tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41372293070006602332024-02-18T22:57:42.675-08:00A Nickel's Worth of Common SenseOur story.
Adoption,
fostering,
race and family
in a small northern town.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.comBlogger468125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-5785723913718056322015-08-30T22:21:00.001-07:002015-09-03T10:49:03.342-07:00And they grow <br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>And they grow. Greg, twenty and in third year university. Eric, 19, in Australia studying and heading to Indonesia to give back. Tanner, graduated. Travelling. Growing and planning. Caden is fourteen. New town. New school. New life. We've gained one more seventeen year old who moved in and doesn't appear to be planning on leaving. Welcome to the zoo Brandon. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Family</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eric currently fundraising for a trip to Indonesia </td></tr>
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Our girls are big. How does this happen so fast? Baby Grayce is two. The centre of the known universe. Jayde, future conquerer of the world is in grade one and Taya is seven. Sweetly strong willed.<br />
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Everything has changed and yet everything is the same. New home. New city. Same family. Same love.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jayde. This is six</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taya. Toothless and Seven</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Big Girls</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Big Boys and the Baby</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sisters</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brothers</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grayce the Great</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanks for loving us</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-23697063920865272042013-08-22T16:26:00.003-07:002013-08-22T16:26:34.597-07:00And then there were seven -- Welcome Baby Grayce <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
There was a call. A familiar voice on the other end and an announcement that my girls were big sisters. </div>
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A Baby Girl. </div>
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No. I said. No. </div>
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We are done. </div>
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We are DONE. </div>
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"Just come see her, please" the voice said</div>
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"They've asked you to take her"</div>
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And so I visited. A tiny baby. Alone. </div>
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My baby. Our baby. </div>
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God's Grace is Sufficient.</div>
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And today she is, finally, ours. We are a family. </div>
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Seven kids. </div>
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Two tired parents. </div>
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God's Grace is Sufficient. </div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-14476347283172936912013-06-17T13:57:00.001-07:002013-06-17T13:57:38.778-07:00Well Done. I cried this weekend like I have not cried in years. Emotion so deep and so overwhelming that despite my best intentions I could not keep it in.<br />
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When you are handed a child, either a wee baby just snatched and pushed from your body, or a screaming toddler terrified of your strange face or a silent preschooler angry at their exploding world, a mother, a good mother, hands them their heart. This little person holds your world, and they become yours.<br />
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There are the good times that poets and mothers often write about, and remember on Mother's Days or in impassioned essays on the wonders of motherhood. There are horrible times that only are spoken about in hushed tones in a therapist's office or in the knowing, silent looks of other mother's of teenagers whose hearts are bruised and broken. <br />
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There is terror, and passion. Anger, pride, adoration and again more fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what failing your child means to their life. Fear that every decision is the wrong decision and that any decision could break them, or break you. <br />
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And then there is success. Success in the form of acknowledgement. Success in the form of surprise scholarships. Success in the form of a child who has reached the end of his childhood and is about to run full onto an adulthood full of potential. And they run into your arms and cling. And you sob. You sob because every fear, every worry, every prayer comes to this great day when your child glows with pride and potential and hope, and you, for just a brief moment, allow yourself to grasp in the reality that you did a good job. <br />
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This boy, this man-child, is my son. I raised him. Through good times and through bad times, through deep valleys and great joys, through my mistakes and his. I never let go and I never gave up and this weekend the pride in him, and the pride in a job well done on both our parts gave me pause.<br />
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Congratulations Greg. Congratulations Me.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-18162486158127721612013-04-04T10:44:00.001-07:002013-04-04T10:44:08.926-07:00Google Reader is Ending, so if you want to keep following ..<a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/2886228/?claim=tqrhx46596a">Follow my blog with Bloglovin</a><br />
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Oh and Surprise. Now there are Seven. More to follow ...<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-63675811184761281042013-01-19T10:20:00.001-08:002013-01-19T10:20:34.649-08:00Those Amazing Few DaysHer very young mama is my friend. A friend I have supported throughout the years. She didn't have custody, but she did have needs and she needed a friend. Someone to ask for a ride, advice, help. And then again, with a new baby last year so reminiscent of the baby I once held in my arms, she needed babysitting, and rides to AA, and support when the tears of anger and frustration and pain slipped out at how very difficult her life had been to that point. I was her friend because I felt that was what I was being called to be. I was her friend because I loved her too.<br />
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Maybe our mutual love of the same little girl that neither of us got to raise was enough to glue us together but either way, all those years ago when I promised that baby girl that I was committed to her and to her family for life, I really meant it. I just hadn't ever imagined when I made that promise that it would be six years of loving them without her present and no hope of anything different, but it didn't change my promise.<br />
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The week before Christmas, there was a hurriedly arranged court session, quickly signed documents and a phone call I never, ever expected to receive. "Hey, I am getting custody back of J, do you want to come for a visit?"<br />
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Why yes. YES I FREAKING DO. I may have danced. <br />
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There had been increased visitation with her Mom over the last few months, and we had been privileged with spending some time with her throughout the summer and fall. Strange moments I was incredibly shocked to have been blessed with. The sight of my 2 daughters, whom I never even imagined being mine but became mine, and the little girl I had begged God to let me keep, but He had taken from me, playing together. TOGETHER. 3 little girls that I loved with all my heart playing together. It seemed a moment I couldn't quite believe was real.<br />
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There were tears after these brief visits. <a href="http://anickelsworthofcommonsense.blogspot.ca/2012/06/tentacles.html" target="_blank"> Caden, my sweet little boy</a>, who was only 5 when she left continued to grieve her loss and then grieved her present. Her life is harder than you would want for any child, but particularly a child you love, and his young brain tried to process the ever apparent hardships she faces. He sobbed those sorts of deep hiccup sobs that even when the sound stops the tears continue for hours after. He missed his baby sister, and this so apparently needy, hurting little girl was not who she could have, or even should have been, and he saw that. She was now a friend, and not a sister, and to him that will always be one of the greatest losses of his life. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3G1iXc-o2Wadw-X3XgTAdZCPE9jwgpfRzA8Tx9e8-8ixnBHcg-nVcGYwkxcz66y6WNCao3YfYFwozApYH8GmDQt_Tkp9KkfmU9jI2t2-zRDrUk_zJCJY88sjm4ULvxxnDiARhwI8L_Q/s1600/Jazzy+and+Jen+kisses+at+rink+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3G1iXc-o2Wadw-X3XgTAdZCPE9jwgpfRzA8Tx9e8-8ixnBHcg-nVcGYwkxcz66y6WNCao3YfYFwozApYH8GmDQt_Tkp9KkfmU9jI2t2-zRDrUk_zJCJY88sjm4ULvxxnDiARhwI8L_Q/s320/Jazzy+and+Jen+kisses+at+rink+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jazzy, Caden and Jen 2006<br /></td></tr>
