When we were little, my mom used to tell us that "you always give people what they need." My parents were examples by action of charity and generosity. I watched them buy bus tickets for strangers, give homeless people jackets off their backs, and regularly gave to those holding signs on the side of the road. They taught me not to avert my eyes and that lesson is one I cherish.
We grew up in an area of the West where a lot of transient people were coming through. They would hold signs saying they were hungry. I saw people like that weekly, if not daily. And my mom always made sure we saw them. She'd take us through the aisles of the grocery store explaining that giving a hungry person money would only be a fix of a few hours as they would likely spend it on some overpriced value meal (or something even more destructive, as I realized as I got older). "We give them what they need...food," my mom would drill into us. Into the cart would go a jug of water, packets of Crystal Light, peanut butter, a loaf of bread, fruit, carrots, and a box of crackers. We'd often pick up fried chicken or something hot from the deli to add. But mostly, she'd make us think about food that would stretch into multiple meals, food that would give weak people energy, food that would hydrate people, and food that wouldn't spoil in heat. And above all else, she made us think about how it felt to be hungry and scared that you couldn't put food in your body.
But she didn't stop there. It wasn't enough for her to teach us about these people; we needed to know them. So as young as I can remember, she would get us out of the car with her to deliver our bags of food. When we got to be elementary age, she'd have us get out of the car alone. I vividly remember being mortified by this and one time even laying on the floor of the car in an attempt not to have to get out. I fought it, but she led by example when I refused to follow.
And her lesson stuck. If I see a sign that says they are hungry, I try my hardest to get them some food. I think of my mom every time. And I see people now. I will always be thankful for her gift.
As a mother myself, it has been important for me to instill this same lesson in my own sons. But Toys for Tots and Secret Santa and food bank drives at the grocery store don't put a face to the issue, or really even teach children about the issue. In an effort to increase our children's awareness, we decided to start asking for a food donation instead of birthday gifts. We started talking to Little Bug and Little Bro about hunger and they quickly got the concept of people being hungry and sad and not being able to get food at the store. From there, it was a natural progression in their thinking that they could share food. We have been going over this for a couple weeks, and when Little Bro's birthday rolled around last weekend, he didn't even bat an eye at the lack of gifts from his friends.
Today we took over a box filled with boxes of Cheerios into our local food bank....a small room in a business building. My kids proudly gave them to the volunteer workers and I got a lump in my throat when they told her they would be back with more food when "the people get sad and hungry again."
On the way home, Little Bro told me that making people who were sad and hungry made him happy. He told me he wanted to go to the store and get the hungry people ramen. And I realized he is getting it, as much as a 4 year old can. And I'm thinking we might make this a monthly activity with shopping for food bank items and delivering them.
We don't give kids enough credit for being able to handle the hard stuff. Hungry is an uncomfortable concept to expose children to, but it is also one that they can very easily be a part of. I want to give my kids what my mom gave me...eyes to see and the drive to help.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Sunday, June 2, 2013
A Short Story on the Importance of Signs and Pants
All you need to know is that for a variety of boring and silly reasons, I was distracted. So when Little Bug pulled me into a bathroom in an unfamiliar location chanting about needing to go, I didn't resist for a single second.
I stood inside near the door of the public restroom while Little Bug went into the stall by himself, a recent feat that still requires a bit of coaching and inching away bit by bit. In the midst of trying to focus on talking to him with calming enforcement and thinking about all the other things going, I vaguely noted a urinal backing on the wall leading to a drain on the floor. I had just finished grimacing with disgusted at what was clearly the grossest bathroom ever for having a pee drain right in the floor when an older gentleman walked into the restroom and stopped short staring at me before asking a moment later, "Are you in the wrong place?"
And in an instant, it all clicked into place. The memory of seeing a"boys" sign outside the door. The obvious urinal I had been contemplating as if it were something novel. I had, for the first time in my life, accidentally went into a men's bathroom.
In retrospect, it is a good thing that I hadn't needed to use the bathroom as well, or that I wasn't bunched into the stall with Little Bug when this man walked in and likely started doing his designated-location business. Instead, I was able to mutter an apology and high tail it right outside the door.
