Devil and Angel

Hi all.

Okay, officially I'm not venting about the fact that I've been a single mom for most of June.

But really I am. 

It seems that every year I forget how much overtime Mr. C puts in (unpaid- YAY teachers!) at the end of the year.   Between award ceremonies and graduations and senior parties and end of the year meetings, Mr. C was not home much for the last two- three weeks of school.   And then right after school let out, he took the three older kids camping, which left me home with Roo for a week.  Then he came home for a day, repacked, and went to Missouri with his student for a Skills USA National Competition, while I stayed with all 4 kids.  Then he came home for a day, repacked, and is now currently in Anaheim at a Creativity Conference where he is spending the night at the Paradise Pier Hotel and going behind the scenes at the park with the Disney Imagineers.

Through all this I've had a devil and an angel on my shoulder and their conversation goes like this:

Angel: What a lucky wife you are to have such a talented husband who has such passion for his job!  See how his students are succeeding?  Doesn't it feel good to know that he plays a huge part in that?

Devil:  Yeah, yeah, yeah.  And what are you?  Chopped liver?  How come he gets all the pats on the back with everyone telling him how great he is and how proud they are of him while you're running yourself ragged keeping four kids entertained?  Plus, have you even thought about the fact that he's gotten to have a nice comfortable hotel bed all to himself for the last 9 days?

Angel:  Oh. pish posh!  It's your job, silly, to take care of the kids!  It's what you signed up for!  What do you want?  A badge?  A parade?

Devil:  Yes!  A parade!  A parade is not an unreasonable request!  Someone should very well throw a parade for all that you've been managing!  And while they're at it, you should get a badge too!  If the Girl Scouts get a badge for babysitting, then you get a badge for running the show solo for weeks on end!

Angel:  Tsk tsk!  Nobody likes a whiner.

Devil:  Oh, whine, wine.  Get a straw and suck it up, sister.

To tell you the truth, I'm not partial to either one of those guys.  In fact, I don't think I like either of them because neither one makes me feel better.  One of them invalidates all of my true feelings, while the other one just spews more negativity.

I hate negativity.
I hate complaining. 
I hate feeling like what I do isn't important.
I hate being jealous of my husband.  
I hate the feeling of needing recognition.
I hate stupid, fluffy, soft, comfortable hotel beds. 
I hate that the word 'hate' is in this post 7 times.

Not that I'm venting or anything. 

You all have a good night! And don't worry- next time I talk to you Mr. C will be home and I'll be a nice, new, shiny happy version of myself again. 

It's A Cooking Post, Yay!

Here's some shocking news for all of you:  me and Mr. C, we be poor.  I mean, we're rich in a lot of other things, but in the bank account- not so much... which actually doesn't make us very different from many other people nowadays.  I think I've written before that someday I look forward to a time when we don't have to choose monthly between getting our car serviced or going on a date night. Or buying the kids shoes and having a date night.  Or feeding the animals and having a date night.   You get the idea?  For right now, that's how it is and we've found a way to make it okay.  We just have date nights in.  Yes, some people have staycations, me and Mr. C have stayte night.  

Just kidding.  We don't really call it that.  That'd be terrible.  

We don't call it anything but "give the kids chicken nuggets for dinner, put them to bed, make some really yummy food for ourselves and then watch Netflix on the couch" night.  It works for us. 

Since it's been a while since I've done a cooking post, and since Mr. C was hanging around the kitchen anyway while I cooked, I asked him to take some pictures for the blog.  It was a little bumpy at first, because I had a preconceived vision for this post of which I had to try to relate to him while he just seemed mostly interested in taking pictures of the champagne bottle.  But in the end it worked out okay. 

Still not sure what he was trying to capture with all that.  

So let's get started, shall we?  This is a recipe for Pasta Carbonara.  It's another Rachael Ray, the last recipe in her first cookbook, Cooking Round the Clock.  She titled it "The Only Recipe You'll Ever Need".  I'd like to amend that and call it "The Only Recipe You'll Ever Need If You're Planning on Clogging Your Arteries and Having a Heart Attack Before Middle Age".  However, fattening as this recipe may be, it is deliriously delicious and perfect for a late night meal with your sweetie.  

Here's the ingredients:

                                     

That's 1 package of rigatoni

          1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

           5-6 chopped garlic cloves

           1/4 pound pancetta (chopped)

           1 tsp. red pepper flakes

           1/2 cup dry white wine (I used bubbly which was a little too dry, but whatev.)

           2 large egg yolks

          1 cup of Parmesan Romano Cheese

(Also, I do realize that the alignment above is a disaster, but after spending an hour messing around with the format in HTML form, I no longer care.)