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So when I got this call of another chance for a visit, he weighed the invitation very carefully. Not sure he could handle the pain, not sure he could handle NOT seeing her when he had the chance to. I knew I was going, J had specifically asked her mom if I was coming to visit and asked that I did but I left the decision up to Caden. It was at the very last moment he decided to hop in. "I don't have to play with her if it is too hard" he explained "I will go swim with someone else". <br />
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We were meeting at the local pool and it was to be her birthday party her Mom had put together for her little girl, now almost 7. Her and I share a birthday. The chance to<a href="http://anickelsworthofcommonsense.blogspot.ca/2009/01/ill-cry-if-i-want-to.html" target="_blank"> celebrate with her again </a>filled a desperate cry of my heart.<br />
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We were the only people that showed up.<br />
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And we spent 2 hours eating cake, playing, swimming together. The baby got passed back and forth from his mama to me, his favorite aunty. I tossed one girl, then another, then another up into the air. We laughed and played. and the entire time my heart was screaming "THIS was the way it was SUPPOSED to be". We were supposed to have been an extended family all loving on the same kids. We were supposed to have been ok and happy and all willing to share and love and support the same little girl. My heart processed equal parts grief at the 6 wasted years and amazement that this moment had even come at all. <br />
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When it was time to go, she turned to her mom and said "PLEASE can I go to their house to play?" and her mom said "Sure".<br />
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A single word that gave my son and I the best possible Christmas present we could have ever received. Time with HER in our home. Jazzy was coming to our home, that had been her home, for the first time since she was 18 months old. And the next day, and the day after that. And 2 days more after that.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jazzy and Caden 2012. The BEST day of his life he said.</td></tr>
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There were tears again, but this time from her as she begged to stay. This journey is going to be hard and probably complicated. But without a doubt, I know that she heard the words she needed to hear from us. She HAD been loved when she was a baby. She was STILL loved by those that had loved her then. And we would always, always be here for her if she ever needed us to be. <br />
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I will talk about those days another time, but for now, we are thankful. She has gone back to where she was before, with a chance of a permanent custody change later this year. We don't have visits right now or even updates.<br />
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But this Christmas I took a picture of the 7 children I have loved with all my heart in front of my Christmas tree. 6 are mine, 1 is a child that was mine but still owns her chunk of my Mama\s Heart and that will be her spot forever. It was our Christmas Miracle. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas 2012</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas 2006</td></tr>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-40259935911340397452013-01-06T16:28:00.000-08:002013-01-06T16:28:08.060-08:00All is well with my soulThere have been many hard birthdays. You know this.<br />
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This is not a hard birthday.<br />
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This is a miracle birthday.<br />
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SHE came back. My baby J. Just for a visit. A Miracle Visit. 2000 hugs. A million memories.<br />
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So many years of tears. Too many years of a broken heart. Too many "managed" birthdays that were barely survivable.<br />
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Today I smile. I held her. She posed in front of my Christmas Tree. She looked through her baby book. I held her in my arms and told her I loved her.<br />
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And I healed.<br />
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And I thanked. It was truly a miracle beyond my wildest expectations and even if it is months or years before it happens again, TODAY she knows I love her. That I loved her with all my heart. <br />
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And finally the scab on my heart healed over. And the tears are tears of joy.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-28322272013737947362012-06-27T09:22:00.002-07:002012-06-27T09:22:46.509-07:00TentaclesGrief, that strange beast, never really lets you go. <span style="background-color: white;">I held my 11 year old this week as big tears slipped down his cheeks. "I miss her" he says. Five and a half years later, h</span><a href="http://anickelsworthofcommonsense.blogspot.ca/2010/01/3-years-36-months-1096-days.html" style="background-color: white;" target="_blank">e cries for the baby </a><span style="background-color: white;">that was his. Tears triggered, I am certain, by his big brother leaving for a summer job and a hockey future. It's there. Loss. Still. I wonder if it will always be for him? A burden he never needed, but he is altered forever because of it. And he misses his brother now too. </span><br />
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I lay sleepless in bed. My heart is frozen in terror for a friend who has been told, after four and a half years of raising her babies since infancy, that because they are 1/16 and 1/32 a different race, the system has deemed her an unsuitable adoptive mother for them. 2 weeks notice. Say good-bye and by the way, if you're too upset by this, they will be moved with no chance for last moments. Because someone, somewhere thinks that this is the best plan. You are good enough to raise them, just not good enough to be their mother. <br />
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I pound out letters of appeal and support. I google names and addresses trying in vain to find a way to save this mother, and those children, from the pain of the journey I have been. I scream at God about the insanity of a system that seems to make no sense.<br />
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Best interest? BEST INTERESTS OF WHO? <br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">It is trying to make sense of the senseless. Find hope in the hopeless. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">But behind the fury is the loss. It drives me. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">And I miss my son. I am pretty sure kids shouldn't be allowed to grow up quite so fast. </span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-73043371504548613692012-06-22T09:37:00.000-07:002012-06-22T09:37:16.082-07:00Letting Go and Growing Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSaWJZ1edO1Xxi6HZhqGWouT-h9muWPnln3rMY1kYLpny7fpBXvJnIHGiiN9AxsIG3LeYMjeU0dkDx2AeoNZmbyWHZsHPmaD51X73hSgOpQRWt72T2mVe-X4EwMwKFc-87wUGNl8zhwA4/s1600/Greg+and+Eric+babies.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSaWJZ1edO1Xxi6HZhqGWouT-h9muWPnln3rMY1kYLpny7fpBXvJnIHGiiN9AxsIG3LeYMjeU0dkDx2AeoNZmbyWHZsHPmaD51X73hSgOpQRWt72T2mVe-X4EwMwKFc-87wUGNl8zhwA4/s320/Greg+and+Eric+babies.JPG" width="255" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">I saw his picture, this little stranger that would become my child. Big brown eyes, a cautious smile. "Observant" said the description, and "wants a mom that will give him popsicles" it continued. "Greg feels deeply and watches closely. He is sensitive and internalizes his emotions." He had endured more in his four short years than any child, any person, ever, should. "My son?", I thought. "I don't know you at all" but I loved him. </span></div>
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I met this scared little boy. Terrified and grief stricken. His world, all he knew had imploded and was gone. And then he was mine. I <a href="http://anickelsworthofcommonsense.blogspot.ca/2008/09/adoption-thoughts-nine-years-ago-today.html" target="_blank">rocked him that first night </a>for hours. I cried with him at the loss and pain and horror he was experiencing that made him my son and made me his mother. </div>
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But become my son he did. And we became a family. Through tears and laughter, hugs, play, learning and endless hours of rocking we simply became. Doing things very right, and doing things very wrong. And I promised that little boy I would never, ever let him go. That I was his mommy forever and ever and nothing would ever change that. I promised him a thousand times when he told me he was scared he would lose us too. When he told me he wasn't sure he wanted to be mine. When he told me he worried that someone might take him away. "Forever, and ever, and ever" I said. "I will be your mommy forever." </div>