Of course, this went over about as well as a load of No2 bricks, and my little one was out of the stall and out of the bathroom in a blink of an eye, calling out my name in panic loud enough for everyone in either side of the hallway to hear.
And he was naked from the waist down.
The End.
I stood inside near the door of the public restroom while Little Bug went into the stall by himself, a recent feat that still requires a bit of coaching and inching away bit by bit. In the midst of trying to focus on talking to him with calming enforcement and thinking about all the other things going, I vaguely noted a urinal backing on the wall leading to a drain on the floor. I had just finished grimacing with disgusted at what was clearly the grossest bathroom ever for having a pee drain right in the floor when an older gentleman walked into the restroom and stopped short staring at me before asking a moment later, "Are you in the wrong place?"
And in an instant, it all clicked into place. The memory of seeing a"boys" sign outside the door. The obvious urinal I had been contemplating as if it were something novel. I had, for the first time in my life, accidentally went into a men's bathroom.
In retrospect, it is a good thing that I hadn't needed to use the bathroom as well, or that I wasn't bunched into the stall with Little Bug when this man walked in and likely started doing his designated-location business. Instead, I was able to mutter an apology and high tail it right outside the door.
Of course, this went over about as well as a load of No2 bricks, and my little one was out of the stall and out of the bathroom in a blink of an eye, calling out my name in panic loud enough for everyone in either side of the hallway to hear.
And he was naked from the waist down.
The End.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
He is Ready
Today a therapist related a story to me that made a big impression on her. And in turn, it's made a big impression on me.
Little Bug's morning pre-K school is a special blend of students. It's a class room for kids who need a lot of extra support, but that support looks very different for each child. I think some a-holes would look at the class and think it's where all the "disabled" kids are "dumped" to fulfill school requirements because it's such a mix of strengths and needs, but in reality, the minimally decorated classroom is a calm, safe, and incredibly fulfilling environment filled with enough teachers, therapists, and associates that each child gets not just an education, but the education they each individually need to reach their potential. I was initially hesitant about this classroom, but it's been an incredible environment for Little Bug to get the extra help he needed to really prepare for the big K.
With that being said, many of the children in the classroom have needs that are very different from Little Bug and they are cherished friends of his. To him, only being able to move you head isn't weird...it just means he gets to help push their chairs when they need to move. To him, some kids eat from a lunch box and some eat from a feeding tube. To him, some kids talk with their voices and some talk with machines, picture boxes, or sign language. To Little Bug, everyone is a friend, no matter how different they might be from others.
It's a gift to be able to view everyone and no one as different. One that I think Little Bug will always keep with him, and one that I hope those special friends who encounter him throughout his life will also possess.
Today the therapist told me that one friend, who sits next to Little Bug during circle time each day, has trouble controlling limb movement, something they work on during this time. However, this often leads to Little Bug being accidentally tapped repeatedly. The therapist said it often "annoyed" Little Bug. (Which is ironic given that, for different reasons, was also something Little Big himself struggled with for a very long time.) Apparently Little Bug would often whine or push the hand away.
Except today. When instead of saying a word, instead of pushing the friend's hand away, Little Bug simply grabbed the flapping hand and held it in his own. The entire circle time Little Bug and his friend quietly held hands.
The image of my son doing this, giving comfort to another friend by holding hands, brings me nearly to tears. So many times, so very many times, my son has been the one to need the support of a friendly hand. In fact, hand holding is a love language and safety language for my little one. For him to intentionally give this to someone else, without drawing attention to it or looking for comfort himself shows how much he has matured in the last year. He's able to reciprocate with peers in an empathetic and intentionally supportive way.
All that to say, he's ready to move on.
The therapist told me this at the start of the big kahuna IEP meeting today. This was the transition meeting where the therapists and teachers and social workers from his two pre-K schools formally turn him over to his new therapists and teachers. The kindergarten option we've chosen for him as a team is a unique one. It's not something I would have envisioned, but we felt good about the decision. After starting off the meeting with this story, everyone agreed that the Little Bug on paper isn't exactly the Little Bug who is blooming bigger and brighter every day in the classroom and at home.
