The three year old philosophizes on life and death

I worry. A lot. When we decided to adopt I worried about what our child(ren) would ask in regards to their multi-parent existence. And how exactly I was going to deal with it. I read all the books, magazines and blogs, dutifully taking in the most appropriate responses that would have the least psychological damage. Then we adopted Paul. Who never asks any difficult questions. Seriously. Recently I have tried to bring up the subject of his adoption, and he pretty much blows me off. He has two moms (technically three if you count his foster mom). Big deal. He was a super cute baby. We have the photo album to prove it. He loves to hear us talk about his first weeks home with us. But that's about it. No queries as to where he came from, what his life in Korea was like, what his birth mother thinks about, nothing. Phew, I thought. This adoptive parenting stuff is a piece of cake. And then came John. John has THE MOST INQUISITIVE PERSONALITY EVER. We have been in the "Why" stage for about 18 months now. I often joke that I expressed concern at John's first few checkups because he wasn't saying much and I thought he might need speech therapy. He was simply taking it all in before verbally exploding. Anyone who has ever ridden in the car with John knows that I am not exaggerating. He asks questions about EVERYTHING, so I am not surprised when he had a million questions about his grandfather's death. Mostly they involved where Pop-pop was and when we were going to see him again. "How do we get to Heaven?" he asked. Oof. He became especially confused when we arrived at the cemetery and were carrying my father-in-law's cremated body in a box. Honestly, how do you explain to a three year old that our soul goes up to Heaven while our body remains on earth to be buried forever? As we were walking down the windy corridor of the mausoleum, John sweetly asked, "Is this Heaven?" And today he wanted to know when the men would open the wall and take Pop-pop out of the box. Hmmm....
But my favorite story from the week of dad's funeral was not about death, but life. On our way home from my sister-in-law's house minus our eldest, John was cuddling with his pillow in the back seat. The pillow was made by his birth mother and it is John's comfort object. He asked me if his tummy mommy (that's what we call her) grew it in her tummy and I said no, just him. Here is the conversation that followed:
John: "How did I get out of her tummy?" pause "Did I come out her mouth?"
Me: suppressing laughter, "Um..." looking at husband and deciding to just be totally up front, "No honey. You came out of her vagina."
John: after a beat of silence, "But how did I get out of China?"
Hysterical laughter from the front seat. How do we respond to that? Thankfully at that moment we drove over a small bridge.
John: "Look mommy! A bridge."
I love my kid.

The Christmas Letters: A Tribute to John van

One of the things you think about when entering a serious relationship with another person is their family. If marriage is in the future of your relationship, then you want to know what sort of people you will eventually call mom and dad, what personalities will enter your lives and how you will all get along. My husband and I met in high school, and while I knew that day that he was my soul mate, it was difficult to imagine at 17 what my relationship would be like with my future in-laws. I remember his sisters thinking I was only after their brother, who was two years my junior, for a prom date. I remember his parents being really laid back about letting him come and go as he pleased, much different from the Fort Knox situation at my house. And I remember stealing cigarettes from his dad, the unfiltered kind, because at the time I thought it rebellious to grab a smoke now and then – even though I never actually inhaled. That was my first impression of my future father in law: someone who smoked unfiltered cigarettes from the Indian Reservation and let his son stay out all night.
Over the years of an on again off again friendship with my betrothed (something he was reluctant to accept as he continued to date other girls), I got to know the family better. I am sure they found my approach rather pathetic, as I would show up on the doorstep each summer trying to hang on to any tiny thread of hope. But eventually he figured out that we were indeed meant to be, and our relationship became an actual, solid entity. We became an official couple the night before leaving for The Netherlands to see his father’s childhood home. A few months later I spent my first Christmas with his family and witnessed their traditions. Which brings me to the core of my story: The Christmas Letter. Every year, each family member received an envelope from dad that contained money and a personal letter recounting the various adventures and accomplishments from the year. I witnessed the tradition during my first Christmas with my future family, and after getting engaged the following year, received my very first letter. It was a rite of passage, a welcome into the family. I can remember feeling special and excited to participate in the tradition. I would officially become a member of the family on the day of our wedding, but the letter acknowledged actual acceptance.
Each year I looked forward to reading the letter from dad. Sometimes they made me cry. Sometimes they made me laugh. They usually talked about life’s changes, which in our early marriage were plentiful, and the challenges of being a Navy wife. I felt like dad really understood my struggles. When my husband was deployed for eight months and I was alone, scared, and 3000 miles away from home, dad would call to check up on me during the lonely evening hours. It was 9:00 on the west coast and midnight back east, and he was the only one still awake. His midnight phone calls kept me from feeling completely isolated and I appreciated them more than I could ever express.
Several years later, when we made our way back to our hometown and I was looking for work, dad hired me to help with his contracting business. He always had some disgusting odd job for me to do, like cleaning out the garage of a man who did not understand the concept of weekly garbage collection, or scrubbing the dingy carpet in a house downtown where someone was murdered a week later. He’d give me a can of Dover White paint and send me into a dark, cramped closet. I grinned knowing that this was his way of teaching me how to paint THE RIGHT WAY, the same way he’d taught my husband, the same way I would paint my own closets in years to come. Then he’d take me out to lunch at some hole-in-the-wall deli and we’d devour sandwiches with paint under our fingernails.
As the family grew, the letters each Christmas seemed to get a little less personal, a little more rushed. But they were still there every year, even when he resorted to a generic opening that he Xeroxed for everyone and then included a quick personalized note at the bottom. This year, I hadn’t given much thought to the letters. Dad was sick and certainly wouldn’t be able to express his feelings for each of us the way he had in the past. When he took a turn for the worse right before Christmas, we doubted he would even make it through the holiday. But he did. He was right there with the family as we opened presents, listening to the sounds of his grandsons chirping excitedly about their new gifts, listening to the family laugh and talk and eat. The next morning he passed away quietly. It was then that I realized he had written his final Christmas letter to the family. He had wanted each of us to know that he was there, watching over our lives and celebrating our joys and struggles. And he will continue to watch over us from Heaven. After we got the news, I went back and re-read all of my letters and realized that one thing is clear. Here was a man who cared deeply about the people in his life. Even if he had a hard time showing it sometimes, it was always there, all the way through his final breath. Dad: you, your compassion, your tiny ways of making people feel special, and your Christmas letters will be deeply missed. God speed.

