The Day My Eyeliner Exploded

Ok, ok, humor me. Here's a picture from 2001. Yes, I know it looks as if my eyeliner exploded. Actually, I don't use eyeliner because I once read in Cosmopolitan or Glamour or Unrealistic Unattainable Incredibly Retouched Picture Of Anorexia Victims Wearing Ridiculous Body Revealing Clothes That You Should Be Prohibited By Law From Even Thinking About Wearing Magazine or somewhere that eyeliner causes wrinkles, so in my brilliant/pathetic cluelessness I decided to just dab mascara all over my eyes to resemble eyeliner. Sad. Please pray for me, because no, I'm not kidding. I still do that.

I was thinking about Ten Stupidest Beauty Tips but you know, I'm not about to reveal all or you might be as good looking as I am.

Instead, thinking of magazines, how about the Ten Stupidest Things In Magazine Articles.

1. "Our marriage is a work in progress," says Pretensia about her candlelight Barbados ceremony. Work in progress? What's that? Are you remodeling your kitchen? Because that certainly is a work in progress. Marriage should be fun! If you have to work at it, why not get a dog instead? Dogs are work, with the training and all.

2. "Contrary to the rumours, Pretensia has a healthy appetite. We met at the Beverly Hills Cafe for an interview and she ordered whole wheat toast, a caviar and sage egg white omelette dusted with paprika, and a generous order of hash browns." Ok. Did you check to see if that was the first meal she actually ate in the last 24 hours? Did she actually eat it? P.S. Bulemia.

3. "Pretensia is frank about her health history, discussing her several hospital admits for exhaustion last summer while filming Two Guns and A Girl." Exhaustion? How come nobody I know ever gets to check into a hospital for exhaustion? I'd like to. Where do I sign up? Pretensia has a maid, nanny, cook, gardener, limo driver, personal life coach, trainer, and drug dealer. I have none of the above. How come Pretensia gets to check in and I don't? I call...unfair.

4. "Melt Off Pounds While Walking." My pounds never melt off unless I apply a blowtorch to them, but somewhere out there an army of tiny, thin women must exist who walk off every creme brulee. I wish I could join them.

5. "Thirty Minute Meals!" How come they always involve ground beef, pasta, some ingredient only available on the West Coast like Mrs. Schtouffle's Kitchen Bouquet, something sauteed in onions, and have about 630 calories and 5,656 grams of sodium per bite? I guess if you melt off all your pounds while walking, you can't spend much time in the kitchen--and you can afford to eat like a hog.

6. "I wish they'd give me some privacy," sighs Pretensia. Umm....Pretensia? Your agent begged for this interview. Your friend tipped off photographers when you left the nightclub. Your other friend called the tabs at your request. Don't worry. Soon you will be on a Where Are They Now? website. Just be patient, sweets.

7. "He'll always have a special place in my heart," sighs Pretensia. Hmm. People I know don't usually discuss their exes in such a flattering manner. Could he have special videos or pictures of you, Pretensia? Just curious.

8. Tom Cruise.

9. Nicole Ritchie.

10. Kelly Ripa.

Whine-A-Thon!

All right, I now have seventy five KAJILLION adorable baby pictures of Madeleine and Meredith scanned onto my hard drive and (whimpers quietly) not even the SUBJECTS OF THE PICTURE want to look at them.

Me: Darling angels, come here and look at some pictures of you when you were babies!

Darling Angels: Do we haaaavvvee to?

As for the Digital Picture Frame Project (whimpers loudly) we went over there and the inlaws had the thing unplugged from the wall.

You know what they say about old dogs and new tricks. I imagined this conversation one day:

Christmas 2035

Mad & Mere: Go ahead Mom and Dad! Open the present!

Me: Just a minute kids, I need to kick start my hands with the Anti-Athritic Stimulator. (zap! tchwunk!) Ok, here we go! (unwraps gift, stares blankly) What on earth is it?

M&M: It's a ticket to Mars! See, you just press this button and you're instantly on Mars! You know how you always said you wanted to visit Mars!!

Roger (crabbily) I never said I wanted to visit Mars.

Me: Sweeties, we love it!!! (pokes crabby husband) DON'T WE HONEY? But...darlings...I don't know how the Anti-Gravity-A-Thon on the Mars trip will affect my hearing implant.

M&M: Mooommmmmm......(they exchange significant looks) You just can't teach those old dogs any new tricks, can you?

Me: Excuse me?

M&M: Nothing!

Me: This hearing implant works pretty well, you know!

M&M: Fine! We'll just exchange it and get you...oh I don't know....how about one of those old fashioned COMPUTERS?

Me: (eagerly) You can still find some old ones on ebay, I think!

M&M: Whatever. See you later! (They press the zap and instantly are transported back to their second homes on the moon).

Roger: Brats. C'mere honey and give me a Anti-Athritic kick start so I can play with my 30 year old computer.

Ah yes, old fogies. God Bless 'Em.

The Good Ol' Days

Hope everybody who celebrated had a good Christmas.

Several of my brothers in law got together and gave my mother & father in law a Kodak Digital Picture Frame. All the seven kids were invited to put their pictures on a flash drive so they could enjoy them. As a charter member of Fanatics-R-Us, naturally OUR pictures had to be the BIGGEST collection, the BRIGHTEST colors, the BEST LOOKING children (hands down, slam dunk there). Naturally I had to scan THREE HUNDRED print pictures from the first four years of the children's life, so that they will have a complete digital record of their precious little lives and won't have to actually, you know, deal with printed pictures. So 1978, you know?

My scanner now makes this noise: screeechbumppthrouuuie. However, the pictures are scanned. And when I left the inlaws on Christmas Day, I made sure our flash drive was plugged into the picture frame. I'm sure they are screaming and ducking when they see an adorable China Doll flash onto the screen, but guess what? I have 100 more ready to go over there tomorrow.

Attached is one from Christmas 2001.

Mother, Please Do Not Scream Again

I love to track Santa as he flies around the globe.

"OOOOOOHHHH!!! He's in Florida!" I screamed as we pulled up the website.

"Let's look at some of the other places he's visited," I said enthusiastically as the Believer sat glued to my side.

The Non Believer sauntered out of the room but turned at the door to say in her best practicing pre-teen voice:

"Mother, please do not scream again."

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

When All Is Said And Done

China doesn't owe anybody a child, quit whining.

Ok. Well, personally, it doesn't affect me because I do not plan to adopt again.

Is it ok it I whine a little bit for THE CHILDREN?

Is it ok if I whine a little bit about the kids who will never get to have a ghastly looking (but tasty) homemade birthday cake?

Is is ok if I whine a little bit about the fact that there are people who want to adopt kids, and lonely kids in orphanages, and I just wish that both parties could have their dreams come true?

I Hope You're Rich, Thin, Happy, Married, And Well Educated

This won't mean a thing to you if you're not interested in China adoption, but anyway, China has just instituted a whole new list of restrictions for prospective parents that basically excludes 99.9% of the population, if they're being 100% honest. I hereby predict that 99.9% of prospective adoptive parents will not be 100% honest.