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And then we were six. Oh how I worried that my serious, sensitive son would feel replaced by a new baby. Instead, Greg claimed his little brother. "He is mine from the very beginning Mommy" said Greg "I've never had anyone from the very beginning". </div>
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Oh the good years. The endless memories. The laughter. The trips. The times with home schooling or the times at hockey. I cannot find the words this morning to encompass those endless days that today feel like they passed in a blink of time. But they were good. So good. And I thought they would last forever.<br />
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Those years now, feel like they were filled with endless fun. I am sure there were hard times, but from the distance of time and perspective, they are ingrained in my mind and heart as simply good. </div>
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I didn't realize it then, but a reality of motherhood is that kids grow up. And my son did too. He found his passion. It consumed his life, and in turn my own. </div>
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<br />
The teen years were not always easy. I fought for my son harder than I have ever fought for anything in my entire life. The hard times were very, very hard . The good times were hard to see. But still over and over again, that scared little boy needed to hear that through hell and back, I would be his mommy forever. Nothing. No one. No mistake, no choice, no attitude, no bad day would ever change the depth and the quantity and the foreverness of my love for him. Ever. <br />
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And we won. Through anger and grief and identity seeking and many tears. We won. Our beautiful son came out the other side of those years with maturity and wisdom and peace and gentleness and a smile. </div>
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<br />
Today I do the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I say good-bye. My baby, my scared little boy, my rambunctious tween, my obsessed hockey player, my rebellious teen, this beautiful brown eyed child I love with my entire heart -- my son -- is becoming a man. He has a job, and a car, and a wonderful place to go. It is an adventure. It is right. It is good. But it is away. I know he will be back, many months down the road, but these years of my six children under my roof, and within arms reach, are over.<br />
<br />
I promised to be his mommy forever but I forget to make him promise to stay my little boy. And so I have this man-son. He is exactly what I would want my man-son to be. He is kind and funny. He loves deeply and laughs even deeper. He is passionate and silly. Responsible and wise, argumentative and silent. He still observes and sometimes you have to dig pretty deep to find what he is feeling. He knows that God has His hand on his life in a way that is sometimes scary and sometimes baffling. And he is mine. But starting today I have to share him just a little bit more than I want to with the world. <br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">His story is not over. In fact, really, it is just beginning. But the chapters of his life that include the time that I got to be His Mommy will be some of the best of my life. And I am so thankful that I got to be the mommy that proved to this young man that sometimes, really, you are loved forever and for always, no matter what. I scoffed, many years ago, at a book that made me laugh at the mother that could not and would not let go, but today there is a big part of me that thinks that standing on the street corner screaming as the silver car holding my son pulls away to head down the highway, <b>"I love YOU FOREVER! I like you for ALWAYS! As long as I am living, MY BABY YOU WILL BE!",</b> is probably a really, really good idea. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><i>Greg, I love you. More than you can fathom. I am proud, so very proud. And today, you leave with a piece of my heart. Forever and always. All our yesterdays, today and all your tomorrows we are here for you. God be with you my son</i>. </span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-68674695916127413222012-04-12T12:40:00.000-07:002012-04-12T12:40:07.245-07:00Teenager Thursdays<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2pBhaOhyWpOCrVYg3dn4F3wQNVnaZ1BPRNDP6nkdjN3vcTh9wTKC9X0MsrclEQdiKIaHtTvZ73WgosNpNYpERTP7lmDRSV1INUa58r3XWQEExhyE9tkMDGgPWpq64MNr6E6E1vyBd0rY/s1600/IMG_7934.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2pBhaOhyWpOCrVYg3dn4F3wQNVnaZ1BPRNDP6nkdjN3vcTh9wTKC9X0MsrclEQdiKIaHtTvZ73WgosNpNYpERTP7lmDRSV1INUa58r3XWQEExhyE9tkMDGgPWpq64MNr6E6E1vyBd0rY/s400/IMG_7934.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Fifteen. 15. Fifteen.<br />
<br />
You say that word to any experienced mother and she will just sigh, nod, whisper "I understand" and hand you a tissue. As of this week, I will not have a single 15 year old in my house. I will have a 17 year old. A 16 year old. A 14 year old and the 3 littler ones. BUT for 6 blessed months I will not have a 15 year old.<br />
<br />
Twice I have survived this journey. More importantly, so have both my oldest boys. Barely.<br />
<br />
Just think, I only have 4 more kids to go.<br />
<br />
Parenting a 15 year old boy is similar to running into a brick wall. Think the Great Wall of China sort of brick wall. You can't go over it, you can't go under it and trying to get through it feels close to impossible. <br />
<br />
I advise a good friend you can vent to, a case of red wine and a really, really good therapist. <br />
<br />
Because if you survive it, the payoff is apparently 17. 17, when the glimpses of the adult your child is becoming become more frequent. 17, when they offer you a chair in a crowded waiting room. 17, when they thank you for cooking them dinner and they know, almost, how to have a polite conversation about something other than themselves. <br />
<br />
I had heard stories about being the mother of teenagers. I really thought that my 'spectacular' parenting and strong desire for harmony would mean we could sail through these years in a sea of calm mutual respect and personal growth, working together towards our combined goals of my peace of mind, and their maturity and independence. <br />
<br />
All the mothers of preschools just hopefully smile and nod. All the mothers of teenagers laugh. <br />
<br />
Parenting teenagers. Never dull. Never easy. Always rewarding. <br />
<br />
And now I have two that drive. Where is the Ativan when you need it?<br />
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<br />
<br />
PS Sorry for disappearing for the last, well year or so. Hockey season absorbs everything. Teens and Toddlers absorb the rest.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-75896627282004947982011-11-09T11:45:00.000-08:002011-11-09T11:53:37.388-08:00Well Hello ThereI am suddenly getting a lot of hits on <a href="http://anickelsworthofcommonsense.blogspot.com/2010/06/why-openness.html">THIS</a> post. I am not really sure why but Hi everyone and welcome. <br />
<br />
That post was written last summer and in the last year and a bit, things have changed. The girls' mother has moved away and our contact has lessened with her, but our contact with extended family has increased. We have began contact now with the girls' father's side of the family (although not with him). <br />
<br />
There are days that I love the contact and there are days feel like I live in a fishbowl. Some days are easier. Some days are harder. <br />
<br />
But the girls and the boys are thriving. They are loved by many and that is good. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjI1mEs58iJ_e7IHI4TwFoz8gB0eRBs8RZBZYgO50Nqmn_9dY4ec8fzZ-au3e0BxJd5RsQsmcrWfSCYAYYfPiW8m2UiYil_jDXqeXhrImBYSiFYIqhh6phKb37oarWocaons7ahjuucA/s1600/IMG_5559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjI1mEs58iJ_e7IHI4TwFoz8gB0eRBs8RZBZYgO50Nqmn_9dY4ec8fzZ-au3e0BxJd5RsQsmcrWfSCYAYYfPiW8m2UiYil_jDXqeXhrImBYSiFYIqhh6phKb37oarWocaons7ahjuucA/s320/IMG_5559.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Edited to add: The hits are coming from <a href="http://www.therhouse.com/embracing-openness-even-when-it-is-hard/">HERE</a> Thanks for taking the time to read, and to share. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-20952630355208386902011-10-18T19:55:00.000-07:002011-10-18T19:55:37.612-07:00We are fine. In fact we are GREAT.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We are good. We are fine. We are safe. We are happy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We are just really, really, really busy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixJcVTEJd5PEXu_SppOwHiZiprwTx4sie5l-q27jNn57mZxQoH-vjncS7bRpTbvRJnV-xE2XHEqh-dRlibYyFmOq71vBWmE9w6Bui_2TN5eUlxH3uIxKN-acBwAO6f4CVEOdgJPGrxTTs/s1600/IMG_5279.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixJcVTEJd5PEXu_SppOwHiZiprwTx4sie5l-q27jNn57mZxQoH-vjncS7bRpTbvRJnV-xE2XHEqh-dRlibYyFmOq71vBWmE9w6Bui_2TN5eUlxH3uIxKN-acBwAO6f4CVEOdgJPGrxTTs/s320/IMG_5279.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Some of us started dance, preschool and gymnastics. One of us might be homeschooling a certain 10 year old and directing church nursery.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqBIcR8lA_iJ4BBYWYZHMrtrOowLZ446wrblPPQf5IGCJ_DkQXzlGATbMWAOFI6QlgPAqwPE-_iX43iOJDWSR-tvGTyI_oxe3JSo6q2QwlTrSGPLsWk0F3EXBtjZmw4eoJU9wlG6TEqCo/s1600/IMG_4641.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqBIcR8lA_iJ4BBYWYZHMrtrOowLZ446wrblPPQf5IGCJ_DkQXzlGATbMWAOFI6QlgPAqwPE-_iX43iOJDWSR-tvGTyI_oxe3JSo6q2QwlTrSGPLsWk0F3EXBtjZmw4eoJU9wlG6TEqCo/s320/IMG_4641.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Some of us are playing Junior Hockey, which is a really, really big deal in some of our worlds.<br />
