Boy Room: The before

The boy room in our house is large. Huge, but subterranean. Because it’s so basement, it gets the least amount of attention around here. It’s pretty much the furthest reach of the house, and I don’t like basements, so I avoid downstairs. Which is pretty much one of the biggest reasons why Hoty took over laundry around here. Because the laundry room is in the basement, under the stairs. And because I hate doing laundry.

Anyway, the boy room is finally getting some verymuchlongoverdue attention. Here are the horrid, blurry, dark before pictures. Designed such to make the after pictures to look even better. Of course.

The door into the room, complete with unfinished drywall and wall stickers that needed somewhere to go when the boys moved out of their tiny upstairs room.

To the right of the door, an old broken fireplace, complete with one of the old paint colours. When we moved in, this room was painted in at least 5 different bright colours. Think crayola blue, red, yellow, brown, etc. It was awful. And a pain in the arse to paint over. On the floor, are all of B. man’s clothes in bins.

B. man’s bed. Nuff said.

World’s scuzziest fish tank on MY BUTCHER BLOCK that I want back! In the kitchen! Where it belongs. And the world tiniest closet.

Loft bed with excess mess and stuff. Including the back of old baby poo coloured tweed chair.

More of the same loft bed, mess and stuff. Also dresser that needs to move upstairs to guest room.

And the one source of natural light, complete with ancient Ikea curtains that are probably 14 years old. G.man has asked for new curtains these ones are so bad. And this pic also highlights the ledge that this room sports.

Stay tuned for the after pics…

Race? Or boundaries?

I am mad.

Really, really mad.

I hate being mad because I know that it takes awhile for me to work through the BIG FEELINGS.

Today while at the grocery store (yes, this is turning into a cliche!) a strange lady walked up to my 4 kids, started exclaiming to the lady beside her, “What cute kids, aren’t they so cute!?” while starting to rub B. man’s head.

I said ‘Hey, please don’t touch his hair, he really doesn’t like it when strangers touch his head, so unless you are going to offer to let him touch your hair, it’s not appropriate!’

I felt that I was fairly polite, under the circumstances. Those circumstances being:

B. man has just had his hair cut so that this wouldn’t happen. This woman was a random stranger who wasn’t engaging me in conversation.

Thankfully, a cashier moved us to a newly opened till so that the exchange got ended there. Or so I thought.

Once out in the parking lot, while trying to get my kids all in the car, she approached and started ranting, yes ranting! about how she is part black, and “how dare I, as just a white woman tell her…”

I interrupted her flow of words and must have been impressive because as I took a step towards her, I said ‘Don’t even make it about that.’

I had a lot more to say, but she whirled around, got into her car, and drove away.

I am LIVID.

1. She looked white.

2. Would I have treated this experience differently if she had been visibly black? No.

3. Was it an issue of race for me? No. I would have told this woman the same thing if she had been touching my biological child’s head.

4. I feel like this woman tried to tell me that as a white woman, I have no rights, or lesser rights than her, a part black woman.

5. Since this woman looks white, she can’t have had the same childhood experiences as my very black children have, therefore, why does she get to throw in my face that she’s part black as an excuse for her behavior?

6. AND MOST IMPORTANTLY. This was a stranger touching my kid. As the parent, I get to tell any stranger to stop. That, is for me, the most important aspect of what happened here.

I’m also heartbroken that this kind of racial experience is still out there. I know I can be naive, but that felt so unnecessary, and like I somehow poked her insecurities without meaning too.

I’m not sad about how I handled it. I set the boundary around my child. I shut down the stupidity and rudeness of the conversation around me being ‘just a white woman.’

Thoughts wanted people! How would you have handled this? Anyone had experiences like this?

PS.

B. man says once we are home: ‘Mama I didn’t like it when that lady touched my hair.’

Me: I know, that’s why I told her to stop. And you are allowed to say No Thank you when people try and touch your hair. In fact, you can just say NO!.

B.man: And then I can be grumpy like you?! (said with a smile)

Sigh…there’s a learning curve in here somewhere…

Skills

Me: Stir your oats!

B. man: Is that stirring?

Me: Yes.

B. man: Do you have skills?

Why son, yes, yes, I do.

Mad Stirring Skills.

Quote of the day

“You are a small, little, strange sort of mama. But you are a nice mama.”

 

Cooking

I am a fair weather cook.

I love food. I love good food. And I love cooking if I am in the right head space, have the ingredients, and not too many interruptions. I suppose it’s not a stretch of the imagination for most of you, that this doesn’t happen everyday. I often fantasize about the day when I have children old enough to take over some of the cooking duties. My mom had us cooking in the kitchen at young ages, and by the time we were 12 we were all assigned a night of the week to take over cooking.

So far, I’ve been blessed with children that want to ‘help’ in the kitchen. I have tended to respond poorly, impatiently, and with frustration. I don’t do well with those experiences that turn into ‘make work’ projects for me.

However, I finally have a cooking child. One who is focused, wants to help, is able to help and doesn’t create mess. One who can go out to the garden to get fresh rosemary, or down to the storage room for tomato sauce. One who can stir. Chop olives. Is interested, and learns at every turn.

