Perspective

I became a mom ten years and 11 days ago, and I can vividly remember the first 24 hours of parenthood. The first five were spent coming home from the airport, hubby driving in the rain on zero sleep - my India.Aria CD playing in a continuous loop because he didn't know how to change it, and me in the backseat trying desperately to calm a hysterical seven month old stranger. Yep, we were complete strangers on that first night - connected only by pictures (we had three of him, he had a chewable photo album with a few pictures of us) and health reports. We stopped at a gas station to change his diaper and were yelled at by the attendant for not having a hat on our baby.

Initial thought: I am a complete failure as a parent.

Back at home, I tried my best to help P adjust to his strange surroundings while hubby caught some much needed zzz's. I showed him his room, lovingly decorated with Noah's arc animals. We read books and sang songs. I felt like the babysitter waiting for mom and dad to come home and take over the real parenting. In the morning, we gave P a bath and he screamed. His foster mother told us he loved baths. My husband looked at me with an expression that asked, "I thought you knew what you were doing - did you lie to me?" In truth, I didn't have a clue how to be a parent, and I'm pretty sure none of us do until it actually happens. My brother had become a dad a few years earlier and he told me that the hospital staff passed him his son and ushered him out the door. Without any sort of instructions as to what to do next.

Truth: No one truly knows what they are doing at first.

There were two profound moments in that first 24 hours and both of them could be seen as parenting fails, but to me they were shifts in perspective that helped with our rocky transition. The first was during the bath, after hubby realized that no, I did not know what I was doing. He said, "Everything we're doing is wrong." Me, with bewildered expression, "Huh?" But he was right. Every smell, every sight, every experience was not what P had become used to in his foster home. It wasn't WRONG in the broad sense, but wrong in his little slice of the world. The second moment took place that afternoon when we brought him to the doctor's office. Our pediatrician, a kind and enthusiastic Asian woman who cooed at P when she first saw him, made my little boy's face light up for the first time. Her face, her tone of voice - the familiarity - comforted him.

It wasn't me. We had ripped this kiddo away from everything he knew, forced him to fly across the world with a complete stranger who handed him off to two other complete strangers, two weird smelling people who had no idea how to draw a proper bath. When I think about that day I think about our gain - I love my boy so much it hurts and I can't imagine life without him - but I think about his loss, about how scared he must have been during those first 24 hours. We were all pretty terrified. But his journey, and the journey of his little brother four years later, must have been incredibly frightening. We celebrate the anniversary of those days (known in our family as KTA day, or Korea-to-America) and recognize both the joy and the heartache involved.

Truth: Parenting is hard, and I'm not always good at it. But I love my kiddos unconditionally and try to grow as a mom every day.

No doubt I have made countless parenting fails along the way and there are plenty more waiting for me in the next ten years and even in the ten beyond that. But I'm trying to shift my perspective. We had P's conferences yesterday and it was overwhelmingly positive. They haven't always been, believe me. But yesterday, as I listened to his teachers talk about how smart, hard-working, and enthusiastic about learning he is, my heart swelled with pride. Sure, a lot of that is genetics, but some of it must be our parenting. Don't get me wrong, I make mistakes. ALL THE TIME.

But somehow we've figured out how to do a few things right.

Entering the next phase

Once upon a time in the not so distant past, I stood anxiously at a gate in JFK airport and waited for my son to appear. Tonight, I attended a parent information session at the middle school. Middle. School. The place where one comes in like an innocent little lamb and leaves as a horny teenager.

I am not ready.

To begin with, middle school remains a rough section of my past. It's where I mustered up the courage to ask a boy if he would dance with me and was met with a response that echoed in my subconscious for years to come: "My feet are tired." It's where I was taunted, teased, and harassed for talking to myself, having facial hair, and looking at someone's boyfriend the wrong way. It's where I discovered that boys prefer silly girls over smart ones.

Not the best years of my life by any stretch.

P is nervous. He's nervous about forgetting his locker combination, getting too much homework, and encountering bullies. But he's excited about the freedom and about joining computer club and chess club (a geek after my own heart.) I want him to hold on to the excitement instead of focusing on the things that make him nervous. Which means I need to let go of my own demons and let him be him.

That's harder than it looks. I teach through examples; he's already been subjected to the story of my facial hair taunter and the girl who was my BFF in 5th grade that turned all our friends against me right before middle school. He's even heard the tired feet story, complete with the part about how I barfed in the bathroom after it happened. Part of me hopes he'll learn from my experiences and mistakes, and realize that I came out okay (well, mostly) on the other side. The rest of me knows that he needs to have his own experiences, make his own mistakes, mistakes that he'll tell his kids about someday when they're getting ready to head off to middle school.

Parenting is so much harder than I ever imagined it would be, and there is still a lot of road ahead of us. Each day I have to let a little piece of my boy go and hope that he can navigate the world without me. He's a good kid. Smart, outgoing, secure in who he is. He yearns to be fiercely independent but still kisses me every morning before he gets on the bus and every night before he goes to bed. I want to hold on to my little lamb a bit longer, but I know I need to let him grow up. I need to let go of all the things that happened to me when I was his age, but I know that they have forever shaped me just as I know whatever happens to my boy in the next few years will forever shape him. He will have his heart broken, and may break a heart or two. He'll mess up, make bad decisions, ruin friendships. But he'll make new friends, learn more about the world, and figure out how to navigate through all of the crazy changes his body has in store for him.