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Some of us are just too cute for words.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-29264325966133760242011-08-24T14:44:00.000-07:002011-08-24T14:44:51.020-07:00The Time BeforeI don't think about it much. Those hours and days before. <br />
<br />
I try not to think of the cries that went unanswered or the meals that went unfed. I try not to think of the cuddles that weren't given or the multiple strangers who stood in my place. I can't fathom the scary times or sad times or even the possibility of happy times. It is just too much.<br />
<br />
I parent in a way in which I hopes help to heal the pain of what wasn't done then and what was lost when she became my daughter. I take countless pictures of every special moment of her life. Literally thousands and thousands of pictures taken in the last two and a half years.<br />
<br />
There are 12 months of my daughter's life of which there was no photo record. I have asked. And asked. And begged. And asked. This isn't uncommon for many children adopted at an older age but that doesn't make it any easier. I have been this route before. We have one photo of our oldest son as an infant and it is a priceless treasure. <br />
<br />
But she has nothing.<br />
<br />
She notices now, at three and a half "Where is Baby Taya, Mommy?" as we look through albums of her brothers and sister. I ask again.<br />
<br />
Our "Openness Agreement" has developed into a genuine and easy friendship. A sisterhood of love for the same children. Yesterday for the first time, I dropped by unannounced for a surprise visit with an extended family member. We were out of town, unable to reach them through conventional means and just stopping by was the only option. We were welcomed and embraced. We had a picnic together and then a long drive back to town. It was a lovely visit. An easy visit.<br />
<br />
I asked again.<br />
<br />
When I dropped them off, she asked me to wait for a moment as she ran inside her home. Out she came with a bag of undeveloped film canisters. <br />
<br />
"I think there might be a picture on these" she said. <br />
<br />
This morning I stood with trembling hands at the photo desk at WalMart. I tried not to hope, convincing myself that chances were, they were pictures of other people. Other days. Other times. <br />
<br />
And I was right. The first two batches I looked through were holiday pictures and blurry faces of distant relatives. One whole roll was completely blank. <br />
<br />
I grabbed the last envelope heavy with pictures and flipped it open. There, staring back at me were the eyes of my infant daughter. <br />
<br />
The weight of those missed moments, the weight of the gaps in her story, the weight of her time before us hit me like a physical punch to the chest and I gasped. Tears poured from my eyes, as the poor teenager behind the desk stared at me in horror. "Oh it's a good thing" I explained "a very good thing!".<br />
<br />
They are poorly lit and horribly fuzzy. They are taken on a cheap, old camera. We don't know exactly how old she is, or where they were taken. But they are HER. They are HERS. They are a part of her early story captured for her to see. Captured for me to see. A tiny glimpse but so incredibly precious.<br />
<br />
My baby, our baby. I am so incredibly thankful for a few fuzzy pictures sitting in a drawer waiting to be discovered and I am so incredibly thankful I was entrusted with them. <br />
<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-30432295464061417402011-07-22T09:03:00.000-07:002011-07-22T09:03:51.279-07:00Fresh Air Fund - Give a Kiddo a Summer ExperienceWell us West Coasters aren't getting much of a summer, and the East Coasters are melting under the scorching sun (the sun we haven't seen in two months I would like to point out) most of us are still getting to enjoy a change of location this summer. A trip to the beach, a jaunt into the woods for a hike, or a camping vacation with the family are all part of most of your summer plans. <br />
<br />
I remember once having a conversation with my sons' biological father where he lamented the reality that he had no idea how to relate to the boys childhood experiences. He had never camped, never ridden a motorcycle, never been in a boat, never seen the ocean and never water skied. In fact, he had never been out of the general location he was born in. Ever. And he was over 30. Their childhood was as incomprehensible to him as his was to them. <br />
<br />
There is an organization that seeks to make sure that ever child gets that fun summer experience, and they are still desperately in need of host families for kids THIS summer from the East Coast of Canada and the USA. <br />
<br />
PLEASE, go check out <a href="http://www.freshair.org/">The Fresh Air Fund </a>and considering hosting a child to give them a summer they will never forget. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><a href="http://www.freshair.org/host-a-child/fresh-air-fund-children.aspx"><span style="color: #145697; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Fresh Air children</span></a><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> are boys and girls, six to 18 years old, who live in New York City. Children on first-time visits are six to 12 years old and stay for either one or two weeks. Youngsters who are re-invited by the same family may continue with The Fund through age 18, and many enjoy longer summertime visits, year after year. A visit to the home of a warm and loving volunteer host family can make all the difference in the world to an inner-city child. All it takes to create lifelong memories is laughing in the sunshine and making new friends. The majority of </span><a href="http://www.freshair.org/host-a-child/fresh-air-fund-children.aspx"><span style="color: #145697; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Fresh Air children</span></a></i><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><i> are from low-income communities. These are often families without the resources to send their children on summer vacations. Most inner-city youngsters grow up in towering apartment buildings without large, open, outdoor play spaces. Concrete playgrounds cannot replace the freedom of running barefoot through the grass or riding bikes down country lanes. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxfme3pq-k62Hrpk51IPmr8bxG0lxc6hjBn2s91FNk6DvW7g4WRtTN-37rWWKhdC2PropJRgoT-daBbk_fV2L41WO6W5_OLcu8lseyWh1tQFXVmFV8bpBtbYE-nWpSRnawgnnjLlVyCII/s1600/boys+2009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxfme3pq-k62Hrpk51IPmr8bxG0lxc6hjBn2s91FNk6DvW7g4WRtTN-37rWWKhdC2PropJRgoT-daBbk_fV2L41WO6W5_OLcu8lseyWh1tQFXVmFV8bpBtbYE-nWpSRnawgnnjLlVyCII/s320/boys+2009.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-27156799695507155782011-06-22T18:31:00.000-07:002011-06-22T18:35:40.466-07:00Multi-Cultural Family<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We are in the middle of packing up for our <a href="http://anickelsworthofcommonsense.blogspot.com/2010/07/so-much-more-than-camp.html">Harambee Camp</a>, which is a celebration of African culture and the highlight of our year. In the middle of planning for our grand African Adventure, we shook off our jingle dresses, tied up our moccasins and headed out to celebrate and honor <a href="http://www.ainc-inac.gc.ca/ach/ev/nad/his/index-eng.asp">National Aboriginal Day. </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO64CEPla-4rt57NI8K-uq3OZf_N6CsxMfo3ew_l-_ogVfd8CVWBUBWeXeDJA43JNLan45jBc7IniC-IQ3FdrV9LsIbTewIilaq3-Z9Pu387c79ucLzAU5TDA3hyq-FLZmOLdV_aoh-5A/s1600/IMG_2586.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO64CEPla-4rt57NI8K-uq3OZf_N6CsxMfo3ew_l-_ogVfd8CVWBUBWeXeDJA43JNLan45jBc7IniC-IQ3FdrV9LsIbTewIilaq3-Z9Pu387c79ucLzAU5TDA3hyq-FLZmOLdV_aoh-5A/s320/IMG_2586.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I looked at my kids, my African-Canadian-American son, with the head full of dreadlocks, holding on to his Jingle Dress wearing First Nations sister's hand while his French-Norwegian-Irish-Swiss-Russian-Canadian brother sat beside him eating an <a href="http://www.ehow.com/how_4833060_make-indian-tacos.html">Indian Taco</a> and there was a small part of me that realized that maybe my normal isn't necessarily everybody else's normal. <br />
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And I felt sorry for everybody else.<br />
