Mindful Monday

I feel like I said my piece to NaBloPoMo yesterday. Today I found out about NaNoWriMo. National Novel Writing Month. That's right. Write a NOVEL in 30 days. Maybe next year...And I might need to be prepared to spend Christmas on my own.

One benefit of NaBloPoMo is that it got me wondering just how close to everyday I could post, and how I might structure postings.

From now on Mondays will be "Mindful Mondays". I'm counting this last day of NaBloPoMo as the first Mindful Monday...



"When our eyes see our hands doing the work of our hearts, the circle of creation is completed inside us, the doors of our souls fly open, and love steps forth to heal everything in sight."

~Michael Bridge

I'm not entirely sure what the work of my heart is yet. I'm pretty sure it involves writing. And being in service. And children.

And paying enough attention to myself to figure out what the work of my heart is and how to walk the path with my eyes and heart open.

It's Not You, It's Me

Dear NaBloPoMo,

The past 29 days have been really nice. Some of them have been great really. I felt inspired and motivated in ways I haven't in a long time. You have pushed and encouraged me. But the past few days I have felt a distance growing between us. Lately you have been needy. Too dependent. A little wearing. I sense the inevitable end of our relationship will be a necessary step in my evolution and growth. I appreciate all you have given and done for me. I really do. You deserve better than me. Someone that can give you all you deserve. I'm not ready for this level of commitment. Go out and find yourself another girl, NaBloPoMo. I'm all out of love. I wish you the best and should our paths cross again in another place, at another time, I hope we can both look back fondly on this time we've shared.

I wish you nothing but the best,
Ashley

Trees? We Don't Need No Stinkin' Trees.

Okay, so we do need trees. And we do happen to have several very large and beautiful trees that surround our house but are not technically ours. The trees we do have are too little to hold a swing. So we put some up in the house. Since the picture was taken we upped the safety factor by putting just one in the center.

Swinging is important. I was planning on giving you some solid information on the benefits of swinging, but when I googled it I came up with some, uh, very different "information". And frankly I'm still too sick to be able to sort through that kind of "information" to find what I'm looking for.

Swing on.
The kids I mean.

Although, what happens between two (or more, in this case) consenting adults is no business of mine.
So swing on, one and all.

Thankful, Continued

Immediately after I hit "publish" to post yesterday, I went to the couch and told Erik I didn't feel well. I'd hoped it was Thanksgiving overindulgence, feared it was the stomach bug that had hit Erik and Safa early in the week. Quickly I realized it was the later. I'm very weak right now, hunched over typing these words, but I'll be damned if I fail NaBloPoMo so close to finishing.

Last night Erik helped me to bed. Time over the past 18 hours has run together in the way it will when one is so ill they are confined to bed and labored walks to the bathroom. I lay in bed, nauseous, shaking, sweating. He stayed with me. He would leave and come back intermittently to check on me at first. As I got worse, he stayed. He read to me while I shook uncontrollably. He played the guitar for me, a sweet, gentle song, love in the chords. And when things got really bad he made a bed for me on the bathroom floor, where I stayed until 3:00 AM.

This afternoon he rented a girl-movie for me to watch in bed. Carried me back to bed. Offered anything he could, wanting to provide some small comfort. Worry and love all over his face.

I am exhausted now. Weak, ready for bed again after having now been awake for an hour. I hear the girls in the living room. Every once in a while I hear Erik's voice over theirs, low and loving, this voice I have found comfort in for 15 years.

And I am thankful beyond measure for the man it belongs to.

Thankful

An Award For Pretentious Rambling? I Graciously Accept.

The Rules:

1. Thank and link the person who awarded you. My cyber-acquaintance Rebekah awarded me. Thanks for that Rebekah! Rebekah is smart. Funny. Is raising two sons while she waits to be matched with a daughter. She's a Runner. (Capital "R"). AND I learned just this morning that Rebekah has a dirty mouth. What's not to like? I hope to get to know her better in time. I don't have a beach in my backyard Rebekah, but I do have a pool. When it gets too cold up there, you can visit us here in Austin anytime. I'm also happy to discuss setting up some arranged marriages if you are interested.

2. Reveal 7 things about yourself not previously mentioned on your blog.

3. Award 7 bloggers the "Kreativ Blogger Award", post links to their blogs, and leave a comment letting them know of their honor.

This is really pretty nice since it was only four days ago that I started to call myself a blogger. In my mind, I mean. I haven't said it out loud yet. The other day I really did start marveling at the inherent pretentiousness in blogging about my life. Who do I think I am to assume I have anything to say that people want to hear? But there is something so weirdly compulsive about it. And I never think that anybody else is pretentious for doing it, so I guess I'll just keep doing it.

