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.