Uterine Wars

Roulette

There is a rumor in the Kazakh adoptive community that the region where Moonpie was born (Kostanay) is closing (or is closed) to international adoption.  The director of the Delphin baby house, Dr. Irina, apparently retired this past Spring, and her replacement is either bowing to political pressure or has an agenda to stop international adoptions.  

I was talking about this yesterday and Moonpie overheard the discussion.  "Oh," she said, looking sad, "that means all my friends in the baby house won't find mommies and daddies."

That was my knee jerk reaction as well -- if it weren't for Westerners, would many of those children ever escape the orphanage system?  But in reality, that isn't true.  Healthy infants are and will continue to be adopted within the country by Kazakh citizens (who adopt for free, by the way.  Think of that when you are writing that $30K check to your agency).  

But what about the "special needs" kids?  Is closing an entire region in their best interest?

When D and I started the adoptive process, I wanted a neurologically healthy live baby, under a year of age.  I had lost at least three pregnancies at that point, and a live child was my main criteria.  Neurologically sound was my second.  Everything else at that point was negotiable, so I guess I have to admit that I was always open to a special needs adoption.  The fact that I was willing to accept a child with special needs wasn't really the grand leap it seemed at the time -- on some level I was always ready to parent a child who wasn't completely "normal."  Now, four years later, I have two special needs kids, a child with Ichthyosis and a child allergic to milk.* 

So I recognize that it's irrational when I get irritated with the PAPS** on chat boards who want only healthy babies, are there healthy babies in Kazakhstan, I really want a healthy baby girl, are there healthy baby girls available and how fast can I go get one?  Of course those people are entitled to want a healthy child.  I wanted a healthy child.  Everyone wants a healthy child. 

But what about the kids who aren't?  Will those families hurry off to different regions, different countries, if only special needs children are available?  I think of Moonpie's future without me, shuttled to an orphanage for kids with special needs at the age of four, sore and itching with her skin flaking off because lotion is too expensive to offer her, all the while smiling somehow in her irrepressible sunny way, gently tucking in the FAS kids and helping wipe the cerebral palsy child's face clean for the mamachkas.   Shunned and tossed aside when she aged out of the orphanage system, left to beg on the streets, a social pariah because she happened to be born with a genetic illness that makes her have dry skin. 

I wonder how anyone could think that that life would be better than life with me?  How could anyone make the decision to close a region for those kids? To take a child who doesn't quite fit the definition of healthy and condemn them to half a life?  Each one of those children has something to give, and deserves a chance to do so.  Babe Ruth, Marilyn Monroe, Alexandra Dyonysievna Danilova, and even Leo Tolstoy were all orphaned as children.  Where would our world be without their contributions?  Where would we be if they hadn't been given a chance? 

I hope this is all just unsubstantiated rumor, that the region isn't closing, that every Kazakh child available for adoption finds a home regardless of where that home may be.  That you will look in your heart and see that there is room for child there who doesn't quite fit your definition of perfect.  That you will realize special needs doesn't mean intellectually deficient, it just means parenting with a little more work.

Most of all, I hope that all mothers find children, and all children find mothers.

* You don't think food allergies are special needs?  Seriously? Have you ever tried cooking for a kid with food allergies?  They put milk in hot dogs.  They put milk in everything.

** Prospective Adoptive Parents

The Event Horizon

Four years ago today, Moonpie was declared our daughter by the court in Kazakhstan.  It seems, in some ways, a lifetime ago, someone else's lifetime, because there was no life, this life, before her.  And in some ways I am still there, waiting to hear if Katrina wiped away the Gulf Coast, waiting to hear the judge rule "yes," holding my breath that my life was about to irrevocably change.

