Poison Control

Today I got to call poison control.  Luckily, the number was right on the toothpaste tube.

Buttercup is in this awful phase where she gets really really tired and grumpy, but half the time she can't (won't?) nap.  She has been so unpleasant for the last day and a half (since she hit nap time yesterday, and didn't take one) that as soon as she started laying on the table ("more snack please now!") and rubbing her eyes, I put her up on my back.  I really thought she would fall asleep.  She didn't.  I kept her there for an hour and a half anyways, hoping that at least getting some rest for her body would help her find some mental equilibrium.

I finally put her down after everyone was home from school, and they were playing in the bedroom.  I poked my head in a couple of times, and it seemed like a normal, happy game of "we're on an airplane."

Then the older two came out, and we were working on something.  I cannot even remember what it was, but it was something that they needed.  And at first I was thinking "good thing Buttercup isn't in the middle of this, because she would want to do it but just get in the way, and I'm glad that I can explain it at bigger-kid level."  Then I started noticing in the back of my head that it had been quiet on the Buttercup-front for a little bit too long.

I found her in the bathroom, standing on the stool with the water running in the sink.  So far, no surprise; I've caught her making a big, happy mess with pouring water in and around the bathroom sink before.  But what has she got in her hand?  A toothbrush.  In fact, to be specific, her brother's toothbrush.  And what is she doing with it?  Rubbing it on the bar of soap.  Yum!

As I took that away from her, I noticed the tube of toothpaste lying next to the sink.  It's Tom's of Maine kid toothpaste, and it has a flip-up top, but the whole top was kind of loosely screwed on in a suspicious manner.

Buttercup told me, "I go-ed sou-sou.  By MY seff.  And I washed. MY hands!  See, I washing dem." (That emphasis and stop at "my" is her usual phrasing.)
"And you brushed your teeth?" I suggested.
"Yes, an I buss.  MY teef!"

This was obviously a fairly incomplete description of the situation.

I tried to get her to describe if she ate the toothpaste straight out of the tube or put it on her toothbrush (or Emerson's toothbrush, as the case may be) over and over.  She just said yes to both, which might have mean she did both, or she might have just felt agreeable.  She was in a pretty good mood, as she was not only having fun but feeling virtuous for completing all these chores without assistance. When I used gestures, she made it perfectly clear that she thought sucking straight from the tube was a great idea, and yes she would have some more now!

Meanwhile, I was testing the tube to see how much was left.  It was still more than half full, I guessed, but it had been a new tube very recently.  The directions on the back said "call poison control if more than the usual amount used for brushing is swallowed," along with a description of the tiny amount that is supposed to be used for brushing.  Pea-sized, I think; I actually use more like a lentil.  I figured that somewhere around half a tube was more than pea-sized.  I didn't really think she was in grave danger, but I figured that I ought to call the number.  If, of course, I could manage to fight off all the children running around my legs and demanding my immediate attention.  And crying, because someone needed a nap, and instead, had had her beautiful soap-scrubber and water attraction removed.

Did you know Tom's of Maine has it's own, personal, poison control number?  Apparently it does, and that is who I reached.  There were a few preliminary questions about names and ages and so forth.

And that is when Hibiscus got the idea that I was "calling the police on Buttercup!"  At first she was frightened, but I told her I wasn't and to go away, and she kind of believed me but by then thought it was a really exciting idea, so she got all whispery and told her younger siblings about her new theory.

By the time I got off the phone, they were all waiting on tenterhooks for the police car to show up and take Buttercup away.  I explained -- perhaps without a good deal of patience left -- that I didn't call the police, and police don't arrest 3-year-olds anyways, but if you eat toothpaste it can make you very, very sick, so don't anyone do that again.

The poison control woman said that it wasn't that much, and at most Buttercup would have an upset stomach.  But I'm sure that if Hibiscus got the idea in her head to eat toothpaste, she would be much more efficient at it, and probably go through about four tubes in the time it usually takes her to pee.  So I wanted to make it very clear that this was a very bad idea, because generally they are all passionate about trying out each other's bad ideas.  As though, "if it was enough fun to make it worth trying for so-and-so, then I better try it too..."  So I sensed a toothpaste-eating explosion on my hands if not dealt with sternly!

Hibiscus quickly made the switch from police to "am-BOO-lance," and started looking out the window for one of those.  Buttercup started to cry.  Hibiscus danced in circles around her, saying "you're going to get SHOTS, you're going to have to get so many SHO-OTS!!" which quickly turned the crying into downright hysteria.

I picked up Buttercup and said that no one is getting any shots, and an ambulance isn't coming, and Buttercup isn't very sick right now, but no one was EVER to eat ANY toothpaste again.  I don't know about Hibiscus, who was probably enjoying creating drama more than actually believing it all herself, but I think the juxtaposition of "eating toothpaste" and "lots of shots" scared the younger two off of playing with the toothpaste for life!

I said that there were no doctors and no shots today, but Buttercup was supposed to drink a glass of milk.


Buttercup drank that milk with a dedication and singularity of purpose that was admirable to see.

Melatonin and Other Thoughts

I usually give small doses of melatonin to my kids at bedtime.  Yeah, yeah, I know there might be all kinds of mysterious side-effects, and it might not be safe to give every night, or even every week.  But anyone who wants to criticize or worry about this decision is welcome to come along and put my kids to bed, and is especially invited to show up on one of the nights that Hibiscus kneels on the floor and screams at the top of her lungs for ten minutes straight.... or thirty, or forty, and then throws up.  (Which, thank you God, has not happened in several months.)  I can practically guarantee that you will feel much more dismissive about the negative possibilities of melatonin, when faced with the daily realities of my kids at bedtime.

Besides, in the article about how dangerous it is for to use melatonin daily, always ends with some parent saying something about "I know I should have a routine and put the kids to bed at the same time every night, but it's just too hard for me, and that's just not our parenting strength, so we just give them melatonin instead."  Which makes it easy to feel superior to those weak parents who depend on chemical sleep aids.  But I have a routine that is as crystallized as knowing in which order we brush teeth, and who hangs up the towels, and it happens within fifteen minutes of the exact same time every day.  You can't get more precise than that when you have three chaotic children.  And I still start it off with melatonin.

But these poor kids have not yet been farther than a few weeks from changing families, changing houses, changing countries, changing schools, or changing available family members.  Life is rough.  It helps to be able to wake up in the morning well-rested, because you didn't spend two hours traipsing back out to the living room to ask mama if there are any monsters coming in the windows.  And I know that because I've forgotten once or twice.  No more.



Both of the older two children have serious regulatory and sensory issues, and I think that it is very likely that they would be the kind of children for whom doctors would actually prescribe melatonin -- in fact, my son's doctor actually did just that last year.  So I don't have much guilt about giving them a small dose every night, but Buttercup has a fairly balanced system, and I would like to get her out of the habit of needing it.

Today she didn't nap, and she did play outside a lot, so she was plenty tired, so I decided to give it a try.  Although Daddy left for Europe a week ago, so maybe "not in the middle of transitions" doesn't actually apply!

We got ready for bed on time.  We did our routine the usual way.  I turned off the light and started on blessings.  Buttercup was wiggly waiting for her turn, so after her blessing I reminded her to tell her hands to go to sleep, and no more banging and no more talking now.  Then I moved on.

While I was doing Hibiscus's blessing, despite reminders, I heard increasingly more thumping of pillows, chitter-chatter, and eventually the bed started shaking with some sort of gymnastics.  Maybe singing and wiggling oneself to sleep would be acceptable in some households, but all three of my children sleep in the same room, and Buttercup sleeps in the same bed with Emerson, who was already starting to fall asleep.  One singing child is going to set the whole place on fire with energy very quickly.

I tried to not interrupt Hibiscus's prayer time, but as soon as I was done, I snatched up the little firebrand and put her in the guest bedroom.  I plopped her on the bed and told her calmly and firmly it was time to go to sleep.  And I shut the door and left.

