My One and Only Giveaway

I truly try to keep this blog more of a blournal and less of a "blog," but occasionally I feel compelled to use it for less blournaly purposes. Tonight is one of them. Stick with me, to see how you can win something from the awesome Kimchi Keepsakes and these gems.

My friend, Tracy, needs help. Or more accurately, my friend Tracy needs help helping her daughter. You can read her story here, but the short version is Tracy and her family have scrapped and saved and cooked and fund-raised and sacrificed to earn every penny they need to adopt a 3-year-old girl with significant special needs from Korea (a fellow RainbowKid like my Little Bro). A little girl who was just months away from being doomed for a group home. A little girl who needs someone in her corner for the rest of her life. A little girl that most of us could not be brave or strong enough to raise. A girl they desperately have fought for and love with all their hearts. A girl they are naming Emi Faith.

Because of Emi's age and special needs, the agency has told Tracy she cannot travel alone; however, her family cannot fund three tickets (Tracy, Emi, and someone else). Tracy's husband has to stay home to attend to the needs of one of their other children. Tracy hasn't been able to find anyone else who can fund their own ticket and take the full week out of their lives to travel over to help her. She had someone who can travel, but can't afford the ticket. Tracy is traveling in 4 weeks and has no idea how someone is going to be able to come with her. In case you are curious, a ticket is around $1200.

A movement in the forums has been started to help fund a companion ticket. It is as simple as going to her blog and donating whatever strikes your heart by using her secure Donate button. Don't get me wrong, I know how money is for everyone right now. It's right after the holidays, and many people reading this blog are probably saving for their own adoption expenses. But I also know that five or ten people donating a small amount can equal something substantial for Tracy.

For my one and only giveaway, I want to help Tracy by giving away an awesome set of Uncle Goose Korean Character Blocks

AND something of the winner's choice from Kimchi Keepsakes. Perhaps a buckwheat travel pillow for you or your little one; an apron for your budding chef, a custom pendant, or whatever strikes your fancy. I'll draw the winners on Sunday, January 16, which marks 11 months since they committed to adopt Miss Emi.

I've got a couple ways for you to get entered:

1. Go to Tracy's blog and donate through her button (it would be anonymous to everyone but you and Tracy), come back and leave a message here letting me know you donated (I moderate comments, so let me know if you would like me to keep your comment private). I don't care how much you donate and please don't tell me. Even the most humble of donations matter. Truly, they do. I'll give you one entry into the drawing. AND, AS A BONUS, ENTER THE WORDS "DONATION MATCH-LADYBUG" AND A WONDERFUL MAMA WILL MATCH YOUR DONATION!
   
2. Second, if you post something about Tracy's story on your blog, come back and leave me a message, and I will enter you a second time. Same with Facebook or Twitter. Each notation will be one entry. (But please, don't link this blog on Twitter directly...Twitter still creeps me out a bit.)
3. Third, if someone that hasn't already entered via this blog post leaves a note on your blog saying they also donated, I'll give you FIVE entries. (a la, a donation spurred by your post and not mine.)

You don't have to link back to this blog at all. I'm not looking for followers here....I'm looking for donation there. Tell Tracy's story in your own words or link to mine...it makes no difference to me.

But it will make a BIG difference to her. This sweet little girl and this brave mama deserve all the support we can give them.

Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

Last night my son was wired in a great way (as best as a child can be wired at bedtime). He was being silly and happy and seriously enjoying being alive. Normally I attempt to squash bedtime sillies to preserve our calm rainbows/unicorns/soft puppies bedtime routine, but last night I couldn't stand to shut him down. He was too happy, and it was infectious.

Seriously, sometimes you have to screw the sleep training ideas.

As I tried to fit Little Bug into his jammies, he stood up on his bed and started jumping fast and hard while holding my hands. (Again, normally something I don't allow, but our calm zone was already demolished at that point.) He would jump a few times while chanting something and then fall down in a heap of laughter, only to get back up and do it again. It took me a couple goes to realize what he was doing.


Ashes, ashes, we all fall doooooooooown.

My baby was singing. A song that he was pulling the words and tune from memory. Yes, the words were in his own special garble, but they were as fully formed as he could get and very intentional. The tune was spot on.

It was so developmentally appropriate that it made my heart nearly burst.

Little Bug has always loved music. Since the moment he was born, music has been his trigger of joy and peace. I love the fact that he is finally able to participate in the music, not just experience it.

Making a Home in 2011

I'm not being dramatic when I admit that I kind of suck at being a homemaker. Despite being raised by a wonderful stay-at-home-mom who cooked every night and made our Halloween costumes; having a sister who feels guilty if her floors are not spotless and actually studies a homemaker's guide that was published at the turn of the century; and being raised in a culture where every Tuesday night from ages 12-18 I spent an hour or two in an organized class learning some sort of housekeeping skill like ironing dress shirts, sewing, scrap booking, knitting, and cooking; I am a horrible homemaker.

Appa totally got hoodwinked when he signed up for this domestic goddess.

I don't have good cleaning skills. I'm like a binge and purge cleaner. Dishes will sometimes sit in my sink for days or my dust bunnies will earn the right to register to vote in their corner precincts, but when I do clean, I am all over every little detail, from the baseboards to the inside of the stove vent. That just doesn't happen very often, and even less now that Little Bug is around. I'm a good, but inconsistent cleaner.

Last year I made a lot of New Year's resolutions that I thought were simple and manageable. Turns out, my single resolution should have been to keep my resolutions. I made decent progress on about half my goals (and considering that I am typing this while drinking a DDP, failed miserably with others).

This year I decided to try a new approach.

New Month Resolutions.

My theme for the year will be, to steal a phrase from a brilliant friend of mine, home care. Each month I will select a very small detail of home care that I can focus on. Conventional wisdom and inspirational posters tell me that 21 days will be all I need to make that small change in home care a habit.

My NMRs will be small because I know myself, and lofty goals just aren't working for this working mama. I'm still trying to think about which habit I will undertake for January, but I plan to document it on my blournal so I can hold myself accountable.

I'll tell you what it won't be....this giving up DDP completely crazy talk.

Baby Bird

When I am sleepy I either get sassy or sappy. Last night it was sappy.

As I laid in bed last night with Little Bug (after he had ended up back in our bed) nestled in between Appa and I, I got to thinking about nests.

Yes, like a bird's nest. Because when I am sleepy and sassy or sappy, I am also mildly delusional.

Little Bug is the sweetest, most horrible bed mate. He flips and turns and burrows into you. He wants nothing more than to be cuddled up against you and will usually push Appa off the bed at night from attempting to get closer and closer to him. Last night, though, he seemed pretty peaceful in his little dinosaur jammies. He alternated between spooning me while his hand rested on his dada and resting his head in the crook of Appa's arm while his little toes burrowed into my side.

In my sleepy/sappy state I imagined him protected safely in a little nest we had made for him, protected from cold and monsters and everything else in the world. Then I started thinking about all the other times I make a "nest" for him. The way I wrap my arms around him as he sits in my lap, the way his beloved raggies nest around him each night as he sleeps, each one touching some part of his face or hands or feet. The whole thing seemed so warm and cozy and idealic. Such a lovely thing for a child to experience.

Such a lovely thing for me to experience him experiencing.

I love being a mama bird.

Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve is one of those days where the past, the present, and the future all seem to blend together. (Dickens seriously knew his stuff.) Every year I find myself reminiscing with such clarity of Christmas Eve's in my past.

The first year I got up the guts to peek out of my room before my parents gave the okay and saw the exciting outline of what was a Strawberry Shortcake Dream House (23 years ago tonight). The year "Santa" announced we were having another baby by leaving a fifth stocking out and my sister's furious reaction (16 years ago tonight). The night my dad booby trapped the stairs with a bucket of buttons that fell on my head, only to have me scream bloody murder and wake the whole house up (include above mentioned new baby) because I was convinced it was a bucket of nails (18 years ago tonight). The 20+ nights my sister and I called a truce on our hatred and came together for a "sleep over" and night spent sitting next to the Christmas tree. Christmas Eve has produced many of my favorite memories, and tonight, as I sit here alone by my Christmas tree, those memories decades old seem so close.

Of course, the Christmas Present is pretty amazing, too. I spent the evening surrounded by family in my home, with my decorations, and my traditions. I cheered my son on as he unwrapped a gift all by himself for the first time ever. As I laid next to him tonight while he feel asleep, I silently prayed a Christmas prayer of thanks for allowing my the privilege of having such a beautiful family.