I can't wait to see the amazing teenager come out on the other side.

Operation NO MORE NAGGING: Day One

Last night hubs and I had a rather heated parenting discussion. Oldest is halfway through fourth grade, which for students in our district means he is a mere eight months away from

~~MIDDLE SCHOOL~~

Pardon me while I collect myself.

Okay, I'm better now. The way I see it, there is a significant amount of mental and physical preparation required in the months ahead. We've already warned him that "THE TALK" is coming this summer and I've started to make sure he knows all the anatomically correct names for body parts so that we can skip over the giggling and get right to the sighing and nose pinching (he pinches his nose and shakes his head when he deems the conversation cringe worthy).

Side note: the day I taught my kids the word "anus" we were in the car on the way to weekly dinner with my mother in law. The boys entered her house loudly chanting "ANUS, ANUS, ANUS!" Perhaps not the best timing.

Aside from the coming of age inevitabilities, we are trying to create a stronger sense of independence and internal motivation so that the boy is able to handle the increased work load and hands-off approach of his future school years. Let me tell you, this is not easy. Hence last night's argument.

P is asked to complete various charts that track his progress, and each chart has a set number of required minutes. He is supposed to read 30 minutes a day, review math facts 10 minutes a day, and practice his violin 20 minutes a day. Personally, I don't think one hour is all that unreasonable, but tacked onto that is daily math and spelling homework that usually take him an additional half hour. Still not too bad. We get home three days a week at 2:30 and he has time on the other two days to complete his homework during the after school program. Soccer is two nights a week and scouts is one. It is entirely possible to complete his required work AND still have plenty of time to relax and have fun.

The problem is the charts. Days pass and he forgets to fill them in. I nag. He makes up numbers and asks me to sign the sheet. But if I don't, there isn't much of a consequence at school. The charts have little value to him, and it frustrates me to watch him become complacent about his responsibilities. I nag some more. He acts as if I've asked him to cut the grass with a pair of scissors.

And now hubs has started to rally against my nagging. He told me yesterday that if I keep kicking our son along the only thing he's going to have is a bruised ass. But I don't know how to let go. My parents tried to push me when I was in school and it didn't work. I was smart but also pretty lazy and knew how to do just enough to get by. It wasn't until graduate school that I finally figured out that, hey - if I try hard I can do amazingly well! I don't want that to happen to P, but my pushing is only repeating the cycle.

So after having it out with hubs last night, he challenged me to give up nagging for one week. No reminders to practice violin or read a book in the required genre. Let P figure it out for himself and if he fails, he fails. Of course there's a big math test this week, and it is going to take a whole lot of discipline for me not to tell him to study. Last night we sent him upstairs to get ready for soccer practice. He had ten minutes to change and get his bag together. 15 minutes later he was still upstairs screwing around with his brother. I bit my lip. Eventually he came downstairs and ended up being seven minutes late for practice.

That kind of stuff makes me batty. But something has to give, and I can only hope that in this next week he'll realize the method behind my madness. That I just want him to do his best, to do what is required and then a little bit more because that's what keeps you ahead in the world, and... sigh... it's going to be a long week.

The road to independence is full of potholes

My oldest is now in fourth grade. Next year he'll be in middle school, changing classes, using a locker, and generally being independent.

Hopefully.

We have a bit of distance to travel before then, and my plan is to use these next 11 months (pardon me while I spend a few moments in denial.... ... ... okay, I'm back) getting him ready for the next phase of his life. That means letting go. Letting go of the nagging, the reminders, the doing everything for him because it's much easier than waiting for him to do it himself. Letting go is not easy for me. I like to be in control of the minutia of life; it's one of my character flaws. It is nearly impossible to enforce such levels of control over two young boys, but I try anyway. And now it is coming back to bite me. Because now I want P to do things without reminders and to make good choices and to not procrastinate until the last minute.

Needless to say it's not going all that well right now.

There is a lot to keep track of in fourth grade. Daily reading and math logs, spelling charts, and math homework. Violin practice. Cub scout requirements. Remembering to bring his gym bag home so I can wash his sweaty clothes (this has only happened once so far. ew.) We'd also like him to do chores around the house - nothing too complicated - simple stuff like keeping his room clean and collecting garbage once a week. And I want it all to happen without nagging.

As if it were that easy.

Last night the hubs and I had a convo with P about not letting his daily charts go until the end of the month and then scrambling to get them finished as the bus is pulling into our court. After our son went off to bed, my husband said something about the boy following in my footsteps. I am desperate for that NOT to happen.The procrastination struggle is real and a lifelong monkey to peel off one's back. My grades in school were not nearly as good as they could have been if I had actually made an effort. Turned things in on time. Worked up to my potential. Of course my parents said that to me in an endless loop and fool that I was, I didn't listen. And now I fear that we are wandering down the same path again, only this time I'm singing the "don't get swallowed up by the ease of mediocrity" tune. And the boy is clearly zoned out into the happy place where I spent a large part of my childhood whenever my parents lectured me.

