Girls' Night Out

'Twas a week before Christmas, to the state museum we did go. For dinner, a train ride and our favorite -- a puppet show!

The jolly old elf was there with his spouse, setting up shop in Santa's funhouse.

For pictures we went, the Big Whos were merry. But Baby Who? Scared -- oh, so very!

She cried and she yelped, setting off alarms, despite Santa's efforts and his very best charms.

So to the rescue came mom, loading her up in her arms. Say Cheese, Baby Who, and smile, if you please!

It's Christmas, my dear, and pictures we need. But if you don't ease your grip on my arm -- how I'll bleed!

So hold on tight, sweet baby girl, and we'll give this holiday tradition a whirl.

She sighed and she sniffled but finally stopped crying. And Mrs. Claus grabbed the camera as the tears were drying.

Click! Went the shutter, Blink! went the flash. When all was done, to the camera I did dash.

A sigh of relief when what did I see? But not one, not two but Whos times three!

So from our house to yours, from Whos big and so small,

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, to one and to all.

A little elf magic

Baby Who insisted I post this. "Elves, Mama, Elves!"
She can be very persuasive, all 22 pounds of her.

Enjoy!

December meanderings

Mr. Fix it hates Christmas. Not the true reason for Christmas, but the retail-frenzied, Hallmark-driven Christmas that he claims is designed to send him out into public to deal with idiots at shopping malls, on the roads, in parking lots. Even online shopping makes him grumpy. And inevitably, I hear, "You're so hard to buy for."

I've tried to help him out. Last year, I sent him an e-mail with two links to items I'd appreciate if he were so inclined. All he had to do was click on the link and hit "buy me!" And the total cost was under $100.

This year, I ordered my own gift. He has to wrap it, though. And he can just put the $45 it cost in my stocking. Hah!

Seriously, I'm not hard to buy for (my brother makes this same claim). Maybe it's because I recognize that all this is just STUFF. Extraneous stuff that, to be sure, is nice, but in the grand scheme of things, does it matter? No. What matters is that I have the three most amazing gifts of all in my life, that my family is together, that we cherish the memories we have even as we make new ones.

And what I truly want for Christmas, and the coming year, are things money can't buy: Good health for those we love, especially my two aunts as they battle serious illnesses. That my mom continues to enjoy her jaunts to Vegas and beyond and still has many years of hugs from her granddaughters ahead of her. For my baby brother to be happy. That hubby and I can remain sane in our jobs -- and keep those jobs -- in what is a difficult time for so many workers, especially in our industry. And that our girls are healthy and secure in the knowledge that we love them truly, madly, deeply.

It's a lot to ask, and nothing that can be crossed off the list with a quick trip to the mall. Which, I guess, brings us back to the true meaning of Christmas, eh?

Baby Who is 2!!!

She's been preparing us for months, with her "Noooo!" and insistence on getting her way, but now it's official: Baby Who is 2! It seems like just yesterday that we walked into a warm room in Nanchang and saw the tiniest little girl, somberly observing all the activity around her as strange-looking people entered, then took her into their arms.

Right now she's running around in a onesie with white tights, having ditched her birthday dress and decorating her clothes with blue icing and orange and purple marker from her new art kit. Ain't life grand?

What do you get when you mix Dr. Seuss, a black cat and a fairy princess? Too much sugar, of course!

It's almost 10:30 p.m. and the big girls have finally crashed after a day filled with shaking down unsuspecting grownups for enough sugar to rot the teeth of a small country. Or maybe a big one. I've sorted through the stash to make sure there's nothing offensive, leaving the gummy feet and eyeballs for Who I -- who thinks such things are "Cool, dude!" And I've scarfed down a Tootsie Roll (or two) in the process.

Now I remember why folks used to say that the average American gains 7 pounds between Halloween and New Year's Day.

It's off to the treadmill I go...

5 and Fabulous

How time flies! My big girls turn 5 this week, Who II on Monday and Who I on Thursday. They're not little girls anymore, but teenagers in training (think I'm kidding? Who I informed me yesterday, "Mommy, I need a cell phone." Ack!). They've left Baby Einsteins in the dust in favor of Hannah Montana and are so excited to lose that first tooth that Who I offered to pay the tooth fairy to take it. They never cease to amaze.

