tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37976677973154271772024-02-08T11:21:52.110-08:00Penny SerenadeThe typical whining over parenting, adoption, fostercare, returning to school, social injustice, and other flights of fancyGigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-51938182462875691702010-03-28T16:56:00.000-07:002010-03-28T17:44:54.910-07:00You Don't Know What You Want Till You Know What You WantI am late for an Easter Egg hunt. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Desperate</span> for my kids to get their fair share of plastic eggs, I roar out of my driveway and head for the highway. I hurry to my destination cursing slower, less egg-focused drivers. Once I get halfway to church, I calm down a bit and slide in one of my favorites, Joe Jackson's Body and Soul, to soothe my nerves. The <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">familiar</span> tones of Heart of Ice fill the car and then silence.<br /><br />"What the f--"<br /><br />I censor myself and eject the tape. Two seconds in, the tape had snapped.<br /><br />I am always strangely sad when one of my tapes break. Of course I have made the inevitable transition first to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">CDs</span> and then to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">iTunes</span>. Nowadays, I mostly buy singles that I heard on the radio or that I remember from younger days. I rarely purchase whole albums on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">iTunes</span>. Currently, I walk around with 732 of my favorite hits.<br /><br />I am no music guru. I usually avoid talking about music because I know next to nothing about it and I enjoy my ignorance. I can get fancy and intellectual about film but I know my musical taste is sugary and wafer-thin and that suits me fine.<br /><br />I miss my tapes. I miss hearing an artist's misses as well as his hits. I miss playing a tape over and over. I miss the squeal of rewinding to hear Prince's Kiss for the eleventh time.<br /><br />Last week when we rearranged the bedroom my son James pulled out my box of tapes from <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">under</span> the bed. It had gotten wedged behind the wrapping paper box. My tapes are fragile and sound <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">warbly</span>. I listened to a few tentatively. Listening to my old music in its old format brought back memories of college and terrible boyfriends and laying on my dorm bed. I know I can replace my old favorites. Just the other day, I bought a bunch of Suzanne Vega songs including most of Solitude Standing from <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">iTunes</span>. I love hearing songs that I had not heard since my Vega tape suffered a major case of crushing a few years ago. Yet the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">experience</span> was different and with each lost tape I lose a memory.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-71630092107211746712010-03-20T21:08:00.000-07:002010-03-20T21:13:06.251-07:00On the Road AgainI am just exhausted. I have been working on art projects and the house has been dangerously slipping into hoarders mode. Lately I have been do laundry, mountains and mountains of laundry. Hopefully I will be able to carve out some time in the next few weeks to relax, to knit, to draw, and to write. I have 60 experimental drawings due at the end of the semester. 60! Wish me luck.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-37123811380583009722010-03-09T18:27:00.000-08:002010-03-09T18:46:54.245-08:00What I Want to Be When I Grow UpFor an Epiphany House press release, I just finished an interview with the head of the Heart Gallery of Philadelphia, Terry Hirst. Hirst is a photographer that started her own business to have time to take care of her kids when they were young. And now that her kids were grown and business established, she wanted her business life to be more meaningful. After reading an article about the Heart Gallery in New Mexico, Hirst created her own branch in Philly to gave foster kids in need of forever families a voice. <br /><br />I am so irritable today. In fact I've been pissy for a few days. Transitioning my career is so much more work than I ever imagined. Tonight, I was hastily packing my kids' lunches and snapping at everyone in sight. I have to remember that this is just the beginning. Hirst, with hard work and determination, opened doors at the Department of Human Services and is now helping kids find homes. Right now I am making peanut butter sandwiches and wiping bottoms and yelling at mu kids to wipe their own bottoms, but someday soon I will be a part of my own nonprofit organization and changing more than my corner of the world.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-50715124478426774822010-03-06T17:47:00.000-08:002010-03-06T18:22:00.425-08:00Nobody Learned AnythingI was trying to fit my crockpot onto the top of the fridge when down came a toy train. This is a somewhat common occurence in my house so I didn't pay it any mind. James seized it. "This is Max's train," James announced happily. Suddenly I remembered that over a year ago our family went to a friend's Hanukkah party and my oldest son Quincy had stolen my friend's son's steam engine. <br /><br />Quincy walked into the kitchen, grabbed the train from his brother, and yelled, "Mine!" For the next twenty minutes Quincy and I bickered over stolen property and possession being nine points of the law. Finally I upped the ante with, "What if Max (my friend's son) came to your house and took all of your toys? Would that be okay?" <br /><br />Quincy promptly loaded many of his toys in trash bag and announced that he did not care if Max took his toys or if the toys went to the trash as long as he got to keep Max's train. Q had doubled down. <br /><br />Not to be out done by a five year old, my husband Kevin jumped into the fray, "We are driving to Max's house right now and returning his train!" We got dressed. Quickly, Quincy and I fashioned an apology letter that wound up being Quincy's signature, my "I'm sorry," and Quincy's drawing of Max (a possibly naked picture of Max). I added a CD of music from James' baptism to make up for the chipped, stolen train and the nude drawing of their son. We headed over to Ardmore where we completely surprised Rachel, Pat, and Max. Suddenly embarrassed by my devil child, I handed over the bag, apologized profusely, and ran away.