Basically, you must be young, rich, married, thin, educated, not deformed in any way (yes, that is the word they use) and most of all God Forbid you cannot be medicated for anxiety and depression, and just thinking about all this causes me anxiety and depression, and I already have completed my family.

You already know to get the hot scoop from the Rumor Queen, of course.

Of course China can do whatever they want to do. But why is it that the nasty little suspicious part of me is wondering why this all coincides with the upcoming 2008 Olympics to be held in China?

And why am I thinking this interview will be beamed over the airwaves in 2008?

Commentator: While we're waiting for the javathiathlon to start, let's take a look at the principal exports of China.
Commentator 2: I guess it would be kids! (laughter)
C1: That's right, Biff. But by golly, it looks like China has good taste in the parents they select. Let's go to the McMansion of Fred and Ethel Buffington, coming to you from Snobberie Heights, NJ. Hello Fred and Ethel.
F&E: Hello!!!
C1: Looks like you guys just got off the golf course! Ethel...va-va-voom!
F&E: That's right, Biff, and we also worked out for three hours at the club this morning. Gotta keep in shape for our new little China Doll!
C1: What great parents you'll make. And how happy you are!
F&E: Well, we've been sad sometimes when we realized we couldn't have any kids of our own, but we find that the best way to combat the blues is a brisk, long walk and a good cup of piping hot herbal tea. We feel that Americans are far too reliant on drugs to combat depression.
C1: Tom Cruise sure agrees with you! (Laughter)
F&E: Well, we sure feel sorry for all the people out there who can't deal with life, y'know? We worked hard to get where we are--we both have PhDs from a prestigious university, also.
C2: Impressive!! Well, back to the javatriathalon.
F&E: Thanks and a shout out to all the fat, poor, unhappy single people out there who won't be getting their China Dolls.
C1: Maybe they'll feel better if they take some more depression drugs! (Laughter)

My Best Christmas Present

Sometimes when I'm thinking about getting the best Christmas present for my kids I remember the best Christmas present I ever got as a child. It wasn't an expensive new sports car, but I assure you that if I had received an expensive new sports car that would have been the subject of this entry. Being the child of frugal parents, though, I have my memories of this....

I was twelve years old and resigned to getting the usual assortment of presents for, well, you know, kids. Jumpers, housecoats, socks, meh.

My parents listened to hideously dorky stuff like Perry Como.

All of a sudden my Dad reached over and handed me a gift wrapped album and what should it be but Carole King's brand new album Tapestry.

"I LOVE IT!" I gasped. This was the hottest, hottest thing going back in 1971. I often wonder how Dad picked it out. I picture him wandering into a record store (kids, gather around while Aunt Lorrie tells you about "records" and "typewriters")...anyway, I picture him wandering in and saying to the clerk, "Give me something for the Beat Generation." As he carried it out of the store, he realized that his young daughter was growing up to be a woman. And this album would symbolize the acknowledgement of this transformation taking place.

I still have it and I always will, probably will be dragging it to the nursing home.

I remember sitting on the bed in my girlishly decorated room, listening to the lyrics and wondering what life was going to be like. What would it be to really live the emotions in her songs?

I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky come tumbling down
I feel my heart start to trembling
Whenever...you're around....
oooh baby...When I see your face
Mellow as the month of May
oooh darlin'.. I can't stand it
When you look at me
That way....

And I wondered how anybody could ever feel like this about somebody they loved?

Stayed in bed all mornin' just to pass the time
There's something wrong here, there can be no denying
One of us is changin', or maybe we just stopped trying...
And it's too late baby, now it's too late.
Though we really did try to make it
Something inside has died, and I can't hide and I just can't fake it..

I could not wait to experience it all. And by giving me the album, Daddy opened up for me the the possibility that LIFE was out there and that he would support me as I flew out the door to meet it.

Thanks Dad.

Thrilling Shopping Update!

After praying and fasting, we all piled in the car to go to Tar-ghey in a search for the elusive Moon Sand.

No luck, but I did find...

Magnetix! A total stranger and I high-fived.

The kids were with us, so Roger kept them in Foods, genially agreeing to whatever sugar-filled snack they requested (they were surprised and pleased, as we're generally pretty sugar free) while I grabbed a second cart and tripped off to Toys. I found a few things on my list and ever so discretely grabbed a couple of large towels from Housewares and covered the toys.

The kids were fine with this. In fact, Madeleine pulled me aside and whispered in that voice that strangers use to tell you about a wardrobe malfunction:

"I think you're showing a little there."

I looked and saw maybe one tiny little corner showing one tiny little piece of Bratz Sleepover Fabric. I redraped the cart.

"You should get a RUG to cover the items," she helpfully continued.

Whatever. The gifts are home, my credit card is in flames, and I feel at one with the Universe.

It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

Dear "Hot Toy" People,

You can cancel your advertising for this year. Why don't you donate the zillions of dollars that you pump into tv ads to a worthy cause? Like, well, psychiatric care for parents who are forced to explain to children why they aren't getting your toys because you're already sold out.

So, tonight we sent our annual "Email To Santa." I refuse to set foot in the stores, so my Christmas shopping is usually pretty short. The kids make out their lists, then I place the Believer (pictured above) lovingly in my lap and we begin our tour of the web. We visit the stores and when I'm able to figure out what ben10max dx labory means (6 year olds have creative spelling) well, then I click on "Add To Cart" and I explain to Miss Gullible that I'm sending an email to Santa to maybe put that in his sleigh. Later on the Non Believer simply tells me what she wants and it's also "Added To Cart."

Filled with cheer and good will, I began with the Believer.

"Magnetix," she began. Sold out. Sold out. Not available online. January delivery.

"Gosh I'm sorry, Honey!" I said cheerfully. "It looks like Santa's already put all the Magnetix stuff in his sleigh for all the other kids with smarter parents." (Ok, I said the last part to myself).

"Tekno puppy?" she suggested. Sold out. Not that I wanted another dog in the house, even a robotic one...

Moon Sand? Sold out. We are fighting with the manufacturer to try to get a few more for our backorders....

I want to explore this. How are you fighting? A polite letter? Incessant phone calls? A few visits from men carrying violin cases? A horse head in the president's bed? Are you really trying here?

We finally found a few acceptable items and then it was time for the Non Believer.

"Computer Pen," she gaily suggested.

"Santa can't afford $129 for a computer pen," I replied.

"But you told me the Ipod I got for my birthday was over ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS," she replied.

"Santa was richer then," I snorted. (I got it free with a Citibank Visa promotion) On to the next item.

Bratz Sleepover Kit? Bratz Super-Secret Make-Up Vanity Play Set? Add To Cart.

