Family Circle

Often in adoptive families, particularly those that have contact with their children's first or former foster families, the idea of drawing a family tree for their child's obligatory primary, elementary or high school assignment is stressful and difficult.

Who is included? And even harder, who is EXCLUDED? How do you balance the idea of the very different families that make part of the adoption world.

For those of us with children who have "step" grandparents they adore, how are they placed in the family tree that usually only allows the biological (or adoptive) grandparents to be listed. Many of us have seen the adoptive family tree that allows for roots and branches of a tree to be represented and that is also a great alternative, if your child is wishing to agknowledge various parts of their family.

I found this today while researching a project for the class I work in. I think its a BRILLIANT idea. The symbolism of surrounding the child with the people that love them most, and the people that are part of their family is absolutely wonderful. I hope that some of you find it useful in the years ahead. You can find the original here.

Aiming for vindication, I fail miserably

Sometimes life is rather ironic. Last night was such a night.

Tanner, my dear, sweet and completely clueless 11 year old "forgot" to tell me that I was
supposed to help his school class cook for a fundraising dinner they were hosting last night. So at ten after five we were racing down to the high school to cook. Yes, you heard that right, apparently I had been volunteered to cook. For other people. Who were arriving to eat at 7.

Inside I snickered. Vindication. After liberally using exaggeration about my lack of baking skills in my previous blog posts, here was my chance to prove to myself, my son and the BLOG WORLD that I am in fact a Domestic Goddess.

And then they handed me the recipe. A recipe for quiche. At least I think it was for quiche, because it was COMPLETELY IN FRENCH. Yes, the entire recipe was in french. ANOTHER LANGUAGE. You understand that following a recipe for me is hard enough as it is, but in FRENCH?

"Ok", I think, "this is a class of french immersion students, surely someone can help me out". I am assigned four 10 and 11 year old boys as my cooking partners. You can see where this is going now can't you? Me, for all intents and purposes appearing to be a competent mother of four, assigned 4 young children to cook with. Did I mention none of them could follow a recipe either?

We chop and saute. Things smell good. Very good. I have HOPE.

I bake the pie shells (pre-made THANK THE LORD!). We mix and stir. Something looks wrong. I check the recipe. I re-check the recipe. Seriously what the heck is a Centi-Litre and why on earth do french recipes use that measurement? Tanner and I do some quick conversions again. We think we have done it right. We HOPE we have done it right.

The filling is looking awfully creamy to me. But what do I know, at this point my cooking confidence is so low I am going to follow the recipe (as much of it as I can!) and trust that it will work out.

My pride, my hopes at vindication, are tied up in this turning out.

We bake. And then bake some more. And some more. We raise the heat. We lower the heat. The pie crusts are now awfully brown and dried out looking. But the quiche filling? Liquid. No setting. No firming. Bacon, mushrooms, onions floating in egg and cream.

I pull out the recipe. I bet you didn't know that "farine tout-usuage" is FLOUR? Neither did I. Apparently I was supposed to add 100 grams of flour. Just how much is that anyways? Those four nasty little boys forgot to add FLOUR to the sauce. So, technically I was in charge and never noticed either, but let me tell you I blamed them loudly.

We pulled out the quiche. I dumped every scrap of sauted vegetables I could find to fill up the shells. I grated and re-grated more cheese. They looked ok, but none of us were volunteering to taste them.

I made a new sign. Crossed out "Quiche" and wrote "Tarte De La Creme". It sounded good to me.

And those 4 french immersion students didn't protest too much either.

And then Tanner and I? We (in his words) "booked it out of there" at 7:05 just after the quiche (minus the flour) were served, but before anyone had tasted them.

IT'S NOT MY FAULT.

Rejected

Strangely, after yesterday's post about my lack of baking prowess I found my named scratched off the Christmas baking exchange at work.

The organizer, who actually OWNS a craft show she is so crafty, slyly suggested I post links to my blog and hope for some sympathy cookies to come my way and then THANKED ME for not participating this year.