<br /><br />So what was accomplished? Will Quincy be a better person? Has he learned to not steal toys? Are we really going to throw away a big bag of toys that we paid for? I did get my jacket back that I had left at Rachel's house, so that was cool. Max got his train back such as it is. But that was it. Q claims he has given up his life of crime, but he is a stubborn little bugger and I suspect he's faking it. Parenting is just ridiculous. Now what about those toys...Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-37707044097800544112010-03-04T19:34:00.000-08:002010-03-04T20:06:59.910-08:00A Perfect MomentI helped my friend with her many babies and she rewarded me with a gift card to the local coffeehouse. I love coffee, but to save money I usually drink homemade brew in my living room while I fold clothes. Today instead of doing the ever-increasing mountain of laundry, I grabbed my gift card and headed out for joe. <br /><br />Guilt-free, I bought a gignormous cappuccino and a chocolate croissant. Let me take a minute to describe these croissants. These are not those soft squishy half-moons of flavorless dough that a lot of places pass off as croissants. No, the Regency's chocolate croissants are pure joy distilled into a slab of bitter dark chocolate in a flaky, buttery shell of delight. <br /><br />I sat down with my dessert, my bowl of coffee, my book and my magazine. I read the <span style="font-style:italic;">Affair of the Bungalow</span> and leisurely picked out bathroom light fixtures. I drank my coffee and listened to Modern English. I noticed a woman was typing feverishly on her laptop, a man was making an appointment loudly on his cell phone, and a beautiful couple was very much into each other. Loud man aside, I realized this was a perfect, peaceful moment. No one was asking me for anything, I wasn't finding gummy fruit in my shoe or looking for the next writing gig. I was just being me, unfettered. I licked the shards of pastry off my fingers and savored the peace.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-67000753645404645222010-03-03T17:47:00.000-08:002010-03-03T18:07:39.166-08:00Big Clown TearsI remember when I first moved back to the Philly area and I joined a writing group that met downtown. I've been writing business articels and reviews for years but my short story skills were dusty. I pulled an old short story off the shelf, worked on it for a bit, and submitted it to the group.<br />We used to meet in a grungy, but amicable bar and I breezed in to bar apprehensive about meeting new people but confident in my overall creativity. Needless to say, they promptly ripped the story to shreds. I was crestfallen. Later that week, I lamented their cruelty and obvious blindness to great talent to my friend Jaene. In the midst of my tale of woe, Jaene cut in and said, "And all you can do is cry big clown tears?" I cracked up laughing. I pictured one of the ridiculous overwought crying hobo clown paintings you come across occassionally in flea markets and unfortunate homes. Jaene and I talked a bit more around writing and criticism and getting over it, but that image of the crying clown stayed with me.<br />Flash forward to now. Art has always been a hobby I enjoyed. I never attached a need to excell to it. If my still life looked liked a bowl of apples I was more than thrilled and if my landscape looked like a colorful cave painting I still enjoyed the process. But now at school I am being judged on my artistic ability and it majorly sucks monkey. <br />A few weeks I brought what I thought was a skillfully rendered example to transparency and color theory. My prof examined it thoughtfully and said, "Yeahhhh, that's not working." After a few more comments he recommended that my best course of action was to pry it off the illustration board. <br />I was literally vibrating with anger and disappointment. Tensely, I shuffled my overpriced Color Aid papers. Then I remembered my "big clown tears." It is criticism not vivisection. I can learn from it or give it the finger or both but it is still only criticism. I dried my big clown tears and reached for the Xacto blade.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-12451747966838279572010-03-01T19:28:00.001-08:002010-03-01T19:33:22.327-08:00Home WorkA few weeks ago I was listening to a radio interview where parents were moaning about the hellacious amount of homework kids are required to complete nowadays. As I was folding the towels I listened to the broadcast with only half an ear. Since my boys are only four and three years old I knew I was years away from having to think about kids’ homework. Boy, was I wrong.<br /> My sons are in nursery school, and this fall my oldest son Quincy started pre-kindergarten. While there has always been an educational component to the boys’ nursery school schedule, most of the boys’ time was spent on the real work of childhood: play. But I found out this year that pre-kindergarten is a whole new ballgame. The kids in the pre-k class are being prepared to step into school. The pre-k teachers have established a thorough curriculum. The kids are introduced to using computers and each one gets his own notebook. And horror of horrors, the kids also given simple assignments to complete at home. Simple assignments + Completed at home = homework.<br /> It took me a while to get up to speed with this pre-k homework concept. I am taking classes at a local community college myself and I have been struggling to juggle household chores, work assignments, and my own homework. One morning my youngest James asked to wear his favorite shirt and I explained to him that his shirt was in the hamper.<br />“When can I wear my shirt?” James pleaded.<br />I looked at the towering mountain of laundry piled precariously on top of the hamper and honestly replied, “I have no idea, sweetie.”<br /> While struggling with studying for my own classes and trying to complete my homework assignments, helping Quincy with his pre-k homework was a low priority for me. Quincy’s first project focused on something to do with family stories. Dimly, I remember glancing at the homework directions printed on his classroom door. Apparently I was supposed to leave some family pictures or something in Quincy’s cubby. I completely forgot about it. The next morning Quincy’s new teacher reminded about the homework assignment. The teacher handed me a specially decorated bag for the family photos. Luckily for me, Quincy’s teachers had found an old photo of Quincy as a baby with my husband Kevin and me hanging in Quincy’s old classroom from a previous art project. They used this old picture for the first few days of school.<br /> Embarrassed by forgetting the first assignment of the year I promised Quincy’s teacher that I would do better. The next morning I remembered the photo just as I was running with the kids out of the house to school. I grabbed a photo of me with the kids dressed in Halloween costumes from the fridge door and tossed the picture into Quincy’s decorated bag.