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Just Five More

You know how people say “X more sleeps before….” Well, I only have 5 more drives before both of my children are attending the same school in the same city.

We started at our preschool in July, 2007 when my son was six months old. He advanced through all the classrooms, eventually “graduating” from TK (transitional Kindergarten) in August, 2012. At that point, my daughter had been going there for almost two years; she started when she was four months, in October, 2010.

Her first day of school, 2010

Her first day of school, 2010

The preschool is exactly 11.23 miles from my house and 6.8 miles from my work, putting it right in the middle of the two places I spend the majority of my time. It’s an amazing school and because of my firefighter hubby’s schedule, having my kids in a preschool closer to my work made sense. That is, until my son started Kindergarten at the school that’s only .82 miles from my house. I timed it once; it takes 2 minutes and 14 seconds to get from the school to my house.

With getting the kids in and out of the car when we drop off/pick him up, California traffic and having to take side street and hitting all those red lights, it takes me an hour from the time I leave my house to the time I get to work. AN HOUR. Then I get to do it all again on the trip home.

I’m not going to lie. It’s exhausting. Not that I don’t love the talk time she and I share in the car together but a two hour commute every day just kicks my butt. And don’t get me started on the one day a week I work from home…having to drive her to another city, then come back home then go back to her school then come back home…Oh My God.

Needless to say, when she became age eligible for the full day pre-K program at her brother’s school, I jumped at the chance to enroll her. And when I found out that I could start her in June for the full day summer program, and the dates coincided with her current school year ending, before she transitioned to the next age classroom, I was maniacally enthusiastic. Sure, it gave me pause (for a split second) that changing schools with no transition time would be hard on her but rip off the band-aid I shouted! This change will save this mama 40-45 minutes each way!

But with this afternoon’s pick-up marking 5 drives away from this reality, I feel like I might burst into tears. My daughter has only ever known this school. She has many friends, some she’s been friends with since she started at 4 months old. She adores her teachers to the point of wanting to invite them to her birthday party. She knows the routines, every corner of the playgrounds, all the classroom pets, the songs, and chapel experience.

When I first told her she was going to start at her brother’s school, she dug her heels in and adamantly said no, no I’m not. But as we continued to bring it up and discuss it, she’s started to come around and now seems genuinely excited to begin a new adventure. So my trepidation is my own. I’m realizing that this preschool is all I’ve known. I know all the routines, every corner of the playground, all the teachers and parents. This preschool has become part of our family. When my son started Kindergarten, everything was new but it wasn’t preschool. The reality of switching preschools, leaving the one we’ve been attending for seven years and starting anew, is hitting me.

I know we will be fine, both of us. I know she’ll make new friends. I know having my children at the same school will restore and preserve my sanity. And there is the added bonus of the price decrease. And while all of that makes me feel giddy with glee, it is also a little daunting. Change always is.

So I’ll take a lesson from my brave girl, and be brave myself. She and I will look forward to this new adventure together.

It’s only 5 more drives away, after all.



Family Resemblance

Last month I auditioned for Listen To Your Mother – OC. My piece was not chosen for the show but I’m happy I auditioned for two reasons. First, I am not comfortable with public speaking and this took me way out of my comfort zone and the challenge felt good. Second, the topic I chose to write about, the story I chose to share…is my beginning. Something I’ve talked about but never actually written about. It’s so personal and so emotional and every time I’ve started to write about it, I stop. But not this time. What I also learned is that this is a two-part story. The circumstances of my beginning are not without their share of drama and so much has transpired since then, and that also deserves to be shared. So I’m working on part two but for now, a piece of me that is close to my heart….

Me, age 2

Me, age 2

Growing up, my parents used to tell me I made them so happy that’s how they got pregnant with my brother. We’re only 13 months apart and are not just close in age, but are also close as siblings.

As the oldest child, I attempted to rule the roost – and you’d think having the knowledge that the happiness I bestowed made me solely responsible for my brother’s birth would have gone to my head but it didn’t. My parents, after struggling to have a child, were honestly so happy to finally have me, that they had stopped trying to get pregnant and voila…baby brother.

Here’s the thing: he’s their biological child, but I’m not.

While my parents adopted me before I was born, I was never addressed as Dennis and Sandra’s adopted daughter Coreen. That label never entered our vocabulary and not because they tried to hide anything from me. Quite the contrary: as far back as I can remember I’ve always known I was adopted.

Physically, it was clear: I looked different from the rest of my family.

And I’d see family resemblances in others all the time. It’s hard not to, when people love to classify things like looks, throwing out “Oh! she has your smile or he really has his daddy’s eyes!” when meeting new children. This meant to me, especially as a child, that a family resemblance was something purely physical.

When my son was born in 2007, I finally had my own family resemblance. Mattias is the perfect blend of me and my husband. Upon first glance, he is his father’s mini-me but look closer and you’ll see that the shape of his eyes, his fair complexion, his body type, his long fingers, are so very much from his mama.

