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Who wants to go for a walk?
I do I do I do I do.
Lets get our jackets.
Hats! Gloves!
[Pushes Shoves].
Where’s my sock?
My zipper’s stuck.
I left my coat at school.
Tough luck.
Little brother has no pants!
I see London. I see France.
Okay ready. Line up at the door.
What’s that?
I gotta pee.
Me too.
[Little brother snores].
Good grief.
Uh oh. The baby’s eating glue.
No not yet. I said line up at the door!
[Johnny’s run down the block].
Not in your socks!
Not in the puddles. Oh well. Come back and change.
Load the stroller. Pack 'em in.
Loose change!
Don’t eat those goldfish crackers. They’re a year old.
Don’t worry, Mom, it’s only mold.
Mittens showering off the pram.
Baby slung on Mamma’s front.
Nuzzles like a baby lamb.
I’m hungry.
I want a pony!!!
What?
Let’s just stay home.
Huh...?
Who wants chocolate milk?
I do I do I do.
Uh oh.
What’s that smell?
Mauer's Batting Average: .301
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January 22, 2009
SORRY ABOUT OUR RECENT POSTING LAPSE.
WE ARE EXPERIENCING A PROGRAMMING SNAFU THAT HAS MESSED WITH ENTRY DATES, SO FOR THE TIME BEING, DISREGARD THE DATE AT THE TOP AND REFER TO THE ONE IN THE ENTRY BODY. WE'LL HAVE THIS FIXED AS SOON AS WE CAN. THANKS FOR BEARING WITH US.
SIDEKICKS
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Friends talking slowly
Hearing, whispering, not cut off
Catch each other's falls
The Seven Best Things about Having Friends Outside the Family
1. "I love having friends because we can grow up and become dads together."
2. "Friends are important because you can trust them in ways you cant trust brothers and sisters. When John spilled pencils on my floor. I asked him to pick them up and he didn't. A friend would've picked them up because he wouldn't want to disappoint me.
3. "Birthday parties and ice cream!"
4. "Friends always want to play. Brothers and sisters don't always want to play."
5. "Friends are nice because it's good to learn to forgive them."
6. "It's nice to hear other people's voices sometime."
7. "You can teach friends how to be helpful, how to take care of babies, and how to clean up the house."
(I didn't make that last one up, but that kid will get a bowl of ice cream the size of his head tonight!)
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Sibling rivalry, chaotic home life, and grouchy parents tend to make kids a little angsty from time to time. Here are the top seven ways our kids blow steam before their tops pop.
1. Ripping phone books apart.
2. A little light wheelbarrowing around the exercise yard.
3. Throttling one another with improvised pugil sticks.
4. Just "le-ing go."
5. Twerpin' about.
6. Hauling laundry.
Okay. This one's more for Mom and Dad.
7. Ejector Seat.
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One of my hobbies is writing children's books. I also like to read them from time to time, when the kids aren't scrabbling over lap-space and book selection. As often as not, they're content to do their own book reading.
I'd like to use this page in three ways.
First, I'd like to share my works in progress and get your feedback.
Second, I'd love to hear your recommendations for children's story books and books for young readers. What are your kids into and why?
Third, I'd love to give mine.
I'll start with an immediate plug for a book by my cousin James Otis Thach, entitled "Child's Guide to Common Household Monsters."
http://www.commonmonsters.com
If you want a story with singing rhyme, classic illustration and appealing creatures with just enough spook to make your kids hug tight, you'll love this book.
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I wrote this song for the Daddy Doo Band. At the time, a simpler and more carefree time than now, I only had six young menaces trying to turn my hair white.
The Daddy Doo Band makes family music from a dad's perspective, which is unusual because books and songs for young kids tend to take place in a mostly parent-free universe.
Personally, I like hearing Dad's voice, and as one of my ECFE classmates recently pointed out, these songs make great lullabies when dads sing them.
As you finish this song, check out the Daddy Doo website to learn more about the band.
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Joke of the Day: (Satch told me this one yesterday at the park).
Satch: Knock knock.
Me: Who's there?
Satch: Pants.
Me: Pants who?
Satch: Pants or no pants, I'm going swimming! (Satch wildly, and unexpectedly, runs into a small fringe of woods bordering the park).
-----------------
Top Seven Things about Having Seven under Seven
1. Being able to field an entire lineup.
2. A built in workforce.
3. An ridiculous number of ridiculous photo-ops.
4. An excuse for virtually any failure or shortcoming (More often than not, my kids actually DID eat it!).
5. Grandparent flash-mobs.
6. Lot's of BTUs--free (well, sort of) space heaters.
7. Having a focus group for just about anything.
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Work?