And Christmas Future: As close as past memories feel to me tonight, the looming present feels equally as real. In just 365 days I'll be right here again, in this room, with these decorations adorning a tree. This moment will be one of those Christmas Past moments I look back on with fondness. Instead of one little boy slumbering away upstairs, there will be two. Seriously, how lucky am I? And the year after that and the year after that and the year after that. Train tables will give way to bikes and video games that will give way to iPods and computers. The one thing that won't change will be this moment, after they go to sleep, when it's just me and the tree and my grateful heart.

So, although I should be in bed preparing for a long day, I'm instead tucked away with my thoughts on my favorite night of the year.

A Peek Inside at 2:45

What does a 3 year old think about at 2:45 in the morning when he doesn't feel like sleeping?

Santa, reindeer, choo choos, bounce houses, school, mama and dada's bed, Good Night Moon, Bee Bim Bop (the book and the food), Obama (grandma), his brother, an elephant, Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck, fire trucks, buses, and an advent calendar with M&Ms.

It was fascinating and horrible all at once to listen to my son jabber happily away about whatever was on his mind....for 5 hours in the middle of the night.

Joyful Christmas

I've been searching for over a month for an ornament for Little Bro. It's a tradition that each child gets a special ornament each year, and although he isn't here with us, he is part of our family, and I desperately needed to prove that in the form of an ornament.

Unfortunately, most everything I found was painfully cheesy. I wanted something classy, whimsical, and representative of him. A tall order for a small object.

Coming to the end of the rope, I purchased a small bulb painted with Little Bro's name and the phrase "waiting for...." It incorporated his "Big Star" name, and I liked that. But as cute as it is, I look at it hanging on our tree, and it makes me sad. The "waiting for" part always jumps out at me, and I find myself frowning in self pity as I read it.

How merry of me.

A sweet and talented friend of mine also has a second son in Korea who won't be home for this holiday. She had mentioned that they were designing a special ornament to represent his place in their family and offered to make one for me, too. I accepted without seeing the design she had in mind.

When I opened the e-mail a couple nights ago to see the mock up, I was blown away. It was completely unlike anything I had expected or envisioned. The design was classy and whimsical and prominently displaying a favorite recent picture of Little Bro. But the thing that really stood out to me was the simple phrase beneath his picture.

"Joyful Christmas" in Hangul and English.

That was it. No waiting for this or missing him that. Just a picture of my son and a reminder that the fact he is my son makes for a very joyful Christmas. Because at the very root of the matter, that is what matters. His presence in our lives during this Christmas.

And yep, that makes this holiday really joyous.

That ornament is now hanging prominently in the front of our tree where I can see it from across the room. Instead of looking at it and frowning in self pity, I look at it and am so ridiculously happy.

It's also been an eye-opening reminder to me about this process in general. I can choose to focus on the sad parts (the waaaaaaait), or I can choose to focus on the joyful parts (the anticipation, the future). So even though it's just an ornament, it's taken on a big meaning for me this Christmas. I know for years to come when I hang it on the tree I will tell Little Bro about how loved he was this Christmas and how happy we were that he was joining our family.

Thanks, S (and B), for the gentle and unintentional reminder I needed as we head into the home stretch of the holidays.

Although I try not to link to things, I wanted to share the link to this ornament with others who might be in the same spot I am. There might still be time to get it on your tree this holiday.

Because no matter how long we have to wait, the fact that we get the chance to one day be the parents to these children is so incredibly amazing.

Mea Culpa

To all the mothers that I secretly cursed at when they told me "3 is way worse than 2":

I'm sorry. You were right; I was wrong.

If the twos are terrible, the threes are terrorizing, traumatic, and way too thought out. It's so much worse when the whining and disobedience is coupled with clever manipulation and an actual thought process that results in planning....planning to thwart me in the most creative and annoying ways.

It's so bad that even Appa is scared of our tiny treasure. 11 months to go and counting!

Sincerely,
A battle-worn mama

Fire Bus

This morning Little Bug held up a toy ambulance and called it a bus. Appa countered with emergency medical vehicle, which for our child is like asking him to repeat the Pledge of Allegiance...not going to happen.

Little Bug countered with a new word (that I am super proud of): fire truck.

We probably should have left it at that for this morning. After all, we were sitting on the floor in the middle of our hallway (because Little Bug insisted on looking at the holiday lights that lined our banister) attempting to put on Little Bug's inserts and shoes while our wet hair dripped onto our half ironed work clothes and the clock ticked away. But Little Bug was clearly intent on learning more about this toy, and I can't say no to a learning opportunity.

So, to recap. Little Bug is holding an ambulance. We've ruled out bus and fire truck and offered the impossible emergency medical vehicle option.

You'd think this shouldn't be so hard. You'd think we'd look our 3-year-old in the eye and tell him the toy he was holding was an ambulance. It's not that hard of a word. I'm fairly confident Little Bug could have repeated some sort of sound combination resembling it.

It is an ambulance.

But NO, the actual name for the toy didn't even cross my mind to share with my sponge of a child. Instead I spit out some total nonsense and told him the toy in his hand was a fire bus.

A fire bus. A mythical thing that goes. A noun that does not appear in any reputable dictionary and probably not in any urban one, either.

And of course, that is the name he latched onto and now calls that toy.

Fighting the Skeletons

When I was very young, I had a dream that my dad and grandpa were outside my bedroom window fighting skeletons. The dream was so vivid that I can still, some 25+ years later, recall in detail everything from the thin but strong look of the skeleton bones to the color of my bedroom carpet and the way the moon shone into the window.

Ever since that dream, I have had a nervous twitch at night. Even as a high school student, I would be comforted by the sounds of my parents still awake in our home as I fell asleep. (My dad has stress-induced insomnia like I do, so he would often be up very late). It's silly, I know, but hearing the TV or couch shift was the tiny trigger I needed to release my tension and feel safe. My parents were my protectors simply by being there.

Last night as I laid in bed with Little Bug, I realized that I have somehow become the protector. It's me that his hand is seeking out for a single confirmation stroke as he drifts in and out of sleep. I'm the one whose touch can ease his moans. My presence in a room is what he wants and needs when he wakes up scared in the middle of the night after what could have been a truly cracked out dream about skeletons.

Just by being there and being me, I'm protecting him.

That so much responsibility that it humbles me and makes me want to be stronger and smarter and better for him. It makes me feel like a superhero who could totally kick skeleton butt (if they had butts, which they don't).

It makes me feel so lucky to be his mom.

First Day of School

This morning I snapped the first of many "first day of school" pictures of my Little Bug. Decked out in a Rocky-profile tshirt and a sweet Elmo backpack, he was ready to face the unknown (because he knew it contained buses and bubbles) of his new half-day developmental preschool.

Little Bug goes to school all day already, so this isn't some life-altering thing for us, but it is the first time he has gone somewhere new. His current school (where he will still go early in the morning and in the afternoon) was hand picked by me. I know his teachers and the administration. I see the teachers and students and classroom each day. I have my finger on the pulse. I can see and feel how much they love my boy and how happy he is there.

His new school is probably pretty awesome, too, and one where he will receive many of the therapies he continues to need. We took great pains to move into a district where we would be happy with the education system, and that gamble is most likely going to pay off even earlier than we had anticipated. I'm not anticipating Little Bug have much trouble (no more than is normal) transitioning into this new routine. He'll still have his normal school in the afternoon to keep his routine familiar.

My biggest problem is the oddness of this moment. The way that I drop him off somewhere I know and then some stranger comes and takes him on a bus, drives him to a school that I've only been inside once. He'll do this whole thing on his own, without Appa or I there to ease him into it. I'll pick him up at his normal school this afternoon, none the wiser to a huge part of his day.

It's so stinkin grown up and scary.

Obviously his new teacher and I plan to touch base and keep in contact and after an adjustment period I am welcome to come into the classroom (but not encouraged, which I get). It's not like my 3 year old is being left to wander the couple miles between schools alone and in the snow. Quite frankly, he is such an easy going child he won't be nervous at all so long as buses or bubbles are involved. I'm proud of how easy he adjusts to new things, and I know that is a strength of his that will serve him well.

And this is an exciting new part of his life. Real school! Real Bus! Real backpack!

