. Probably, I'd end up with a Pulitzer, you know, that sort of thing. It's not that having children was entirely out of the question. But I thought they would be sort of a side gig, or passtime, to augment my real life - as a socialite/humanitarian/award-winning author.
And yet...there I found myself, picnic in hand, four children who shared my sur name, running ahead. And I stood on a precipes wanting to belong, and desperately not wanting to belong. It was so junior high.
I think God was laughing at me.
For all my talk I am a middle class mother of four children. I homeschool them, for Heaven's sake (really for Heaven's sake). We go to The Church of Obnoxiously Large Crosses. Bottom Line: I derserve to belong to a group with acronym that stands for a name of dubious quality and unquestionable dorkiness.
God served a dish of humble pie to me yesterday at that picnic. I met some people I actually really like - including those who were probably integral in chosing the name of this support group. They're smart, articulate, and successful. And they're not even weird. The prize for arrogance goes to ....me. For God shows up in the most unlikely places, and as it turns out, he is not all that concerned with hanging out with the not-so-hip crowd.
I think he might even prefer them.
Which is good for me, because the whole Pulitzer/Rich Girl/Humanitarian of Coolness thing is turning out to be something of a flop.
This is awkward. Bear with me.
Yesterday, I went to a picnic feeling like a seventh grader with a big pimple on her forehead. It was, you see, a picnic for a homeschooling support group. After some internal wrestling, I had decided to join. The name of this particular group of homeschoolers is so flagrantly velveeta-esque in christian cheesiness I can barely palate it. I prefer to use the acronym, so I don't have to string this particular combination of words together - you know, out loud. In fact, if there wasn't already an acronym I would have made one up, just so I wouldn't have say I belong to a group by this name. I've always felt that if Christians are going to be dorky, they should at least try to be a little covert about it.
Yet there I was, four kids in tow, not sure if I should try to fit in, or burn my bra in some misguided attempt at defiance towards christian sub-culture dorkiness. Not that I actually would burn my undergarments, but can you imagine? All those homeschooling mamas shielding their babies' eyes? The very thought makes me giggle. Alas, I am not that bold, and my tween children would never forgive me. It would cost a lot in therapy, for them, and I am too cheap to send my kids to a counsellor for nonsence like that. They'll just have to wait until we really screw them up.
But, I digress.
Thing is: I have 4 kids; I homeschool them, and I am a Christian.
So, I look the part. Heck, I AM the part.
But I get a little itchy with it. 'Cause I was going to marry a rich guy so I could hire a maid, and a personal secretary. Then, I was going to do a little work with an NGO, and do a little writing. Probably, I'd end up with a Pulitzer, you know, that sort of thing. It's not that having children was entirely out of the question. But I thought they would be sort of a side gig, or passtime, to augment my real life - as a socialite/humanitarian/award-winning author.
And yet...there I found myself, picnic in hand, four children who shared my sur name, running ahead. And I stood on a precipes wanting to belong, and desperately not wanting to belong. It was so junior high.
I think God was laughing at me.
For all my talk I am a middle class mother of four children. I homeschool them, for Heaven's sake (really for Heaven's sake). We go to The Church of Obnoxiously Large Crosses. Bottom Line: I derserve to belong to a group with acronym that stands for a name of dubious quality and unquestionable dorkiness.
God served a dish of humble pie to me yesterday at that picnic. I met some people I actually really like - including those who were probably integral in chosing the name of this support group. They're smart, articulate, and successful. And they're not even weird. The prize for arrogance goes to ....me. For God shows up in the most unlikely places, and as it turns out, he is not all that concerned with hanging out with the not-so-hip crowd.
I think he might even prefer them.
Which is good for me, because the whole Pulitzer/Rich Girl/Humanitarian of Coolness thing is turning out to be something of a flop.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Invisible Disability, Trauma, Attachment, and My Pride
It's not PC to say adoption changes things. Nor is it PC to say adoption is always predicated by brokeness. It's nicer to talk about "forever families" and "solving the orphan crisis one child at a time." But that, my friends, is spin. It tells one side of a story that is far more complex and messy. Adoption is never ideal. Never. It is only necessary when something goes wrong. Trauma, disability, attachment challenges are the reality in many adoption stories.
The people writing copy for adoption agency brochures weren't at preschool yesterday when I came to pick up my five and a half year old. Because the *#it that went down just then would not have made the cut for footage in agency promotional material.
The daughter of my heart did not want to come home with me. Even a little bit.
So, I pulled out my best Karyn Purvis therapeutic parenting tactics.
-I stayed light and playful.
-I gave time for transition.
I provided a transitional object and sensory input.
I tried distraction
then, I gave 2 choices given at eye level in a low calm voice.
fail, fail, epic fail, fail, fail.
So, as the awkward tension built in the room, and while on looking parents tried politely to avert eye-contact, I was left with one less than fabulous choice.