Yeah, I threw a fit last year when some relative gave her the Bratz Tennis Game. Sort of like the fit I threw 43 years ago when I got the housecoat and Sissy got the stuffed reindeer, but it shows you how much I've evolved as a human being when I assure you that last year I did not lie down on the floor and howl. I give up. Madeleine knows that if she starts dressing like the Bratz someday I'll write her out of the will, and she's assured me that she will be able to grow up to be a proper young lady even if she has the "Rock Angelz" CD. Sigh.

It's the most wonderful time of the year.

MORE Christmas Toys From My Childhood

You know how sometimes Blogger just won't load images? This is the SIXTH time that I've tried to upload these pictures in three days. It's a silly little post, I was determined that it would be the next thing I published, no matter what.

Anyway, I used to bounce this Slinky down the steps of my childhood home.

Purty images even after 50 years!

The Wonderful Toy Gyroscope--I mean, what more is there to say?

Thurman Munson was another Yankee who died in a small plane crash. RIP Thurman.

Christmas Toys From My Childhood

Never opened. I wonder why not?


Hello, Operator...

This still makes cool noises when you pull it around the house. Not that *I* personally do that, of course.

The car that defined a generation.

Every year my parents packed up a few toys from my childhood and put them away with the Christmas ornaments. Here are a couple of them!

Please Don't Eat The Daisies..And..About That Hair Dryer?

The great humorist Jean Kerr's first book was entitled Please Don't Eat The Daisies. The point of the title, she explained, was that she had explicitly warned her sons not to "climb on the roof" or "drink cleaning fluid." However, she had never thought to tell them not to consume decorative flowers.

One day she noticed that her lovely table arrangement of daisies had, in fact, been eaten by her young sons.

Well, I had one of those situations the other day...

Madeleine and Meredith were taking a shower and I was monitoring the activity from the adjoining room. I walked into the bathroom and was greeted by this sight:

Madeleine was sitting in the sink, filled with water, operating a hair dryer.

I am surprised that the neighbors did not immediately call the police but I suppose screams do not carry well through brick and glass.

Well, there goes a freebie. (An incident that could result in death or severe injury that turns out ok) They say that all parents get a couple of freebies. Madeleine used up her first freebie by crawling off of the bed and plummeting to the floor head first about three days after we got home. I can still hear the thunk of her head hitting the hardwood floor.

So--Madeleine? Would you do me a favor? Please don't operate a hair dryer while sitting in a sink filled with water.

Thank you.

Migo To Store And Spoil Kid

"No eight year old child, constantly supervised by responsible adults, needs a cell phone for Christmas," said the Voice Of Reason, or the Joy Killer, depending on who you polled.

"Of course not," I agreed, caressing the tiny "Migo" phone lovingly. "Hey! Do you remember that story about the little girl ten miles from our house who was kidnapped by a maniac and used his cell phone to save her life by texting her mom?"

"She was walking home from the bus. No eight year old child, constantly supervised by responsible adults"....began the Joy Killer, voice trailing off into a pathetic whimper.

"A posse of machine gun wielding maniacs hijacks the van taking Madeleine from Our Lady Of Perpetual Tuition Academy to afterschool care and one brave child pulls a Migo from her pink backpack and saves the day," I mused.

"No eight year old child.....Add this to our account please," said the Defeated Joy Killer.

Why, it was only 2 months ago that I stood at the doorway welcoming guests for the birthday slumber party. Pretending to be a responsible adult, I collected contact phone numbers from the arriving parents.

"Oh no need to do that....Sydney has her own cell," said Yuppina.

Well, isn't that special? I thought disparagingly. And look at me now!

WHY I BOUGHT MY EIGHT YEAR OLD, CONSTANTLY SUPERVISED BY RESPONSIBLE ADULTS, A CELL PHONE

1. Because I can.

2. Because I'm a wimp.

3. Because, once in awhile, it's fun to make a child's dreams come true.

4. Because I'm a wimp.

5. Because I'm putting kidnappers on notice--My kid will soon have a tiny expensive toy that she will totally use to call 911 and bust you.

Beware!!

Sit Down And Shut Up

So you think that adopted children ought to just sit down and shut up.

It's selfish to want to know something of your origins. It's selfish to want to know something of your history. It's selfish to want to look your blood kin in the face.

If you ended up in a "good" home, why, just look around, honey! You have a beautifully decorated house to live in, three hot meals a day, the best schools, a shining future, and a parent. Maybe you have TWO parents! You call them "Mommy" and "Daddy." You call their parents "Grandma" and "Grandpa." You're in the will, you're in the family bible, you have a birth certificate with names of responsible people with money and jobs written in under Father/Mother.

You want more? You ungrateful little twits. You're lucky. So, so lucky. What more could you possibly ask for?

I thought this attitude was pretty passe. I was interested and encouraged to see the swell of outrage over Madonna's adoption. Certainly her new son will have enough money to probably BUY his country one day. I'm delighted that he will have a safe and comfortable life, but even The Man On The Street seemed to realize that indeed, little David has lost something. Heritage, history, ancestors.

Say--let me ask you something. Imagine that you look out your front window to see a solid gold limousine pulling up. Out steps a couple that takes your breath away. They are gorgeous. They walk in and hand you a copy of their financial statement which shows that their wealth is in the billions. They sit down and chat with you about their life. You find out that not only are they incredibly good looking and wealthy, but they are also genuinely nice people. They have spent their lives doing nice things for others. They are lovely, wonderful people.

They ask you if you would like them to raise your newborn child. They promise to give him everything in the world.

Well? Certainly your child will be better off. He'll be richer. He'll have his choice of colleges. And he won't be spoiled. They point to their children as proof. Buffy is building orphanages in Guatemala during a break from her Ph.D. program at Harvard, and Trey is getting his MBA at Yale while still spending every other weekend night rocking premature children at a hospital.

So do you pack up your newborn infant and send him on his way with a fond kiss?

Hmm? And if he comes back one day to ask you why, do you slap him and accuse him of being selfish and ungrateful?

You cannot simply yank a child from their blood kin and paste them into another family without them feeling a sense of loss. Human lives cannot be Photoshopped.

Maybe you think that is ungrateful.

I disagree.

This Is The Picture I Sent Her

In 1992 I sent a long, friendly letter to "Margaret Elaine Talbot." (this is not her real name)

I enclosed a copy of this picture made with my first child Nicky in the fall of 1991.

I told her that I was very happy with my life and my family but I just wanted to touch base and maybe find out something about my beginnings.

Here is the letter I received back.

Dear Lorrie,
Do you have me in a state of shock-yes. I have hoped and prayed that you would be happy enough with your life and not have the need to seek me out and have me in your life. This is the story--you were a result of a date rape. Did they call it that back then, no. I am sure it is hard for you to understand the stigma that goes with being pregnant and not married back then since such is thought of so differently now. However, back then it was not something that was accepted. Abortions were illegal. I went to an uncle. He took me in and saw me through the ordeal and paid my bills. I never told my family or anyone else. That is the extent that I hid the pregnancy. Unfortunately now tho my brother got the call for information from your search agency and they are very blunt about what they want - no regards for feelings..or privacy. The boy responsible was of course a jerk-and I have long since blotted out the memory of him and the ordeal. He was a student at the time.