The plan is to try and let him make mistakes and hope that he learns from them. My parents rescued me a lot, even into young adulthood. And while I appreciated it in the moment, it took me a long time to figure out how to stand on my own. It wasn't until graduate school that I learned how to focus on the task in front of me and give it 100%. (Admittedly that philosophy has not transferred into all the other areas of my life... but it's a process.) I don't want the boy to wait that long. I hope that if I allow him to fail, he'll eventually see that there are intrinsic rewards for doing your best work and getting things accomplished on time.

Mama just needs to step back and figure out how to guide him in the right direction without standing behind him and giving him a huge shove. We'll see how that goes.

Enter the Creeper

This year's birthday cake was a no-brainer. The boys are obsessed with Minecraft. They play it every chance they get, odd elevator music emanating throughout the house. P eagerly devours strategy books and talks non stop about things that go right over my head. I was on board with the Star Wars obsession - I learned the character names and could appreciate the story lines. Minecraft? Despite the obvious learning aspects of building things and tapping into the creative parts of the brain and all that, it is mind numbingly boring. Maybe it's a kid thing. I don't know. Needless to say, when P's birthday approached and I asked the yearly question, "What will the cake be this year?" and he said, "A creeper" I didn't even bat an eye. Minecraft is all squares. Easy peasy. No complicated, two cake design this year. No strange colors or multiple trips to the bulk food candy section. One square, some green food coloring, and ta-da!

If only it were that simple. The amazing frosting that I discovered two years ago? It has been discontinued. There was much shaking of fists and gnashing of teeth in the frozen food aisle and on the family room couch after subsequent smart phone searches. No more cool whip frosting.

*DEAR KRAFT FOODS, IF YOU SENT THE DATA MINING HOUNDS AFTER ME AND DISCOVERED THIS BLOG, PLEASE BRING BACK THE COOL WHIP FROSTING, THANKS A BUNCH.*

Once I calmed down and realized I would have to go back to (gulp) making my own frosting, I searched for a decent vegan recipe. The boy can't tolerate dairy, so I figured if there was no cool whip frosting I might as well make something he can eat without gassing out the entire room. The recipe called for dairy free margarine, confectioner's sugar, and coconut milk. I followed the directions. Seriously. Every step. And my frosting looked like this:

Look familiar to any moms and dads out there? Like the stuff that comes out of your kid when they aren't capable of digestion? I'm guessing the margarine started to separate or something horrid like that. But it tasted okay, so I slapped it onto the inner layers and set out to make frosting batch number two.

A good little scientist, I altered one of the factors, swapping the margarine for butter (olfactories be damned!) and came out with something with a slightly better consistency but still paling in comparison to the creaminess of the cool whip frosting. That and the color was just not right.

Face in the fridge. Ah-ha! A nearly empty container of cool whip. I scraped batch number two off the cake, folded in the cool whip and added a few drops of neon green. Ta-da! Batch number three a success.

*DEAR KRAFT FOODS, NEVER MIND. I FIGURED IT OUT WITHOUT YOU. PLEASE KEEP MAKING COOL WHIP AND I WILL JUST MAKE MY OWN DANG FROSTING. THANKS FOR NOTHING. OKAY, THANKS FOR THE COOL WHIP.*

Meanwhile, the husband helped out by cutting rip rolls into squares to resemble the pixels in the video game. Remember rip rolls from last year's minion? A fabulous find. This year I was pleased to find two different shades of green, a gift from the cake fairies. For the face, I used fudge cookies, which are not quite square shaped or black, but close enough to create the desired effect.

The boy was pleased. Always the litmus test. Does the cake actually resemble the desired thing? Yes? Success.

The Third Mother

A few years ago I pitched a column idea to a local parenting magazine. One of the regular columnist was retiring and I thought the community would benefit from a different perspective - the perspective of an adoptive mom. As part of my query, I wrote a short piece about my motherhood journey and titled it "The Third Mother". I thought it would be a clever name for my column, and even though the magazine went with a stay-at-home dad instead, the moniker stuck with me. When I joined Twitter I made it my handle, and while the title may seem strange, it's one I am rather proud of and thought my new readers would want to know the story behind it.

The Third Mother

My sons each have three mothers: A biological mom who gave birth to them, a foster mom who raised them for the first several months of their lives, and me. I am their third mother. And while it may seem like I am second (or third) rate in comparison to the first two women in their lives, I am the one referred to as “Mommy”, a title I have earned with every runny nose wiped, boo-boo bandaged, and peanut butter and jelly sandwich served.

My oldest is five and thinks having three moms (and dads) is pretty cool. We have been open with him from the beginning, telling him the story of how he came into our family. He understands bits and pieces and has yet to ask any difficult questions about the identity of his birth parents and why they chose not to raise him. For now he exists happily with the understanding that no, he did not grow in my belly, but isn't it way cooler to have been born in one place and traveled halfway around the world to live in another? I am enjoying the fact that he is naive to the challenges that come with being adopted and instead chooses to fixate on the odd, fun parts of his story.

We had explained to him that he came to us on a plane when he was seven months old and had a lot of trouble sleeping during the first few weeks. In order to keep the peace and let the other person get some sleep, my husband and I took turns pacing the house with our son strapped to our chest in a baby sling. When it was my turn I sang endless rounds of “This Little Light of Mine” and “Jesus Loves Me” while walking circles around the pool table in our basement. They were the only songs I could sing in their entirety, and they have become anthems to soothe my son when he is upset as well as part of our nightly ritual. One night when it was my husband’s turn, he spotted a large black bear out our living room window. He thought it was a deer at first until it came closer to the house. The bear was by far our son’s favorite part of the story. “Tell me again what daddy saw,” he would ask over and over. The rest of the story became inconsequential.

