No Butts About It

Having children changes people in such weird and inexplicable ways...or at least it should. As David, Morgan, and I gear up for round two of this madness, each of us appears to be motivated into action as sort of random coping mechanism.  Not surprisingly, Morgan is asking lots of questions about her place in our family. Right after we announced she was getting a baby sister, she started quizzing us with questions like, "Am I still important?" and "Will you have enough love for both of us?" You know, the superficial questions that are super easy to answer. In an attempt to secure her pecking order (as if there was any real question), Morgan's bedroom door now includes her new title:

For my part, I have been playing Dave Ramsey. We have been transitioning to a cash-only system for most of our purchases, and every time we want to splurge on something, boxes of diapers and wipes flash before my eyes. It's become "waters only" at restaurants and "only matinees" for any movies we attend. My family loves me so much right now.

David, on the other hand, has become obsessed with health and wellness. He has scheduled physicals, put in more time at the gym, and is basically just consumed with gearing up for this new little person. A search of his Google history reveals phrases like "older fathers" and "becoming a dad after 40" - the baby's actually due one week before David turns 41, so I keep trying to convince him that he's over thinking all of this...then I go balance the checkbook one more time.

As a show of solidarity for his health-related efforts, I entered (and won!) a poetry contest this month that focused on colonoscopies. For those of you who don't know, March is Colon Cancer Awareness Month. We don't actually have a history of colon cancer in our family (prostate cancer seems to be our genetic disease of choice around here), but colon cancer is extremely prevalent and extremely preventable. While I know the idea of a colonoscopy sounds about as much fun as being on the night shift with a newborn, it's absolutely a worthwhile torture fest. In fact, I think a free colonoscopy might just be the perfect gift to get David this spring. Just one more pain in the ass for him to tackle.

Twas The Night Before My Colonoscopy(yes, read like the Christmas poem)

Twas the year I turned fifty, when my doctor did call

“Time to check polyps, both large ones and small.”

I said I’d be in, that I wanted to know     

But I was so scared of what the test might show.

I hemmed and I hawed, too nervous to think

In the pit of my stomach my feelings did sink

I gathered my courage and dialed the number

Ready to face my colonoscopy slumber.

“No food or drink, we need a clear view”

I emptied my guts all the way through.

I drank and drank, staying close to my home

Far from a bathroom I dared not to roam.

In the end it was worth it, so glad that I went

Just one simple test; a few hours spent.

The results could’ve been scary…6 polyps found,

Caught and snipped before becoming cancer-bound.

Cancer can lurk in the unlikeliest of places

Especially your colon, full of small spaces.

So my advice to you, as you read every line,

Get yourself checked, even if you feel fine!

Personal Responsibility

Thank you all for your support and jubilation regarding my last post. We are in full on overload, but look forward to sharing more about our upcoming arrival. In the interim, I am still living life as usual. This, despite the fact that none of my pants fits and I haven't had a glass of wine since late last year. The struggle is real.

Morgan has also gone back to life as usual. She is totally over the fact that May continues to be several months away and is totally exasperated by the fact that her baby sister isn't here and ready to play Barbies. She has no idea just how useless this new baby is going to be.

As David and I are finally starting to realize this baby is going to need a place to sleep, we have been busier than usual in cleaning and organizing (not that either of those efforts are going well). Morgan has been left to her own devices more than usual, which often results in 287 wardrobe changes and every one of my heels pulled out of the closet.

Last weekend, I noticed that Morgan had been unusually quiet for an inordinate amount of time, which is always a recipe for disaster. My panic was compounded by the fact that I realized she was in the bathroom. With the door closed. And the water was running. For those of you who are parents, you know that moment. The moment when you realize that you could be walking in on an empty roll of toilet paper, a wholly squeezed tube of toothpaste, and an overflowing toilet.

Just then, she opened the door. I looked in, scanning the room for any signs of impending doom. Nothing. The room was clean, the floor was dry. But she had been in there for so long, I knew something was amiss.

"Morgan, what were you doing in the bathroom for so long?"

"Actually, I'd rather not say."

"Is everything okay? I heard the water running."

"Oh yeah, it's just fine."  The less she discloses, the more suspicious I become. Always.

"Alright kiddo, you need to tell me what you were doing in there for so long."

