In Between Doses

It's been over a month since I wrote in this space.

Honestly, I didn't have words.  To blournal the small things seemed wrong when the BIG things were looming.  But the BIG things felt too overwhelming to write about, and frankly, I just didn't want to vent and moan.

But the truth is, that little pill kicks some serious baby butt.  The first few weeks were filled with side effects--horrible, sad side effects that left my sweet boy in physical and emotional pain.  That, in turn, left Appa and I nearly bereft for him.  Once the side effects tapered off, it became apparent the dose was too low, so we had to increase the dose again, restarting the side effects.

Swallow, melt down, repeat.  Swallow, melt down, repeat.

The bad news is that I have a mother's intuition that this dose/particular medication isn't going to be the right fit either.  The good news is I have total faith in our doctor and appreciate the slow and conservative approach to medicating a child off label (due to age).

The best news is that Little Bug is still thriving and continuing to improve his knowledge and capability to help himself.  We've made some big decisions for his education this Fall that we hope will give him his very best shot at making the most of his last pre-K year.  Although we are very much in the present with him right now, we're serious about positioning him for his academic future, and I am excited to start taking advantages of the many unique resources we have available.

As an aside: giving up a master bathroom to get into a really good school district was one of the best decisions I ever made.  Way to go, me 6 years ago!

So, the thing is, I need to move on from this.  Swallow, melt down, repeat is going to continue for a while, and I can't just censor myself anymore while I wallow in the cycle with my baby love. I'm going to make a concerted effort to blournal more about the daily things like I used to.  Maybe I will blournal about Little Bug's new trick of taking his underoos off and peeing on the floor when he gets angry or about Little Bro's daily expository speeches.  Maybe I'll blournal about my baby sister moving the the freaking Philippines for an 18-month mission or how she and I wasted an hour and a half watching possibly the most pointless movie in the whole world simply because Adam Brody was in it (my choice).

And Lee Min Ho is filming a new drama.  Since Appa just bought me the complete Rosetta stone for Korean, I'm now officially on my way to becoming fluent in my children's' birth language.....right?

Or maybe I will blournal about the week we just spent on my Aunt's farm in Michigan.  How Little Bug and Little Bro had smiles mile wide on their faces from morning to night with attitudes to match.  How perfect it was.

And can be.

And is.

"Mommy, I'm TWO"

Today Little Bro acted like.....a 2 year old. Gasp! He was that kid in Korean class today: crying, screaming NO, ripping apart crafts, throwing things, etc. 

By the time I dragged him and his big brother (who is still doing really well with the oil therapy and was awesome today in class and was most definitely not that kid in class today), I was pulling out my hair trying to figure out what was going on with my littlest one.

Somewhere on the interstate, it hit me.  Little Bro IS 2 years old.  He has a right to act nuts in the middle of a class.  He should be expected to be argumentative, naughty, loud, grumpy, disobedient, etc.  And I'm not really supposed to get why.  He's 2.

Surprisingly, this is kind of a new thing for me to focus on.  Little Bro usually spends times with 3- and 4-year-olds, not 2 year olds, so I don't see a lot of the terrible 2s in action anymore.  Even more deceiving, Little Bro has the soul of an 80-year-old man and a vocabulary to match.  Quite simply, I forget he is only 2 because in so many ways he doesn't act like a 2 year old.  And that isn't a bad thing, but it makes it harder for me to keep age-appropriate expectations for him sometimes.  I'm proud of him for being so mature and living up to high expectations, but I shouldn't begrudge him his rite of passage in toddlerhood, either.

I am thinking about teaching him to say "Mommy, please give me a break, I'm only 2."  Considering he managed to learn to count to 3 in Korean without any prompting or help after learning it in Korean class today while his head was spinning in circles, I think he could knock that sentence out no problem.

Mama Bear Doesn't Care About You

Today Little Bug walked up to watch a child at the children's museum play with an activity.  He gently reached out to touch the toy boat and the child, who could not have been more than 4 himself, swatted his hand away and yelled "No. You are a bad boy."

Oh hell no.

In the back of my head, my mama bear roared, but out of my mouth came a smiling, sweet, quiet mama voice that cooed "Oh, he isn't a bad boy. He is a good boy."


Because he is, and he was being a good boy.

The kid's response was an even more aggressive "NO.  He is a BAD boy."