When he learned he was going to become a big brother, our oldest believed that all babies arrived on a plane from South Korea. You could not convince him otherwise, despite evidence of seeing my pregnant cousin before and after the birth of her baby. He insisted that babies arrive on a plane in New York City and mommies and daddies have to go to the airport to pick them up. Clear evidence that our reality is shaped by our experiences. His current favorite is the idea that God said, “BINGO!” when trying to find the perfect child to join our family. I tossed the phrase in one night while recounting his adoption story, and after explaining what the expression “BINGO!” meant, his face lit up at the thought of some higher power proudly announcing that He had won the big prize when forming our family.

I want it to stay this simple. But I know the questions will come soon, things he will want to know that are difficult for me to answer and things that other people will want to know that are difficult for him to answer. Perhaps they will start next year when he enters Kindergarten. An innocent classmate will inquire as to why my son doesn't look like his mommy and daddy. Or ask him what happened to his “real” mother. Hopefully he will tell them he has three mothers. All real, and all with a special place in his heart. As for me, I am happy being the third mother. While I do feel sadness for not carrying my beautiful boys in my womb for nine months and seeing them open their eyes and smile for the first time, I carried them in my heart for many years waiting for that BINGO! moment.

And that is way cooler.

Responsibility

Yesterday I uttered the words, "You are going to thank me for this someday" to my eight year old. I have officially become a curmudgeon.

Seriously though, I am hoping to teach the boy a little responsibility so that he can take the next necessary step toward adulthood. He is becoming increasingly independent, and while the thought of him not being my sweet baby boy and actually becoming a (gulp) grown man someday scares me gray, I know it is inevitable. And I need to do my best to facilitate the transition. Starting with school. He is generally pretty good about getting his daily homework done, but things start to get hairy when it comes to longer assignments. Each month the students are required to do a book report. Reading is not the issue, but choosing an appropriate book and finishing it with enough time to complete the report is. Last month he decided, with a week before the due date, that he would read a rather lengthy book for the report. Okay, I told him, then you need to set a reading schedule for yourself. Translation: Mom is going to nag you every day until you finish reading the book. He's also required to do outside reading for his enrichment class. The teacher assigns large chunks to read over a seven day period. The reading is challenging and not something you can complete the night before it is due. Especially not when that night is the busiest one of the week. Again, I helped him set up a reading schedule. And then I nagged. Believe me, I don't want to nag, but I worry that if I don't the work won't get done. Do I leave him to his own devices and let him experience the natural consequences of procrastination? I tell myself, yes, yes, he should learn the hard way. But then I give one more gentle reminder. Maybe two. Or three.

Then there's the homework folder. He has a daily behavior/assignment sheet that needs to be signed. On the back is a chart, and he is required to keep track of the minutes he reads each day (which must also be signed). He does his reading at night, which is fine, and then fills out the chart in the morning. Then I sign it and stick his homework folder into his backpack. Yesterday I asked him three times if he filled out his chart. He ignored me and was prepared to walk out the door with no homework folder (a relatively serious offense in the classroom). I reminded him, then told him it was the last time I was going to make sure he had his sheet signed and folder in backpack - that he needed to be more responsible. Gave him this whole speech (see opening quote) that probably sounded like the teacher in Peanuts . This morning, he remembered to fill out the sheet, but neglected to put the folder in his backpack. I cleared the counter and placed the folder in the dead middle. Impossible to miss. Asked, "You sure you have everything?" Kicked myself for being a softy.

In less than two months, second grade will be over. Each school year the work gets more difficult and I know he will be expected to read more, manage larger assignments, and study for tests. I want him to be successful, to be a good student, to be independent and responsible. But it's hard to know when to push and when to let go. When to allow the pain of forgetfulness, laziness, or plain 'ol something-else-was-more-interesting-ness to sink in. Hopefully we'll figure it all out and he really will thank me someday.

The Making of a Minion

P's birthday cake was a screaming success! And seeing as it was completed with no drama this year, I have decided instead to post a how-to and share some of my divine secrets. (Also, someone asked.) 

J and I have been doing cooking lessons on Fridays, and we used last week's time to bake the cakes. He enjoyed helping with the measuring, timing the mixing, and of course licking the spatula at the end. To ensure a clean removal, I lined the bottom of the pans with waxed paper and gave the sides a quick grease with cooking spray. I used an 8 inch circle pan (purchased for the famous drum set cake) and an 8 inch square pan, and used the leftover batter for cupcakes. Once the cakes were cooled, I cut the circle one in half and gouged out two places for the eyes.

The eyes were two cupcakes, frosted and decorated with silver sprinkles around the edge. I frosted first, then placed into the head, which was a little tricky, but I was worried about getting the sprinkles all over. Two generic M&Ms were placed in the center. The square cake was used for the minion's body, and I used wafer cookies for arms and legs. He looked a little freaky, but here's the assembly pre-frosting.