When not whiling hours as an overworked housefrau, I try to manage our ever-shifting bounty of kids clothing by stocking it into the virtual shelves of my E-bay store..
While I find this tiresome...
I find this inspire-some!
I deal with every conceivable type of kids clothing, but I only sell the good stuff. "Gymboree" and "Hanna Andersson" are my mainstays, but I also carry items from "Polo," "Patagonia," and "Gap Kids," among other excellent brands. I only sell items in impeccable condition, many of which are in fact too nice to put on my own grub-loving children.
If you're in the market for high quality kids clothes, reasonably priced and shipped in a heartbeat, check out my listings.
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I write songs in my very spare time. I don’t know anything about music, but it’s a good outlet. My topics range from the joys of vasectomy to how a child’s emesis has become my mortal nemesis. I'll sing these songs in the car to quell the furor in the back seat, or in the kitchen to get the kids in cleaning mode. Occasionally I'll throw down a beat and kids will join in, some with grunts, some with claps, others with armpit farts. We are the poorest man's orchestra, but music is vital. Even Neandrethals rocked rocks.
P.S. My brother (uncle Ty) is a real singer-songwriter living in New York. What your listening to is "Satchel's Lullaby," which he wrote for my eldest.
A little background on Satch, while you listen to the song...
Satchel came from a town called Ussurisk, forty minutes inland from the Far East port city of Vladivostok, the terminus of the Trans-Siberian Railroad.
The first time we met Satch (or Sacha, short for Alexander, in Russian) he came to us in a bright white sailor suit, his giant eyes like pools of distant dreams. He did not approach us, but took us in with those eyes, eyes that told us that we would have to earn his trust, his love, his respect. These things were not a given, like so many others that had been so tidily conveyed with a signature.
A sunlight deficiency had given Satch rickets, which manifested in bowleggedness and trouble balancing. Although he was two when we met him, he couldn’t walk more than five steps without falling directly on his face. His orphanage was humane and his caregivers were loving, but they couldn’t meet every child’s need perfectly. Despite his ambulodeficiency, Satch showed a lot of spirit early on. The first word I can remember him saying is “oy,” as in “Oy, I’m going to push this playground gate open with my might.” His health progressed quickly once we got him home. His legs straightened in a couple months, as he went from walking to running to fading and deking. Now he drives to the hoop like a stalking panther, and as a soccer goalie, he pities the fool who tries to get into “his house.”
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Shamefaced Parenting Blunder of the Week:
Earlier in the week, I had a rare opportunity to see a movie with some friends. As usual, I was running behind getting out the door, and realized that I didn't have any cash. Neither did D. So I did something I'm not proud of. I walked up to Satch's room, knocked thrice upon his door, and entered sheepishly at his bidding.
Um. Satch.
Yes...Dad.
May I-um-borrow ten bucks...from your piggybank?
No way.
C'mon. I really need it. I'll write you a check. It's as good as money-only you can't lose it like you can lose money-I can just write you a new one-please-I'll be your best friend-please...please?
Fine.
(I wrote him a check, but the little bugger tacked two points onto the loan for to teach me a lesson. Serves me right).
---------------------------
Top Seven Medical Near Misses
Oof! That'll wake y'up in the mornin'!1. Nate fell off a four-foot play structure directly onto his cranium. I heard his melon smack, and was reaching for my phone to call an ambulance, when he miraculously got up and walked away. Only when he saw the stupified look on my face did he begin to shriek hysterically.
2. Satch ate a "red thing" in Russia--a beet, I think--after we were told that he was severely allergic to all red food. Really? we thought. All red food? Even green, or say beige, food that has been dyed red with food color? He just choked down his beet while we sat there waiting for his head to explode. Nothing happened. He didn't show any sign of the mysterious red-food allergy then, nor has he since.
3. About three years ago, we were at a tailgating at a minor league ballpark next to a train track. The track was fenced off, but occasionally a freighter would thunder by and delight all the kids present. At one particular moment, an engine tooted as it passed by, and drew all eyes--all eyes, that is, except those of two year old Mickey, who took my distraction as an opportunity to knock back half of my beer. Given that kids have gone into comas from licking overly-sanitized hands, D. and I were prepared for a night of stomach pumping at the E.R. Luckily, yet to our dismay, Mick could hold his liquor.