Edited to add: As if the universe knew we all needed a little more of a gradual transition, the bus service was messed up and Appa, who happened to not be traveling today, was able to take Little Bug to school. He told me Little Bug was apprehensive to walk into the classroom, so I am so grateful Appa was there to hold his hand and show him that it is okay.

A Lump of Coal

This weekend we made two attempts with Little Bug and Santa. The last two years have resulted in tearful pictures of the nanosecond Little Bug was on Santa's lap.

This year, we tried twice more. The result, two more tearful pictures. Which, I admit, I think are sort of endearing in the memory/tradition aspect. But he's old enough now to have more of a say in these sorts of things, so after attempting to get him comfortable with Santa like we successfully did with Disney characters, we're letting him take the reigns from here on out.

But here's the thing

The backhanded comments I have received regarding these pictures sort of shock me. It's one thing to not agree with someone and mentally cluck, but to make some thinly-veiled critique about how selfish it is as a parent or some nonsense like that....I think people should save it for things that really matter.

I'm not saying I don't judge. I do...all the time. But unless someone is doing something unsafe, I keep my self righteousness to myself. I don't post my comment and then congratulate myself on what a better parent I am.

This has reminded me to take more time before judging other parents. I don't know their circumstances, just like people don't know that Little Bug is obsessed with Santa (he even carries a small Santa around our home). It wasn't selfishness, but rather an earnest attempt to allow him more access to someone he shows great interest in. He was interested and curious up until the moment he got right next to Santa. One camera snap later and he was outta there and happy again. But people don't know that...nor do I know what is going on behind the snap shots in their lives.

My child is happy and healthy and loved, despite meeting Santa four times. That's what matters to me.

Hung with Care

We're in full holiday swing in our home, but with that has come some unexpected feelings. I don't want to belabor the point, which is probably why I haven't felt like blournaling lately, but the fact is, I've been a bit blue this holiday.

I honestly (naively) wasn't expecting to be so sad. I've really felt at peace during the wait, but for some reason, as soon as the decorations came out, my heart started to hurt. But, I've continued to celebrate our growing family with joy, and I am trying exceptionally hard not to let my sadness affect Little Bug's holiday joy (I'll leave that to his nemesis, Santa Claus). The stockings are hung with care, including one for our sweet big star that will be filled Christmas morning with the things that will be sent in his next care package.

Usually looking at those stockings makes me excited, thrilled, grateful; but sometimes, especially in the evenings when I'm the only one up (like now), the sadness comes back.

So that's where I am at....exactly where every mama in my position is this holiday season. I don't know why I thought I would be different, why it would affect me less.

But it has. And it will pass.

The Cool Kid

Little Bug has taken to choosing an item each morning to bring to school to show his teacher. Usually it's a raggie or his ferret ball, but today it was his train book, a prized possession of his. He proudly walked it the entire way into school, clutching the over sized book with both his hands (not an easy feat even now for my little guy), and showed it to his teacher in the hall, who ohhhed and awwed enough to make Little Bug drunk on joy to be sharing and praised.

We're not supposed to bring toys from home into school because kids fight over them, but I allowed Little Bug to bring the book into his classroom to show his friends. Little Bug is fiercely protective over this book, but he held it out in front of him like something out of the Lion King, proudly showing the book to all his friends. The clustered around him (including the boys who like to exclude Little Bug), and Little Bug sat the book on the table so everyone could see.

God, I wish I had a camera in that moment.

It's a rare sight for me to see Little Bug truly, truly, truly interacting with a larger group of kids in such a positive way for an extended period of time (and I think it happens more often than I think, I just don't get to see it), but there he was, with friends clustered tight around him on other side as he turned the pages of this train book. They all exclaimed over the pictures, pointing and laughing. Little Bug looked up at me and met my eye for just a moment, with the most genuine, happy smile on his face.

For that one moment, he was the.coolest.kid. in that room.

One Full Inbox

Yes, those frames I cried over last night are empty.

But today my inbox was not. It probably won't be empty for a while.

I am, without a doubt, the luckiest mama to ever cry over empty frames. That whole closing doors and opening windows business...so true.

Two Empty Frames

Tonight after putting Little Bug to bed, Appa and I got all our Christmas decorations out to officially start our holiday season. I adore decorating for the holidays and have an elaborate ritual and order for our Christmas tree ornaments, which Appa patiently sits through while I bask in memories and tradition. I love him for that.

But tonight, after the tree was trimmed, I pulled out a grocery bag from one of our boxes and tears immediately sprung to my eyes. Tear I haven't shed in months.

Little Bro tears.

In my hands were two frames I had purchased last year with the total expectation that this Christmas they would be filled with a more crowded family picture and Little Bro's first picture with Santa (with us). Appa and I spent a great deal of time last year talking about how that would be our last holiday with just one son.

And it was, sort of.

I don't fault myself for the expectations of this mistake. We never could have predicted our acceptance would go to Korea so late in the year, and we never could have predicted a year-long wait to travel....and I never would have predicted both.

So instead of telling myself that I had dug my own emotional grave, I allowed myself some tears as I held those empty frames before wrapping them back up and packing them away.

Next year they will be filled.

And this year, just as Appa and I imagined, we are celebrating the holidays as the parents of two boys. We have monogrammed stockings hung for two boys and yearly ornaments nestled in the tree for two boys. Our holidays cards have the two cutest kids you will ever see gracing the inside. Our lives are so much different this year than they were last year, due in large part to a little boy who will be home for Christmas...next year.

And that makes me joyful.

Love is

Love is doing something you hate for hours and hours and hours to bring joy to your 3 year old's face.

Love is also proving your husband wrong.

Their Day

Today is my son's 3rd birthday. I'm so happy to be able to celebrate this milestone with him, proud to my core of the accomplishments he has made in the last year(s), and awed by the sweet soul he has become. It's his day, and I am blessed and humbled to be able to celebrate it with him.

But it's also her day. His birth mother, first mother, or, as I have taken to calling her in my head, just his mother, a title I can share with her without fear or guilt.

Today, 3 years ago, she gave birth to a baby boy who she carried in her body for 9 months. A baby she bonded with, loved, and cared for as he grew within her. A baby she was committed to protecting from as much of the ugly in the world as she could, even at her own expense. A baby that she loved.

For me, celebrating Little Bug's birthday is about celebrating his life, his growth, his spirit. For her, today is about the one day she had with her child, this unchanging moment in time. Only she knows what it felt like to bring him into the world, to hear the first breaths and cries of this amazing boy. The memories of his first moments are hers alone; his foster mother and I will never have those, can never share those.

Today is her and Little Bug's day.

I'm sure the loss she endures daily is more painful on this day, more raw, more heartbreaking, but I hope that she can find some peace. Peace that, although she might not know the particulars right now, her son is happy and healthy and loved. I hope that although she might not publicly share her observance of this day, someone will do something kind for her, brighten her day in some way. I hope she can be happy on this day.

So today, as I wish our son a happy birthday, I'm also wishing her a happy birth day.

911, What is Your Emergancy

Calling 911 is not the way you want to start a morning.

At 4:45 this morning, I was woken up by a loud crash and shattering glass which set off our home alarm. Appa is away, so it was just me and Little Bug. Within seconds, I was out of bed and calling 911.

Extreme, perhaps. But I knew if someone was in our home breaking stuff and I confronted them, chances are they wouldn't allow me to take a moment to head back to my room, lock the door, and call 911.

Turns out, not confronting a possible intruder is something the 911 dispatch agreed with, especially since I was alone with a child. So I waited in my room with the door locked as the cops sped toward my house.

In what I thought was a rational moment, but was probably not that smart considering I was going against the dispatcher's orders, I eventually tiptoed out of my room and peeked around our hallway to our main floor, ready to scream "I'VE CALLED THE COPS, A-HOLE."

The reality.......

.....a mouse had knocked over a bunch of glass jars of pasta sauces and canned goods from our pantry, spilling them all over our tile floor. The loud crash triggered our alarm (rightly so).

I was super embarrassed and tried to beg off the cops coming, but it turns out they have to come check things like this out, just in case someone was holding a gun to my head as I made up a story about a rouge mouse with a penchant for tomato basil sauce.

Fair enough, I guess.

So the cops came and checked our whole house for any sign of intruders. There were none. I went back to sleep sheepishly.

And that's hopefully the last time I have to call 911.

Bye Bye, Anne

A little over two years ago Anne came into our lives. I'll never forget the day I welcomed her into our home, just a couple days before I was set to go back to work after a 6 week maternity leave.