 The round cake had risen a bit in the center, causing it to be uneven with the square cake. (Anyone who knows how to fix this in the future, please comment!) I used the pieces from the eye sockets to fill in the gaps and covered everything with what I like to call "miracle frosting". It is made from cool whip and kept in the freezer until a few hours before you are ready to use it. In the past I made my own with confectioner's sugar, but it always made a mess if there were any loose crumbs. The cool whip frosting just covers it all up. Amazing. And delicious too! You have to keep it in the fridge, and it does harden a bit, but that's fine by me! Here's the minion, mid-frost. I used thick black licorice for the gloves.

 Once he was frosted, I used thin black licorice for the hair, goggle straps, and smile. I wanted to do the overalls in blue fruit roll ups, but couldn't find any. Discouraged and mumbling to myself in the cereal aisle last week, I turned around and spotted a display with Rip Rolls. They are thin strips of fruit roll candy covered in sugar and taste a bit like sour patch kids. The color was perfect, but they made an enormous sticky sugary mess all over the counter. The buttons on his overalls are M&Ms and his feet are ho-hos. Which I sampled while building and was disappointed to discover that they just don't taste as good as they did when I was a kid. The "G" is done in black icing.

 Overall, I was very pleased with how the cake turned out. I decorated it on Friday night for an early party on Saturday. The only fix needed was extra frosting on the arms because the top layer of wafer cookie had separated. The boy was happy, and his friends and their parents were impressed. One dad said he thought it was professionally done. (*Blush*) And of course everyone wanted to eat the sticky "blue stuff".

The CAKE

It is that time of year. Cake time. P's birthday is next week, and he is having his friend party this weekend. We have decided on a minion cake this year; Dave the minion to be exact. For those readers who are new to my world of cake insanity, welcome. Prepare to be amazed. But please, please don't ask me if I use pinterest. Or tell me to "Just go buy a cake." Or use fondant. Because those things are ALL AGAINST THE RULES. Here's a little story to get the newbies up to date.

Once upon a time there was an ordinary mom whose son was turning two. The adorable little boy was obsessed with one red, fuzzy Sesame Street character, and his mother wanted to make him a cake in that character's likeness. The ordinary mom had a snarky older sister who said, "You? Make a cake? It can't be done!" (Cue evil cackling.) (Insert heartfelt apology to big sister - it's for dramatic effect, okay sissy?) Ordinary mom thought, "How hard can it be?" and set off to make a wonderful and amazing Elmo cake. It awed. It impressed. It gave ordinary mom a warm fuzzy feeling inside.

And started a revolution.

The next year, a team of experts  were flown in to consult on the bulldozer cake (okay, it was just my friend Amy and she drove, but she had some amazing ideas). When the boy turned four, and asked for a drum set, the seemingly insurmountable task was accomplished in record breaking temperatures with several frosting related disasters. Really, it was. Then there were two boys and twice the fun with cake planning, weeks of obsessive behavior that isolated ordinary mom from the rest of the family, and of course the warm, fuzzy accolades and "Thank you mom"s that made it all worth while. (Check the April and June sections of my blog if you wish to read the specific story of each cake.)

Each year, the ordinary mom laughs in the face of those who tell her to buy a cake or wander through the evil site where other people's ideas make one feel inferior. Then she marches to the bulk food aisle in the grocery store and lets her imagination travel to a world filled with candied confections that will become THE CAKE. Here are some of this year's chosen treats.

Stay tuned to find out the exciting conclusion!

Winning isn't everything. Is it?

I have a confession to make: I like winning. A lot. And in the early parts of my life, winning came very easy to me. Contests, athletic events, even boys. If I set my sight on something (or someone) and focused all of my energy on achieving it, it almost always happened. My father says it is because I am lucky. My sister says it is because I am ultra-competitive. Me, well, I think it is because I just don't like to lose. It hurts to not get what you want, and if it is something you have been pushing and pushing for, the hurt is even more intense. Trust me. I have become very familiar with the feeling over the past few years as my career path took a careening drive off the side of a cliff. Then foolishly landed me in an industry ripe with rejection. One of my goals this year is to submit a piece of writing at least once each month, hoping in part that something will be published, but mostly so that I can start getting used to certain words and phrases. NO. Unfortunately. Sorry. It wasn't right for us. YOU LOSE. No matter how the rejection is sugar coated, that is what I hear in my head every time: YOU  LOSE. And it hurts. (See above.) My husband has said comforting things like, "You just need to stand up one time more than you get knocked down." Our pastor suggested wallpapering my den with rejection letters. I recently read that Steven King hung his on a nail until the weight became too much and he had to switch to a spike. It is part of the industry. Everyone knows that. But how do we toughen ourselves up for it? And how do we teach that skill to our children?

Things come easy to my oldest son. He is smart, cute and full of charisma. And thankfully, he has a very thick skin. Two years ago he entered a contest to win lunch with a visiting author. The students got raffle tickets for reading a certain number of minutes. Every ticket P earned went into the lunch with the author basket. Every day he came home telling me how excited he was to meet the author and ask him questions. Then he lost the raffle. Sadly, I was more devastated about it than he was. It was one of those moments when I am thankful he does not share any of my DNA. I would have moped for days, but P, he just shrugged it off and went on to tell me about the other fun activities they did during the author's visit. This past year he entered the cub scout's annual pinewood derby with a firm intent on winning first place in design (he already won fastest car in the 2013 race). His car was designed to look like a hammerhead shark, and sadly it was destroyed on the first run due to a weak spot near the wheels. In my husband's defense, he had tried to warn P about the possibility of instant destruction, but our son insisted it would be fine. There were no trophies this year. Last place for speed, and 4th place for design. P was disappointed, but again, not crushed. Just more determined to win next year.