H.E.L.L  N.O.  Did I mention his mother was sitting right.next.to.him and never so much as flinched.  What do you do with that?

At that point, I was done.  I calmly repeated that he is a good boy and told Little Bug we were moving on to another activity.  I kept a calm, smiling face at all times.

And that mother had the NERVE to glare at ME as we walked away.

As I later recounted the tale to Appa, he asked if I said something to the horrible mom.  And the fact is, I didn't.  Here's why:

I try to use social interactions to teach my kids how to act, like we all do.  In this case, my only concern was for Little Bug.  I wanted him to know he was not a bad boy, and everything I said to that little boy reinforced that to Little Bug.  He isn't a bad boy, and it isn't acceptable for anyone to call him that.  But I wasn't going to say anything to the mom because I don't want Little Bug to learn that escalating a problem is a good idea.  She didn't say anything to me, so me saying something to her would have been an offensive move.  I want Little Bug to feel comfortable and calm enough to remove himself from a situation if he needs to.

But most of all, I don't give a crap about that mom or her kid.  It's not my job to teach her kid manners or to teach her how to raise a child to not grow up as an @hole that no one likes.  It is my job to teach my son how to be confident in himself and his ability to protect himself when he has to interact with said @holes.

I am his teacher and I reserve myself for him and him alone, and that is her and her son's loss.

PS: Screw you, lady.

Forgiveness

There is no greater lesson than the forgiveness of your children.

Today was not a great mommy day for me.  All three of us woke up in bad moods, but I didn't do my duty to rise above the occasion and was short, distant, and even a bit loud.  Of course, I tried to salvage the day by spending almost all of it outside, taking a long bike ride to reduce stress, and even napping, but the evening ended with Mommy still not being her best.  As we read books in our jammies, I felt so horrible for being such a crummy mom to them today, and I imagined them both laying sadly in bed being angry with me after I turned out the lights and left their rooms.

But none of it mattered to them in the end.  They showered my scowling face with cuddles and kisses and murmurs of "i loube ooo"s.  They nestled their heads into my chest and shoulder and relaxed in my embrace.  They forgave me for today and let me still just be the mommy who loves them more than anything else, who makes them feel safe, and who is the one whose kisses are needed to fall asleep.

Surely I can find it in myself to forgive them just as quickly for things like willful disobedience and epic tantrums.  Their example of forgiveness is inspiring.

The Question

We're a conspicuous family, and I've always fielded multiple questions a week from strangers regarding Little Bug and whether he was adopted or if I was just the devoted nanny.  Usually the questions were just varying degrees of "is he adopted?", but I realized today that ever since Little Bro came home, that question rarely comes up.

Now, the new, more subtle was of determining how I came to be wrangling two small Koreans is a different, seemingly innocent question that I literally get 2-3 times a week.

"Are they brothers?"

And although the snarky responses you read in all the adoption literature comes to mind, my go to answer falls in line with my general rule on these sorts of questions...simple and honest.

"Yes."

But the thing is, I know that isn't what they are asking.  I know they aren't using the word brothers the way I am.  I know they are asking about blood and biology and a single birth mother and some history or story that is bound to be interesting.  But, if that was all it was, me choosing to ignore the implications behind the question, that would be fine.  It's the follow-up comments that I have been shocked to discover nearly always follow my simple and honest answer.

In the last week alone, these are some of the comments I have received in response to my answer.

"How wonderful you were able to keep them together."
"I can tell.  Their eyes have the same shape."  [Really?!  Here is a news flash, nice lady handing out chocolate milk samples at Costco,  there are around 50 million other people in the world who have the same "shape" of eyes as my kids.  I am pretty sure they aren't all related.  If they were, Lee Min Ho would be having dinner at my place...like every night.]
"What a sad story with such a happy ending!"
"You can tell."
"I didn't know you could adopt siblings from Asia."
"They're twins, right?"

So here is my dilemma.  I really like my less-is-more approach in general because it works for my personality, but in this case, I am finding it increasingly important to offer up information speaking to the implication of this question.  It's not a huge deal right now with my boys understanding what is being said, but when they get older, I don't want to have to continue the conversation with these strangers in order to set the record straight when their assumptions become clear, nor do I want to lie or hide the fact that my children are not biological brothers, because it doesn't make them any less of brothers, and I want them to know that and own that.

