We're Moving (the Blog)

As I keep telling Sammy, Change is Good. As a family, we just up and moved ourselves, and in that spirit, I've up and moved the blog as well. My new blog has the same name, at a brand-spanking-new host. So please update your settings and look for this blog at

http://abunchablocks.wordpress.com/

Thanks for sticking around through the switch!

Liza

"Princess and the Frog": Zoology 101.

Molly: Can I kiss a frog?

Nana: Well, I have a frog in my garden.

Molly: NO! I mean a REAL frog. One that TALKS.

Good Hair

After the haircut.

Molly got a haircut today. Molly's hair is a subject unto itself. It's a source of admiration, but also, strangely, controversy. Because her hair isn't typical for Ethiopian kids. It's not what most people would think of as "African" or "African American" hair. Ironically, her hair most resembles Emma's at the same age: big fat ringlets, fine and soft and wispy as cotton candy. I can't oil it because it turns into a grease slick. She can't really wear the braids she wants like her friends, or like Keyana in I Love My Hair, which is one of her favorite books. But on the other hand, most days I can throw barrettes in it (which she loves) or put it in a ponytail (which she hates), which makes it easy for me, and for her. I'm in awe of my friends who create beautiful, intricate braids and hairstyles for their little girls. Molly's hair doesn't lend itself to that, and I think that's probably ok because I don't think I have the styling chops to pull that off. Certainly can't do anything with my own hair.

But no matter what, this hair thing is fraught with peril, isn't it? Because hair is bound up in our culture--certainly in African and African American culture, and in European American culture too--"good hair," "difficult hair," "bad hair days." In my family, we've got Jew hair, thick and crazy and wavy, grows like crazy, doesn't respond to blowdryers or product, takes heavy-duty artillery to straighten, gets increasingly wiry and difficult as we grow older. Molly's hair is none of that. It's magical. It's soft as spun silk. Her ringlets are like a fairy princess's. But somehow, I don't think that's going to let her off the hook.

At the salon today, the stylist and I discussed Molly's hair. I was talking about how hard it is when it gets tangled up (that spun sugar turns into mats--fast) because we have to be so careful with the product we put in. Anything heavy or oily turns her head into an oil slick. Many of the products for African American hair don't work at all on her. Well, the stylist said, she doesn't really have African American hair. Her hair is "more like ours." It's "nicer," she said. And so it goes. I flinched, inwardly, and said nothing. Should I have stopped her there? Of course. Should I have told the stylist--with her flimsy stick-straight blonde hair--that of course it wasn't "nicer" than more typical AA hair, just different. And of course her hair is just as African as "typical" AA hair. It's not "white" hair, either--whatever the hell that means anyway. My hair is nothing like the salonista's, either. What did she even mean, "more like ours"? But I said none of that. In fact, I didn't say much at all. Just agreed that yeah, it wasn't typical. And then we left.

So is this what Molly will be saddled with? People telling her how "lucky" she is because her hair is atypical for an African American child? The backhanded compliment that will make her feel crappy--at the same time an outsider and denigrating the other kids she knows? What kind of message is that sending? And what about the message that she doesn't really have "black" hair, either? Will Molly have to defend her hair for not being "black" enough? Will she feel like she can't be proud of her hair, as gorgeous as it is, because it's different? Cuz as far as I know, if Molly's African American, her hair is, too. How bad am I for not calling the stylist out on her thoughtlessness, her casual racism? How crappy a mom does that make me?

Every day, I tell Molly how beautiful she is. I know it's retrograde of me. I know I'm not supposed to do this, as the mother of a girl especially. So I also tell her how smart and kind she is. But the thing is, she is beautiful. Really, really beautiful. And so is her hair. And, as retrograde as it is, I feel like it's important that she never forget that. No matter what messages she's getting.

Three Years

Here's where I get to get sappy and maudlin. Three years ago today we met this amazing little person for the first time. I am in constant awe of her, of her bright spirit, her joyous self, her funny, quick mind, her beauty, her kindness, of the amazing little person she is. And I stand in wonder of the process and series of events that brought us to her. When you have a biological child, there's this weird combination of random events that goes to create this child, and of course, the one you birth is the one you get. But adoption feels so much more, and less, random in its way. Because this little person was on the planet before we ever knew about her. And she has another family that loves her halfway around the world. And yet, it doesn't seem possible that we could be without her in our lives. And the idea that she could have left her home in Ethiopia and gone to live with someone else is inconceivable. If you believe in meant to be, she was meant to be. She is always and forever part of her first family. And she is, and was, always and forever meant to be ours.

Three years ago, this little person entered our lives. I can't imagine our family without her. We are so very very lucky.

July 7, 2007, the first day we met Molly Fanaye

With one of her nannies on the day of the official ceremony when she came home with us.

Back with us at the guest house in Ethiopia.

And here is the girl she is today.

So today is about Princess Molly Fanaye. Her silly, goofy, effervescent, beautiful, sweet, brilliant, luminescent self. About how she gives the best hugs and kisses in the whole world. About the way she completed our family in the most perfect way imaginable. And it's about her first family, and her birth mother who, even though I don't pray, I still pray for every day. I hope she knows the gift she gave us.

Happy Famiversary, Baby Girl.

