"All I Want for Christmas is My... Vacuum"

"... and my broom and dustpan."

Not me, Mira. I know it may seem a little odd, but she loved her little housekeeping presents - especially once we got C batteries for the vacuum, which now makes an awesome "vrooom" sound.

The girl likes her floors spotless, as I mentioned in my previous post. When I do the floors, she literally fights me for the broom or vacuum cleaner. So the gifts were perfect. However, I am a little concerned that she'll retain some vague shreds of memory from her first Christmas with us. (I picture her as an adult, a puzzled look on her face as she tries to make sense of a mental image from long ago. "I remember the rest of my family gathered around the table playing a game and laughing, while I was doing something else... pushing something... Did they make me vacuum on Christmas when I was a baby?!")

Incidentally, she did get other, non-housecleaning presents. Like a corn popper.

Nothing like a vacuum.

Our Christmas, in all seriousness, was lovely. We very much enjoyed spending part of the holiday with my mom and stepdad, who are back shivering through the cold northern winters after a decade in Arizona. And if we pulled up to their house and stepped out of the van to the hissing sound of a tire going flat, ah well... Merry Christmas, van! Enjoy your new set of tires! Love, Randy & Jules

What was the single most memorable Jackson holiday moment in 2009? Was it Mira's eyes shining as she gazed reverently at the Advent candle at church, contemplating the birth of Jesus, while visions of sugar plums, mangers, off-limit ornaments and vacuum cleaners simultaneously mingled in her head? Not quite. I have to say that an incident from our celebration with my dad eclipsed any other holiday moment in terms of being etched in our brains forever.

There we were, gathered around the Christmas tree in our living room, good cheer and merriment (or at least sarcasm) in the air, presents piled under the tree. My sister and her husband brought their two dogs to the celebration, one of whom is a darling, affectionate, wiggly new puppy. Apparently very threatening to the alpha male coonhound residing in this house. At first, Fred's dander stood straight up like a doggie mohawk. Once he relaxed a little around the nine-pound newcomer, he decided to make sure no one forgot whose house this is. In front of all of us, without shame or hesitation, he lifted his leg and "marked" the presents under the tree. I think ten jaws dropped in unison. (Mira was oblivious and Ethan laughed so hard I thought we were going to have to clean up two puddles). Honestly, I still can't believe he did it.

"Like trying to photograph wildlife..."

Mira starred in her first professional photo shoot last week. Her mischievous little smiling face may be used in an ad (stay tuned).

Photographing an on-the-move 18-month-old is challenging enough at home. Plop her in an unfamiliar studio, and hope that she stands somewhat still under the lights on the duct-tape mark on the floor ... well, as Charlie Brown was fond of saying, Good grief! Let me give you a visual representation of Mrs. Constant Motion "standing still."

The longest she remained in one place was about a minute, which is how long it took her little fingers to pry the duct tape "mark" off the floor. She spied a garbage can at the other end of the big room and zoomed over to throw the tape away. (You know, she's always been obsessed with "litter" on the floor, like lint, dog hair, paper, etc. No doubt she'll put me to shame with her housekeeping skills by the time she's in kindergarten. Anyway, obviously the duct tape violated her clean floor ideals).

The photographer, who was very easy-going (or else very adept at hiding impatience) commented that trying to shoot Mira was like trying to photograph wildlife: You take a 100 shots and hope one is in focus.

Here are a couple pictures taken at the shoot.

A rare sitting down moment

See ya!

This is pretty much how it went. (Get the picture?)

Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree (Farm)

One of our very favorite family traditions is making the annual trek out into the country to cut a Christmas tree. The excursion involves Christmas music in the van (usually Vince Guaraldi's "A Charlie Brown Christmas"), debate about what variety of tree we should choose (we tend to be a White Pine family, but not always), each child getting a turn with the tree saw, cries of "Timber!" when the tree falls, and the whole clan helping drag it back to the barn for tree shaking and wrapping. Then the kids and I pig-out on mini donuts while Randy pays for the tree.

Some day, when it's not her naptime, and she's not hungry, and wearing mittens isn't making her ABSOLUTELY FURIOUS, I am confident that Mira, too, will embrace this beloved annual outing.