I have started practicing with the answer "they are now," and that seems to get the point across, but also tends to fluster people and make them backpedal, which makes me feel bad.  Then again, it's not offensive, so perhaps I shouldn't care that I've made people who asked an awkward question feel awkward themselves.  But even that answer feels like it has a shelf life, as it might be a little odd to say "they are now" when they've been brothers for 10+ years or something.

It's the most interesting of transitions from going from one child to two, and I find it has made our family even more conspicuous, more interesting to strangers, and more vulnerable to prying questions.

But for the record, as far as I am concerned, the only answer that is really true is "yes."

They are brothers.

Airplane 0, Mama 1.

I owned that airplane today.

I don't want to relive the meltdown that happened in the beautiful mountain-nestled major airport this morning as I tried to calm my shrieking 2 year old (who was pissed for no reason other than life was boring to him in that moment) while my 3 year old spent a full torturous 25 minutes loudly and violently throwing himself on the ground in fury that we could not board the white plane that had just pulled up to our gate.

And I certainly can't relive the horrific 45 minutes it took me to get my nap-deprived, stamina-challenged 3 year old from the end of our very big home Midwest airport through baggage claim and out to the passenger pick up.  I was this close to crying right along with my nap deprived, hot inexplicably screaming 2 year old as his older brother gave up and went limp and refused to walk anymore in the middle of terminal C during rush hour. Your baby laying on the floor in the middle of one of the largest airports in the country is seriously gross.

But on that airplane, I OWNED it.  Oh yes, I saw the cringing, dirty looks as the other passengers took their seats next to this poor little young mama with two toddler boys shooting energy out of their eyeballs.  I don't blame them....I fully believed those 2.5 hours would be hell on earth.  But I was determined to do my best to suck all that hell into myself and make things as easy as possible for my fellow doubters.  My voice is hoarse tonight from talking, singing, soothing, teasing, and scolding nonstop.  When I stopped talking, reading, singing, or playing my kids started entertaining themselves by dueling screams of fun, so I just kept right on talking and talking and talking.

I even successfully got us all to the bathroom for a diaper change.  That alone drew some impressed looks from some ladies.  I consider it one of my finer motherhood moments.

And I should mention that I hate flying VERY much and spent the whole time secretly thinking the plane was going to crash at any moment.  Making up songs about applesauce and poop (Little Bug's requests for the day) is not easy to do when your internal monologue is making peace with God before your plane goes down.

But as people passed us on their way off the plane, a number of men and women commented to me on how well-behaved my boys were and how impressed they were.  Although I was proud of the way my boys and I had handled the flight, it was validating that we did well enough for people to comment to us.

Sometimes that is the best praise a mama can get is that her kids are well behaved.

The Joy of Parenthood

There are some days where the joy of being a parent just wraps you up in warm fuzzy happiness.

Today was not that day for Appa and I.

Little Bro is teething some pretty major back teeth (3), and it turns out that when you add one passionate and dramatic Big Star and three back molars, you get something that resembles a tiny but fearsome Korean monster whose unnatural war cries can immobilize its enemy with burst ear drums. The puking is a pretty neat trick to protest the pain meds, too. And of course, pain anywhere is pain everywhere, so the act of wearing shoes was probably something the United Nations would agree was torture.

I will be honest when I say it almost came down to rock, paper, scissors to decide who got the....pleasure....of putting our smallest son to sleep tonight. As I am typing this from his room while he rolls around and glares at me for stopping singing time at 50 renditions of the Elephant Song, let it be known that I took one for the team.

Little Bug, our gentle giant of a child, must have watched some National Geographic show recently on toddlers because he suddenly realized that he can and should be directly defiant or oppositional to EVERYTHING his mother or father say, suggest, hypothesize, consider, mentally consider, or send via smoke signal. And when the ten+ time outs get annoying, he decided to kick it up a notch and throw something at his brother's head, resulting in a nasty looking bruise and a NEEDED Mommy timeout so things didn't go freaking nuclear.

I love my children fiercely, I really do, but as soon as both my heavily medicated life joys are snoring away, Appa and I are cracking open a bottle of wine and toasting to the joys of bedtime.

