The Crab Chronicles

Drama and Melons

As much as I try to lessen or eliminate all dissension and drama at my house, it inevitably seems to find me. Sometimes I just realize, in throat-clutching moments, that I've forgotten something important, like a bill that got overlooked, or forgetting to shave my legs until I look like a female impersonator.

Last night I forgot to read with Michael. His new teacher wants us to read 20 minutes a day. Excellent idea. I am forgetting it about half the time. Michael is not reminding me. He doesn't much care for reading, but he's getting better and better at it, so it's not as bad as it once was, when I had to threaten to open a can of whup a** just to get him to pick up a book. [Just kidding there, of course, I don't know where to buy canned whup a**]

Over the weekend, I did manage to read to him both days. What did he himself choose to read, with no help from me? Jack's New Family. [That's my boy!] He has had it read to him in Russian [while still in Kaz] and has now had it read to him in English, and finally has read it himself, in English. He should have it memorized. I know he draws all sorts of parallels between Jack and himself, and that's OK. That's how I meant it to be when I wrote it. I figured the more he identified with Jack's struggle, the more he would like the book. / Anyway, I digressed from my main theme for a moment.

Last night I put Michael's outfit for today on his toybox for him to wear. This morning, I woke him up, put the clothes on the bed, and instructed him to put them on and come down to breakfast. I went downstairs and started making breakfast. He didn't appear. I hollered at him. He finally appeared, with Alesia. She tattled on him and said he was wearing a sleeveless shirt under his red Georgia hoodie.

"Son, you know I don't like sleeveless shirts and the school rules say you can't wear them anyway. Go back up and put on the clothes I laid out for you."

This provoked much grumbling and whining. He went back upstairs, complaining he couldn't find his shoes.

When breakfast was on the table, he sitll had not appeared. "Michael! Get down here and get your breakfast!" I hollered, losing patience.

He finally appeared. I pulled up his hoodie and he had on a faded old tee shirt. His argument was that he leaves on the hoodie all day, so what difference does it make what shirt he wears?

I saw the logic of that, if it was true that he left on the sweatshirt all day, but it's a heavy shirt and it's August, and I envisioned him having a heat stroke in PE. "What if you want to take it off?" I asked. He shrugged.

I was mainly annoyed because I was trying to avoid drama by laying out his clothes, and he created more drama by defying me. I have a cousin who lets her little boys wear whatever they want. I've seen some pretty weird outfits on those kids. I just cannot be that laid back.

I've been thinking all morning about how to handle the clothes issue. Mother had a similar issue with me when I was 5. She just took away all my clothes she didn't want me to wear, so I had fewer choices. I don't want to go that drastic with a 12 year old boy. Besides, he has a lot of clothes. We have no storage space.

Alesia and I had our battles over clothes, in the beginning. Well, for about a year, actually. She finally now understands, about 98% or the time, what's appropriate and what's not. Until she was 13 years old she had no choice in clothes. She lived in dirty, ragged clothes before I adopted her. Nobody took time to help her look nice. Girls in her orphanage wore the same clothes for a week. Mike's situation was similar, although his orphanage seems to dress the kids better.

Anyway, that's today's issue. Below is my favorite Far Side cartoon, because it captures the spirit of my childhood so well, and I think of it often when trying to figure out how to manage my own children, who are [thank God] much less devious than Bruce and I were;

******************************************************************************************************************

I am trying a gardening experiment. Inspired by my friend Cindy's amazing gardening efforts [see almost any post from her blog Big Mama Hollers, which is on the list to the right] I am trying to rehabilitate the soil around the side of my house.

Before I tell my tale of woe, I want to digress for a moment. There's a reason.

My aunt Evalyn had the most beautiful flowers and plants around her house in Hollins, Virginia. Well, the entire campus of Hollins [where my uncle taught art] is beautiful. Evalyn's yard put everyone else's to shame, however. My mother used to watch her take coffee grounds, eggshells, and vegetable peelings, and go outside every evening and dig a little hole somewhere in the flowerbeds, and bury them. It was a small, efficient form of composting. She didn't make any big deal out of it. The results were amazing, though.

At the side of our house is a neat flowerbed where we have some bushes and a few irises, and nothing else grows, along a bed about 6 feet by 2 feet. I was going to build a compost heap. Then I decided to go low tech and try Evalyn's approach. So every night or two I go out there and bury eggshells and coffee grounds and whatever else we have. I water it down occasionally. I shovel dirt atop it. The dirt is terrible. Red clay. No worms. Nothing. I am praying it will rot into rich soil in time for me to plant a melon patch there next spring. So far, it just looks weird. I know my neighbors whose house faces mine on that side probably think I've lost my mind. I can hear them, in my mind, whispering,

"Look, she's burying garbage and growing hemlock!" LOL

I will prove to them I am not crazy. I will grow fabulous melons next year. [If my back holds out.]