He's ready. Our goal was always simply to give him everything he needed to be in the best possible position for kindergarten, and I feel in my heart we did. But more than anything we did, Little Bug fought through some truly horrible things this year. For him to come out on the other side like this...blowing through goals and marching right off plateaus and making mature connections with peers on his own...that's a testament to him more than any of us.
Little Bug, the hardest worker and bravest kid I know...I am so proud of you. You're going to love kindergarten, and kindergarten is going to love you.
Little Bug's morning pre-K school is a special blend of students. It's a class room for kids who need a lot of extra support, but that support looks very different for each child. I think some a-holes would look at the class and think it's where all the "disabled" kids are "dumped" to fulfill school requirements because it's such a mix of strengths and needs, but in reality, the minimally decorated classroom is a calm, safe, and incredibly fulfilling environment filled with enough teachers, therapists, and associates that each child gets not just an education, but the education they each individually need to reach their potential. I was initially hesitant about this classroom, but it's been an incredible environment for Little Bug to get the extra help he needed to really prepare for the big K.
With that being said, many of the children in the classroom have needs that are very different from Little Bug and they are cherished friends of his. To him, only being able to move you head isn't weird...it just means he gets to help push their chairs when they need to move. To him, some kids eat from a lunch box and some eat from a feeding tube. To him, some kids talk with their voices and some talk with machines, picture boxes, or sign language. To Little Bug, everyone is a friend, no matter how different they might be from others.
It's a gift to be able to view everyone and no one as different. One that I think Little Bug will always keep with him, and one that I hope those special friends who encounter him throughout his life will also possess.
Today the therapist told me that one friend, who sits next to Little Bug during circle time each day, has trouble controlling limb movement, something they work on during this time. However, this often leads to Little Bug being accidentally tapped repeatedly. The therapist said it often "annoyed" Little Bug. (Which is ironic given that, for different reasons, was also something Little Big himself struggled with for a very long time.) Apparently Little Bug would often whine or push the hand away.
Except today. When instead of saying a word, instead of pushing the friend's hand away, Little Bug simply grabbed the flapping hand and held it in his own. The entire circle time Little Bug and his friend quietly held hands.
The image of my son doing this, giving comfort to another friend by holding hands, brings me nearly to tears. So many times, so very many times, my son has been the one to need the support of a friendly hand. In fact, hand holding is a love language and safety language for my little one. For him to intentionally give this to someone else, without drawing attention to it or looking for comfort himself shows how much he has matured in the last year. He's able to reciprocate with peers in an empathetic and intentionally supportive way.
All that to say, he's ready to move on.
The therapist told me this at the start of the big kahuna IEP meeting today. This was the transition meeting where the therapists and teachers and social workers from his two pre-K schools formally turn him over to his new therapists and teachers. The kindergarten option we've chosen for him as a team is a unique one. It's not something I would have envisioned, but we felt good about the decision. After starting off the meeting with this story, everyone agreed that the Little Bug on paper isn't exactly the Little Bug who is blooming bigger and brighter every day in the classroom and at home.
He's ready. Our goal was always simply to give him everything he needed to be in the best possible position for kindergarten, and I feel in my heart we did. But more than anything we did, Little Bug fought through some truly horrible things this year. For him to come out on the other side like this...blowing through goals and marching right off plateaus and making mature connections with peers on his own...that's a testament to him more than any of us.
Little Bug, the hardest worker and bravest kid I know...I am so proud of you. You're going to love kindergarten, and kindergarten is going to love you.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Ten Things I Love About Being a Mom
Today was not my finest parenting day. To be sure, it was no where in the threat level midnight zone, but it was one of those days where I had to apologize to my kids a couple times for raising my voice and it's bumming me out.
I even web searched "don't like being a mom" tonight to look for some motivation for tomorrow; then I realized lot of people really don't like being a mom, and I'm not one of them.
So in honor of that being the wrong web search for me, here are ten things I love about being a mom, in no particular order.