Time in the orphanage left it's mark on Moonpie, in ways she probably will never be able to verbalize.  It took three years and months of therapy for her to be able to eat.  Just sit at the table and ... eat.  She and D now delight in daring each other to try new foods, the grossest looking food, the spiciest food, the newest, most exotic looking food.  She eats asparagus.  Artichokes.  Brussel sprouts.  Okra.  Everything, in fact, except for meat loaf and zucchini.  She steals tomatoes from the garden and eats them like apples.  My sugar snap peas disappeared raw off the vine, munched away by a barefoot czarina in overalls. 

I am amazed by the resilience of children, at the ability to put away the horrors of deprivation and neglect and just be four. 

I am not so resilient.  I still wake from nightmares of dark water washing away New Orleans and everything that was my sister's life, of bureaucrats laughing at my distress while Moonpie screams in pain.   I will always, in some fold of time, be there, in those desperate moments, terrified for those trapped after the storm, terrified I would spend the rest of my life trapped in red tape, terrified most of all that I would lose Moonpie as soon as I got her. 

I hope, conversely, that I will always be here, too, in this moment with Moonpie, with her bringing me a basket of fruit she has collected, washed, and decorated with a bandanna ("But I am NOT playing Little Red Riding Hood, I am just bringing you fruit").  I want to snuggle in the bed with her four-year-old self forever, eating strawberries, savoring the feeling of her dry little hand playing with my hair while we talk about movies.  ("What was your favorite part of Harry Potter?" and her reply: "I like that it was PG.")

But instead she pulls away, rolling her eyes at me like I taught her to do back when she was little and it was funny, and runs off with an arm full of apples to share with the boy down the street.   And I realize that I am going to lose her anyway, the same way my mother lost me, the way mothers always lose their children.  I am losing Shug even as I help her take her tentative, two toothed first steps.  This job, that I fought so hard to get, is ultimately to make them not need me anymore.

Today is an anniversary of full of emotion for me, of gain and loss.  Today, four years ago, I gained a child.  Today, four years ago, I lost the burden of infertility, let it go as I held Moonpie for the first time officially as her mother.  Most of all, though, four years ago today I lost my fear, and I gained a surprisingly irrepressible sense of purpose and optimism. 

It's annoying, this optimism.  Even through the dark days in Petropavlovsk, even through the loss of Tron, I believed deep into my bones that everything would be alright.  Maybe not perfect, maybe not what I expected, but somehow just ... alright. 

How wonderful, sometimes, to be right.

Just Call Me Rayne of Sorrows

There is a commercial on public television where the mother turns an otherwise boring errand to the grocery into a teachable moment by suddenly breaking into rhyme with her delighted daughter.   Why, oh why, does the camera stop rolling before the snitty little twit sneers at her mother and yells stopit! you are so ANNOYING! so that people two aisles over hurriedly push their well-behaved children to the organic food aisle before they are infected by my child's precociously advanced preadolescence?  She might not make it to thirteen if this persists.  She is four and a half, and wants to wear ALL BLACK and have black hair and paint her room black and  ... oh my god, she is GOTH.  She is four and she is GOTH. 

Really, if you go through your goth phase at four and a half, what do you have to look forward to in your teen years?

Oh, that's right.  Sex and pot and dressing like a Russian hooker.

I love that I found this site while looking for pictures of Goth kids. Hmmm.  Good advice.  I might have to dig out my fishnets and offer to go clubbing with Moonpie.  Except we don't have any clubs here in the sticks, and she is only four.  Maybe I'll put on my fishnets and offer to take her to the farm store to pet the chickens...

I've let the Etsy store languish for a few months, and for that I apologize.  The fundraiser so far has been great, and I really appreciate the interest and donations.  Shug began crawling a couple of weeks ago, and her increasing mobility has negated her improving sleep habits, leaving me still unable to find blocks of time to sew.  I decided to try my hand at some knitting, reasoning that it might be easier to work on while simultaneously pulling large objects off of Shug as she careens through the living room.  Being the most annoying yet somehow also the best mother in the world, I decided to make a Storm Trooper hat for Moonpie:

Except I miscounted and it turned into a Storm Trooper cloche for a newborn.  It is just as well, because little Miss Mr. Azrael Abyss, Prince of Sorrow decided she didn't like the hat anyway.  She wants a ski mask that looks like a Storm Trooper, so she can pull it over her head and pretend to be Obi Wan in disguise. For which I have no pattern, and cannot make.  Unless you are feeling benevolent and crafty and want to create a pattern for me?