My precious 11 month old was sitting in his highchair, strapped in by a 4-point harness because his back couldn't support his weight enough to sit. His hands lay limp under the tray littered with Cheerios broken in half that I occasionally put on his tongue because he couldn't pick them up to put them in his mouth, nor could he handle an entire cheerio without choking.

Unlike the rest of the parade of therapists that had come through our home in the past weeks, Anne was immediately different. Polite and brash all at once, she got straight to business and within that first hour had determined my son's hypotonia extended to all the muscles in his mouth, including his tongue. I thought a speech therapist was supposed to teach your kid some words and signs, instead she opened up a world that interconnected speaking and eating and drooling and moving. She didn't just teach him; she taught me.

For the last 2 years she has seen my son every week. She's seen him since before he could creep on his tummy through everything up to his wobbly running. She's heard the "ommmmmma" and she's heard him say sentences with verbs. She is on his short list of people he talks about when I ask him about his day.

She's sat on the phone with me as I've cried tears of frustration and joy. She advocated for us when we had problems with our occupational therapists, even picking up the slack and incorporating more OT into her own sessions to make sure Little Bug's needs were being met.

Last Friday I sat in a room during an IEP meeting with seven women who professionally but clinically broke down every nuance of my child, using the word "significantly delayed" over and over. Although the tears were close to coming most of the time, the only time I truly let a tear fall was during Anne's comments, who had completely rearranged her schedule to come at our special request as an advocate for our family.

Because as this therapist spoke about my son and his amazing progress, her eyes welled with tears of pride.

If you love my child, I will love you.

Today was Anne's last day. Her position was as an early intervention resource, and Little Bug ages out of that program next Monday. Even though Little Bug will continue to get the services he needs with his new program, my heart is broken at having to say good bye to Anne.

Anne taught my son how to talk, how to sign, and how to dare to communicate, but Anne taught me how to advocate for my son so he can continue to do those things.

And she will be truly missed and not forgotten.

Taking my Hand

Tonight as Little Bug and I drove home from an uneventful diaper buying outing and fancy macaroni and cheese dinner, my little boy started to sing a common 3-word refrain from a song we were listening to.

The Midwest winter is rapidly approaching and the car was pitch black, so I reached my hand back to touch his knee in a sign of praise. Usually when I reach my hand back while driving he ignores it or bats it away.

Tonight he took his little hand and wrapped it tightly around my finger and held on. I caressed his hand with my other fingers and together we sang over and over. Every time I moved my hand he called "mama, mama" until I returned it to the proper place and he could grab hold again.

Although I couldn't see his face in the dark, I could see my reflection in the rear view mirror and saw the tears pooling in my eyes.

It's hard to explain how special this was. Little Bug isn't a hand holder....especially when sitting or otherwise engaged. Part of it probably has to do with his hypotonia and weakness in his hands that had created a habit of not gripping something tightly for long periods of time. Part of it is probably just his personality.

For him to want to hold my hand tonight the whole way home, to seek out my touch for no reason other than simply that it was my touch, leaves me feeling like another one of the motherhood pieces is falling into place.

For Good

Little Bug has been having some issues with his behavior (mania) and regularity (enough said) during and ever since our trip, so this weekend we secluded ourselves in the hopes that it was just trip-related issues and not the beginning of a larger illness. The verdict is still out on his illness, but that isn't the point of my entry.

It always seems that the big steps we take in growing Little Bug up happen with very little fanfare. It was yesterday, in the midst of his mania and poop fest, that we decided now would be a good time to give up the crib/toddler bed game.

For good.

What does that have to do with mania and poop? Nothing. I suspect it was mainly a distraction from the weirdness. But the decision was made spur of the moment to just do it, and so we did. Little Bro would most likely never have transitioned well into a crib or toddler bed, and by the time he comes home, he will be close to transitioning into a normal bed, so we just decided to put full/queen beds in both boy's rooms and be done with the crib/toddler bed business all together.

So, within an hour, the little toddler bed with the sweet nursery printed sheets I had lovingly picked out as I yearned for a child was dismantled, the sheets and bedding packed away, and my son had a bed fit for two grown adults.

For good. He could be in this bed until he goes to college.

And Little Bro. My baby who will never be a baby to me. He's going to come home to a nursery and sleeping arrangement that will be more familiar to him, but so different than what I had envisioned.

But it's not about me, or what I think looks best in a nursery or how much I am attached to the little orange crib sheets. Whether I like it or not (and sometimes I do and sometimes I don't), both my sons are growing up. I think when I get overly sentimental I tend to latch on to things, so it was probably best for us to just up and make the change without too much preparation.

And the pride and enjoyment my manic, poop-filled son has with his new bed is way cuter than those orange sheets.

Unplugged

A major source of contention in my marriage is my "pluggedness." I use the internet to keep me company when my husband travels, connect and nourish friendships with people, write, and research things that are important to me.

Appa would prefer I did less of all that during our limited time together. Usually he has a point, and although he might not think so, I have been trying to be less plugged in when he is home.

This vacation I decided to try to unplug. Besides the occasional e-mail checking (I'm actually still waiting for an formal update on Little Bro--how greedy am I?), and one blog post that I had to get off my chest, I've been almost completely unplugged for 5 days.

And it was great....magical, even.

Appa and I fell asleep when our son did most nights. We watched fireworks from our hotel room and sports news. We chatted. We didn't read or get on the computer or do anything other than just stare at each other and laugh at our crazy child.

It was easy to get caught up in the family moments. Work and Facebook and blogs and e-mail (I had exactly 200 this morning when I checked) just didn't seem to hold a candle to spending time with my boys.

As happy as I am to be connected again, there is a part of me that wishes I could stay back behind those colorful gates that seem to keep the "real world" at bay while simultaneously reminding you what is truly, truly real in your life.

Poop: The Interlude

Scene: Very fancy and expensive restaurant at Downtown Disney.

Shortly after we ordered at our one super fancy meal of our trip, I noticed that Little Bug was smelling a bit off. A casual look revealed that HOLY CRAP, he was the the midst of a blow out.

Never fear; I am a prepared and capable mother. I calmly asked Appa to hand me a diaper and some wipes, figuring I could salvage things enough to finish dinner, but as the words left my mouth, I realized a horrible truth.

I had left the diaper bag back at the hotel.

Sh*t. In every sense of the word.

After staring at each other for about 30 seconds of serious horror, I got up and ran walked briskly out of the restaurant and toward the first place that I saw that sold kid's clothing.

The upside is at Downtown Disney, those places are every few feet. The downside is that the selection of boy's toddler wear is pretty limited and overpriced.

But my son was currently sitting in a fancy restaurant erupting unspeakable things from his pants, so I grabbed a pair of gray sweat pants with a red racing stripe on the side and Mickey Mouse embroidered, paid about seven times what I would ever pay for sweat pants (more than that if you factor in my hatred for sweat pants), and then turned to the more pressing matter.

A diaper.

I took out all the cash I had ($3) and spotted the first kindly looking family with kids and begged them for a diaper. Offered them my $3 for a diaper. In the middle of a giant Disney store in front of a life-sized version of Sleeping Beauty. They gave me the diaper, let me keep my $3, and wished me luck as I sprinted out of the store and back to the restaurant.

You'd think the story would get boring from here.

When I got back to our table Appa told me that things had gotten worse, almost to the point of having to leave (I don't know where we would go though). Without a word I whisked Little Bug up and into the women's restroom...probably the only one in a 50 mile radius without a kid's changing area.

In a tiny stall, with my son's salvaged shirt over his head and his hands being held like handcuffs, I used my free hand to strip him, methodically clean him off using paper towels and my antibacterial wipes, and then clean up the mess we made. His naked body was on the bathroom floor, not to mention me sitting cross legged facing the toilet.

It was so gross; I seriously felt a bit traumatized.

So the story should end here....

As we were working, I could hear people commenting on the smell. I understood; something was seriously foul in my son's diaper. As I figured the restaurant would not want me to carry a super pungent diaper next to all the diners, I wrapped it up and shoved it in the bottom of a garbage can in the bathroom.

However, we were seating directly next to the bathroom and for the next 2 minutes I could see people coming out with their noses still pinched. Talking about the smell. Looking ill.

Oh my God; we were ruining people's meals.

So I had to find the manager and tell him what had happened and suggest they use some room spray and remove the garbage. He was very gracious, but I saw two people complain to him right after that, so I assume he wasn't super stoked.