There is a bit of controversy in the parenting world today about nurturing a child's self-esteem by giving everyone a "trophy of participation". I don't agree with that philosophy because in life no one is going to give you a reward for just showing up. You have to be the best, or at least better than other people trying to accomplish the same goal. Therefore, we celebrate winning at our house. Winning feels good, and there is nothing wrong with acknowledging that rush of adreniline you get when the thing you hoped for finally comes true. But we also try to work on losing gracefully. Whether it is a contest, a friendly game of Skip-Bo, or a life altering moment. That is what I work on daily. Losing gracefully, and not moping about or drowning in self-pity after each and every letter that starts with, "Unfortunately". For whatever reason, winning was not meant to be at that moment. And hopefully (says the trying-to-be-more-of-an-optimist), a better opportunity is waiting around the corner.

Tie Fighter, Travel & the Terrible Twos

P turned six in early April, and as mom does not like to disappoint her many fans, I constructed his cake in the shape of a Star Wars tie fighter. It turned out pretty well with no frosting disasters this year (I even learned how to make black frosting) and was met with public success at our first ever out-of-the-house birthday party. Note: Easiest. Party. Ever. Of course my bubble was popped when P announced that next year he just wants cupcakes. Sigh. No worries, my youngest turns three in a few months and I can focus all my creative energy on his cake. Except for the little problem of his continuous train obsession. When I ask him what type of cake he wants, he simply goes through the list of Thomas the Train characters. Seeing as I made an Edward cake last year, I just can't bring myself to do the same design again this year. I mean, where is the challenge in that? And my friends, it really is all about the challenge. This year for P's cake, I enlisted the help of two fellow Star Wars moms (thanks ladies!) to assist in the design phase. And while I may need some practice dipping twizzlers in melted chocolate (you should have seen the mess), the overall results were pretty good. Enough about the cake; here is a photo.

Moving on. As for the adults in the family, we enjoyed an amazing trip to Greece during spring break. Without. The. Children. It was originally planned for our ten year anniversary but had to be postponed due to the arrival of our second son. After spending the first 24 hours traveling and/or stuck in the Athens airport, we enjoyed a relaxing and energizing (yes it is possible to accomplish both of those feelings simultaneously) trip to Santorini and then an educational stop back in Athens before returning home. The adventure was much needed balm for the hectic pace that our lives have been functioning in back at home.
Which brings me to the third element of this entry's title: Our toddler. God bless him, he came into our lives the sweetest baby - slept without fuss (which was a huge difference from what we had been used to), ate like a champ and had a easy-going disposition. The first few months of "two-dom" went by with little complaint; he continued to be sweet with only the occasional emotional outburst. He even cooperated with potty training. We couldn't believe our luck! Then something happened. He must have gotten the memo that two is supposed to be TERRIBLE. He suddenly decided that food was more fun spread out all over the floor and regurgitated onto the table. That it was perfectly okay to break out in bloodcurdling screams at 2am when his stuffed animal fell out of the bed. That hiding under the desk and filling his pull-up is downright hysterical. And the worst: That any voice of authority has ceased to register in his hearing range. Even when the dreaded middle name is used. I know toddler hood is about finding one's way in the world and I can deal with the chorus of "I DO IT!" and the occasional assertion of defiance. But my child has gone beyond that and it is wearing us out.  Thankfully he has been interspersing moments of laughter at his developing language, which at some point I need to document. (His most recent: Mommy will you play tic-tac-two with me?) And I keep telling myself he is simply trying to navigate the world in his own way. My mother assures me that, like everything else, this too shall pass. Let's just hope we all make it out on the other side.

Cake: Version 5.0

For anyone who has been waiting on pins and needles to see pictures of this year's cake, I sincerely apologize. Here is the story, with slightly less drama than last year. After being told by my husband that I care more about impressing friends and family than making my son happy, I tried to reel it in a bit. Fortunately this year we did not hit 85 degrees the day of the party and I was able to comfortably bake the cakes required to make dueling light sabers. And because I actually listened to my mother's advice this year and used waxed paper at the bottom of the pan, the cakes came out beautifully. They were so pretty that I had to take a picture. Sadly the icing was not as pretty. I didn't measure as exactly as I should have (okay, I didn't measure AT ALL) and just went by feel. A strategy that works well when cooking - not so much when baking. The icing was lumpy and runny and did not look as fabulous as last year's batch. I kept having to scrape it off the tray and reapply. And then there was the licorice. Our local grocery store ran out of the skinny black licorice that I used in last year's drum set, and I had to settle for giant Twizlers. The problem with the bigger licorice is that it does not conform as nicely and kept popping out of the sides of the cake. CJ tried to fix the problem by shoving them into the sides but just ended up creating giant holes. Overall though, I think this year's cake was a success. Judge for yourself. The boy was pleased. In the end, that is what truly matters; although I do enjoy the accolades.