That’s when the fact that I’m adopted hit home: seeing my physical self in the embodiment of my child kicked my where did I come from curiosity into hyper-drive.

So I began to search. Being born in the era of closed adoptions means California law permits me to know very little about my birth mother. And when I say very little, I mean I’m allowed to know she enjoyed “spectator sports and macramé” (it was the 70s). Knowing her hobbies wasn’t much to go on, and I’m no Veronica Mars, but a good challenge never fazed me.

And this would-be detective had a partner, someone who was there every step of the way, from the beginning. My mom and I had a long talk about my desire to find my birth mother, and bless her heart, she had saved every scrap of paper and committed to memory every detail of the phone conversation she had with my birth mother before the adoption was finalized. She knew, in that blessed heart, the day would come when her daughter said the words all adoptive parents wait to hear: “I want to find my birth mother.”

So in addition to knowing my birth mother liked macramé, I also knew what high school she had attended and probably the most important piece…her maiden name.

Armed with this knowledge, I was relentless in my quest. I road-tripped to the public library near her high school and found pictures of her in old yearbooks; I exhausted the people search on ancestor.com. I scoured numerous State birth and death indexes and eventually met a really nice lady who helps pre-1980s adoptees like me, and together we tracked down her married name.

And one day, in May of 2008, Google came through. I knew where she worked and oh my God I had an e-mail address. My husband doesn’t call me Information Super-highway for nothing.

I didn’t contact her immediately. Instead, I freaked out. I began to question why I wanted to find her and wondered if she would even want to meet me.

I knew in my heart and from my own experience that being pregnant, carrying your child, giving birth, is something you do not forget. And I imagined that coupled with making the decision to place a baby up for adoption, and writing the words my birth mother put to paper in the letter my mom saved for me would make it even more impossible to forget. But I couldn’t bring myself to reach out, even though I wanted to say to her, “Thank you for giving me the wonderful life I have.”

It took me over three months to work up the courage before I finally sent her an e-mail. An e-mail that probably made me sound like a lunatic:

“I’m sorry to do this through e-mail, but I don’t have any other way to reach you except show up at your work and that seemed like an even bigger invasion. I’ve thought about this for a long time but have never been able to come up with a non-shocking way to say this, so here it is: I think you are my birth mother.”

She responded the very next day. And I met her for the first time that weekend. Because, as it turned out, we live 33 miles apart.

The moment we first saw each other was overwhelming yet familiar all at the same time. And Just. Like. That. I had another family resemblance… in the color of my eyes, my fair complexion, my body type, my long fingers.

But it was more than just a physical resemblance. I learned we share a dislike for tomatoes, but like peanut butter and chocolate ice cream. We embrace a love of the written word and our chosen professions reflect that. She was faculty adviser for her school newspaper; I wrote for both my high school and college papers. And we both have a penchant for the mystery/suspense/thriller genre in books (probably why my detective work panned out so well).

I also learned that not only did she want to meet me; she really wanted to get to know me.

There were more reunions to be had: my birth father, grandmother, two brothers, three sisters, three nieces, aunt, uncle and cousins.

Meeting my birth family has given me a better sense of who I am because I now know that a family resemblance is more than just physical, more than having your mother’s smile or your daddy’s eyes.

It’s a blend of nurture and nature, shared experiences, people who touch your life. It’s about having a sense of belonging, being comfortable in your own skin and recognizing the unique traits that make you special, something I hope I am teaching to my own children.

2014 marks five years since we’ve been reunited and my heart is filled with gratitude for my birth mother and her selfless choice to give me up for adoption, giving me this wonderful life.

For my husband, without him I would not be mother to our two beautiful children, who I see myself in every day.

And gratitude for my dad and mom, for picking me to be their daughter, always believing in me and supporting me in my search to learn more about what makes me, me.

Family is what you make it, whether you are born into it or not.


Happy Place

Want to know one of my pet peeves? It’s when people shout “I’m living the dream”. Because mostly, they are doing something I don’t ever want to do. Ever.  So no, you are not “living the dream” you are “living your dream”. Get it right.
My life isn’t perfect and some days it downright blows, literally. Like Saturday morning, day three of my stomach bug battle – the kind where it’s coming out both ends. 10 am soccer game and I’m the effing snack mom. My husband got stuck in traffic coming home from work and my mom thought the game was at noon. So I had nobody to take the kids for me. I had to motivate, load the kids and snacks up, get the puppy (wha? a puppy? more on that later) in his crate and get to the field.
As an adult, have you ever had to puke in an elementary school toilet? They are really low to the ground.
But I’m still living my dream.
We get home from the game and my husband and son say, “something smells really bad”. Well, the puppy I’ll explain more about later had stress-separation-anxiety-related diarrhea all over his crate, himself and the wood floor. Cleaning that up was disgusting and it did smell really bad.
But I’m still living my dream.
Because I wasn’t feeling well we postponed celebrating our anniversary (didn’t want the overnight babysitting offer to go to waste) and sold our hockey tickets. Staying home didn’t bank me any extra downtime because when you are a mom you don’t really get to be sick since it’s expected that you remain functional. It’s more like operating half-ass and plodding along.
But I’m still living my dream.
Things may not always be perfect but my happy place is with my family. This is my perfect.