Lies My Mother Told Me

I am a very mean mom. And a liar. Just ask my son. He's keeping a list in his head of all the times and ways that I've fibbed, prevaricated, obfuscated, and otherwise misled him in his short life. There was the American Idol debacle he was 4 and, for reasons that have never been completely clear, frighteningly, scarily, unhealthily obsessed with the state of North Carolina. As you may recall, Season 2 of American Idol featured a showdown between Ruben Studdard and the Tarheel State's favorite son, Clay Aiken. My little Sammy was single-minded in his devotion. And when, as you no doubt recall, Ruben pulled out a nailbiter of a victory, Wisconsin's Littlest Claymate was inconsolable. Truly inconsolable. So I did what any good mother would. As Ruben stood in front of America, with confetti floating over his ample lapels, I told Sammy that Ruben and Clay tied.

This was, in my mind, the only humane thing to do to stop my hyperventilating, hysterical preschooler. But several years later, Sam learned the truth. And now, he says, I am a liar. I hid the real facts from him, and he won't let me forget it.

Fast forward several years. Emma and I are watching the first season of "Project Runway" on DVD. We all agree that the odious Wendy Pepper is a disaster. Emma and I know the results of the finale, but we decide not to spoil it for Sam. So we tell him that Wendy Pepper won. Sam is irate: How could they do that?? His anger simmers all through the Bryant Park runways and then, SURPRISE!, Jay wins, not Wendy!! I thought that this harmless little fib would keep from ruining the show for Sam. Apparently not: In his mind, this is Lie Number Two.

Which brings us to this past Sunday. I decided about a week ago to think about moving. It's actually something I've wanted to do for a while, but never seemed like it would be feasible. But after a consult with a carpenter who told us that it would cost $40,000 to rebuild our porch into a 4-season room, moving to an actually bigger place started to make a lot more sense. The rest of the family is more or less onboard. Matt thinks I'm crazy, but whatever. But Sammy, the guy who said he would never move from our house because no other house would have the same white ceiling fan he has in his room, Sammy is not ok with the plan.

So I started checking out open houses in nearby neighborhoods, while Sam turned paler and paler shades of gray and looked unhappier and unhappier. He said the new neighborhoods freaked him out, because he heard they did things like send "welcome to the neighborhood" letters, which he found creepy.

That's when I hatched my plan. I created a fake email address from the "Welcome to the Welcoming Committee" of a neighborhood we're considering. And I sent him this letter. To fully appreciate it, you need to know that Sam can neither swim nor ride a bike, and that I do harass him all the time about going to my old high school, West, instead of, Memorial, the one we're districted for and where Emma goes.

*Name of neighborhood poorly disguised in case we do end up moving there:

Congratulations! I heard through a "friend" that your parents are talking about maybe possibly moving, and that they might move to Sunnyvale*! You must be so excited!!! After all, nothing could be better than moving to Sunnyvale!! All your friends are here, and the streets are flat for bicycle riding all around!! Plus, you know how much you like swimming?? Well, we have a pool!! The adults in Sunnyvale love to drink alcohol, a lot, but since they all live next door to each other you don't have to worry about what that pesky Officer Emily says about them driving cars afterwards!

But you know what the best thing about moving to Sunnyvale is? You guessed it: It's the Letter!! Yes, you get a Letter. Welcoming you to Sunnyvale. I'm sure you've heard that we have an email listserv, too, to keep each other up to date on the most important information. But nothing compares to the Letter. It's friendly and warm, welcoming and full of good cheer, much like all the folks in Sunnyvale. It's sort of like an outdoor cookout with margaritas for your soul. See? I can tell you're feeling better already!

Don't worry, this isn't the last letter you'll get. This is what we like to call the "congratulations on maybe making the best decision of your life by even thinking about possibly moving to Sunnyvale" letter. Don't ask me how we know this, we just know. If you actually move to Sunnyvale, we will send you another letter, even more glorious than this one. You can frame them both and hang them on your wall in your new room in Sunnyvale.

Oh, and one more thing: Sunnyvale is actually WALKING DISTANCE to Memorial High School. You know how your mom keeps bothering you about transferring to West? (Don't ask us how we know, we just do.) It's pretty annoying when she does that, isn't it? Well, moving to Sunnyvale would put your fears (and her incessant, mindless, chatter about that inferior school) to rest. You could go to sleep every night knowing that the World's Greatest High School is right outside your window. No way your mom could try to send you anywhere else for high school. She'll have to go down to some elitist coffee shop or something to sing her stupid "West" song. We won't let her sing it in Sunnyvale.

So that's about it. I need to let you go so you can start packing your bags. You'll want to be ready to go on a moment's notice when you get the news: It's time to load up the van... for Sunnyvale!

Comfortably superiorly yours,

The Welcome to the Welcoming Committee

See? That wasn't so mean, was it? But Sam was a little wigged out. He thought it was very 1984 of "Sunnyvale" to know so much about his innermost thoughts. Eventually, I had to tell him because he was just getting more and more freaked out and morose about the whole thing. He's better now. It's just more fodder for his inevitable tell-all memoir.