I even web searched "don't like being a mom" tonight to look for some motivation for tomorrow; then I realized lot of people really don't like being a mom, and I'm not one of them.
So in honor of that being the wrong web search for me, here are ten things I love about being a mom, in no particular order.
- I love the way my kids' feet, head, arms, fingers, sides, cheeks, etc. feel as they are pressed against me in moments of comfort and happiness. I love the memory of baby Little Bug feeling like a loaf of warm bread when I would pick him up out of his crib and the lightweight, yet somehow solid, way Little Bro felt as he monkey clung to me as a toddler.
- I love the sounds of my kids' laughter. Not just because it's cute, but because seeing them so genuinely happy brings this bloom of warm, fuzzy joy in my own chest. More than anything in the world, I love seeing my kids deliriously happy.
- I love the moment when they learn something new or accomplish something special. I love the way I can't help but scream and start jumping up and down while shaking their shoulders, and I love the way they grin hugely and their eyes go wide with excitement. We feed off each other. It's a total, genuine high.
- I love dance parties. Big ones with instruments and little ones in the hallway. And straight up, I love riding freaking carousels.
- I love that they call out for me in the night. Granted, during the night I never feel this way, but in the daytime hours I can think clearly and know how much it means to me that I'm the first thing that pops into their heads when they need help.
- I love showing the world to my children and seeing it through their eyes. I love the introspective challenge I get in realizing I have to explain, on the fly, the random details of life like military heroes, personal clothing style choices, cloud patterns, the tooth fairy, and the hygiene issues surrounding kissing dirty school buses. And that was just this week. It may sounds simple, but it's not when everything is met with "why?"
- I love how hilarious being a mom is. The ridiculousness of it all. The bodily fluids I wipe with hands without batting an eye. The serious conversations you have about hypothetical stuffed animal sword fights and their feelings and motivations. The intense thought put into whether or not to get bug tattoos with or without butterflies included in the lot (still on the fence). The anger I feel at the old Thomas story lines, and the begrudging respect for the new Thomas story lines. The spur-of-the-moment superhero cap your son wants that you fashion out of an old pillow case (and it looks like something your 3 year old made himself with training scissors, but he adores it). When I really stop and break it down, half my day is spent doing something slightly bizarre or ridiculous. And that's fun.
- The "shake and blow." The "no big deal." The "it's okay, it happens." The "I'm mad" instead of screaming. I love watching my kids learning to be tougher and roll with the punches. I'm trying to raise kids who express emotions with words, and it makes me proud when they can do that. One of my proudest moments is when my boys stop and take three deep breaths to calm themselves down. They both do it, daily, on their own without my prompting. My heart soars to know I gave them that critical emotional tool and to see it helping them in their lives already.
- I love the moments when the sun is a muted yellow through our windows and we're cuddled up in a pile together watching a movie or reading a book. I love the feeling of arms and legs and a family mass and knowing my family is a family who loves physically without reserve. Who needs their "own" seat anyway? I love saying "I love you" a million times a day and hearing it back every time.
- I love the way Little Bro's tiny but impossibly strong arms lock around my neck as he pulls me in for a tight, tight hug and how his face scrunches right before he kisses me. I love the way Little Bug gives his side hugs and bear hugs just a little longer for me, and his impromptu kisses and arm caresses. I love the way his hand always has to be in mine. And I love running my fingers through their hair at night and whispering to their drooping eyes "I love you, saranghae, nose kiss, bear hug" and knowing that these amazing kids are mine to love and love and love.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Laying on the floor with a stomach ache
I don't like change. I don't do well with change. I dislike change. I always have. I used to lay on the ground just being with an upset stomach after my mother would rearrange furniture. I would sob myself ill every time I moved dorm rooms or apartments.
Suffice to say, I do not move my own furniture around much.
So today when I saw that my blog background in this space was no longer supported, I stared long and hard before feeling that pit come back in my stomach. I liked my flowers and brown theme. It felt very me for this space and it's been with me for many a year.
So all this to say that the new look of this blournal is not by choice. And I'll figure out a way to get it back to what feels right after I can drag myself off the floor and calm my tummy.