(Actually, I do care, but only enough to let you know that I am aware of the problem.  I don't care enough to spend any more time on trying to fix it.)

(And now I think I might have cared too much, because now I have three aside thoughts in a row explaining exactly how much I do and don't care.)

Anyway. 

First things first: get a nice, big pot of salted water to boil.

  

                                                            

Can I just stop for a moment to say that I think I'm going to permanently hire Mr. C to take pictures for any future cooking posts?  I don't think I could have ever made boiling water look that cool with my little point and shoot camera. 

Add the rigatoni and cook it for 8 minutes.   

                                 

Okay.  Now, in that 8 minutes, you have to cook everything up in your skillet fast so that it's ready to add to the hot pasta.  So go!  Go!  There's no time to waste! 

                                                        

          

                       

(Unless you're messing around with Rigatoni binoculars.  Then it's okay to waste a little time.)  

Heat up the olive oil in a large skillet and add then add the pancetta. Brown it for about 2 minutes.  

                                 

Then add the garlic and the red pepper flakes. 

                                 

Cook 2 or 3 minutes longer, then add the wine (or champagne) and stir it up with all the pan juices.  

                                    

Mmmmmmm-mm-mm.   Wish he had taken a better picture of that, because this one doesn't do much to help you understand how delicious the smell of the garlic cooking up in that wine sauce was.  It was mouth watering.    

So if you can tear your nose away from the skillet, take some time to look at the noodles.  By now they should be pretty much done and you'll want to stir in your skillet stuff while the noodles are nice and piping hot.  So listen up!  

Take those eggs and separate them.  Do whatever you want with the egg whites, but please PLEASE don't hurt the egg yolks.

                                

(By the way, my egg separating skills are courtesy of Mrs. Rogers, my Jr. High home ec teacher, whom I wrote about here.  Turns out I got more from her after all than just horror stories involving digestive juices inside of pudding.)

Dump those yolks into a bowl or measuring cup and beat 'em up real good.  Then, before you drain the noodles, take about a 1/2 cup of the pasta cooking water and add it into your eggs.  Then go ahead and lightly stir that together. 

                             

This is called "tempering the eggs".  It keeps them from scrambling and ruining all your hard work.  

Okay, now you can drain the pasta.

                             

(I know you don't really need to see a picture of that, but again, I'm just really impressed with Mr. C's action shots.  Look at that steam!  I had to include.  Sorry.)

Allrighty.  Now is where you've got to MOVE.  Take the drained noodles and dump them into the saucepan over the pancetta and garlic sauce.   Then you pour the eggs over the noodles, and start mixing it all up like crazy.  Make sure you toss that sauce over each and every noodle!

                           

Then toss a handful (or two... or three.... oink) of the cheese and mix it in there real good, too.  

                          

Get it all melty-like, salt and pepper it, and then put some extra cheese on top right before you serve it.

                           

Now, Rachael Ray writes that it's sexy to just eat it out of the saucepan with two forks.  Go ahead and do that if you want.  I wouldn't judge you.  But Mr. C and I rarely get to eat like civilized folk, what with  a table full of kids and all, so we set out plates all fancy like.

                        

Then we enjoyed a quiet meal, in which no one interrupted us to complain about the food, or spill their beverage, or ask us how much more they had to eat before they could be done.  

                    

See?  Just like date night, except cheap, fast, and easy.  And yes, I realize I could take that last statement so many places, but since I've already slathered this post up with huge amounts of my dorkiness, I'll just go ahead and let it be.  

You're very welcome.  

Hope you all have a great day! 

Men In Mommyworld

As I've written before (like here), sometimes things happen in my world that are unrelated, yet they share a common theme.  I always refer to it as the Universe talking to me.  It happens a lot.  Seriously.  Kinda freaks me out.  Most of the time though, I like it because it feels a little....... magical?  Beautiful?  It's like that plastic bag blowing in the wind from the movie American Beauty.   It's simple- these random little occurrences- and it's beautiful because from each one a thought is pulled and weaved together to create a truth.

(Actually, I'm not quite sure how that's like the bag blowing around in American Beauty, but the truth is that my explanation of this got a little artsy-fartsy and the blowing bag is where my brain defaults to when it comes to symbolism.  Apologies.)

So, it started yesterday when I was in the mall parking lot with Roo.  She was in the stroller and we were walking to the car.  When we got close, some guy who'd been circling the parking lot, decided to follow us the rest of the way and wait for our spot.  (By the way, I hate it when people do this because then I always feel like I have to rush- which I usually do as a courtesy to them because I'm polite that way- but I've always hated the imposition.)    Anyway, I took Roo out of the stroller and put her into the carseat, deciding that I'd buckle her after I loaded the stroller.  See?  I was trying to be all streamlined and fast for this guy which turned out to be all for nought, because when I went back to collapse the stroller I heard him yell "Oh, come ON!"