A few months ago, she was having sleep trouble, and she would wait quietly, and come out of the bedroom sadly after a while, and I would wrap her to sleep.  But that was when she was going through her "infant regression" sleep phase -- as I thought of it myself; it was also coupled with waking up four to six times a night and needing to be soothed back to sleep.  I didn't want to get into that habit again, as I felt like she was not doing any particular newborn regressing at this moment, she just wanted to stay up and play.  Besides, she will only nap when she is wrapped, which is okay, but she does need to fall asleep sometimes when she is not being worn.

Tonight I was surprised to hear nothing further after shutting the door.  But all parents know that silence can mean "trouble" as easily as it can mean "sleep," and I wanted to kiss her goodnight anyways.  So after five minutes or so I peeked in.

"Look, I do-ed it!" she greeted me cheerfully.  I think she meant getting the entire comforter off the bed, which seemed to be the change.  It's kind of a boring room.  I laid her back down and told her it was time to go to sleep.

"Now do bessings," she chirped.  I said goodnight.  "Now do bessings for me-eee!" she insisted.
"I've already done blessings for you," I reminded her.
"Is okay, do more bessings!' she suggested.
I declined, and continued to leave the room.
"Bad mama!" she yelled at my back, which is her go-to criticism lately.

As I left, she was starting to scream in the familiar toddler-not-getting-her-way sulky tone.  I shut the door.  There is no useful response to "bad mama!"


I did a few more things around the house, but the crying continued.  I was hoping that she would get tired of fussing, which happens sometimes, and either go to sleep, or I would go back in again at that point.  Then I figured that maybe we were trying cry-it-out, toddler version.  I would never, ever use cry-it-out with a baby, but I figure maybe the situation changes when the opening gambit is "bad mama!"

It wasn't more than a minute or two after the screams changed into real, upset cries, and no more than three of four minutes of crying total.  I had taken note before I left, and the room was boring but there was light coming in from outside, so it wasn't dark.  I didn't hear any bumps or sudden increases in volume that would indicate an accident, and no banging on the door.  It was basically long enough for me to gather what I needed to do, sigh, and gird myself for returning to the bedtime fray.

Adopted children can often have abandonment issues, and experts warn that forced isolation isn't the best parenting method for them, because it can awaken their deepest fears -- which does not help improve one's manners.  Just like any, ordinary, special child can have all kinds of fears or thoughts or lonelinesses, and I personally don't think that forced isolation is a good parenting method for any children, who can't explain themselves either.  So we didn't make it long enough to even kind of be a cry-it-out.

I went to check on her.  I could hear the door handle rattling, and I opened it up and found my little girl, totally hysterical.  I picked her up and she clung to my neck.

Then she threw up.  Then there was a giant explosion in her diaper region.  Then she had an asthma attack.

She was doing that sad and adorable little thing where she was trying to hold her vomit in her cupped hands; also while gasping for breath, and burping more vomit up.  I set her on the bathroom counter and cleaned her up and gave her her inhalers, and then I picked her up again.  More toots came cascading out.  I held her and rocked her and patted her back for a while, and she finally said something to me in her tiny little squeaky voice.

"What's that?" I asked.  "What do you want?"
"Me want to go sleepy... your back," she offered, and patted my shoulder suggestively.

After all that, I couldn't resist.  She went "my back," which means getting wrapped up.  She spent a long time snuggling and looking sadly over my shoulder, but finally I peeked up and the big eyes were closed.



So "left alone" is not an option.  I have ruled out "playing enthusiastically on sibling's bed.".  "Crying by self" is definitely a really, really bad choice.

Melatonin is looking better all the time.

Annie's Way in 10 Minutes

I got Annie's Shells and White Cheddar, which is mac and cheese in a box, to help me through the busy nights.  We got back today at only ten minutes until dinner time, which is kind of a disaster for the circadian rhythm of my household.  But luckily, the box promises "Annie's Way in 10 Minutes."  I assume these products are marketed in large part to parents and families, so it is a little confusing that apparently no one at the company has ever actually made mac and cheese and timed the real process.

The ten minutes is the time it takes the pasta to cook, and then make the cheese sauce.  Of course, they don't include the time it takes for the water to boil.  You can try to get around that by putting a pan on to boil while you are still getting children and gear into the house from the car.

The pot starts boiling at some point, and maybe that is the countdown they intended to indicate.  The 10 minutes apparently doesn't include reminding your children to put all their outdoor stuff back in their cubbies, or when they have to get their things from the car but are afraid to go alone, but all the children actually have to go, which should mean mom can be cooking, but somehow the little one is crying about being left behind and mom is helping her put boots on instead of salting the pasta water.  Then they come back, and the water is still boiling, and the 10 minutes do not include the part about the big ones complaining about wet feet, or explaining which chore one child must do, which involves mom being on the other side of the house, and then when you were going to go and actually put the pasta in the water, the little one is crying and getting underfoot, so you might as well wrap her on your back, because you're going to need to do it sooner or later anyways.

Putting the pasta in the water starts the 10 minutes, I believe.  One can add frozen peas and bits of cooked chicken from another night, which makes a more interesting and nutritious meal without actually adding to the 10 minutes, because you can do it while the pasta is cooking.  And with one child on mom's back, one child peacefully putting laundry away in his room (or something, but he was quiet and the laundry vanished), and the other child keeping up a running monologue as she folds paper bags, the pasta can cook in peace.  It is supposed to cook for 8-10 minutes.

By then, the children have finished their chores and are supposed to set the table.  If your pasta took 8 minutes, now you can spend two more minutes melting butter and milk and adding the cheese powder.  It does not include telling your daughter to stop playing with a yoyo and put out the plates, or your son to stop flapping his arms like a bird.  The table didn't need wiping, but the daughter insists on wiping it because she usually does, which means she needs to yell at her brother for trying to put something on the table, because now he's decided to stop flapping his wings and set the table.  The cheese sauce doesn't take very long, but by now the pasta is getting cold, so you put it all in the pan on low heat.  The 10 minutes apparently doesn't include telling the mid-table-wipe child four more times to stop playing with the yoyo.  Or unwrapping the small child to take her to the potty, which you can't do quickly because she yells "I'm not done!  I'm POOO-oooping!"  So you have to go back out, tell the children to put the yoyo down, stop playing, and possibly some of these instructions are delivered in a louder-than-average voice.  And stir the pasta which is sitting on the stove.  The argument about who is supposed to put the plates on the table does not actually take any of the cook's time, although possibly her energy.  The time it takes to wipe a poopy bottom is not included in the 10 minutes, except by now one of the children has become dedicated to the task at hand and has followed you into the bathroom saying "but what do I dooo-ooo! how do I set the taaaa-ble! what do I doo-ooo!" and you keep telling him to do what he does every night.  And when you go to pull up the little one's pants, it turns out she wasn't really standing up, and the sudden change in waistband elevation pulls her flat over onto her nose, and she starts screaming.

The 10 minutes does not include checking for bloody noses, while trying to answer "what do I dooo-ooo!" and tell someone else to put the yoyo down.  The yoyo-ing child's usual jobs are all things that are waiting on the yoyo-er, while the dedicated-to-working-or-yelling child has to wait for something else to happen (like: setting out cups; serving everyone water), so the cook has to spend her time telling the yoyo-er that she is forfeiting the chance to do her job if she doesn't actually do it, which she doesn't, so her brother eagerly dives at the plates with great earnestness, and the smugness that comes from being the one who is being better behaved at that moment.  The cook needs to stir the pasta again, but she can't serve it because she's still comforting the non-bloody nose, and hoping that being buckled in her booster seat will get the cryer thinking about something besides her nose.  The 10 minutes do not include the amount of time for a post-yoyo-ing child to throw a giant fit because she did not get to put the plates out, and the warming pasta needs stirring again.

The 10 minutes do not include the time necessary to locate everyone cups and lids, which invariably fall under everything else.  And the middle-of-the-table-setter is now really busy doing all his sister's jobs as fast as possible while she sulks, so it takes a while to get a coaster for the pasta pot, which is pretty hot by now.

