Happy Birthday to me, OH BOTHER!

Today is my 34th birthday, and the last 20 have been a journey in recovery.  It goes without saying that birthdays are hard after your birth-mother dies.  This day ties us together. Over the past 20 years I have tried many ways to work on the awful cloud of sadness that covers this day. It is like my outsides are in sunshine and happiness and my insides are being sucked into a black hole. Maybe it is the point in time in which she died, because there are so many things about my day of birth that I wonder about that only she could answer.  I never asked; I was young.  I am not a birth-mother, so I have no idea what that feels like, but I know that the bond between mother and child is an amazing thing.  I often wonder about my children--as they get older how they will deal with the loss surrounding the day of their birth?

What I remember of my birthday when she was alive is cloudy.  I remember a few birthday parties that I think are the root of some of my OCD behaviors. I remember her working very hard on one birthday party in which she turned the back yard into a carnival with lots of different games, most of which involved balloons.  For those who don't know, I have a HORRIBLE balloon phobia (globophobia), and which came first--the party or the phobia--I will never know.  That is one of those questions she might have been able to answer.  I know about half of that birthday I was locked in the bathroom because the guests wanted to surprise me with something (enter claustrophobia and fear of surprises). (As far as I know, my birthday has no ties to my bufonophobia.) After that birthday we started having just family parties, in other words, they would say "Happy Birthday!", I would get cake and usually mom would bring me out with one of my friends to a dinner/movie.  One year it was the circus--but this blog is getting long so let's not go there. I DON'T LIKE CIRCUSES. 


 

After mom died I was always at camp for my birthday.  Awwwww......camp birthdays. If I could, they would all be camp birthdays.  My camp birthday memories are my best. At camp you are so busy that you can't sit and wonder. Everyone knows it is your birthday, and they all sing and say happy birthday, you get cake, there are NO BALLOONS! and no surprises.  When I say this I worry that I hurt my wife's feelings.

 

My wife's family is birthday crazy!  I must admit, if I was a normal person I would be in heaven.  Even with my craziness I have to concede that I have never been so showered with gifts.  I am pretty sure Amanda would celebrate the whole month of her birth if she could, and I don't think her parents would tell her not to. This morning I woke up to breakfast for me and breakfast for the kids taken care of, beautiful flowers on the table and lots of hugs and happy birthday greetings.  My in-laws drove an hour just to drop off the presents that they had gotten me (yes, presents--they bought me 3 this year) and cake made without sugar because they know I have given it up.  My grandmother in-law sends me a card and check every year. 

So what to do.  After writing this I feel like such a loser moaning about what is lost and not looking at what I have.  I guess the problem is I always think of birthdays as the celebration of the day you are born and I guess I should start seeing them as a celebration of the fact that you have made it another year and all that was accomplished over that year.  As an adoptive mother I know my bond with my child is as strong as that of a birth-mother (very different I have NO doubt but as strong).  I am so grateful for their birth stories and the wonderful women who brought them into this world.  But that is not what they celebrate every year--they celebrate the fact that they are older, and how much they have grown. 

 

  

So here's to 34!  May I honor the memory of the women who brought me in to this world by celebrating all that I have been able to see, do and accomplish over the last year. 



HOWEVER! PLEASE NO BALLOONS OR PARTIES!!!

Motherless Mother

Christmas 1979

When I was 14 my mother died.  She had pancreatic cancer and it happened very quickly.  She was home for Christmas, went into the hospital on the 26th of Dec for what we all thought was a quick gallbladder removal and never came back home.  You would think that at age 14 I would have a lot of memories of her, but I am sad to say that I really
don't remember her much at all.  I do have glimpses of her every once in a while but I am not sure whether they are true memories or things I have invented.  When I ask people about her, they always say the same thing--that "she was great," etc.  There is no substance in what they have to share and it only makes me wonder more and makes me frustrated.  So I have stopped asking and I try not to think about it much.  What I do remember is the doll story I shared earlier and the fact that I always received a doll for Christmas. Every year without fail Santa brought me a doll. Even the year that we all got musical instruments, I also got a doll.  I also remember how she made Christmas so magical.  I believed in Santa until I was 15 years old (but that's another blog post). My father sent the above picture to me not too long ago. I cherish it.  Then, last month after my daughters' birthday party I uploaded the pictures and saw this--a glimpse of my mom.

