Twice a week, big sis Wren goes off to preschool and I’m left with wee Chickadee.
For the first hour, she’ll ask “Where Wren?” at least a dozen times. “Oh, Wren at school,” she repeats after me.
Chickadee misses her sister A LOT, but she’s come to appreciate alone time with me. Truth be told, I’ve come to appreciate alone time with her, too. I have hardly had a chance to be one on one with her, and I was nervous about what to expect.
Right now we’re listening to Daddy’s upbeat Celtic music, and the Scotch Irish in her is showing through. She’s a twirlin’ and clapping to the strong beat.
She’s asking for a dance parter, of which I’m her only option, so… until next time. :)
(Warning: Not for the faint of heart.)
An idyllic moment turned catastrophic. Two weeks ago on Thursday, my girls and I were playing with the water hose in the backyard as I was tending to the plants when we were suddenly, and without warning, attacked by yellow jackets. Chickadee was stung first, then Wren, and then they came for me. There were dozens upon dozens of them swarming us, so I scooped up Chickadee and we ran into the house.
There were so many, and as I was trying to make sense what was happening, my first thought was “Have killer bees made it to Virginia?” – Polly
They followed us into the house, and I instinctively grabbed the house phone to call my husband before I realized that the yellow jackets had followed us in and were unrelenting in their assault. Continue reading
Every so often, about once a week, I like to ask Wren some questions about her understanding of God. Usually, I’m met with a blank stare and a responding question about goldfish or pretzels. However, we’ve been making progress.
Last week, I asked her “Do you know who God is?” She replied, “God is.” I commented that her answer was more profound than she realized and then I’m pretty sure she asked for the iPad.
Then we had the sweetest exchange last night.
Me: Do you know who lives in space?
She: Outer space?
Me: Yes, do you know who lives in outer space?
She: [No response.]
Me: Do astronauts live in outer space?
Me: Do aliens live in outer space?
Me: Well, then. Who lives in outer space?
She: The planets.
Me: Did you know that we live on planet Earth? And God made the Earth. And God made the moon, the planets and outer space. God made mommy, and God made Wren.
She: God made daddy?
Me: Yes, He did.
She: God made Fauna (her name for Chickadee)?
Me: Yes, He did.
She: God made Susie (our dog)?
Me: Yes, He did.
She: God made the car?
Me: Yes, he made the ore and man processed those materials, and the fossil fuels which run the car.
She: [No response]
Well, it’s a start anyway.
I was afraid that the three-year old Wren had finally outgrown her naps, but as I write this she is snoozing in her “bed.”
Her little sister is the delicate sleeper. Once in her crib, she cries as if you’ve just torn a limb from her body. I guess I have, if she still considers me as one of her appendages. She was the perfect little sleeper as a newborn. I remember her sleeping through the night at six weeks and being told by the doctor not to worry. But then something changed only a month later, and she gave up napping and that’s when the screams began.
We moved Wren out of the shared bedroom and into the playroom and onto the futon. It was a temporary solution that’s lasted for nearly a year. Sometimes Wren wants to go back to her old bed, but Chickadee protests. Wren is the classic toddler tossing to and fro all night long, and this disturbs Chickadee who is also a frightfully light sleeper.
Every night we make the girls hug and kiss and say they love each other. Despite the many clashings throughout the day, this always resets the mood. Last week, Wren said, “Nigh-nigh, Fauna.” She added, “Don’t scream.”
Wren has not always been the easiest to get down for the night either. She is a snuggly cuddler. Our most brilliant moment in parenting came when we told her about the princess who sleeps. And wasn’t Wren a princess? Doesn’t Wren want to sleep? I’ve found this trick works to get her in a dress, but I’m astonished it also worked for getting her to remain in her bed.
Sometime not too long ago, Chickadee started napping again. It has been a welcome respite. I’m just not ready for Wren to give hers up now.
This year, I’ve accomplished a lot of knitting in lieu of blogging and also in lieu of reading for pleasure. I’m hoping to rectify that last one this month. I went through my husband’s Nook account, and there are a few titles I’ve downloaded onto my reader: The Martian by Andy Weir, Redshirts and Old Man’s War by John Scalzi. These are science fiction, a realm I love to read. The last time I went on a sci-fi binge like this was roughly five years ago when I discovered Joe Haldeman.
Because we were open to transracial adoption (simply put: adopting outside of our race), we were required by our adoption agency to read several books on this topic. They showed scenarios that were eye-opening. Why teaching her culture was important. Who she saw in a mirror might conflict with how she felt. How my child would be treated in a store would depend on whether she accompanied me or not.
I believe all of the books were written by adoptive parents.
I don’t want to discredit the voices of these parents, because I am one and as such I can learn from them, but where were the voices of the transracial adoptee? I’ve done a lot of research of my own since, and I have found the voices of many adult transracial adoptees here on the blogosphere.
John Raible, Angela Tucker, Land of a Gazillion Adoptees, among many others. Somebody get these people a publishing agent! No, seriously, their stories need to be read by potential transracial adoptive parents. Continue reading
I didn’t intend to make a whole other blog post devoted to the following topic, but I wanted to at least reference it once. So please bear with me:
On our first venture into town on our vacation, I went into protective mother bear mode. I don’t think I’ve fully recovered from the Texas incident. It was all for nothing, though, as the only time we felt out of place was in the poultry section of the local Food Lion, and it had nothing to do with our family that doesn’t match.
I still don’t understand what a person would do with chicken paws.