So.  Anyone want a newborn Storm Trooper cloche?  For that stylish min-Star Wars fan? If so, I'll list it on Etsy and it can be yours for the low, low price of ... hmm.  It's for charity. Name your price and I'll list it.

Let's See What Kind Of Spam I Get From THIS Post

Dear Penis Spam People: 

Please stop.  Seriously.  I appreciate that you are taking the time to manually log in the link to your site, and write cryptic vague notes of flattery ("Good Day. Wow, what a blog! Please check out my site!)  etc. etc. 

For the record, I like peni.  They are nice.  They have their place.  My blog is not one of them.
Thank you for your cooperation.

---- Soper

Dear Potential Advertisers/Spammers Of Non-Penis Ilk: 

Thank you very much for your interest in having me promote your product.  While I am flummoxed as to how exactly you determined that my audience would be a good fit with, say, hand-knit adoption voodoo totems, I appreciate the thought.  I must, with regret, respectfully decline your offer, though. 

While I am relieved that the product you are hawking is non-penis related, I am not interested in promoting your wares.  If we cannot mark out one small space in the world that is commercial free, where will that leave us?  Think of me as the last frontier.  A bastion of non-commercial blogging.  I may just be a mommy blogger, but at least I can hold my head up and know that I still have my dignity.

Did I mention that I am currently not wearing any pants?

I would like to say this is an improvement, since yesterday I wore pajama pants all day.  At least I am moving towards clothing, right?

I am not wearing pants because I think I have the swine flu.  Or, as we say around these parts, "I think I done caught that hawg flu."  Joint pain? Check.  Headache?   Check.  Diarr... Let's just skip the rest of the symptoms and say "check."  

So I am curled up in bed recovering, right?  While friends and family tenderly shuffle my children from one wholesome, educational activity to another, right?

Oh, you are too funny.

Shug, who is steadfastly refusing to nap,  is plopped into her exersaucer, happily playing the same note (I believe it is "C" major) over and over again on the truncated exersaucer keyboard.  Moonpie has just returned from preschool, where she discovered that all of her friends (read: the boys) have left to start kindergarten, and she is stuck in a class with "uncool" people (read: all girls).

This fall is going to be an adventure.

Anyway.  D glued the crib slats back together while I was out of town last week, and I although I am itching to toss the sucker and replace it with a new model I am too tired to attempt replacing it.  Shug will just have to get used to having crappy, broken hand-me-downs, like all second children everywhere.

So while my child languishes in a partially broken crib, I summoned the energy to go shopping. FOR MYSELF.  Of course, I did buy mainly baby clothes, but in the midst of all the adorable tiny shoe shopping I managed to stop at Sephora with my sister.

Perfume and I do not get along.  My body chemistry turns most scents into "L'eau de Old Lady" or "Essence of Grandma, Original Hip Replacement Formula."   I am, however, nothing if not determined, so with the help of my personal shopper I tried on several types of perfume.  I put a different one on each arm, and, running out of arms, put a third scent between my boobs. My sister and I would check periodically to see how the different smells were maturing.  Right arm? Smells like soap.  Left arm? Smells like grass.  Boobs?  Hmm, a bit like grass AND soap. 

Etc. Etc.

There is nothing like a little boob sniffing between sisters.  I should totally write a book promoting that as a way to build families and try to sell it to the Christian Right.  Given the interest in women that their leaders have shown lately (snicker snicker) I am sure that it will be well received.

We were waiting at a stop light a few hours later, and she grabbed my arm and sniffed it.  "I'll have to smell your boobs later" she said. "I can't do that a stop light."