What in the world did he think I was going to do with the stroller?  Leave it there?  Pick it up and shove it into my bag like Mary Poppins?

I thought maybe, perhaps he was listening to some sports on his radio and his team had just made a bad play because I couldn't see how I had done anything that warrented being yelled at.  I was moving fast, wasn't I?  Trying to get him into this spot as fast as I could, right?

So ignoring eye contact, I lifted the stroller into the trunk, shut it, and went back to Roo so I could buckle her.  And that's when I heard him say, "Are you kidding me?".

Then he pounded his steering wheel like a big fat two year old baby.

Let me leave this story for a minute and tell you where I was mentally before all this happened.

Earlier in the week, my whole family had gotten together and celebrated my grandparents 65th wedding anniversary.  65th.  65th.  That's six full decades and half of another one.   I don't know about you guys, but my brain can't wrap itself around that number when it's in reference to spending it with your spouse.
(Mr. C and I joke that we're going to have to retire to two different spots of the country- him to a hacienda somewhere in New Mexico where he can hike and photograph to his heart's content, and me to my country dream home with a wrap around porch, where I will lounge and read and sip ice tea for the rest of my days.)

Anyway- back to my grandparents.  To look at them now, they are an excellent model for love and marriage.  However, I know from talking to both of them, that they had their share of rough times.  My grandma was telling me the other day how my grandfather, being like most men in 1950's America, was completely clueless to how hard she worked in the home.  He never once changed a diaper, helped with housework, or prepared a meal.  When she asked for help his standard response was "Look, I work all day.  I'm exhausted.  You're here all day.  You can sit down anytime you want and take a nap."

Let's take a moment to gasp collectively.

Him being my beloved grandpa, I can easily forgive him.  That's just how it was in the 50's.  Besides, a Cesarean section and subsequent 10 day hospital stay for my grammy taught my grandpa the error of his thinking.  (My dad loves to tell the story of how my grandpa, during his disastrous week home with his kids, tried to serve a roasted chicken that was burnt on the outside and still frozen in the middle.) But my grammy, though she has long since forgiven him, still gets worked up when she's telling me about that time in her life- and it's 50 years later.  That's some powerful anger there.

Coincidentally (or not), my friend posted this article here up on Facebook written by a father, calling out the clueless dads.  It's a good article and I hope you all click over and read it.  I'm happy to say that most of the dad's I know are completely in the game; diapers, dishes and all.  However, there are a few fathers I know of who'd I love to pin down and force-read the article to.  I have fantasies of going all Jillian Michaels on them and yelling "You're a loser!  You think you're a man? You're not a man!" into their faces.  Aggressive, yes, but I get so sick of seeing their wives tired and beaten down from doing it all themselves.

So, I guess this past week ignornace about children and child rearing was in the forefront of my mind- how it was in the 50's and how we've progressed but there's still people out there who are living in an Ozzie and Harriet nightmare.

So there I was sitting there in the mall with Roo, just prior to the tattooed bald man baby throwing a temper tantrum in his car, sipping on my Starbucks and watching Roo play in the play area.  A group of mommies were there for a playdate and I found myself observing them: the sippy cups, the snack baggies, the conversations about nursing, the kid/mommy language ("Hands aren't for hitting, sweetie!") I was suddenly overcome by this rush of UGH.  I don't know why it happened- on any day any of those ladies and I are easily interchangeable- but in that moment the sheer momminess of mommyworld just completely got under my skin.  I packed up Roo and left.

Then I got accosted by the big bald man baby in the parking lot.

As I was driving home, I felt so worn down by stupidity.  Not just the man baby- I mean, yes, he was totally stupid, but it was more than that.  It was that mommyworld had totally gotten to me, not the first time that had happened, but it was the first time that I realized that the stupid part of parenting- the day in day out silly details of it- is probably is the only thing that the clueless people see.  And I suddenly understood how all this stuff was connected for me:

The daily ins and outs of parenting- I understand that it must look silly on the outside.  The bulging diaper bags, the silly songs and rhymes we sing to entertain the kids, the runny noses.... I could go on forever.  It looks like a bunch of mundane boring stuff that doesn't have a lot of value in it.  (Which is probably why a grown man found it socially acceptable to be impatient with a mother in a parking lot.)  The truth is though, that this stuff is so completely invaluable because it all adds up to time spent with your children.  How sad that there are people who don't get that.  How sad that there are fathers who don't get that.  

So that's what this has turned into.  A Father's Day post.  Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there who get it and see the big picture- the ones who aren't afraid of being silly and changing diapers and spending time with their kids.  You are priceless.