Break's Over

We're back in school tomorrow after two weeks of winter break. We had a great time off: took Molly to The Princess and the Frog (her first "theater" movie), cleaned the pantry (thanks, Matt), and went to Chicago--shopping, museums, good food. Sam and Em went to the Art Institute to see Van Gogh and Monet, while Molly and I went to the Disney Store--a cultural experience all unto itself. We saw The Addams Family Musical, which was fun, and a little strange, too, but that was part of the fun. We went to the Museum of Science and Industry, where Molly could have played for hours and hours in the room with the balls and the pneumatic tubes. As seen here:

Molly tugs on the pulley...

really really hard...

and a little gun thing shoots water all over the place.

The girls on the hotel pull-out couch our final night in Chicago. The most exciting thing about our 2-room "junior suite" was the presence of 2 (count 'em) flat screens, although as Emma pointed out, they were often both turned to the same channel.

And now, it's 3:37 on Sunday afternoon and I am in this weird denial about going back to school tomorrow. I'm not sure if it's because I'm woefully unprepared, my own fault because I have taken the whole "break" thing pretty seriously, thank you very much, or if I am just not constitutionally and emotionally suited to work, anywhere. Although, if I could find gainful employment watching ridiculous amounts of cable television and writing about it snarkily, I would be a happy happy girl.

Last night, Sammy had a meltdown at the thought that he has to go back to school tomorrow. I get it; I really do. He has all this anxiety that's not tied to reality--worries that he won't do well (he's making high honors now) or that he will be yelled at by us, or his teachers. Freakouts because he can't find his lunch box. Feelings that he "just doesn't like that place." I guess if home wasn't so fabulously fun and exciting, or if we were meaner to him, he'd be looking forward to going back to school. But it is more fun to sit around at home. I told him that if I homeschooled him, his curriculum would probably consist of watching Lifetime movies based on true-crime novels (Language Arts), The Price Is Right (math), Degrassi (health), and Hoarders (social anthropology). And he agrees that this isn't adequate. Still, at this point, the only one who is looking forward to going back to school is Molly. That's probably not good.

Ok. I'm not sure why I started down this road. But now I've got to go and figure out what the hell I'm doing with my students tomorrow. Still in some kind of denial that I actually have to plan an outfit and wake up at 6 a.m., but what'cha gonna do?

Yogurt on the Floor

I have had my lovely new Macbook for 6 months now, and my fabu little Flip-type camera for just as long. Yet we've been ridiculously neglectful about capturing video, until lately, and it took me until today to figure out how to transfer the video clips into a usable form, say, on this blog. Of course, today I figured out that it's embarrassingly easy, and iMovie is my friend. So, my shameful technological pokiness notwithstanding, I'm pretty psyched about my newfound cinematic abilities.

Molly turned three on Monday, and of course she just keeps getting funnier and cuter, and more bossy, too. Mostly, her hilarity is self-explanatory, but this video probably needs a little backgrounder.

About a month ago, I was on the phone with my mom when I noticed a big glob of yogurt on the living room floor. This might be shocking to some of you "hygienic" folks, but here at the Cibula house, it's pretty much par for the course. So I looked down and mentioned it, and soon, Molly was yelling "There's yogret on the floi! There's yogret on the floi!"

Mom told my stepdad, Dennis, and the rest is the stuff of song legend. Because Dennis decided to compose a little musical number, to the tune of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." Lyrics to the song go something like this:

In the kitchen and the bathroom there is yogret on the floor
In the living room and dining room, there's yogret on the floor
In the hallway and the basement, I think there's even more
There's yogret on the floor.

Who is cleaning up the yogret?
Who is cleaning up the yogret?
Who is cleaning up the yogret?
There's yogret on the floor!

Quickly, as you might imagine, this became Molly's favorite song. When she is upset, crying in the car, whatever, a jolly burst of "Yogret on the Floor" can perk her right up. Here she is, singing it herself, although as you can see, she's way too Mariah or Beyoncé to totally perform for the camera:

Today's Tidbit

Molly: "When you go poop on the floor, you say, 'Mama! I have to go potty!'"

Pity Potty

I don't want to offend the potty gods by jinxing this, but on Day 6 of the Great Underwear Experiment, things are going better than expected. A week ago, we visited Molly's new preschool and talked to her old preschool teacher, who said "Just put her in underwear." We'd tried underwear a couple of weeks ago, but after one accident, Molly asked for a diaper again and I thought, OK, too soon. But Molly's teacher said, no, if Molly's asking for diapers she's ready for underwear. She also said that two of the little girls in her class were already in underwear. So, you know, she shamed us into it.

But damn if it didn't work. At least so far. The first day was kind of... challenging. We went through 7 pairs of underwear by late afternoon. It was messy. But it got better and better. Yesterday we were down to 3 pairs. Today, she stayed in one pair ALL DAY LONG. It was magical. She stayed dry through her nap. She was a potty rock star.

So, we'll see if this keeps up, but I have to give big ups to Molly's teacher. Maybe it's too easy, I don't know. If it does work, we'll have done it without the help of the "It's Potty Time" video, a time-honored classic that caused Emma (and Matt and me) nightmares for years. A bonus, for sure.