I am not sure whether the 10 minutes are supposed to include the time while the cook slowly serves out pasta, and tries to keep it away from the littlest one, while the two older ones elbow each other out of the way to do the remaining chores as fast as possible, which includes delays like one child opening the silverware drawer, running off to something else, and the other child banging it shut again.  And debates whether it is meant to be a personal insult to be given the less attractive fork.

And in this secular country, they probably did not include the singing of grace as part of the 10 minutes, although it keeps food out of the children's bellies for a little while longer.



Come to think of it, maybe boxed mac and cheese is supposed to be marketed to college students.

In Non-Tropical Weather, I am a Very Mean Mama

The kids were playing crazily inside all morning, so after lunch I sent them outside instead of straight to quiet time.  By the time Buttercup got her outdoor gear on, the other two were ready to come in.  I told them that sorry, it was still outside time.  I put the visual timer in the window so they could see the rest of their half hour.

With ten minutes left, Hibiscus came in the door.  She had been well dressed for the cold, mostly because she got a new snow suit for her birthday, so she was wearing it.

"It's raining," she complained.
"Then put your hood up," I replied.
She came in the door and started to take her coat off, which is kind of the opposite of preparing for the rain.
"Hibiscus, your outside time is not over yet," I warned her.
"I know, but it's raining!" she exclaimed.
"I heard you the first time.  And did I answer, 'go ahead and come in,' or did I say 'then put your hood up'?"

She has experimented approximately every day about coming inside because she has taken off appropriate outdoor clothes, and discovered that I don't actually let her in.  Yesterday I found her sitting in the patio doorway, which was open around her.  We discussed outdoor time being over, which it wasn't, so I told her to go back outside so I could close the door.  She didn't.  She wanted to comb her doll's hair.  I told her to do it outside.  She still waited.  I told her I needed to shut the door.
"So say that thing that you say, and I'll do it," she said.
"Please sit outside to comb your doll's hair," I repeated.
"No, when you say, go in or go out, so I can shut the door," she suggested.  "Then I'll do that."

Yeah, nice try, kiddo, but that's one more choice than I'm prepared to offer!

So today she guessed that more arguing about coming inside might not get her very far, and she slinked outside again.  Immediately afterword, Emerson came up to the door, not dressed very properly for the weather.  I tell them to put on the right clothes, and I insist that they take the clothes with them, but I don't choose to make a fight about whether they actually put them on their bodies.  They can choose to be cold if they really want to.
"It's still outdoor time, so please go back outside," I warned him as he came in.
"It's raining," he announced sulkily.
"So put your hood up, and you'll be fine," I advised.
"But I'm too cold!" he wailed.
"Then put your coat on," I suggested.  Not exactly for the first time.
"It's too cold even WITH the coat!" he yelled.
Which is a little difficult to ascertain, given that he had not tried that method yet.
"I KNOW I'm going to be cold if I put my coat on," he sulked.  Which is possibly true, since he hadn't been wearing a coat for the last half hour or so already.
"Well, you're going to be less cold with your coat on than with your coat off," I reasoned.
"But I'm coming IN!!!" he yelled.  As he kicked off his boots and snowpants.
"No, you're not," I announced.  And I put him and his boots and his snowpants outside.  And his coat.

Last I saw, he was wearing them all.  And do you know what?  All the kids were having fun, too.

Happy Birthday, to Hibiscus

Happy seventh birthday to my wonderful, beautiful daughter.

The sun is fading.  My birthday girl and her busy brother and outside, and the littlest one is in the most snug and cozy nap on my back (in Pavo Hearts, for those who are curious!).  It has been a full and wonderful day.  Hibiscus has the last of the kids' birthdays-in-a-row, and we only made it to America in time for this one.  It's the first birthday in her little life that she's actually gotten to celebrate, or that anyone has cared about at all.  Maybe she's an unusual child who will get to remember her first birthday party!

I hope it was a special day for her.  She and I went out to breakfast this morning, which was actually her very first chance at alone time with mama.  In Uganda, Buttercup had time with me while the big kids were in school, and Emerson got some occasional alone time when the girls had to be somewhere, but there was no logistical way to have Hibiscus with me when the other children were somewhere else.  Today, we selected a cake together, had waffles, and went to the grocery store to get ice cream and juice for the party.  We played Jenga while we waited for our food, and she quickly figured out how to test the blocks to see if they were loose, and control her extra movements to not knock the tower over, as well as waiting for her turn patiently, and discerning the pattern to which blocks could be safely moved.  After two rounds, she said "let's try something else" as she started to make shapes with the blocks.  She said she was making a fence for a horse, and I built a horse out of Jenga blocks inside her fence, which impressed her.  Then we built other kinds of towers.

We ate our waffles and ended up talking about school.  She described how one of the staff at her Ugandan school had pinched her and called her a "villager" because she was eating her eggs in the car, and we talked about how that made her feel.  Well, I talked about that, because she still doesn't really have feelings words yet.  Then I asked what happens at Waldorf school in America, and she described -- her tone is still reverent and shocked -- how when she can't do something at Waldorf school, the teachers HELP her figure it out.  I asked her which way works better, being made fun of or being helped, and she said it works much better when the teachers help her out.  I told her that it made me feel really good that I could send her to school at a place where I knew she was safe from being made fun of, and the teachers help her out, and I'm sorry that that happened to her before, but that was the best that anyone was able to do.


And that pretty much sums up my feelings about Hibiscus's birthday.  I am so intensely joyful for her presence in our family and in my life, and so intensely sorrowful about what I haven't been able to shield her from.  About the things that meant she was on the road to become part of our family.

Last night I went into a Hallmark store to pick out a card for her.  I wanted something sappy and sweet and beautiful, and I thought about the things I wanted to write inside.  I thought about some words that I would say to her, to give her some little message to hold onto about how precious she is to me.  So much of our relationship, so much of our lives, is full of frustration and trying to guide her into place, into control.  Self-control, hopefully; eventually.  I know this time is hard on her, but I have deep faith that eventually she will settle into something much stronger and more positive than if I just let her be crazy and do whatever she wanted to.  But these months have been so hard on me, too, and I have sometimes lost my own self-control.  If I can't model patience and fortitude, at least I try to model handling my anger in a non-destructive manner, and owning my mistakes and apologizing.  But I'm not a very demonstrative person, so I fear that the occasional outburst of anger overpowers my gentle demonstrations of love.  In her birthday card, I didn't want to bring up the difficult parts, but I wanted to tell her about how much I love her despite them.

I stood in front of the rack of "daughter" cards and actually started to cry, although it probably wasn't visible to an outside observer.  (I mentioned that I'm not demonstrative!)  I was so proud and happy to have a daughter, and have a daughter whom I could give a card to and was old enough to understand and care.  It was one of those moments when you can stop and think about your life, and I remembered that it wasn't very long ago that I didn't have any daughter at all, and now I have this amazing and lively girl who is turning seven, and that I'm the one who can teach her about love, and safety, and faith, and beauty, and being a woman.  That whole display of sweet pictures couldn't sum up how proud and happy I am to be a mother of a daughter, of my own daughter, my very special girl.

Then I opened up cards and started to read them, to pick one out.  First of all, it seemed like most of them were written to be given to an adult daughter, so some of them I had to put down because they described "now you've grown into," as though growing into being yourself is a process that is ever finished.  I kept skimming and reading.

They were all filled with phrases like "through the years," and "on the day of your birth," and "your birth made me a mother," and "I remember all your birthdays," and "every year since your birth," and so on and so forth.

And I still felt teary, but now they were suddenly angry tears, and I left the store without buying anything, and I didn't manage to give Hibiscus any kind of card at all.  Writing about love is probably more my way of showing affection than her way of receiving it anyways.


I wasn't there when she was born.  I didn't know I was a mother then, and in fact, I wasn't, because it wasn't my job to protect her and teach her about love, and safety, and everything else.  But then no one else did it either, and I wasn't there to step in and protect her, and make her world better.  I was far away and I didn't know anything about her, while she was learning about loneliness, and hunger, and that when the getting gets tough, no one is going to help you out.  And I haven't been with her through the years, and I haven't seen her change and grow through her birthdays.  A few days ago she was telling us about some scary things that happened in her old life, and then contemplating how she never had "a happy birthday" before, and she wonders why I didn't stop the bad stuff and help the happy stuff along.  And I say "I wish I could have been there, and I would have made the bad boys stop teasing you," and "I wish I could have been there, and I would have baked you a cake."  Solving the problems in fantasy helps her a little bit, and her sad face turns into a little smile, as she imagines me chasing those bad boys away.