Things are Looking Up

This will be the world's fastest post, just ebcause I am on a break. You can tell that because of the typos, huh?! My internet was going wacky on my lunch hour, much to my chagrin. [I love words like "chagrin" - I picture a cheshire cat grinning.]

I had Alesia's IEP meeting at school. I feel much better. We are going to try and get her a 504 plan, due to the auditory processing issues and executive functioning issues. The people I met with last year, who were so nice and so not helpful in the long run, are gone. Thanks be to God. These folks today might actually be able to help. Alesia's test results were all normal - the tests they administered to see if she was IEP eligible. Well duh. My kids not stupid y'all, she just needs a little extra help. Check her agenda on Fridays. Don't let her zone out in class and miss something important. I'm not asking the teachers to donate a kidney.

I told the new head of special ed the art teacher from last year should be fired. She looked at me meaningfully and said "We are looking into it." Great. Y'all finally got a clue.

I used to think Alesia's memory issues were fetal alcohol related. Now I am wondering if they have more to do with PTSD. As she progresses in therapy, I hear more tales that make me think PTSD plays a bigger part than I knew about. She also seems to just lately have fewer memory issues.

When I was feeling so yucko yesterday morning we watched the first episode of the John Adams series from HBO, which I was able to get from Netflix. Excellent program. Really got the kids interested. I paused it a few times to explain, but they were really intrigued with the story. The American Revolution is one of the most fascinating periods in history. The founding fathers changed the world. Most folks now have no idea of how dramatic it was, that revolution.

I think Paul Giamatti looks a little like Budha, but it's a minor distraction. I looked up the real John Adams, and what a shock, Giamatti looks a bit like him. Hmm. [side note: I always liked John Adams because he was a short guy who was argumentative and not great with money. I can so identify. LOL]

Michael forgot his language arts book and vocabulary words today. I am going to tell him, one more time and he will get a $10 fine. That will make him think. He hates to part with money.  I was trying to get him to drink some Children's Motrin last night so he could sleep [he has a cold] and he refused, until I finally said "OK, drink up or it's a $20 fine!" He downed it like a shot glass of whiskey in the hand of a gunfighter in the old west, slapped it down on the bathroom counter, licked his lips, and cocked his head. "That was Good! How 'bout some more?!" He smiled slyly. Boy, you are a mess.

I will be going home and yanking the hemlock out of the ground. Thanks so much for the warning. It's a pretty plant, though. I looked it up and spent a few minutes reading about the death of Socrates to hemlock poisoning. Not something I want to duplicate, even accidentally.

Three Wishes

We were in the car this morning running errands, and Michael asked me what 3 wishes I wanted.

1.      To have enough money to always pay my bills and to be able to afford to do fun things with my children.

2.     To be skinny.

3.     To have a bigger house.

I then asked him. Here are Michael’s wishes:

1.      To be a billionaire [Alesia: "That’s too much, that’s greedy!]

2.      To get a Wii [I pointed out if he’s a billionaire he can afford a lot of Wii’s.]

3.      To get his hand back.

I asked Michael if he wished to be able to find his birth father and get to know him, and his response was “Not really.”

Alesia at first said she didn’t have any wishes, because life is pretty good. Then, after thinking a moment, she came up with this list:

1.      To have no acne.

2.      To get another dog, in addition to Coco.

3.      To go out with a boy she knows on the school bus.

When we had gotten home, Alesia was in my room talking to me, and I asked her if one of her wishes would be to know what happened to her birth parents. She shrugged.

Alesia then opened up a tiny bit, and said her birthmom was “doing a lot of things” before Alesia was taken away. She found the birthmom with a strange man one day, and both were naked. Another time she saw a naked man in the apartment. There seemed to be a lot of nudity. [Remember, Alesia was 6 when she was put in the orphanage.]. Maybe that’s why Alesia is so modest now. There’s no evidence she was ever sexually abused, though, thank god.

My friend Melissa came over for dinner, with her two girls, who were adopted from the Ukraine and have been home just over a year. There were a lot of behavior issues at first, but now the girls are really sweet, and well behaved. Melissa brought a huge pot of borscht and it was delicious. My kids really enjoyed their visit. There are some photos below.

This first photo is Mike standing next to our bird feeder, and the corn plants that have sprung up! There's another plant which is beautiful but we don't know what it is, next to the corn. I need to do some research and figure it out.

Homework Night From H***

OK, this is my routine. I leave the office, drive home, get home usually around 5:45, depending on traffic. I usually check email, talk to the kids and/or help with homework a bit, maybe check on the garden, fix dinner, we eat dinner, watch part of a movie, and go to bed.