<br /> That afternoon I picked the boys up from school. This time the homework complaint came from Quincy. “Why did you only put one picture in my bag?” Quincy asked in a huff. It turns out all the other children had have four photos in their bags. I hated disappointing my kids. Deciding that overkill was the best solution, the next morning I put a whole photo album in Quincy’s cubby.<br /> The photo album was returned that afternoon with the homework assignment and decorated bag rubber-banded to it. Once again, Quincy was displeased. <br />“No one else had a book!” <br />Aaarrrgghh! I can’t believe I am flunking out of pre-kindergarten. Determined to not screw up again, I carefully read the homework assignment. Quincy and I were supposed to select four family photos together. We were supposed to discuss who was in the family photos and what the occasion was in the photos so that Quincy could talk about his family for class. <br /> I finally got it. Quincy’s homework was not just one more thing on my to do list that needed to be checked off. My little boy was growing up and I needed to get him ready for school. Together, Quincy and I looked through a stack of our photo albums together and we picked out a handful of family favorite photos. The boys and I discussed the photos and I prepared Quincy to speak in his class. <br /> Finally after a week of Mommy missteps Quincy’s show and tell was a success. There have been more decorated bags with homework assignments in the cubbyhole since then. Recently Quincy’s class has been working on their reading skills. In honor of the letter A I cut out pictures of apples, acorns, arbors, and aprons for one homework assignment. Quincy decided on the apples and acorns for his assignment and carried them happily to school. <br />I am still overly busy but I am making a greater effort to be more organized. In the past I have jumped into new organizational plans like they were boot camp. I would buy the latest organizing tome, a brand new calendar, and an over-priced organizer or PDA. Typically I would stay on track for a few weeks. Then I would slack off. And after a few months I would be back to my messy, cluttered, disorganized self. <br />At this time in my life, I have started the organization process more gently. So far, I have just started with jotting a brief to do list each morning, writing in my journal, and getting a good night’s sleep. For my writing career, I have set up my reference materials and office supplies neatly on the desk in the living room. And for my schoolwork, I have massed my ever-growing cache of art supplies on one side of our sun porch near the sunny table where I create my projects. <br />For Quincy’s assignments I now take great pains to carefully read all of the directions my son’s teachers send home with him. I have learned from writing and drawing that creativity is a muscle that has to be trained. With time, ideas flow more freely and craftsmanship improves. I realize now that Quincy’s homework is training me to help Quincy be a good student and support his educational future.<br />A few days ago while I was buckling James into his car seat he asked me, “Can I go to kindergarten?”<br />I reassured James, that he too would go to kindergarten.<br />“Can I go to kindergarten now?” James suddenly asked as I was buckling in Quincy. I bumped my head on the car door in surprise. <br />“Not now.” James became his predictable wail. I cut the high-pitched whining short with a gentle answer. “Not now, but soon.” I got into the car and began to drive the boys to nursery school before I headed off to my own classes. My boys began to chatter about going to kindergarten and driving busses and taking train trips and all of the other silly things they usually talk about. Suddenly I realized that my little boys were not quite so little anymore.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-51270665897200491552010-02-28T18:43:00.000-08:002010-02-28T18:48:35.323-08:00Roll Over! Roll Over!Two nights ago I was thinking about that old children’s song, “Roll Over! Roll Over!” You know the one that goes, “There were ten in the bed and the little one said, ‘Roll Over! Roll Over!’” This tune was running through my head relentlessly because it was four in the morning and my youngest son had crawled into my bed at some point earlier in the night and was kneeing my kidneys in his sleep. <br /> This nightmare had started about a month ago. This past summer I returned to college to spruce up my decrepit computer skills and make myself more desirable in the job market. I decided to ease back into the pool of academic knowledge with what I thought would be an easy course on Art History, 1100s to Present-Day. This summer course turned out to be far from easy. The only art course available also turned out to begin at a startling 8 o’clock in the morning. A natural night person getting up early and having to be somewhere was a shock to my personal system. <br />Taking a morning class also made it difficult for me to drop my two boys off at summer camp. Getting little children up in the morning is like herding cats. I would be late to class every day. My husband Kevin gallantly offered to drop the kids off three days a week for the six weeks my class was being held. <br /> That first week of class was rocky but serviceable. I was tired, Quincy, age four, and James, age three, were confused, and Kevin was cranky. Yet we all managed to get through the first week in one piece. Unfortunately, the second week of my class Kevin had to go off on a week-long church mission trip with his youth group. A true lifesaver, my mother stepped in and took the boys for a week to her house. <br />I have to admit that week was paradise. I studied for my class, went to the movies, and ate out every night. I spent an entire week not screaming at anyone, answering ridiculous questions, or having to look for anyone else’s shoes. One of my neighbors joked that he could hear me laughing with joy all the way down the block. All too soon the week was up and my troubles began.