Why Bodysurfing is for Oceans, not Parking Lots

I should get this tattooed on my forehead.

There are days when school drop-off is as smooth as buttah. When Nick comes down in his uniform instead of his swim clothes, Gabe actually eats his breakfast instead of channeling that kid from Close Encounters who made everything into that freaky mountain, and Olivia sits patiently and watches the dog eat instead of trying to climb into his water bowl.

Last Wednesday was not one of those days.

It began with what should have been a very straightforward task – changing Gabe’s pull-up. I had switched to doing it while he was standing because I had read in one of the many parenting books stacked on the nightstand that this less submissive position helps build mutual respect.

Hmm….

What it does is build a parent’s reflexes to catch whatever dollop…or two…or several…happen to fall between your child’s legs.

“Gabe! No poo poo on the carpet,” I exclaimed…and not for the first time. His smile and accompanying shrug implied “s*** happens”.

When we walked into Olivia’s room, we were overwhelmed by the smell. Apparently, our Olivia is a stealth vomitter, for there had been no gagging sounds from the baby monitor, no screams of protest waking up covered in last night’s dinner. Mind you, she’ll scream bloody murder if you so much as look at another child when you should be looking at her (Diva!), but apparently chunky carrots, chicken and broccoli with a healthy helping of stomach acid are perfectly ok to roll around in.

“Well, Olivia. I guess it’s bath time,” I said as I picked crusted remnants from her hair.

In the meantime, Nick was debating which navy blue uniform shirt he would wear – “Nick, just pick one! They are all the same!” – while simultaneously singing “DJ Turn it up…up…up…up…up.”

Surely breakfast downstairs could not be any worse.

Oh, Nadine, you naïve little fool.

The moment I put Olivia on the ground she adopted her new favorite position – arms outstretched, stomach rigid, back arched, she was the quintessential pre-ripcord parachutist, complete with wide-mouthed, full-bodied yell. I tentatively offered her a sippy cup, which she studied, then threw across the floor, milk trailing in its wake.

“Well, sweetie. If you want to milk, you know how to get it.” The shift from bottle to sippy was taking a shade longer than we had expected, but it’s not like she would go to college still sucking on an Avent, right?

Gabe had made his way to the table where he had decided that instead of eating his gummy vitamins today, he would decorate his face with them, after a pre-application lick.

“Nana, look! I fancy!”

No, Gabe, that was not the first word that came to me…nor the second or third. But I’ll give you a hint: my first word was “what”; my second was “the” and my third was “fu-“

“Gabe made a mask! He’s an artist!” Nick reached his hand towards his own piles of gummies. I pinned him with my Defcon 1 stare. “Don’t. Even. Think. About. It.” He sulked through the rest of his breakfast while Gabe kept trying to catch my eye, tilting his head from side to side.

“I so funny! I so funny!” Oh Gabe, you are such a middle child.

Our upstairs delay had cost us precious time, and we left the house a full 15 minutes late. Not a good plan when there are torrential rains. And even as I drove veeeeeerrrrry carefully, I was trying to calculate how we could make up that time and still beat the 8:05 bell at Nick’s school. Fortunately, Gabe and Olivia go to the same daycare, so at least that drop off would be easy.

Ha!

Normally, Nick walks Gabe to his classroom while I drop Olivia off at hers. Then I go upstairs and make sure Gabe is settled in before Nick and I head to the car. But I forgot that Gabe was transitioning to a new classroom and teacher, so after I dropped off a howling Olivia – “How could you leave me?! You’re a terrible mother – Oh!  They have cheerios…nyum nyum nyum nyum.” – I bounded up the stairs where I met Nick and Gabe still in the hallway.

“What happened?”

“He won’t go in his classroom.” Nick seemed at a loss and I immediately regretted sending him up with Gabe. He’s a big brother, not a third parent.

“Gabe, hon. You have Miss Rachel today. We’re all done with Miss Julie.” I held his hand to lead him back to his room, but he would have none of it. Instead, he ran down the hall screaming, “Miss Julie! I want Miss Julie!” And when said Miss Julie opened her door – she and Gabe have some psychic connection or something – he threw himself into her arms, clinging for dear life.

“My poor Gabe. My poor Gabe.” She whispered as her eyes filled with tears. Oh jeez. I’m sad too, but I’ve got another kid to get to school. Could we wrap this up? Harsh, maybe. But I also know that if Nick misses the first bell, his whole day goes a little wonky, which we don’t need after 2 pink conduct slips.