The Pain

I've been lucky in motherhood so far.  I've never had to endure the pain and trauma that you hear other mothers lament about.  I've experienced disappointment, sure, but never the despair of such a final act.


I'm talk, of course, about a bad hair cut on my baby.

This blow is particularly hard because I have been waiting for months past his usual hair cut time to grow it long.  I wanted the long Korean sideburns and the sweeping hair.  I pushed past the annoying frizz phase and have been basking in the glow of Asian hipster hair for a while now.  I loved my kid's hair.  And when a little boy is 3, what his mama thinks about his hair is the only thing that really matters.

I only wanted a touch off the back to reduce the mullet look and a little clean up.  He was so close to having perfectly coiffed K-Drama hair.  The stylists assured me that she understood, and I hovered over her, just in case.

But in the moment it took me to grab my kid a sucker, the damage was done.  "Fixing it" only made it worse, and I was one of those passive mothers who decided to just smile and thank her to avoid her continuing to "fix it" rather than throw myself on the floor and wailing (which is what I wanted to do).

And now I am faced with my beautiful, adorable son who looks like he could be cast as the child version of a character from "Dumb and Dumber."  My new goal is simply to have it looking decent by the time we go to Korea.  It looks like extra vitamins are in order for him and a chill pill for me.

Oh, the pain.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

Here's a Tip

On Friday morning I got on a 6 am flight with my 2.5 year old son. I was running on about 3 hours of sleep, but I had my act together.

Snacks, check.
New toys to stagger as distractions, check.
Favorite books, check.
Extra seat, check.

But let me repeat, 6 am flight, one parent (who hates flying), 2.5 year old child.

Little Bug was, I'll admit, whiny. BUT, in the grand scheme of aggravating baby/plane experiences, this was nothing. His whining was intermittent and not very loud. I was doing a diligent job keeping him from standing on the seats or bothering anyone else.

Apparently I do a crappy job.

About 30 minutes into the flight the woman behind me said, very loudly, "Excuse me, is he going to take a nap sometime soon? I was hoping to get some sleep on this flight."

I was blown away. Her tone was completely hostile and I was mortified, on top of already being frustrated with my kid on my own. I stammered an profuse and humble apology.

Apparently I do a crappy job at apologizing, too.

She went on to ask if I had any medication I could give him (I had heard her telling a stranger before the flight started that she always medicated her step kids and never once had them bother other people on the flight) and told me "he hasn't stopped talking since we stepped on board."

Let's recap.

6 am flight, one parent (who hates flying), 2.5 year old child (in speech therapy).

Instead of the second, even more mortified apology, I should have said, "F You, lady."

But I didn't. Instead, I apologized a couple more times and turned around and burst into quiet tears. And I cried, on and off depending on Little Bug's volume level (which, for the record, was never really loud, but pretty consistent for the 4-hour flight). The mean woman drank three mini bottles of vodka (recap: 6 am flight) and made sure everyone knew it was because she was being driven to drink.

Here's the thing. I HATE imposing on others. I get that little kids can be annoying. I try my very hardest to make sure my family isn't causing other people discomfort. I was alone and trying SO hard. This woman's comments, especially so freaking early into the flight, terrified me. And truly, my kid wasn't that annoying to anyone but myself.

When the flight ended the woman told me "Honey, I'm sorry. I am just really tired. You're a great mom and didn't lose your cool the whole flight."

I just stared at her and gave a mumbled thanks. What did she expect me to do? Scream at him? Drink myself into a stupor. Give up and let him throw stuff at her (as tempting as that was).

Yes, I am a good mom, and I worked hard and did a really good job on that flight. It wasn't easy or fun, but I am proud of the way I handled it. I did not, however, need her to tell me that.

Little Bug wasn't the only one on that flight who needs to learn to keep their mouth shut.

Shut Up

Little Bug has taken a liking to the front seat of our car and the keys. Last weekend Appa let him play "pretend driver" in our car, and although this was not the first time he has played this game, Little Bug acted like he was some possessed kid on crack. It was so funny and so very odd after a solid 10 minutes of mania.

Since then, Little Bug has M-E-L-T-E-D D-O-W-N every time we go out to the car and his horrible mama forces him into his car seat. The keys in the ignition are basically the cruelest taunt to him, and he wails and signs "please" for at least the first 2 minutes of each car ride.

It's awesome.