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Our life is so RICH. Rich with culture and history and color. We are blessed beyond measure by communities that have embraced us and still challenged us to know more, do more, be more for our kids.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJjgmlqh5GmqY3WZBqRqWcqFFvSDd-v5lJSyDpO3wJzei8-BThKUD4Kozl90nS6gBctU59RPF7QGoeanZ8-D0kgf6RoXdCVrCfR3OLYPA1tVmvrTcaAUt2p-WCC9-ziiCqEMAoGcHG45Y/s1600/IMG_2624.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJjgmlqh5GmqY3WZBqRqWcqFFvSDd-v5lJSyDpO3wJzei8-BThKUD4Kozl90nS6gBctU59RPF7QGoeanZ8-D0kgf6RoXdCVrCfR3OLYPA1tVmvrTcaAUt2p-WCC9-ziiCqEMAoGcHG45Y/s320/IMG_2624.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxu2uzY5d-EFRxTWrJWcwpo-1uAkH-LkDqBGf5JqlxepqMGWysfKeWE39EaNs1zWrtyYBoVxrPKtOZIXNPAsGthAkBoVI9a8WI6rivPeVCFFpzwPZYQUIo8pzvUJ6c1r5Qa0B_EKqqpw/s1600/IMG_2604.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxu2uzY5d-EFRxTWrJWcwpo-1uAkH-LkDqBGf5JqlxepqMGWysfKeWE39EaNs1zWrtyYBoVxrPKtOZIXNPAsGthAkBoVI9a8WI6rivPeVCFFpzwPZYQUIo8pzvUJ6c1r5Qa0B_EKqqpw/s320/IMG_2604.JPG" width="170" /></a></div>I cannot imagine how little I would know about the rest of the world if I had chosen to stay in my world of White Privilege. <br />
<br />
Maybe you are reading this and you are considering adopting transracially, or you are the parent of an adult child considering adopting transracially and you worry. You might worry about the<a href="http://anickelsworthofcommonsense.blogspot.com/2010/05/walk-mile-in-my-moccasins.html"> work involved </a>to be a transracial adoptive parent, because there is a lot of work involved in being a GOOD transracial adoptive parent. You might be scared of the opinions of others, because nothing really hurts more than realizing that someone else either doesn't view your <a href="http://anickelsworthofcommonsense.blogspot.com/2009/07/outrage-at-racism.html">child as equal in value</a> to their own, or doesn't view your parenthood as being as legitimate as their own. And it does hurt. You might worry about raising teenagers when you don't fully comprehend what it is like <a href="http://anickelsworthofcommonsense.blogspot.com/2008/12/i-really-dont-know-what-to-say-so-i.html">to live in their skin</a>, and it is very hard. You might find a thousand reasons why adopting transracially has a cost, and there is a cost and probably you can find enough reasons to justify running far away from ever expanding the color of your family. But that would be so sad, not for the children, who would hopefully find a family willing to embrace them and celebrate them, but for you and your little, tidy world.<br />
<br />
I am richer for my kids. I am richer for being in awe of the Elder willing to teach my children the history of hoop dancing or the kind emcee inviting my daughters to dance at a Pow Wow. I am richer for understanding racism and culture and the horrors of prejudice. I am richer for putting their needs before my own discomfort. <br />
<br />
My life, my brown, black, white, multi-colored life is good.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-71650172453954140782011-06-18T21:11:00.000-07:002011-06-18T21:11:35.474-07:00On Men and Fathers and having a DaddyI watch my husband sometimes with my kids and I wonder, in awe, how it is that I knew how to pick a good husband to be and a good father to be when I was only nineteen. Engaged at nineteen. Married at twenty. Parents of three by 25. Parents of 6 by 35.<br />
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And I did pick a good one. <b> I knew to expect to be treated well.</b> I knew I was lovable and beautiful and smart and deserving. I knew that because my daddy had always told me I was. <br />
<br />
I was his favorite Jennifer in the WHOLE WORLD. And I knew I deserved a good guy because my dad showed me I did every single day of my childhood. <br />
<br />
The words we heard this week were "terminal" "limited options" "aggressive". And worse, "no cure". We have some time to try to fight, but no one can really saw how much. It was bad news. VERY BAD NEWS.<br />
<br />
My dad is sick. Really, really sick. His birthday this year is on Father's Day. Sunday. <br />
<br />
Honestly, I don't really know what to say other than I love him. And that we need him. My kids need him. My sister needs him. My nephews need him. My step mom needs him. I NEED HIM. <br />
<br />
I have a hard time right now talking TO HIM. I can talk about him just fine, but to him? It is so hard to pick up that phone and say hello. Why? Because I know how badly he needs me to be OK. He has spent his whole life making sure I am OK. Checking my tire pressure every time I come over. Topping up the oil, checking my wiper fluid. A quick hug and a glance "You OK, Jen?". "Yes dad!" and a smile of relief.<br />
<br />
More than anything I know my dad wants us all to be OK. It is not himself he is worried about. In typical amazing dad fashion, it is ME.<br />
<br />
And honestly, I am not. I don't feel strong enough or wise enough or brave enough to face this battle with him. I feel like a three year old who needs to know her daddy is the strongest man in the whole world and will fix anything and everything, always. I want to hide and shut down and forget. And he wants me to be OK. Not to cry or sob or be a little girl scared of losing her daddy, but to be the capable woman he raised.<br />
<br />
He has taught me strength. And fortitude. And how to be brave and strong and resilient. He has taught me how to survive this and it is a lesson I never wanted to know. Because his strength and bravery and hard work have been my foundation. And can you survive without your foundation? I really don't want to find out.<br />
<br />
Happy Father's Day Dad. Happy Birthday Dad. I love you.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE8AcMQI-kDCJaiM4Cm5n_DV2E0DTKfFUpRdEDrofR10IjcKXekcwWPnHNZguyQcaySVjtGlJlaRYg282-eJgB6CdIhL-w7GyWyJxzkSRFppGI4QFx2GMiJIuTb1S4QUKCZ8oEe2qqJjE/s1600/IMG_1003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE8AcMQI-kDCJaiM4Cm5n_DV2E0DTKfFUpRdEDrofR10IjcKXekcwWPnHNZguyQcaySVjtGlJlaRYg282-eJgB6CdIhL-w7GyWyJxzkSRFppGI4QFx2GMiJIuTb1S4QUKCZ8oEe2qqJjE/s400/IMG_1003.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
And I hate cancer.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-66894289131673690902011-06-16T13:56:00.000-07:002011-06-16T13:56:28.177-07:00I guess this means it is summerLast night hockey finally ended for the season. We were sad. We shed tears. We did NOT riot.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVc62e9F9KiwDGEqxANQTAeEdIJTiGpFTSqJ3z6Ri4kkIAa4Riu85hrEFyJdzgCFNkqkEhzO3iLNwJ10ybb_vIUUxxijfnB3MoKEOU3R-ElXLX-0RabmhX9npNlH_wYLNhLACW_a2Aj-A/s1600/IMG_2300.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVc62e9F9KiwDGEqxANQTAeEdIJTiGpFTSqJ3z6Ri4kkIAa4Riu85hrEFyJdzgCFNkqkEhzO3iLNwJ10ybb_vIUUxxijfnB3MoKEOU3R-ElXLX-0RabmhX9npNlH_wYLNhLACW_a2Aj-A/s400/IMG_2300.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>Those that did in no way represent me and my hockey loving kids. Nor my city. Nor my country. Nor my hockey team. <br />
<br />
We have been to the beach, dodging rain drops that seem to have never abated this spring.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgygtnvTd4SQw47OP1DLoxKk-kU20BCdbErJouD_wK4QN73XORypkqCj6R-uW9PCvu_0pc6WXZ3zlypWuHzrNz8ELJ3VbQ_k4hAYkSj0yIcYMoeoKeNhkb5vIhFm8x6I4zzD7rsmqVRKWc/s1600/GirlsBeach+%25287+of+16%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgygtnvTd4SQw47OP1DLoxKk-kU20BCdbErJouD_wK4QN73XORypkqCj6R-uW9PCvu_0pc6WXZ3zlypWuHzrNz8ELJ3VbQ_k4hAYkSj0yIcYMoeoKeNhkb5vIhFm8x6I4zzD7rsmqVRKWc/s640/GirlsBeach+%25287+of+16%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Two of my kids are still in school until the end of the month, two start their summer holiday today. Two of the others are just so busy playing in the sand box to care much about school at all.<br />
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Things are have been good. SO good. I mean still hard and complicated and busy and crazy but good. Stable. I am all for stable. Stable means kids wrestle and it's in FUN not because they are trying to kill each other.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBgI11em9w2HGp3At-0fzGC49JY9Q3FvHA7HM_J8SrFHRQTDucWbEYok2-S2vc67na_YNRmKLhRpStHIq65SeDWRIKyiaoBlN59SuKAoglFGpL7bMy5IomkV9DaTS2F2cjxXeALA_PsMU/s1600/IMG_2199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBgI11em9w2HGp3At-0fzGC49JY9Q3FvHA7HM_J8SrFHRQTDucWbEYok2-S2vc67na_YNRmKLhRpStHIq65SeDWRIKyiaoBlN59SuKAoglFGpL7bMy5IomkV9DaTS2F2cjxXeALA_PsMU/s320/IMG_2199.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
We will travel this summer across the country. Saskatchewan here I come. Again. Did I mention 24 hours of driving ONE WAY. I have one more day of paid home schooling. I think possibly it is one day too many. <br />
<br />
Some days I feel like I have nothing left to say. Others I wish I could share more. But I am still here. My kids are still amazing. And I am beginning to see the light of a fun summer ahead.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-24195610771918442432011-05-08T09:30:00.000-07:002011-05-08T09:30:09.245-07:00Happy Mother's DayToday, I choose to celebrate myself.<br />
<br />
I have been pushed to the very end of my mothering skills this year. I have hung onto my sanity by a thread, pushed there by parenting complicated kids in complicated times. <br />
<br />
But I do not PUT UP with my kids. I love being their mother. I love the crazy, the complicated, the fun and and the awful. <br />
<br />
This whole mothering thing is not easy. If you think it is, let us know when you have your first child. <br />
<br />