To Mr. C- yes, you're an amazing father BUT perhaps today what I appreciate most about you is that when I need it, you are my superhero rescue from mommyworld.  When I need to NOT feel like a part of that world, you are the person in the universe I turn to who is best at making me feel like the 'me' I was before kids.

And a Happy Father's Day to my own father, who made me smile by writing this under my facebook vent about mall guy, (and I quote) "Tacy, if I had been there, that guy would've been tooting his horn through his back pockets."

Thanks for having my back, dad.  Love you.

(Not) Sleeping With The Enemy

Hey all.

It's 5:30 in the morning.  Do you want to guess why I'm up?  I'll give you a hint: it's not because of any children.  Mr. C took off for camping yesterday morning with the oldest 3.  Roo, who stayed with me, is still sleeping soundly in her bed.  The house is peaceful and quiet, which may make you wonder- why am I not curled up under blankets and sleeping soundly myself?

I'll tell you why.

Because the cat has decided that 4:30 or 5 a.m is when it wants it's first of three meals of the day.  And I have decided that this is it.  I am going to write the post that I have held back on for so long.  I am going to devote an entire post to why I detest this cat.
*disclaimer- if you are an animal lover and are prepared to tell me why I need to be more compassionate and tolerant of this animal, then you should be warned that I haven't had my coffee yet, I'm up extra early for no reason and extra cranky because of it.  You don't want to mess with that, do you? 


A little back story before we start:  The cat was 14 years old when we brought it over here from 9's mom's house.  We didn't know at the time that she has a tendency towards puking.  Actually, we didn't know a lot of things.  We assumed we were getting a normal cat.

This is not a normal cat.  This is El Diablo Estupido.

(That is what I secretly call her).

Here is a list of my grievances towards El Diablo Estupido:

Per the vet, we have to divide her daily meal up into 3 increments if we want her to puke less.  This has confused El Diablo because she now thinks that anytime I am in the kitchen, she will be receiving a meal.  This means that she spends most of her day circling my kitchen island like a shark.  To count, this household has lost 2 plates, 1 drinking glass, 1 pie pan, and 1 cat dish because El Diablo has gotten underfoot and tripped me in her constant greediness for food. This is not to mention the number of times that nothing has broken but I have tripped and sent food flying all over the tile.

Which reminds me, the tile.  Over half of my house is covered in tile, yet, anytime El Diablo pukes, she makes sure to do it on the carpet.

She went on a starvation strike when we tried to switch her to dry food.  She refused to eat it, and then I caught her up on my pantry shelf like a feral raccoon.  She had torn through the plastic on a brand new loaf of bread and had devoured it.  So we switched back to wet food.

That brings me back to the feeding her 3 times a day thing:  you know what I want the first thing I smell to be in the morning?  Coffee.  You know what I'm accosted with instead?  Friskies Whitefish Ocean Dinner.  It smells up an entire side of the house.

And then there's my laundry room.  My laundry room has been taken over by the litter box and her food and water dishes.  To get to my washing machine nowadays, I have to perform acrobatic stunts of epic proportions while stepping in the sand that she kicks out of her littler box.

Finally, there's the persistent meowing at 5 a.m. No matter how many pillows I've thrown at her, how many threats I make to sell her to a ghetto restaurant, she will not shut up with the pre dawn meowing.  We resorted to closing her in the laundry room every night so that we could sleep.  One night we did this when my best friend was over.  My best friend is a cat person.  The cat started crying and my friend, (who never offers me any pity when I'm bitching about the cat) had the nerve to say "That is breaking my heart."  And I wanted to say "Really? REALLY?  That's breaking your heart?  That?  What about your friend who you've known since you were six who, between babies, pregnancies, and kitty cats, hasn't gotten a good night's sleep in almost 8 years now?  WHY DOESN'T THAT BREAK YOUR  HEART? WHY DOES THE DAMN CAT GET ALL YOUR PITY?  Huh?  HUH?"

But instead I just threw her a look and said, "Trust me.  At 5 a.m. that's the safest place for her to be."

Another, more gentle friend suggested that perhaps the cat came to our household to teach me about loving difficult things.  I wanted to hug her and tell her that she was sweet for that I thinking that I was going to look for lesson about love in this scenario.  She didn't know me very well at the time.

As an afterthought, I just realized that I've gone through the terrible 2's with 2 children and am in the midst of them with another.  I know all about loving difficult things.  El Diablo and I are not on that path.   