Props to Andrea McArdle

Last weekend, it was all "Annie!" all the time. And this week, we're having a hard time letting go. So we're pretty much all still belting out "It's the Hard-Knock Life" and "You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile," on a moment's notice. Sam and Em were, respectively, Franklin D. Roosevelt and Miss Hannigan in the Children's Theater of Madison Summer Drama School production of "Annie!" And they were knock-em-out fabulous. I'm not even kidding. And yes, sure, I'm biased. They're my beautiful, talented children. But all of that aside, as my beautiful, talented children can tell you, I can also be unreasonably harsh and critical, even when things are pretty good. So I would tell you lovely folks, all of you who may actually at some point be reading my blog (and thank you, btw), the honest unvarnished truth. If they were cute, and ok, but really, it's just a kids' summer drama production and, well, it was fun and fine, but whatever--I'd tell you.

Honest to god, it was amazing. Not just Sam and Em, either. Everyone was amazing. The sets were great. The costumes were gorgeous. The staging and choreography was truly fantastic (even the numbers--and there were lots--that my kids WEREN'T in :-) ) Honestly, it was incredible. Even more incredible when you realize that the kids were assigned their parts exactly TWO WEEKS before opening night, so they had 10 working days to get the whole production together. I wish you all could have seen them. And I wish I had a video--but no one was allowed to tape it, so no record exists. You'll have to take my word.

Emma was scary as the drunken orphanage-runner Miss Hannigan. I can't tell you how many people came up to me and said "I didn't think she could do it. Sweet little Emma, she's always so quiet... I had no idea she could be so mean--or so LOUD!" And all I could say to that is, you haven't talked to Sam, have you? He could tell you just how mean and loud his sister can be...

Miss Hannigan a.k.a. Carol Burnett

Miss Hannigan a.k.a. Emma

For his part, Sam had his heart set on being FDR, even over bigger parts. And I have to say it was the perfect role for him. He spent the past 3 weeks watching Fireside Chats on YouTube and telling the folks at Whole Foods "You have nothing to feah but feah itself."




Sadly, Emma is smiling in all the pictures I took after the show. She didn't smile during the show. Believe me.





Sam also wrote a monologue in the character of FDR in the year 1933. He performed during the show just before the start of Act Two (one of several monologues and skits). I wanted to preserve the performance in some form, and since I don't have a recording of the show, I am reprinting Sam's monologue here, in its entirety:

WHAT YOU DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT FDR by Sam Cibula
Hello, my name is Franklin D. Roosevelt, known to most of you as FDR, and I am dead. However, I have come back to life for just two days. But I will not take this time for granted, no. What I will do is I will tell you things that you possibly didn’t know about me. Such as did you know that I am the only president to appear in a musical? I didn’t think so. Another fact is that I join JFK and LBJ as the only presidents known mainly by their initials. And not just the only one not to half to deal with the Vietnam War, and not just the only one that doesn’t have a J somewhere in their initials, but also the only one born in the 1800s. Did you know that in no other year than 1933, I survived an assassination attempt that missed me but unfortunately hit and killed Chicago mayor Anton Cermcurk (small shrug)? Did you know that when I was a boy, my family and me went to visit at that time President Grover Cleveland, who personally told me never to become president. Grover, God love yah, but you coulda chosen anyone else in my family, you had to choose me. Did you know that in order of Presidents, such as George Washington 1 John Addams 2, I am thirty two. Joining James Madison, Martin Van Buren, Zachary Taylor, Abraham Lincoln, James Garfield, Grover Cleveland, Woodrow Wilson, Lyndon B. Johnson and Ronald Regan as presidents who’s number orders are factors of 4. (Bodyguard whispers into my ear) Barack Obama? Who’s he? Whatever, and Barack Obama. And lastly did you know that I am the first president who could have his mother vote for him. Thanks Mom, and thank you.

I was incredibly proud of both of 'em. Lemme tell ya.

Emma.

Most of the pictures on this blog end up being pics of Molly. But these are some pictures we took of Emma outside our house last weekend. I needed to share a couple.







Emma starts high school in the fall. I know, right?

Second Famiversary: July 7, 2009

Not sure when this happened, when this tiny little baby turned into this big grown up funny young person. But on July 7th we marked the second anniversary of our trip to Ethiopia to pick up Molly Fanaye. She likes to tell the story: "Nannies pourin'." "We saw you first minute." And finally, "Handprint on the wall."

Here are the pictures that complete the story she tells:

Courtyard of the CHSFS Care Center, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, July 7, 2007. Fanaye age 7 months

Madison, Wisconsin, July 10, 2009. Molly Fanaye age 2 years, 7 months.

Every day I ask how I got so lucky. We love you so much baby girl.

Suuummmmeeerrr

Summer is really a glorious time. Although 4 + weeks in, I'm still getting used to not getting up to go to work in the morning. Actually, that's not really it. After the first three days or so, my brain had totally adjusted to not getting up and going in to work in the morning. I went in the Tuesday after school let out to clean out my room, and that was that. I'm pretty sure that I left something big and important under a table, but can't think what it might be, so whatevs. Next year, I'm moving to a new school, a new grade, a new part-time schedule. It's all really good: the I'll be at my "home" school so I'll be close to home, and I'm hoping that there will continue to be a spot for me there so that I'll still be there in three years when Molly starts school. But even though it's exciting, it's also really weird. Especially the not-teaching-kindergarten part. I think I'm in denial right now. After I left, I think my brain shut off, because it's been very hard to remember that I ever WAS a teacher, much less what I might've actually taught anyone.