<br />Kevin returned from his mission trip with a load of stinky laundry and inspirational stories about helping the poor. Quincy returned from my mom’s house with happy tales of trips to the park and pizza parlors and unlimited Popsicles. James returned and clamped himself to my leg like a barnacle. Suddenly my independent little man was a clingy nervous wreck. According to my mom, James had a great time but he really missed being home, being with me. <br />We adopted James from foster care when he was two years old. And even though I know he does not remember much of his life before he was placed in our home, I worried if I had traumatized my baby boy with a trip to Grandma’s house. Ever since his trip to my mom’s James hates it when he knows I am going to leave him. Recently, a friend and I were going out to dinner one night and when James realized he was staying at my friend’s house with her family and Quincy James freaked out. No little tantrum for him, James was suddenly a wild beast, throwing himself on living room floor, screaming at the top of his lungs, and banging against the door. Needless to say my dinner plans were postponed until Kevin could come to my friend’s house and comfort him. <br />In addition to freaking out when I leave him, lately nearly every night James comes to our bed. Generally I do not realize James has come to our bed until I feel him pushing Kevin and me out of the bed in his sleep. Did I mention that toddlers always sleep sideways in bed with both arms and legs akimbo to take up the maximum amount of room humanly possible? Kevin has started sleeping upside down to try and protect his head from James’ out-flung limbs.<br />I have been doing everything I could to keep James in his own bed. At first, I would gently carry him back to his room, navigating around the plethora of Matchbox cars and toy trains scattered on the floor. For all my troubles I usually got a snubbed toe, a bruised shin, and James back in my bed about an hour later. Next, I started putting a diaper on James at night, since he occasionally came to our bed wearing a wet pair of pajama pants. Instead of staying put, James started taking off his wet diaper in the middle of the night and coming to our bed bare bottomed.<br />Finally I gave up and I tried to get used to sharing my bed with a three-year-old. Then Quincy started following James to our bedroom. This was too much. There was no room. We added an air-conditioner to the boys’ bedroom to help them sleep through the hot summer nights. Next, we added a nightlight to keep the monsters at bay. Even with cool air and monster free zones, both boys still came to our bed. In desperation one evening after weeks of very little sleep, I dragged out one of our old safety gates to bar their room. I even added a potty for their convenience. At around two in the morning James began to wail, “I want my Mommy.” I carried him to our bed. Quincy reenacted this scene at around four in the morning and I carried him in to our bedroom, too. Official score: Boys: 2, Parents: 0.<br />I know the real answer to the problem is Kevin and me. There are literally volumes and volumes of books and articles and websites on children and sleep problems. There is a lot of advice our there, but the prevailing wisdom is to return the kid to his bed and get some flipping sleep. Snubbed toes aside, I know I should carry my gruesome twosome back to their respective beds every time, every night. But I feel guilty. I want to spend peaceful, happy time with them and at least when we are all in bed no one is yelling and breaking things. I especially want James to know this is his forever home. <br />The other night when I was humming “Roll Over! Roll Over!” to myself as dawn softly stole through the window I knew something has to change. Both Kevin and I were laying upside down in the bed while Quincy and James crowded each other in the middle of our bed. I know my boys know that they are loved. I also know I have to stick to a bedtime routine to help my kids sleep through the night in their own beds. Right now I do bath time and story time before putting them to bed. Generally I stay upstairs to minimize any night time tomfoolery. <br />Most importantly I have to see these nighttime visits for what they are, a normal phase of childhood and not a deep psychological wound. I have to put my big boys back to bed and get some sleep. And I am going to start tonight. There are only so many times a grown woman can sing, “Roll Over! Roll Over!” before she goes crazy.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-64908897183245580042008-07-31T11:59:00.001-07:002008-07-31T11:59:48.595-07:00HomecomingJust an update: My husband and I are licensed foster parents hoping to adopt a child under three. Everyone told us that it would be very unlikely that we could adopt a reasonably healthy child under three directly from the state of Pennsylvania. We were waiting to foster a child with the hopes of adopting but recent changes with the Department of Human Services have reduced the number of infants being placed into foster care. We got a call in June about a potential placement with a two-year-old boy who had been in foster care for 15 months and his parental rights were recently terminated. We have spent all of July meeting our new son and transitioning him into our home.<br />Long story, short, our two-year-old son is coming home tomorrow! It has been a chllenging month going from one child to two. Our three-year-old son has had to learn how to share and there have been some tears and tantrums (from kids and parents alike). But we are definitely getting used to each other and becoming a family. I will keep you all posted on how the next six months go before me move towards finalization.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-47720619921194693852008-07-01T19:09:00.001-07:002008-07-01T19:09:48.981-07:00Wow!We have been placed with our second child. Instead of a private adoption we went through foster care. It has been a hard process but very worth it. Jamir is a ridculously cute biracial two-year-old boy. He has been in foster care for 15 months.<br />Our first visit to meet with Jaymir was today. Wouldn't you know it! our camera malfunctioned and we could only take one good shot of Jaymir (aka Jay Jay). Isn't he a cutie? The first visit went very well. Kevin played trains with Jay Jay on the floor and I got a lot of care and feeding tips from his foster mother. On Thursday, we will bring Quincy to meet his baby brother. I am expecting fireworks but I think they will eventually get along well. Hopefully we will be able to bring Jay Jay home by the end of July.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-90499914275594965012008-05-22T19:30:00.000-07:002008-05-22T19:42:16.537-07:00So much has happened, so little has happenedGood news, bad news! Good news! We found out that the little boy from an abusive family we so desperately wanted to foster to adopt is being reunified with his family. Bad news! That really is the good news! More bad news, our agency says that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">DHS</span> is not longer removing young children from neglectful homes so our agency has not gotten a placement of a child under five since January. They are pushing us towards domestic adoption, which is a great option even though it costs 1/4 of our annual income before the legal fees.