Nor were the two female employees who we had to watch go in and out as they were "taking care of it."

We finished our fancy meal; me a bit quiet due to disgust and mortification, and left to find me a caramel apple to make up for the night. I'm trying to stay unplugged for this trip, but I had to get this one out, in the hopes it will seem funnier and less horrible.

The biggest irony: Little Bug is having a hard time falling asleep tonight, and I needed to do some research in preparation for tomorrow, so I had to bring the computer into another room. So this entry is being typed from our hotel room bathroom, as I sit cross legged on the floor with the computer propped up on the toilet.

It's how we roll.

Dreams Come True

Tomorrow my little family is heading to the happiest place on earth. I'm ridiculously excited, not only because it's the type of place you are supposed to be excited about, but because this is the first time we are taking a trip just for us. No agenda, no people to visit, no event to attend.

Just sun and family and food and a bunch of strangers dressed as cartoons. Awesome.

Our life is pretty amazing, and I know that, but a slightly-less-than-perfect part of our life is the time we have to spent apart. To just be Appa, Mama, and Little Bug without phones or e-mail or therapists for almost a week makes me giddy.

Like, I might actually cry when we walk through the gates to that magical kingdom and I get to watch my husband and son experience it for the first time.

We have billed this trip as a gift to Little Bug, a congrats for all his hard work over the past 2 years in therapy, an early happy birthday, and a sorry we are getting you a baby brother trip. Every decision we have made has been with him as the main factor.

But as parents, I've found the best gifts you can give to yourself is watching a child delight in a gift.

A Note to My Sons from Their No-Longer-a-Teenager-Mama

My friend Tiffany wrote a blog post a while back about what she wished she would have done differently in high school. She was sharing her list with her high school students and her own sons. She challenged others to do the same, and although I never do stuff like that on this blournal, this topic is one that I would like to preserve for my kids. Sitting down to think about it was pretty heavy, and if my sons can avoid even one of my "mistakes," I will consider it a victory.

What I wish I would have done differently in high school........

I wish I had been kinder to my younger sister. She was dealing with her own insecurities, and I just took mine out on her....for about 16 hellish years. People always told us that we would be close friends when we were adults and I absolutely thought they were full of crap....they were not.

I wish I would have volunteered in the community more.

I wish I would have been more honest with my parents.

I wish I would have said yes when J.J. asked me to senior homecoming (even though I declined nicely). Appa was up at college and wouldn't have minded if I went with this person as friends, and I know it took so much bravery for J.J. to ask me to that dance. He could never catch a break socially, and I so regret being one more instance of that...simply because I was too caught up in myself to be on his arm for a couple hours. Instead I sat at home and acted like an "I'm dating a college boy martyr" while J.J. sat at home because I said no.

I wish I could have found a way to compromise with my parents a bit more on the things that were really important to them. It wouldn't have hurt me, but it would have saved them a lot of hurt.

I wish I would have learned the value of money and how to use what you do (and don't) have responsibly.

I wish I would have backed up and kept the things I wrote, school papers, creative writing, etc. The papers would have come in handy in college and the creative writings would have been a treasure now.

I wish I would have learned to cook as my mother cooked for us each night.

I wish I would have spent more time getting to know my brothers.

I wish I hadn't thrown away the little gold unicorn earrings my dad gave me for my 8th birthday in honor of being able to get my ears pierced. As a teenager I thought the little gold earrings were silly, childlike things I would never wear again. As an adult I mourn the loss of this special gift my daddy had picked out just for his "little lady."

I wish I would have spent a little more time with my friends and a little less time with my boyfriend....even if I thought he was (and still is) the love of my life.

I wish I would have learned how to apply makeup.

I wish I would have cultivated a love for physical activity or learned a sport.

I wish I would have honored my commitments to church more, or at least been able to be brave enough to bow out when I could not longer honor those commitments.

I wish I would have learned the value of chores or the self-discipline of cleaning.

I wish I would have taken better care of the pictures I took, instead of strewing them about to be lost to the four corners of the earth.

I wish we went to more family counseling sessions instead of me canceling them as soon as I got what I wanted out of them.

I wish I had been more aware of how my actions were impacting my little siblings, how my teenage dramatics were scaring them and making them feel worried and sad about the state of their own family.

I wish I never would have dyed my whole head of hair using the spray on highlighter.

And, just for kicks, there are a couple things I am glad that I did in high school.....

I am glad that I was responsible and resourceful enough to get the items and information I needed to make safe choices in my life...despite not being able to share that with my parents.

I am glad that I chased that lone Sunday trick-or-treater down the street and gave him candy when everyone else in our neighborhood (including us) had their lights off in protest of a Sunday holiday, despite my parents' protests. (And in turn made an impression on them that my mother still brings up around Halloween each year.)

I'm glad I worked during the summer and after school....especially that I worked in fast food.

I'm glad I only applied to the colleges of my choice.

I'm glad that my running away consisted of simply running to Ali(ce)'s house and having her mom call my mom to let them know I was going to hang there for the night.

I'm glad I fought for Appa.

I'm glad I didn't say "I love you" until I meant it.

I'm glad that I never touched a cigarette, alcohol, or drugs.

I'm glad that I was open to change.....all the best things about my life now are things I never could have anticipated in high school.

Two Moments Worth Remembering

Two moments that melted my heart yesterday:

Running into Sasha in the hallway and watching Sasha and Little Bug smile and wordlessly link hands to walk outside. Watching them stare at each other with little smiles before waving goodbye. Hearing Little Bug talk about Sasha for the rest of the night. Knowing that Sasha might be gone from Little Bug's daily life, but his impact on my son's spirit is not.

and

Hearing my son calmly murmur "mama" in his sleep over and over again.

1,000 Ways to Love You

Little Bro,

Today we received close to 1,000 pictures and video of you. Pictures from when you were just 8 weeks old to pictures of you crawling and walking and now running.

Even though I am blessed to have many of these same pictures of your older brother, seeing your pictures now, before I have met you, has allowed me to feel like I know you in some way. I know what you look like smiling and sleeping and snotty and drooly and angry and tired and bored and amused and curious. I know how sure of your feet you are now, and how tentative you used to be. I know what your first baby smile looked like and how your voice sounded just as you were finding it. I know what you chose on your Tol, and I know how you only chose your item after a melt down, cuddles from Omma and Appa, and a bottle break.

I'll never be the same.

This wait is awful, and I think it was/is bound to get worse, but being able to share this history with you...having more pictures than day left waiting....it makes it so much more bearable, makes you so much more real. It makes the wait more unreal than you.

I feel so guilty that I got this blessing and others have not. I can't wrap my mind around how randomly lucky I am.

Seeing these pictures today also made me very sad. Not that I was missing these moments with you, but that these beautiful moments are temporary for this family who clearly loves you as a son with a passion that oozes from every film cell. It makes my heart hurt in a way I won't be able to sooth for the rest of my life.

Because I feel like I know them now, too.

As I sit here tonight with your big brother curled up against me, my heart is filled with thoughts of you and him and your families in Korea.

And my heart is so very full tonight.

Safety Kid

As a mama, I know I shouldn't be bummed that my small child is naturally fearful and skeptical of men wearing fake beards and red velvet suits while encouraging children to sit on his lap and tell him what goodies he can bring when he breaks into their homes at night and of knocking on random strangers' doors at night and asking them to give him candy.

But I am.

Eye of the Tiger

Today is a day I have been dreading and preparing for during the last 2 years. Little Bug is set to lose all his therapists when he turns 3 next month and will be getting his services from our local school district (and we're lucky we had the foresight to move into a good district). I'm completely freaked about him losing his excellent ST and PT, but that is for a different day.

Today he gets evaluated by the schools for what services he qualifies for. Our hope and belief is that he should qualify for the excellent half day, language intensive preschool program where an ST and PT will see him during his time there. It's a good school, perfect for almost all his needs (minus the smaller focus on PT), and it fits with our schedule. He can do mornings there and they will bus him directly to his normal school for the afternoon.

However, based on his PT evaluation of 15-18 months (Little Bug is almost 3), as misleading as it is, they want to put him in this really intense one-on-one program for severely disabled children. I'm against that because I don't think that is what he needs, nor do I think removing his social and independent components would be beneficial. Plus, with the full day schedule (full school day, not full work day), we would have to pull him out completely from his normal school...and I would have to quit my job to be there in the mornings and afternoons.