I’ve heard of such children, wasn’t sure it was true, until I experienced this. As he gets older, his delight over food, their smells and tastes, just grows. He inhales everything we work with to get to know their smells. Was over the moon with the new smoked salt I just bought.

It’s just a delight.

Waiting for the water to boil…

B. man

My B. man is the type of newly three year old that either makes you laugh, or drives you crazy. He is the most emotionally secure of my children and isn’t afraid to express his emotions on a moment to moment basis. He is a big man, ridiculously verbal and is often confused for a child at least a year older. (he’s not confused, people are confused)

This morning, as I was helping him get his boots on, he said “Are you a mother, mama?”

Yes, I am.

“You are a beautiful mother!”

Thank you, B.man.

“And you’re kind of cool.”

Really? My just turned 3 year old already thinks I’m just kind of cool? Sheesh! I shall be NOT VERY COOL AT ALL, by the time he is 4. As opposed to the other kids who still think I’m mostly cool.

Protected: B. man’s B. day

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X-ray

Miss Joy went for a chest x-ray yesterday. This is pretty routine, given her medical history.

Off  B.man and Miss Joy and I went to the hospital.

I had not realized how infrequently I head out into the public sector where I need to define my role in my children’s lives.

Every single fargin person at the hospital, except one, gave me 20 questions as to my relationship to Miss Joy. I had to show ID, recite her stats, etc. even though it was already on file.

Not to mislead you all, but I actually didn’t get my panties in a knot about this. I mean, sure it bugs me, but I get that most people are just doing their job.

The point of this post is to tell you two things:

1. Miss Joy has an unholy fear of all hospital workers. Let’s just say that her previous experiences weren’t sunshiney and she now screams for everything, even routine, unpokey experiences. It’s not fun. I share this, to enlighten those of you who may be considering or doing an HIV adoption. Prepare for lots of energy, treats, soothing, etc in medical situations. Also, these experiences make me sweat a lot. So bring a spare shirt, or put an extra swipe of pit stick on in the morning. Seriously, when talking her through things as painless as an x-ray, I am dripping sweat at the end.

And 2. The tech at Radiology is now my personal hero of the week. He was awesome! Awesome with the kids, with me, etc. He didn’t ask for my definition, but immediately referred to me as ‘Mom’. Turns out he has a black son and attends a certain camp in Naramata, so chances are some of you already know him. I didn’t get his name, cause apparently I lose my brain, along with my sweat, in those circumstances. Anyhow, if any of you know him, tell him he made my week! When I thanked him for assuming I was the mom, he did tell me that most adults who bring children in who don’t match them, are the nannies. I guess I could be mistaken for a nanny. Cause the hordes of children who are saying ‘Mama! Mama!’ to me over and over again aren’t a dead giveaway of my nannying description.

I jest again. No reprimanding comments for me to calm down.

And a surprise #3! B.man made me squishy during the x-ray. He decided to be brave for his sis and show her that this was no big deal, and took his shirt off in solidarity.

These two crack me up. If one can do it, so can the other! They drove me nuts in a good way yesterday. All day long they told me, over and over again, how much they loved the other.

I, apparently, am chopped liver.

Toddler phrases

Sorry to bore most of you, but I want to remember some of the things B. man is saying to me, these days.

• Mama! You da best!
• Mama, you da man!
• Mama, my name is sweetheart.
• Said to hoty ‘You not sweetheart!’
• ahhhhh, ummmm, no.
• I, your baby?
• Mama! I NEED beans.
• You can handle that?
• Deal!
• I ok! (this triumphantly when he crashes, bashes or falls)
• ‘Up a trey’ is Toy Story.   ???
• ‘Ganana’ is banana

He is also calling me Tova, and Love, these days. And of course, all of this is said in that delicious toddler accent that so many of them have. A cross between the Bronx and baby talk.

Mud and Moons

I think it’s full moon. Or pretty close too.

And say what you like, but in my experience, the week around full moon is always funkier. And not in a pretty way. I tend to be more hormonal, the kids whingy’er, the sirens much more frequent, the Random Acts of Stupidity more random.

So why is it, when all of this is going on, that Hoty is working crazy, long days, and I find out that we still. don’t. have. the. last. signature needed before we can go to court. Say it with me folks, 4 friggin’ months. And the minister needed to sign, is off traveling again. If you hear some thudding sounds, it’s just my head on my desk.

When I got this email (note, it’s not a phone call?) I just about threw in the adoption towel. I know it’s not rational, or even what I want, but I am so over this waiting game for one person to sign. I wanted to call our agency and say ‘I want off this crazy train!’

Instead we did this. Cause baby, we are going to party through the grumps. And what better place, then where the full moon is showing it’s pull the most. The lowest tide all year.

And yes, I told everyone before we got out of the car that the water is too cold for swimming.

Disintegration of rules, Part 1: The shoes are off.

Space!

Disintegration of Rules, Part 2: The water has a magnetic pull that cannot be denied.

It was COLD, and look at those crow’s feet! I have crow’s feet!

Playing with your big brother’s sweatshirt is so much fun!

Better than my shoes.

Disintegration of the rules, Part 3: Water ain’t got nothin’ on mud.

I’m still grumpy, and sad about the lack of signatures, but this was a great way to blow off my ‘Take That’ list, and a good reminder to see what I have right in front of me.