Last night I got home, took one look at Michael's face, and knew he was not a happy camper. In retrospect, I realize the classic line "fasten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy night" was right on the money. [We watched "All About Eve" not long ago, so it's fresh in my mind.]

Michael got very little sleep Wednesday night, since he had suffered the two bee stings that afternoon. I found him yesterday morning asleep, clutching the industrial-sized flashlight given to him by Uncle Bruce, and he said he kept thinking there were bugs in the bed all night. He slept very poorly. So yesterday when he got home from school, I told Mother to let him nap. Poor little guy sacked out for an hour and a half.

Mike was very fretful when I got home. He had been trying to do a school assignment on the computer, with no success. Mother was out of patience. It was damp and rainy and she was having a bad day with her arthritis.

I asked Michael about his homework. I checked his agenda. It didn't appear to be too bad. A few pages of math, some grammar, and reading. His teacher wants students to read 20 minutes every night. I don't mind listening to him while he reads. I quite enjoyed The Mouse and the Motorcycle.

Last night, though, homework turned into a real ordeal.

I made Michael jump on the trampoline for 10 minutes to get a little exercise, and then have a snack. Then we dug in. The math was hard for him. I tried explaining it and letting him work on it while I fixed dinner. That didn't work too well, but at least I got the chicken cooking before I had to sit back down with him. Mike's brain is like mine - seeing relationships between numbers is like trying to speak Greek. However, my biggest issues came with higher math like Algebra and Geometry. I can add, subtract, multiply, divide and simply remember numbers in my head quite easily. Michael has a fear of math, as I've mentioned. It doesn't interest him.

He's actually good at English grammar, though. Go figure.

I had to tell him several times last night not to say "I'm stupid! This is too hard!" and other negative things. I always tell him and Alesia "What you tell yourself becomes the truth. If you say you can't do something, you won't be able to do it. If you say it's too hard, it will be. You HAVE to be positive! You have to say I CAN do it!" [They always look at me with great consternation when I say this, but I figure if I drum it into their heads, maybe one day they will see the same sentiment on an infomercial or in a movie and suddenly realize I am not entirely crazy...]

Unlike most children who are very intelligent, Michael has only been speaking English for a little over a year. So doing homework, for him, means a LOT of supervision. He wants to do everything right, and spell it right. It takes him an incredibly long time to write out a sentence. Any word over 3 letters has to be spelled out. I try to teach him phonics, sounding out things for him, but it's still confusing. For instance, in Russian the "ee" sound indicates an "i". He also gets the "eh" sound mixed up with the short "a" sound ["ah"] and that has to be corrected. I always say "Michael "eh" as in "egg" remember?!"

I helped him finish a report entitled "Summer Fun" - about what he did over the summer. He writes very well, but he's not overly verbose. Here's what he basically said about the week we spent in Myrtle Beach: We watched DVD's in the car. We unloaded the car. We went swimming. We played golf. We went home. // Correcting his little paper and helping him illustrate it turned out to be the highlight of my evening.

Several times I came this close to losing my temper. I spoke sharply to Michael, which I really regret. It's like kicking a puppy - he gets that sort of a hurt look on his face. After a long day at work, and fixing a meal, and not eating dinner until almost 9:00, though, I was short on patience.

I'll spare you the details, but suffice to say, except for about 40 minutes of showering and eating dinner, Michael did homework all evening yesterday. Alesia helped a bit while I washed the dinner dishes, but it wasn't much of a break. I was so looking forward to a relaxing evening, since there is no tennis practice on Thursday, but it was not to be. This is a good rendition of my mental state by 11 last night:

Gambling for Good, Not Evil

I work up yesterday morning at 4, with a throbbing headache, which attacked sporadically through the entire day. I took a lot of Motrin. I am cautious about it, though; I wasn’t eating them like candy. I had no Motrin all afternoon, choosing to endure the pain rather than the occasional wooziness. I call them my “mini migraines” – mini only because I am very familiar with real migraines and these don’t approach that intensity.

 

[My mother used to suffer from migraines when I was a kid. She would sometimes have to stay in bed in a dark room all day. Once she started taking blood pressure medication in the early 1980’s the migraines stopped. I have always wondered about that connection, since all the blood pressure medicine seemed to do was make her run to the bathroom every 20 minutes.]

 

No, my mini migraine was simply hormonal, I believe. I am surfing the sometimes choppy waters of menopause. A co-worker, alarmed by my paleness and wooziness when trying to change paper in the common printer yesterday, asked me what was wrong. When I told her menopause, she was startled. I have very little gray hair and can usually pass for younger than my 46 years. I explained that I started my periods at 9, so it’s time to wrap things up, as far as I’m concerned. Thanks to the miraculous maca root pills I take, it’s usually not bad. About once a month I have a headache day, though.