I hauled that kid up, gave her a giant bear hug, and made a bee line for the car to the soundtrack of: " I don't want to be with you, I love Miss Jenn (who she's known for a week). I want to stay at school forever."
And 30 minutes later she stopped. My eardrums are in recovery.
My older children have developed coping mechanisms for these type of public displays. They are far from uncommon, and my trauma savvy bio crew can spot the signs of a meltdown a mile away. They ask for the keys to the car and wait there until I can come to them. (Yes, CPS, I send my bio kids to sit and wait for me in the car. Yes, I know it is illegal. Yes, I believe it is the best, and safest option for them in these moments. So, rookie social workers, you can tell me how to raise my kids when you've broken a sweat restraining my out of control child, and lived to tell about it. Then, you may have an opinion.)
Anyway.
Sometimes I can figure the triggers to such melt-downs. Sometimes, I simply cannot. The preschool pick-up debacle was predicated by a tough transition morning, and an unexpectedly absent lead teacher, plus some weak cause and effect reasoning. My daughter felt that if she left, her lead teacher (whom she adores) might not come back to school. And she was a helpless, hysterical puddle. For me. She was delightful all during preschool, which is how it works, my friends. Mamas take the brunt of it.
Healing comes at a price, and sometimes healing doesn't come at all. Birthparents pay. Adoptive families pay. Adoptee's pay. Entire cultures pay. And the cost of early trauma is monumental.
So I pulled out a my figurative checkbook, and wrote a check to my daughter. The cost? My pride. Because, um, we got some looks, as she pummeled me and screamed on the way to the car. But what the preschool parent crowd didn't see was the 20 minutes we sat snuggled up in our favorite chair with sup-ups, warm milk, songs and soggy kisses. She is a precious treasure. I love her with my whole heart - so much it aches.
The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure that a man discovered hidden in a field. In his excitement he hid it again, sold everything he had to get enough money to buy the field.
The people writing copy for adoption agency brochures weren't at preschool yesterday when I came to pick up my five and a half year old. Because the *#it that went down just then would not have made the cut for footage in agency promotional material.
The daughter of my heart did not want to come home with me. Even a little bit.
So, I pulled out my best Karyn Purvis therapeutic parenting tactics.
-I stayed light and playful.
-I gave time for transition.
I provided a transitional object and sensory input.
I tried distraction
then, I gave 2 choices given at eye level in a low calm voice.
fail, fail, epic fail, fail, fail.
So, as the awkward tension built in the room, and while on looking parents tried politely to avert eye-contact, I was left with one less than fabulous choice.
I hauled that kid up, gave her a giant bear hug, and made a bee line for the car to the soundtrack of: " I don't want to be with you, I love Miss Jenn (who she's known for a week). I want to stay at school forever."
And 30 minutes later she stopped. My eardrums are in recovery.
My older children have developed coping mechanisms for these type of public displays. They are far from uncommon, and my trauma savvy bio crew can spot the signs of a meltdown a mile away. They ask for the keys to the car and wait there until I can come to them. (Yes, CPS, I send my bio kids to sit and wait for me in the car. Yes, I know it is illegal. Yes, I believe it is the best, and safest option for them in these moments. So, rookie social workers, you can tell me how to raise my kids when you've broken a sweat restraining my out of control child, and lived to tell about it. Then, you may have an opinion.)
Anyway.
Sometimes I can figure the triggers to such melt-downs. Sometimes, I simply cannot. The preschool pick-up debacle was predicated by a tough transition morning, and an unexpectedly absent lead teacher, plus some weak cause and effect reasoning. My daughter felt that if she left, her lead teacher (whom she adores) might not come back to school. And she was a helpless, hysterical puddle. For me. She was delightful all during preschool, which is how it works, my friends. Mamas take the brunt of it.
Healing comes at a price, and sometimes healing doesn't come at all. Birthparents pay. Adoptive families pay. Adoptee's pay. Entire cultures pay. And the cost of early trauma is monumental.
So I pulled out a my figurative checkbook, and wrote a check to my daughter. The cost? My pride. Because, um, we got some looks, as she pummeled me and screamed on the way to the car. But what the preschool parent crowd didn't see was the 20 minutes we sat snuggled up in our favorite chair with sup-ups, warm milk, songs and soggy kisses. She is a precious treasure. I love her with my whole heart - so much it aches.
The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure that a man discovered hidden in a field. In his excitement he hid it again, sold everything he had to get enough money to buy the field.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Abort! Abort! What Over a Decade of Motherhood has Taught Me
Today was Abby's second day of Preschool. She loves it. It exhausts her. And I had a plan.
It was a bad plan.
See we are out of food, and my kids are surviving on chocolate chips they are picking out of trailmix of questionable freshness. I decided that it was time to do a Costco run, and the only chunk of time big enough to pull this off was directly after preschool. But we only had an hour and a half.
My ill conceived plan was to take four hungry children to Costco, grab lunch and get home within a this 1.5 hour chunk of time. Even as we were heading in to Costco from the parking, I KNEW to the very core of my being that this was a bad call. Yet, we walked in the door.