If this is what he needed, I would be on board in a heartbeat. But as his mother, I know it is not. Last time I checked, the only one who has a PhD in Little Bug was me.

I've been going round and round with them because they only see this one number on his paperwork, not HIM. If they saw him, I know they would see he is not a child who needs these wonderful, but inappropriate resources. To help this process, Appa and I decided to set Little Bug up for complete success. We scheduled an early bedtime and canceled all his therapy today.

Because, did I mention, they scheduled the eval for smack dab in the middle of my schedule-oriented, sleep-loving child's nap time?

Of course, the best laid plans always go to hell. Little Bug was up from 11:30 pm to 3:30 am this morning. He spent most of it showing off his first real tune full song mastery ("Skip to My Lou"), but the fall out is he is going to this important eval with less than half the sleep he needs to function well and without a nap.

I did what I could to minimize the fall out. He is wearing his favorite train shirt and I have an entire bag of M&Ms to bribe him out of sleep and into some semblance of a decent mood. But the reality is that he doesn't do well on no sleep and this evaluation will not be his best foot forward.

Which is fine. I spoke to some of his trusted therapists today and they gave me some ammo to use if things start going in a direction we all know they shouldn't go. I'm prepared to get a little feisty if they take his sleepiness for apathy or inability.

They willingly tell you that their interest in therapy is focused on making sure the child can function in public school....not in life or society or in his best self. That's fine, too.

But my interest in therapy, my focus, is broader than that. This is my kid's life, the future of his therapy. Perhaps I won't have to advocate at all for Little Bug today. That would be awesome.

But I am preparing to, just in case. And they should prepare to because a mama bear hopped up on 2.5 bottles of DDP is nothing to shake a stick at.

One Lucky Mama

The last week (or couple of weeks) has been hard for me. I tried to keep it close to the vest, but really, I did a poor job of it. It has been exactly to the day 4 months since I last saw Little Bro's face. That was almost the entire time we waited for Little Bug. I was feeling unlucky and woe is me and all those other highly unproductive and unattractive feelings.

Today/last night Little Bro was scheduled to go in for a check up. We'd requested pictures and an update, more for my sanity than anything else. Although I knew it would take weeks, even months, for these things to get processed and translated (if they even agreed to our update request), I've been totally preoccupied today.

A little bit ago an e-mail popped up, and I opened it without even seeing who it was from. I made a very unladylike noise and did a full spin in my desk chair as I read that pictures.....LOTS and LOTS of pictures, not even from this check up but from earlier and from his foster mother, were on their way to me.

Unheard of quantities of pictures.

I don't deserve the kind of luck I have been getting with this adoption. I'd consider myself lucky with just a couple of sets of red throne pictures...no matter what they actually looked like. To keep getting blessed BIG TIME with connections to our son humbles me and makes me feel ridiculous for complaining at all.

Oh Little Bro, you're teaching me some huge lessons about hope and faith and expectations and silver linings. I'm already a different person because of your presence in my life.

Good Night, Bee Bim Bop

After showing signs of being the only child on the face on the planet who doesn't love Good Night, Moon, Little Bug has finally discovered and fallen in love with the 60-year-old classic.

I'll admit, the book has grown on me, too.

Our favorite part of the book is the bowl full of mush...or as Little Bug calls it, "bee bim bop." Each time we get to a page with the bowl full of mush on it, he points to it and says "bye bye, bee bim bop." Sometimes he kisses the picture. Sometimes he makes pretend eating sounds. But it is always, ALWAYS "bee bim bop."

I hope he never learns to read the word "mush" and grows up reading it as "bee bim bop" to his children.

The Perks

One of the best perks about motherhood is the right and ability to dress your child up in ridiculous outfits and feel justified in attempting to force them to keep the costume on....and enjoy wearing it.

You're dressed head to toe in Elmo, you might not think so, but you actually like it, I insist! Now, stand still and smile at my camera, damn it.

Motherhood is oh-so-fun sometimes!

Six

6 months ago today we made the decision to adopt Little Bro.

In comparison, 6 months from the day we said yes to Little Bug's referral, I was just going back to work after finishing my maternity leave, our moratorium on house guests had been lifted, and I was so comfortable with my son that I was posting his constipation face pictures on our family blog.

The fact that I actively went back to my family blog to verify this information is slightly pathetic.

Honestly, although I have (really) bad days, the wait isn't killing me. Resigning myself from the beginning that the wait will be overly long has oddly helped tremendously....it allows me feel like I have some control over this process....like I CHOSE to endure this wait. Having Little Bug home takes the sting off the wait. I can't go sit morosely in an empty nursery and pout. I don't fixate on mothers in the grocery story, creepily stalking them with my eyes.

Although realistically we're going to be waiting 14-15 months from the moment we said "yes" to bring our son home, and as I type that I acknowledge how ridiculous that is, I don't feel so miserable as I look forward.

Instead I'll just say:

"Here's to the next 6 weeks, 6 months, and 6 years, Little Bro. I love that you are in my life."

More than Words

Last week we finally sent Little Bug's birth mother a letter; or rather, we sent Little Bug's birth mother's file a letter. We were told that if the agency could contact her, they will. Whether she goes to get the letter is her choice, and one we won't know anything about unless she chooses to contact us.

We've sent pictures for her file before, and even written other letters, but none of those letters ever made it over to her file. I'm pretty ashamed of that. Knowing representatives from our Korean agency were in town, we recently sat down to pen and send a letter they would take back with them.

There will never be enough words to express our measure of gratitude and heartbreak for the decision she made, so we kept that to the point and heart felt. Besides, I tried to put myself in her shoes; if I got a letter from the parents of my child almost 3 years after I last laid eyes no him, their feelings would not be what I wanted to focus on.

If it was me, I would want to soak up every word about my boy, every detail I could glean. I'd want to know him.

So we wrote paragraph after paragraph about Little Bug. We wrote about his laugh and social nature. We wrote about his favorite foods and the things he refuses to eat. We wrote about his love of music and dancing. We wrote about his raggies and love for "choo choos." We wrote about his height and weight and his impish need to turn all the lights in our house on and off...just because he can.

We wanted her to have something tangible to hold onto.

I have this hope that perhaps the little details will give her something to anchor her to him. When she sees Elmo or Phung Phungie she can connect with him on some level. She can strip away one tiny bit amount of the unknown.

We also wrote about his spirit. I don't believe she knows that he has any special needs, and we debated mentioning it at all, but ultimately we wanted her to know what a fighter her son is...a trait I truly believe he must have gotten from her. We want her to be proud of him.

And I sent 30+ pictures. Screw the 7-10 pictures they suggest. I know they won't throw the other 25 away. I included candids with genuine smiles and posed pictures with obligatory smiles. I included pictures that reinforced his personality: happy, joyful, silly, loving, sweet, calm, and determined. I included family pictures and picture with Appa and I interacting with him. I included pictures of our daily lives: picnics to the botanical gardens, vacations, camping, celebrations, and down time.

I hope she looks at the pictures and is happy to see him happy.

We also asked for contact. We offered to receive letters or even visit her when we go to Seoul. I have no idea if anything will ever come from that, but I wanted to make sure there was no doubt in her mind that if she wanted contact, we wanted it, too.

She is the mother of our son, of course we do.

And even if she isn't able to contact us or even access the letters and pictures we will continue to send, someday Little Bug might go back to Korea and open her file. And he'll not only see proof of our love for him and the woman who gave him life, but he'll see our absolute, unwavering faith in her love for him.

Misery Loves Company

Last night was horrible.

Little Bug woke up at 10:30 pm and proceeded to be awake until 4:30 am. Most of the time he was babbling or singing or kissing my shoulder and begging to be "up on mama," things that would melt my heart during any other time of day.

I struggle with these nights. Beyond sleep deprivation, my patience is very low and I often have mama moments I'm not proud of. I raise my voice sternly, I don't always count to 10, etc. I'm not the mama I want to be on these nights.

Last night was worse because Little Bug has suddenly developed this belligerent toddler attitude...he willfully disobeys, sticks his tongue out in response to direction, and LAUGHS at me when he is scolded.

My mom once told me a story about a time when she spanked me, and I turned and looked her in the eye and laughed. She had to lock herself in her room until she could calm down because her other option was to become a mama she didn't want to be.