I pried Gabe from her, carrying him down the hall in his #2 meltdown setting – rigid – as opposed to him #1 meltdown setting – limp – and deposited him with the equally competent and caring Miss Rachel who assured me that despite Gabe’s Cicely Tyson Roots impersonation, he would be just fine.

“Gabe, I promise I will come back to pick you up. I love you very much.” After a deep sigh and a kiss to the forehead, we left.

At 8:04:30 we were pulling into the parking lot at Nick’s school. The rains were still coming down strong, which was good, because it meant that the kids were in the cafeteria and filing out usually took a shade longer than when they were outside.

We were going to make it!

One minute, Nick was running across the parking lot.
The next minute he was hydroplaning on his stomach towards the front door.

Yeah, we made the bell.

We also spent the next 20 minutes in the nurse’s office looking for gauze and bactine since the nurse didn’t arrive until 9. As we sat on the couch, we took a few deep breaths together and listened to morning prayers.

“How ya doing, buddy?”

“I’m ok. At least I didn’t rip my shirt.” Uh yeah, just took a few layers off your skin.

“I think next time we’ll just be late. How does that sound?”

He nodded his head, relaxing a little deeper into my embrace.

I softly hummed the first notes from “59th Street Bridge”.

“You got to make the morning last,” Nick sang in response.

“Just kicking down the cobble stones,” I followed

He looked up at me, smiling, as we sang the last line together.

“Looking for fun and feelin’ grooooooovy.”

I Never Promised You A Rose Garden

After 20 years you get to know your partner pretty well.

This is why you’ll spend 2 hours in the garden because the weeds have made it their kingdom and even though your partner comments on the overgrown state every single time she passes your private Sherwood Forest, and laments over how she simply must get the fall seeds into the ground, she won’t actually doing anything about it until there is a clear path from the walkway to the raised garden beds.

This is also why she’ll cook a week’s worth of food for you and the kids before she goes out of town, putting it in serving-sized containers labeled with microwave instructions and side dish pairings because she knows if left to your own devices you and the kids will be eating cereal, pizza, and McDonald’s for every meal.

You’ll know that since both of you are the children of immigrants, you will plan nothing special to mark 20 years together, save a card on the pillow that lampoons married life with frightening accuracy and has you both howling with laughter.

Instead, you’ll spend your special day in back-to-back conference calls and marathon brainstorm sessions. You’ll look up at the clock and suddenly realize you’re going to be late for the parent-teacher-principal conference to discuss why, oh why, did Nick put his gym shoe in the urinal. In the middle of the meeting, you’ll remember that after 2 days of rolling and squeezing the tube with as much strength as you can muster, you are now officially out of toothpaste. Afterwards, you will pick up your sulky eldest boy, whiny middle son, and cranky diva daughter who, by the way, is in completely different clothes from the morning since she decided to pour her sippy cup into her lap instead of her mouth in protest of the switch from a bottle.

You will listen to “I’m a Paleontologist” 16 times on repeat during the ride home which is the boys’ new favorite song and still more appropriate that their former favorite song LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know it” (thank you, B96). You’ll hastily throw together dinner – noodles and spag sauce – most of which will land on the floor since at least 2 of the children have forgotten that they actually know how to use forks and the third is just pissed, well, just because.

After dinner, you’ll tap your inner structural engineer to build a cushion fort that can accommodate 3 enthusiastic – and overtired – children and their limited understanding of spatial relationships in a confined space. After 3 ice packs for 3 different collisions, you’ll march them upstairs for a relatively drama-free tuck-in. And by 11:30, you will collapse into your bed, thankful the day has come to a close.

This will last until 11:35 when your 2 year old wakes up screaming and you’ll run into the bedroom and are able to feel the heat from his body before you even place a hand on his forehead. You’ll mentally rearrange tomorrow’s appointments when the thermometer shows a 104 fever and you know he’ll need to stay home. Then you’ll ply him with ice water and carry him off to the guest bedroom because you also know that in this feverish state he’ll turn into a soccer player in bed and at least one parent should get a semi-decent night’s sleep.

It won’t be you.