Happy place


Puppy love


Little Miss sharing her baby doll with the puppy

Because I am living my dream.


Wordful Wednesday

When you are a parent, as happens, you take oodles and oodles of photos. Many times they take up residence on your camera, because, if you are like me, you post them to fb and your blog and always tell yourself you’re gonna back them up on your hard drive before deleting them but then never do.

I was looking through the gazillion images on my camera yesterday (how big is your memory card? That’s right, sometimes size does matter) and found this gem.

I remember taking this because the first pic I took was without flash, so as to not wake the kiddos, but it was too dark so I flipped on the garage light, opened the car doors and used flash (I’m such a good mom) to capture this rare moment of two sleeping kids who did not wake up as soon as we pulled into the garage.

But I cannot recall where we were coming back from. However, the caution tape, feather, and McDonald’s chocolate milk piques my interest. It looks like it was a good time.

And don’t ask what that thing is on Fussypant’s finger. He’s a collector, it could be anything.

Ah, sleeping children. Bliss.

It’s been awhile since I participated in Wordful Wednesday but if you want to come play too, link up here: Parenting BY Dummies.


Little Miss, being cute

Little Miss is a mobile monster now that she’s figured out walking is fun. She still does the wide-leg toddle and it’s the cutest thing ever.

Here is some video of her being cute. For some reason, the sound doesn’t work on one video but the look on her face is too cute not to share.


Baby steps

‘Walk this way…”

“These (baby) boot(ie)s were made for walking…”

Little Miss, the late bloomer, turned 13 months old yesterday and is not yet walking. BUT, she has been zipping around with her push and pull toy. She clearly enjoys being mobile and I’m sure will be walking on her own in no time.

This post is for Wordful Wednesday. See more at Parenting BY Dummies.


Two kids, two big ol’bumps

Shell over at Things I Can’t Say has us all Rockin’ the Bump this week.

In 2006, hunky husband played in a soccer tournament in Vegas when I was about 26 weeks pregnant with baby #1, Captain Fussypants. So I rocked the bump, Vegas-style.

Parents-to-be - 26 weeks and in Vegas baby!

 In 2010, my dear friend Carrie of Carrie B photography took beautiful belly shots of baby #2, Little Miss (here’s two):

Happy family

Awaiting Baby girl

But my favorite belly shot of this pregnancy was taken by me with my iPHONE. It perfectly captures my “view”.

View from above


Act your age

You are my first born.

You are my only son.

You will always be my baby.

But some days I really need you to act your age.

At almost 4 1/2 you are perfectly capable of getting yourself dressed. Wiping, flushing, and washing your hands. You brush your own teeth, feed the dog, throw your trash away. Navigate the dark hallways, pick up toys, put your dishes in the sink, rummage through the snack cupboard. Sleep through the night.

But lately you want me to do these things with you or for you.

I get it. I’m a big sister, so I understand that it’s hard being the big brother sometimes. Watching us coo and laugh and take pictures of her first steps, her stuffing her face, clapping. Changing her diaper, rocking her to sleep. Giving her so much attention.

And although you are 4 1/2, it’s beyond your capability to understand that we did all this for you too…we captured and celebrated all your firsts, just like we are capturing and celebrating hers.

So please, help mommy out. I’m tired, I’m stressed, I am always doing a hundred things at once and can’t drop them all to help you wash your hands, when the day before you did that by yourself and more.

I promise to spend more time with just you. I promise I’ll help you find your favorite toy, shoe, race car. I promise I’ll read you that second story and snuggle you at night when you wake up scared.

You are my first born.

You are my only son.

You will always be my baby.

But some days I really need you to act your age.

Aren't they peaceful when they sleep?


Wordful Wednesday: Morning girl

Little Miss is happy in the morning. Today, she woke at 5:30am. I put her in the sink while I applied make-up (after taking the faucet handles off so she wouldn’t get herself wet). She loved holding (and chewing) lipgloss and mascara tubes. She’s my girly.

Little Miss is a morning person

Wordful Wednesday. See more goodies at ParentingBYdummies.


Six Word Memoir

Six words to describe something significant in my life. Um, how does a long-winded, soap-box type do that? Not easily. So I wrote six. Six Six Word Memoirs of six words each.

Husband, two kids. Employed, healthy, blessed.

I overaccessorize with stress and exhaustion.

Sometimes I am so over myself.

My family is my whole world.

Adopted. Awesome family. Awesome biological family.

Mama needs a vacation soon, please!

Written for Mama Kat’s Writers Workshop. Prompt 1.) Six Word Memoir: Write about a significant time in your life in just six words.