Weird, how quickly we readjust. Four weeks really isn't that long, yet it seems like forever since school ended. And at the same time, summer feels like it's flying. It's mid-July. So I keep reminding myself, "it's only July..." The upside of having a state government that's controlled by the bozos in the Wisconsin Dells, and who set the start of the school year for Sept. 1, meaning that the school year seems to last FOREVER (and those last few weeks really did seem to go on and on and on) is that we have ALL of August off, which is a psychological bonus right about now.

But the summer was accounted for before it started, and I have tons to do: About a million cleaning projects around the house, more every day as our cats have decided that every place EXCEPT the litter box is an appropriate place to pee. Work for KU. And now that all three kids are home all day, we have to organize excursions or we get a repeat of today: by noon, we were all home, done with errands and Sam's morning enrichment class, watching Demi Lovato on "Sonny with a Chance." I think my brain turned to pudding.

Oh, and I think I'm launching a new website for highschoolers. I'll keep you posted.

So in the meantime, we marked the second anniversary of bringing Molly home, which really deserves its own post, so I won't belabor it here. Emma's already been to DC with her eighth grade class. Sam's already finished his little league season. And Sammy and Em have already rehearsed and performed in their summer drama school production of "Annie!" which was honest-to-god-absolutely-phenomenal-and-I'm-not-just-saying-that-because-I'm-their-mother. I'm thrilled that the kids take after me with their affinity for drama and total lack of interest in team sports.

But that deserves its own post, too. So more later.

Molly and I have been hanging for the last month or so, and that's been really cool. She's exhausting, my little girl, but so smart and sweet, and especially when her brother and sister weren't around and she had me to herself, very fun and very dear. Molly has had no trouble adjusting to summer. Here's Molly, getting ready to head out to drop off Sam and Em and head to Whole Foods on a hazy, humid summer day in Madison:

Like Navin Johnson in The Jerk: "All I need is this lamp, and my thermos, and this pumpkin, and my dog..."

Ready for a summer outing in Wisconsin.

Molly loves the splash park and she rides her trike like Danica Patrick. We've also been watching "Cinderella" on an endless loop, along with many many episodes of "The Muppet Show" on DVD. And I say it again: the 70s were a very strange time.

Catching Up... Maybe Not

Oh, my poor blog. I have neglected you so. Not for any good reason. Honest. I don't have any good excuses. Just crazy busy, crazy tired. Teaching, and toddlers, and sinus infections. But nothing too exciting or meaningful. I've missed my little blog and the catharsis it brings. Facebook status updates are a quick fix, but they're just not the same.

I feel like there's so much to say that to try to cover it all would just be stupid, so I'm not going to try. No recaps here. Can't post any pictures, because my computer is dead. Good news: I get a new computer. Bad new: my dead computer is sitting at our lovely IT friend's house until I figure out whether it is worth putting on life support for Sam and Emma. How much life is left in my 5 year old machine? It's been rebuilt so many times (new hard drive, new motherboard, new keyboard, new battery, new superdrive...) but now it needs a new display. Worth another 120 bucks to pass on to Sam and Em? They're chomping at the bit to get their hands on a laptop, so maybe. Me, I'm psyched because my new MacBook will come with a new iPod touch, giving me the capability to Facebook and blog on the go. So I'll never be off-line. :-0

Meanwhile, Molly is setting some kind of record for 2-year-old time outs. At preschool, she's fond of saying "I love poopies!" So they put her in time-out in the bathroom. It's not working. She comes home and says "I say 'I love poopies' at school!" And when we ask, "are you going to say it again?" she says, "yeahhhhh...."

Went to a retirement party last night for my principal and another teacher in my school. It was lovely, a nice tribute, both are very deserving. But as I'm leaving, my principal says to me, "You're going to be a marvelous teacher. But you need to put in more time. At least five years." Hm. Quite a ringing endorsement, wouldn't you say? I'll tell you: It made me feel super-good about my career choices and the work I've done. So thanks for that.

So whatever. Nine more days of school. And then I can spend the summer pondering all the ways in which I'm not "marvelous" and trying to figure out how to fix them so I can be marvelous by next year.

A Sailor's Promise

Would you trust this man to keep his word?

In our family, television = love. It's how we communicate and connect and understand the world. Some might think that's sad, but, frankly, I have enough to feel guilty about and this one doesn't really bother me. It works for us and it gives us a lot of cultural capital, which we can share with the world. Sam can ride to Sunday School carpool and reenact the opening skit from Saturday Night Live for all his buddies, and Emma and I can have meaningful discussions about the pitfalls of meeting your future mate on a reality television show; or the reasons that it's not necessarily advisable to put your toddler in a beauty pageant; or the dangers that ensue when you're Tori Spelling and you have a secretly psychotic boyfriend, or your dad is Tony Danza and he secretly has multiple personality disorder. It's all part of the joy and wonder we call "parenting."