4. Two summers ago, Nate Evel-Knieveled his tricycle off the back deck and cross-barred himself, pushing his two top teeth through his lower lip and creating a river of gore. Unbelievably, we didn't have to bring him in for stitches because the urgent care nurse told us that "the pink parts"--lips, gums and tongue, heal very fast and rarely need stitches. Now when the children rough-house, I encourage them to only cold-cock one another in the "pink parts."
5. When Johnny was about 16 months, he figured out how to climb out of his crib, and promptly fell onto his bones. He didn't break any, but his audacity led us to set up a "cat tent" on his crib so he couldn't escape during the night. For several days, despite our best efforts to zip the tent tight and even burrow its zipper in a little pouch, John would appear bright and early at the foot of our bed each morning, grinning hugely. So one night, I spied on on him as he peformed what can only be described as a shocking feat of cat-burglar agility. I watched him pinch the zipper and coax it tooth by tooth until he could hook a finger into it's void and open it completely. Then I watched him lean into his crib rail, swing one leg over, then the other, and boulder along the outside of his crib until he found a patch of floor clear of obstruction. Despite the fact that his falling had precipated our decision to use the tent, he hopped down from the crib and landed like a cat. It reminded me of a story I once heard about an octopus in a popular aquarium climbing over the glass of its open-topped tank, traversing along the outside of its glass, and hunting fish in the adjacent tank. I felt a little like the undoubtedly pants-wetting security guard catching the octopus in the act as I witnessed Johnny doing his thing.
6. Also crib related, last year, when D. attempted to put baby Mark to bed, she discovered that the crib mattress was missing, and soon heard a crashing sound coming from the basement. She rushed down and found three of our young prodigies using the mattress to sled down the basement stairs. Mick squinted at her from below, looking addled, with chunks of drywall in his hair. "Hi Mom. This is a cool schting (Mick's pronunciation of "thing"). Luckily, of all my kids heads, Mickey's most closely resembles a wrecking ball--it's tremendous, so Mick was okay, but he left an eight inch crater in the wall. (We're just glad he didn't hit a stud--the house might've fallen over).
7. About two years ago, D. and I were doing a little weekend house tidying while the kids played in the back yard. I went out to check on them and discovered three-year old Johnny 12 feet up in a tree, wearing nothing but a bright red pair of cowboy boots, about to grab a power line. Very close call. Had to de-claw him after that one.
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HAPPY MOTHERS DAY!!!
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Normally we list top 7s, but our Mommy breaks the mold!
WE LOVE MOM BECAUSE...
1. She brought us home...
2. She gives us breath...
3. She does our hair...
4. She keeps us safe...
5. She makes us cakes...
6. She awaits our good news...
7. She gives us kicks...
8. She is sweet.
9. She sends us off...
10. She makes our bed...
11. She speaks in kisses.
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Q: Why did we choose to adopt?
A: D. had wanted to run an orphanage since she was nine years old. I had always thought adoption was wonderful and noble and demanded just a little more chutzpah than I was capable of. When D. brought it up on our first date, she lit a fire under my butt and proved that she had chutzpah enough for the both of us. Turns out, I didn’t need hers. I had plenty of my own--I just didn’t know it yet. I had loved kids my entire life, no matter who they belonged to. I’m the guy who would googly-eye a stranger’s baby in the bus seat in front of me or ask a toddler for a high-five in the grocery line. I was the boy on the block who made money by baby-sitting rather than mowing lawns, and the junior-highschooler whom my parents’ friends would plan parties around, knowing that if I could attend they could extend invitations to other friends’ kids.
Q: Why did we choose to adopt internationally?
A: We chose to adopt internationally for several reasons.
First, as first-time parents, we were possessive of our future kids and didn’t like the thought of having to “share” with birth parents whose presence may have proven fickle. If we were to adopt today, the birth parent blind would be less of a concern, given that our sheer number has not only tempered our insecurities, but given us our own gravitational pull!
Besides, D. has read, and it has become clear to us, that sibs are just as instrumental, if not more so, in each other’s upbringing, as we are. On some level, we know that we're just glorified shepherds, a realization that makes the existence of birth parents less threatening.
Second, on the brink of parenthood, we believed that international adoption was a more fluid and reliable process than domestic adoption, with much less potential for heartache. We have friends whose experiences with adopting through foster care have borne this theory out, which isn’t to say that their struggles were in vain. They have three magnificent American-born adoptees, each a credit to the process. If and when D. and I adopt again, our friends' example will lead us to seriously consider doing it domestically, through foster care., But we'll jump off that bridge when we come to it!