Can a person really truly change?

Faithful blog readers know that in the grades of life, I regularly earn D's and F's in Organization and Stick-to-it-tiveness (but A's in making up new words). Those near and dear to me seem to enjoy never letting me forget that sad little fact. Like the other day when I frantically announced that I needed a personal assistant to manage all of the running around and keeping track of mindless crap and my mom said, ever so lovingly, "You don't need an assistant. You need to be more organized." Thanks, mom. And when I was complaining for the umpteenth time about how messy our house is and my husband kindly informed me that I have never BEEN organized and will never BE organized, so why do I continue to berate myself? Why, readers, why? Why can I not accept the fact that I will spend ridiculous amounts of time searching for the piece of paper that was RIGHT THERE or that really important thing that I put in a very safe place? Why? Because it is a fundamental character flaw that I am desperate to change. But every time I make small amounts of headway in altering my behavior, the good 'ol laziness kicks in and I start putting things off. And promising I will do it later. And oh yeah, I should probably give myself an A in Procrastination.
Needless to say the husband is fed up. Again. He went on a rampage the other night and took everything off the counter. Wait, that's a lie. He left my vitamin organizer out in an effort to make sure I actually stick to my required regiment (I fall off that wagon a lot too). But everything else left of the sink is gone. Hid away. The current system is failing, he announces, it's time for something different. Damn him and his six sigma! Last night he came home in a flurry, did the dishes, cleaned the bathroom and was searching for signs of stray out-of-place objects like they were contaminated with Ebola. I am thankful for this, I truly am. My husband regularly pushes me out of my comfort zone and tries to break me of my failing flaws. With his help (and somewhat cruel methods of motivation) I earned a 4.0 in graduate school. He delivers tough love. And it works. Temporarily. You see, in the back of my mind I am thinking about how great the counter will look for the next week or so and then slowly, silently slip back into The Way Things Were. Because it always does. My other major character flaw? I am a pessimist, through and through. I wish I could say otherwise, as my mom would love nothing more than for me to "Think positive!" It just isn't going to happen. At the end of the day, can a person really truly change? We shall see.

The Great Room Shuffle

After spending the first half of my marriage as a nomadic wanderer, I developed a lust for change. And having no desire at this juncture to pack up all of our crap and move I need to settle on the simple stuff. Like rearranging the children. Paul confessed recently that he is terrified of the attic in his room because he thinks something lives up there. A fear that he developed after my husband created said monster in an effort to keep Paul away from the Lego sets that are hidden in the attic. A fear that came to the surface after several sleepless nights that resulted in a negative behavior report from school. A fear that was probably made worse by a visit to the Halloween store. Oops. No parent of the year awards for us!! The good news is, we have an extra room upstairs that waits patiently for guests who never visit (hint hint out of town readers) and we were able to move Paul into a closet-monster free environment. John, upon hearing the news of Paul's room abandonment, packed his pillow and pull-ups and moved it. He is apparently NOT afraid of the closet monster despite the fact that he cannot use the downstairs bathroom while the skeleton towel is hanging from the rack. Strange. John has now earned the title of "van who slept in every bedroom in the house". He is happy as a clam in there and it saved us the challenge of installing a closet organizer in his old room. A room which now occupies a naked bed as I contemplate possible uses for the space. Guest room? Hardly seems worth it. Workout room? We have one downstairs and I never use it. Study? Possible. Mommy does need a good place to hide now and then.

