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.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, November 22, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, November 12, 2010
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.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
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 andran 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.
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
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.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, November 5, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, November 1, 2010
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.
But I am.
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