My background is a very average, English background, Virginia family. I grew up in the country and was very naive about too many things. My Mother was not one I could confide in, tho I loved her very much. My Father was not a person I could talk to about anything--and I never really learned to like him. I lost my Mother at an early age of 51 but my Father lived to be 89. We were of average size, light brown hair and tho we all may have fought the battle of weight a little no one was grossly overweight. No where can I remember anyone having any diseases that would be hereditary. No cancer or such, in fact, lots of long livers. Most aunts & uncles died from either heart failure or just plain old age. My Mother's problem was the one & only fatal heart attack. My health record has been without problems. I am nearsighted, but average, not extremely bad. My teeth were straight but with many problems due to soft teeth & the lack of good dentistry then. They are now all capped. I am 5 ft 2' and weigh 140.

I know this is not what you want to hear but I have no desire to get to know you at this time. You see I married my husband without telling him of my past. I love him dearly and I fear losing his respect if he finds out for not telling him before as well as the stigma of the past. I would not want to live without him or his respect. We have had 29 years of happiness (note: I guess she got married in 1963) I would like to keep things as they are, PLEASE. Maybe some day I can change. Time will have to take care of that. I lived a miserable 9 months and was in need of forgetting the past. You sound like a very smart & happy person. I know from what you say that you have made your parents proud. They must have given you lots of love and brought you up properly. Do not hurt them by wanting two families. You owe them your love & not me. Meeting me would probably confuse you & I think things are best left as they are. Love your parents & thank them for me for the good job that they have done. Dr. Simms assured me they were good parents and so I have not worried.

PLEASE no more letters. How on earth am I to explain such to my husband who I have no secrets from. It so happens that I got the mail the day your letter came but it missed him by only a couple of minutes. He is retired, does some work close by & comes home for lunch if I don't go to him. I will try to find a friend to confide in to use as a contact if you feel the need. You will have to give me some time as this has been terribly hard to bring back into my memory. If you must write again elude to being a high school friend or something that will not be suspicious.

Be happy-
E

I have never contacted her again.

I hope this puts to rest the comforting fantasy that all birthmothers are eagerly awaiting a reunion. I am not bitter--not much. (shrug) It is what it is. She found her happy ending. I just didn't fit into it. I guess she had her wedding night, and I am pretty sure that I've found a daughter born to her in about 1966 while looking around in some of the "Search Public Record" sites. I just don't think I can, or should, poke this dragon again.

Have a great Thanksgiving. I'm thankful for my family.

October 10, 1992

So now we're standing face to face,

Isn't this world a crazy place,

Just when I thought my chance had passed,

You went and saved the best for last.

-"Save The Best For Last," Vanessa Williams

our first dance

Fourteen years, y'all.

Hormone Crazed, Hysterical, Self Righteous, Emotional, Deranged Soccer Mom

Just a few of the loving labels directed at me when I posted my opinion of the Mark Foley scandal on a popular conservative blog.

And I hate soccer.

I don't usually blog politics, because of several reasons. First of all, I've noticed that political bloggers tend to get called a lot of names. Secondly, I can't imagine that my opinions would be of interest to anyone out there. Thirdly, and most importantly, my opinions are pretty much all over the place.

My parents were/are righteous Republicans, and once I saw the tax bite on my first paycheck I generally tended to vote Republican cherishing the wistful hope that eventually the large sum of money deducted from my earnings would somehow magically decrease; I'm still waiting. Daddy worshipped Rush Limbaugh; he taped several hundred of his shows. I once sent Rush a self addressed stamped envelope explaining that my father was his biggest fan and asking for an autographed picture to give to Daddy for his birthday. Rush never responded, and probably used my stamp to order more prescription drugs or something, so Rush, you're DEAD to me.

I wish Daddy was alive so that we could engage a good throwdown argument about the war. I have a feeling that he'd be all for it, and I'm personally trying to figure out why we've lost more Americans than died on 9/11 and 1/3 of a trillion dollars fighting a war against a country where all the 9/11 hijackers came from...well, except for none.

Anyway, the Mark Foley scandal has jolted me out of my political lurkdom for just a few minutes. Myrna Blyth said it all, and better than I could, in this article.

Ms. Blyth pointed out that women, regardless of their party affiliation, are outraged at the Republican leaders turning a blind eye to the fact that one of their own was cruising teenage boys. Maybe it's because we are better people. Maybe we have a more highly developed sense of morals. Or maybe it's because some of us have...and I apologize if this makes me a deranged hormone crazed hysterical soccer mom....innocent children who might want to be pages themselves one day?

Here's the thing. I was once a teenage page myself, albeit on the state level. I didn't have any great connections. I lucked into it because I babysat for the governor's secretary who very kindly got me an internship in his office, then I went on to work at the state house part time almost all the way through law school. I loved it.

I have no titillating tales to tell you though and I think the attached picture ought to convince you that no congressperson, male or female, ever hit on me.* Coke bottle glasses, bad perm, complete dorkiness, yeah, that pretty much insured that nobody was asking for my measurements or anything. My bosses were perfect gentlemen. Gov. James B. Edwards once asked me to remove an ERA YES button that I wore to work (Republicans were apparently against that, who knew? Yes. C-L-U-E-L-E-S-S. Say it with me, bros and sisters). Sen. Hyman Rubin once asked me to please not park my 1971 VW in his parking space. Sen. Rubin was my boss, and such a wonderful man. I sent him Christmas cards for years before it occurred to me that he was, in fact, Jewish. Yes. C-L-U-E....

But I'll tell ya one thing and you can take it to the bank along with the dessicated remains of your paycheck after the tax-and-spend crowd get ahold of it....

Everybody knows everything about everybody in politics.

That's what they DO, people! They gossip! Night and day! Day and night!

Do you really think that the titans of the Republican party were limited in their knowledge to what allegedly came through official channels?

Do you really think that Foley limited his, um, interest in hot young male pages to emails and IMs?** Because we all know that sexual predators usually just fantasize about it, never actually do anything.

Do you think that the idea of my teenage daughters getting hit on by 52 year old congressmen while Republican party leaders turn a blind eye to same makes me want to smile serenely and caress the tattoo of an elephant that I have close to my heart?

Or do you think that it makes me want to go all Lorena Bobbitt?

* A lovely commenter wants to know the story of how I got hot. I wish I was! But thank you. In those days I never wore makeup and the glasses were horrifying. I still wear glasses, but they look cooler. I have had liposuction and plastic surgery on my nose. Also, I dye my hair.
**So now the Pubs are claiming that it's all ok because the age of consent in DC is 16. No problem! I'll just remind the girls to pack lots of condoms.