Phooey on her. Burnt cookies, cardboard pie and crumbly brownies are part of my kids' holiday memories and why should those be ruined with GOOD baking? I'll just call my sister for sympathy who is trying to think of how to pass off grocery store cookies tonight as her own seeing as her EASY-NEVER FAIL FUDGE failed to set. I tell you, its genetic and NOT OUR FAULT.

My dirty little secrets.

I have many friends. Friends who cook lovely things for their families. Friends who design cards and jewellery. Friends who paint and decorate and convert junk into lovely pieces of art. Friends who bake.

And, believe it or not (because mostly I don't believe it!) they actually LIKE IT. And I envy.

My grandmothers both were women who baked and cooked. My mother's mother baked goodies that are intrinsically intertwined with my childhood memories. We each had a cookie named after us. Our favorites were always pulled from the freezer and set out the instant we walked in her front door. The front door of her spotless house I should point out.

The domestic gene died out two generations ago. The baking gene missed my mother and my childhood memories of baking at home are horror filled occasions of chopping sticky, glompy, awful dates for my mother's sticky, glompy, awful date loaf. Decorating? We went years in a gorgeous 4500 sq foot home with no paint on the walls because no one could be bothered. We were clean, but it was not an act of enjoyment for anyone.

The baking gene is completely absent in me. I have a housekeeping gene, but usually it is left down at the rink or hidden under the piles of laundry 4 active boys generate.

But what is it about the Christmas Season that pulls out that desperate need in all of us to prove our worth as Domestic Goddesses? And so I threw a weekend away trying to generate memories with my sons.

Greg asked to bake with me. So we baked. Actually, we burnt. Batch after batch of ruined cookies. Never Fail Ginger Snaps that failed. Apple pie with crust like cardboard. Brownies that stick in the pan. Cinnamon bread without enough cinnamon. Sugar cookies that will never get iced because the recipe has baffled me.

I can tie skates, tell a slap shot from a backhand, run a time clock and keep a score sheet. I can drive in the snow and wake up at 5 to bring a son to hockey practice. I can cook a dinner with a three step recipe and provide plenty of fruit and vegetables as long as you like them raw.

I cannot convert black feathers into artistic Christmas decorations. I cannot make perfectly creative jewellery. I will not fashion menu cards for Thanksgiving Dinner. I will not coordinate my living room furniture with the lights on my Christmas Tree. My towels only match on laundry day. My floors look like I live in a house with 4 boys and a dog. My kitchen is more often dirty than clean.

Take it or leave it, that's me. And I'd take a picture of my kitchen looking like a bakery exploded if I could find the camera. But I can't. I think its hidden under the laundry.

PS. For Christmas each year since I have had children my long suffering and very patient mother in law sends a box of Christmas baking to my family. A LARGE box of Christmas baking that allows me to pretend that I actually know what I am doing during the entertaining season. Did I mention she has a triple dose of the Domestic Goddess gene and her son, my husband got the shock of his life when he married me and realized it was not universal? Ah yeah, the adjustment of married life.

I really don't know what to say ... so I wrote.

December 5, 2008

Dear President and Board of Fort Saint John Minor Hockey, BC Minor Hockey Executive and all it may concern,

Tonight, December 5th 2009 in Kamloops at the PeeWee AA Rep Hockey Tournament, a player or players on the Fort Saint John team were heard addressing a player on the **** AA PeeWee Team by the term “Nigger”. The child being addressed happens to be African-American and the only visible minority player on **** team. Racist hate speech has no place on the ice at any level and we would like to know that Fort Saint John Minor Hockey and BC Minor hockey considers this to be an extremely serious offense and will be taking immediate action.

As the player being racially attacked also happens to be our son, we demand an immediately inquiry by the association into both the behavior of this particular team and its’ players, as well as Fort Saint John coach who endorsed this sort of behavior from the bench by not preventing it or addressing it when it occurred.