"Okay, I will tell you, but you have to promise not to tell anyone."

"Of course." (Yes, I realize posting this makes me a liar, but she doesn't have access to the Internet yet, so I have some time before she realizes I betrayed her.)

"Well...(insert, long dramatic pause), I was in the bathroom and I was washing my hands, and I did something I shouldn't have. I said a grown up word."

"What?" Mind you, I can see the beads of sweat forming on her little forehead, her legs fidgeting nervously as she shifted from one to another. This shit was serious.

"Well...(insert another long dramatic pause), I was washing my hands and I accidentally said the F-word."

"You did? You accidentally said the F-word? How did that happen?"

"I'm not really sure, Mom. But don't worry, I went ahead and washed my own mouth out with soap."

I have never, ever, washed this child's mouth out with soap. In fact, it's not even on our list of idle threats. I am either instilling a strong sense of personal responsibility in her or have completely failed as a mother. Or both, which is the mostly likely scenario. And yeah, we're bringing another one into the world.

25 Weeks

25 weeks. That's how long it's taken me to figure out how to write about this. It's been a confusing and overwhelming several months, in part because I just didn't see it coming.

We met with our new adoption case worker on August 6, 2014 (our previous case worker had left Health and Welfare just prior, much to our surprise). We discussed the status of our family, our ongoing interest to adopt, and whether there had been any changes to our file. She was optimistic, hopeful that it was "just a matter of time" before we found the right child. Her words, while cheerful and confident, sounded hollow not only in our ears, but in our hearts. Empty promises.

She left, and we went back to waiting. That night in bed (serious conversations are always safer there), I shared with David my thoughts, my fears. It had been three years. Three years of trying to make this plan work. But it wasn't working, not the way we thought it would, not the way we thought it should. But now, now we were committed to growing our family, committed to giving Morgan a sibling, committed to setting one more place at the dinner table. "Let's just try," I said. "We can try to get pregnant for 6 months. If it doesn't work, we'll know it wasn't meant to be."

On August 26, 2014, I found out I was pregnant. First try.

I found out I was pregnant on a Tuesday, in the ladies' room at work (glamorous, I know). I didn't tell David until that Sunday, and we didn't tell any of our family until we were 18 weeks along. Part of me was in shock, part of me in denial. As for the rest of me, I suppose I was in mourning. Making the choice to have another baby meant we were no longer helping a child in need. Making the choice to have another baby meant we were giving up on the very system that had clearly already given up on us. It was time to move on, but our hearts were still broken. Making the choice to have another baby meant closing the door on something we'd been committed to for a really long time.

But as one door closed, indeed another opened. When we finally shared the news with our family and friends, they were not just surprised, but ecstatic. When we finally shared the news with Morgan, she was over the moon. And when I finally felt the tiny flutters within me just weeks ago, I rejoiced. For our baby is healthy and strong, and she (yes, she) will make our family complete. And we will celebrate her. And Morgan will be the world's best big sister. That much I am sure of.

Look out world, there's another Lorenzo on the way.

Tethered

Do you remember last month, when I talked about Morgan's struggle to clean up after herself (it shouldn't be hard, I tragically only posted once in December)? Well, she took that little life lesson very seriously, maybe a little too seriously.

After returning to school following Christmas break, Morgan's class spent some time working on their New Year's resolutions. Morgan crafted three resolutions, one of which included a commitment to "quit blurting out in class so much" - good luck with that one, kiddo. I have been working on that for more than 30 years. When I was in the 4th grade, Mrs. Robinson made me go sit in the hall under the drinking fountain because I wouldn't stop volunteering for acts in the talent show. And when I was in the 5th grade, Mrs. Brady wrote in my report card, "Amy needs to learn to sit quietly."  Still haven't mastered that one.

As I thumbed through the rest of Morgan's list of resolutions, this little guy caught my eye:

It would appear that my child actually took to heart that cleaning her room is her responsibility. But as we all know, New Year's resolutions are easily broken. There is a reason I can't find parking at the gym in January but have my pick of the lot by mid-March.

Despite my skepticism, I sent Morgan to her room last weekend to get her toys picked up and organized. I was immersed in my own housekeeping endeavors and quickly lost track in time. When I finally realized I hadn't heard a peep from her, I called out her name. No response. I called a little louder. Still nothing. I decided to investigate.