Just not this year...

Furious

Could she be more miserable?

Mira's probably still writhing in my arms, but Gracie's blocking her in the picture

A tantrum like that really takes it out of you

The tree is up and decorated - and wired securely to the wall. Breakable ornaments are hung near the top, and so far we haven't had too many issues with certain short folks "re-decorating" the tree - although either she or Fred got into the water in the stand. For the life of me, I cannot imagine how we're going to put presents under the tree this year, though. She'll have those gifts unwrapped in record time, and Ethan may take advantage of the situation and unwrap some himself, knowing that she'll be the prime suspect. We'll have to see how this plays out...

"She's so lucky!"

Unfortunately, if one of your children happens to be adopted from a developing country, you will hear this phrase - or maybe the ever-popular, "What a wonderful thing you've done." I realize the folks who share these sentiments mean well, but we grit our teeth when we hear them. Mira is our darling daughter, of course, not the result of a charitable endeavor.

I have been wanting to address this subject for a while. I recently stumbled across the following piece, which captures my feelings about who's lucky very beautifully. I am sharing a portion of it with the author's permission (thanks, Rosie!)

From Hijas Americanas: As luck would have it

“He’s such a lucky boy.”

Baby and I have been stopped by a well meaning town resident who I vaguely know. He’s not the first to say this to us.

“We think we’re the lucky ones,” I say. This is not the first time I’ve answered this way.

For now, I can hate that phrase – He’s such a lucky boy – but it doesn’t yet do any damage to baby’s psyche. One day, though, it will.

The truth is that I don’t see baby’s life as lucky. Being born in a country that is so disproportionately poor and resource-starved to parents who were so poor and resource-starved themselves that they could not raise him (we know a little more about baby’s story than I am implying in the previous sentence but out of respect for baby being the keeper of his story, we are holding that private until we are able to share it with him, and he is able to decide if he’d like to share it and with whom) actually feels to me like anything but luck.

Baby’s life, to me, though, shows me what faith is – faith in something greater than ourselves and faith in other people. Think of a mother who has given birth to this beautiful boy who she, of course, loves with all her heart. Think of the challenge you must be facing in your life to make the decision she makes. Think of the wisdom she has to know that love, sometimes, means not physically holding on – a wisdom I, the girl who holds on too long, could never have. Think of the faith she has to know that the right family will be waiting for him. No, sir, how our baby’s life has evolved is not borne of luck. It came alive when a woman that I admire to my core made a decision based on faith, based on a knowing deep within her, based on a stark assessment of her life and the injustice of this world, based on what might look like hopelessness to some but what I believe is really hopefulness. I don’t know how to dramatically reconcile the poverty of this world; it is what I most wish I were able to do. It wasn’t luck that brought us together. I know that for sure. And though I can’t yet articulate all of it in the way that I wish: I know that baby coming into our lives, our coming into baby’s life is part of something bigger than all three of us.

M & M (Not the Eatin' Kind) - Halloween Pictures

Our 2009 pumpkins:

Top: Tarantula (Abby); Mad Hatter (Gracie); Teeth (Ethan - that pumpkin was 41 pounds!); Cheshire Cat (Jules); Hands (Randy); Unibrow (Ethan)
Bottom: Ghosty (Randy); Skull (Abby); Itsy Bitsy Spider (Jules); Cranial (Jules); Heart (Gracie)

Pumpkins carved by Melissa and Erik (a.k.a Auntie and Unk):
VW by Volvo Devotee Erik (go figure) and Cowboy (looking suspiciously similar to the Marlboro Man) by Melissa
M & M
M & M running
Side view of candy
Fortune Teller
Cowgirl
Old Man
Batman
Candy sorting craziness

October: Scary, and Not Because of Halloween

Let me preface this long entry by assuring you that I do feel guilty anytime I "wish away" a challenging day or week (or in this case, several weeks) because after all, life is short and we have so much to be thankful for. Honestly.

That said, this month has just really been... not good.

Bend it Like Beckham - er, Jackson

As I have mentioned in other entries, Randy and I are satisfying our love of competitive sports and trying to deny our advancing age by competing in an adult co-ed soccer league. This ain't no laid-back, beer-swillin', big-gut softball-type league, Cletus. It's fast and physical (i.e., painful and more painful). But it's really fun. This is our second year.