Appreciating the Classics

In an effort to get away from repetitive Star Wars books, Paul and I have been spending time with classic literature. I found a list of challenging children's books and we've been enjoying some wonderful stories. The vocabulary is rich and the stories are much deeper than: "This is R2D2. He is an astromech droid. BLAH BLAH BLAH." I particularly love the fact that are details in the classics that simply would not take place in contemporary children's lit, like Christopher Robin's gun or the hookah smoking caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland. They always make me chuckle.
At the same time, we've been exposing him (and sometimes John too) to classics of a different nature: Classic 80's movies. The boys love Ghostbusters and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and last weekend we watched ET with Paul. He had a million questions, like why the alien was called ET and who were the men in the giant suits and why did they want to make ET sick? CJ & I wondered how we survived the 80's when moms were leaving their five-year-olds home alone and not blaming the school when their elementary student came home drunk. Despite the barrage of questions, many of which went unanswered until X-Files came into our lives in the 90's, Paul loved the movie. We are anxious to share the joy of many other movies from our childhood, including Gremlins and Goonies. Anyone remember seeing Gremlins in the theater? I practically wet myself with fright. Classic.

The Marble Tower, or Why Mommy is not an Engineer

Last week Paul decided he wanted to resurrect his marble tower. Not the simple one that merely requires the skill of stacking clear plastic tubes to the same height and connecting them with a loop-de-loop thingy. Nope. The mega marble tower. The one that looks like it requires an engineering degree to properly construct. The one daddy put together last time. You know, the ENGINEER.  Pleeeeeeese? says my six year old, who is rather good at following (and then not following) Lego directions. I'll help, he promises. Sure. I open the instruction book, which is at least 50 pages long. I help him position the base and explain how to interpret the basic instructions. I suggest he take the still together pieces apart and separate them into piles. He ignores me. I leave him to his own devices. 15 minutes later I hear MOOOOOMMMM! I need help. Oh boy. He's managed to erect part of the structure but is only on page three. I do my best to help him find the pieces he needs. Mostly he's confused about the base positioning as the directions have this complicated arrow system in order to get the pieces in the right spot. As we continue along in the book, the pictures become more and more confusing and I am beginning to feel light headed. I am not, I repeat NOT a visual-spatial person. I know this because in college we had to take countless learning style inventories. Give it to me in words, I'll figure it out. Numbers? No problem. Thinking about things off in a corner? Love it. Set it to music or a snappy tune? I will remember it FOR LIFE. The two intelligences where I tank? Interpersonal skills (which is why I blog from the safety of my kitchen table instead of going out into the real world) and Visual-Spatial skills. I get lost. A lot. And step-by-step instructions fall into that category, especially when they include pictures. But the boy really wants to play with his marble tower and he is already showing signs of getting bored with the setting up process. Remember how I said he is good at following directions and then he's not? He loves to put Legos together the first time and will follow the pictures dutifully. Then he takes apart the ship/car/tank/etc and builds something new (usually a speeder bike containing an army of clones) in a completely unique design. I love that about him. But it is not handy when trying to erect a marble tower that must follow specifications in order for the marbles to actually roll down it. After another five minutes of us trying to work together he gives up. He has been distracted by something else in the basement. I stare at the partially put together tower. Ugh. I hate when things are left unfinished. I plug along and do my best to fight my natural deficiencies, turning page after page of confusing directions. Hours pass. John wakes up from nap and wants to touch everything in sight. I angrily snap at the children and tell them to go find something else to do while mommy tries to get the loop-de-loops to line up properly. FINALLY, the husband comes home. Hurray!! The engineer is here!! He will save the day!! No time to relax dear, there's a tower to be built!! I quickly run away. Five minutes later I hear the whooshing and plinking of marbles. Figures. I only had to correct a few things you messed up, he says. Thanks dear. That's why you are the engineer. And I am not.


In case you thought I was exaggerating.

John the Foodie

John. Loves. Food. While he does not share his brother's affinity for all things vegetarian (I can get Paul to eat just about any vegetable by telling him it has "Force"), he does love all things meat. Having been a vegetarian for 20 years now, I will admit that it makes me a little sad to watch him devour anything and everything with a face. I try to get him to eat the meatless version of his favorite foods, but somehow his discerning three year old palate can tell the difference. Being a "mixed" couple of omnivore and herbivore I guess it is only fair that we have one of each in the family. And honestly, it is cool to watch his face as he tries new things. (And when I say "watch his face" I mean for both the expression and the decoration. See below.) Some of our recent adventures in culinary delight: On vacation, CJ got John to try at least six different kinds of seafood. We then endured a running dialogue of "What's that daddy? Can I try it?" When my brother and sister-in-law came to visit and she cooked up a giant batch of shellfish, John was first in line to sample. He also enjoyed sinking his teeth into a meaty chicken wing (hands down the most difficult thing for me to give up when I first went veg) and devouring my mom's famous meatballs.

When CJ and I first decided to spend the rest of our lives together, I remember him wondering who would cook the meat. For the first ten years of our marriage, it was no one. I cooked vegetarian meals; he ate them happily, supplementing with meat when we went out to dinner. Now it appears that things may have to change. It's rather obvious: CJ is going to need to learn how to cook.