We've drawn out the celebration this year, mostly due to my inability to get my act together in time to throw a party. Last week it was a surprise trip to see Steven Curtis Chapman in concert, a two-hour drive after preschool that probably no sane parent would have attempted. Lucky for us, SCC played the first set, so when Who I looked at me at intermission and said, "Mommy, I'm tired and want to go home," we scooted. No offense to Michael W. Smith, whose set we missed, but my Cinderellas were about to turn into pumpkins. But they had a good time while they were awake.

Yesterday was the outing with their BFFs, Thing One and Thing Two and the Mama Thing. We hit a new pumpkin patch and saw four girls run non-stop for two hours. The corn maze was a huge hit, as they tried their best to lose us in the stalks. Came pretty close, too.

No birthday can come without me thinking about their other mothers. So as I kiss them an extra time this week and hold them a moment longer, I'll offer my thanks to their birth mothers. Thank you for giving life to these amazing, beautiful girls. In doing so, you gave me the very reason I breathe.

And for Who II's first adoptive mom, an added thank you, for knowing in your heart that these two were destined to be sisters, and trusting us to make it so.

One year later ...

Oh, how time flies!

Just a year ago today, Mom and I walked into a stuffy room in Nanchang to see the tiniest little girl waiting for us. She was nearly bald, wearing blue pajamas that matched those of her two orphanage mates, and she stood on the lap of the beautiful Chinese woman who was holding her as she looked around the room, taking the new surroundings in and probably wondering why that silly woman with the video camera was blubbering and snuffling and saying, "Oh Mom, there she is! She's so tiny!"

A year later, Baby Who is cruising rapidly toward 2. We've seen her take her first steps, heard her utter her first words (Mama! So eat your heart out, Daddy!) and watched her charm everyone she meets. But more importantly, we have watched her bond with her two big sisters, completing our journey to become a family of five.

Our house is seldom quiet. It most certainly is never dull. We get frustrated and overwhelmed by the day-to-day life that is two working parents, three children under the age of 5 and pets who inevitably do something they shouldn't. And we wouldn't have it any other way. Because amid the chaos is more laughter than I ever thought possible, more joy from a fierce hug and "I love you, mommy" than I believed my heart could handle, and more gratitude to a group of women we'll never meet for making a choice that ultimately led us to the most precious gift of all: our children.

So whether you call it Gotcha Day or Family Day or simply "Thank God we made it" day after a long, agonizing wait, know that the journey IS worth it. And that tiny bundle who captivates you in your dreams is SO much better in reality.

Summer's last hurrah

Labor Day signals the end of summer, regardless of what the calendar says. The pools close. Kids return to school. And you put away those white shoes until Easter if you ever listened to what your mama told you.

So what better way to usher out the dog days of summer than a trip to the beach?

I spent a dozen years in New England and didn't appreciate what I had -- the ocean at my fingertips, some of the best seafood in the world and history galore. But what I did appreciate was my dear friend who anchored me through relationship storms, fed me more meals than I can ever repay, helped housebreak my dog and shoveled me out from a foot of snow one Christmas as I was flying back from a trip to see my folks. They just don't make them better than the Fabulous K.

K and her delightful hubby J hosted the Three Whos, Mama Who and Grandma Who this past week, and a grand time was had by all. We zoo'd it, did a cookout with seven kiddos under the age of 5, checked out the Children's Museum, went north to Beantown and -- oh, yeah -- hit the beach. Ate my favorite foods, drank my favorite frozen lemonade and scarfed down the best cinnamon rolls in the land. But mostly, I had quality time with the Whos. And maybe, just maybe, they'll be Mama's girls for at least a week!

Gold medal questions

Watching the Olympic Games with the Three Whos has been an experience. I cried at the opening ceremonies -- lip-synching and fake fireworks beside the point. It was amazing to watch, to remember standing across from the Bird's Nest less than a year ago as I waited anxiously to get the heck out of Beijing and go meet Baby Who.

But the Big Whos have lots of questions about the Olympics. They want to know at every commercial, "Is it over now?" The wanted to know what all the performers were doing at the opening ceremonies, why they were flying through the air, how things worked.

But the burning question is one of fashion, prompted by our first viewing of women's gymnastics.

"Are they wearing panties, mama?"

Go figure.

A whole lotta 'tude

Baby Who has entered a new phase. At least, I keep telling myself it's just a phase. Surely it can't last. SURELY. (Yeah, yeah, who am I calling Shirley?)