As you stare at the ceiling, after one more kick to the kidney, you’ll wonder if this is what you and your partner had envisioned all those years ago, when you served overcooked white rice and mushy vegetables (to an Asian! What were you thinking?!), and she started dinner by saying she wasn’t looking for a relationship. You’ll remember how, after 3 month of dating, she told you not to drop off the face of the earth but she seriously, seriously just did not have time for whatever was growing between you. You’ll laugh at your insistence that you were absolutely meant to be together, but you were nobody’s doormat, so when she got her s*** together, she should give you a call.

You’ll be thankful that you both stuck it out, balancing each other’s quirks and supporting each other’s crazy dreams. Then you’ll get up from bed, walk down the hallway and kiss your sleeping partner on the cheek, amused and amazed that you’ve lasted this long.

“Happy Anniversary.”

Finding Your Way Home

Today is a very good day.

Today a newborn and a new mom are basking in the glow of patience, faith and destiny.

When my friend Justine first approached us about our experiences with adoption, we were encouraging, but realistic.  And while we couched our words with “but this is just what happened to us; it might be different for you,” we didn’t pull any punches.

“Yes, as a single woman you will have a harder time adopting.”

“No, there is no “best case” scenario, only “meh, that’s not that bad” ones.”

“Yes, it’s good to be open, but if something doesn’t feel right, there’s probably ‘crazy’ in the air.”

Throughout her 2-year journey, she would check in with different questions, concerns, and of course, situations:

Like the woman who called her daily “just to chat” but refused a referral to a birth parent counselor to discuss her options, including placement.  (Surprise, she didn’t.)

Or the birthmother who begged Justine to be present at the birth – a four-hour drive – then changed her mind at the last minute.  (Been there, done that.  It sucks.)

Or the birth family who read her profile, saw dollar signs, then, a couple grand later, decided to parent. (Again, been there, done that…and done with that.)

Through it all, we told her, as we had told ourselves, that the right baby will find her.

It just takes time.

And the first time that you hold that child, you will wonder how this moment came to be…how you ever lived before this child came into being.

But, every now and then, you will wonder…about the others…

When Gabe was six months old, we attended an open house at the adoption agency.  We wandered through the halls, reconnecting with families we hadn’t seen since the required adoption classes, and connecting with newly-expanded families like our own.  Nick enjoyed himself immensely, even though we lost him a few times since he seemed to think that the entire building was his personal playground.  And Gabe, while not as mobile, made up for it with his non-stop baby babble, apparently seeing the entire event as his personal soapbox.

Just before we left, we struck up a conversation with a family who had a son, about the same age as Nick, and a daughter, about the same age as Gabe.

“She is too precious,” I cooed, marveling at her color-coordinated and heavily accessorized ensemble.  She was a vision of frills and lace – two items that have never seen the inside of our house.  So quiet, so demure this child.  And they all seemed such a lovely family, if a bit reserved. So while we traded stories about the difference between one child and two – “it’s not just double the work…it’s exponential!” – it was clear that we had very different children and very different approaches to parenting.

As we talked, more details emerged about their little girl, her birth family, and her placement story.

That’s when I put two and two together.

This was the one we didn’t get.

We had been one of 3 families being considered by a young woman and her boyfriend.  On paper, it had seemed like a perfect fit.  They had loved our profile, our creative bent, and, of course, the future big brother, Nick.  But after a week of deliberations, they had chosen another family with closer geographical ties.

We were devastated, ready to resign ourselves to life with one child.

But then we got a call…and the rest is Gabe’s history.

In the car ride home – after we tracked Nick down – I shared my discovery with Lori.

“Oh my God.  How weird is that?  Wait, why didn’t you tell me inside?”
“What was I going to say?  And how?  It’s not like you speak Spanish.”
“Yeah, and you don’t speak pig latin.”
“Touche.”
“You mean, ouchetay.”
“Whatever.”
“Ateverwhay.”
“Please stop, or so help me God I will jump out of the car.”

(Silence)

“Nice family.”
“Yup.”

(Silence)

“Sooooo not our kid.”
“Not even close.”

Our kids, god love ’em,  are quirky, boisterous, compassionate, obstreperous, independent, fun-loving, carefree spirits.

In other words, they are perfect…and perfect for us.  We wouldn’t have it any other way.

To those who are seeking those seeking to be sought, know that it will happen.  Know that when it does, it will all be worth it…just to hold and behold perfection in your arms.

As a child of the 80’s, I have to close this out with the song that has found me shortly after each one of our children has found their way home.

[photo from http://templar.osmthu.org.uk/_photos/Baby%20Feet.jpg%5D