My own heart pains with the desperation of that wish.  I know that it makes no logical sense, but how deeply and passionately I wish that I had been able to be there from the beginning.  That I could have put myself between her little baby self and the cruel world that assaulted her without cease.  That I could have picked her up every time she cried so she learned that trust is real.  That I could have fed her, and made silly faces with her, and taught her feelings words when she was a toddler.  I have some misty vision of myself, perhaps time-travelling, in her parents' shack when she was a newborn.  I would say something like, "she's going to be my daughter anyways, so why don't we just start right now," as I picked her up, and they already knew things were bad and had been in the middle of an argument about how they were going to take care of an extra person, a helpless girl, so they would have been just as relieved as they were almost seven years later in real life.  And it wouldn't have saved her all the pain of losing the family you are born to, but it would have saved her six and half years of pain.

But I can't give her that.  I can't give her all those cakes that she missed, getting to take the first bite, the chance to be the most important person of the day six more times.


So we did what we could for number seven.  She picked out a chocolate cake in the shape of a heart from the bakery, which also makes me a little sad, because I always make birthday cakes but I wasn't able to manage it in time for the party.  She did not get a balloon or a box of chocolate or a carton of orange juice in the store, because of course she suddenly wanted everything, but I was determined to keep the excitement of this day within the realm of what she could handle.  But she had some time when a mother paid attention just to her, and acted like she was valuable and reasonable.  And she had a party filled with people who love her, which was ourselves and two other families.  When we sang our blessing and I added a prayer of thanks, for her seventh year, and being finally back in America so we could celebrate it all together, the whole table resonated with agreement and thanks for being together.

And new clothes.  And a dollhouse.  I could give her all those things.

Some times all that seems so joyful.  And other times, it seems so paltry.


So today, very happy birthday to my daughter, my special daughter, the daughter who fills my house with laughter and with energy, my very own daughter.  This year, I will try and teach you about love, about safety, about faith, about beauty, about being a woman.  I will try and do the best I can, and I'm sorry that it's not enough; that I'm six years too late.  We will start with this day, and do what we can with tomorrow.  I love you so much.

Re-entry: Surprises

For the last few months, I haven't really allowed myself to think about life in Oregon.  I never started mentally preparing myself to be home, because "just around the corner" stretched on forever.  Then suddenly we had the visa appointment and I was packing like crazy, and still not thinking and feeling about the change.

There are so many surprises.  Some of them made me feel almost angry, like "why have I had to live so many months without this, when it is right in my own home!"  Some of the things that are normal in America suddenly seem strange or silly.  Some of them make me miss Uganda.  Some of them I just don't know where I fit.  Some of it seems so familiar, and yet so distant.  This is just a long list of things that suddenly jump out at me as I float through the days.


The toilet paper is so thick and soft, and works so well.  And the toilets are different, of course; they seem to be different everywhere!  When we went to the bathroom in the Seattle airport, Hibiscus went in her stall and popped right back out, complaining "Mama, my potty is already full!" I was disappointed that she would find yuck in her very first American toilet, when in general the toilets here are so much cleaner than in Kampala.  But there was no excrement, just water.  The bowl was full of water.  Ugandan toilets only have a little water at the very bottom.  Now that she pointed it out, it looks strange to me, too.  But the Ugandan toilets seem to have a giant, powerful flush, and the American ones are much more subtle.

My mattress is so nice and soft and supportive and comfortable.  Why have I spent so long sleeping on awful mattresses?  Most of them were foam, which was too hard new, and as it got used you could feel the boards underneath.  The last apartment had a luxurious spring mattress... which was so hard and pokey that I could only stand it if I slept on TOP of the bedspread.


"Where are all the people?" Hibiscus asked.  I don't know.  It seems like there is no one here, even in the middle of our city.  All the space is taken up by huge, smooth roads, and sprawling parking lots, and vacant lots that don't have any corn growing in the middle of them.  It feels lonely.

Everything is so big.  All the buildings are so big.  On our drive from Seattle back to Oregon, we had to stop to get something, and the first place we found was a WalMart in some tiny town.  Africa to Wal-Mart: I don't recommend it.  I practically had a panic attack.  Minus the top three largest cities, probably just about any Ugandan town or city could have fit inside that store, and with every single citizen and nearby farmer milling about, they still wouldn't have figured out what to do with all the STUFF.  That is an insane, crazy amount of stuff.

Our house is big.  The school is big.  The yards are big.  Why do we need all this space?  I'm not ready to jump into being a poor Ugandan, and fit my 12 family members into a house the size of my bedroom.  But 600 square feet per person is not a "need," it just isn't.  (Unless you're a family of one, in which case 600 square feet seems fairly reasonable.)  Although I do like my big, open yard, probably mostly because it has lots of garden in it.  I freely acknowledge that it probably takes about three times as much land to grow the same amount of food, just in the same season, so the gardens and farms are reasonably allowed to be bigger.  And I support playgrounds and public space.  But grassy yards that no one plays in?  That's a little confusing right now.

And the people are so big!  I had forgotten Americans are so big.  There are plenty of tall people in Uganda, so I hadn't felt the lack of tall-ness.  But maybe the proportion of tall people is higher here.  Or maybe the "tall" genes in Uganda go along with "lithe and somewhat boney."  (That is not a joke; they are much less ethnically blended than we are, so the ethnic group that is tall is also a group that tends to be very lithe; also blacker than the Muganda.)  I am a fairly petite person, and I suddenly feel like I am looking up all the time, and that feels different somehow.



Speaking of looks, it's an amazing experience not to stand out dramatically everywhere I go.  In fact, there are so many different types of people I don't think anyone stands out as dramatically as I did in Africa.

Although I still caught people trying not to stare at us when I was out with Buttercup.  People actually make an effort to not stare, which is different, but actually, when you are used to just being stared at, it seems kind of weird to work so hard to pretend you're not looking.  Why do we Americans make such a big deal about not looking at each other?  I remember this when I came back from Italy, too.  Just calmly looking at someone when you want to see what they look like seems to make more sense.

Anyway, they are looking at us.  I haven't figured out yet if it's because I am carrying a baby whose skin doesn't match mine, or because I have her tied to me with a giant piece of cloth.  I suppose I could do an experiment, and carry her some other way and see if we got fewer stares, but that doesn't seem worth the trouble.  In Africa, I knew exactly why people were staring at us.  It was because I was carrying a baby whose skin didn't match mine, and I had her tied to me with a giant piece of cloth in THE WRONG WAY.

It seems so odd to pay for everything with a credit card, and not be carrying around a wallet full of cash.  The first couple times, I forgot that I had the capability of buying something, since I didn't have cash in the appropriate currency yet.  And spending half my going-out energy thinking about how and when to procure that cash.  But if I do pay with cash, that seems pretty confusing as well, because it's all the same size and color.  America has a lot of green bills.

That, and the cash is so valuable.  Mark gave me a $50 bill to take into Wal-Mart, and part of my impending panic attack was thinking about how many shillings I had in that one little piece of paper.  I didn't dare take my hand off the bill in my pocket the entire time!  The largest value bill in Uganda is about $20, but those are kind of hard to use because most people don't have change, so most transactions are done with the $8-ish bills or smaller.

The computer that I used to use all the time seemed so overwhelming and I couldn't figure out how to do things.  And the screen is gigantic!  You make whatever you're doing so big, and you can still see a bunch of other things at the same time.  That screen just by itself seems to be lead directly to ADD.  Mark says they don't make computer screens that are any smaller any more.  Luckily, I can avoid getting ADD myself by going right back to doing everything on my iPad Mini, like I have for the last many months, but I think it's bad news for everyone else who is normalizing looking at that many pixels at once!