Third, we knew that international adoption would be an adventure and that our intention to build a family quickly might leave us housebound and landlocked for many years to come. D. and I are willing homebodies, but we’ve always had a yen to travel and see the world, and going to a place like Russia seemed like a solid last hurrah (at least for a while).
Q: Why Russia?
OTISA: We researched 18 adoptions agencies specializing in countries all over the world. We looked at agencies for Russia, China, Moldova, Kazakhstan (pre-Borat), Bulgaria, Guatemala, and China. We went to an information meeting for only one, Adoption Miracle International. We were hooked. AMI was founded by Milena Gross, a native Russian Minnesotan (you haven’t lived till you’ve heard someone speak “Minnesotan” with a Russian accent). Milena had worked for a larger agency at one point but peeled off to develop a more intimate and streamlined approach. Milena was wonderfully helpful and encouraging, and on a practical level, she spoke Russian, which made for rapid document translation that contributed to the blazing speed of our first adoption, one of the fastest in Minnesota history (four months, end to end). Aside from our attraction to AMI and MIlena, D. has a stepsister and aunt who both speak fluent Russian, have studied (and taught) Russian history, and who have both lived in Russia. We saw these relatives as invaluable cultural liaisons for the kids.
One more strange Russian connection...
When D. lived in Brooklyn, strangers would come up to her and inexplicably start speaking to her in Russian. Later, Russian friends would tell us that D. looked more Ukrainian than Russian, but D. reflected back on these encounters as portentous when Russia loomed as a possible adoption destination.
Q: How did we manage to “keep balls in the air” during adoption process, emotionally and financially?
There are ideal and real answers to this question.
The ideal answer: We work hard and live frugally, and have financially prioritized adoption from the get-go. As far as D. is concerned, her initial concept of having a bank account was that it was a means to save for adoption and plan for a future family. Accordingly, she has dutifully socked away every penny of every allowance she has earned since she was nine years old. Yeah, right!
The real answer. We don’t parent alone. We have relied heavily on our parents, friends, and extended family for both emotional and financial support. In our Hallmark Channel Adoption feature, I even refer to D.’s mom Nor as a “third parent,” without whom none of our family bliss would be possible. Really, for all that we put into raising these kids, we wouldn't have much of a story if it weren't for our folks.
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According to my seven, the seven most boring family activities in the entire universe include...
1. Buying wallpaper.
2. Eating wallpaper.
3. Going away when ponies are at home.
4. Watching baseball (which Dad makes us do a lot! Oops!).
5. Sitting for family pictures.
6. Taking a nap.
7. Hearing old ladies talk about old lady stuff.
Note from Dad. Often old ladies themselves get bored talking about "old lady stuff." When my grandmother, now deceased, used to gather with friends, she would only tolerate five minutes of what she termed "organ recital" before sharply excusing herself.
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Today (Saturday) we took the kids to the Children's Museum, where in the course of an hour, they rock climbed, surfed, did kung fu, ran a restaraunt, drove a bus, made a music video, and made lights flash and turbines spin on wind generating bicycles.
But the highlight of the outing was when we wandered into the nature room and found a solitary two year old drinking out of an artificial creek. The child's flustered mother rushed to the scene warning "Tommy, don't drink that water! This isn't the bathtub!"
I hear that one, lady!
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D. recently took seven year old Satch to the eye doctor, because he had been complaining of irritation and seeing lights flashing in his peripheral vision. Our fears ranged from epilepsy to corrective lenses, so it came as a pleasant surprise when the doctor offered a bizarre diagnosis.
"When a child is in a growth spurt," she said "sometimes the eyeball and the eyelid can grow at different rates. [Satchel] essentially has a slackening of eyelid flesh around his eyeball."
Eyelid flesh?
When D. relayed the diagnosis to me, I pictured an eyeball proudly holding out its eyelid slacks and proclaiming that it'd lost fourty eyeball pounds.
Eyelid slacks!
I'm glad I wasn't in the room--I have trouble holding it together in these types of situations.
In the meantime, I've been "helping" Satch by sneaking up on him from behind while D. peels open his eyes (which is easy to do because there's so much to grab onto) and squirts in horse tranquilizer. Gotta beef those babies up somehow!
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We go to the doctor's office a lot. My kids are not only walking petri dishes, carrying the finest collection of contagion from daycares, schools, and play groups, but they're also a thrill seeking bunch.
There was the time when Johnny took a swan dive off the top bunk and landed on his nose, nearly lobotomizing himself on a toychest on the way down (five stitches). Or when Mickey took a swing at Satch with a Winnie the Pooh coat-rack (seven stitches). Or when Satch fell off a cow (axle grease).