Okay, 7 things not previously revealed on this blog:

1. I could drink you and your daddy under the table. But I'm the biggest caffeine lightweight you have ever seen. It's pitiful. Five swallows and my head feels like cotton-candy. I can feel the residual caffeine left in decaf.

2. I, like Rebekah, have a filthy mouth. I work hard to keep it clean here. I have deleted the "f-word" from my posts more times than I could count. I have been known to change the "Clean It Up" song to say, "And put it away, put it away, put your shit away". Now that I've typed it, I can see that it probably isn't the finest example of my parenting. I usually use the word "crap" in that song if that redeems me in any way.

3. I LOVE, and I mean, LOVE, those cheesy dance movies made for adolescents. Bring It On, Save the Last Dance, Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo. Cinematic HEAVEN.

4. I began a novel last fall. At the rate I'm going, I will be happy to have a first draft by the time I'm 75.

5. I'm not a germaphobe. I'm of the "You can eat it, I'm sure it's fine", 30-second rule, exposure-to-germs-makes-you-stronger ilk. Except for birds. Birds freak me out. They are gross. I will confess that I have managed to pass this phobia on to all three of my girls, who all know that the only way to pick up a bird feather if you don't have rubber glove handy is by pinching it with a leaf. And if you touch it accidentally you'll probably pay for it by contracting something that involves a trip to the hospital. That's not unhealthy, is it?

6. Since last November, which for those of you counting makes an entire year, I have been struggling with chronic gastritis brought on by the stress of the adoption process. Last spring I was encouraged by my doctor to get an endoscopy, or as I call it, "swallow the camera". I said, "No fucking way." (See #2) Not really. But I thought it. So I walk around like a 65 year-old man with a beer and beef problem, swallowing licorce and slippery elm tablets like they're candy, hoping that in 6 months it will be a distant memory.

7. My cyber-friends do not know that I drive a passenger van with flames, (see here). I still haven't fixed the right side where we were hit, so I now only have them on one side which is somehow MORE like me than having them on both.

And the Kreativ Blogger Award goes to:

1. Carrie. Carrie is a fellow Austinite and mama to three. She is hilarious and a poet when she writes about her children. I'm thrilled every time she posts. Her family is crazy gorgeous.

2. Cindy. OK, so Rebekah already nominated her, but this woman... I just like her. She is funny, sincere, self-deprecating, and mama to the most adorable triplet boys from Ethiopia. Everyone should have a chance to know of her blog, so I'm telling you now.

3. Kari Anne. I don't know Kari Anne personally. She is another Austin mama. Wicked funny. Smart. Strong. Author of Haiku Mama.

4. Erin Henderson. She took her blog private and I miss it. This means nothing to you since I can't link her, but her blog was hugely important to me. Adoptive mom extraordinaire and advocate for HIV+ adoption.

5. Kelly Rae Roberts. Kelly has a huge following and does not need my support. But I'm going to mention her here because she promotes, supports, and fosters creativity through her blog in a way that is accessible and freeing. And who couldn't use a little of that?

6. Karen Maezen Miller. Author of Momma Zen. Grounding, beautiful, compassionate wisdom offered up here. I would love to have a cup of something decaffeinated with her.

7. Janna. Janna's blog is private, but it shouldn't be. She is mama to four. Creative, funny. I want to be her when I grow up. I'm hoping this pushes her to go public.

Thanks for the inspiration everyone!

We Are

I'm feeling a little ungrounded lately. In the time before each child has joined us, I have felt a bittersweet poignancy for what we were losing, what we would gain. That giant shift in family dynamics, energy, focus; it stirs things up. We are moving from what we are, to what we will become.

The beauty and simplicity of three daughters is not lost on me. Together, they are "the girls". I only need to wait a few days before I can do a full load of pinks, reds, and oranges. We are crayons and paper. Books and stuffed animals. Hula hoops and dancing.

We did not adopt so that we would be guaranteed a boy. Erik had no need to "balance out the house" as so many people joke. We were open to gender and would have happily added a fourth daughter. Sometimes I worry about my ability after mothering only daughters to shift my thinking to include less impulse control, more physicality, peeing standing up, and swords.

I feel like time is simultaneously speeding up and at a stand still. My life has become a scene from The Matrix. I hold on to these last days with the girls, watching them float away, watching myself distracted with packing lists, busy with adoption paperwork, stressed out, missing them, missing Yonas, trying to get centered enough to be here with them now, to sit down beside the stress and poignancy, to embrace the sadness, the fear that I cannot mother a son as I have these daughters of mine.

And then something shifts, and I put on Christmas music too early and I hold Eden and dance, I climb into the top bunk with Ava so she can read to me, I hold Safa a little longer than I need to when she calls to me in the middle of the night.