The first day of school

Paul at one, ready to take on the world with mommy's lunchbox.Paul at two, giddy with excitement as he is finally able to go "back daycare" after a long stint with mom at home. Paul, three years old and looking very dapper in his new shirt.Paul, four years old and ready for preschool! I think he was a bit nervous this morning as he asked me a million times if he was going to be an Orange Butterfly (the name of the Pre-K class at his center). All fears passed when he ran onto the playground and was greeted enthusiastically by his friends. "PAUL!!! WE'RE ORANGE BUTTERFLIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

A room fit for a wild beast

Being three (going on 13), the boy wants to do everything "ALL BY MYSELF". In order to accommodate this, I have been working on upgrading his room to a more preschool appropriate space and shifting all of his baby/toddler things into the guest room as it will eventually be the baby's room. The first thing I did was remove the too-tall dresser that I worried would one day crush the boy while he struggled to remove underwear and socks from its top drawer. I replaced it with a small piece I bought at our church's rummage sale for $2 and jazzed up with some blue paint and new hardware. It's basically a cheap piece of junk (as the hubby says, "Ya got what ya paid for") but it serves its purpose. Now underwear, socks and pajamas can be easily, safely and independently removed. The next step was a new bed. CJ took apart the crib and stored it in the basement (so that guests can still enjoy a full sized bed until the baby arrives) and I found a wooded bed frame on Craigslist for $32. Paul was thrilled to have a big boy bed and tried to cram every single stuffed animal in his collection under the covers. Sadly, there was no room for him at that point and we needed to compromise on who would stay and who remained in the basket. The first few nights in the new bed were a little rough, but he has adjusted quite well to the openness of it all. In the meantime I also brought in the larger bookshelf to accommodate his large collection of reading material. The boy loves his books. Funny side story: the other night I went to check if he was sleeping and found him on his belly, head propped up in his hands, reading by the light of his nightlight. It was too cute.
The last step was completed last night. CJ installed a closet organizer that allows Paul to reach his own clothes and return the hangers without assistance. He was so excited at the prospect of picking his outfit that he picked and re-picked at least a dozen times. And look at all the room we cleared out for MORE CLOTHES! Yippee!! As you can see, the boy is very happy with his new room.

"What a long, strange trip it's been"

In retrospect, we may have tried to do too much in too short a time.

Last Tuesday the van clan woke up at the crack of dawn and headed west to Los Angeles. Paul did exceptionally well on the plane (as compared to last year - yikes!) and was easily bribed to sleep by the lure of Uncle's swimming pool. We spent a fun-filled three days with my brother & his family. They recently welcomed a forth boy to their brood and he is just as cute (if not cuter) than the other three.Paul loved playing with his cousins and meeting the new baby. We swam in the pool, spent a day letting the boys run and jump at an indoor playground, and hung out in Santa Monica. Paul braved several of the rides on the pier and had a blast running in and out of the waves. The visit was over much too quickly. The day we left, one of my nephews sadly asked, "Aunt Sandi, can Paul stay for nine days?"
Friday morning we started on the longest road trip ever (since crossing the country of course) up the coast of California. When I was ten my family traveled along Route 1 from San Francisco to Los Angeles and I remember it being breathtakingly beautiful and white knuckle scary. I remember sitting in the back seat between my sister and grandmother while my father took the windy roads at way too fast a speed, spending most of the time plotting how I was going to escape when the car went careening off the hill. I had recounted this story to my lovely husband (probably more times than once) and knowing that I have a flair for the dramatic, he wanted to see just how scary it really was. So we drove. And drove. We stopped along the way for a picnic lunch and enjoyed the cool ocean breeze (it had been 100+ in LA) before heading up the mountain. As we began the scary, windy, cliff-hanging part of the journey, CJ remarked at how beautiful it was and how the decision to come this way was well worth the extra driving time. About an hour later and not even halfway through the mountain he added, "Ok, I've seen it. Is is over yet?" Unfortunately at that point we were completely committed.

Paul did remarkably well. I kept him happy with snacks and random trinkets I had picked up before the trip. That and countless renditions of The Three Billy Goats Gruff. He struggled to fall asleep at first due to the constant back and forth motion of the car, but when he cried we simply took him out into the ocean air and looked for seals, which he was happy to search for with his new binoculars.

As we approached the dinner hour we set out for Santa Cruz, where one of CJ's cousins has a cottage. We were making great time until getting stuck in random traffic on Route 1, when Paul announced, "I have to go pee." Happily there was a fruit stand on the side of the road with a bathroom. I bought some local fruit as a thank you and drooled over the enormous artichokes priced 10 for $1. TEN FOR ONE DOLLAR! They were growing on the side of the road next to the stand. Can't get more local than that. However I passed on the great deal and chose strawberries instead as they were much easier to munch on in the car. Sigh.

In Santa Cruz we visited the famous pier and strolled on the beach. Then it was off to Santa Rosa to visit with our good friends from the Carl Vinson (CJ's ship in Washington). We had a great time catching up and wished that we lived closer and could visit more often. Perhaps someday we will return to the west coast to set up shop once again (preferably in the Northwest of course - I miss all that green!)