No, clearly a stop light was not the appropriate place for sisterly boob sniffing.  What we *should* have done was set up a show on the sidewalk and charged admission.

Did I mention that Shug is apparently allergic to milk?  As you may recall, she had some sort of milk intolerance when she was on straight formula, and we finally settled on Soy as the best alternative.  Fast forward seven months and she is merrily scarfing down table food with nary a tooth in her head, so we introduced cheese to her a couple of weeks ago.  Which she promptly projectile vomited all over me and three separate pairs of pants.  So I need help from my invisible computer friends -- do we get her tested for a milk allergy, or assume that she is at least sensitive to milk protein?  How do those of you with food allergy issues eat out, for instance, or keep one kid happy while keeping the other kid from, say, ingesting a chocolate choco wonder bar and puking on the dog?

Much obliged,

Soper

Kentucky Chrome

Shug is still a crappy sleeper, waking up multiple times a night STARVING, OMIGOD, WHY DO YOU HATE THE BAYBEEEEEEE?????

Last night was particularly harsh, with Shug screaming and screaming and screaming because we are trying to (unsuccessfully) wean her off her midnight bottle.  In an attempt to calm her down, D was -- spinning, apparently, and spun himself right into her crib.  And broke a slat neatly in half.

I didn't discover this until it was time to put Shug down this evening.  This has led to a debate over what, exactly, we should do with the crib.

So how about a poll?  Eee, polls!

poll by twiigs.com

(Take a wild guess which of us wants a new crib, and which of us wants to just use duct tape.  If you need a hint, let me remind you that after the ice storm, *I* was not the one in favor of eating the food that was unrefrigerated for a week....)

BabySlinger

I know you want to hear about our experience meeting Jack and Diane, and I want to tell you about it, but I'm just not ready to.  In a way, it was like losing Tron all over again, only through Diane's eyes.  It was me being Gracie this time, me taking a baby from Diane's unresisting arms.  

And I'm just not ready to talk about it.

So let's talk about slings. 

I love slings.  I have six different ones.  I have a Bjorn that I got for Moonpie and only used with Shug twice, since it pulled the middle of my back.  I have a fake Bjorn that I got at Target in Dallas when I was waiting for my ICPC permission to take Shug across state lines. That one was total crap and I wish I had kept the receipt so I could take it back.  Angelina Jolie may wear a Bjorn in public, but really, don't fall for celebrity endorsements.  The  Bjorn is fine for tiny babies, but there are better ways to lug a large infant around.

My favorite way was with my D-ring sling.  It was boring and brown and I *loved* it and used daily until it started making the muscles in my back numb, about six weeks ago.  I got it for Moonpie when we were visiting my brother in Asheville, and I wore the hell out of it.  Shug is so big now, though, that her weight doesn't distribute right and it hurts to wear her in it.

Which led me to the Ergo.  Ergos are so highly recommended that I really thought it was going to be *the* bestest sling ever. Instead, I hate it.  It is complicated to get on unless you wear the baby on your back, which always leads to large wet drool spots in the middle of my back.  I can't reach behind me to snap it when I want to wear Shug in the front, so I can only use it when D is home.  Once he helps me strap it on, the waist band cuts off what little circulation I have, making me dizzy with a small child strapped to my body. 

Not a good combination.

I suspect the cut-off blood flow is a result of my short-waistedness and not an actual reflection on the Ergo, although I do hold them responsible for the difficult hooks-in-the-middle-of-your-back design. 

Ok, that accounts for four slings.  Hmm.  Oh, yes, there is the Maya Wrap I made from a pattern I purchased on Etsy.  It was too complicated to do by myself, so I'll probably re-purpose it and make bibs out of it.   So that makes five slings.

Which brings us to my SlingEZee. 

I have not been requested, solicited, paid, or otherwise induced to provide this endorsement.  I just love the SlingEZee so much I want to share the joy with you, kind of like a Jehovah's Witness but without the speaking in tongues and knocking on doors thing. 