Randy is a natural athlete who sometimes manages to be completely uncoordinated at the same time. Case in point: he can run a 5K without getting winded, but anytime he tries to run on a treadmill he trips over his own feet. (I'm not making this up. He actually fell off the treadmill at the fitness center when he looked up at the clock).

A few weeks ago, as he was dribbling the ball downfield with blazing speed in our match against "Team Advil," Randy's enthusiasm was defeated by his lack of finesse when he tried to do a cross-over and tripped on the ball. He broke his leg. (See actual video of the incident here).

Because of his ensuing pain, immense disappointment at being unable to play soccer (or exercise at all), and the fact that he isn't one of those lazy husbands who secretly enjoys having to sit on the couch while I do everything, I won't complain too much about how this affected moi. Just three words:

1. Crutches
2. Madame Baby
3. Two-story house

(OK, six words).

Oh No She Didn't!
Or, The Poop Escapades

There's simply no pretty way to say it. Mirabelle reached into her diaper, took the poop out and played with it. 

[Pause for gagging]

She was in her crib wearing two-piece jammies when the first Poop Escapade (Poopscapade) took place. (Poopscapade. Kind of like the Ice Capades.  Except the Ice Capades are something you want to see.) The Poop Police discovered most of the evidence on her hands and crib. Yep folks, it was yucky, and cleanup required a nail brush and clippers as well as the usual scrubbing. Never ever wanting to repeat the experience, I believed I could prevent further criminal activity by keeping her in a onesie.

Not so.

Two days later, I received a call at work to pick her up from daycare, where a repeat offense had been committed. But this time, the unspeakable act involved her hair and face.

This hair.

Besides being completely grossed out and unable to breathe through my nose, I was baffled as to how she did it, as she was wearing a long-sleeve onesie shirt. 

She demonstrated her Houdini-esque skills as soon as we got home, before I even got her in the tub.
Three vigorous shampoos later, as I was investigating her hair and body with my nose to make sure the job was truly done, I actually thought the words, "It's a good thing poop smells."

No more chances. We are extra vigilant now - Randy in particular. I went to change her diaper one day and it was like peeling the layers of an onion: pants, onesie, another pair of pants, another onesie. Yes, he double-panted her.

Tossing Our Cookies in Interesting Places

(Why no, the gross parts aren't over yet)

Mirabelle had strep, which began with a night of vomiting. The problem with a 15-month-old vomiting is that there's no warning, it hits everything, and if you try to hold her over a bucket while it's happening she becomes mightily offended and knocks the bucket out of your hands. Then she tries to snuggle up close for comfort. 

A mere seven days later, the same Madame Puker developed gastroenteritis (good ol' fashioned stomach flu) and we were treated to a repeat performance.

We believe in sharing in this family. Mira was kind enough to share her tummy gift with the rest of us, except for Randy. We had subsequent vomiting adventures in a gas station (Abby); field (Abby); van (Abby); Target (Gracie); van (Ethan); and emergency room (Ethan). I just did my vomiting at home. Poor Ethan got so sick he had to go to the hospital and get anti-nausea meds.

How did Randy avoid this plague? I'm not sure, but I may have seen him ingesting Lysol straight from the can.

Too Much Chicken Neck Wringing and Break Dancing?
Or, Bend it Like Jackson, Take 2

Back to soccer. My injury is much less interesting than Randy's broken leg. I injured a ligament in my thumb when I tripped in a divot on the field and fell on my hand. It wouldn't be worth mentioning, except for the cool names of this particular injury: it's called skier's thumb, gamekeeper's thumb or (best of all) break dancer's thumb.

In case you're wondering, as I was, what might cause a "gamekeeper" injury:

By repetitively wringing the necks of game (eg, chickens) between their thumb and index finger, gamekeepers produced a chronic stretching of the UCL that resulted in instability at the first metacarpophalangeal (MCP) joint. The condition became known as gamekeeper's thumb.

Mmm... Wringing chicken necks... Yum...