<br />I have been reviewing the adoption <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">photolisting</span> of waiting children in other states. The NJ <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Department</span> of Human Services told us to come back in 6 years when our kid is 9 and we can adopt an older child. (More good news!) I have contacted another agency, which works with counties outside of Philadelphia. So maybe we may have to switch. Maybe we will have a better chance to foster to adopt during the summer. The only thing I am sure of is that I am very, very sad. It was all I could do to keep from crying when I was talking to the new agency.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-47710423749092445272008-05-07T09:32:00.000-07:002008-05-07T09:36:32.767-07:00The waiting continuesI have started reading my Son Q stories about being a big brother a few months ago. I read him thse books off and on. Lately he has been requesting the big brother book. I know this is just a ploy from Q to lengthen his bedtime routine and if I would read the Altoona Yellow Pages Q would be down with that too.<br />Still as I read Q the sing-song verses of the big brother book a part of me hopes that a part of him is warming to the idea of having a sibling.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-13099538046351177132008-04-30T10:32:00.000-07:002008-04-30T10:59:17.099-07:00Out of the BlueThis April, I spent a few days with my mom and my step-dad. The last time I saw Ed he had been in a drug-induced coma. It was good to see him up and moving around. But it was hard to see him weak and so thin. Coming home from my trip, I was emotionally exhausted.<br /><br />Out of the blue, I get a call from our old adoption agency. The agency had a birthmother who was due in a few days and they were looking for prospective adoptive parents. The birthmother is a heavy cocaine user, over 40, and had no pre-natal care. That night Kevin and I wrestled over whether we should go back to domestic adoption or stay with the foster care system. We decided to stay with the foster care system because we did not know what type of medical treatment the infant may need. I have been waiting so long for a second child, it felt horrible to say no.<br /><br />That very afternoon, my social worker called me about that 18-month-old toddler. Now it looks like the reunification process will not go through. The little boy has special needs, a lot of special needs, but he is doing well. The little boy's next court date is in a month. This is still all up in the air, but I have hope.<br /><br />Right now I have a terrible head cold, Quincy has entered the wonderful, obnoxious stage where he is a brat for every waking moment, Kevin is blissfully oblivious, and I am filled with emotion. So much is in my heart and on my mind, I am vibrating. I think I will go knit a sweater.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-13876301712143559722008-04-08T11:14:00.000-07:002008-04-08T11:30:32.453-07:00From the Outside Looking inRight now, I am freezing. Q has yet again given me a cold so I am shivering, my muscles hurt, and my throat feels raw. Q passed this wonderful cold to me last Sunday when we went to a friend's house for dinner. I should have known Q was sick because he was quiet and very well behaved. My friend has two kids under four. Whenever I visit families with multiple kids I always judge if I will be a good mother for more than one kids.<br />From the outside looking in, having multiple kids seems terrible. They seem to be always kicking each other or one is crying while the other is laughing maniacally. Last Saturday, we went to a botancial garden with another friend and her two children. We had a lovely day together but I could see how exhausted she was by the end of the day.<br />I have finished reading Toddler Adoption and scour the Internet for tips on adopting a older child. But no one can talk me through what it will be like to juggle two kids. Lately, I have been looking at a pair of adorable two-year-old twins on the SWAN website. Three kids! Kevin asked if I was crazy, but I caught him looking at the twins' picture, too.<br />Everyday I wait for the call from the social worker so we can begin this next journey. Every time the phone rings I wonder will this be the call. I so want that call, but I am also terrified by the thought of multiple kids in my house, all trying to drive me crazy.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-65237220812548068632008-03-13T20:27:00.000-07:002008-03-13T20:53:30.259-07:00This ChildThere are three types of plans in foster care, reunification, concurrent, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">preadoptive</span>. Reunification plan means that all efforts will be used to improve and support the birth family and the child will be returned to his birth family. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Preadoptive</span> planning means parental rights will be terminated because of neglect or abuse and the agency will focus on finding an adoptive family for the child. Concurrent planning means strangely the agency has to do both reunification and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">preadoptive</span> at the same time. Four weeks ago, our social worker encouraged us to get all of our outstanding paperwork in because an 18-month-old African American boy had come on <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">to her</span> service. The boy had been severely abused and he had been through so much that she really wanted to find a forever family for him. Fast forward to yesterday, our social worker left a message again about this same boy. He needed to be moved from his current foster home (his fourth foster home) and our social worker had Kevin's federal fingerprint clearance form in her hands and all she needed was mine so that we could be placed with this child. I left her a hurried, excited message. I spent the rest of afternoon on pins and needles. Writing my parenting column distractedly, answering stupid emails stupidly. A few hours later the social worker called back. She was dejected. The social worker had been sure that the child's judge would have ordered that a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">pre</span>adoptive plan be implemented due to the severity of the child's injuries, instead the new judge was "family-friendly" and ordered a reunification plan. The social worker apologized for getting our hopes up. We discovered that my fingerprint clearance form had been in her office all along, simply misfiled. She apologized again and rang off. That was it.