Sometimes afflictions follow my flawed heredity. My adednoids look like they're on roids, and my tonsils are not docile, so it's no surprise that four of my kids had T & A procedures (non-parents, it's not what you think) within a nine month span.
So I'd like to devote this section to bizarre medical encounters, starting with the following poem, which, while an exaggeration of a typical week, is absolutely based on real-live events.
Six under Six Go to the Doctor
Monday is the day when Johnny falls out of a tree
I cart him to the hospital for stitches on his knee.
In sympathy his nurse simply is the epitome.
She numbs his knee with gentle cream so he will be pain free.
Another nurse comes in the room and flips on the TV.
Instead of wincing Johnny laughs as Barney sings with glee.
The doctor comes and does the stitches quite effortlessly.
The gentle pressure on John’s skin feels like a dancing flea.
Tuesday is the day when Satchel stays home with the flu.
His fever’s stratospheric and his pallor’s green in hue.
He vomits as Old Faithful arcs and stretches toward the sky.
The sunshine through his window feels like sea salt in his eye.
And off we go to urgent care, where Doctor takes a look
Into his ears and up his nose and every crack and crook.
Old Doc prescibes us bright pink goo and sends us on our way
And Satchel’s flu say “toodle-doo” in just about a day.
Wednesday is the Day when Mickey bonks his head at gym.
He sits their looking poleaxed and his pupils start to swim.
I take him to the E.R. and park in my special spot.
At this rate I will round this week with every single tot.
The doctor shines a light at Mickey’s pupils, cause he thinks,
That Mick might be brain addled, but we luck out and they shrink!
Then kindly nurses comes with popsicles for Mick to suck.
We make a toast with chilly treats to celebrate our luck.
Thursday comes and Sailor’s eardrum blows upon her pillow.
She drifts into our bedroom looking like a storm-tossed willow.
As Mom puts on her bathrobe, I lay sleeping like a rock.
And once again an Otis kid goes limping to the Doc.
The doctor takes a curette loop and cleans out Sailor’s ear,
And says that in the future Sailor might not really hear.
“But take a few of these and flush her ears out once a week.
Your daughter sure can take the pain. She’s anything but meek.”
Friday comes. The week-end’s near, but Nate’s an early riser.
He coughs and sputters, Doc says he should try the nebulizer.
Nate breathes some mist out of a mask that looks just like a fish.
And for his lungs to flourish we sincerely hope and wish.
He takes the mask off by himself and grins(the cheerful little elf)
And sings us a gigantic round of “ee-i-ee-i-oh!”
Saturday has come at last.
I hope our health concerns have passed...
...but baby Mark is due for vaccinations for month two.
Because he’s just a little tot, the others all must get a shot,
So they won’t spread contagion. He’s too little for the flu.
My sickly six they all line up upon the Doctors cot and yup...
They take their shots like champs cause they find courage in each other
And show they’re made of hearty stuff for dear old Dad and Mother.
Sunday wafts in like a breeze
The kids wake up with health and ease
As Mom and Dad in tandem sneeze.
FIN
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Each Monday night at 5:30, I report with my three youngest boys to ECFE, still spinning from a weekend filled with catastrophe, small exploding slacks, and yes, the life-giving laughter of children. We wash our hands, sit down for Chinese food and pizza, and have circle time with a bevy of committed dads and their little look-alikes. The early childhood teacher on rotation (now Sarah) leads us in song and story as Teacher Todd (Seabury Kolod), the permanent parent educator follows with his guitar and riffs wittily at various points in the fun. After circle time, the dads peel off into a discussion group with Todd, while the kids break into developmentally determined play groups, monitored by teaching stalwarts Kathy, Marlene, and Georgia (who, incidentally, have spent all of circle time cleaning our dinner mess--for which we dads are mightily grateful).
What I love about this exchange is seeing the sweet and carefree interactions between dads and kids (including me with my own) in a structured way that someone else has devised. It may be my Peter Pan complex talking, but I enjoy being taught just as much as I enjoy seeing my kids learn. For ten minutes, I get a kick out of being a peer in my kids' classroom--a classroom in which small voices ring out and dads unselfconsciously grunt and squeal to "Old MacDonald."