On the up side, the stupid cat did motivate me to get up and write a post on the blog that I've been neglecting lately.  How are you all doing?  I've missed my blog and will try to do better this summer.  I already took pics for a cooking post that'll be coming up.  Me and Mr. C did an at home date night and made Pasta Carbonara.  It was actually better than anything I've ever tasted at a restaurant and easy to make.  I'll get that up soon to share with you.  For now, I guess I owe one to the cat for getting me up and writing.

Score 1 for the enemy.

You all have a good day.    

Anger and The Mother

Hey all.  
Thanks all for the sweet comments about my sister and her situation.  She’s feeling great, and I’ll be sure to keep you posted on what happens with the girls.  As of right now, they’re still with us. In fact we’re packing up this weekend for a big- HUGE- family camping trip to celebrate my brother in law’s birthday.  There’ll be 8 adults, 12 kids, and 5 tents.  

You can wish us luck after you stop laughing.  

So, tonight I’d like to write about something that I’ve been thinking about for a while: anger.  It’s not talked about often, but I’ve noticed it’s a theme among mothers.  At the park, at playgroups, at Girls’ Night Out, in our conversations, in our rants, and even in our jokes, anger is often the bottom line.  

I remember waaaaaaay back in one of my college Sociology classes, the professor mentioned something about a formal study that found that women who identified their occupations as “mothers” reported feeling more angry than any other occupation.  I guess I made note of it, because I still remember it being said, but I didn’t think much about it beyond class because, well, at the time I wasn’t a mom so my attitude was all “Who cares?  When is he going to start explaining the male psyche?  That’s information I could use.”  

So, obviously now I’m a mom.  And I care.  And I know we’re not supposed to talk about it because moms are supposed to be all sweet and quiet and nurturing and long suffering.  Don’t worry, I’m all those things too, but I’d have to ask you have to throw anger into the mix as well. Let’s face it, I can’t be all those things without being a little pissed off about it.

It’s taken 5 years of stay at home mommy experience, but I think that I may have got the anger thing figured out.  I believe that what makes moms crazy is the simple idea of input vs. output.  You see, generally, when you spend time and energy on something, you do it because there is going to be a payoff.  You scrub counters so you can have a clean kitchen, you clean floors so your feet don’t stick to the tile,  and you do laundry so you can get rid of the pile of dirty clothes (I freely admit that I do laundry purely for the sake of getting rid of the pile.  Clean clothes are just a side benefit).  

Now, I can’t speak for all the stay at home mother’s out there, but I can tell you what my experience is.  I clean the counters and inevitably some little person comes along and spills a juice or dumps a Crayola mega pack all over the place.  Or it’s time for another meal. Or playdough project. Or snack.  I will spend a full 45 minutes sweeping and mopping the 1000 square feet of tile in my house, only to have the dog come in and shed all over the place, followed by the teenager walking his bike through the kitchen to the garage, followed by 6 little dirty feet who were just playing in the muddy yard.  It takes me 2 days to do laundry for this family of six, and no sooner will I put the last sock away in a drawer do I turn around and see that the laundry basket is already half full.  

It doesn’t sound so bad as it’s put in the above paragraph, but you have to understand that this stuff happens day in, day out, for weeks, months, and now years.  

Didn’t someone define insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?  No wonder moms feel crazy.  I clean, I clean, I clean- and while I’m cleaning I’m having circular conversations about why we have belly buttons and I’m scheduling naps and cooking the next meal and helping with homework and I’m being nurturing and patient through it all.  Then I’ll see a little person wipe their macaroni and cheese covered hand on a wall and I’ll go ballistic because OH MY GOD I WILL NEVER GET CAUGHT UP THIS HOUSE WILL ALWAYS BE A DISGUSTING STY THEY’RE ALL WORKING AGAINST ME AND TRYING TO MAKE ME INSANE.

Not everyday.  But there are many days like that.  

And I love the older people who tell you that you shouldn’t worry about housework so much.  They’ll say that they made that mistake and now their children are grown and they realize in hindsight that they should’ve spent more time enjoying their children.  I appreciate their wisdom and insight, and I do make it a point to enjoy my children, but the truth is that they’ve forgotten about the circular conversations about bellybuttons and homework help.  If they could go back in time and do it again, they would be forced to care about housework because the truth is, stepping in a pile of crunchy cereal that was left on the floor while in the midst of all kinds of other craziness is enough to send a person over the edge.  

You may be asking why I don’t just have other household members help, and the answer is I do.  I’m a big believer in autonomy and independence.  Once my kids are big enough to handle a chore, they more or less do it.  Furthermore, when my husband is home, we split the work and help each other.  But it’s still my show that I’m running.  I’m the one that is responsible and therefore, I am the one that feels the craziness from the never-endingness of it all.  Mr. C feels it sometimes, but mostly he’s baffled about why I’ll start yelling at him when he tries to put a perfectly still-clean pair of jeans into the laundry.  