And then I remember. We are also blocks and trains. We are hikes and swimming. We are waterplay and mud.

And we will all be fine.

I Could've Really Used That Mexican Martini

Oh, generous spirit of NaBloPoMo, be lenient with me today as I offer up this measly post. For today has been one spent caring for a sick child and an even sicker husband (who although feels like shit, still looks gorgeous. I mean seriously. When I'm sick, I at least have the decency to look sick. Sheesh.) It has involved endless loads of towels, cleaning up vomit (sometimes out of carpet), and Lysol (which I hate and don't believe in, except when a stomach bug is floating around and then I have to fight the urge to coat everyone in full-strength bleach).

Whenever an adult is sick in our family, it leads us to remember two family stories. The first happened when I was a teenager and my father was sick. He groaned and shuffled his way down the stairs to find my mom and I in the kitchen, where my mom was making dinner. He asked what we were having. My mom said, "Soft tacos." To this my Papa moaned a little and stated that he had never had soft tacos. We tried not to laugh in his face.

The second involves me. This happened long before children when Erik and I were in our mid-twenties. I was sick. It had come on hard and fast and Erik said to me gently, sweetly, helping me into bed, "Baby, I think you have the flu."

To which I replied, in all seriousness, "I don't have the flu, YOU have the flu."
I meant it too.

In some wicked twist of fate I had a mom's night out scheduled tonight with some women I adore from the girls' school. They will eat Tex-Mex, drink different versions of margaritas, and a couple of them will say something so dirty it might make someone else pee their pants.

I will put everyone to bed, eat my weight in chips and homemade guacamole, and drink a sorry excuse for a cocktail in their honor.

It won't be the same, but tonight, it might just be enough.

Fortunate

We had Vietnamese take-out tonight for dinner. After we finished, we had fortune cookies. Eden's read, "Something wonderful is about to happy."

It's true.

Something wonderful IS about to happy.

Embiggen the Pie, I Need to Feast

I love being a mother. I think I'm good at it. I love all the things it brings to me now, all it will bring later. And I'll tell you now, my willingness to raise children would be limited only by silly resources like money and physical health. I would keep adding children to our family by adoption until I fell over. And yet.

And yet, there's this other thing. This idea of paths not taken. The roads we look down, but keep walking on by. I want it all. I want a big, giant life with as many kids as I can take care of well AND time to make art with my hands and to write a novel, and to read, to travel, time to be in service to a greater good, time alone with Erik, time alone with myself. I want it all.

Is it too much to ask?
Maybe.

Am I tired just thinking about it?
You bet your ass.

Will I stop trying?
No way.

Bump Number 127, But Who's Counting?

This is going to be a boring explanation-type post with no creativity whatsoever. Excited?

Because our process has taken so long, our federal fingerprints expired, and we were re-fingerprinted back in June. For some reason that is beyond me, the other part, the part that involves things like the Department of Homeland Security, United States Citizens and Immigration Services, and forms called, I-600, I-600A, I-171H expires not in 15 months like our fingerprints, but in 18 months. Which turns out to be December 4th for us. So we sent a renewal letter. Did what the USCIS page told us to. Twenty-one days later we receive a letter stating that we needed to provide an updated homestudy by December 14th or our application would be denied.

DENIED!?!

So we scrambled. Called our lovely (local) social worker and left a panicky message. In some evil twist, our specialist (our agency social worker) called to see what are new expiration date was. She was calling to tell us we were going to travel on December 16th. Our lovely social worker moved lightening fast.

They will not put us in a travel group until our processing is complete. So December 16th travel is off the table for us. I will not get to meet Briana. But she has told me she will give Yonas a squeeze before we get there. That helps. So did the other acronyms she and her husband have developed for USCIS.


And we wait.

I Haven't Even Polished the Children Yet

Taking a break from the Social Worker Scramble. You know, the frenzied, half-crazed push to make your house presentable for the person that helps decide if you are clean enough, sane enough, smart enough, to adopt a child. Nothing like a visit to shine a light on the dirtiest, ugliest, and most dangerous spots in my house...

Have my carpets always been THIS dirty?

Do we really keep THAT much booze on the counter?

Where are all the outlet covers?

Since when is there a STAPLER in Safa's room?

What the hell IS that under Ava's and Eden's bunk bed???

She will be here in 15 minutes. I'm sure there's a spot somewhere I should be scrubbing, a dog hair I missed. Maybe I should brush my teeth.

Tomorrow I will tell you why we have to do this today. I will tell you now it sucks and means we will not be traveling before Christmas.

Until then, here's my blog post about our first ever home study visit.

Wordless Wednesday

Confession

Remember that 21-day cleanse I was doing?

On day 18, I broke it.