I hope I remember how to drive, because I'm driving.  I think I usually manage to turn into the correct lane, because I think about the driver being towards the middle of the road and try to ignore the left-right-ness, which gets confusing fast.  I think I might have forgotten a few of the policies about ceding the right of way.  In Uganda, whoever is moving has the right of way, and they "hoot" to remind people that they are coming through and to get out of the way, but they are often cede the right of way to turning cars.  I am quite sure that I have managed to not hoot at any bicyclists or pedestrians as I drive by!  But it's possible that I have not ceded at the right moment.  I do remember that I am actually supposed to pay attention to the red and green lights.

And I have forgotten how to drive around my city.  I just kind of head out on auto-pilot, and have a vague muscle-type memory of making certain turns or going in certain directions, but I can't think of the streets ahead of me and how they lead to where I'm going.


I don't remember where things are in my own kitchen.  How strange is that?  It's a very strange feeling.  I found a mini-dustpan in the garage (which I remembered is supposed to live in the bathroom) and used it for two days because I didn't remember that I keep the dustpan and whisk broom under the sink.  How convenient!  And I keep finding myself opening two or three cupboards to figure out where some ingredient lives.


I had forgotten about all the different American accents.  I'm used to hearing so many sounds of English around me, and being able to pick the American one out of a crowd.  If it's another ex-pat, we just kind of smile at each other and don't have to ask where we've come from, unless it's by state; if it's a traveler, they probably think American English is normal.  But now I suddenly remember that there are all sorts of different ways of speaking American.  And it is so mumbly.  Overhearing the general rumble of child-speech at my children's school sounds like what morse code or heart monitors look like.

I had not thought about American music.  Some of it I recognize and some of it I don't.  Just all the different kinds of sounds you hear in stores and on phones and out in the world.  Not to mention, hearing music in all the stores. I had forgotten that was part of the shopping experience.


I have not re-mastered the greeting ritual.  Some people cut right to the chase and say something like "this register's open," and I can handle that.  But some people say "how are you?" and my heart feels all friendly, and I reply "I am fine, thank you, and how are you today?" and they say "fine" and then there is an awkward pause.  I am not sure why the pause is awkward.  I think they are confused why saying "how ya doin'" is taking so long.  I was still feeling friendly.


And that's my random thought train list of things I'm still trying to figure out about America.

Re-entry: Five Minutes a Week Later

Remember my five-minutes story, with Hibiscus's upsidedown kidney bean mouth because I was walking out the door?  I can describe her someone-is-leaving tantrum very distinctly, because it happened any time any one needed to go out the door, for any reason.  And apparently when her mouth is opened to its widest and saddest shape, combined with the highest possible amount of noise, it becomes a giant upsidedown kidney bean.  To go along with the wide-open mouth, there are flailing arms, diving towards the object of her affection, falling on the ground or bumping into objects, and screams of "don't go!" and "me too I'm going wiv you!", devolving into guttural wails.  The person in question can only walk out the door because the other person is physically holding her back.  After the departing person has departed, the hysteria gradually wanes, but the dramatic mouth shape and associated wails continue for up to half an hour.

I don't know whether she believed that once our family was re-united in magical America, we would all be together all the time, or if simply her deep fears of abandonment and separation were re-ignited by our move across the globe.  Meanwhile, Mama has to go to an appointment?  Kidney-bean mouth hysteria.  Mama gets back, but Daddy has to go to work for a couple hours?  Kidney-bean mouth hysteria.  Mama is taking a walk without children?  Kidney-bean mouth hysteria.  Daddy has to go to a meeting at work? Kidney-bean mouth hysteria.  Daddy has to shovel the driveway or Mama goes to get something from the barn?  Kidney-bean mouth hysteria.  Generally, she understood much better when she has to go to school, and thus is the one doing the leaving, and was apprehensive but calm.  But she has to go to school but Emerson stays home?  Total kidney-bean mouth hysteria, every time she thinks about it.


So I need to describe Daddy's departure for work this morning.

The kids were all playing in the living room.  Daddy came by and announced cheerfully that he was leaving.  (Side note: we have never, ever snuck away from the children, no matter how much easier it might be.)
"Aw, don't go to work!" Hibiscus cried, obviously disappointed.
"I have to go to work, but I'll see you at dinner time," Daddy replied, and kissed them each.
"Daddy has to go to work so our family has money," Hibiscus repeated the familiar line.  Then she thought a little more.  "Don't go to work today.  I think we have enough money already!"  I can certainly see why it seems that way to her!
"I have to go to work," Daddy answered, getting his coat and hat.
"Come home at lunch time, then," Hibiscus ordered.
"I have a meeting at lunch.  I have to have lunch with someone special," Daddy explained, realizing they might not understand what a meeting was.
"Then bring the special person home and have lunch with us!" Hibiscus suggested.  This made me laugh, the idea of Daddy conducting any kind of business meeting with my three little monkeys swinging off his arms and spilling their yogurt on his lap, all with the greatest amount of affection and enthusiasm.  My children really love guests.  My laughter made the children start to laugh, too, and then Hibiscus asked what was funny.
"I can't come home for lunch, but I'll see you at dinner.  I love you all!  Bye-bye!"  And Daddy walked out the door.

And the children kept playing.  And that is the end of the story.

Re-entry: Contemplating Richness

We narrowly escaped our rabid apartment manager and left Uganda two weeks ago today.  This is our eleventh day at home.  So far, we have had four days to look around us, three days of normal routine, and this is the fifth day of snow-and-ice storm.  The school days calmed down a little bit, as the more intense kids had somewhere to go and something to think about (and were just plain out of the house for a while!), but other than that, most of that has been pure chaos, all the time.  Everyone has more big feelings than they know how to deal with, apparently!  But around yesterday, I started seeing a return to their normal rhythm and interaction with each other.  And somewhere around then, by the time the kids were all in bed, Mark and I had enough energy to actually talk and connect and enjoy being together.  Although as other parents will recognize, we mostly talked about our kids!

Mark said that he had worried about how the girls would fit into our lives here, but it hadn't been a problem, and they already seemed to belong.  I was glad to hear that, because we have all had a long time to get used to each other, but Mark has had a long time of quiet and potential concentration.  Life with the monkey troupe is pretty much exactly the opposite of that, so I am glad that it feels like a positive change to him.



He also said that our family is so much richer.

I agree so deeply.  I have spent so much of my time and energy and emotion on all the day-to-day details in the last months, from extraordinary things like trying to figure out how to get passports and deal with strange beaurocracy, to ordinary small-child life like managing tooth brushing and mopping up endless spills of water.  That's what my thought train has been about, and that's what I've been writing about, but under it all is a feeling about us all, about who "we" are now.  It's hard to find the time and words to describe what our family, the family-ness of it, is now.  "Rich" is exactly the right word.

All three children have such vivid personalities, and they are all so different from each other.  Our family is rich in Hibiscus's passion and energy, Emerson's planning and ideas, and Buttercup's empathy and concentration.

Our home is so full of feelings, as the little children grapple with their emotions.  Sometimes this means we are guiding through some difficult times, and the light in their little faces and bodies as we help them come through the difficult times shines more brightly than the sun after an ice storm. Other times, the intensity of their excitement ricochets off the walls, and travels through our family like the warmth of fire.  Our family is rich is joy and sorrow, pain and success, longing and fulfillment.

Children naturally soak up everything they can figure out and learn.  Three different children of three different ages and three different sets of curiosities are fascinating to watch through the day. Sometimes they approach life in different ways, and Emerson drives cars up and down ramps, while Hibiscus snuggles with dolls, and Buttercup moves play kitchen items back and forth.  Other times they tackle the same project with different goals and energy, like watching the different ways they approached making class Valentines.  They all love to read books, and we answer questions or hear the stories that resonate in their own hearts and minds, or overhear the lessons they explain to each other over the pages of the book in another room.  The light in a pair of eyes when the child figures out something new or feels successful lights up the house like little suns playing hide-and-seek.  Our family is rich in curiosity, exploration, and new ideas.