Do I sound terrible and high strung?  What kind of person goes nutso over spilled juice or dirty laundry?  I hate this anger and I worried for a long time that I was the only one, but then I had a friend- who’s also a neighbor- come over.  She was sitting at my white ceramic tiled island counter and she asked how I felt about it (the tile), since she has the same kind in her house.  I casually replied “I don’t like it much.  Too hard to keep clean.”  To which she nodded solemnly nodded, narrowed her eyes and said, “Tacy, some days I want to take a bat to it.”  

Hallelujah, I ain’t the only one.  

Anyway, there is a point to this post beyond me bitching about housework.  I, my friends, have found a pretty good outlet for my anger.  Wednesday night my friend and I walked into the Coachella Valley Boxing Club.  This was hugely intimidating because a) We were one of the few women in there, one of the few white girls in there, and definitely the only mommies in there. b) It was a boxing club.  People hit each other.  For fun.  

So, once I got over the feeling of how stupid I looked and felt, I enjoyed the workout.  The only bummer was that our trainer didn’t let us use the bags this time.  He said we need to go get our own gloves.  So that’s what I’m going to do.  I’m going to go buy a pair of pink Everlast boxing gloves and every Monday and Wednesday night, you will find me there, at the boxing club, hitting a bag as hard as I can.  Over and over and over again.  

This mama’s gonna knock you out.  

(Not really, but it seemed like a good way to end this post.)

You all have a good night.  

A Mother's Day Story

You all know how much I love stories.  I love to read them, I love to hear them, I love to watch them, I love to write them, I love to talk about them- you get the idea.  I also love to think about the idea that everyone and everything alive has a story- there’s something so attractive about that to me.  The idea that people make choices based on what’s happened in their past and that this shapes their future and other’s futures, and that this is how stories are made- I find it so powerful.  I may even go so far as to say that if everyone stopped and listened more compassionately to each other’s stories, this world may be a more peaceful place to be. 

So now that I’ve found the answer to world peace in the first paragraph of my post, I guess we can all go home now.   

Kidding.   I don’t want you to go yet, because I have a story for you today that has been silenced and I want to share it with you now.  I’m interested in telling this story mainly because the person in this story wasn’t able to talk about what she was going through for various reasons; some that were understandable, and some that were (in my opinion) just plain stupid.   Whatever the reasons, this person kept her focus, swallowed anger and vengeance, and just quietly kept her faith.  I think she deserves to be recognized.

So now I'd like to share her story with you.

The main character in this story I’m talking about here is a girl I know.  She’s been wanting to have a baby for over 5 years.  She comes from a large extended family full of girls, and when her sisters and cousins began marrying off, she was right there with them.  Yet when pregnancies started to be announced and nieces, nephews, and more cousins began to be born, it was she who stood alone at the end of it all, childless. So, she went to doctors and specialists and had blood drawn and did scans and charted and mapped and wondered and waited, and then they told her that she and her husband would probably never conceive.  This was sad news for the girl- while she loved being around her nieces and nephews, she wanted a baby of own.  Silently, she dealt with the painful fact that she’d never get to experience a pregnancy & childbirth of her own. 

Then she and her husband decided to adopt. 

Her well-meaning family and friends asked her the same question over and over again- “Why don’t you just try in-vitro fertilization?”  to which the girl had to reply over and over again, “Because I’m feeling in my heart of hearts that I’m supposed to adopt.”  This was fine, except that the girl started getting the impression that people didn’t feel like an adopted baby was as good as having her own baby.  This was hurtful and frustrating, but because she knew people were only trying to help, she remained silent about her feelings.   

Nonetheless, the girl and her husband moved forward with the adoption plan.  They found an agency, took out a loan for $25,000, submitted a portfolio, and then they waited.  They waited and waited, and finally one day they got a call informing them that a mother out in Florida wanted to give them her unborn baby.  This girl and her husband met the mother over the phone and liked her.  The woman liked them too, and so they agreed that in March they would fly out to Florida to be there at the baby’s birth. 

The next 9 months they spent getting ready for their new baby.  They painted a nursery, they bought clothes, they told their families.  They spoke with the biological mother on the phone each week.  Every time she assured them that, yes, she was ready to give them her baby. 

March came, and then it happened- The Big Call.  The mother informed them that she was going to be checked into the hospital for an inducement on Sunday.  This was Friday.  The girl and her husband excitedly called their families to let them know they were on their way to get their baby.  They packed 3 suitcases: one for the girl, one for her husband, and one filled with blankets, diapers, and teeny tiny clothes for the baby.  Then they drove to the airport, got on a plane, and flew to Florida. 