Last night, the scene, substituting the spanking for stern words, repeated itself. Little Bug snapped my last thread by hitting me in the face and then laughing about it. I put him in his bedroom and baby gated him in to let him cry himself into exhaustion. We did this horrible cycle for a while.

The next few hours were not pleasant, most likely for anyone in our neighborhood.

This morning I was 20 minutes late getting out of the house, only to hit freak traffic and construction that added a solid 40 minutes to my 7 minute drive (I take locals, for Pete's sake!) . Little Bug was late for breakfast. I won't even begin to go into how late I was for work.

The whole time I was trying to keep a positive attitude on the morning. I made sure to smile and sing to Little Bug, forgiving him even when I wasn't particularly feeling like it. I breezed into work with an air of "let's do this awesome day," even though I was secretly trying to invent ways to call in sick. I even took a moment to marvel at some of my favorite fall wild flowers.

But yeah, today was blowing.

Almost immediately I connected with two of my Internet-turned-real-life friends who have it much harder than I do in the sleep department. I felt bad complaining about my one-off night, but my wise friend noted that "misery loves company."

And it's true. Because after commiserating a bit with them and having some morning chatter with other mama friends, I was feeling much more myself and willing to face the day with a positive attitude.

And two DDPs and a Red Bull, but the friends have helped a lot, too.

Boo Yah

Let it be remembered for all the ages that after waking up and sobbing "Mama, Mama" for 20 minutes while the beloved Appa tried to calm Little Bug, Mama (me!!) came to the rescue. Less than a minute after I crawled into bed with my baby, spooned him close, and started humming into his hair, he had calmed down and was peacefully resting once again.

Little Bug is the World.Biggest. Daddy's.Boy, so this was a nice little victory for me.

Thanks for throwing me a bone, baby boy.

The Legality and Emotional Investment of Holiday Cards

As I was waiting in line for zone 4 to board (I'm so spoiled when I travel with priority-seating Appa), I struck up a conversation with another off-duty mama heading home to her three kids. It was pretty superficial, but when she asked how many kids I had, my deliberate response was "Two. An almost-3-year-old and a 1 year old."

Usually I qualify this statement to avoid the confusion that results when I am found to only be parenting one child, but this time, with this stranger, I just tested it out on my tongue, the idea of being a two-boy mama. I let her believe that I was heading home to a rambunctious pair of brothers.

It was fun.

Granted, there was a bit truth stretching involved. Oh yes, I totally get the way brothers fight and make up. Oh yes, there isn't anything better than two little boys snuggling on their mama. Mmm humm, mmm humm, mmm humm. However, I consider Little Bro my son, and see little harm in role playing my upcoming reality.

Yet, when I started designing our holiday cards last night, I was stumped as to whether or not to include Little Bro in the signature. He isn't really a member of our family yet, not fully. Something could happen. I'm not really his mama and Appa isn't really his father and Little Bro is decidedly not wishing our 80 friends and family warmest holiday wishes for this holiday season and the new year.

It's okay to role play with a stranger in an out-of-state airport, but it's different when it comes to serious business like holiday cards.

I take my holiday cards VERY seriously.

I asked Appa to weigh in on the subject, and he immediately responded that Little Bro should be in the signature. When pressed why, his response was "why not?"

Appa does not take my our holiday cards VERY seriously.

This period post referral/pre travel is such an ambiguous period. You fall in love with a picture, the idea of a child, but can't truly love the child as your own until you meet him or her. Because legally, the child isn't yours. And beyond that, you don't know what to love about that child. I love the idea and future possibility of Little Bro. I love the way his mouth quirks up and his mad drumming skills. But what else is there that I can love about a child who I only have pictures and some basic eating and bowel movement information on?

Do I love him....YES, not in the same way I love Little Bug.

Not yet, but I have no doubt I will.

To people involved in the adoption process, these conflicting feelings make sense. You can love and claim that child as your own without actually having met him. You can declare your position as his mama even though that position currently belongs legally and physically to two other women. It's all good. It's how we roll in the adoption world. It's our version of bonding with a huge swollen tummy.

To the 60 other people on our holiday list, that might not make as much sense. It might seem more final that it actually is. It might seem more delusional than it actually is.

And yes, I am over thinking this, but holiday cards are basically legal documents to me, so they bring up strong emotions.

Anyway, bottom line is that Little Bro is going on the signature line. Not because we are pretending that he's home and not because he gives two hoots about anyone's holiday season, but because in Appa, Mama, and Little Bug's hearts, right now his name belongs there with ours.

Off Duty Mama

I've been away on business for the last few days. When I haven't been talking about Appa and Little Bug, I've been thinking about them, and when I haven't been thinking about them, I'll suddenly find ways to start thinking about them again.

In short, I've missed my boys.

However

I just got done with fancy dinner where I drank wine and ate silly looking appetizers and didn't see a single beverage with a straw. I immediately went back to my room and took an hour long shower without anyone pounding on the door while screaming "baffffffff!" I hummed and sat on the floor of the tub and let the water spray over my body.

For an hour. Without feeling guilt.

My hotel room, even after a couple days, is still clean and tidy. I've barely turned on the TV, opting instead to read in my king sized bed.

And the sleep

OH, the sleep!

Granted, I have been working like 15 hour days, but the few precious hours in the evening more than make up for the punishing daylight hours. I've thoroughly enjoyed taking care of just me for a couple days.

Yet, as much as I love having six super soft pillows all to myself, I've purposely left a little toy train in my purse the entire time, as a little reminder of who I really am.

A mama...who just happens to be off duty for one more night.

Brown Eyed Boy

My son has impossibly dark brown eyes. I've always marveled at how strikingly dark and deep they are. So deep in fact, that I have trouble seeing his pupils. (I even told a nurse once during a my first post-tumble/possible concussion call that his pupils were not visible because his eyes were so dark.) His expressive eyes are one of my favorite things about him. I have spent hours, probably equating to full days at this point, staring into them.

Recently, when I was strapping him into his car seat after a productive outing at the big-box store, the late afternoon light hit his eyes just right....and my breath caught in my throat.

His eyes are not actually dark. I mean, they are because they look that way 99% of the time, but the actual eyes themselves are not. They are the most amazing, rich color of hot chocolate with milk. They are a leathery brown color. They are smooth and evenly saturated all the way around his little black pupils.

His eyes are beautiful in a way I never expected.

I sat there, marveling at this color I had never seen in the 2+ years I'd been staring into his eyes. He seemed amused by my open mouth gaping. We probably sat that way, a mama and son staring deeply into each others eyes in the parking lot of T2rget, for close to a minute.

You know, the most sentimental of places.

Since then, I've been trying to catch another glimpse of his true eye color, but it hasn't happened yet. Maybe it won't for a while more. But I've been thinking about that color, rolling it around in my head, since that moment.

Just one more reason Little Bug is such a beautiful child and one more reason I feel lucky to get to experience the hidden joys of being a mama.

My Mommy Voted for Obama

Little Bug is exploding with language. It's so fun to listen to him explore using words to share his thoughts. As his mama, I think I, better than anyone else in the world, can speak Little Bugese. Many of his words are the same grouping of sounds with just slight differences. We often run into situations where Little Bug tries talk to someone less familiar with his words and I need to act as a translator.

This weekend, I was tempted to just let people go it alone, just for giggles.

Little Bug's newest word is "grandma." He started mimicking it on Friday afternoon with a garbled "abamama," but soon found his groove and settled into a very defined version:

"Obama."

I can honestly see how "grandma" sounds like "obama" to a little child. It's definitely not as big of a stretch as "uhduh" is for "balloon" or "uhzuh" is for "raggie." To us, it was just a really great (and cute) execution of a long word.

To the people at the botanical gardens and the store who watched my son scream "OBAMA" with joy and wail "OBAMA" with sadness (depending on the situation and the crazy mood swings of a 2 year old), it was probably a little surprising to see this small child so passionate about our president.

Don't get me wrong, I'll go on record saying I was *this close* to buying a "Babies for Obama" shirt for Little Bug during the election. He actually owned and wore a shirt to his first voting experience with a donkey on it. A while ago, when I thought it was cute and funny to use kids as billboards for their parents, I would have been all over teaching him to chant "Obama" and busting it out as a party trick.

But I wised up over the last 2 years and realized it doesn't do Little Bug any good to be the vehicle for his mama's causes. He's got about 14-16 years before he needs to start thinking politics.

Anyway....