For all the dads who snub ECFE, claiming that they don't need a class to learn how to parent, I've found that it's not so much about the learning as the structure, companionship, and restorative boost--which isn't to say that the learning is moot. Todd does a wonderful job of setting the stage for a given discussion with the right amount of developmental expertise, research summary, community reference, and personal anecdote. He doesn't over teach, but piques our interest just enough to get the conversation flowing so that the most powerful insights can come from us dads. This facilitation is not a novel concept--just an ability that all extraordinary teachers share. Todd expresses his novelty with his music (he leads the band Daddy Doo, his earnest curiosity about everyone in the room, and his willingness to share his own parenting vulnerabilities and civic pupose.
Todd has a rule. Comically echoing the movie "Fight Club," he insists that what happens in ECFE stays in ECFE, at least insofar as specific comments are linked to specific dads. This rule sits well with those of us who see ECFE as a sheltered space beyond the reproach of our over-achieving wives. Even the most supportive wives sometimes bristle when we boast of our parenting accomplishments or decrie our struggles.
Of course moms do ten times what we do at home, no matter how involved we are. As many moms struggle in the workplace with the hand that's parenting tied behind the back, we dads who treat parenting as a true vocation can feel similiarly crippled at home. So it's nice to have a place like ECFE where we can step out of our wive's competent shadows and pretend we know what we're talking about. Occasionally, without naming names, I'll even bring home a pearl of wisdom or two to light a bulb for D.
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I wrote this song for ECFE teacher Todd's Daddy Doo band. At the time, a simpler and more carefree time than now, I only had six young maws trying to turn my hair white.
The Daddy Doo Band makes family music from a dad's perspective, which is unusual because books and songs for young kids tend to take place in a parent-free universe.
Personally, I find it refreshing to hear Dad's voice, and as one of my ECFE classmates recently suggested, these songs make for compelling lullabies when we dads sing them.
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Being sick as a mom of seven is not a viable option. Unfortunately it happens and it's no party.
This morning I woke up and felt funky, but it really helped that we have our routine down pat. When I don’t have as much energy it’s vital that they find their own clothes, help each other get cereal, and find their own coats for outside play.
Hanging on for dear life.We had a family photo for the church directory this morning so I had to rally. Baby did pretty well last night, partly because our new room arrangements seem to be working. We have it set up so that one 5 year old boy has is own room, a 5 year old girl has her own room, 7 and 5 year old boys share a room, 3 and 2 year old boys share a room, and baby girl sleeps in a portacrib on our floor. So far so good.
I have such a hard time being less than 100%. My mom tells me that when I was a kid I would just get angry about being sick and throw fits about my inability to feel normal.
I forget how much I “normally” accomplish in a day until I can’t do as much and I feel overwhelmed feeling overwhelmed.
I learned to juggle tasks early in parenthood, and the balls have only multiplied and sped up. Whenever I go up or down stairs I put something away, or tidy a room as I walk through it to grab a fresh pair of unders for a potty training toddler. While said toddler is doing his thing, I wash the bathroom counter between hoisting and wiping. Then when I go downstairs to administer triage to a yelper in a wrestling match gone bad, I stick in a load of laundry while bandages coagulate. I often vacuum the playroom twice a day, mindful to dodge my tiny scoot-crawler. And when I mop the floor, I fill half the sink with floor solution and the other half with water and vinegar to clean toys.
And then I take a breath...
But when I am sick, usually once or twice in a year, my systems slow down to a scoot-crawl. Daddy is actually pretty good with the cleaning, and our eldest is unusually helpful--In fact, as I write this he is switching yet another load of laundry! But they’re boys, and they take tasks one at a time, and I don’t want to have to burden them with asking them to balance too many plates at once. So I rally as I can, more grumpy, less determined, to fill in the gaps and make them feel like they’re doing enough. The fact that I love my boys and how they help is what nudged me toward making two nice loaves of bread and folding two baskets of clothes today--only two--a far cry from the usual, but It’ll do. Ooh, I feel woozy...
Here's to catching a case of good health in my sleep and and tackling tomorrow with freakish productivity.
Sick Momma blues...
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Monday: Unbearable!
Tuesday: Why do young girls shoplift???
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In one of several past lives, I earned about five of my proverbial 15 minutes acting on an upstart sitcom called Malcolm in the Middle. It was my first real acting gig, and I had no idea that the show would be a success. I had done plenty of extra (background actor) work prior to the shoot, so I gravitated toward the extras more than the cast (though at the time, the first episode had yet to air and I couldn't really tell them apart). My only distinction among the extras was that I had a few lines and my own trailer with an Evian-stocked mini cooler. I've always been more of a Pellegrino guy, so I had a huge fit and smashed out all the windows in my trailer and went screaming naked down the lot (not really--that type of behavior is more suitable for a third or fourth acting gig).