The first thing they did when they landed was call the hospital.  The hospital said that no one by that name had checked in.  They thought maybe they had called the wrong hospital, so they called another hospital, then another, all to no avail.  They called the mother.  The phone rang and rang.  They called the adoption agency.  The agency claimed to be as befuddled as the girl and her husband.  They drove to the apartment  where the mother had been living (and to where they had been sending her checks for rent and groceries). Her apartment was empty.  The doorman said he hadn’t seen her in days- furthermore, he was surprised to hear that she was pregnant.  

Not even pregnant?  The couple called the adoption agency.  How could the agency sponsor someone without knowing for sure that they were pregnant?  Where was the social worker who was supposed to serve as a liason between the biological mother and the agency?  The agency informed them that the social worker lived in another state- 300 miles away from the client she was supposed to be assisting.  The agency also refused to acknowledge any accountability on their part for the circumstances of this failed adoption.  Furthermore, the couple was told that if they put forth any disparaging comments about the agency in any type of public forum or form, they would be held in breach of contract and their full $25 K (of which the adoption agency got to keep half of anyway) would not be refunded.   The contract protected the agency, it protected the rights of the bio mother, but it did nothing to protect the rights of the young couple.

The couple stayed in Florida for a few more days, hoping for word from the mother- hoping that there had been a misunderstanding.  By Sunday it became clear that there were no misunderstandings, she did not give them the wrong hospital, she had not given them the wrong dates, she had just disappeared. There was not going to be a baby.  So they picked up their 3 suitcases, one for the girl, one for her husband, and one for the baby that was not going to be.   Then they flew home.

When they got home, the girl shut the door to the nursery.  She didn’t go in that room for a very long time. 

One or two years later, when her heart had healed up a little bit, she and her husband got the courage to talk about babies again.  Since they were still paying on the $25k loan that they accumulated for the failed adoption, they decided to this time adopt through the county.  So they took a deep breath and began the process of fingerprinting and taking class after class and signing paper after paper and doing home inspection after home inspection and jumping through hoop after hoop, until finally they got everything squared away. 

Then they waited again. 

On the day the call came, it was not for one baby.  It was not even for two babies.  It was for 3 babies- sisters actually, ages 3 and under.  The youngest was just an infant.  The girl was nervous.  Could she do this?  Should she take this on?  3 children at once!  She prayed.  She talked to her husband.  They prayed together, and then they decided to go ahead and do it. 

The first 6 months were not easy and nothing close to a fairy tale.  The girls were scared.  They were malnourished and confused.  They were terrified of the dark.  They didn’t know how to play.  They had health issues.  They had trust issues.  They missed their mom and dad and yet they were simultaneously scared of their mom and dad.

Some days the girl felt like she was going to lose her mind.  But gradually things started to get better. The girls were less fearful.  They loved playing with their cousins and her family took them in and loved them right away.  There were still things that were hard- the girls were needy almost all the time, which required more patience than most any person has.  But eventually the girl got used to her routine with her new little ones. They started calling her mama.  As for the baby, she knew no other mother.

Then, about a year later, the girl got another big call- this time it was from the county. They said that there had been a bureaucratic mistake and that the girls would most likely be going back to their mother.  This, despite the fact that the girls had been placed in an adoption program, not a fostering program.  Despite the fact that the girls had finally adjusted and had friends, preschool, a routine, and normalcy, they would be leaving- although the county was sorry to tell her that they didn’t know exactly when that would be happening. 

This is where I really would love to give you the background of the girls’ story, so you could understand how emotionally devastating it will be for them to go back at this point- how taking them from a safe environment where they have routines and safety and putting them back into the chaos that was their lives before is unimaginable to anyone who understands a child’s mind- but unfortunately, I can’t. That part of the story has to remain silent for now- mostly for the sake of the girl’s case- but also to protect their bio mother.  To that I say, what about this girl who’s been mothering them for the past year when they didn't have anywhere else to go?  Who is protecting her? 

If there was ever a reason for someone to be angry or resentful or bitter, I would think that this girl has earned full license, yet that’s not what she’s shown the world.  I’m sure she has her days when she’s filled with those negative emotions, but her focus has been on her faith throughout.  It’s been hard for her since now she has to enjoy her time left with the girls while guarding her heart as well.  She still doesn’t know when the county is coming to take them back.

So that’s where our story stands for now- except that while this isn’t a happy ending, something has happened that has made it a happier ending.    

Are you ready to see it?  I can’t wait to show you.

Here it is- she’s pregnant!  

That’s my niece or nephew, due to arrive next fall!  The girl is my sister and I am so proud of her.