<br /><br />It would have been worse if my form had been found earlier and we had had the little boy in our home for a week only to lose him. Maybe God willing (parent willing, really) the reunification will work out and this little boy will be okay.<br /><br />I hope.<br /><br />I grieve.<br /><br /> I hope.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-82638061498266311262008-03-04T20:32:00.000-08:002008-03-04T21:01:22.558-08:00Crying over my new Ipod NanoMy ipo<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">d</span> mini finally went the way of all flesh and after much deliberation I settled on a new <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">nano</span>. Settled is the perfect word because I really had my heart set on a Creative Zen but they did not sell the 8 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">gb</span> Creative Zen at Target and I chickened out over losing my music library on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">iTunes</span>. Kevin was convinced we could have burned them all to discs, but he was also convinced we could grow tomatoes in the backyard and we all know what a wilted yellow stem fiasco that turned into.<br />So long story short, my new <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">nano</span> arrived today. The mailman left it on the front step in the rain, but it was fine. Or at least I thought so. Plug and play, my ass! I spent two hours trying to get my computer to recognize my device (two hours of restoring and resetting and re-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">everythinging</span>) before it finally dawned on me that my new <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">USB</span> cable must be damaged and the new <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">nano</span> was barely charged after over two hours.<br /><br />I am distraught and angry. I am legitimately angry at Apple for delivering a cool looking but obnoxious device with a cumbersome, murky, and remarkably unhelpful online help section. I mean Steve Jobs has 2 gazillions dollars and he cannot spring for a decent frequently asked questions section. Come on! But as I ascend from the five rings of hell that comprise the 5 R's of Apple help section and charge my pathetic, but still cool looking <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">nano</span> on my spare AC adaptor I realize I am not this upset about my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">ipod</span>. I am upset because I went to the OB/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">GYN</span> yesterday and he thinks my crippling period pain is a symptom of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">endometriosis</span>. It is a sad day when you find yourself rooting for a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">diagnosis</span> of uterine tumors. You see, the treatment for tumors is surgical <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">embolization</span>, but the treatment for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">endometriosis</span> is simply going back to birth control pills. Now <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">intellectually</span> I know I have about as much chance of getting pregnant as I have of growing hair on a bowling ball, but going back on the pill ( or in this case the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">NuvoRing</span>) is the final nail in my fertility coffin.<br /><br />I should be fine with it. I know with my scar tissue and advanced maternal age my baby-making years are gone. And the monthly pain has become devastating. Yet just looking at the Ring package makes me cry. I tried explaining it to my husband but he doesn't get it. For him this is all ancient history and for me it is all painful present. Luckily, I have k.d. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">lang</span> and some cheap white wine.<br /><br />I also know the waterworks are a sign my period is around the corner. Tears, moodiness, and that tell-tale pimple on my forehead are all harbingers. Soon I will take my first dose of the Ring and hopefully not spend the next week doubled over in pain. At least not physical pain.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-66849057661710921342008-02-10T18:23:00.000-08:002008-02-10T18:30:42.320-08:00Gettting Off the SofaThis has been one of those days where I want to spend curled up in a blanket on the sofa all day. My stepfather Ed is still in the ICU. I tell myself that he is going to be okay and get better. I tell myself that whatever happens will be for the best because I hate to see him in pain. But mostly I just try to be there for my mom and take care of myself.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-63690306763303766992008-01-30T18:58:00.000-08:002008-01-30T19:27:58.521-08:00Trainer Babies and the Chosen FewWe are down to the last few steps of being licensed foster parents. We only need our two remaining references to be completed and to find a flipping FBI-approved site for our fingerprinting. I just read a report that said nearly a quarter of a million people contact the foster system each year to inquire about adoption but only about 8% make it through the homestudy process. I feel like a mighty warrior, one of the chosen few.<br /><br /><br /><br />In addition to listening to the Rocky Theme in my head as I lumber up the foster care staircase, I have been babysitting my four-month-old nephew. He is adorable and ridiculously fat and looks a lot like I did when I was an infant chunker. It is giving me a chance to practice handling two kids under three at the same time. I have to say it sucks. Babies are heavy and floppy and Quincy insists he is the baby.<br /><br /><br /><br />Today my back is aching from carrying Aiden in the carseat and my head is pounding from Q's many "I'm the baby" meltdowns. Still tonight I gave my nephew a bath in the kitchen sink with Kevin's help while Quincy watched ardently. So yeah juggling two kids is hard, but it is also really, really special.<br /><br />I can't wait.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-55595208860400060282008-01-17T11:38:00.000-08:002008-01-17T12:02:45.065-08:00Ketchup and MayoOur parenting class for Jewish Family and Children's Services was held on Jan. 12<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">th</span>. It was quite an experience. I knew that the class would not actually cover anything that has anything to do with day-to-day parenting. Real parenting covers how to get your kid to eat something other than candy canes and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">McNuggets</span>. This class covers basic first aid, which is nice but not detailed enough to be really useful, and how to recognize grief and depression in children, and what to do if your baby turns out to be psycho. The class information was not that helpful for me because I have been researching adoption and foster care related issues for a while now so it was mostly old news.