Three young minds are always coming to interesting conclusions and unexpected correlations.  I just heard Emerson describing a lego picture as "that's where Satan piles up the dead bodies" -- in a children's book.  Last night Hibiscus prayed for her teachers that "dear Lord forgive all their sins, for they know not what they do," which is a creative juxtaposition of prayers.  At dinner, Buttercup randomly popped out that she was thankful for the "miracle" of flying in the sky that got her to America and Daddy, which was not what we expected out of her lisping little mouth.  Getting to hear three sets of untraditional ideas every day keeps our minds more fresh than endless pots of green tea.  Our family is rich in laughter and thinking of things in new ways.

And other kinds of laughter as well!  Three children bring out the joy and silliness in each other.  They can get re-ignite each other over and over with any emotion, and sometimes they end up collapsing on the floor in mutual, joyful hysteria.  Our family is rich in children's laughter.

Of course, they also ignite each other's frustration, and follow each other into sadness, worry, or fear.  The inner and emotional life of children is deep and powerful, just like it is for all humans.  But we are together, and we can help each other wrestle with the "yucky" parts.  We parents cannot solve all their problems, but it is always a miracle when our loving arms can provide some solace and shelter.  Our family is rich in healing.

Mathematically, three children provide at least seven different relationships, of being alone or together in different combinations, and each combination brings out different facets of each child.  I never, ever tire of watching those relationships.  I never tire of observing the different ideas they come up with in play, or the way they inspire each other to creativity.  I never tire of seeing the gentleness and protective nature of my children flare up to help the younger ones, or the inspiration for trying harder to keep up with the older ones.  Even when they disagree or fight, they are gradually learning to solve their own problems and accept other people's opinions and needs, and they are finding every day that the love for each other is much deeper than their frustration -- or as they would put it themselves, that their siblings are "really good play-ers."  I never tire of watching their interactions grow and change.  Our family is rich in friendships, and ever-growing relationships.

And the love.  I can't even begin to describe the love.  I tell Emerson that love is like the Nile river pouring out of Lake Victoria, unimaginably deep and wide and infinite.  And that's just the love pouring through one person, so now our family is five deep rivers of love, each going five different ways.  Every day is special as each relationship deepens or is rediscovered with their Daddy, and his special kind of love and laughter brings out new facets of their personalities, and new kinds of love in their hearts.  Meanwhile, our love expressed as snuggles puts them to sleep, helps them out of tears, gives them strength to go to school, makes them feel beautiful, rewards them for hard work, soothes the owies, and teaches them that they love books.  The feelings behind those snuggles are the fuel that powers our days, and gives each child the strength to grow.  Buttercup's face lights up when I reach for her, as she puts her arms around my neck and says "here is my mama!"  Emerson's project isn't complete until he brings it to me to admire, and I give words to his confidence.  Hibiscus quietly glows from inside as she leans into my body and absorbs praise and confidence from my words of thanks.  Just contemplating the depth and power of each of my children's love for me brings tears to my eyes, and all the thinking in the world can hardly begin to contemplate my love for these three little beautiful souls in my care.


Our family is so rich in love.  We are so rich.

Re-Entry: Five Minutes in a Day

I got home from an afternoon dentists' appointment and errands.  One thing I had not exactly forgotten, but had not remembered how to work into my daily thinking, is how it gets dark in the afternoon, when it is actually winter and you aren't living next to the equator.  So it was that time of day when it is light enough outside, but you have to turn on the lights inside.  The kids were running around the living room, Buttercup had just woken up from her nap, and the dogs were jumping and going crazy.  Daddy was looking frazzled.

Mark and I had a quick conference.  We decided that the dogs needed a walk and the kids needed to get outside.  These seem to be compatible goals, but we thought that by the time everyone got their outdoor clothes on we wouldn't have any light left.  So I would take the dogs up to the trail near to our house, and Mark would take the kids out into the back field, where they could dig in the sand pit and get some crazy energy out.  He asked that I could take one of the kids with me, because kids going loudly in two directions is much easier than kids going loudly in three directions.  I was more than willing to take anyone along on my walk.  Energy-wise, it would have been best to bring one of the older children, so Buttercup could get some wiggles out after her nap, and the intensity would be divided up.  However, the benefit to Buttercup is that she can be dressed and moved by a parent.

We came back into the living room and I told all the kids to get their coats, rainpants, and boots on, because we were all going outside.  Daddy started gathering outdoor clothing and issuing reminders about what to do with them.  Hibiscus ran down the hall one way.  Emerson ran around the living room the other way.  I put the leashes on the dogs, who were wiggling and practically fainting with excitement, but calm and focused as soon as they knew that we had a goal in mind. Buttercup watched.  Hibiscus jumped up and down and yelled.  Emerson looked out the patio door and jumped up and down.  I reminded them that everyone needed to get ready to go outside.  I put Buttercup on a chair and popped on her fleece, shoes, and hat.  The dogs stood in place and stared at me with all the intensity of their small, furry beings.  Hibiscus ran in circles around the loop in the hallway.  Emerson was jumping on the bed, which oddly enough is on the opposite side of the house than everything outside.  I collected the dog treats, a wrap, and my keys.  The dogs followed me while never losing sight of the door.  Buttercup sat on the chair and adjusted her zipper.  Hibiscus was running up and down the hallway, singing.  Daddy had put rainpants in Emerson's hands, and he was enthusiastically flapping them up and down.  I put on my coat and boots, picked up the leashes in one hand and Buttercup in the other.  The dogs lovingly and quietly followed exactly behind me.  Buttercup held onto my neck.  Emerson came to see what was going on.

Hibiscus screamed "ARE YOU LEAVING??!!!  DON'T GO!!!  I WANT TO GO TOO!!!"

Daddy explained that I was taking the dogs out.  I said I would be right back.

Hibiscus screamed "I DON'T WANT MAMA TO GO AWAY!!! I WANT TO GO TOO!!!!"
Emerson agreed that he wanted to come.  Buttercup watched them.  By now we were out the door on the porch, with the other kids on the other side of the door.  Tears were running down Hibiscus's face and her mouth was contorted  into the shape of a giant, upsidedown kidney bean.  It is her special "I don't want someone to go" face.

I told them that they couldn't come with me because they weren't ready to go.  See, I had on my boots and coat, and Buttercup had on her boots and coat, but Hibiscus and Emerson had not gotten ready and they didn't have any outside clothes on.

Hibiscus screamed "WE WILL GET READY VERY VERY FAST!!!  LOOK AT ME I AM GETTING READY VERY FAST!!!" and she dived randomly towards the pile of outdoor clothes.  Emerson turned to stare at the outdoor clothes too, and he picked up something in his non-rainpants hand.

I explained that we were leaving right now this second, in fact we had already left the house, and they weren't ready right now, so they could go outside with Daddy and I would be back soon.

Hibiscus screamed "I GETTING READY VERY VERY FAST!!!"  Her wails followed our trip down the driveway as Daddy wrestled the house door shut and said comforting words, which were completely ignored.

The dogs jumped eagerly into the car and I bucked Buttercup into her carseat, which apparently wasn't a fast enough exit to convince Hibiscus that we were gone.

As I came around to my side of the car, the house door popped open again.

There was Hibiscus, wailing with deep misery and a great deal of noise.  "I READY TO GO WIV YOO-UUUU!!!" she screamed.  "LOOK, I IS ALL READY TO GO-OOOO!!!"

She was wearing one large shoe.  And Daddy's spring jacket.  Upsidedown.

We drove away.




But you know what?  We did come back.

Snow Snow Snow!!!

Snow days!!  Hibiscus couldn't wait to see snow, and has been praying about longing to go skiing for several months now.  ("Dear God, I want to get to America to see Daddy and Gramma and go skiing.")  We didn't expect that her wish would be granted so quickly!  Yesterday morning Emerson burst into our bedroom saying, "Daddy, I peeked out my window, and I saw the bush, and after the bush it was white!"  At first Daddy thought he was exaggerating, but a confirmation glance indeed found a dusting of snow.  The excitement reverberated off the walls.  Literally.  Mark keeps finding all the pictures askew!