Suffice to say, I do not move my own furniture around much.
So today when I saw that my blog background in this space was no longer supported, I stared long and hard before feeling that pit come back in my stomach. I liked my flowers and brown theme. It felt very me for this space and it's been with me for many a year.
So all this to say that the new look of this blournal is not by choice. And I'll figure out a way to get it back to what feels right after I can drag myself off the floor and calm my tummy.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Aloha, Little Moon
Dear Little Moon,
Turns out, when your mama wants something special to happen, she needs to go on a tropical vacation with your Appa. The last time we did sun sans child we accepted Little Bro's referral. But I never imagined this morning when I woke up to Hawaiian surf that I'd be celebrating something special for you, too.
Today your Appa and I were driving along a beautiful road in Hawaii. The ocean was shocking blue on one side and the green mountains towered on the other. The road was winding a bit, which I don't do well with, so I absently grabbed my phone to check my e-mail. Since I am on vacation, my inbox has piled into the hundreds. So when I was skimming and expecting nothing important and caught out adoption agency director's name on an e-mail with the subject line "Urgent and Important Communication Regarding Your Current Adoption Process" my mind couldn't quite keep up. I went from thinking it was junk mail regarding the webinar I wasn't calling into to thinking it was something very, very bad. But it was seeing our name in the salutation that set me nerves tingling.
It was there, on the winding and beautiful road to Secret Beach that I read aloud in a stilted, shaking, and incredulous voice to a confused Appa that you were coming home so.much.sooner. than I have ever dared let myself hope.
Appa kept driving, but his eyes kept darting to me, he kept questioning me, the smile that has been on his face for the past few days just got bigger and bigger. Our wildest dream, so wild we've never even dreamed it, is coming true. You are coming home. Soon. So soon.
When we had hiked down to Secret Beach, I wrote your name in the sand, just as I did your brother's in Jamaica. I'll buy you a stupid looking shirt to commemorate the role this place "played" in our journey to you.
And for the rest of time, when I think of this spectacular vacation your Appa and I are lucky enough to be enjoying, the moment that e-mail sunk in will always be one of the first things I recall. That moment will be one of my favorite moments, ever. Better than any beach or sunset or breathtaking canyon hike, knowing you are coming home is the highlight of this trip.
Little Moon, this didn't happen by chance. There are people, LOTS of people, who care about you enough to bend the rules, see the gray, take a stand. They want you to stop waiting, and start living your life as a little brother and son. I hope I can always impress upon you how much today is a testament to the fact that you have been loved and cared for and your best interests have been looked out for all the days of your life.
You are loved. You are cared for. You are rooted for. You are wanted. You are needed. And as soon as we can, Appa, Little Bro, Little Bug, so many friends and family, and I will be there to love you every day for the rest of your life. Soon. So soon.
Ua ola loko i ke aloha.
Turns out, when your mama wants something special to happen, she needs to go on a tropical vacation with your Appa. The last time we did sun sans child we accepted Little Bro's referral. But I never imagined this morning when I woke up to Hawaiian surf that I'd be celebrating something special for you, too.
Today your Appa and I were driving along a beautiful road in Hawaii. The ocean was shocking blue on one side and the green mountains towered on the other. The road was winding a bit, which I don't do well with, so I absently grabbed my phone to check my e-mail. Since I am on vacation, my inbox has piled into the hundreds. So when I was skimming and expecting nothing important and caught out adoption agency director's name on an e-mail with the subject line "Urgent and Important Communication Regarding Your Current Adoption Process" my mind couldn't quite keep up. I went from thinking it was junk mail regarding the webinar I wasn't calling into to thinking it was something very, very bad. But it was seeing our name in the salutation that set me nerves tingling.
It was there, on the winding and beautiful road to Secret Beach that I read aloud in a stilted, shaking, and incredulous voice to a confused Appa that you were coming home so.much.sooner. than I have ever dared let myself hope.