Last night, after an afternoon of everything being a little off, I drove the 8 minutes drive home from the big box store with Little Bug yelling (not crying) the whole time about the blasted keys. I even had to use my loud, forceful voice, which I have only ever used a handful of times with him....to no avail other than making me feel worse. When I parked in our driveway and tried to get him out of his car seat instead of giving him the keys (yelling doesn't equal getting privileges, which he knows), he got right in my face and started screaming in my ear...about the stupid keys.

I whipped my head around and formed the words.......

"SHUT UP."

Yes, I was actually going to tell my 2.5-year-old to shut up. Forcefully. Right in his chubby baby face. With the lips that I kiss him goodnight with.

Thankfully, as the first sound began to come out of my mouth, I bit my tongue and took a deep breath. Saying that wouldn't have been appropriate, kind, loving, or a good example....all things I should be as a mother.

Instead, I told him (again) that his behavior was not appropriate, took him inside, and let him wail it out on his own until some stickers caught his eye and the keys were forgotten until this morning.

Even though I didn't actually say it, I felt bad that it even almost happened. What kind of mama tells her child to shut up?

Cuddle Down

I love my baby, yes I do. But he was a freaking monster tonight.

Granted, he is getting over being sick and had a really bad night last night and back-to-back therapy sessions today, so he had a right to be fed up, but by the time we dialed up Appa for our nightly video chat, I was about ready to lock myself in a padded room. When we signed off, I had a moment of panic and actually whined out loud "don't leave me alone with him......."

With an hour until bedtime looming in front of us (or rather, looming in front of me since Little Bug's head was spinning too much for him to notice anything looming), I knew that the night could end one of two ways: either we love on each other or we don't.

I picked door A, and we cuddled in to watch one episode of Classical Baby and his latest favorite music video (a Scholastic book animated version of Wheels on the Bus) on repeat no less than 7 times. By the time his eyes got droopy and he started to yawn, we were tangled up in each other in a really warm cuddle.

An hour earlier, I would have scoffed at the notion that I was going to be sad to put him to bed, but amazingly, that hour of cuddle time was exactly what I needed to rekindle that spark of disappointment I feel every time I have to say good night to him.

To the Batmobile

Appa and I have had a couple of days to wallow in self pity and stew in righteous indignation on behalf of our son, but after all that, we're still left with a whole lot of waiting. It's impossible for me to just stop everything until we get our approval, so we've come up with a plan that will work for our family to help us make it through the wait.

We're going to continue to create and send care packages over to Korea with videos and voice recordings and small tokens of appreciation. Little Bro's foster mother might not be able to get them yet, but when she does, she will see proof that we did not take these months of waiting lightly or that he was not being loved by his family. Who knows, maybe if we fill our Korean social worker's desk drawer so full of packages she will just slip some to the foster mother in an effort to get them out of her hair...

We're going to continue with our Korean lessons with a little extra vigor. Every time I recite the hard sounds of the Korean "alphabet," I'm mentally sticking it to a certain someone. That makes no sense, but I get such satisfaction out of the mental image.

Gi-yuk, ni-eun, di-guet, li-uel, mi-em, BI-UP!
(I'm picturing myself in some spandex superwoman outfit, complete with thigh high boots, a cape, and awesome high kick. Take THAT, M.D.)

Today marks 5 weeks of waiting for this approval. Next week, at the 6-week mark (and 3 weeks after we last went rounds asking for some advocacy), we will try again to see if we can even get a status check. Even though I can say with pride that all of my interactions with everyone involved have been polite and not crazy-mamaish, even in the worse of it, I think Appa might take this round of communications to give the tender relationships a little more breathing room.

We're going to revisit with our new agency the idea of traveling over early to visit Little Bro. Granted, we can't do this until we get approval, but it's been helpful to agree that this is something we are going to press for. It's doubtful we can make it work, since our new agency is against it always and the Korean agency has temporarily put a hold on the visits, but we are planning to shamelessly use his status as a "waiting child" to see what we can work out. Honestly, I only feel slightly guilty about label-dropping in this case.

And, most tangibly, because we've been through this process before and know what is expected of us, we are doing all the leg work we can ahead of time. We're getting our copies and letters and pictures together and filling out all the immigration forms. When that approval comes, my family will need only the time it takes to overnight something to the agency to be done on our end.