When people were doing double takes and giving us stink eyes or winks and nods as Little Bug chanted "obama, obama, obama" over and over, I didn't feel amused as much as I felt a little weird. (One woman gave me a scathing look and harrumphed her kids away from Little Bug...) Even though he wasn't actually saying anything political, I felt this urge to scream out

"I'm not stealing my kid's childhood by forcing him to be a political puppet!"

Because the truth is, I'd probably judge someone else a tiny bit, too, no matter how cute it was.

On the other hand, I'm so stoked that Little Bug conquered another word. He's perfected his version of it and has started pairing it with other words to make simple sentences. He's got another word to add to his growing arsenal. To me, it's cute and awesome and worth every ounce of pride I have.

Yes. He. Can.

For Every Few Jacobs, There is a Sasha

The chanting of "No, Little Buggie, No" in the morning hasn't stopped completely. Some days the three boys just ignore Little Bug by enthusiastically welcoming every child except Little Bug. Little Bug's excellent teacher has total control of the situation, but it still makes my heart very sad to know and see that Little Bug is being actively shunned. There is nothing more as a mother that I can do.

It's up to the "Sashas" of the world, now.

Little Bug's special friend aged into the 3-year-old room a couple months ago. Although they rarely see each other now, Little Bug still talks about Sasha and keeps a special place in his heart for his first best friend. Yesterday as Little Bug and I were walking past the 3-year-old class, Andrew, a little boy who never showed preference toward Little Bug one way or the other but always followed Sasha's lead, spotted Little Bug walking by. Andrew, completely unprovoked, ran to the window and started banging on it, screaming "Hi, Little Bug; hi, Little Bug!"

My son got a big smile on his face and got right up against the window. The two of them stood like that, pointing and waving and yelling hi, for about 2 minutes. I finally dragged Little Bug away and out to the car, only to see Andrew pounding on the outside window to continue to say good bye to my boy.

The smile on my son's face was mega watt; I am sure mine matched.

The chanting Jacobs of the world are always going to be there. They are probably going to be, in some form, the norm rather than the exception. But, for every few chanting Jacobs there will be a Sasha or Andrew.

And the Sashas and Andrews of the world are worth a million of the chanting Jacobs.

Macho, Macho Man

A couple days ago Appa and I had the chance to pick Little Bug up from school together. Whenever Appa surprises Little Bug at school he gets *really* excited. Me, I'm no big thang, but Appa....it's like Christmas.

Little Bug was in the potty room when we walked in. The other little kids started chanting "Little Bug's Mommy and Daddy." THAT got his attention. His little head poked up over the swinging door and his eyes lit up.

"DadDDDDDDDDDDa!"

He kept chanting excitedly as his teacher tried to wrangle a diaper on him. He was chattering away to his teacher and would randomly yell "DadDDDa" in joy. Nothing could rain on this kid's joy parade.

Until he got a touch too excited and pushed the swinging door out too fast. In the blink of an eye, he was on his hands and knees as the door swung harmlessly away.

The moment suspended for a second until it became clear nothing had actually happened other than Little Bug clumsily falling as the door opened. He was fine.

He looked up from his hands and knees into the eyes of his friends and his teacher and his mama and dada.

And then he wailed.

His teachers were shocked. I was shocked. Little Bug was busting out his serious, I.AM.INJURED tears and lip quiver and wails. Not because he was hurt; he wasn't.

He was surprised, a little scared, and embarrassed. Emotions that are never fun to feel.

I've been noticing more and more of this lately, a social awareness, a desire not to be the object of laughter unless it is on his terms. It has been fascinating to watch develop. It's also very age appropriate, which is always a huge bonus in our book.

So when the tears dried and the hiccups stopped we gave him a chance to show off some of the new skills he is pretty proud of. He was back to feeling like a king in no time.

My little macho man.

Hope

Hope is a funny thing. As a mother, I feel like it is my job to have hope and optimism for my child and my family. However, as a person, I worry that hope will ultimately lead to having my heart crushed.

It's happened before. Infertility makes hope a pretty dirty word. I still cringe when I hear it.

Faith is different. I am getting pretty good at keeping faith for my family. I have faith that Little Bug will continue to grow and develop and be the best he can be. I have faith our family will weather whatever storms we face (not that we are currently really facing any). I have faith in Appa and I as parents. I have faith in our choice to adopt Little Bro.

But hope....hope scares me. I don't have total faith in hope.

Hope can buffer your heart from so much pain and sadness, but that buffer isn't based on anything other than abstract hope. There will come a time when the thing that is hoped for either does or doesn't materialize, and when that time comes, if it doesn't swing hope's way, the blow is devastating.

I never want to feel it again if I can help it.

Adoption is all about faith and hope. I'm really good at one and really crappy at the other. I've found myself feeling alienated by those who chose to hope for the impossible. I find myself unable to even entertain the idea of hope, even when it is dangled before me in a precarious half-official way.

I'm not better off for it, but it's the only way my mind works now.

So I struggle to pair my faith that things will work out, even if I don't like the way they go about working out, with my lack of hope in anything extraordinary. I try to remember that many of the extraordinary things I chose not to hope for actually DO happen. Hope would have been rewarded.

I want to raise my children to have faith and hope. I can only do that through example.

So today I am trying something new. A teeny bit of hope has sprouted in my heart. Hope that something extraordinary could possibly, just maybe happen. I'll only share this secret hope with Appa, and he can nurture it to.

And we'll see....

The Best Part of Adoption is _________

The best thing about my adoption journey: my sons.
The second best thing about my adoption journey: the friends I've made.

When I brought my son home for Korea, I thought my little Korean cupcake was going to be the only real "addition" to my life. I had no idea that the other mothers I would meet through adoption would becomes such a special, important part of my life.

I'm grateful that the biggest blessing in my life has ushered in so many others.

A Freaking Awesome Hyung

Someone very wise reminded me last night, somewhat out of the blue, that less than a year ago Little Bug was still almost 2 months away from even being able to stand up by himself. She reminded me that he's only been walking independently for 9 months.

IN FACT, 8 days from today will be the anniversary of his first step ever.

I've been thinking a lot lately about having two little boys and a part-time gig as a "single mother". I get a little nervous when I think about some of the challenges it will bring, especially with Little Bug's needs.

And then, thanks to someone wise, I remember that we still have a while yet before that time comes. A while that will see all of us growing and changing.

In my heart, I don't believe we'll meet Little Bro in less than 7-8 months from now. I just truly don't see it being possible.

So I look to how much has changed with Little Bug in less than a year and I know the big brother who will welcome Little Bro home in May or June will be leaps and bounds more amazing than he is now.

And he's pretty freaking amazing right now, so I'm thinking I don't have much to worry about on that front.

My Favorite Stress Reliever

Yesterday was a bad day.

I was home, not feeling well, dealing with work stuff, pushed publish on that adoption manifesto, and was having these crazy panic attacks all day long. I haven't had panic attacks like that in years.

Of course, like most anxiety, it was over very little.

But it was consuming me, making me ill, freaking me out.

When it came time to get Little Bug from school, I spent the whole drive over swearing that I would not let our evening be consumed by my distraction. I didn't want Little Bug to feel my stress. Honestly, I wasn't sure I could actually do it, but I wanted to try for him.

As super cheesy as it sounds, seeing him was like a balm to me. His smile and laughter over the flute section of "Hello, Everybody" as it played in the car CD player broke something in me that was wound really tight. We ended up having a fabulous box-cooked and steamed veggies meal and enjoyed spending time outside on a glorious Fall evening.

Occasionally it would creep back into my thoughts, this anxiety I was feeling, but it was surprisingly easy to fall right back into step with my boy.

We rounded out the evening by cuddling together and reading four books (something that hasn't happened in a while) and a charmed and unicorn/kitten/rainbow early bedtime. I even allowed myself to drop the sleep training nazi hat and cuddle him all the way to sleep.

I needed him last night.

Being a mama is stressful. We give and give and give, but I usually forget how much Little Bug gives, too. His toddler antics might increase my anxiety sometimes, but his toddler adoration is also one of my biggest stress relievers.

My baby woke up in a fantastic mood this morning, and I agreed to his request of "up on Mama." We watched cartoons for a couple minutes together, my hair dripping wet as my brain wound up for today. I found that, although so many of the stressors were still there, I'd pushed passed the silly panic portion and gotten a handle on things. Thanks in no small part to my awesome son.

Today has actually been a stressful, but pleasant day.

Suck on that, anxiety.