So it's no surprise that, like the rest of us, Molly loves her TV. Since our old DVR died, we lost all of our old Teletubbies episodes, which was a little sad, but Sesame Street still comes on every day, and at last count, we had 29 archived episodes taking up TiVO space. Her favorite episode changes weekly. Lately it's been all about the Curly Bear. She has her favorite episodes memorized, word for word, so that she sounds like the annoying guy you know who insists on quoting lines from Caddyshack all day long. Or like my late grandmother who, when for some hard-to-fathom reason we took her to see National Lampoon's Vacation, proceeded to loudly sing along with "La Marseillaise," much to our dismay. But I digress.

Molly has "Curly Bear" memorized, and "Mine-itis," and many other classic episodes. But as I've mentioned here before, she also loves the opening themes for all television shows. When we watch a grown-up show, she wants to see the opening credits again and again: "Again Teeth?" she asks at the beginning of Ugly Betty or "Again Gone?" at the start of Top Chef. It's kind of cute, but then it quickly gets annoying because we want to watch the actual show instead of watching the credits roll again and again and again.

So one night, Emma, being an expert in child psychology and a highly motivated television watcher, came up with a plan. She told Molly that she would make her a "Sailor's Promise" that we could watch the "song" at the beginning of the show we were watching as soon as the show was over. She and Molly shook on it and sealed it with the immortal words, "It's a deal."

I feel a little bad about this. A "Sailor's Promise"????? It's not as if sailors are particularly trustworthy. It seems to me that a "Sailor's Promise" is what Fletcher Christian gave to Captain Bligh, and look how it turned out for him. But now, Molly thinks it's a thing. And so, whenever Molly wants something and we don't want to or can't do it right away, we shake hands and solemnly pledge a "Sailor's Promise." Molly pledges right along with us. I know this will come back to bite us all.

So Much Drama

Molly has really been an incredibly healthy child, especially considering the amount of time she spends in daycare. So we've had very little cause for complaint, health-wise. In fact, Matt took her to the doc on Monday for her (overdue) well check and I was shocked to learn that my little peanut is in the 70th percentile height and weight. When the flip did that happen? (She's still 15th percentile head size, which also makes no sense because her head doesn't look especially small to me for the rest of her.)

At any rate, wouldn't you know, 2 days after her checkup and Molly woke up and her right eye was a little goopy. We were a bit concerned about burgeoning pink-eye, but, hey, it wasn't really pink eye, and her eye wasn't really pink, so we sent her off to daycare with a warning that her eye was a little goopy. We didn't get a call all day long, so figured we were out of the woods. Then, happily late in the afternoon, my phone rings and sure, enough, Mol woke up from her nap with super-goopy swollen eyes, and a charge to leave immediately.

Today, I got to stay home w/her, which was really fine and kinda nice. Since I started teaching Matt gets most of the kid sick days, because it's a pain to write sub plans and because he has a lot more sick time than I've got. But he was at a meeting yesterday and since he does most of these, it made sense for me to stay home on this one. Molly woke up with her eyes glued shut w/eye goop. Really gross. Although after being initially disturbed that she couldn't open her eyes, Molly decided it was really funny and went around squinting and waving her arms around like she was in a really weird game of Marco Polo. Sorry to say that I don't have a picture of that to post here.

So since it was pink eye and nothing more serious, Molly felt pretty good all day long and we had a fun time. We watched India.Arie sing the ABC song on Sesame Street with Elmo an estimated 58,932 times. Seriously. For a while I thought I would keep replaying it over and over as many times as she asked to see if she would EVER STOP ASKING for it independently. But then I gave up. She won. Plus, by the second series of viewings Molly was incredibly tired but watching the ABC song woke her up and made her wired, so I had to put on something boring just to get her to sleep. (Hint: No one can stay awake for "Guiding Light.") I made Valentines cards for my students, which was good because otherwise I'd be doing that instead of blogging now. And I took care of all those stupid appointment phone calls I never have time to make during the day. Read: My cats will finally go to the vet and Emma and I will finally get our hair cut. Good news all around.

So things were perfectly fine. Early illness averted. The rest of us will probably get pink eye, but not for a few days at least, so all is well. Life is calm and happy. And then Sammy comes home.

Being a 5th grader, Sammy is a safety patroller this year. One of the things that patrols get to do is vie for a trip to Washington D.C. as part of this Patrol Thing. I'm not even sure who's in charge, or how many kids go, or if it's a Wisconsin thing or a Madison district thing or a national thing or what. But Sammy had to give a speech to all his peers and all the 4th and 5th graders voted, and then the teachers voted and they chose a winner. Sam has been talking about this all week. We read his speech over his shoulder, but he wasn't really looking for our input, which was fine, because, well, whatever. I figured that whatever input we gave he would take it, or not, and the odds of him, or any single kid, getting the trip were pretty small. Sammy had some jokes in there about Elmo and telling kids to slow down in the halls, and I figured--hey, whatever happens.