 

Now the baby-making plumbing is shutting down, I have thought a lot about the fact I never used the equipment I was issued. If I have any regrets about my life, it’s that I never experienced birthing a biological child – but that’s a teeny weeny regret. I fully believe God gives us the children we are meant to have. I don’t feel like my children are in any way second best, or not mine, simply because we don’t share biology.

 

I am reading a fascinating book called “Replay” by Ken Grimwood. It’s about a man who dies at age 43, only to find himself back in college. He relieves 25 years of his life, with his memories of the former life intact. Fascinating premise. I can understand why people are intrigued with the book and it has a cult following. The main character gets to “replay” 25 years of his life several times. He’s learning, of course, each time. In the first replay he fathers a child. In the second replay of this life he gets a vasectomy, so he won’t go through the pain of dying again and not seeing his child grow up. However, he and his wife eventually decide to adopt two older children. The author says pointedly that losing them in another replay won’t hurt so much because they are “not my own.” Ouch. That line almost made me throw down the book in utter disgust.

 

Yet, if I am being truthful, I cannot be too harsh towards people who share that idea, that an adopted child isn’t really “your own.” I once had the same bias. For instance, I wondered if I should invite the grown adopted children in my extended family to family reunions. That ignorance probably was fostered by my father, totally innocently, because he used to say “You are part of me. When you are happy, I’m happy. When you hurt, I hurt.” He was a tough businessman, but he absolutely adored his children. He wasn’t a perfect father, but he loved us as perfectly as any human being can love.

 

Last night when I was tucking Michael into bed, he was lamenting the tough new fourth grade teacher he has. After I got home, it took us 1 hour and 45 minutes to do his language arts assignments last night. He reads slowly, of course – he’s only been reading English 1.5 years. I have to stop and explain things. He can read and comprehend on grade level, though which is an immense achievement. I told him he is an amazing boy and I am very proud of him. He looked at me sadly and said “But I have no friends, Mom.”

 

My heart just broke when he said that. He was hurting. I was hurting. It only occurred to me later that I understood so well what my dad had told me so many years ago. That stabbing empathy pain is a bond that I share with my son, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with biology.

 

In addition to being a bit chubby as a child [not grossly obese, just chubby] I was also the tallest kid in the class, until 7^th grade. How would you like to be 5’3 in the fourth grade? I was – and I hated it. It was only in 7^th grade that two of the boys got taller than me. Then suddenly in 8^th grade, I was 5’4 and the rest of the class was all taller – everyone grew that summer. I trotted to the back of the line, where the tall kids stood, when we lined up by height, for pictures. Everyone started laughing and gesturing for me to go to the front of the line. I thought they were being snotty until I realized I was looking up at everyone. Finally, I ended up about 3^rd  from the front. I never grew any more, which is no big deal, but I always carry with me the feeling of what it’s like to be viewed as a physical freak of nature. The first time I saw the movie The Elephant Man I had to leave the theater, I was crying so hard.

 

So I not only sympathize with Michael, I understand his pain. He is different. It’s not only the missing hand, it’s his sensibilities. Even if he were 9 or 10, like his classmates, his life experiences would mark him as different. When you look in his eyes, you see wisdom beyond his years. He’s not more mature, really, just wiser about how the world works, from living on the streets. Yet, he is physically affectionate like a much younger child, always wanted to be held. It’s hard to explain.

 

One reason I am so stingy when it comes to videogames like X-Box and Wii, and computer time for my kids, is that I want to encourage human interaction, not electronic interaction. Yes, computers and games like that are the way of the future and they will get those skills almost by osmosis. However, I want my children to value things that are far more enduring and important, like growing vegetables, and loving literature, and music and art.

 

When I was a child and felt so alone sometimes, I took great comfort from books. I would also spend hours listening to music. I never got into any big trouble as a teenager, and I think that’s because my mind was always busy and I was always learning. I tell my kids all the time that learning is something they will do all their lives, not just as kids in school. I have faith in God, faith in love, and faith in learning.

 

I also thought a lot about God when I was an adolescent, and tried to understand the phrase “being a good Christian.” I now realize that part of it is learning how to gamble. You have to gamble that your beliefs are the right ones. You have to take a chance on Jesus. [I could make a fortune writing bumper stickers! LOL]

 

Some people think I gambled in adopting my children. I don't see it that way at all. I listened to the voice inside me that told me they were my children. I call that voice God. [You may call your inner voice, Jesus, The Universe, Yahweh, G*d, Mohammed, Vishnu, or Morgan Freeman. To me, it's God.]

 

I need to teach Michael how to gamble, and be strong, win or lose. He's already intrigued with gambling, wanting to make bets all the time. It's a boy thing, I know. I discourage that sort of gambling, big time. However, he needs to take a chance on getting to know other kids, and not being afraid of them. If they don’t want to be friends, he needs to shrug it off and move on. It’s a very difficult thing for a kid who is physically different, and a bit shy – it wasn’t easy for me until I was in my 30’s. Michael needs to learn it now. Another big obstacle for him to conquer. I hope we can love him enough and make him strong enough to do it.