2010

Bucket-O-Pancakes

It really is just the little things that point out the difference between having 3 kids and 7 kids. This morning I started my day off by handing out a bucket of pancakes.  Literally a bucket.  Three each, and I handed them out in the car--not a car, exactly, but a 15 passenger van that our wonderful church is letting us borrow.

7-2

Picture, if you will, a large old blue church van, the kind with steps to climb in.  I have the kids sit on the porch and load them up one at a time. That means I go and unlock the van, open the doors, call out for Frankie to come to the van, help her in get her in her seat and then get down from the van.  Then I call out for Hazel to get into the van, help her in, get her into her seat and then get down from the van.  I then get down from the van call for R-7, help her into the seat, and then get down from the van.  I then call for the 4 older ones to get in the van.  This usually involves me yelling "Stop pushing!  We are all going to the same place!" and "We will all get there at the same time even if you get into the van first," and "I can't for the life of me figure out why you are pushing, you have assigned seats, for goodness sakes."  These comments are  always directed at the same two kids.  Next, I yell, "Hurry up, please, we have places to be." This is always directed at the same two children.  I then say "Thank you, good job, let's get going," and I shut the doors, take a deep breath.  Only then do I realize that even though they are all sitting in the van with their cute clean clothes, nicely brushed hair and teeth, back packs and lunchboxes packed with healthy food, that I was in such a rush that I forgot to feed them breakfast.  I didn't forget to make breakfast--it is sitting in the oven--I just forgot to GIVE it to them.  I open the doors and yell that I am running inside, run to the door, ask my loving wife to go stand with them by the van as I get on oven mitts and reach into the oven and pull out a large amount of oatmeal-whole wheat pancakes that I made the night before so that the kids would have a nice homemade and healthy breakfast.  I run back out to the van with the bucket-o-pancakes in my oven-mitt hand and climb back into the van.  I then frisbee toss the pancakes out to my 7 children.  Like a dealer dealing out cards they fly threw the air. One to Daniel, one to John, one to Ashlyn, one to Mati, one to R-7, one to Hazel, and one to Frankie until they each have three.  I then say, "Everyone happy?  Let's roll!"  Hop out of the van, hand the "bucket" off to my wife,  pick my coffee mug up off the sidewalk, walk around to the driver's side, put my coffee mug on the floor of the van so that I can pull myself into the van (the driver's side only has one step so you have to kind throw yourself in).  Buckle up, adjust my mirrors, pick up my coffee, say a quick "Thank you, God" prayer and then pull my blessed borrowed van with the name of our wonderful church on the side out onto the road.

Birthday Tradions

 I was asked yesterday to post about some of our family traditions.  As yesterday was R-7's birthday and the twins have their birthday next week, I guess I will share about birthdays. 

My wife comes from one of those CRAZY about birthday families.  You know, where the week leading up to the birthday is all about the upcoming day, and the day itself is all about the birthday person, and the week after is all about reliving and recovering from the birthday.  The birthday person dictates how the entire day (or sometimes week) goes and they get a lot of presents. 

As for me . . . I come from a family where birthdays are often forgotten.  One year my dad sent me a card every month wishing me a happy birthday, trying to figure out when the real day was.  He eventually got it right (he was bound to), but in later years would still forget the day entirely.  (I should give him credit for trying, and he has since has found a wife who keeps track of these things.  I should also mention that I have a HORRIBLE balloon phobia.)  So much that even writing the word "balloon" makes my hand shake and I want to throw-up.  I don't know why (and, believe me, everyone asks).  I have theories which I will make into a separate blog post some day.  You can guess that I am not a birthday person.  You can also imagine my surprise the first year we where together and I got a day of everything I wanted plus presents not only from my wife but her parents and her GRANDMOTHER!  Really, her grandmother sent me a present, a card, and money!