It started innocently enough a few months ago with the single utterance of the word "No." Not just "No," but "Nooooooo," drawn out like a whoopee cushion losing its air.

That single act of defiance has escalated this past month into what I fear is full-fledged independence. Get this: She does not like the clothes I pick out for her.

Mind you, this child is Not Yet 2.

I am doomed.

So our morning pleasantries have given way to battles as she shakes her head in rejection as I pull out one outfit after another. Today she agreed to wear the short overalls I chose but didn't want a T-shirt. I tried it without the shirt and she looked X-rated. Sorry, kid, but you've gotta cover those baby boobies.

She was not pleased.

Maybe this is her early rebellion at the realization that, as the youngest, she's going to inherit a LOT of hand-me-downs. Maybe she's just mad as hell.

Or maybe she's going to be a fashion diva.

You be the judge.

Adventures of Bubble Butt and her trusty sidekicks

OK, technically it's still spring. But when the mercury hits 94 degrees by noon, it sure feels like summer. So what better way to spend the day than in the new shark-shaped wading pool? (Can I hear some "Jaws" music, please?)

The little mermaids, led by Queen Bubble Butt (no little swimmers small enough, so a regular diaper had to do) went at it with gusto. I'm not sure the pool will ever be the same.

Conversations

Some of the best conversations I have with my big girls occur in the car on the way to or from preschool. No, it doesn't make me mother of the year. But it seldom fails to entertain, or make me think.

This is where I get the reports on who did what to whom, on whether the classroom problem child pulled a stunt, on what made them smile -- or what they're looking forward to.

Today's ramblings would have made an existentialist proud: We covered everything from death and funerals, sparked by the recent, unexpected loss of their Grandma Janie, to mommy's "boo-boo" (recent surgery that's put me out of the lifting game for six weeks) to the perils of cigarettes to how Santa landed his sleigh in our front yard and ate the cookies we left before he brought in his bag of goodies. Who I announced she's going to ask the Jolly Old Elf this year for a monkey, a giraffe and a lion -- oh my!. Who II, nicknamed Loudly for her lack of volume control at times, announced that the next time she's upset, I'm to tell her, "Cry in your quiet voice." And Baby Who joined in with the primal grunts that have earned her the nickname Puma, for the way she screeches "Noooooooooo!" like a jungle cat when she doesn't want to do what she's told.

These conversations with the Whos often resemble a tennis match, my head bobbing back and forth between them as I try to catch Every Single Word while keeping my eyes simultaneously on the road in front and the rear-view mirror. The other drivers must think I have a nervous tic. I'd rather think of it as the Mommy Mojo, multi-tasking as I bee-bop in my minivan down the highway.

It's not always a peaceful ride, to be sure. Sometimes (gasp!) they fight. Sometimes I'm playing the same song on the CD over and over to keep the peace. Some days, my thoughts are elsewhere -- on the work day ahead, worries at home, the pain people I care about are struggling with, the idiot who cut in front of me. But on a morning like today, when the sun's shining brightly, everyone brushed their teeth, their hair doesn't look like rat slept in it and all are fed and happy, life is so, so sweet.

Even IF daddy put Baby Who's shoes on the wrong feet.

Mother's Day blessings

On Mother's Day weekend of 2005, I stood in front of a group of people considering international adoption during a meeting at a local church. I was about to mark my first Mother's Day as a mom to a beautiful, zany, squirmy 18-month-old girl, and all I could think about was how that miracle never would have happened if I hadn't sat in their seats and if DH and I hadn't taken the biggest leaps of faith of our lives. It never could have happened if, a world away, a woman I'll never meet hadn't made a choice -- to give her child life, then leave her, for reasons we'll never know.

This year, my thoughts are heavy with that woman, and the birthmothers of my other two daughters, as well as Who II's first adoptive mom, who so tragically learned that the concept of a "forever family" doesn't always prove to be reality.

I wonder whether Who I's zany sense of humor comes from her first mother, whether Who II's attention to detail and quiet play are inherited or the product of environment as she watched her adoptive mom fight a horrific health battle. I watch Baby Who soak up the world around her, then cackle with delight as she figures something out, and can't help but think of the families who'll never know these girls, who cannot possibly fathom the joy they bring to our lives, even as we shoulder the sobering knowledge that our joy is likely built on someone else's painful circumstances.