 

OXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

I meant to thank Renia for her comment about the book Michael read in Kazakhstan - yep, it was Go Dog Go - parts of which I can still recite. "Do you like my hat? / No I do not like your hat!" Brilliant.

You Annoy Me, But I Love You Anyway

Michael's teacher loaded him up with homework last night. I got home and took Alesia shopping for yet more school supplies, while Michael was at tennis practice. When we got home, he informed me that he had to read a long story.

So we sat and read this story in his language arts book. I was amazed and delighted at how his reading has improved. Mother has read with him all summer, and Alesia. It's funny, but Alesia has more patience. Mother says her years of teaching school left her burned out when it comes to listening to a child read.

I told Mother, it was only April of 2007 that he really started reading in English, and he is already up to 4th grade reading level. He is actually on grade level, after speaking English for such a short time. Before I could bring Michael home, we had to spend a few days in Almaty, to get his passport and everything ready to come to America. My friend Apryl had loaned me a book, the name of which I've blocked out, all about dogs being up and down, and wearing hats, etc. Really cute book, and a good one for teaching English, as it illustrated words like up and down and in and out. Michael just stumbled horribly to get through one sentence. I used to just despair, thinking, how on earth is he ever going to get up to grade level in reading?!

Now, he likes to read Naruto comic books, and he loves the Garfield comics. We have big books of Garfield cartoons. Culturally, he seems more advanced than Alesia - he gets most of the jokes. His brain just works so quickly.

Mother says when Alesia and I are not there, Michael loves to play the piano. I was surprised when she told me that. I was thinking yesterday, with some sadness, that the world of making music is just off limits to him because of the missing hand. No prosthetic can really duplicate what a hand can do, at least not yet. I spent years taking piano lessons and guitar lessons. I loved playing music and singing, just for myself. As I got older I didn't play so much but I continued to sing. Mother and Dad loved to sing and often sang around the house. I'd love to pass that love of making music along to my kids.

Mother said what Michael plays on the piano is actually pretty melodic, and he has some talent. I rarely have time to play any more, but when I do sit down at the piano, he always wants to be there with me, and he listens intently. Alesia took lessons for one year, but she never really enjoyed it much, and was not upset when we said last year, no piano lessons, let's concentrate on schoolwork. She is almost completely tone deaf.

I told Michael yesterday that I want him to play tennis and soccer this fall, as I think both sports are good for him. I even spoke to the soccer director and she assured me we could find Michael a team with practices that would not interfere with tennis. However, if Michael's schoolwork suffers, sports will be dropped. I don't know what we will do in the spring, because we will have to make a decision then about trying to skip him a grade, and free time will be more limited.

Alesia said she was bored most of the day yesterday, since the teachers didn't plan anything for the first day. She really liked her Intro to Interior Design teacher, who is only 25 years old. I looked her up on the school website and she looks about 12. I don't care, as long as she's a good teacher.

Alesia assured me many times last summer that she would do better in school this year. I mentioned something the other night about the importance of taking good notes and writing down assignments in her agenda. She accused me of not believing her when she said she would be on top of everything this year. So I made a rash promise. I told her I would give her two weeks, and I would stay off the school website and not monitor what she did or didn't do in her classes. I would be available to help, but school was entirely her responsibility and I wouldn't interfere. Now I am sort of regretting that promise, but I will keep it. Last year I checked ever class, every week. Often I found she had failed to turn in assignments or made a bad grade on a quiz, and it freaked me out and she got a lecture. So this year, I will see how it goes "hands off" - if nothing else, it should contribute to more harmony in our house.

I have been emailing to a lady at the district level in our county, about the school's failure to let Alesia have an IEP. We had a really productive chat this morning. She said that probably the best course for Alesia would be a 504 plan, since she has the Auditory Processing Disorder. I am so hoping we can do something, just to get Alesia the little bit of extra help she needs.

Alesia has gotten where she doesn't like Michael to hug her goodnight any more. She only barely hugs me. She says she doesn't like hugging, although she readily hugs her friends. Last night she refused to hug Michael and I got really ticked off. He wasn't "touching her stuff" or being annoying in any way. After our brief hug I tried to draw Michael in for a group hug and she got ticked and started really fussing. I shut her down by just hustling Michael out of her room. Then I thought better of it in a few minutes and I opened the door and looked at her intently. "I am really ANNOYED with you, Alesia, but I love you anyway!" I said, as evenly as possible. She just stared at me. I shut the door again. I couldn't go in and attempt another hug, but this morning she was in a decent humor, so maybe my reassurance sufficed.