<br />What was really illuminating was to listen to the social workers and recognize how helpful they would not be once we became foster parents. What I learned was that I was willingly entering a Kafka-inspired <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">bureaucratic</span> nightmare where I would be expected to conform to set requirements even if they are beyond logic and reason, even if they are completely impractical, impossible, and possibly dangerous.<br />Case in point: Medical insurance. All foster children have medical insurance, not state insurance that is accepted by everyone, but Health Partners, which is basically garbage and accepted by hardly anyone. I asked, "Wouldn't it make more sense for me to use my personal insurance to cover my foster child so I could take him to my local doctor versus trying to drive out of my way to find a doctor who takes Health Partners?"<br />Social Worker: Yes, but we don't do it that way.<br />Me: What if I can get to a Health Partners doctor?<br />SW: Well there is always the emergency room.<br />Me: But infants have a lot of appointments and they get sick all the time. How can I take care of my foster child and my other child and still work if I am drive all over town, trying to find a Health Partners doctor, or sitting for 18 hours in an ER?<br />SW: That is certainly something for you to consider.<br />So I guess I did learn a lot from our class. Kevin listened attentively during the class and at one point I asked what did he think of this convoluted quagmire we were about to enter.<br />He looked up from his notes, which turned out to be random, rude comments and sang "Ketchup and Mayo" the refrain from the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">McNuggets</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">commercial</span>.<br />God, I love my husband.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-1178114935198596992008-01-03T20:22:00.000-08:002008-01-03T20:31:18.045-08:00Good news, bad newsGood news, my friends have agreed to write our refences for the foster care agency. It is so sweet to think there are are people out ther writing nice things about me and Kevin and our wonderful parenting skills.<br /><br />Bad news, Quincy the shining example of our wonderful parenting skills is still refusing to sleep. He spent much of the night getting out of bed and protesting. When he cries it just tears my heart out. But I know if he sleeps in our bed no one sleeps.<br /><br />Good news, our parenting classes start January 12th! That is right around the corner and I am so excited.<br /><br />Bad news, I have terrible cramps that are defying all painkillers known to man and I cannot fall asleep myself I have to interview a HVAC contractor first thing in the morning and make some ridiculous, fantasy, I don't know what I am doing budget for one of my volunteer groups.<br /><br />Good news, bad news, exhausted news. I am going to try to sleep.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-4209433808201367722007-12-27T21:10:00.000-08:002007-12-27T21:26:14.895-08:00a gift fot meI am exhausted tonight. I am still recovering from the frenzy of preparing for Christmas and entertaining relatives and I have not yet gathered enough strength for New Year's. People drain me. Not to mention the wrapping and the buying and all of the eating. But this was the first Christmas that Q really understood that was such a joy. He is still talking about Santa and eager to ride his trike around the living room.<br />Of course we have gotten squat done regarding the homestudy. As the winner of the world's worst cramps award, I spent the last two days with a heating pad and major painkillers. I did pick up the medical form. I am a little nervous about the next meeting with the social worker. What will she think of us together? I need to finish my autobiograhy and take a breath. Kevin's folks are coming over tomorrow. But I refuse to get stressed out. I need to finish my autobiography, light a fire under Kevin to finish his stuff, forget the rest. Besides, they are hear to visit with the grandbaby. I could have a messy house and wear a fish on my head and they would not notice.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-62590916262609703962007-12-16T20:27:00.000-08:002007-12-16T20:42:27.610-08:00A Windy Night and SeaturtlesToday has been interesting. We took Q to see Santa today. This has been the first year that he really gets the whole Christmas thing. His whole face lit up when he came home and saw that his father and I had put up the Christmas tree. Each day for the last couple of months he has been telling me long, incomprehensible stories about Santa. Yesterday, our fire department drove around town with a Santa on the fire engine. Quincy freaked! He was so excited to see Santa Claus and it was not just because of the half dozen candy canes the big red guy was flinging out of the engine. Kevin and I were really looking forward to seeing how Q would react to seeing Santa up close and personal. The last two years the poor boy was terrified.<br />Today, we waited in a long, meandering line with a lot of other weary parents and hyped up kids. Q was super impatient. Finally we got the the head of the line.<br />Quincy climbed on Santa's lap and sat there as a stunned, shellshocked lump. The mall Santa guy tried to coax Quincy out of his stunned status and he asked Q what he wanted for Christmas. All Quincy would say was "seaturtle," I kid you not "seaturtle."<br />One of the questions we have to incorporate into our updated family autobiography is how having a child will change your life? That question is really unanswerable. How can predict seaturtles.<br />Tonight it is very windy. No snow or sleet, but the wind is vicious. All of our windows (we have 42!) are shaking noiselessly. There is no way Quincy is going to sleep alone in his room tonight. He is afraid of the wind blowing against the windowpanes on a quiet, gentle night. So as soon as I turn off the computer I will climb the stairs to sleep with my snoring husband and a pair of tiny toddler feet kicking me in the back all night.