Well, it appears that Sam was a little more invested in it than I thought he was. Which in hindsight I should have known. It's Sam, after all, and the kid is wonderful, but he's also the one who's going to go around in high school with the guitar and the black t-shirt, sighing. Life is always hard. Always. Even when it's not. So today he comes home and announces that another kid got the trip. And I'm trying to tell him that it's ok, that the odds were small, that the teachers had half the votes, etc. I even point out that as he's a kid who mostly just wants to sit on the couch, he may not even WANT to go jaunting off for 5 days to another time zone with a bunch of people he's never met before. And he says no, he really would RATHER go with people he's never met before. And he's crying and inconsolable and telling me how he was dying to go to D.C., it's all he's ever wanted, and he had all his hopes and dreams pinned on this trip. Oh, god. You'd think Obama himself was going to be playing b-ball with him. Then he tells me that the kid who won gave such a good speech that even he, Sam, who is dying to go on this trip, voted for her. Oh, boy. Now, in retrospect, he realizes that he probably should have voted for himself. Why oh why did he vote for her? He doesn't know. Now he's beating himself up about it. Was that the deciding vote. I'm sure it wasn't. Was it a good strategic move? Decidedly not.

So Sam's a mess. And he shouldn't be. Because in the middle of all this angst and misery about this trip, all this good stuff is happening to him. A couple of weeks ago, he spearheaded an effort and organized a bunch of his classmates to make notecards and other stuff to sell at a school event to raise money for Doctors Without Borders. The entire impetus for this came from Sam and he got a whole bunch of kids on board. It was fantastic and they raised more than $100. Which is really super-cool. It was quite inspiring, actually. And he got an invitation to audition for a role in a new play that's coming up, which you'd think would be enough to take the sting out of any trip. But apparently not.

He'd rebounded by the end of the night, but not before he had another mini-meltdown over finishing his (many) Valentines, which he'd only just started tonight, and finishing his homework. And not before Emma had her own meltdown on learning that her school is going to have school on a teacher inservice day to make up for our many many snow days this year. Although Em was consoled when she learned that Sam and I will have school that day, too. It's really all about parity for Emma.

So my little day with Molly got amped up in a hurry. Back to my kinders tomorrow. I don't think I can handle any more days off.

Sometimes It's Enough to Make You Wonder About Yourself

As a kindergarten teacher, I spend way too much of my day trying to get young folks to sit still and pay attention. Often, this is a losing battle. Today, one of my students had spent much of the morning avoiding following directions, so he was missing part of his free choice time as a consequence. I'm very mean. So I go to sit down and talk to him about the situation. We talk about the need to listen and follow directions, and mostly this means I say things like "did you make a good choice" and he says "no," and I say "will you make a better choice tomorrow?" and he says "yes." So a lot of "yes" and "no" on my student's part. And this is what transpires:

Me: Do you think that you would get more points from your friends for doing the right thing and listening and following directions?

Student (chastened): No.

Me: No?

Student (looking at me, seriously): I don't understand what you are saying.

At this point, I burst out laughing, lecture over. I didn't really understand what I was saying, either.

It's Winter. In Wisconsin.

So I've been really really bad about posting lately; I apologize for that. It seems like anytime I have access to a computer, I also have a little person sitting on me, making typing hard. In fact, she's sitting on me now, but she's engrossed watching Tilly and the Wall sing the ABCs on Sesame Street. You have no idea how conflicted I am about this.

So what's been up? It's been really really flippin' cold. So cold that I'm questioning why the hell we live in a place that's so cold. So cold that I'm re-considering moving someplace like North Carolina, which we considered years ago, before I started Ed. school. So cold that I bring this idea up about every 5 minutes and Emma's gets really really mad at me. But to be fair, Emma's 13. She's always in the process of getting really really mad at me.

It's always cold. It feels like it will never be warm again. But this past week it got extra super cold. And that was actually kind of a good thing. There are many times when it's not especially helpful or convenient to be a teacher. Getting sick is not really a good option when you're a teacher. Because when you're a normal person and you get sick, or your kid gets sick, you can call in and expect that your work will just be waiting for you when you get well. But you can't work from home when you're a sick teacher. And even if you're sick, those students in your class, they just show up anyway. Who knew? So you have to spend a ton of time and energy organizing and Xeroxing and planning for your sub, just so you can be sick. Not convenient.

But there are other times when it's super-convenient to be a teacher. Like this week, when the windchill was 40 below. For two straight days. That's the kind of cold, the weather folks like to tell us, where exposed skin freezes in under 10 minutes. And so, as a matter of policy, when it gets that cold, they close school. And the nice thing is, if Sam and Em are off school, and Molly's daycare is closed for weather, I'm off, too. So childcare isn't an issue and we can all hunker down together.

Of course, even with this benchmark, the school district never announces ahead of time that they will close school. And we have such crappy weather here that school closings are never a given. We still had to get up at 5:00 on Thursday and Friday to confirm that it was still JUST THAT COLD and that there would be no school. But sure enough, our 3-day MLK Day weekend magically turned into a 5-day Cold-plus-MLK Day weekend. And I can't say that I'm complaining. It was actually kind of lovely. We didn't go anywhere. We cleaned up. And watched TV and drank hot chocolate.

I can't remember anytime since the ice storm when I was in 4th grade that school has been closed for 2 days in a row because of weather. It was wild. And what's even weirder, we'd already had 2 snow days, which means that as of today--mid-January, with at least a month and a half of solid winter left--we've already had 4 snow days. It's unreal. Good thing that "climate change" thing they keep talking about is just a liberal myth, huh? Uh, ok.