Appa kept driving, but his eyes kept darting to me, he kept questioning me, the smile that has been on his face for the past few days just got bigger and bigger. Our wildest dream, so wild we've never even dreamed it, is coming true. You are coming home. Soon. So soon.
When we had hiked down to Secret Beach, I wrote your name in the sand, just as I did your brother's in Jamaica. I'll buy you a stupid looking shirt to commemorate the role this place "played" in our journey to you.
And for the rest of time, when I think of this spectacular vacation your Appa and I are lucky enough to be enjoying, the moment that e-mail sunk in will always be one of the first things I recall. That moment will be one of my favorite moments, ever. Better than any beach or sunset or breathtaking canyon hike, knowing you are coming home is the highlight of this trip.
Little Moon, this didn't happen by chance. There are people, LOTS of people, who care about you enough to bend the rules, see the gray, take a stand. They want you to stop waiting, and start living your life as a little brother and son. I hope I can always impress upon you how much today is a testament to the fact that you have been loved and cared for and your best interests have been looked out for all the days of your life.
You are loved. You are cared for. You are rooted for. You are wanted. You are needed. And as soon as we can, Appa, Little Bro, Little Bug, so many friends and family, and I will be there to love you every day for the rest of your life. Soon. So soon.
Ua ola loko i ke aloha.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Perspective {just mine}
This has been a hard week. I've had a pit in my stomach for days over the sheer sadness and pain and fear people are experiencing right now. I've not really known how to move on from these feelings.
Then I saw a video of the national anthem at the Boston Bruins game. The entire audience belted that tune out in a moving show of unity and strength and resilience.
And it clicked for me.
The best, the ONLY, thing we can do is chose hope and reject fear and anger. Anything less and we've let them win, let something be taken from us. Let our lives be minimized in some way.
This isn't just about the bombing, the plant explosion, the flooding and sink holes for me, because the pain in my heart for those horrors and the people who are living them is still raw. I have no real words for that. For them. Just sadness and solidarity.
But this is about my life in general, too. My outlook on adoption and the adoption communities I follow. My complacency to let others who can or will only respond with negativity drive MY adoption process, affect MY life and emotions.
I refuse to let them be my voice anymore.
No news? Long waits? No updates? Yes, all those things suck. A lot. But instead of wallowing about it, fighting about it, refusing to accept it, we should try to help where we can in a positive way, and above all else, join hands and sing. Loud. Proud. Defiant. HOPEFUL. Because at the end of the day, it's going to be okay.
Our kids will come home. Older, yes, but don't fall into the hype that the transition will be SO much harder at 3 than it will be at 2.5. They are not being harmed. Not in the sense of the word that really counts. Our kids will come home, and we will live our lives filled with joy, watching milestones and taking all the pictures we want. Many people don't have that chance anymore.
I choose hope. I choose kindness. I choose faith.
Then I saw a video of the national anthem at the Boston Bruins game. The entire audience belted that tune out in a moving show of unity and strength and resilience.
The best, the ONLY, thing we can do is chose hope and reject fear and anger. Anything less and we've let them win, let something be taken from us. Let our lives be minimized in some way.
This isn't just about the bombing, the plant explosion, the flooding and sink holes for me, because the pain in my heart for those horrors and the people who are living them is still raw. I have no real words for that. For them. Just sadness and solidarity.
But this is about my life in general, too. My outlook on adoption and the adoption communities I follow. My complacency to let others who can or will only respond with negativity drive MY adoption process, affect MY life and emotions.
I refuse to let them be my voice anymore.
No news? Long waits? No updates? Yes, all those things suck. A lot. But instead of wallowing about it, fighting about it, refusing to accept it, we should try to help where we can in a positive way, and above all else, join hands and sing. Loud. Proud. Defiant. HOPEFUL. Because at the end of the day, it's going to be okay.
Our kids will come home. Older, yes, but don't fall into the hype that the transition will be SO much harder at 3 than it will be at 2.5. They are not being harmed. Not in the sense of the word that really counts. Our kids will come home, and we will live our lives filled with joy, watching milestones and taking all the pictures we want. Many people don't have that chance anymore.
I choose hope. I choose kindness. I choose faith.
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