There wasn't very much, so I thought it was a nice compromise: Hibiscus got to see her first snow, but school wouldn't be cancelled and I could have my regularly scheduled day.  Before I got up, Mark checked the school's status, and indeed, school was still scheduled.  Like any child, Hibiscus complained about this, but not much because she was too busy running outside and tasting the snow!

Emerson was right along with me hoping for school to be in session.  Hibiscus is in first grade all the mornings in the week (Waldorf first-graders don't have afternoon school), but Emerson is still enrolled in only three mornings of kindergarten.  We are planning on doing homeschool on the other two mornings, and this was the first Thursday and thus the first day of homeschool.  Emerson was super duper excited about starting homeschool, and was all ready to sit down at a desk and do some lessons.  Except we don't have a desk for him, so I was trying to convince him that he could do homeschool at the kitchen table, and he had finally agreed that he would get a desk for first grade.

While I was getting ready in the bathroom, Hibiscus was nearby, and in the distance we heard Daddy answer the phone.  I was asking why she wouldn't want to go to school, because then she got to see her friends, which did pique my little extravert's attention: but snow still won out.  Then Daddy came in to tell us that that was the phone tree, and school had actually been cancelled.

"Yay!" cried Hibiscus, jumping up and down with great delight.  "I'm glad there's no school, 'cause it's really important that I stay home all day so I can see the snow all day long, and see what it does."
"There's snow at school, too," I pointed out.  My little girl froze in shock, and then her little face fell.
"I wanna go to SCHOO-OOOL!" she wailed.  Snow AND friends was apparently an unbeatable combination!


It's been a snowy winter by Willamette Valley standards.  We usually get a dusting of snow a few times in a winter, but they had a big snow in December (which we missed while our Ugandan cold spell involved not kicking off the blanket at night), and then we have just had more snow.  Yesterday the dusting turned into flurries and accumulated some real snow, and it stayed all night and then kept snowing all day today.  By the end of the day we had about eight inches of powder, which definitely makes it into the top two or three snows I've seen in my ten years in Oregon!

This might be the time to point out that I grew up in Alaska.  I spent Halloweens with a snowsuit under my costume, and months with skis on my feet.  Oregonians love to complain about the cold weather, snow, and icy roads, but I just plain love it.  I love seasons, and I love anything that seems like genuine winter.  Whenever people mentioned that I was missing all the cold weather being over in Uganda, I think they thought that I had the lucky side, but as far as I was concerned, it was just rubbing salt in the wound!  The pictures of the December snowstorm made me at least as crazy with longing as they did for Hibiscus!


The first day of snow was just plain chaotic.  Hibiscus was so excited she didn't know what to do with herself, which has a way of making everyone else not know what to do with themselves, either.  We had a playdate scheduled, and my friend and her young children came over, which meant that eventually we had FIVE little awkward snowsuited bodies tumbling around and crying when they fell down.  That was kind of the way the whole day went.  The kids had a wonderful amount of fun as soon as they went out in the snow, and then everything turned horrible before we parents could even blink, and everyone was back inside again.

Part of the problem is that certain children have not yet figured out that warm clothes keep them warm.  This is not limited to snow, but it is exacerbated by it.  The day before, Emerson and Hibiscus had dived out the door into "outdoor play time," past my offers of rain pants and mittens.  "It's not very cold any more, Mama!" they yelled as they streaked by.  It was indeed warmer than it had been that morning, so I let them go.  Minutes later they were back inside and complaining that they were frozen, which had nothing to do with refusing to put their layers on!

Hibiscus apparently found that certain articles of clothing inhibited her pure enjoyment of the snow, so the morning play-time was taken up by trips to the back door to announce that she was shivering.
"Where is your hat?" I would ask.
"I don't know," she'd reply.  (Turns out it was frozen to a concrete block in the back yard.)
"Where are your mittens?" I would ask.
"Over dere, on da table."
"Why is your coat unzipped?"
Surprised look down at her coat, which was waving open in the breeze.
"Go get your mittens, shake them out and put them on, put on this hat, and --- here, your coat in zipped and --- here, your hood is up.  Now you won't be cold any more.  Go and play."

I think we had three outings into the backyard, none of which lasted more than twenty minutes at the most.  I happen to believe that children need to spend a decent portion of their lives outside, and nature (and a big backyard!) was one of the things I missed the most in Uganda.  It snows for months in Alaska, so we wear boots and snowsuits.  It rains for months in Oregon, so we wear slightly different boots and rain gear.  Five-minute playtimes because you don't dress properly do not fly very well with this mama!



I personally did not find that a very impressive way to spend one of the few days of snow in the entire year, but luckily we did better today.  Mark had finally finished getting chains on the van to try and drive through up the driveway and off to work, when he heard that there was so VERY much snow that everyone who had made it to work was heading home again.  In my mind, a snow day for the whole family is a whole different kettle of fish than one that just means that mama has extra children for more hours!

The children talked about skiing yesterday, and by the end of the day there was enough that little skis could probably have something to slide on in the field.  Big puffy flakes kept coming down all day, and by afternoon there was enough for a genuine ski outing.  I think this is the first time I have ever been able to go for a proper ski out my back door!


Mark pulled everyone's skis out of the garage.  Unfortunately, that meant "everyone who already had skis," since we had only arrived from an equatorial country eight days earlier and had not yet had a chance to go ski shopping.  Or even snowsuit shopping, for that matter, although rain pants had been at the top of the priority list, so everyone had some outdoor pants, and friends have sent plenty of warm jackets.  Emerson still fits into what he wore last year, since he has been growing at the rate of a crocodile.  (Did you know that crocodiles grow extremely slowly, since they have a very slow metabolism?  That's why they sit around sunning themselves all the time, too.  These are the things you learn while living in a non-skiing kind of climate.)  Buttercup can wear the things that Emerson used a couple years ago, and of course Mark and I have our own things.  This leave Hibiscus off by her lonely self with no exciting snow gear.  Of course she was very upset about that, but she kept very busy and happy in the snow anyways.

Getting everyone dressed took the first half of the afternoon.  I figured that if children kept taking off their outer warm bits of clothing, at least we could make them wear more things on the inside, which they couldn't access to remove and leave here and there across the field.  So we found non-cotton undershirts and long johns for everyone, and chased them up and down the house while they found other interesting things to do and declared that they weren't cold and didn't need them.  Well of course you don't; the heater is set to 68 degrees, because this is INSIDE the house.

By the time we got outside, I figured that we had better go somewhere, so that going right back in the door was not a viable option.  We headed out across our fields, through the neighbor's field, and onto the roads going to the nearby school, which has a playground, which I thought would make a good destination.  There was so much snow and so little traffic that the roads were like smooth-but-lightly-fluffy groomed ski trails.  I can't ever remember seeing the roads covered with snow in the afternoon!



I was so proud of my two little skiers!  We have made a point of taking Emerson skiing several times a winter since he was a toddler, believing that cross-country skiing is one of those skills best learned when you are too young to realize you are learning anything.  Every year he has been assimilating the feelings a little bit more, and even after the whole year passing, he soon found his cross-country legs again.  He got frustrated trying to get through the fields, with the puffy snow and the little slopes and tussocks of grass, but went much more quickly and happily on the road.  The way up was a gradual slope, and we went back down together.  I held his hand and kept him moving, and he kept his balance right along with me, even when the downhill got more distinct.  When we got back to the flatter part, he skied on his own again.  He had had so much fun going quickly that he tried to keep doing it, and managed to get some slide-and-glide into his steps.  If you have ever been an experienced skier along with little children, you know that they tend to just plod along on those potentially magical instruments, so a little bit of slide-and-glide was a wonderful development as far as I was concerned!


Buttercup was on skis for the first time, and in snow for the first time, and in a snow suit for the second time, and had only been in America for nine days altogether.  And she took it all in stride, and decided to learn to ski.  Buttercup has this amazing intent concentration that is just wonderful to watch.  (Especially after watching her older sister bounce from one thing to another for two days without cease!)  It took a very long time to get the first fifty yards or so, also involving problems with mittens and bindings, but then she started to figure out what was going on.  I kept reminding her to keep her toes going straight, or looking right at Daddy, or in the tracks, and she would intently try to find her ski-tips and put them somewhere.  Other than that, I tried to just let her figure out how her body worked in this new way.  For a while she was trying to pick up her feet and walk, but then she figured out how to push her feet along instead.  All plod and no glide, of course, but she was skiing!  She didn't want me to hold her hand or help her, but she wanted me to stay close, so I oozed along behind her through the fields.