Of course, they'll have to figure out a way for us to make up all this lost time. There's already speculation about where they'll add days. Last year, we only had 2 snow days and they had to add 7 minutes to each of our school days for the rest of the year, because, for some unknown reason, they apparently only build ONE snow day into our school year. In Wisconsin. So it's an open question how they'll make up 3 extra days (at least...). But honestly, and I know I'm in the minority here, I'd rather make up the days in the spring or even pre-summer, when it's muggy and hot but it doesn't physically hurt to get out of bed because it's SO COLD. So I'm fine with it.

Today, we had the birthday party we were supposed to have for Molly a month ago. Of course, Molly's really birthday was at the beginning of December, but we had to cancel her party last-minute when Em got sick. So today was birthday party make-up day. And we had a great time. I think Molly truly couldn't picture the idea of her friends being here, with her, in her house!! Super fun!! She just kept running around, bringing out her toys and showing them to her friends. I had a little craft project planned, but we never really got to it because the kids were happier just running around and climbing on Sam's slide/loft bed. You gotta love toddlers. I do. Molly was in fine form, playing and dancing and jumping around. She ate all the frosting from her piece of cake and mine too. And then as soon as everyone left, she got really cranky and crashed. A successful party, for sure.

Another reason that I haven't posted is that my camera has been broken since Halloween. Very sad. So I have a picture backlog. My mom took some pics of Molly's big day today, which I will post very soon, along with pics from Em's Bat Mitzvah, and Sam's star turn as "Spirit Child" in "A Christmas Carol" last month. I promise.

Opia

Tomorrow is Christmas. And although they don't observe Christmas in Ethiopia til January (I love the Ethiopian calendar--in Ethiopia it's also 2001). But it still seemed like as good a time as any to publicly share our love and thoughts and prayers and wishes for Molly Fanaye's Ethiopian family, who we think about every day.

When we brought Molly home last year, the agency gave us DVDs with video of her family, her time in the care center, and her first days with us. Precious precious video. Lately, these DVDs have been in heavy rotation on our TV. Molly is not ever tired of watching "Baby Molly in 'Opia.'" She jams along to the cool Ethiopian jazz soundtrack, and she's especially excited when her friend's grandpa Larry shows up on screen ("Larry! Larry!"). Now all grandpa-aged men are Larry.

Molly watches these DVDs intently and incessantly. I want to know what she's thinking about, what she's taking away. What does she remember about her first 7 months in Opia? What about her first three months and a half months with her birth family? I don't think it's as simple as "she likes to watch herself on TV," although she most definitely does. I wish I knew what kind of imprints and impressions these images are making on her or calling up for her. I wish I knew how these videos are laying themselves down and gelling in her psyche. I wish I had more answers for the questions she will undoubtedly have for us as she grows.

Now, Molly watches the Baby Molly video and then she snuggles up and attaches her mouth to my boob. Through my clothes, on the side, sucking on my sweater. Does she remember nursing? She hasn't nursed since she was 3 months old, but she sees herself nursing on the DVD. What does that image call up for her? Sam and Emma nursed for a year, and when they were done, they were done. No going back. But Molly didn't get her fair share of boob. And she's kind of obsessed with breasts. She likes to stick her hand down my shirt, and just kind of leave it there. For comfort. It's weird but, whatever. I figure if it's what she needs, it's what she needs. Doesn't bother me.

When Molly first started at her old daycare, before she was even a year old, there was a little boy who was about 3 in the preschool class. He was also adopted, from someplace in Southeast Asia. He had black hair and beautiful caramel skin about the same shade as Molly's. And for some reason, he and Molly were instantly bonded. They weren't in the same classroom, but on the playground and wherever he could, he sought her out. Molly, who wasn't especially friendly or attached to strangers, would go and lie down with her head in this little boy's lap for half an hour or more. We have pictures. And the little boy would sit, still and quiet, while Molly just lay there, content and quiet. Was she missing her brother back in Ethiopia? He would have been close to that age. What does she need that she's missed, that she didn't get because she was separated too early from her first family?

Things in Ethiopia are horrible right now. There is widespread drought and people are starving. I'm looking out the window at the snow falling down and Mudula, Ethiopia, seems very far away. Yet also so close. We're bound to a family there, forever, through this smart, silly. sweet, bossy, beautiful little person sitting here on my lap watching "Sesame Street" with her hand down my shirt. So, even though I am not much for praying in general, today, and every day, I pray for our Ethiopian family. I pray that they have enough to eat, that their lives get easier. I think about when we will be able to go back to Ethiopia and see them again. I wish them peace and grace and happiness. And I wish the same for all of you. Merry Christmas, Happy Eid, Happy Chanukah, Merry Solstice, Happy Kwanzaa and all good things for 2009.

Career Opportunities, Part 2

And speaking of my children and their future careers, I think, at the tender age of 2, Molly's revealed to us her true calling:

Diner waitress.

I'm being unkind, you say, locking her into a life collecting tips and slinging hash before she hits preschool? I'd have said that, too. But that was before yesterday.

Yesterday, my mom gave Molly a little play kitchen for her birthday. We opened it up and this is what happened.

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

I think there'd definitely be a job for her at Mel's Diner. She strikes just the right note of annoyed exasperation as she explains that she's "makin' coffee," and especially as she tells the inconsiderate customers to "Hold on!" Flo, eat your heart out.