It's no fun wearing a splint, but it IS fun to say casually, "Oh, I have break dancer's thumb," when someone asks what happened to your hand.


It's only mid-October, but it feels like a month of Sundays that we've been dealing with yucky (there's that word again) stress. Still, there's time for my birthday month to redeem itself. C'mon, better days!

Aw, how can you not smile?

Yay for Plumpy!

A quick update about the fundraising effort for Plumpy Nut: $26,250 is the new grand total raised to help starving children. That's incredible! Thanks to all who helped.

Legal!

On September 11, we had our hearing at Juvenile Court (or as Ethan insists on calling it, "Juvie") to legalize Mira's adoption in our state, and to change her name. Essentially, we adopted her in Ethiopia and then re-adopted here. Her legal first and middle names are now Mirabelle Tseganesh. (She's got Abby beat by a couple letters for the longest name in the family. We pay attention to such inequities 'round here).

We took the older kids out of school for the hearing, and my parents, Randy's mom and Cherie, Bill and Katelyn attended the big event as well. Randy, Mira and I sat in front of microphones facing the judge, and the "spectators" sat behind us. Eventually, Mirabelle became more interested in visiting her smiling extended family at the back of the courtroom than in trying to push her fingers and other items into Randy's mouth (an activity that had occupied her for more than five minutes), and toddled away from the table where we were sitting. Judge Judy didn't exactly need to ask Mira questions, anyway.

The hearing went smoothly, of course, and afterward we went to celebrate at the memorable Mickey's.

Mickey's

A year ago, we were still waiting for a referral - rather crabbily by September, I might add. It goes without saying that so much has happened since then, including meeting Mira in her native Ethiopia and bringing her home to our family. Although we obviously expected to be home with our darling daughter by September 2009, sometimes it still amazes us that she's actually here.

We know how fortunate we've been. When you embark on the international adoption journey through CHSFS, they want your eyes to be wide open. We completed mandatory homework about attachment problems, read about the effects malnutrition and institutional care can have on a baby, discussed post-adoption depression, and attended classes on trans-racial parenting. At times all the "what-ifs" were pretty scary! We look at Mirabelle now, fitting right in to our clan, healthy and sunny, embraced by our extended family, and count our blessings.

The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round...

Yes, the older kids have boarded their buses and the house is quiet.

Ha!

Mirabelle did not want me to be lulled into a false sense of serenity the day the kids started back to school, so she ratcheted up her activity level as soon as the bus pulled away. By 10am she had:

• Located Ethan's deodorant, removed the cap and started shredding it with her nails
  
• Pushed a toy table next to the porch door and stood on top of it
• Licked the kitchen floor while lying on her tummy (I know. Yech!)
• Opened the diaper pail lid and stuck her hand inside (also gross, but her hands are easier to wash than her tongue)
  

The first week of school is going well for the big kids. Ethan is excited about his name for German class ("Bruno") and Gracie has worn tennis shoes successfully for two days. Maybe flip-flop fights and shoe tantrums will become mere memories...

First day pics

Baby Code Words

In the last month I've seen some friends who hadn't previously met Mira. On one occasion, I was at the library when I ran into an acquaintance who didn't know we had adopted. She saw me with Mirabelle and assumed I was babysitting. I told her about traveling to Africa and introduced her to my darling baby, who was busily dismantling the "Summer Reading" display.

"Wow," she said, gazing at me with a combination of awe and pity. "So how's that going?"

"It's great!" I said enthusiastically, as Mira went careening into a shelf of books. "She's really something!"

We chatted for another ten seconds. "She's quite a whirlwind," my acquaintance commented.

At that point I was compelled to cut the conversation short to intervene in the Puppet Corner, where Mira had stolen a sippy cup from a tearful preschooler.

"Gotta go!"

Naturally, Mirabelle charmed this woman with her incredible cuteness, as she charmed the other friends she met. Yes, everyone adores Madame Baby! However, I did notice a theme emerge from these encounters, which I call will Baby Code Words.

If you've bought or sold a home, you know that certain adjectives used to describe properties are really code words. "Cozy" means tiny. "Vintage" means outdated. "Motivated seller" means desperate. Etc.