I did do my part to never get invited back to the show by giving direction to Christopher Masterson (big brother Francis). I played a highschool bully at Francis' Military academy who would taunt victims with a creepy disembodied doll's head, dubbed "Poquito Cabeza." My faux pas was to ask that Francis strip me of my dread bagotel and beat me over the head with it. In my defense, even though I was acting in supreme arrogance, I was doing it in the spirit of self-depracation.
I don't really talk much about my "big break." Truth be told, my acting was a little heavy-handed and several times I've pretended to have misplaced the tape when friends have asked to see my episode. Most of them have caught me on re-runs, and the occasional residual check for $3.47 has more than canceled out my shame...A brother's gotta feed his kids.
In the end, "Malcolm in the Middle" was just a portent of life to come. Francis resolved his bully problem by introducing my character to his mom, who demonstrated an order of brass-knuckled hectoring beyond the capability of any pubescent thug. I see pieces of Lois in my D, similarly armed with feisty reproach, mastery over chaos, and a determined spite toward bullies. I pity the wedgie glutton who gets up in her business.
Take that, bully!
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The story of our second (double) adoption was the subject of a Hallmark Channel documentary in it's touted Adoption series.
Our adoption agency, Adoption Miracle International, under leadership of Milena Gross, recieved an Archangel service award, which made it the target of some media attention. The Hallmark Channel contacted Milena and asked her if it could profile one of her upcoming adoptions, and we were the first couple that came to mind, having just completed a very smooth Russian adoption. We were more than happy to participate, thinking it would be a great legacy for telling our story to our kids. As history has proven, our second go-around was as smashing a success as the first.
If you'd like to see our "Hallmark Adoption Series" segment, tune into the Hallmark Channel on
Thursday, May 1st @ 9:00 a.m.
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Guilty as charged. Like many parents, I assign my kids mythological proportions. I even call them by Greek mythological names from time to time (Apollo, Artemis, Hephaestus, Aries, Hermes, Daphne, and Dionysis) and insist that they call me Zeus. I know they're not gods--or even demi-gods. They're just kids, and don't need their egos and complexes to swell around my superflous praise. So rest assured, even though the following is by some counts an epic version of how my family came to be, it should be taken with a dose of heavy metal irony (as one might take the awkward progeny of Jack Black and Black Flag)...
The plane touched down on the frozen ground
In the soul of Siberian Steppe
In the heaving, breathing, Giant’s wood
The Tiger lithely crept
The chosen little foundling child
Lay in his iron bed
Soon to be the alpha
Of the Wild Ones that I’ve bred...
The Second came on Primo’s heels
Conceived in travel’s strife
Five weeks premature
He had no time to wait on life
He once fit in the palm of my hand
Now he glides and he strides and he rules the land
His fiery footsteps make glass tracks in sand
And the beasts heed his command...
Three and Four sailed to our shore
Bestriding wings of steel
With cries and shrieks for many weeks
They showed that they could feel
And soon they learned that Family turned
On the Sacred Orb of Love
While number Two was Aries’ child
Three and four now bore the dove...
Number five flew from the hive
Of Mother’s teeming womb
He seized all quaint conventions and
He sealed them in a tomb
He leapt and he danced like Earth’s delight
Like Bacchus roils as he feels the night
For rivals of mirth he’s a murderous sight
My angel of the fire’s light.
Six was born as fed on the corn
Of the wise farmer’s bumper crop
His passion to feast on both flora and beast
Like the Lion could not be stopped
But he soon grew a grin just as broad as his back
A grin to fend off Dad’s impending dragon heart attacks
In his honey sweet armor there are no cracks
My son, the Hun of snacks...
Seven, she once leavened in her Queen’s factory of kin
Waiting, agitating for her legend to begin
Then cool mists swarmed in the morning heat
In the Land where the Eagle Screams
And a girl was born to complete the lore of Seven
So it seems...
Now Seven thunder down the block
Like the Hydra’s dread attack
Seven in formation
An impenetrable pack
Seven deadly riders in a summer storm
Though two or three riders might be more of the norm
But when winter hits the Seven keep each other warm
And the Legend of Seven lives on...
End
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Our seven are home today and we had two extra boys for three hours this morning. Things went well for the most part. The cut on number six's head didn't need stiches and number three didn't break the window whilst throwing snowballs.
Number one didn't even pour chocolate chips into the heating--just all around it. The sticky mess that ensued clearly was no one's fault, according to the kids. At least they know how to conspire as a team, right?