We would like our son to receive a formal apology from the Fort Saint John association and an acknowledgement that verbal attacks of this sort are never acceptable by any player at any time, no matter how intense the game. We would request confirmation that the entire team has received anti-racism education and that the player or players specifically involved in this incident have received appropriate disciplinary action, including immediate suspension.

We anticipate a timely response,


Shelby and Jennifer *** (parents of Eric )



I AM BEYOND ANGRY. A COACH NOT ONLY LET THIS HAPPEN --- HE ENCOUARGED IT BY NOT PREVENTING IT AND ALLOWING HIS PLAYERS TO USE LANGUAGE THAT GOT PROGRESSIVELY WORSE AS THE GAME WENT ON UNTIL IT DESCENDED INTO RASIST HATE MONGERING. There will be hell to pay for the players that did this. BC Minor Hockey says that this results in an immediate suspension and you can bet we will be following up. JERKS.

Question of the day

Greg: "Mom it says here that a lion can only eat 94 pounds of meat
in one sitting. Does that mean he wouldn't be able to finish me
off?"

Me: "Huh? Ah, yeah... I guess? Maybe you are really just 94 pounds of meat and 60 pounds of bone so probably he could eat most of you"

Greg: "Sweet" (standard response to every comment made to G-Baby these days)

It should be noted we live in the NORTH. The fear of a lion eating you for lunch is rather random, but you might freeze to death walking to school in that stupid hoody you refuse to put a coat over. I suppose 13 year olds aren't known for being the brighest bulbs in the box.

Admittedly, working in a Grade 6 & 7 class I get asked a multitude of really idiotic questions every day, usually along the lines of "Mrs. CommonSense do you have a pencil I can borrow? or "Is this for MARKS?" or "That was due TODAY?"

But THIS wins for today's unexpectedly bizarre question.

Dear Mr. Dion,

Dear Mr. Dion.

Leave my democratically elected government alone.

If I had thought for ONE MINUTE you'd be shacking up with the Bloq you would have never had my support. Trust me, the Liberals won't EVER again. Heck, I might even send a Christmas donation to the conservatives.

Yes, I get that this has nothing to do with the economic crisis you might have noticed the rest of the world is in and the fact that Mr. Harper wants to cut off your political party funding. DO YOU THINK WE ARE STUPID?!?! Do your own dang fundraising and leave my stable, elected government alone.

From,

Jen. A really irate Canadian.

PS. Dear American Readers - I realize you have no idea what I am talking about. That's ok, I promise we will stay the stable neighbour to the north. We might end up with someone you can't understand for a Prime Minister but we will still send you our water, gas and oil.

At a loss of words

Seriously I have a GREAT post stewing about my experience at a card store last week and having racism slap me silly across the face. And THEN what happened when I went back the next day. Really, its coming. When I calm down.

And you know, I am almost COMPLETELY ready for Christmas, and if you are on the card list, they are already IN THE MAIL. And that would make a great post, because last year, I completely and totally had zero Spirit and the whole dam season was crap. That would make a great blog post.

And you know my mother? If you see her, could you send her to a shrink. PLEASE. Her life might actually depend on it. And no, I am not exaggerating.

Then there was that Hockey Scout who approached my dad's wife to ask about Greg and said "What is he?". My very smart stepmom replied "A right wing" (that's a hockey position not a political position in our family). Gotta love it when your extended family jumps on the racism aware bandwagon.

But you know ... blech. Its December, its freaking freezing cold and life is crazy busy. You don't care about any of that stuff and I don't feel like writing about it. So instead ... I take the bloggers easy way out and thrill you with some of my favorite old pictures.

Caden. Can you say I got pox?

The Princess and I. Not long before she was gone. I miss her now, at this time of year, so very, very much.

I miss being that Jen. I was happy then. I am changed.

Greg. Back when he wasn't too cool to be goofy.

And the first time I saw my sons' face. Sitting on the edge of the tub, giving baby Tanner a scrub down and my husband walked in with the mail. Our referrals.