<br />A very good nightGigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-90323415846351855392007-12-12T19:52:00.000-08:002007-12-12T20:16:41.351-08:00Promises, promisesI promised myself that I would blog every day. So that means int he real world I would blog at least every other day. But I have not been able to even do that. Q was off at his grandparents last weekend. I hoped we would repair the kitchen ceiling and get the plate for the wall socket. To Kevin's credit, we did fruitlessly look for the correct wall plate at the hardware store. And I also know it is sort of ridiculous to cover the hole in the kitchen ceiling until we repair the underlying plumbing problem. Financially there is no way we can afford a plumber until after the holidays. However knowing something intellectually still does not stop you from fretting and worrying what the social worker will think of my old house. When you faced with a state inspection your charming turn-of-the-century Stick-style house transforms into a leaky, creaky, mouse-infested hell hole with random wires sticking out of the wall. And do even get me started on the radiators.<br />The current state of fretting and craziness I feel is perfectly normal. I got this way while we were preparing for the homestudy for Q's adoption. It is more stressful this time around because we have less income and with Quincy less time to work on the house. The foster care system is also more exacting. I also remember that going through a private adoption I always had a feeling of certainty that things would turn out all right. Most private adoptions do, despite the horror stories on the WE channel. Foster care is much more iffy.<br />I have read that Pennsylvania is considered a parents' rights state meaning the state tends to bend over backwards to make sure biological parents have every opportunity to straighten their lives out. That makes me more nervous.<br />This process is also more stressful because of money. I am bringing in more from my freelancing but my biggest contribution is in the form of nagging Kevin to do things. I really hate being the nagging wife. I hate seeing the pressure Kevin is under to carry most of the financial burden. I am still going to nag, but I am just going to feel bad while I do it.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-9289908918710049492007-12-06T12:23:00.000-08:002007-12-06T12:49:43.015-08:00Under a Striped BlanketI have spent the day alternating between working on my computer and shivering under a blanket on the futon in my office. I feel a little ill today, but I suspect that it is really a response to yesterday's homestudy. I didn't realized how nervous I was until it was over and I finally exhaled.<br />The social worker was very nice, a pleasant, slightly frazzled looking woman with pale brown hair. I did a decent job of cleaning the house and getting most of our paperwork together. Looking from the outside in, I could tell the worker approved of our home and that I give the appropriate answers to her questions. From the inside I wasa wreck. I was fumbling. I am still pissed with myself that two of our four smoke detectors had dead batteries. I was mortified! I was kicking myself when I couldn't find some key papers. And to top things off, moments before the social worker arrived my normally sleeping cat showed up in the living the proud bearer of a live mouse. After screaming, I managed to shoo Henry and the soon-to-be dead mouse into the basement right before the worker rang the doorknob.<br />I know this first meeting went well and we are scheduled for a follow visit in two weeks. I suppose I am really nervous about committing to this terrifying, wonderful process. Sitting in my artificially clean living room with this very nice and overworked case manager, I was conversing calmly about parenting someone else's child, someone who has not made an adoption plan for this child, someone who could hate and resent me, an interloper. I am planning on parenting and loving a child where there is a very real chance that he could be taken away from me. I read online forums and articles and watch new reports and generally foster parents are right up there with evil stepmothers and man-eating giants as top villains. It is terrifying to be someone's bad guy, to be part of the child welfare system, a system where even the proponents admit there are terrible flaws. Is it any wonder why I want to lie under a blanket?<br />Parenting classes are scheduled for January.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3797667797315427177.post-59697971511861537722007-12-02T20:07:00.000-08:002007-12-02T20:20:20.442-08:00Quietly Worried in PAWell it is the evening of the December 2<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">nd</span> and the social worker from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">JFS</span> will be here on the 5<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">th</span>. I am pretending not to worry. I am pretending this whole procedure is old hat. When we were getting ready for our first <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">homestudy</span> before we adopted Quincy, I was a wreak. And with good reason.<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Homestudies</span> are simple processes. The social worker is not checking for the perfect, Martha Stewart home. Instead they want to make sure you have working smoke detectors on each floor, heat, water, and electricity, a safe bed for the child, and no box of loaded guns <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">unde</span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">r the</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">coffee table</span> . Before Quincy our old house was under major renovation, two of our radiators were out on the lawn, we had no <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">banister</span>, no basement door. It took a Herculean efforts and a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">buttful</span> of money to get our house up to decent standards.<br />Now as we face our <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">homestudy</span> for our future foster to adopt child our home is in much better shape. But all I can see are the flaws, missing doorknobs, missing <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">switch plates</span>, and there is a ridiculous hole in our kitchen ceiling.<br />I am trying not to make myself crazy or make poor Kevin crazy, but I just wish I could wave a magic wand and create a Martha Stewart-worthy home.<br />I need to focus on what I can control. I need to gather together my paperwork and calm my spirit. Maybe I can guilt Kevin into picking up some <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Sheetrock</span>.Gigihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09627833626259907243noreply@blogger.com0