I did two shifts at the counter for lunch, number four plus a baby and then another group of four. Six of the kids were age three and under, which made for very interesting table conversation. "My super dog can CRUSH your super dog" "My brod-er is tougher than your super dog" "I like Pee-Pee" (this is sung to the tune of the ABC song) and "I love poo-poo."
Our rule is if you say a potty word you have to go to the potty, so potty was not hard up for conversation today. Using the potty as a correctional cubicle can be a problem, though, when we have so many kids actually using it. Hmmm.
I attempted to clean as I redirected the after-lunch rush to the toy room. Number seven nursed in the sling while I scooped up ketchup-drenched fruit salad from under chairs. I hummed a Johnny Cash song as I worked, and thought of what we would name number eight if he/she ever came along. My husband thinks I'm a frosted fruitcake.
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Our marriage was arranged, sort of. My mom and D's mom were in a book club together when we were kids. About eight years ago, my mom ran into D. on the street and marveled at the her poise and congeniality. “My son needs to meet some new friends. I’ll have him call you,” she assured D, thinking she'd struck gold.
Meanwhile, on my end, it felt good to be home from a two year stint in L.A. but I still had a little wanderlust. I met a guy at a friend’s wedding, an architect and concept artist, who spent summers with his wife on a houseboat on the Mississippi. He told that the two of them had spent two summers floating from Itasca to New Orleans, and I marveled at such a possibility. He handed me an invitation for an upcoming furniture show of his which read “Ouch!. Furniture that will teach you something and just might hurt you!” At that moment, a tickle of excitement hatched in my brain. I would kayak to New Orleans at my earliest convenience, and I would go to my eccentric new friend’s show and pick his brain about how to plan my expedition.
My mom had tried to fix me up with friends' daughters before, but I had never called, partly out of apathy, absentmindedness with hanging onto numbers, and because in truth I found the mom-as-pimp role a little weird. But I needed a date for the furniture show. So I called Deirdre.
Perhaps because we felt self-conscious about the lameness of our semi-arranged date, D. and I dueled with tales of worldliness. I exaggerated some my experiences in L.A., padded my resume a little (yes I speak fluent French and do my own stunts, and I was a stand in for Dustin Hoffmann in the upcoming prequel to the Graduate, G.E.D or Bust). D. peppered me with tales of of a previous New Years spent in London, watching the Thames burn between drunken sorties into Rastafarian disco raves. When we arrived at the furniture show, we were pretty worn out by our own and each other’s hyperbole.
The furniture at the show was strange, as expected. Most of the pieces resembled Amish transformers, beautifully handcrafted, sparely fastened woodwork that could shape shift in wildly impractical and unsettling ways. The desk that turned into a coffin. The easy chair that doubled as a latrine.
Halfway through the gallery we ran into an acquaintance of Deirdre’s whose husband happened to own the building, a printing press. Wine glass in hand, the acquaintance whisked us behind the exhibit hall into a maze of corridors. We poked our heads into spaces representing every stage of the bookmaking process: layout, gang cutting, binding. Though neither D. nor I had ever considered a career in the printing business, the thought was gaining appeal.
As quickly as she had abducted us, the acquaintance redeposited us back onto the gallery floor, where D. and I stood, slack-jawed, at a six foot pyramid of bowling balls welded together, a apparent departure from the show’s other themes. In a lame attempt to convey that I appreciated how life could imitate art, I asked D. if she wanted to go bowling. She agreed with delight, and from that point on we let down our guard with each other.
Over beer, trout quesadillas and bowling frames that read like binary code, we tapped into each other’s hopes and dreams for the future. When the subject turned to kids, D. said that she wanted many, as in, she had wanted to run her own orphanage since she was nine--but that nine kids would be a nice concession. An only child, D. described retreating to a secluded hayloft on her father’s hobby farm, where she would invent stories about what she described as her “large Italian family,” with innumerable raucous kids perched at the dinner table, creating chaos and laughter and joy. She said that her dream was to make this family come to life by having a mess of kids and adopting a mess more. I instantly thought she was the coolest person I’d ever met, and a bit of a loon. At the time, I considered adoption a noble thing, but it involved mountains of paperwork, patience, and potential heartache, and I felt daunted by the task. But I appreciated her determination, and resolved to keep adoption on the back burner, to consider later if things worked out for a second date. It turns out that the evening led to many dates, and within a year we were married.
PS: Someday I'll make it down the Mississippi--not alone--but with a legion of pack-handlers and deck hands!
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