With a big, fat whisky and coke.

What is Your Poem?

It is with some regularity that I find myself with other women I like and talk turns to self-care. Self-care comes in many guises. Each of us needs a cocktail of practices to support our soul and fill our psychic well. I posted very recently about my struggles to create space in my life for that necessary nurturing of my soul. Committing to NaBloPoMo has been good for me. Really good. So good that I'm wondering if I can keep it up, this blogging everyday. In large part it has been so good because I know I have to show up everyday, even if I don't think I have anything to say. It has been for 15 days now, a mandatory gift to give to myself.

"Nobody will stop you from creating. Do it tonight. Do it tomorrow. That is the way to make your soul grow - whether there is a market for it or not! The kick of creation is the act of creating, not anything that happens afterward. I would tell all of you watching this screen: Before you go to bed, write a four line poem. Make it as good as you can. Don't show it to anybody. Put it where nobody will find it. And you will discover that you have your reward. "
~Kurt Vonnegut

I know a poem won't cut it for everybody. But I encourage you to find something you can do for yourself, something that doesn't wait for anyone's evaluation or approval. Something that is yours alone. Keep it for yourself. Go get your reward.


And in a few months time, when you find me depleted and wanting, tell me to do the same.

Won't Somebody PLEASE Think of the Grandparents!

We went to Port Aransas in September. It was a much better trip than this one two years ago. But not nearly as funny to blog about. I can't wait for Uncle Yonas to be with us next time we go.

Quote of the Week

Safa was in the bath, Ava and Eden at school.

"Mama? Sometimes I like it when Ava and Eden aren't in the house."
"Oh, is that right? Why is that?"
"Because sometimes they do crazy things in the living room."
"Well, that's true."
"Yeah. That's why I don't like them in the house."

I Think I Just Threw Up in My Mouth a Little

Something gross happened last Sunday night. Something really gross. I took pictures, but I'm not sure they are appropriate to share in this format. (But if I get enough requests, I might be swayed.) I noticed last week that the sink in the bathroom the girls use was draining slowly.

After brushing their teeth, Ava and Eden came running to me and said, "Mama! Come into the bathroom! We need to show you something!" followed by much giggling. My standard, "Can you bring it to me?" brought more giggling. "Nooooo, You have to come see it."

Now at this point, I should have been scared. But I wasn't because I was too exhausted from the camping trip described below to be lucid enough.

"Look what we found in the sink!" Eden said. I walk into the bathroom and there, in the sink, is a four-inch long sprout of some kind, with another three or so inches of root attached.

"This came from the sink?!"

Erik walked by right at this moment and I showed him. He began to dig around in the sink drain and pull out several more sprouts, one with a pumpkin seed still attached. Also a lot of good old fashioned dirt. Someone, perhaps of the childish persuasion, put a clump of dirt and a few pumpkin seeds down the drain. And they sprouted and grew. They grew in the nasty sink-drain muck. Gag me with a sprouted pumpkin seed.

Salad anyone?

His Last Name Is Romberg

We found out earlier in the week that Yonas has now been moved from the Bethel Orphange in Nazret to our agency's care center. And although it was a necessary step, I hate that he has left the place that he has known for so long. All new nannies, new bed, new food, new toys, new smells. The good news is that the other children being adopted from Nazret all moved at the same time, so he will have some familiar faces. This is a bittersweet time now, as we make the final steps to get him home, he is bearing the pain and loss without adults he trusts. It is a necessary part of the journey he makes to become our son.

We also received his birth certificate today, which is a huge next hurdle. This was the next big step, so that feels really good. In the top left corner there is a small picture of him, a copy of his passport photo that was taken this week. He looks worn down, traumatized, and weary. It kills me. They also shaved off all his beautiful hair. This is standard procedure, it lessens the amount of work for the nannies and keeps lice to a minimum. I knew it was coming, but he is not the boy he was in his social report. He has lost more in his 18 months than I ever will. And it shows all over his face right now.

I want to be there now, to hold his chubby hand while he walks, to watch him sleep, to help him heal and trust we are his final, forever stop. No more sweet boy. No more. Hang on just a bit longer.

We are coming.




P.S. I will bring the funny tomorrow. I swear.

1989

So I lied yesterday. I need one more day. If you come back tomorrow, I have an awesome story about living with children that I promise you is unlike any other you've heard.

Kelsey, me, Brad, and Sam. This picture is from a trip to Six Flags. We'd stayed in some crap motel (pictured behind us) and were walking over to the crap diner across the parking lot for breakfast. This is hands down one of my all-time favorite pictures of my late teens. The giant denim shorts, the black and white shirts (which I can swear to you we didn't plan) makes it even funnier. We are all so gorgeous and young and happy I can hardly bear it.