I cracked open her bedroom door, where I immediately encountered this:

Not sure what you're staring at? Look closely, My daughter has turned her jump rope into a leash, literally tethering herself to her stool by the ankle.

"So, uh, whatcha got going on in here?"

"I'm just cleaning my room, Mom." Total blank stare, as if she actually didn't know what I was asking.

"No, what's the situation with your jump rope?" I pointed casually to the slightly disturbing and bizarre scene before me.

"Oh, that? I was having a really hard time staying focused so I decided to just tie myself to my stool. That way, every time I want to go play, I can't. I have to stay right here until I finish."

They say kids learn by example, but Morgan conjured this up all on her own. However, it did indeed work like a charm. So much so that I am considering tying David to his work bench.

Cleaning House

When it comes to parenting, I am (and probably always will be) a bit of a hard ass. I like to think of it as holding my daughter accountable; Morgan, on the other hand, likes to think of it as me RUINING HER LIFE. Yes, I understand the implications of this dynamic and I am fully aware that this means she may always like David better than me. He's also the one who puts chocolate chips in her lunch and has promised her 5,693 ponies.  But we all know I will be the shoulder she cries on when none of those damn ponies show up.

In the midst of our holiday decorating, much of our daily housekeeping went by the wayside, including most of Morgan's toys and crafts. I will spare you any photos of the chaos, as they may be deemed too graphic for children.  In summary, our family room looked like we had been ransacked by a herd of buffalo or the victims of a rare indoor tornado. It was time for clean up.

I announced to Morgan play time was over and that it was time to put our house back together. I gave her the standard 5 minute warning to wrap up what she was doing and told her I would be in to check her progress. I went back to my own housework, less than confident in her ability to meet my deadline. When I returned 5 minutes later, I found Morgan laying on the floor, surrounded by a sea of Barbie carcasses. "It's just too much!" she wailed. I calmly (yes, calmly) explained that she made the mess and she needed to clean it up. This is not a new revelation for my child, but one that she has a really hard time accepting. 

I gave my daughter two choices: either she cleaned up her mess, or Mom does it for her. And if Mom got involved, clean up was going to consist of garbage bags and toys that would be banished to the garage...or the landfill. My stubborn, stubborn daughter then decided to call my bluff. Thanks to some help from Hefty, the joke was sadly on her. I went to work, gathering up everything from Cabbage Patch Dolls to bits of crayon. Nothing was spared. In mere minutes, the family room was immaculate, its beauty only slightly compromised by the profuse sobbing that filled our house. I was also having none of that. Off to her room she went, with the strict instructions that she could not emerge until she was done crying. In terms of her toys, those could only be earned back if she cleaned her bedroom the way she should have cleaned the family room. My terms were clear and non-negotiable. 

Within a few minutes, the house fell silent. I quietly peeked into her room, only to see Morgan hunched on the floor, scribbling furiously. I crept back to the kitchen, mostly just enjoying the quiet. As I began loading the dishwasher, I heard her door open, her feet shuffling down the hall. I turned to greet her, only to see this note on the floor next to me:

I went back to my dishes, only for the same scene to repeat itself several times over the next 20 minutes.  Note Number 2:

Note Number 3, written only after not getting a response to note Number 2:

Note Number 4 (at this point I was pretty sure she was trying to tell me her room was clean):

And finally, note Number 5, the meat of the matter:

I waited a few minutes, trying to suppress the grin that kept creeping onto my face. This was a serious parenting moment, not to be undone by my daughter's keen negotiating tactics. I knocked on her door and swung it open, only to be greeted by a tear-stained face and one spotless bedroom. She looked at me expectantly, trying to read my reaction.

I walked around her room, noticing her bed was made, her stuffed animals were carefully arranged, and her dirty laundry actually in the hamper. With a silent nod, I signed off on her efforts. Morgan squealed and immediately recruited Dad (who again stepped in as her personal hero) to retrieve the garbage bag from the garage. We unpacked it together, Morgan careful to place each toy in its proper spot.

It's been two weeks, and the family room remains relatively clean. I'd like to think she learned a little life lesson from this experience, but I am pretty sure she's only putting away her toys because I very subtly left the garbage bag sitting next to the TV.