Bad Poetry

My mom always encouraged me to "write a poem" about things that happened in my life, resulting in the death of a whole forest of trees, sacrificed on the altar of my ghastly poetry. I have hugged a tree to apologize. I usually resist the urge to share, but sometimes the feelings just come welling up with the force of a batch of organic spinach infested with e.coli. This is one of those times. I promise I won't do it again...soon. (evil chuckle)

Sung to "Turn, Turn, Turn"

To everything, turn, turn, turn
There is a season, turn, turn, turn
And a computer for every pervert
on the planet.

A time to yearn
For youthful thighs
A time to email
With wistful sighs

Won't you let me
Slip off your jeans
You look so cute
You're in my dreams...

Now everything, spin, spin, spin,
It's just sex, denials begin,
We didn't know, we didn't see
Business must proceed...orderly!

It's just a plot
To bring the Pubbies down
A poor misunderstood man
Had to leave town.

As a mother let me say,
You're making no new friends this way,
Don't deny your negligence
Ignorance is no defense.

I'll pull the lever Democrat
Though ancestors toss their grave.
Children must not be molested.
Our country must be saved.

The Seven Stages Of International Adoption

1. WE'RE FINALLY GOING TO BE PARENTS!!! happy happy joy joy happy happy

2. Friend One: "Oh, you're so wonderful for doing this!"
Friend Two: "Shouldn't you stick to your own kind? I hear Russia has lots of little blue eyed blonde babies...."

3. Oh. My. God. Look at all those sad stories from adult adoptees.

4. My kids will hate me! I've ruined their lives...

5. I know. I'll just be frank, open, honest, and respectful. I know that I can make them see that I'll be a good parent. Here, let me just write a post/comment that shows how I'll plan to handle the problems that arise with a transracial adoptee....and how caring and understanding I am...

6. They still hate me! So will my kids! I wish I had gone to Russia instead.

7. Walk away. Resolve to honor child's birth culture every day, be frank, open, honest, and respectful when my child processes the sad and bewildering demons of international adoption and racism, and enjoy life.

Monday Morning Bitchin'

Good morning!

I'm feeling crabby today, but before we get to the bitching, a couple of updates...

The slumber party was a success, and the Jack Daniels/Diet Rite on the back porch (and a closed door between me and the little darlings) almost drowned out the terrified screams of her guests as Madeleine put a flashlight on her face and told scary ghost stories at midnight. More on this later.

Mark had us over to his house on Saturday night. He is getting through each day. The good news is that he has 90 sick leave days and the doctor wrote him a note excusing him for a month. He may not need it but he has it. I am glad.

Meredith is back in 1st grade. You may recall that she was "reassigned" back to the Montessori preschool program several days ago. Her ex-classmates wistfully yearned for 1. Meredith or 2. No homework, you take your pick. Several of them requested to be reassigned back to the Montessori Classroom Of No Homework And Meredith. So she was brought back, and made an 80 on her spelling test on Friday. The words were changed to be a little easier.

Here are a few things that piss me off.

Homeschooling mothers with atrocious grammar and spelling skills. I just about loose my mind when I see homeschooling mother’s blog's who don’t seem to know the basic rules of grammar, spelling and punctuation. (Promiscuous use of the apostrophe's drives me to the brink). Yeah, don't email me with my spelling errors. I pay fine young women and men who have obtained expensive college educations and passed grueling tests a pretty penny to educate my children.

Shouldn't you have to demonstrate some sort of competency to homeschool? I hate to get the Nanny State involved in more aspects of our lives, and I don't think that a certain level of formal education is required to successfully homeschool, but if you can't write the Queen's English, you shouldn't homeschool.

People who don’t wear their hearing aids. There’s an old guy at work who refuses to wear his hearing aids and all of my witty bon mots fall on, literally, deaf ears. Nothing worse than saying something that causes the rest of the room to break into laughter (at me, or with me? I’m not saying) and the person I was saying it to looks up and says “Huh?”

People who forward emails without deleting the original headers.This is the same person who, many years ago, took a private email I had sent him linking to an article pointing out that Hitler was a vegetarian and fiercely anti cigarettes and forwarded it to everybody on campus. Thank the Good Lord Above that I hadn’t included any obnoxious remarks in the forward.

And then he had the nerve to ask me last month if I could forward him the article again!

People who stick ther heads in my office door and say incomprehensible things. There’s this guy at work who stuck his head in my door and said “I think all students should have to give their Pell (financial aid) checks to me.” and then wiggled his eyebrows a/la Groucho Marx. It was clear that he thought it was a dreadfully witty thing to say, but it made no sense at all.

Apparently he does this to everybody.

The other day, “Republicans mostly wear wigs, I think.”

Just. Go. Away.

White adoptive parents who apologize to adult asian adoptees for adopting asian children. Look, I get it, KADs (Korean adult adoptees who were adopted by white parents back in the 60s and 70s. Many are angry at white adoptive parents of asian children. Very, very, very angry). Your adoption was a tragic error. You're the innocent victim of a great geo-political conspiracy. Asian orphans would be better off growing up in an orphanage or dying on the streets. (There are actually people on the Net who write things like this). White parents are the Antichrist, Great Satan, Imperialists, yada.

Fine. Rant away. I’m an angry adoptee sometimes myself, although I gather that since I share race with my parents I’ve lost all my street cred, yo. You have some legitimate grievances and I shall always make sure that my children are connected to their homeland.

But why…why in the name of all that is good, and holy, and pure, and true…why do white parents adopting asian kids hang around email lists and blogs for daily, weekly, monthly, yearly doses of the hatin’.

They hate us, people! There is nothing you can do to redeem yourself! You, The Great Satan, are an Transracial Abductee!

If you try to give your baby exposure to their birth culture you’re fakin’ it and making a fool of yourself “pretending to be Asian.”

If you DON’T try to give your baby any exposure to their birth culture, well, please, stop reading this blog and kill yourself IMMEDIATELY.

Trying to appease an angry KAD is like trying to convert a shark into a vegetarian. Just give up and send your kid back to their home country.

Make sure to poke some airholes in the box used for shipping, okay?

Happy 6th Birthday Meredith!

...And it seemed real. It seemed like us. And it seemed like well... our home... If not Arizona, then a land, not too far away, where all parents are strong and wise and capable, and all children are happy and beloved... I dunno, maybe it was Utah.

-"Raising Arizona"

Happy and beloved.

"It'll be so easy to find her birth parents," I said to Roger this morning as Meredith was eating breakfast while simultaneously humming a happy little tune under her breath and beaming at three grumpy, sleepy people.

"What do you mean?" he muttered, desperately shaking the coffee pot to see if any remained from three days ago.

"We'll just take her back to Wuzhou and ask, 'Who's the happiest people in town? The ones who walk around with a perpetual smile on their face?'"

"I've never seen a baby lak that," commented my friend Lisa, Masters In Child Development, when we brought her home. "Why she just sets around grinnin' all day."

Happy Birthday Meredith!