The SlingEZee is basically just a D-ring sling, but it has four really awesome features that make me love it.  Ok, five, I just thought of another one.

(1)  It has padded rails.  My other D-ring also had padded rails, and I think that is what made all the difference for me.  I know lots of people who have tried plain fabric slings without padding and they usually hate them, mainly because the weight of heavier babies pulls fabric back through the rings, making the sling sag and feel unsafe.  Padded slings feel more secure and don't slide, and as a bonus Shug loves to suck on the padding while she is surveying the world.

(2) They are sold in sizes.  This is really important, because having a sling that fits your body means you will get the best support possible and it will be more comfortable in the long run. 

(3) The sling has lots of shoulder padding and extra fabric to support an infant up to 35 pounds.  At the rate Shug is going that will likely be Christmas for us, but with Moonpie it means I could have theoretically carried her up to her fourth birthday. That would have pro-rated the cost to about twenty dollars a year -- not a bad deal, given that the Ergo set me back a hundred bucks.

(4) They are cute .  I know, I know, you are too busy admiring my guest room and wondering if I ever clean that mirror and trying to see if you can make out Shug's face, but when you are done with all that look at how cute the sling is!  And how snuggy Shug looks!

(5) Finally, the sling comes with written diagrams and a video so that even total sling virgins can wear a baby correctly.  There are different holds for different ages, with names that sound a bit like they are from the Kama Sutra.  Shug likes to sit Lotus position in Kangaroo hold, if you know what I mean.... (waggle waggle)

So my recommendation:  Forgo the Ergo, and get a SlingEZee.  Or don't listen to me, you grumpy biscuit.  And stop making snarky comments about my bedspread.  Sheesh.

Supermom?

Hi! It's me! Um, the super-hot former-lawyer turned super-smelly mommy blogger?  The one that pees in public showers? 

Oh, yeah, that one.

During my long absence, I have traveled 1300 miles round-trip, met Jack & Diane, formally become Shug's mother, and made the most amazing copyright infringing  iron-on underwear for Moonpie that the world has ever seen.

If you can't gird your loins with superheros when you want to, then it just isn't worth putting on your pants some days.

It's not that I have nothing to write about -- it's that there is so much to write that I don't know how to even begin.  I am still trying to process how I feel about our visit with Shug's family, and how much it changed the way I look at parenting these two little girls the government has deemed my own.  Am I better for having an open adoption?  If I am, why do I still feel like such an ass?

Oh, that's right, it's because I made illegal panties for Moonpie.  I would *love* to have purchased officially licensed Spiderman and Batman underwear for Moonpie, but the sexist marketing assholes designing children's underwear only make girl underwear in (1) pink with (2) Disney Princesses or equally vapid, anti-feminist designs on them.  I have spent two years searching for any type of underwear that would be an acceptable substitute for boy briefs.  Which is what Moonpie has been wearing since she was potty-trained. 

And just so we are clear, the problem with briefs isn't that they are boy underwear, it's the elastic.  Because of Moonpie's ichthyosis, we have to use Aquaphor twice a day, which is a petroleum based lotion.  Aquaphor eats elastic.  Briefs have large bands of elastic.  After about three months, they start to sag, and after six months they are toast.  Girl underwear has a smaller band of elastic, which for some reason holds up better long-term. 

So.  I need Moonpie to wear girl underwear.  No one will make girl underwear in size 4T with superheros on them. Ergo, I was forced to steal from DC comics and iron-on the Batman logo to my daughter's panties.

Really, I don't think there is any jury in the world that would convict me.

Other than copyright infringement, I have been busy trying to fatten Moxie (the puppy) so she can't fit through the fence and harass joggers, fatten Moonpie so her pants don't fall down, fatten Pablo (the oldest cat) so he doesn't die, and keep Shug and the other cat from stealing everyone else's food.  Shug is ENORMOUS, which I say in the most loving, motherly way possible.  She is six months and 20 lbs, to Moonpe's 38 lbs.  As soon as she learns to walk she's totally gonna be able to whip Moonpie's ass.