How do we celebrate our kids' birthdays, then?   We have opted out of big parties!  YEAH!!!  Instead we have a family party.  (Which is, by definition, a big party.)  The birthday person picks the meals for the day and what kind of cake they want.  They get presents from grandparents.  We do not give presents but instead we bring the birthday child out on their own, and sometimes that involves buying them something special.  But we are trying to focus more on experiences--not only spending time with only that kid, but doing something with that child that might not be so easy to do with all 6 siblings along. I wonder if when they look back they will wish they had the large friend parties and throw their own kids elaborate parties and buy them a ton of balloons, or if they will remeber the special things they did with us.  I can tell you that I love the time alone with them and hope I am always able to know them well enough that I can give them an experience they will enjoy.

Some of the experiences we have had include:
*Shopping spree at Nordstroms
*Tea party at local tea room
*Flight Musuem
*Laser Tag and arcade games
*Dinner out at favorite restaurant and movie

How to Cook a Child

Just finished prepping a brisket for a BBQ I am going to tomorrow.  I threw together a rub and made a homemade BBQ sauce. As I was digging through the spice drawer it dawned on me I cook just like I parent.  I know how to make BBQ sauce (kind of)--I at least know some common ingredients and I know what not to put in it.  So I gather all the ingredients and I start mixing things together. I start with what I think I need the most of then I add things one at a time adding less and less as I go.  After I put everything into it that I think it needs then I sit back and watch it cook.  After it cooks for awhile I start doing taste tests, and I add more of what I think it needs.  Sometimes  I REALLY mess up and it does not taste good at all.  This has happened to me a couple of times with BBQ sauce.  A few times it has been way to acidic.  But I have never thrown it out.  One time I was able to fix it by adding more of something else, and once it was so bad that I couldn't use it for sauce but it was great for braising.  The one I used for braising ended up being my BEST brisket ever. Once the brisket is in the oven, I leave it alone.  It slow cooks so pretty much leave it and let it do its thing. 

But, despite all of my mixing and taste testing, I really can't ruin the brisket.   The main ingredient is the beef itself and I have little control over that.  It is what it is.  As long as I don't do anything to harm it, the brisket is going to be fine.  When we only had one child I wasn't able to parent this way.  I thought that every thing I did or didn't do either saved or ruined my kid.  I thought his accomplishments were because I was a good parent and I thought that his challenges would go away if I just read the right book, or had the right formula. The truth is I have no control over his challenges, I can't get rid of them, all I can do is add something to help him deal with them.  I am not saying you can't really screw things up, because you can.  What I am saying is that if you have the right ingredients, things will turn out fine. As long as you continue to put good things into it and keep an eye on it adjusting the recipe as you go it will turn out wonderful (or at least be edible.)

My Amazing Daughter (May she never lose her spunk)

 Ashlyn (#3) got her hair cut again, this time into a cute little pixie cut, but  for those of you that missed the last cut here is a recap.

The Mohawk

 Me- Ash why do you want a mohawk.

Ash's answer-Because they look good and none of you have one

Ash-Look, she has one and she is beautiful.
Me- you are beautiful.

 Ash- Matilda doesn't want one. Everyone looks at you when you have a mohawk.

Me- everyone already looks at us, Ash; we take up the whole salon.

Ash- I want them to look at ME.

 

 

Ash-I look awesome and that kid is looking at me because I think he wants one and his mom said no.

So 3 of 7 got a mohawk and she looks beautiful as always.

Ash- that girl walking by just stopped and gave me the thumbs up.

Add a caption

Ashlyn (aka 3 of 6) Me- Ash why do you want a mohawk. Ash's answer-Because they look good and non of you guys have them.

-1+1 we no longer fit in a mini van

So we got the call. We pick up *Baby R* today at 4:30.  She is no longer a baby, but since she isn't my forever kid I can't call her by her name so I will from here on out call her R-7.  So R-7 is coming to live with us again.  We no longer fit into a mini van and need to figure out how we are going to purchase a passenger van.  Oprah?  Anyone out there what to give a handout to two unexpected mothers of 7?  Wait that only happens to people who use fertility drugs.

How many children did the little old lady who lived in a shoe have?

WELCOME BACK HOME R-7! We are so blessed to have you back with us.