You are the happiest child I've ever seen. You take a happy pill in the morning and go around all day spreading happiness. You love to give, you love to help people, and I know that you sincerely wanted to give your sister the $20.00 received as a birthday present, but I most sincerely want to whop Madeleine's tiny Chinese butt for extorting it from you. You will be forced to take this money back whether you like it or not.

I am not a mother blinded by fatuous love. You're whiny and way too sensitive and a tattletale and you need to learn to stand on your own two feet. Also, you prefer Daddy over me, and that shows extremely poor judgment.

But I honestly cannot remember a mean thing that you have done to anybody at any time, in your entire little Shiny Happy Life.

You love everybody and everything. I'd feel comfortable sitting in a bomb shelter with you. You'd be singing and organizing a game of charades.

Your teacher told you about the World Trade Center this year. She was crying because one of her friends died. You came home and told me about it and spread your hands wide and said, "How did they arrange all the burials?" and stared intensely into my eyes.

You were concerned.

You are straighforward and sincere, unlike your cunning and devious sister. Madeleine is my doppelganger, my mini-me, my partner in crime.

You are a ray of sunshine shot straight from heaven, a place where all children are happy and beloved.

Oh you are.

In The Sky Lord, In The Sky

Will the circle be unbroken?
By and by Lord, by and by,
There's a better home a-waitin'
In the sky Lord, in the sky.

I rehearsed all day on Monday.

Ahem. Ok, Dr. E, my youngest bil is..um..gay.

His partner of SEVENTEEN YEARS died suddenly on Friday. (Feeling guilty about having to emphasize the length of the relationship. If it was his wife, it could have been a Britney-Spears-one-day thing!)

Ahem. I know I don't get official bereavement leave, and this doesn't quite fit into any neatly boxed category, but he's FAMILY, and I need to go to the funeral, and I'll find SOMEBODY TO COVER MY CLASSES.

And I'll totally come down to teach the night class! (You just do not miss night classes unless the fever blows the thermometer up).

Dr. E was totally cool and very understanding and sympathetic. I LOVE YOU DR. E.

The funeral was well attended. John worked at a bank and they gave everybody who asked a couple of hours of leave, I think.

John's mother Margot is a stunningly beautiful woman. She got up to speak with heavy makeup hiding the tear stains.

"I was only 16 when John was born, a bouncing baby boy of 8lbs 8oz," she said. "He was the light of my life. He stood beside me when I buried my mother last year, his Nana. I now turn him over to my mother's loving arms."

Tears ran down my face.

Six Weddings And A Funeral

If you had happened to ask me at 12:01 AM Saturday if I thought consenting adults should be allowed to formalize their union in the eyes of the law, I would have looked up from my computer and said, "Um, oh yeah, whatever, sure, but why? After all married people pay much more in taxes. Hey, can I have some of that dip? And will you stop talking abstract philosophy and hang some freaking party decorations already?"

WRITTEN SATURDAY EVENING
Phone rings at 12:02 am. It's Roger's mother. Not too surprised since she's a night owl, but never THIS late.
"It's an emergency! John just died!"

"WHAT?"

Roger's youngest brother Mark is gay. His partner of..oh..16-17 years...John..age 40... Just. Keeled. Over. And. Died. 40 years old.

Mark was on the phone with John's mother chatting. He walked into the kitchen to get a drink and found his partner dead on the floor. Mark called John's mother back, she speeds over the the house, sees her son, faints, and goes to the hospital in an ambulance. The paras can do nothing for John.

He is dead.

Roger flies over to their house. The coroner is there. They're waiting for the Body People. John is lying on the floor. 2 hours later the Body People show up and load John's mortal remains into a bag and take him out the door on a stretcher.

They did an autopsy this morning . It was an enlarged heart, although he had a physical 2 years ago and did fine on the stress test.

We are awaiting the guests for Mad's first slumber party. We cleaned the house, I baked a homemade cake and decorated it, visited Mark, and now the party.

The most frustrating thing is that Mark can't even legally take a second of bereavement leave since he isn't any "relation" to John. However, fortunately, he works for the post office and I'm sure he can line up some time off, but.....how awful, when your lover of 16-17 years dies and you're not even given the dignity of formal bereavement leave.

Thank God that Mark and John's mom are the very best of friends, because Mark and John never signed any of the documents that I offered to prepare for them protecting their legal rights.

Roger is one of seven kids. Six weddings have been celebrated.

Mark's first church ceremony will be Tuesday.

He will bury the love of his life.

Into The Abyss

Jane wrote a post yesterday about her son becoming a manager of the football team and how in her day that was a job reserved for dorks, and it started me thinking about how we bring our childhood along into parenting, for better or for worse.

I had a great childhood. Of course adolescence struck and I changed overnight into the geekiest dork evah, at least in my own mind. Looking back I remember parties, shopping trips, friends, etc...so why? I guess it's the nature of the beast. You remember the bad things about adolescence because it's such a tumultous time.

I have this thing about kiddie parties. They make me nervous. Don't mind attending them, but I've been terrified to throw one for my kids lest nobody show up and it ruins their lives and causes them to spend extra years in therapy.

Two years ago, I thought I had solved the problem. Mad's friend Kara was having a party right about the same time as Mad's 6th birthday. Eureka! We could have a JOINT PARTY and SPLIT EXPENSES!!

"I love organizing parties," said Karen, Kara's mother. "Why, one time, I organized a ball for 1500 people for my sorority."

"How much do you want?" I said, ripping my checkbook out of my purse with trembling fingers.

It was a great success, but the next year Kara wanted her own bash. I managed to put Madeleine off with vague promises of maybe a party sometime in the future.

The time, my friends, is now. Madeleine will be hosting a slumber party on Saturday. And, miracle of miracles, most of her friends have RSVP'd that they will attend.

See you on the other side.

About That Homework? Never Mind...

Roger came home yesterday, handed me a glass of wine and a cigarette and pointed towards the back porch.

"What is it! Tell me quick!" I demanded frantically.

"Meredith...is a first grade dropout," he stammered hesitantly, cowering against the wall like a little girly man.

Ok.

Here's the deal. Meredith attends a Montessori school that started a "G&T Third Grade" program 2 years ago. The deal is, you send your kids to their 1st and 2nd grade, and they pretty much guarantee your kid will start into the 3rd grade public school Gifted and Talented program. It's a mega-super-accelerated first grade program.

Meredith couldn't cut it. She's the youngest in the class, with a Sept. 28 birthday, and is already falling way behind.

Wanna know what the spelling words are for the 12th week? (this is the 2nd week of the program) They are: landed, happily, quite, sneaked, scratched, breezy, easily, wildcat, growl, snapping.

No way.

She isn't eligible for 1st grade in the public school because of her age cutoff.

So she's a dropout...back to the Montessori 3-6 classroom for another year.

I took a sip of wine.

"I knew she couldn't cut it at home but you know how they do so much better at school," I began. Roger agreed, you parents out there know the home performance and school performance often is muchly different.