Back to School We Go

We slid into the new Off to School routine this morning with few issues.

I woke up and got my shower, and got Alesia up at 6:17. I had told her I would get her up at 6:15. I expected her to be grouchy. She was, but not because I was getting her up too early. She thought I was getting her up too late. I got this: "It's NOT 6:15, it's 6:17! I have to do my hair!"

I went in Michael's room. He didn't bound out of bed with vigor, either. here is what I saw, in fact:

I finally got everyone downstairs for breakfast. This is my girl, in her new dress, with perfectly straight hair and only slightly out of focus. I think her hair looks better in its naturally curly state rather than straight, but who am I? Just old fuddy duddy mom, so whatever...

After eating his oatmeal and drinking his milk, Mike still hadn't finished his yogurt, so here he is, sucking on the gogurt package.

When I dropped him off at school, he wanted me to go in with him. Nope, you're a big boy, I said, trying a little tough love.

This is the report from when he got home. I always talk to him on the phone when he gets in.

“Michael, what did you have for lunch?”

With great excitement: “I had something that I have no idea what it was but I liked it.”

Granny: “What?”

“It looks like pizza. It was spicy. There was three. First one was filled with something and it was spicy, second one same, third one was filled with meat.”  [Note: we think it was some sort of pasta dish like ravioli.]

This morning he was saying “I won’t know anybody!”  When we talked just now he complained that the kids in his class were all the same ones from last year.

Even WORSE - the teacher, he said, made them line up “Boy girl boy girl! And we have to SIT that way!” There is a little girl, Trinity, who is in his class but she wasn’t there today. I told him to stick to her, since he likes her. She’s a nice kid. Puberty obviously is not far advanced, since he’s complaining about having to sit next to girls. LOL

Jumping Around

We've finally had a break from the heat. Highs the last two days were in the upper 80's. Coooool! Bruce wrote and said he was delighted the temperatures in Baghdad were DOWN to 110! Of course, it's a dry heat there.

Our neighbor helped finish the trampoline last night, and the kids have had a blast jumping on it. We've had some serious discussions about safety. I told them one injury, and it's going to Goodwill. I will post some photos when I can.

I made the kids get up earlier than usual today [8 a.m.] so they can get used to early to bed, early to rise - since school is starting Monday! Hard to believe.

We got the grocery shopping done early, and had lunch at Shorty's Pizza. Mother was lunching with a friend of hers, so it was just me and Michael and Alesia. We had a nice lunch. Shorty's is locally owned and serves a thin crust pizza with all kinds of unusual ingredients to choose from. I had a pizza with a pesto sauce base, and pepperoni and ricotta cheese. Alesia's pizza had salami and mushrooms. Mike just had regular pepperoni but he inhaled it. Right now he is hungry all the time, and I know he's growing.

We headed to Old Navy and I got the kids some school clothes. Michael now has about 5 good, collared shirts. Alesia likes to wear only jeans. In some jeans she is a 4, but in Old Navy jeans she wears a 1!

I just read a news article about Georgia and Russia being at war. That situation scares me. We are allied with Georgia, and not Russia? I need to read up some more about that, so I can decide how I feel. I just hope that little horror isn't going to escalate into World War III. It sure would be weird to go to war against my daughter's birth country.

We were watching an old movie called Eye of the Needle the other night. It's a WWII thriller. At one point I was trying to explain about Hitler fighting a two front war, and Alesia asked me a question starting with "we." I wasn't sure what she meant - "we" meaning Russia, or America? She looked offended. "I am an American now, Mom!" The thing is, she used to say "we" and mean Russia. I am actually pleased she thinks of America as her home country. As soon as she turns 18 next year her dual citizenship will end.

Both my children have dual citizenship until they are 18, then they become just Americans, without doing anything. If they want to retain dual citizenship they will have to file some paperwork or something. I want them to just be Americans. I need to get them American passports, but I just haven't gotten around to it yet. Since Michael has forgotten his Russian and becomes more American every day, I don't worry about him returning to Kazakhstan. There is nothing there for him, and no family ties.

I was sad to see comedian Bernie Mac has died. He was a brilliantly funny man.

We had a funny evening yesterday.

Alesia and Michael were sitting on his bed. Mike didn't have on a shirt because he had just gotten out of the shower. He has a little belly. Alesia looked at him with great disdain and said "Michael put your shirt on! Nobody wants to see your roly polys!"

Later, we were eating dinner and Mother was quizzing both kids about the parts of speech. We like to quiz them sometimes to see how they do. Mother said "In this sentence what is the word sweet? I like sweet peppers." Alesia shouted "Adjective!" 

Mother said "OK. An adjective modifies a noun. What modifies a verb? What do you call that?"