Likewise, I believe certain adjectives used to describe babies (well, my baby) are actually code words. Here's how I imagine Mira would translate these benign adjectives often ascribed to her:

Adjective: Active
Baby translation: "I will run, trip, spin, hurl and stumble precariously near sharp corners to see how many times in a minute I can make your heart stop"

Adjective: Inquisitive
Baby translation: "I will taste-test every potentially toxic item I can get my hands on"

Adjective: Athletic
Baby translation: "Let's see if I can throw this plate far enough to break it"

Adjective: A real pistol
Baby translation: "If I don't get what I want immediately I will explode. My shrieking will reach decibels that make the dog howl, and I will easily outlast your feigned calm with my anger"

Adjective: Busy
Baby translation: "Foolish woman! I will now undo all the straightening up you spent the last hour doing"

Adjective: Firecracker
Baby translation: "You will begin to age in dog years from chasing after me"

And now, some recent pictures of the whirling dervish and her sibs...

Kelly Farm

Pool

How much does it cost to save a life?

How's $40?

Meghan is a fellow adoptive parent. The following is from her blog:

"Last year, for the first Plumpy Nut Ironman fundraiser we pooled our cash and scrounged under our couch cushions to raise $14,000 for Doctors Without Borders. Doctors Without Borders pledged to buy Plumpy Nut ---a nutrient dense energy food---to distribute to children in Ethiopia – children who were suffering from severe malnutrition. At $40 per child, we were able to create the resources to save the lives of 650 babies and toddlers! And because we raised this fund through the Ironman Janus Charity Challenge and placed in the top five fundraisers, WE WON ANOTHER $2,000---enough money to save another 50 kids. Working together, we were able to create a fund that turned around the lives of 700 children and their families and their futures. And it was important, Ethiopia was gripped by a severe food shortage last harvest season on account of very very late rains and a poor harvest."

Click here to read more (please!)

I had the opportunity to support Meghan's efforts last year, as did some family members and friends, and I was amazed and proud of the impact that was made. Seven hundred children! We are excited to support the Ironman event again this year and raise more money for Plumpy Nut. Mira is from southern Ethiopia, where some of the worst famine has occurred, so this drive is especially personal for us.

Click here to donate.

The Centipedal Incident

How can a centipede bring a grown woman to her knees?
Literally. Looking for it next to the baseboard. At 1 am.

Let me say first that I have HELD a giant African millipede, as well as a tarantula. (Yes, I'm shuddering looking at the images I am posting, but still. I did it). Granted, these events didn't exactly take place in the wild (the library had a bug exhibit) and I wasn't exactly in danger (Darren the Entomologist was keeping a watchful eye on the interaction - making sure I didn't harm the insects, actually, not vice-versa). But look how gross! See how brave I am!

The night of the centipedal incident, I went up to bed a few minutes ahead of Randy. I rounded the corner of the bed just in time to see a centipede scurry along the baseboard. I grabbed a book and lunged for him, but he was too quick (Naturally. A hundred legs to my two).

He wasn't the enormous, feathery-looking variety (commonly referred to as "the dust mop") sometimes spotted around these parts, but he was, nevertheless, an Enemy in my bedroom. I spent the next 15 minutes squatting eight inches from the scene of the crime, eyes trained on the baseboard, waiting for him to reappear. Then Randy came upstairs, investigated the baseboard with his pocket knife, and convinced me that the centipede had escaped.

Remember my post about my kids' fears and their resulting inability to sleep?

Forty-five minutes later I made Randy carry the pillows and blankets downstairs to the living room with me. I could not sleep knowing HE was nearby!

Time out for a reality check:

• Yes, I know I am 1069 times the centipede's size.
• Yes, I (grudgingly) admit that there are others hiding in the house.
• Yes, I know it actually can't hurt me.

The next day when I was telling my friend Maryanna about the three hours I spent vacuuming every inch of the bedroom and spraying "Home Defense Max" along the demarcation line, she laughingly asked if I'd been worried about the centipede crawling in my mouth or something while I slept. (Apparently she is comfortable snuggling up with the creepy-crawlies ala "Fear Factor"). No way! That jaw was clenched so tight I nearly had to pry it open the next day.

He's out there...