"Whatever is best for her," I said piously. Roger looked a little stunned that Teh Crazy Ejucashun Lady wasn't having a fit. But heck, she isn't ready, so she isn't ready. Trying to push her would ruin her joy, spirit, and confidence and be futile anyway.

Oh well. One more year of no homework.

I can live with that.

I See Dead People

Okay.

So Madeleine celebrated her 8th birthday with an...IPOD SHUFFLE. I got it free by opening a Citibank Visa card last December. That's the only reason she got such an expensive gift. Her father immediately loaded the Mary Poppins soundtrack on it, fearing a repeat of the terrifying "Shit Is Bananas Hollaback Girl" episode earlier this year, so you can rest assured that Madeleine is enjoying wholesome, G-rated music.

She also begged to download some love song from High School Musical, so after she put away one week of family laundry I let her. It was a good deal for me.

And so it's time to cut out the orgy of materialism and turn our attention to the education of our fine young citizens. Which brings us to homework.

Last week Meredith's 1st grade homework consisted of the following:

Monday-Put 10 words in alphabetical order and write each word 3 times. Some of the words: like, sick, alone, time, tree.

Tuesday-Write definitions for each word.

Wednesday-Write sentences for 5 words.

Thursday-Study for spelling test on Friday.

She struggled mightily with all this and sadly confessed that she missed 7 out of 10 spelling words on Friday.

Now I had an interesting academic career. I attended the creme de la creme of schools for 1st and 2nd grade, Durham Academy. My dad was pursuing his PhD from the University of North Carolina at the time. (He got a job as a professor at VPI for 3rd grade and I never set foot in a private school again).

Durham Academy bound our work in hardback for us, so I have two black books filled with the dewy promise of a brilliant young mind (cough) (moi). Same brilliant mind that rocketed to fame as a community college instructor in the state that is ranked 51th in education, but, ANYWAY.

So I pulled out my work for the first semester of 1st grade.

The first week I copied this off of the board:
I see.
I see.
I see.

The next week: I see a (drawing of some animal, 3x)

The next week: I see Jim. (3x)

The next week: I see Sue. (3x)

I saw people for two TWO FREAKING MONTHS. I saw everything but dead people. I didn't take my first spelling test until the second semester.

I see one thing here.

I won't be freaking out if Meredith doesn't see a 100 on a spelling test. That is a lot for a little girl who won't even be 6 for 2 weeks.

Happy 8th Birthday Madeleine!

From the minute the nanny placed you in our arms you have been pure joy with a side of whipped cream and chocolate.

Somehow--although I swear I wasn't there when you were conceived--you inherited your mother's squirrel like buck teeth, complete lack of athletic ability (and the consequent disinterest in same), snarkiness, love of the ballet, fierce fascination with books, ability to spell (and you know why I was bawling during Akeelah and The Bee, because I'm seeing you holding the trophy one day in my dreams), propensity to get hopeless crushes on Da Boyz, and sense of humor.

You're fiendishly clever in devising ways to eff with your sweet, loving baby sister, who will be 6 in two weeks and possesses a generosity of spirit and relentless good cheer that annoys and puzzles (and secretly awes) both of us. Your way of dealing with this has progressed from simply removing the toy du jour to talking quietly with her a la Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Yes, when I hear you speaking to her in an undertone I'm reminded of the scene where Dr. Lecter talks a fellow inmate into insanity simply by the soothing sound of his voice.

You get my jokes. That's worth more to me than the fact that you can't seem to clean your room properly.

In the words of that sappy song that I heard once and can't locate again...

Today is your birthday
And my gift to you
Is a promise to always
Be there for you
Blow out the candles,
and stay in my view
Because I can't live without you
I know that that much is true

Jesus Was At The World Trade Center

So somebody once wrote to me when I bitterly questioned the existence of God. I wrote back "It would have been better if He had been in the cockpit of the planes."

The center of His will is our only safe place, let us pray that we can always know it!...Bessie ten Boom to Corrie Ten Boom while at Auschwitz, from the book The Hiding Place

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil....The Lord's Prayer, recited by Todd Beamer and Lisa Jefferson a few minutes before Todd died.

"Ted, what should I tell the pilot?"..the witty and wonderful Barbara Olson, after her plane had been hijacked, to her husband Ted, the Solicitor General of the United States. Sadly, Ted had nothing to say to help Barbara stay alive. Mortal man, no matter how powerful, had nothing to stay the planes.

"Oh God! Oh..." Kevin Cosgrove shouted as he met his terrible death in the WTC. I regret to say that the words were not a shout of joy at being reunited with his Creator, but a scream of terror beyond terror.

"You can make me go to church, but you can't make me believe!"....me at age 14 right before my Ghandi-like father slapped my face as hard as he could, sending me reeling across the room and ensuring that 33 years went by before I set foot inside a church again except for weddings and funerals.

I want to talk about God, but I don't want to tell you what I think about Him, because I haven't the slightest idea whether or not He really exists. Does He?

I so envy you who truly, fervently, without a doubt, believe. Because I just don't.

I so envy all you who truly, fervently, without a doubt, believe that there is nothing after death but..well...death. Because I just don't.

I want to think that there is something out there.

"I'm too young to die! I'm too cute to die! I'm too ME to die!" - Snoopy

Today, as I fill the gas tank and contemplate weekend plans, and prepare for tomorrow's lecture, and supervise homework, today I have to believe that..... the souls who met their Maker five years ago yesterday......I have to believe that they met Somebody.

Because I can't bear to think otherwise.

email from husband 4:29PM on 9/10/01

we didn't go

This Used To Be My Playground

This used to be my playground (used to be)

This used to be my childhood dream

This used to be the place I ran to

Whenever I was in need

Of a friend

Why did it have to end

And why do they always say

Don't look back

Keep your head held high

Don't ask them why

Because life is short

And before you know

You're feeling old

And your heart is breaking

Don't hold on to the past

Well that's too much to ask

This used to be my playground (used to be)

This used to be our pride and joy

This used to be the place we ran to

That no one in the world could dare destroy

-Theme from "A League Of Their Own"

I shot this picture in 1986 from the balcony of my boyfriend's apartment at Independence Plaza, 310 Greenwich Street, NY, NY. I pulled it out of my photo album--you can see the aged page it's on..and scanned it. See the broom handle at the bottom? I was probably sweeping the terrace and ran back inside to get my camera and take the picture. Eventually I moved in. I lived there for 2 years.

I want to write a little tribute to the World Trade Center. I have nothing new or exciting to say about September 11. I was devastated! (yes--only person in the world to feel like that) I will never be the same! (cry me a river, I did not lose any friends or relatives)

I went on holiday to New York City in the summer of 1985 with a friend. I met a guy and we looked at each other and fell in love, blah, blah. By the end of the week we were inseparable. The only thing was that he was....wait for it.....

African American.

You can imagine the thrill and joy that generated. Remember this was 20 years ago!