She looked so tiny and so determined!  She seems so much smaller in the wide open, white expanse, than she had in Uganda.  Even in her puffy clothes.  That coat is only an 18-month size; she's just such a little bitty bit of a girl!  But so full of self-determination.  Emerson had certainly never skied for so long or so well when he was that age, a few toddlers would make it through the first rash of falls and snow down the coat, and decide to keep going.

At first, every time she would fall or something would happen, she would just wail and wail.  I would pick her up and brush her off and try to fix whatever might be bothering her, and try to convince her to use some words to tell me exactly what the problem was.  About the third time through, she told me "finger! finger cold!" and I immediately addressed the problem with her mitten.  And remarkably enough, she took the lesson completely to heart and switched to using words instead of crying.  As she got more tired, she would start to forget, but with a reminder she tried really hard to find the words, and barely needed to cry any more.  I was impressed, and I could see the amount of self-control it took to try and contain her sobs long enough to describe a problem in this new world she doesn't even understand yet.


As for Hibiscus, she didn't have any skis, but she seemed to have as many problems as either of the children who did!  She kept falling down and crying that she couldn't get up.  Now when you have skis stuck to your feet, they do tend to slip out from under you, and then they really get in the way when you try and get up again.  (Ski poles aren't for beginners, and they're not necessary if you know how to ski, so we don't use them.)  However, exactly how Hibiscus managed to keep falling off her feet and not being able to find them again, I am not sure.  But Mark and I stayed plenty busy skiing back and forth and pulling children up off the ground!  Hibiscus also alternated between wailing that she was cold, she was freezing, ah ah ah ah ah cold cold COLD, and then diving onto the ground and doing something like crawling through the snow while throwing large bundles of it up into the air.  So I don't think she was really too cold!  I think it was more that whenever she felt a dot of coldness, say if a mitten started to come off or a snowflake landed on her cheek, it was so surprising it was unbearable.  Actually, given her level of hysteria for those events, I think we kept her really pretty warm!


We didn't make it to the school yet before we decided that we needed to turn around.  We switched some mittens (I only have two pairs of good mittens, which is not sufficient), shook the snow off everyone, and put Buttercup in the wrap.  She didn't want to stop skiing, and she wanted to go "on da swing," but she was the only one who had the patience for skiing another few hundred yards!  In fact, she kept skiing on after we all had stopped, but then started to cry when I wasn't next to her, and turned around.  I had gotten myself a wonderful coming-home present of a coat that unzips and has a pouch for a little head to come out of, so I can wrap Buttercup and keep her under my coat.  That got her warm and toasty right away.  Hibiscus was another story, and she cried most of the way home... and then dived into the snow, and put Buttercup's skis on her hands, and crawled around in circles in the yard until we all got inside.


By the time we got in, the snow was suddenly turning kind of wet, and while we ate dinner it rained.  The moonlight is still glistening white, but I think that might have been the end of our Ugandan girls' first snow adventure!

Hibiscus's Five-finger Prayer

I tried a new prayer with the older children tonight, to try and help them become more involved in their prayer time.  Emerson wasn't sure of what to say, so we talked together but I said the words.  Hibiscus dived right into the prayer and said it all on her own.  I wasn't sure that she would understand the abstract concepts, but she figured them out in such a meaningful way.

We held up our hands with all five fingers.

The thumb is for the people closest to you.

Hibiscus started with our next-door neighbors, and with a suggestion of family members, went through an impressively wide list of family, given that she has yet to meet most of them

The index finger is for your teachers.

Hibiscus was upset that she couldn't remember her teachers' names.  I gave the names of her classroom teachers, but I didn't know all the others yet.  I suggested that if she thought about them, God would know who she means.

The middle finger is for the leaders and powerful people.

Hibiscus wasn't sure where to start with this.  We had talked earlier that day about the judge, whose ruling we all needed to follow about where Hibiscus was going to live now, so she prayed for the judge.  Then she added "the pilots who fly the plane, because they work very hard.  And the people who serve us food on the plane, because they work very hard too."

The ring finger is for the people who are weak.

"Like old people?" she asked.  I said weak like that, or people who don't have power.  She jumped right in: "God, please bless my Bbunga family.  And please bless all the people around there, um, I don't know their names, all the people like that.  All the poor people.  And help them know what to do, and know all the things they can do, and how to do it."

(I thought it was interesting that she already instinctually knew that poverty is related to a lack of knowledge and understanding about what to do and how to change the situation; at least the type of poverty that she had lived.)

The pinky finger is for ourselves.

"God, please bless me.  And help me not to run into the streets.  And help me to not do things that make my mama mad at me."


Goodnight.

Re-Entry: Logistics

We are home in Oregon.  We are a family of five.  Life is crazy.  I am going to try and write a real blog post about how we are doing, but meanwhile here are some logistical things in case people are curious.

America is overwhelming, and we're trying to make the culture shock easier on the girls... and re-entry easier on the rest of us. There's a lot we can't limit or control -- like the feel of cold air on their skin, and being surrounded by the blunt yet mumbly sound of American English -- so we're trying to do what we can with the environment.

Right now we're mostly staying around the house, although we can't resist the beautiful outdoors.  I think that new places are the most stressful, especially since houses and stores look nothing like what they do in Uganda.  So we're starting out by staying at home, so they can at least gain comfort and confidence and belonging in one place.

I think relationships are easier, because people are a lot like people.  We have had a number of people come over and visit, and all the children warm up and become enthusiastic pretty quickly.  I think they are happy to feel like they have friends.  If you want to meet us, I'd love to see you, but at this point I am asking everyone to go out of their way to come here; sorry!  I think it will also help the kids to feel like they have friends and connections already when we go out to busier places.  So if you're from our church or school or something like that, please stop by to help us take baby steps to feel like we belong to those places!

The older two are starting school on Monday.  They visited their classes on Friday, and we're jumping right in with the new week.  They are both going to the Eugene Waldorf School, which is where Emerson has been attending for the two years before we left.  Emerson will return to his same mixed-age kindergarten class, and Hibiscus will be in first grade.  Emerson will attend three mornings a week, and first grade is five mornings a week.  We've been in communication with the teachers during our absence, and we are feeling confident and relieved that this will be a good environment for both children.  They will be held with great love, but also with a firm and clear routine and structure.  We know that it's asking a lot of them in some ways to jump back into school only a few days after getting home, but we believe that they will be much happier and more confident once they get into their routine.  Also, that way each child will have his or her own space, and own friendship and own projects.

When the older children are at school, Buttercup and I will probably do a few things.  She is acclimating much more smoothly than anyone else in the family, so I need to be careful to not take advantage of her easy-going nature and give her more than she can handle.  We'll probably do the playgroup at church, and wait a few weeks to see if we want to add another playgroup or something else.

Probably the next thing that we will add to our routine is going to church.  I suspect it's going to be a couple of weeks, though.  I don't think we'll be able to go until the kids are willing to go to Sunday School, because we already have ample evidence that they can't make it through a church service!  But maybe we'll end up only staying for a few minutes the first week, and building up.... we'll see.

They are all very excited to add some classes and other events, which is something that I've been really missing in Uganda, but I think that will take a little while.  We might start with swim lessons at the Y, because that's fairly inexpensive (so not too big a deal if we miss some), and all three kids could go at the same time.  I also want to get back to gymnastics, since we know the people and the routine there, because I think that would suit all three kids' interests and needs.  It might be a little while, though.

Right now I am estimating that it will be about a month before we venture much beyond school and maybe church.  I think if we end up having a "welcome home" kind of party, it won't be until at least summer time, or it will just be too overwhelming.  The children have changed and grown so much in the last six months together in Uganda, I have faith that there will be a lot more growing and changing in the next six months!