This afternoon I experienced the worst fifteen minutes of my life. I knew India was mad at me. She often is. Today's rage was over the fact that I refused to buy her a dollhouse at a nearby garage sale (since she already has one), and the fact that I added a few kernels of rice to her black beans, when she specifically ordered "beans only". She was giving me the stinkeye after lunch, and threatened to run away several times. She threatens to run away quite . . .
that’s what she said (adoption edition)
The news media has been buzzing this week with the story about the adoptive mother who sent her seven-year-old newly adopted son back to Russia. I've been wanting to sit and write out my thoughts about this story, but haven't had the time. I can say, in a nutshell, two things: 1) I think what she did was every kind of awful. 2) I think that the impact of institutionalization on the psyche of children is something that we all need to take more seriously. More on that later. . . .
name that easter sermon
"We are awed by the grace He showed even to those who would have killed Him. We are thankful for the sacrifice He gave for the sins of humanity. And we glory in the promise of redemption in the resurrection. And such a promise is one of life’s great blessings, because, as I am continually learning, we are, each of us, imperfect. Each of us errs -- by accident or by design. Each of us falls short of how we ought to live. And selfishness and pride are vices . . .
my goodie sample
Kembe is a keen observer of our family dynamics. Apparently, I have a habit of using the affirmation "good example" when one of the kids is following directions. I didn't really notice how much I said it, until Kembe started to point out when he was being a good example, too. Only he thinks I'm saying "goodie sample". So now, when he straps his own carseat, or sits quietly in wait for dinner, or puts his pj's away, he points to himself and says "I'm a goodie sample". I . . .
the happiest place in haiti
Over the last few months, I've been devastated by the pain of the Haitian people. But I've also been amazed by the joy that remains in the survivors. One of my greatest pleasures since the earthquake has been looking at the photos of the work going on at Heartline's Hospital. A part of this is personal - their field hospital is the place where our son Kembe spent the first three years of his life. In every shot, I am reminded of Kembe and his friends filling those rooms . . .
that’s what she said
Some things I've enjoyed reading this week: Catherine thinks that babies are people too, and I have to agree. Sue describes, with perfect accuracy, how expectations suck the joy out of life. Los Angelista talks about the public obsession over Obama's racial identification on the census form Rachel talks about her desire to exit the rat race, and the ensuing guilt. And Metalia made me pee myself from laughing with this post about how gross raising toddlers can be. . . .
we almost puked. but we didn’t.
I went to the mall with the kids yesterday. ALL FOUR KIDS. I'm sure that this is an indication of a very small and sheltered life, but achieving this? The feelings it inspired were similar to the feelings I had after running my first half-marathon. If I can do this, I can do anything! I didn't intend to take them to the mall. I had a small window with a babysitter. But let me explain small windows with babysitters. There is a LOST-style time-warp issue . . .
adoption on the census form
I'm posting over at Grown in My Heart today, talking about the controversy over the adoption box on the census form. People have strong feelings one way or the other, and many adoptive parents have expressed outrage over being asked to delineate how their children joined the family. For me personally, I didn't mind the question, but I understand how some find it offensive. I believe it can be good information to have, and because it is collected in a way that is confidential . . .
a confederacy of dunces
People. There is a reason that we celebrate good things in our history, like birthdays or anniversaries. As opposed to drudging up awful days from our past. Sure, the day I made out with my best friend's boyfriend, the day I broke my grandmother's antique vase, the day I cheated on a test in undergrad : these are a part of my history. But probably not days I need to commemorate at regular intervals. Know what I'm saying? I'M TALKING TO YOU, VIRGINIA. . . .
a ban on plastic nudity
I'm afraid I had a slight "mommy dearest" moment the other day. It was a typical scene that plays out pretty much every day in our house: India brings me a handfull of High School Musical dolls that she has undressed, and asks me to put their clothes back on. Now, I am not so prudish that a bunch of naked dolls prompt me to fury. But I cannot tell you how sick I am of spending a good portion of my day trying to slide a half-inch cylinder of fabric up a tiny plastic leg, . . .
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