On Saturday night we attended the wedding celebration of our friend Shawn. Shawn and CJ went to college together, but they did not become friends until SWOS (Surface Warfare Officer's School) in Rhode Island. It was the first summer of Navy life and the summer we got engaged. We had tons of fun sailing and exploring the area. Shawn was a huge influence on CJ at the time, opening him up to some crazy experiences. When he invited us to celebrate his wedding (he was married right before being deployed and hadn't yet celebrated with family and friends) we knew we couldn't miss it. The wedding was a costume party, and although dressed much too lightly for the cold wine country night, we had a blast. On our last day in California, we traveled down to San Francisco and did the tourist thing -pictures at the Golden Gate Bridge, chocolate at Ghirardelli Square and shopping at Fisherman's Wharf. All in all, it was an exhausting but fun trip. Now it is on to planning next year's journey: to Greece in celebration of our 10 year anniversary.

"That's me with no pants on"

Paul went outside this afternoon to help daddy clean up some sticks. I was upstairs sorting through my winter clothes when I heard, "Mommy? Mommmmy??!?!" I went to the top of the stairs and saw this: Apparently he had gotten into some mud outside, and CJ had stripped him of his boots and pants before sending him inside for new pants. I just had to snap a picture; he looked too darn funny. While showing Paul the pics I took this past week he proudly announced, "That's me with no pants on!" Indeed.

Language expansion

Paul learned his first knock knock joke, and I have been trying to upload it to the blog with no success. So my faithful readers will simply have to imagine it in their heads until I win the battle against technology (translation: upload it on my dad's computer and post it from there; he has FIOS).
In the meantime, I will share a bit of Paul's ever increasing vocabulary and the widening realm of his creative thought. When passing the new construction site between home and daycare where there will inevitably be yet ANOTHER strip mall (recession? what recession?), Paul was very concerned about the construction vehicles. After they carried away all the trees and flattened the land (pardon my social commentary, but heaven forbid we have any woods around here), the diggers were gone. Paul postulated that perhaps they were all "sleeping in their garage" or "taking care of the baby diggers."
Speaking of construction equipment, we are approaching the big THREE, and Paul has taken it upon himself to request very specific construction related gifts. When we tell him no or my favorite, "We'll see" he tries a new tactic. The gifts are not for him see, they are really for blue blanket. Example: "Mommy, blue blanket wants a bulldozer for his birthday." I was unaware that we were celebrating such an event. Blue blanket has become Paul's alter ego, something to handle the more unpleasant emotions like greed and fear. I am told this is a normal process for preschoolers. Still, it's a bit weird.
Other than that, I am constantly reminded to watch what I say because it often gets thrown back in my face. Example: "Mommy, you're a pain in the butt." At the dinner table: "I need to stop screwing around." Was I this sassy at his age? I mean, I know I was sassy as a teenager, but that is a long way off for us. Sigh.

Can I get a vowel?

Paul is able to identify all of the letters in the alphabet (capital ones at least, we are working on lowercase) and has taken to spelling everything he sees. For a while everything spelled "Paul", but he is slowly starting to figure out that different groups of letters have different meanings. He has learned that a red octagon with the letters S-T-O-P spells "stop", and knows now that only the letters P-A-U-L spell "Paul". For everything else, he uses his own little version of context clues to figure it out. He will say all of the letters and then announce what they spell. It can be pretty darn funny. Some of my favorites:

• At Paul's favorite hangout: "J-C-P-E-N-N-E-Y. Mall"
• While drinking from an old glass mug at my folk's house: "A-S-U. Hot cocoa. A-S-U. Cup. Mommy, what A-S-U spell?" ??? Upon inspection of the cup right side up I replied, "USA honey. From back when we actually made things here." (Besides plates and tires of course.)
• While driving his giant digger all over the kitchen: "T-O-N-K-A. Really big digger." That's for sure.

Happpy KTA day!

Okay, I have decided (for now anyway) that the best way to describe today is to call it "Korea to America" or KTA day. Honestly, traveling is about all Paul did on November 8, 2006. He arrived in NYC at around 11:30 at night. We didn't arrive home until sometime after 4:00 am, making it technically November 9. And as I have stated previously, his official family status did not occur until the following October. (Although as far as I am concerned he was my son the moment that I saw his referral photo with his pouty little lips & punk rocker hair, but that's a totally different issue.)Here is my adorable little boy the morning after he came home. Honestly, could he be any cuter?

Here's Paul in 2007. It was a school day, so I wasn't able to snap a photo until he was getting ready for bed.

And here he is this morning. We have decided to celebrate by watching flaming onion volcanoes at a local Japanese hibachi restaurant. Onions are Paul's current favorite vegetable (no lie) - so it should be fun.

I (heart) Fall

The leaves are rapidly falling in our backyard, and we spent some time raking this weekend. Paul enjoyed "un-raking" and jumping into the piles. It took some convincing, but CJ agreed to make one big pile out of the smaller ones (he usually just goes around & collects the small piles onto a large tarp) so that Paul could get the most from his jump. I got some great shots & managed to capture the run & jump on video.

*** Disclaimer: Paul chose to start that far back - he would have gone even further back if I didn't tell him to turn around. Makes for a nice Monty Python reference though. (grin)

I have another video of him counting down to the big run, but I'm having trouble uploading it. Instead, here's a pic of him in the pile of leaves.