And so today I will let (and in fact encourage) my kids to honor me. I deserve it. Right?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkcKi8cGMi6d1Ugxr0Y_TZbw-Y_IX2EPUPWhJr84WgijKvmYpYaWyeYsM6Ipfb76940F9MyLGjqQTolS8zWqdbJ6RETKU0nJQrgwVOqwediEmCt3IrUyRj2A4tY2dVH0EScl80E2sxTFM/s1600/IMG_2050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkcKi8cGMi6d1Ugxr0Y_TZbw-Y_IX2EPUPWhJr84WgijKvmYpYaWyeYsM6Ipfb76940F9MyLGjqQTolS8zWqdbJ6RETKU0nJQrgwVOqwediEmCt3IrUyRj2A4tY2dVH0EScl80E2sxTFM/s400/IMG_2050.JPG" width="360" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-50950743989077210572011-05-06T08:47:00.000-07:002011-05-06T08:47:37.911-07:00It's been a whileOne year. That is how long it has been.<br />
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A year ago today I stood in a court room and a judge ruled that our daughters would stay with us. The further away I get from that day the more miraculous I realize it was. There we were, becoming a family in a way that as close to impossible as you can imagine.<br />
<br />
And here we are, a year later. Things, today, are good. <br />
<br />
Our relationship with the girls' mother is good. Very good in fact. The angst over visits passed and we have reached a comfortable spot where our friendship is beyond just the fact we both love our daughters. Our lives, our worlds, are about as different as can be and yet in some strange way we have managed to forge something that feels strong. <br />
<br />
This week she moved into a house a block and a half down the road. We drive by and honk a hello, Taya calls out "That is L mama. I grew in her tummy and we love her." And I say yes, smile and we continue with our day. She will send me a text during a hockey game to comment on a play. She will call in tears if someone has said something to hurt her and she needs assurance of her place in our lives. Visits are short and not close together, at her request, but feel completely natural. Last week we went out to lunch, today we will attend a birthday party together. <br />
<br />
We threw a massive bash for the girls' birthdays and for the first time had an event that combined the girls original family and our family and friends. And we mingled and laughed and everyone was able to celebrate the wonder that is our daughters. We realize that we, the two mothers, are leading the way way for those that follow us. Some of her family is not comfortable with the situation, and yet because she is, they follow her lead. And the girls benefit. <br />
<br />
The same problems that were there before are still there. This is not an uncomplicated situation or an uncomplicated life, and yet mutual respect has gotten us a very long way. All for the love of two very good girls.<br />
<br />
My life continues to be busy and at times insane. I am home schooling one of my teenagers now, adding to the paid home schooling student that arrives every afternoon. We are still facilitating the boys hockey , even though it is MAY and now add things like gymnastics and lacrosse to the mix. My husband turned 40. IEPs, therapist appointments, counselors, doctors and trying to keep sane fill the rest of the days. <br />
<br />
A friend asked me what I had been up to one day last week, so I emailed her this:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">midnight - go to bed</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">2:30 am - Jayde comes into our bed. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">3:00 am - Jayde is doing cartwheels so I move her into the bed we have set up for her in our room.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">3:02 am- realize teen is still up and silently hope he falls asleep soon. listen to him walk to bed</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">5:30 - as a consequence for yesterday's crazy behavior, another teen woken up to accompany Dad to work today</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">6:10 am - discuss with Shel that sending teen to work with him this morning won't work because teen has a dentist appointment. Let teen go back to bed. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">6:20 am - jump in shower</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">6:35 am - turn on computer check email. consider making coffee. Decide not to.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">6:38 am - Taya up. Watch cartoons. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">7:00 am - Jayde up. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">7:10 am - Caden up. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">7:20 am - Teens up in theory.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">7:45 am - Re wake up teens. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">General morning stuff - breakfast, getting the boys to MOVE by helping out a bit</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">8:15 am - phone call from school from principal to do an interview about my home schooling student. This is the normal time we leave but we dont today because the boys have dentist appointments.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">8:40 - Realize teen didn't take his meds last night. Ask him to take them. He refuses. Give him an ultimatum. He takes them.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">8:45 - put all six kids in the truck, drive to Kids dentist. Leave G, T and J in the truck, bring in T, C and E. Leave them there after checking them in. Promise Dentist I will be returning within half an hour. I lie.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">9:00 arrive at motor vehicles branch with G, T and J. Check in and pay ... realize that there is a 45 minute wait AT LEAST before Greg can take his drivers test. Ugh. Girls running all over acting crazy. Leave with them and go to Tim Horton's to buy myself a coffee. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">9:45 am - recieve call from Dentist. Some emergency with Eric's tooth. Solve over phone. Feel like very bad mother. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">10:00 am - go back into motor vehicle branch. Wait for another 15 minutes for Greg to be done. Pay again since he passed. While paying Jayde runs away and gets on the ELEVATOR by herself. Run screaming from the DMV to grab her. Others laugh at me. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">10:15 - go back to Kids Dentist. Boys aren't done yet. Go back to truck and drive Greg home ... going to drop him and Jayde off and to back to Dentist just with Taya. No way. Jayde flips out. So take both girls back to dentist. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">10:30 - get girls out of truck and go into dentist office. E and C are done and want to go to school. Drag a screaming Taya out of dentist office (its a fun place) and drive E and C to school. Tell Tanner I will NOT be going back into dentist to get him so he can come out. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">10:45 - drop boys off at school, return to Kids Dentist</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">11:00 - Tanner done. Drive him to school. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">11:10 - arrive at the Bible study I was supposed to be co-hosting at 10. Apologize for being late. Visit. Field a phone call from Shel who is trying to decide if we are taking Greg driving yet. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">12:02 - pack up girls and go home. Put them immediately to bed after going pee. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">12:15 - check email, make sure Greg has his science work done for his tutoring later</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">12:28 = B (the student I home school every day) arrives. Taya gets out of bed. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">12:30 - begin work with B. He is in an awful HORRIBLE mood. He is an ODD kid at the best of times and today is not a good day. Taya gets out of bed 16 more times. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">1:25 - B has completed exactly ZERO work. I call his parent and ask him to come get him. Put together the days' assignment.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">1:29 - Jayde wakes up from nap. Has peed the bed and herself. Is miserable and whiney.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">1:46 - Parent arrives and takes B off my hands. Taya is asleep. F I N A L L Y</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">1:47 - G asks for my help with a project he is working on. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">1:48 - Realize I am doing Greg's project for him. Kick his ass into gear. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">2:30 - Finish G's project while he has a snack = realize I am very late and still doing his project.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">2:33 - Wake up Taya, find panties and pants for Jayde, put shoes on girls, quite possible scream HURRY UP we have to go.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">2:47 - Pick up D at her Day Care</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">2:53 - Drop Greg off at his Science Tutoring</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">2:55 - Pull Eric and Caden off their school bus JUST as it is going to pull away. I need them to watch the girls.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">3:00 - Drop D off at her parental visit. Chat for a bit so D will be comfortable. Leave E, C, J and T in the truck. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">3:15 - drive to Greg's school office where I have to drop of "HIS" work with his teachers. Pick up his report card and meet with principal, science teacher and socials teacher. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">3:27 - leave Greg's school office and drive to the high school trying to find Tanner ot pick him up</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">3:33 - got home as Tanner walks in the door. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">3:35 - Jayde pees her pants again. Dogs have destroyed a box of kleenix and ripped a curtain down while I was gone. SERIOUSLY going to kill the dogs. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">3:46 - realize that Jayde is outside on the trampoline naked. The boys that were supposed to be watching her got distracted with the TREEHOUSE ??? cartoons I had put on to keep the girls busy. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">3:47 - turn off TV. Send one son to get baby, send another to to clean kitchen, another to shuck corn on the cob for dinner. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">4:00 - put on chicken nuggets and water to boil</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">4:12 - Shel home. He picked up Greg from tutoring for me. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">4:30 - Realize Caden is late for gymnastics class. RACE him there. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">4:45 - Put together a plate of chicken nuggets, corn on the cob for girls, Shel and I and Tanner</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">5:00 - leave girls and G and E at home to eat. Take Tanner to his parent teacher interviews at his high school. Make sure he has thrown his Lacrosse Gear into the truck. Meet with 3 teachers. REalize our son has not been turning in any homework. Restrain from kicking his butt. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">5:45 - drive him to Lacross practice. Realize I am out of gas - go get gas. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">6:15 - return home. house a DISASTER. Girls are running across the front lawn, G and E playing basketball. Apparently they forgot they were supposed to do the dishes. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">6:30 - Shel leaves with G, E and their friend to drive them to hockey training. Almost forgets to pick up Caden who calls crying because they are late. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">6:40 - Put girls in tub. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">6:50 - Shel home with Caden. Cuddle Caden whose jaw is hurting from his filling this morning. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">7:05 - Girls decide a hot tub party would be fun. Put on swim suit, Caden does too, Grab girls from the tub and put them in the hot tub with us. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">7:25 - took out the girls, put on PJs Shel leaves to go to business meeting. Turn on cartoons</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">8:05 = begin bedtime routine. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">8:30 - finish bedtime routine</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">8:32 - help Tanner organize his binders, go over missing French home work, check score of Canucks game and email.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">9:23 - Shel comes home with G and E. </span></div><div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">I collapse on the couch. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">And that is why I have a hard time blogging these days. </span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-24520445690538163922011-04-19T15:00:00.000-07:002011-04-19T15:00:04.800-07:00A FirstThere have been many parenting firsts in my life but today was another that left me awestruck in how my life has twisted and turned.<br />
<br />
Today I took my daughter to ballet. My beautiful princess in her $30 ballet slippers and her $2 tights. I was the only mom that forgot a tutu. I will remember for next time. <br />
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I would say there wasn't a hockey arena in sight but the class is actually held in a room at the arena. At least we felt at home there!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-84376805543872824842011-04-15T11:39:00.000-07:002011-04-15T11:39:45.435-07:0099% Mom 1% JenThat's where I am at.<br />
<br />
I know it's not healthy.<br />
<br />
I know it's not wise.<br />
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I just have no idea what to do about it.<br />
<br />
I am sick and tired and keep getting sicker. Life is crazy and busy and never, ever ends. I am parenting 24 hours a day seven days a week. If it's not teenage angst at midnight, it's a toddler who doesn't yet know how to sleep through the night and starts her day at 2:00 am.<br />
<br />
I have kids at the most selfish extremes of their lives. Teenagers and Toddlers. They suck every scrap of self out of me, and give very little back.<br />
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We have had 5 birthdays in 3 months. I am homeschooling two now. I am dealing with therapists and evaluations and hormones and parent contact and regression and just general busy insanity that is life with 6 kids.<br />
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And I am tired. But there is no time to be tired because I have to host a birthday party for a bunch of teenagers today, and drive another teenager to another city so he can play hockey, while juggling 2 toddlers to do it. Tomorrow is the same. And then the day after that, MORE of the same. <br />
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Monday the cycle starts all over again.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-8018098078897159302011-03-15T07:57:00.000-07:002011-03-15T07:57:42.758-07:00Featured Article - Adoption MagazineI suppose if I am too busy, or too distracted, or too shut in, to bother posting myself, it's awfully nice when someone reposts something I have written on my behalf. <br />
<br />
My 'adoption world friend' Sharla has started up an online magazine for Canadian adoptive families, although much of what is written would be perfectly applicable for any adoptive parent, there is a definite Canadian touch to many of the articles, and most of the writers. Please go check out <a href="http://www.adoptionmagazine.ca/2011/03/open-adoption-feelings-and-actions.html">my article</a> and subscribe to the <a href="http://www.adoptionmagazine.ca/">magazine </a>(it's FREE!).<br />
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And yes, I was supposed to do this yesterday. And no, I did not remember.<br />
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Life has gotten crazy and I am choosing to ignore that reality online but I will be back. I promise. <br />
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I think they look strangely alike, don't you?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQW2Zo2zVi6XpT2Ncr7nhRxdthl69lUnTsfgN6l8serpbm3RcQWNXiudcHL_5WEuUCa9JviCxijdUcl8Lu9B7SUvF8CYaXQQANRboPJInzhpkB7tAdMPrDnPvSp7MutLVW184YSaB-02I/s1600/IMG_1367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQW2Zo2zVi6XpT2Ncr7nhRxdthl69lUnTsfgN6l8serpbm3RcQWNXiudcHL_5WEuUCa9JviCxijdUcl8Lu9B7SUvF8CYaXQQANRboPJInzhpkB7tAdMPrDnPvSp7MutLVW184YSaB-02I/s400/IMG_1367.JPG" width="287" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2N71i6tmWYbegGHwQV-FXTUJb5zN0guMnoacrAIKy-W3EBKAQclZll6Aqx-Bo_hTH-uvCXKoZuGcLY27qZlMWv8NkjLFfigwsvKa0KV9eZx5_ttdBU9W9RMsErku98zLUQML2r0kiXnI/s1600/IMG_1393.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2N71i6tmWYbegGHwQV-FXTUJb5zN0guMnoacrAIKy-W3EBKAQclZll6Aqx-Bo_hTH-uvCXKoZuGcLY27qZlMWv8NkjLFfigwsvKa0KV9eZx5_ttdBU9W9RMsErku98zLUQML2r0kiXnI/s400/IMG_1393.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-42108403795738482252011-02-22T16:36:00.000-08:002011-02-22T16:38:27.442-08:00Winter Blues<div class="w_fc" style="float: left; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;" title="Chance of Snow"><div style="text-align: left;">This is my week's predicted weather. Last year at this time the snow was gone the weather was warmish and we were able to be outside.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Five months stuck inside with two ADD toddlers, 3 moody teenagers and a cling on for a tween? I am so done. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">SO DONE WITH WINTER. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Send wine. </div><div style="text-align: left;">And a ticket for some place warm. If you need me before May, I will be the chanting woman hiding under a quilt.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Thank You Google Weather for ruining my day. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div class="w_fc" style="float: left; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;" title="Chance of Snow"><br />
</div><div class="w_fc" style="float: left; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;" title="Chance of Snow"><br />
</div><div class="w_fc" style="float: left; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;" title="Chance of Snow"><br />
</div><div class="w_fc" style="float: left; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;" title="Chance of Snow"><br />
</div><div class="w_fc" style="float: left; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;" title="Chance of Snow"><br />
</div><div class="w_fc" style="float: left; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;" title="Chance of Snow"><br />