Baby-wrestling.  Now that is a sp0rt whose time has come.  Look for us on You Tube.

So, recap:  Shug is now my daughter.  Moonpie has illegally cool underwear.  I am still an ass.

I think that about covers it...

Hot Dogs, Corn Dogs, And Vulvular Buns

Thank you all for your book suggestions.  I went to our local library, and they ... didn't have any of them.  Surprised?

Anyway, I checked out the one book the library did have, What's The Big Secret? Talking About Sex With Girls And Boys.  I took it to my room to skim over before reading it with Moonpie, who of course found it immediately and opened it to the picture of the naked boy and girl.

So much for parental guidance.

She is fascinated with drawings of the naked children, and less interested in the actual story about how a baby is made.  Sex? BORING.  Cartoon drawing of a penis? FASCINATING.

Incidentally, is anyone else kind of weirded out that the book is drawn by Marc Brown?  As in, the cartoonist for "Arthur"?  The name didn't click with me at first, until we were reading the part about going to the bathroom and I realized that Pal was sitting beside the girl on the toilet.  This has led to Moonpie naming all of the children in the book after characters from "Arthur", which ...  led to us discussing Binky's naked winky. 

"His penis looks like a hot dog! And she has a bun!" Moonpie said, pointing to the genitalia on the drawings now known as "Binky" and "Francine."  "Why don't they just call them a 'hotdog' and a 'bun'?" she asked.  "It would be easier than 'penis' and 'vergyna'." 

The kid has a point.

Eventually the book will have to go back to the library, although the questions will not, so I have ordered It's Not The Stork from my local bookstore to have and to hold from this day forward.  I am also going to steal my mother's copy of A Child Is Born, which is how I and most of my elementary school age friends learned about sex, sneaking it out of my parent's bookshelf and reading it with a flashlight during spend-the-night parties.  Apparently the updated version has discussions of fertility treatments, which might be a good resource for those of you looking to introduce the concept of IVF to kids.

Continuing our household obsession with sex, I picked up a copy of Mary Roach's latest book, Bonk, and keep having to make up cover stories of "what's so funny?" when Moonpie hears me laughing out loud.  There was a line about sex with a corn dog and ... wow.  Seriously.  Sex has never been so bizarrely funny.  Or disturbing.  I never knew that a man could actually fit a toothbrush into his urethra, or that he would do so on purpose, or that it was a big enough problem that urology journals would devote articles to it.  If you are looking for a hilarious book full of weird facts, I can't recommend this book enough.

And now I have to go change a poopy diaper.  And read some more of Bonk. 

The Birds and the ... Lupron?

In times like these, where your attention span is waning and I realize I'm losing my audience, I really only have two options: (1) talk about my boobs, or (2) talk about sex.  Because apparently my boobs are fascinating, and sex is, well, sex.

Moonpie has recently discovered both.  Well, discovered is the incorrect word, it's not like she's a tiny Columbus sailing the uncharted waters of sexuality for her preschool class.  It's just that she recently had an epiphany that daddies are more than just the fun guy who plays tennis on the Wii and clogs the bathroom drain with hair.  She understands that men play some kind of role in creating a baby, which she previously thought just sort of happened to a woman when she grew up.

No wonder the kid wants to be a boy.

I know that I am going to have to elaborate on the male role soon.  I'm prepared to discuss in precise, clinical terms the magical creation of offspring:

"First the mommy goes to see her RE, and he gives her medicine to stimulate ovulation, then the daddy goes down the hall to the happy men's place where he deposits sperm in a cup, and the doctor takes the eggs from the mommy during a horrible procedure involving metal tools stuffed up her vagina...."

Yeah.  I'm afraid I'll give her too much information and not only end up warping her gender identity, I'll push her towards celibacy and Scientology.

So.  Any recommendations of books to introduce sex to a four-year old?  Other than the Joy of Sex?