A Study in Sprinkler

Mira's first experience with the sprinkler. As usual, she exhibited no hesitation! (So different from her siblings. I think Ethan was like five before he'd run through the sprinkler...)

Wet - and liking it!

Night Moves

Now that I have a baby again, people ask me all the time if I'm getting any sleep - the assumption being that Mira might be disrupting our nights. Our nights are disrupted, but not by Madame Baby. It's the rest of the kids!

Ethan is a worrier, although in general he does sleep OK. He tends to lose sleep over enormous issues such as the Large Hadron Collider creating a black hole that sucks the Earth in, global warming and 2012. (I'm not sure where he saw the trailer, but heavens sakes, what 13-year-old wouldn't be afraid after seeing that?)

Abby is a classic insomniac, complete with clock watching and unproductive insomnia calculations: "If I fall asleep in (x number of) minutes I'll still get (y hours of) sleep..." She denies clock watching - but who insists on wearing a watch to bed every night?

Gracie has fears. In addition to the usual ghost/robbers/fire, she has appeared in our bedroom in the middle of the night upset over a loose tooth (what if she swallows it?), quicksand (the sand at the beach "felt funny") and bugs. "Is it true that a person swallows eight spiders a night?" (No, it's not. Nor is it true that the average person swallows eight spiders a year while sleeping. Urban legend, my gullible friends). Also, "What if a spider crawls on me at night?" As tempted as I was to reference Peter Brady on the Brady Bunch's Hawaii trip, I simply said, "There aren't any spiders in your bedroom."

In case you're wondering who planted these creepy-crawly ideas in Gracie's head, look no further...
Gracie's ultimate sleep depriver, however, is Bloody Mary. I remember this one from my own childhood. I could wring the little neck of the classmate who shared this delightful piece of folklore with her.

It's no mystery where my kids come by their nocturnal unrest: I am an insomniac with a childhood chock full of sleepless nights. I was terrified of experiencing my own head-spinning scene after watching The Exorcist. I lost countless hours of sleep worrying that "666" was tattooed on my scalp, unbeknown to me, like the boy in The Omen, Damien. (Or, as my sister Deb believed he was named, "Damien Omen.") And I was absolutely terrified of Jodie, the demonic, red-glowing-eyed pig from The Amityville Horror. (I can tell you that when you're a sleepy, near-sighted 14-year-old, a digital clock across the bedroom displaying a red, blurry 2:02 looks a lot like glowing eyes). Do you sense a theme here? Do you think at some point, my young brain would have concluded that books and movies about the supernatural were a BAD IDEA?

I have to admit that Randy handles the brunt of our nighttime dramas. Sometimes I fall asleep next to Randy and wake up next to Gracie, with no memory of anything except my carefree (child-free) dreaming. They'll all grow out of this, right? If my calculations are correct, Gracie should start sleeping better around the time that a classmate explains Bloody Mary to Mira.

Say Goodbye to Madame Pompedour

The resemblance (in hair only, of course) was starting to bother me a little....

It was time for my first foray into "poofs."

The poof hair-do, or some variation of it, is going to have to serve me until her hair is long enough to braid (at which point I will need to come up with an elaborate bribery scheme to get her to sit still, probably involving a large bag of sugar and several Dora videos, while I attempt the braiding/beading challenge. But that's for another day...)

Poofs

How cute is that? I have since expanded my poof-horizons to "one-in-the-front, three-in-the-back" and also discovered that my babysitter Erin is a natural at the poof-do. Granted, the poofs aren't very substantial yet - more like "puffs" - but I personally think they're darling. Here are a few more pics from the photo session:

Yay, preppy
My hand

Dribbling

Yes, she dribbles the soccer ball. I would love to view this fact as proof that she's on her way to becoming a super-athlete, but I have to acknowledge that it's more likely indicative of the amount of time we spend at the soccer field. Other babies throw balls; she puts them down and dribbles. Soon I'll have to get the cones out and start running her through some drills, I guess!

Dribbling with tongue

Mira is a tongue-concentrator. In addition to sports, we see the tongue appear when she plays with certain toys, floats refrigerator magnets in the dog's water, and empties out Gracie's bottom dresser drawer.