</div><div class="w_fc" style="float: left; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;" title="Chance of Snow"><br />
</div><div class="w_fc" style="float: left; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;" title="Chance of Snow">Tue<br />
<img alt="Chance of Snow" class="w_fci" height="40" src="http://img0.gmodules.com/ig/images/weather/chance_of_snow.png" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(187, 187, 204); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-color: rgb(187, 187, 204); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(187, 187, 204); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-color: rgb(187, 187, 204); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; height: 40px; padding-bottom: 1px; padding-left: 1px; padding-right: 1px; padding-top: 1px; vertical-align: middle; width: 40px;" width="40" /><br />
<nobr>-22° | -6°</nobr></div><div class="w_fc" style="float: left; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;" title="Chance of Snow">Wed<br />
<img alt="Chance of Snow" class="w_fci" height="40" src="http://img0.gmodules.com/ig/images/weather/chance_of_snow.png" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(187, 187, 204); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-color: rgb(187, 187, 204); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(187, 187, 204); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-color: rgb(187, 187, 204); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; height: 40px; padding-bottom: 1px; padding-left: 1px; padding-right: 1px; padding-top: 1px; vertical-align: middle; width: 40px;" width="40" /><br />
<nobr>-31° | -17°</nobr></div><div class="w_fc" style="float: left; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;" title="Chance of Snow">Thu<br />
<img alt="Chance of Snow" class="w_fci" height="40" src="http://img0.gmodules.com/ig/images/weather/chance_of_snow.png" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(187, 187, 204); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-color: rgb(187, 187, 204); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(187, 187, 204); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-color: rgb(187, 187, 204); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; height: 40px; padding-bottom: 1px; padding-left: 1px; padding-right: 1px; padding-top: 1px; vertical-align: middle; width: 40px;" width="40" /><br />
<nobr>-42° | -20°</nobr></div><div class="w_fc" style="float: left; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;" title="Mostly Sunny">Fri<br />
<img alt="Mostly Sunny" class="w_fci" height="40" src="http://img0.gmodules.com/ig/images/weather/mostly_sunny.png" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(187, 187, 204); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-color: rgb(187, 187, 204); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(187, 187, 204); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-color: rgb(187, 187, 204); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; height: 40px; padding-bottom: 1px; padding-left: 1px; padding-right: 1px; padding-top: 1px; vertical-align: middle; width: 40px;" width="40" /><br />
<nobr>-22° | -16°</nobr></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-50270947718948793272011-02-20T20:47:00.000-08:002011-02-20T20:47:09.839-08:00Not That I am BraggingBut I my Biggest Boy is going to the BC Provincial Championships for Midget Rep Hockey.<br />
<br />
Twas a wonderful, hockey filled weekend. Check <a href="http://www.laureencarruthersphotography.com/hockey/">THIS</a> out.<br />
<br />
A special thank you to <a href="http://www.laureencarruthersphotography.com/blog/">Laureen Carruthers Photography</a> for putting this together.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG0ACWZc1G-VONX_G9ZHNraRwDgpDuUVb0o5IDasiygnxIoEY905e8YDG-ZEx1Lw6xT2zVV_UhmQGtVXLu2h6E8sTOzObJp7t-DRFhMXrWwhlAeAQI01txjjO_rSs283__rWu6wRiKtAM/s1600/Greg+Midget+Rep+Team+Cariboo+Champs+2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG0ACWZc1G-VONX_G9ZHNraRwDgpDuUVb0o5IDasiygnxIoEY905e8YDG-ZEx1Lw6xT2zVV_UhmQGtVXLu2h6E8sTOzObJp7t-DRFhMXrWwhlAeAQI01txjjO_rSs283__rWu6wRiKtAM/s640/Greg+Midget+Rep+Team+Cariboo+Champs+2011.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-75604791511617971212011-02-14T18:31:00.000-08:002011-02-14T18:34:26.244-08:00It's All in a Name: EpilogueI wrote <a href="http://anickelsworthofcommonsense.blogspot.com/2010/06/its-all-in-name.html">HERE</a> about why we were considering changing the girls names, and the options that were before us. In the end, we chose to change the girls' names to a completely different option than I listed there.<br />
<br />
Their original names were First Name * Middle Name #1 * Middle Name #2 * Father's Last Name<br />
<br />
We changed to: First Name * Middle Name #1 - Hyphen My Middle Name * Mother's Last Name *Our Last Name<br />
<br />
There were a variety of reasons that we went with this name change and in the end we are very satisfied with our decision to include the names we did. I have felt steadfast and firm in our decision, our request was granted legally by the province of the girls' birth. It is done.<br />
<br />
BUT we had yet to share that decision with the girls' "other mother".<br />
<br />
There were many reasons for the delay in telling her, first and foremost the fact she hadn't been around much, and when she was, she wasn't alone. We wanted her to be the first we told before any other members of the family were informed. And so I prayed. Alot. For the right time, and the right words, to explain to her our decision.<br />
<br />
This past week she came by for a visit, the first in several months. At the end of the visit, after we had tucked our daughters into bed and both kissed them goodnight, I began to drive her home. <br />
<br />
"So" she said, "Have you found out how much it would cost to change the girls' names, because I really want you to".<br />
<br />
I knew that NOW was the moment I had been praying for.<br />
<br />
"It's already done" I said quietly. "As the girls' parents we had to make a decision that we felt was in their best interest. We talked to psychologists, and social workers, our kids. And we prayed. Alot."<br />
<br />
And so I shared with her our reasoning. A desire to recognize the fact that SHE was the one that stood before the judge and asked him to allow her to transfer her parental rights to us. A desire to recognize the fact that she is the one that toughs out visits as a mother who isn't a mommy. A desire to honour her role in choosing the life the girls have when she was all alone and against huge opposition.<br />
<br />
And, of course, a desire for the girls to know they always, fully belong in our family too.<br />
<br />
And she cried. And cried. And cried. <br />
<br />
With joy.<br />
<br />
"Thank you" she said "It's perfect". <br />
<br />
And a weight, a large one, lifted off my soul.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4137229307000660233.post-25066868687701074062011-02-07T09:18:00.000-08:002011-02-07T09:18:39.556-08:00Snowed In<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This was our park last year at this time. It was lovely. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMoi4gZbfAQUnv-_h5SfFKzpLRmixiHlkaqAjULYCfPSVJe5gt0xRPPd1T7SKj9LNFVSq2u4XmAJtcfPYKEBz8yQLgm2FwtDUjnALfsNsIURoCG6v57DIJWVnJTP3dcIpt-X1gIpbyaco/s1600/IMG_0769.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMoi4gZbfAQUnv-_h5SfFKzpLRmixiHlkaqAjULYCfPSVJe5gt0xRPPd1T7SKj9LNFVSq2u4XmAJtcfPYKEBz8yQLgm2FwtDUjnALfsNsIURoCG6v57DIJWVnJTP3dcIpt-X1gIpbyaco/s400/IMG_0769.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This is our park this year. Not so lovely. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">6 kids, one mom and a whole lot of snow. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHIHckoX1AMGlyb_JT2Sb6Irrnc2OxI4XQ6qIeswe3NHQzTZiA3OSahlEAnJXCPd7sbzwBtamHyuv5M37BCaN52Wm6F-3xaRPx2SvTDCq2H81dhtwqTOrCw_XS7GDB_vNP6Ey6UtZWuKU/s1600/Snow+Park+2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHIHckoX1AMGlyb_JT2Sb6Irrnc2OxI4XQ6qIeswe3NHQzTZiA3OSahlEAnJXCPd7sbzwBtamHyuv5M37BCaN52Wm6F-3xaRPx2SvTDCq2H81dhtwqTOrCw_XS7GDB_vNP6Ey6UtZWuKU/s400/Snow+Park+2011.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This is Jayde, exactly a year ago, wearing a dress I was buying "for the future". Not knowing if the future would come for us. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1MpW2fENCo1M5UmS-I13mXWBFlokjAPizpGzZo5l7R5tVoII2QDdw3312QTGEGieG-9nwWM5LinXvBLpOHw8GOdCiPle-ycETCboCNBtDizcQoCGk5P3ABZlT8aHlR5krd-WW-rhVG8s/s1600/IMG_1343.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1MpW2fENCo1M5UmS-I13mXWBFlokjAPizpGzZo5l7R5tVoII2QDdw3312QTGEGieG-9nwWM5LinXvBLpOHw8GOdCiPle-ycETCboCNBtDizcQoCGk5P3ABZlT8aHlR5krd-WW-rhVG8s/s400/IMG_1343.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Here is Jayde wearing that dress this weekend. </div><div style="text-align: center;">The future came. And baby got HAIR!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiNLESgEoLU6xO-cQaLaxmeWfBB6hUq1-oCaMw8v0XEo5jxPD0Vgb4cfedLc5UgcxydU8u8ePuLqtipCjV1Db4KvxOLhhWDlpd4QY-wXDFS9K5rxagZZ6Xh6X9xEX8YkOxCUeG2vlT3KQ/s1600/IMG_1243.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiNLESgEoLU6xO-cQaLaxmeWfBB6hUq1-oCaMw8v0XEo5jxPD0Vgb4cfedLc5UgcxydU8u8ePuLqtipCjV1Db4KvxOLhhWDlpd4QY-wXDFS9K5rxagZZ6Xh6X9xEX8YkOxCUeG2vlT3KQ/s320/IMG_1243.JPG" width="273" /></a></div><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04552918781072146852noreply@blogger.com3