My mom and dad were beyond furious. Apparently all the talk about We Are All God's Children and All People Are Equal had a clause (unless one of those dark types is dating your daughter).

But that is a story for another day. During this time of upheaval, I commuter dated for a year. I'd fly from Columbia to Newark. Then after arriving in Newark I'd take the bus into the city. The stop was at the World Trade Center.

I'd always look up at the towers and a thrill would shoot through me. I'm a sophisticated woman, I'd think. Look at me, a goober from South Carolina. I'm in the most exciting city on earth. If I can make it there, I can make it anywhere...hey, that sounds as if it would make a good song.

When I waited, weeping, at the bus stop to go back to South Carolina, the Towers would always speak to me. We'll be here for you, they'd say. We'll always be a beacon. Come back soon.

When I got lost in the city, I'd always look to the Towers for guidance. I could get my bearings. Towers--south. Anything else-north.

Such a thrill to get into the special elevator at the WTC that didn't stop. It was for the tourists. It shot 88 stories into the sky.

"Remember the story about the plane that crashed into the Empire State Building back in the 40s and some people were trapped in the elevators," my boyfriend said as we boarded.

"It's worth it!" I replied, shivering with delight. "WHEE! I CAN FEEL MY EARS POP!"

"YOU CAN SEE THE WHOLE WORLD FROM HERE!" I said, running all over the observation room like a five year old.

And the last time I visited the Towers, I was with my husband of four days. We did the elevator, we did the observation deck, I looked up at the Towers and said Thank you. I'm living in South Carolina now, but I will bring my children to see you.

And on September 10, 2001, at 4:26 PM, I clicked "yes" to Priceline air tickets. We would take Madeleine, age 3 1/2, to see the Lion King on Broadway before her baby sister arrived at Christmastime. Then I ran to teach my night class. Yes! I really did. Honest to God. September 10, 2001.

My children will never see the Towers. Goodbye old friends.

A Friend Writes

Parents of transracial adoptees manage to draw strident criticism and fawning adoration, and I don't know which is more annoying.

A friend of mine wrote an eloquent post to a list that discusses transracial adoption. I thought it was so powerful that I asked her for permission to reprint it. Here it is.

There was a post a couple of weeks that to me said that no matter what I did as a parent, I was going to fail. My boys would never know a moment of happiness as adults. They would hate me. They would be constantly miserable because of racism in their world. They would grow up thinking it was better to have died in infancy than to have had to deal with the pain and anguish of their adult lives. And that I had sealed this terrible fate for them the moment my racist colonialist white self got on the plane for China.

Sigh...for me, as a parent, the struggle is about optimism. All parents, not just those raising transracially adopted kids, are constantly bombarded with so many messages about what it takes to successfully parent. Kids need to have 7.5 servings of veggies a day and get 1.5 hours of exercise or they'll grow up obese. And please also spend an hour a day reading with each one or they'll grow up illiterate. Spend 'x' amount of quality time with each one each day on top of the reading and exercise and veggie time so that they'll know how to have fulfilling relationships with other adults. Make sure the carseat is installed just right. Less than an hour of TV a day. Don't let them play competitive sports because it will damage their self-esteem. Encourage them to play competitive sports because it builds self esteem. Give them an allowance and tie it to chores so they'll learn responsibility. Give them an allowance but don't tie it to chores because studies show that this is ineffective. Please work in at least two playdates with peers a week so they'll have strong friendships. Raise them in church. Don't raise them in church. Give them structure. Don't give them structure as it stifles creativity. Homeschool. Public school. Private school. Work outside the home. Don't work outside the home. Daycare is good. Daycare is okay if necessary. Sending them to daycare will ruin their lives. Etc. Amidst all this information, you're supposed to sort out what is best for your child and your family.

And then there's the messages we get as adoptive parents. You're so wonderful for rescuing these little colored heathens. You should have adopted one of the ten zillion babies waiting for homes in US foster care. All adoptees wind up in prison anyway so nothing you do matters. It would have been better to leave them to die in their home country rather than dragging them here to the US to experience all the problems we have here. Etc.

And amidst this mixed bag of messages, I'm supposed to somehow manage to be optimistic enough about life to crawl out from under the covers each morning, give my kids a big hug, pack them a nourishing lunch, and send them off to deal with their own little corner of the world in public school.

If you listen too much to what everyone tells you, it's too hard. You have to keep a bubble around yourself and your kids and try to select what information you're going to allow to pierce the bubble. You surely can't let it all in or you'll just go nuts trying to sort it all out. Just my thoughts as a parent.

What We Have Here Is A Failure To Communicate

I was trying to return some shoes to Walmart on Sunday night. There was this cheerful guy on the return desk running around hollaing at everybody. Most of the support desk staff are sort of surly, but this guy was On, baby. On.

"Got another abortion!" he'd holla. I have no idea what he was talking about, I suppose a return that was not completed? Anyway the whole crew would sniff disdainfully and move a few inches away from him each time he screamed this.

We got up to the front. I handed him the shoes. He lifted them up to check for wear.

"WHEREJA GET THESE TWO LITTLE BEAUTIES!" he hollered, looking at the shoes.

I looked at him like people are always looking at me.

To wit: I wonder what planet you came from?

"From The Sh-0e De-part-ment," I replied, carefully enunciating every word.

"I MEANT THOSE TWO LIL OL' KIDS THERE!" he hollered, pointing at the girls, who were staring at him fascinated.

"Oh!" I giggled uncontrollably. "Sorry!" 

Diary Of An Egomaniac Part 1

The girls were baptized last week. I photographed the event.

The following photo essay captures the beautiful inner spirit of me, a person tragically and delusionally convinced that she is a both hottie and a world-class photographer, ready to take her place among the giants in the field. You will be treated to an unplugged, uncensored, up-close-and-personal look into the mind of a extremely frightening person.

For your convenience, I have provided my inner dialogue and the inner thoughts of the other participants in the baptism.

You have been warned. Proceed with caution!! 

Diary Of An Egomaniac Part 2

Me: Why is it that the best picture of me has that wonky light coming in from the FOOL THAT OPENED THE DOOR AND RUINED THE LIGHTING BALANCE?
Baptismal participants: We Love God.

Diary Of An Egomaniac Part 3

Me: Do I look hot? Do I look reallllly, reallly hot? I must be the HOTTEST 40ish WOMAN THIS CHURCH HAS EVER SEEN. Keep on taking pictures, please, until I achieve the look of MASSIVE HOTNESS that I crave!
Family: Our feet hurt.

Diary Of An Egomaniac Part 4

Me: Look! I'm shooting the girls in full light and close up! What a talented photographer I am indeed!

Could you little ex-heathens please look at ME?

Meredith: I am having a vision. I see the Virgin Mary in the sky.

Diary Of An Egomaniac Part 5

Me: What an awesome idea it was to capture the contrast between the awesomeness of the church and the tiny girls! I bet nobody ever thought of this before!!
Children: It's 97 degrees and the sun is in our eyes. We feel faint.