Both kids sat there, frowning. Alesia finally said, "A proverb?" Mother had to duck her head, she was laughing so hard.

Michael had been having hiccups. Alesia has a cure method that involves jumping jacks and twisting around - you get so intrigued with it you forget to hiccup. Mike did it and the hiccups stopped, but they started back after dinner. Then Michael said "I feel the hick-em-ups coming back!"

Living Outside the Box

Categories are tough. Conforming to a category is really tough.

I recently started trying to fit my blog posts into categories, which you can see if you scroll down and look to the right of this. It's not easy. Most of my posts fit into a lot of different categories, or none. That's how my brain works. One minute I am thinking about different recipes for spinach, the next moment I am pondering how to help Michael learn his multiplication tables. I probably have a bit of ADHD, but I try to use it to my advantage.

The children came to me the other day and said they want to tell people at school that they are younger than they really are. Alesia has decided to tell people she is 15, and Michael to tell people he is 11. While I normally think honesty is the best policy and would not condone this, I responded positively to the fibbing about age. My kids are 2-3 years older than the other kids in their same grade. It's embarrassing to be the only 17 year old in the 10th grade. It's embarrassing for Mike to be in 4th grade at 12 years old. I have worked very hard to help them advance - I've tutored them, Mother has tutored them, we've spent great amounts of time and money on supplemental books and materials - but the school has offered no help, and my kids are, for the moment, stuck.

Recently, a reader sent me a rather mean comment saying I should worry more about Michael being behind in school than about him being different. I wanted to say, what on earth do you propose I do? I cannot afford private school, or full-time tutors to homeschool him. He's only been speaking English just over a year. Michael has been tutored 2-4 hours a day, all this summer, by his grandmother. He has made a lot of progress. However, I cannot tutor him 18 hours a day and tell the school to put him in 7th grade this year, or even next year. For one thing, he deserves a childhood as normal as possible - not pushed to the brink of a nervous breakdown. For another, most adopted kids who are not babies are a year or two behind in school. My children need to learn how to be comfortable being different from their peers in school.

You may think me letting them lie about their ages is a bad idea. I don't think it's a good idea in the long run. However, at the moment anything I can do to help them feel happy and comfortable in school, I will do.

I was a shy, fat kid, with few friends in school. I was very smart, but socially awkward. I also went to a lot of different schools my first few years, for various reasons. So I am very sympathetic with how my kids feel. They have funny accents. They don't know a lot of English words. Some things are just beyond them, culturally - Alesia said last night she doesn't understand the word politics, for instance. She is very naive. It's awkward for them to explain their painful backgrounds, even to grownups.

Most people unfamiliar with Russia, or adoption, or older child adoption, just cannot fathom what a huge adjustment my kids have had to make. At times, it's overwhelming to them. Some of Alesia's high school teachers have demonstrated quite brutally that they don't care, and they won't give her any extra help whatsoever. Her art teacher last year was just a nightmare. I'm still trying to get Alesia an IEP.

Assimilating to a different culture doesn't happen overnight. For most humans, it takes years. My kids are wired differently.

Since I can't wave a magic wand and make their school problems disappear, I have to help my children be comfortable being different. Michael's accent is minimal and he will probably someday soon be able to "pass" - people meeting him won't pick up on anything different, except his missing hand. Alesia's accent seems destined to be permanent, although most people she meets have no idea she is Russian born. However, for the reasons mentioned above, and others, they have to learn to accept and like themselves as being different.

It has taken me a long, long time to accept that I am different. I have never easily fit into any category, even nonconformist. As a kid, I liked dolls and tomboy things. I enjoyed cooking and playing football in the street. I wrote poetry, and I liked to go fishing. My family was nonconformist in a lot of ways. Manners and obedience were very important in my house. Watching sports was not. While other parents in the south used the "N" word casually and easily, in my house my parents never said it, and it was a spanking offense. We talked about history and politics at the dinner table. I was taller than every kids in my class until the 6th grade. I just never fit a category. 

My entire life has been different. I didn't follow the normal course of going to school, getting married, working or staying home, having two kids and living in the suburbs. I happen to have two kids and live in the suburbs at the moment, but there are very few single moms who match my demographic. I am very opinionated but I try not to offend people - that took a long time and it's a skill I am still working on, the not offending part I mean. I am very creative, but not particularly good at drawing or sewing or "craft" things. I have a high IQ but I'm not a genius. I come from a family background that looked white bread and conservative, but my parents were both unique and didn't fit neatly into categories either. We're all a bunch of oddballs.

My brother and I have sometimes had a tough relationship, because, as my mother like to say "He marches to a different drummer." I tried in my younger years to fit in, and he never did. Brother has always thought and said and done exactly what he wanted. He has conformed only as much as necessary. He truly doesn't care if people don't like his house, or his haircut, or his opinions. He is comfortable with himself, and that's what matters. I want my children to be like him, in that respect.