The disregulation of a certain 5 year old was epic and palpable. She was wonky, and it was evident. But still I persisted. As I purchased four $1.50 cardiac arrest wrapped in tin foil and a ridiculously large piece of cholesterol laden pizza the situation deteriorated.
So we slammed down our junk food, and left san groceries.
This is important because, not 2 years ago, I would have persisted. Abby, my other children, patrons of San Leandro Costco, and I would have suffered the consequences of my poor judgement and insistence on persisting with a bad plan.
12 years into this motherhood journey I know better than to take hungry and tired children into a grocery warehouses. Heck, I knew that year one. But sometimes "knowing better" isn't quite enough to "do better" -at least not all of the time.
Here's what I know now:
A) Just because I start down a path doesn't mean I must persist. It is not some act of valor to stick with stupid to its long and ugly demise.
B ) (And this one is big) It is unfair and unkind to punish my children for my bad/poor planning. If I have set them up to fail then, lo and behold, they fail I should not be surprised. And I dare not punish.
I can abort mission. And that is the wisdom gained from more than a decade of motherhood.
Sometimes its best to push control, alt., delete on your day, and eat a half a box of Cheerios and wilty lettuce for dinner. Sometimes, that is success.
It was a bad plan.
See we are out of food, and my kids are surviving on chocolate chips they are picking out of trailmix of questionable freshness. I decided that it was time to do a Costco run, and the only chunk of time big enough to pull this off was directly after preschool. But we only had an hour and a half.
My ill conceived plan was to take four hungry children to Costco, grab lunch and get home within a this 1.5 hour chunk of time. Even as we were heading in to Costco from the parking, I KNEW to the very core of my being that this was a bad call. Yet, we walked in the door.
The disregulation of a certain 5 year old was epic and palpable. She was wonky, and it was evident. But still I persisted. As I purchased four $1.50 cardiac arrest wrapped in tin foil and a ridiculously large piece of cholesterol laden pizza the situation deteriorated.
So we slammed down our junk food, and left san groceries.
This is important because, not 2 years ago, I would have persisted. Abby, my other children, patrons of San Leandro Costco, and I would have suffered the consequences of my poor judgement and insistence on persisting with a bad plan.
12 years into this motherhood journey I know better than to take hungry and tired children into a grocery warehouses. Heck, I knew that year one. But sometimes "knowing better" isn't quite enough to "do better" -at least not all of the time.
Here's what I know now:
A) Just because I start down a path doesn't mean I must persist. It is not some act of valor to stick with stupid to its long and ugly demise.
B ) (And this one is big) It is unfair and unkind to punish my children for my bad/poor planning. If I have set them up to fail then, lo and behold, they fail I should not be surprised. And I dare not punish.
I can abort mission. And that is the wisdom gained from more than a decade of motherhood.
Sometimes its best to push control, alt., delete on your day, and eat a half a box of Cheerios and wilty lettuce for dinner. Sometimes, that is success.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Ethan has had a LONG year of school. He began the first part of August, and tomorrow (the middle of JUNE!!!) will be his last day of school. He is excited to be done. I'm excited for him to be done. I'm looking forward to having all my children at home. I'm looking forward to not doing the drop-off and pick-up routine. I am looking forward to connecting with my son.
As each of my children has come home they have had to acclimate to the pace of life here,and expect Ethan will have some trouble with it. He will assume that since he is home he shouldn't have to work. He will be impatient with the needs and desire of those around him. He will push against the restriction of family life, in other words, meeting the needs of others will be inconvenient to him. He will probably be a pain in the butt - for awhile.
But under that. He's a really great kid, who is just beginning to think big thoughts and really question the world. He wants to please and have a connections with his family AND he wants to be independent. He is nearly 12, and sometimes 8 and sometimes 35, and he will be taller than me soon.
The years ahead of him remind me that junior high was one of the most trying seasons of my life. This becoming is difficult business, and I feel so humbled and unprepared to walk my children though the new season.
Diapers, baths, and stories seems so easy in comparison. (Though talking to my baby sister about life with newborn is a good reminder that it ain't easy at all. ) This parenting an (almost) adolescent seems weightier, and I really really want to do it well. And I have just enough parenting experience to know that I'll screw it up regularly...just, hopefully, not permanently.
And that is why there's always Jesus and a good therapist....
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Farmers market
Peaches
Pluots
Rainier cherries
Strawberries
blueberries
Cantelope
Honeydew
Kale
Cilantro
Mixed greens
Mushrooms
Carrots
Red cabbage
Hummus
Artisan bread
California farmer's markets beat Colorado ones hands down. Emma and I ran around like kids in a candy shop scooping up deals just minutes before the Castro Valley Market closed. Delicious! Nutritious! Aesthetically pleasing, socially conscience, environmental stewardship. Plus a whole lot of fun.
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