I often think that if those mothers and I could have just 10 minutes together, I could get some answers to the questions my daughters will ask, to the questions I have. Ten minutes to capture the choices and experiences of a lifetime, boil them down so three beautiful girls whose lives were dictated by circumstances beyond their control can know not just where they come from, but make peace with the decisions that brought them to us.

It'll never happen, of course. So we're left to find other routes. We talk about those first moms on a regular basis. We validate whatever our girls are feeling, and if that means we talk about death and dying more than any 4-year-old should, so be it. We're also creating a mother's garden, a quiet place in our yard where we can go to think about those other mothers. I hope it will be a place where we can gather our thoughts, be they happy or sad, and know that no matter what journey brought us together, no matter how painful the path, we are richer together than we ever were apart.

And even when I'm tired or frustrated, I try to remember to tell my girls what I told them today: The best thing about my life is the fact that, despite all the mistakes and bad choices I've made over the years, I was still given the chance to do the most important thing I'll ever do: become their mom.

It's the best Mother's Day gift of all.

Photo Ops

Today was family picture day. We figured Baby Who has been home nearly eight months and it was time to get all five of us in a picture taken by someone who knew what they're doing. First mission -- finding matching dresses. Check. Second mission -- clearing all noses of boogers. Check. Third -- getting the photos taken without either parent having an apoplectic fit. Check (but it was touch and go there for a while!).

Getting good expressions on three kiddos in the same frame is, shall we say, a challenge. A big, freakin' challenge. The pricier place we've had photos taken offers to take the head from one photo and plunk it onto the body in another to ensure you get all the expressions you want. All this for a mere $15 a head. It just sounds so cannibalistic to me that I haven't had the guts to try it. "Cut off the baby's head and plop it over here, whydon'tcha?" Eeew.

So all heads are intact. No heads rolled. But as you can see from this outtake, at least ONE head may be short a few strands after the shoot.

Wagons, Ho!

Perhaps a better title for this post would be "Off the Wagon," as I've been informed that I've been sorely lacking as a blogster/blogmistress/whatever you call it. OK, I fess up -- things are crazy here.

But for those who demand updates, here ya go.

Whos I & II are now officially 4.5 years old. They're such big girls now! We've had some ups and downs in recent weeks, including the episode two weeks ago when Who II informed me, "I hate you! I don't want a mom and dad anymore! I don't like this house!" Um, did I mention she's 4, not 14? Oy. I've said it before and I'll say it again: Puberty's gonna kill us.

Then there's Who I, who's decided that when she grows up (which, in her mind, is when she turns 6, the same year she says she'll go to high school), she's going to build a rocket ship and fly her daddy to the moon. When I reminded her that daddy hates to fly, she revised her plan. "Daddy can stay here with Who II and III and I'll take YOU to the moon, Mama!" Sounds good to me. Sometimes, they send me into orbit already!

Baby Who has cracked 20 pounds and is officially the oldest in her preschool class. She's just hit 17 months, so we're hoping they don't rush us into the terrible 2s classroom anytime soon. She's perfected the word "Nooooooo!" and is well into words that start with the letter B: Bird, bubble, bath, baba, and my personal favorite, BUTT! (said as she pats said body part with a huge grin on her face).

Mama Who and Daddy Who are just plain tired. We're staring at house projects desperately in need of doing, wondering how EVERY seal on our windows could fail at the same time, debating the merits of roof vs. fog-free windows or simply pitching a tent in Grandma Who's backyard. Ah, life. Nothing a little MegaMillions jackpot couldn't fix!

But we're finally having some warm weather, so we broke out the little red wagon today after trying Baby Who on the tricycle and realizing she still has the shortest legs in the universe. But the wagon -- she was rocking and rolling! And look at Who I pull her weight and that of her sisters. She's our resident pack mule!

Hope spring has sprung for one and all.

Of Date Night, Babysitters and SCC

The Three Whos have actually survived their first night with a babysitter who isn't related to them. Better yet, the babysitter survived and is willing to come back!

The occasion? Date night for Mama and Papa Who, consisting of front-row concert tickets and a meet-and-greet with Steven Curtis Chapman afterward.