Sis, not many moms get to earn their heart for mothering before they even hold their firstborn, but you have- 10 times over.  I love you and I love that little human inside of you.  However things end up with the girls, you have done the best you can by doing what you did- just loving them.  I know that's a story they'll hold close to their hearts forever.  

Teacher Talk Tuesday, Edition: Creativity. It Rocks.

It's been a while since I did a Teacher Talk Tuesday and you should know that it's not because I don't think about it.  I do think about it- alot.  In fact, when I can't sleep at night, one of the things I do is lay in bed and design imaginary lesson plans.  If that doesn't tell you that a) I have a passion for teaching and b) that I'm a big nerd, then I don't know how else to prove it to you.  

Actually, I guess you could peruse the archives of this blog.  There's some pretty solid evidence there too.  

Anyhoo.  There's been a lot of stupid stuff in the media about teachers this year, and I've held my tongue for most of it- surprisingly.  You'd think that when things piss me off to a phenomenal level like the whole Wisconsin Teacher Union thing did this past winter, I would have written about it.  For whatever reason I didn't- probably because of the funk I was in.  It was easier to sit on the couch and complain to Mr. C about the lameness that was on the tube in front of me, instead of getting up to assemble coherent thoughts and then relay them to you guys.  Besides, Mr. C held the kettle chips hostage in the living room.  I stay with the kettle chips.  Always.  

However, getting back to my point, (sorry!  It's the kettle chips- they always distract) this week happens to be Teacher Appreciation Week.   I decided to get on here and shine some positive light on you teachers out there, but mostly on one particular teacher, my favorite one- Mr. C. 

Mr. C is a digital photography/imaging/animation teacher at Cathedral City High School here in our desert.  His kids are part of the Digital Arts & Technology Academy (or DATA for short, which you should pronounce as I do- with your two front teeth protruded over your bottom lip and your eyes crossed.  I love to make fun of the nerdy name).  Mr. C though, he LOVES his job.  Don't get me wrong, some days the self centered, lazy, all knowing shittiness that is teenagers gets to him and he comes home cranky.  But most days, he is fired up to be in his classroom.  Here's why:  he loves creativity.  He loves to point out (and I love this and use it all the time too, because I know it to be true), that there are some kids who would not get up in the morning and go to school if it wasn't for the art classes.  Or the music classes.  Or the dance classes.  Or whatever class you can think of that isn't on the traditional "academic" spectrum.   

Luckily, Mr. C has the support of the district (not financial, everything they have comes from a grant that  he and the other DATA teachers applied for) and the parents.  He's done an amazing job finding opportunities for his students to participate in.  This year they've shot  runway shows during fashion week, participated in Art Festivals, interned with our area's most popular photographers, shot concerts, and entered multiple contests.  This last week, he went to San Diego for a conference with his Skills USA team, and his student won the Gold Medal for photography for the state- which means that next month he'll be flying back east with said student to participate in Nationals.  

Here's what I want to point out:  all this stuff that he does with his kids is on his own time, unpaid.  Besides the amount of time that just basic teaching takes; the meetings, the grading, etc., he's giving up evenings, weekends, vacations, entire weeks to be gone. While he's doing that,  I am holding down the fort and slowly loosing my mind while taking care of 4 kids.  Um, did I sound bitter there?  I'm not, really.  (Well, maybe just a little- usually while I'm in the midst of a week without him and so exhausted from being on duty 24/7 and knowing that he's in a nice quiet hotel room somewhere.)  But mostly I'm proud of him and I'm proud of the service he's giving to his students.  I only sound bitter when I have to listen to certain idiots out there who believe that teaching is a part time job.  Gets me hot under the collar.  

Anyway, last night we went to the Palm Springs Unified Digicom Awards.  Schools across the district submitted various short films and documentaries around the theme of "Making A Difference".  Mr. C and some of my old work colleagues were there to receive an award for their project "Pandora's Box." If you want to see the project for yourself, you can follow the links.  Click here to see the creation of the project, and click here to view the finished product.  

I was just excited to see it because it was a collaboration with 3rd graders from the elementary school that I used to work at.  Really, you should look at it.  I think a lot of people still think that classrooms should be a place where desks are lined up in rows and teachers pace the aisles with the answers from the teacher's manual in their arms.  See for yourself what classrooms look like when dynamic learning is taking place.  

Now I'm just rambling.  I'll go ahead and leave you with a pic of Mr. C and our crew last night before they went into the awards- before they saw their dad's students go up again and again to the podium to be honored, before they were inspired by the creative interpretations that kids- sometimes their own ages- gave about "Making A Difference, before they saw why their dad does what he does.  

That was before they saw it, but now they know.  And they couldn't be prouder.