Alesia and Michael both care very much about whether they are liked. Most kids do, I bet, but they don't have the marked differences to contend with. Like me, my children don't fit neatly into any category.

I constantly ponder ways to get Alesia and Michael to understand that if they like themselves, and demonstrate self-confidence combined with good manners, that others will like them and be drawn to them. They must never pander to anyone or anything just to make friends. This is a huge challenge for me as a parent.

The fibbing about their ages is OK, to me, for the moment. I have to help them accept that it's OK to be a little older than their peers, but they aren't there yet.

When I was a kid I wanted to fit in. I used to fuss about getting the latest toy, or clothing item, or whatever would make me feel part of the "In" group. Even as a young adult, I used to worry excessively about superficial things like my hair. I don't know exactly when I changed from being concerned about others' opinions to being completely my own person. I suspect it was when I got Alesia home and realized that the only truly important job I've ever had is being a mother, and nothing else even comes close to that in importance.

I can't give my kids the private school educations I'd like them to have. We can't afford a big house or a new car. I can't afford expensive vacations, or designer clothes for them, or so many material things their friends have. I can't supply them with a father. We don't even have extended family members who are consistently in our lives, to my regret. However, if I can figure out how to teach them to be happy with themselves, and to contentedly march to the beat of their own drummers, I will feel like I've done a good job as a parent.

Embrace the Dawg

At this moment, according to weather.com, it is 96 in my zip code, and feels like 99. Don't you hate that little "feels like" addendum? Isn't that TOTALLY subjective? So for me, 96 feels like 120, and for my 75 year old mother it feels like maybe 85.

Without looking at the computer, I could tell you by 10:00 this morning it was going to be a scorcher. I had been to both kids' schools and my hair was hanging in wet strings around my face. I looked like a short, fat, white Rasta woman, with a bad attitude.

At the moment, I do not like being an Atlantan. I wish I could trade places with my buddy Hallie up in Maine. Of course, she wouldn't want to be here either.

This is the weather where you stay inside, in the air conditioning, unless you have no other choice. A "cold front" is pushing through, though, and by next week the highs will just be in the upper 80's. Wow.

I took both kids to Open House at school today.

Michael's elementary school has been named a Georgia School of Excellence, and it shows. The building may be old, but everything there is run like clockwork. I got the forms, and filled them out. We got his agenda and a school calendar. I paid PTA dues. We saw teachers who smiled and said hello. We found his classroom, met his teacher, etc. The books were on the desks, ervything was neat, and the teacher was very nice. We chatted for about 10 minutes. She reminds me of his teacher from last year, who was terrific. As I left the school, I was asked about donating a book to the library, and Michael picked out a book and I paid for it. Everything was calm and happy, despite there being a lot of folks, many with small children, and some who didn't speak English.

Michael chided me about stepping on an insect on my way into the house, but instead of the snotty retort which sprang to mind, I paused briefly to get control and just said "He's gone to be with Jesus. Hallelujah for the bug."

Alesia's high school, however, was a different story. It's also considered an excellent school, but in my opinion, it's not. It's only excellent if your child is advanced. If your child needs an IEP, or simply some remedial help, it's awful. It took me 10 minutes just to find a parking space. We got in there, and had to ask around to figure out where to go. There was no helpful person and there weren't even any signs. We finally got to the gym, and I paid her student fees [$40 - like my outrageous property taxes aren't enough?!]. We went to pick up her schedule and were told to go to the library. In the library, we were told to go back to the gym. In the gym again, we have to wait 10 minutes before someone finally tells us the schedules won't be available until Monday. However, they are on the computer, we are told. I got into work and took a quick look - the website for parents is out of commission until Monday. Aaaargh!!

I took Alesia home and gave Mother a quick report of the school visit with Alesia.

By the time I got to work, I was a sweaty heap of seething resentment. It took me a while to calm down.

I did see a cute license plate, which cheered me up a little. It said DAWGGON. For those of you not from here, it means "Dawg gone" and "dawg" is the preferred spelling for Georgia Bulldog fans. Even though I went to grad school at the University of Tennessee, my heart will always belong to the bulldogs. My parents went there, uncles and aunts went there, etc. Mother has a signed, framed photo of Uga, the Georgia mascot, in her room. It's bigger than photos of me, but that is no big deal. I think Uga is cuter. We were all sad when the latest Uga passed away in June, the one pictured below. A new Uga will grace the field for the first game though. English bulldog puppies from the Uga line are prized.

[Before you get excited and start thinking I am a football fan, think again. I love the dawg, love the traditions, feel loyalty to the school, but I HATE football with a passion. I'd rank attending any football game right above an enema on my list of things I want to do in my spare time...]