For anyone who doesn't know, SCC is a popular Christian music singer who has adopted three daughters from China, and he and his wife have set up a foundation to help others bridge the financial gap so they can help children all over find their forever families. His adoption ministry is phenomenal and is a wonderful example of how people can use the gifts they're given to change the world. It's a message that resonates with us even as it moves us to tears. This is the second time we've seen him since we adopted Who I in 2004, and both times I've left the show inspired to find more ways to help bring children and families together.

One thing he said was really sobering: Every 18 seconds, a child somewhere in the world becomes an orphan. They had a counter running during last night's show that brought home the point -- I think it was up past 500 by the end of the evening.

Proceeds from the auction go to the adoption foundation he and his wife established, Shaohannah's Hope. Friends of ours probably could not have brought their daughter home without the help of a grant they received in 2004, so I was eager to share our own adoption story and theirs as thanks for what he does for so many adoptive families. He was really gracious and touched by our family's story, and tickled to see a photo of our friend's daughter. Theirs is one of 1,600 families the foundation has helped so far, and a new family is being helped at each stop on the tour. Last night, an adoptive family received a $4,500 grant.

If you get a chance, check him out. It's time well-spent.

All dogs go to heaven

After 12.5 years, the day I'd been dreading finally came yesterday -- I had to let my "first baby" go. She was hanging on physically, but mentally we'd seen a downward spiral, with her days and nights confused. She couldn't sleep when she needed to and couldn't hear very well.

This past week, she just seemed so sad. I made the appointment for yesterday morning so my mom could go with me, and I spent three nights on the family room couch with the dog, never sleeping more than about 15 minutes at a time before she would want in or out.

Even though I had cats before I got her, Josie (named because I had Josie & the Pussycats) was my first baby, the first time I felt really needed. She gave me a reason to get up each day, something to come home to, at a time when my personal life pretty much sucked. I tell people she kept me from throwing myself in front of a bus.

We had great adventures. We hung out at the beach in New England, a pale-skinned mama and her too-hot fuzzy sled dog. We made the 900-mile journey by van back to the Midwest, with her refusing to pee the entire way. She became the expert bunny killer in our old neighborhood -- I'm convinced there's still a chalk outline from the time DH found just ears and a tail. Dumb bunny!

She even tolerated the arrival of Who I, followed too soo for her liking by Whos II and III. Once she figured out they were a food source, she was OK with them. I'm sure she ate her weight in macaroni and cheese and stolen chicken nuggets in the last three years.

She had the softest ears and most beautiful white eyelashes. She sang -- "ah-roo-roo-roo" -- for treats, our own fuzzy opera gal. And she gave the absolute best kisses.

In the end, she let me know when she was ready. I'm grateful I was able to listen to her. Keeping her going would have been so selfish.

We told our big girls that Josie was going to heaven, and why. We cried a lot and tried to explain it in terms a 4-year-old could understand. It was especially important for DD#2, who has already experienced so much loss in her life, to know that you CAN say goodbye, that it's OK to be sad.

And bless her heart, while I was at the vet, Who II drew me a picture that now sits on the refrigerator, right next to a photo of Josie as a puppy.

It's a dog with angel wings.

Dire conditions

News accounts of the winter storms that have crippled China have failed to mention an area very close to my heart -- the conditions in the orphanages. But through a couple of fantastic organizations that help the children still waiting for families, the adoption community has gotten a pretty clear picture of how things are going.

It's grim.

Many orphanages have no heat and can't afford coal, which has skyrocketed. They're running out of disposable diapers. Food supplies are dwindling, and at least one city I've read about is rationing noodles to four packs per family. And, especially in the southern provinces, which are ill-equipped to deal with prolonged cold, it's a monumental challenge just to keep the children warm.

There has been no word about my daughters' two orphanages. Both are in southern provinces heavily affected by the snow, so I can only assume they are struggling. Baby Who's orphanage, in particular, is a poor one.

My children are safe and sound in their beds tonight, tucked under blankets with full bellies and parents who love them more than life itself. But there are children suffering. There are parents waiting to travel, not able to find out if the children whose pictures they've held for weeks are OK.

I am grateful to organizations like Half the Sky and Our Chinese Daughters Foundation, which are trying heroically to get supplies to those in need. I'm humbled by the outpouring from the adoptive community, which just rallied to help Love Without Boundaries win a $50,000 Facebook charitable challenge to perform life-saving surgery on Chinese orphans with heart conditions and is now stepping up in droves to help children most will never meet.

I'm proud to be part of this community. And I'm off to do my part.