Does this whole situation suck? Hell yes, but we have to move on and can't continue to be sad and angry (me especially) all the time. Appa's sister is coming into town this weekend for a baby shower, and Little Bug is going to love performing for her. It's going to be super fun.

Light, sunshine, parties, paperwork, online shopping, ziplock bags, hangual, and first steps somewhere in Korea.....It's going to be a great weekend.

A Warring Heart

I'm floundering.

On one hand, things are going really well at home. Little Bug is doing awesome in his therapies. He is developmentally making some great strides and emotionally he is becoming much more mature (as in, appropriate for a 2 year old). He's pushing back when he should and giving in sometimes when he should. He is kissing us more and just generally communicating better. He is even trying to run, bless his little braced-up, mall walking self. Tantrums and all, he is a truly amazing child and a joy.

Things are also going great in Korea. Little Bro is probably close to walking, if not already taking a first step. His foster family seems like the type of people we would choose to hang out with in normal life. He's healthy and happy and right on track. We've been spoiled beyond belief at the pictures we received of him in the last month. Watching his video yesterday solidified something very real for Appa and I.

He is the child we are pledged to. We want him. We want his little gummy grin and his little butt rocking self. We want that living, breathing child who is so much more than a picture.

On the other hand, his adoption is at a standstill. A horrible, awful, standstill that brought on a second heavy sob fest at work yesterday when I got off the phone with our new agency. There is no outside the box, no shortcut, no strings to pull. We are in limbo between two agencies, neither of which can truly commit to us at this point, and ultimately at the mercy of one woman who will most likely cause our acceptance papers to go to Korea 2.5 months after we "accepted" Little Bro's referral.

Only then can his 11 month countdown start and because of this we are starting to adjust our expectations for the reality that we will very possibly miss our son's second birthday.

Only then can he receive the care packages we have lovingly sent over to show him who his family is and thank his foster family and celebrate his birthday. The packages that are sitting on a desk, unable to be released to a child who technically does not have a family waiting for him yet.

In the video you can hear the Korean social worker asking about us, about why we have not sent in our papers. They even use our names. You can hear our agency social worker try to optimistically guess when we might be able to get the acceptance over so the ball can keep moving, so he can receive our pictures and videos and gifts. To know it will, barring some miracle, be at least another 2 months before they can put those packages in his foster mother's hands makes my heart hurt.

It broke my heart yesterday.

So I feel adrift right now. I've been trying to hold off blournaling some of this because I really don't love writing the "woe is me" posts, but I literally have to get this off my chest or it will consume me more than it already is. On one hand, I have so much to be thankful for, so much to celebrate, so much happiness and sunlight and beach days and chance encounters and adorable video. On the other hand, I feel chained down, unable to fully give myself over to all the joy in my life knowing that there is this one HUGE problem that is seriously affecting the four members of my little world, especially my big star.

How do I reconcile that?

The Bob

This morning my kid woke up on the wrong side of the universe. Usually a delightful morning person, this morning he whined and grumped and insisted on being held....while I did my hair, while I brushed my teeth, while I got dressed. The thing was, when I was holding him, he was STILL being a pill.

The only thing that made him happy was wearing one of his bibs (or bob, as it is called in his world), specifically a dirty bib he found. I let him wear it around for a while and decided to allow him to wear it in the car on the way to school after his head almost exploded when I tried to take it off to put his coat on. He seemed mildly pleased to be wearing it in the car...until I tried to take it off him before we got out.

Long story short, he wore the bob into school.

I thought for sure I could get it off him at school while he was distracted. Instead, he took his little hands and held it close to his body, cooing "bob, bob, bob." Finally, because I was mortified that it was dirty, 15 minutes late for work, and rapidly being surrounded by other kids who wanted to wear bibs and eat food, I yanked it off him and promised he could wear another bib soon. I shoved it into my fist, kissed the top of his spinning head, and literally ran out the door.

He's probably still on the ground screaming.....

What was I to do? On one hand, I try to go with the flow. If he wants to wear a bib into school, heck, why not? On the other hand, it was dirty, and the other kids would have gone hysterical en-mass all wanting to wear bibs and eat. The teachers would have loved that. I think a compromise is reasonable.

Perhaps on a day when my bob-loving kid wakes up in his right mind, he will agree.