1. I confess that I kicked my ‘Take That’ lists’ butt for the first half of the month, and now January is kicking my butt. Hardcore. Worst January in years. Bleh.

2. I confess that I had a run-in with a mom at my kids school that had me reminiscing about high school girls. I shall write a post if I’m brave.

3. I confess that I had a run-in with a group of mom’s at my kids school that had me excited about going to Costco with my toddlers. Ditto about writing about it.

4. I confess that I am considering anti depressants, cause I feel so, well, you know, depressed. And yes, I’m taking vitamins B and D and fish oil, and, and, and…

5. I confess that I went for a run today and it helped. I hate that. I wish I could sit on the couch and eat chips and feel less depressed. Even running feels like I’m running through mud. So heavy.

6. I confess that I am really struggling with my blog right now. But since that could be January speaking out of me, I shall make my decision in February. Does that make me January possessed? And could you all tell me who can renovate my blog? Can’t find someone affordable that works with wordpress. Ideas? Names?

7. I confess that I love watching The Biggest Loser and Extreme Home Makeover. Why? Because they make me cry. Sad, but true. When I need a good releasing cry, but can’t seem to let it out, I will watch one of those and guaranteed it will get the waterworks going. Quite pathetic when I am sobbing over something that’s not actually that sad.

8. I confess that our car got fixed, but that I’ve been furtively glancing at the space that a minivan affords. Still hopeful our car can last 3 years, at which point I will look at the Honda Pilot.

9. I confess that I have some big, brutally honest posts brewing, but I am not brave enough to post them.

10. I confess that I do not know what to do with this lamb. My mumsies made it for me. Which you would think would mean I would automatically rather pluck my hairs out one by one than part with it, seeings as she is dead. Except, that my mommy made me many things. And she gave this to me when I was mid-teens. I never formed an attachment to it at all. But I can’t send it to the thrift store.  Thoughts? It is beautiful and well made. Sadly, my children do not seem to form attachments to any of my childhood toys.

Happy Weekend, what are you doing? I plan on hanging with friends and maybe going to the Museum.

I can rationally tell myself, with my brain, that this isn’t true, but I must have dreamt every single one of my failures last night, every single one of my social faux pas, cause it’s left my heart with a bitter taste today. I want to crawl into bed, cry, and not answer the phone.

Not that it would ring anyway…

See?

Call it hormones?

January?

The weather?

It sucks.

I need some massive cheering up. Or a truckload of chocolate, my blankie and ‘Moonstruck‘.

Prior this, I had a Toyota Matrix. I love me a matrix. Love. When you drive a matrix, you say ‘WHEEEEEEE’.

When you drive a Swedish Tank, you say “Vroooooom”.

Neither is apparently here nor there, as my tank now needs some work. Like a few thousand dollars of work. Bad month for that.

This is where, you readers, get to weigh in.

Do we fix it, staying with the devil we know?

Scrap it, and get another car payment for something newer, and hopefully more reliable aka the dreaded minivan?

What I would eventually love is the Honda Pilot. We’ve test driven one before and I’m almost as in love, as I was with my Matrix. Sadly, it’s not within budget. Even a used one.

But a minivan???

I have a violent, visceral reaction to driving a minivan. My apologies to all of you driving minivans. I do not feel that way about you. Not even a little bit.

But me? A minivan?

Can’t see it.

I may as well buy a house in the ‘burbs, get a white picket fence, and reprogram myself. Which is ridiculous. I can see the many merits of having a minivan and that it doesn’t change who I am.

I am trying to figure out why I am letting the idea of a large peice of metal and plastic bug me so much.

There is a common saying running through Adoptive Parent circles that I often hear. “Adoption was our plan A.” or more specifically, “adoption was our first choice”. Intentional adopters as I know them to be. The ones who have not suffered from infertility, deciding to adopt, not because they know they couldn’t have biological children, but because they have made a choice not too, either at all, or again. Let me clarify, that my hubby and I did not face the painful journey of infertility. We had 3 (relatively) healthy children, when we decided to act on our life long dream to adopt from Ethiopia. In that regard, we too are one of those “Plan A” people. I have no issue with those who decide to adopt out of a deep desire to do so. I AM that person. I can also relate on some itsy bitsy level, with the struggle of infertility. I had extreme complications with my last 2 pregnancies…we almost lost them both, and then I had a miscarriage after my youngest son was born. I was told that it would be “very unwise” to try and have another baby, that my health would only get worse, and the likelihood of carrying to term was slight. Part of our desire to adopt, was born out of wanting to have more kids, and not being able to do it the old-fashioned way. Not that I am in any way saying that what we experienced mirrors that of infertility, just that for us, adoption ended up being both “Plan A “ and “Plan B”. We wanted to adopt, and I couldn’t be pregnant anymore.

I am the MOST selfish.

Part of what I LOVE, when I talk to AP’s about their adoption journey, is discovering why they chose this road in the first place. Every story is different and unique. There are a variety of reasons why people decide to take on the emotional journey of adopting, whether it be through the ministry, private domestic, or international, every story is different. And special. This is exactly why I dislike so much when I read on blogs, or talk to AP’s, and they say something along the lines of, “Adoption was our plan A.” To say that, infers that there are also plans B, C or D. And clearly Plan A is better, or the higher priority. Where does that leave those for whom adoption was Plan B? Or C? I don’t mind when someone says that they chose to adopt because they thought it would be a great way to add to their family, and they didn’t feel a need to have a biological child. What I can’t stand is when that choice gets held up like it is the superior one. I know that most intentional adopters would argue with me and say, “that’s not what I meant.” What does that sound like? As AP’s we are all too aware of the sensitivity of language and words used in and around adoption.

When I hear something along the lines of, “adoption was my first choice,” what I really hear is, “we don’t have any problems ‘down there,’ but we are just such fabulous people that we decided to be super unselfish and not want what almost every other woman on the planet yearns for.” (I said almost every woman, I realize not all).

Let’s be real here, the majority of people who end up adopting are those for whom adoption WAS plan B. Because having a biological child was plan A. And Plan A didn’t work out. So they took Plan B, which was to adopt, and then fell in love with plan B. Plan B, as far as I am concerned, is just as valid as Plan A. Which makes me wonder, why the hell do we use terms like, “plan A,” or “first choice,” at all? Why do we feel a need to create more of an “us vs them,” mentality? By putting people into groups such as, “Plan A and Plan B”, or “first and second,” we create a divide. We start to create feelings of lesser, or more than. I can only imagine how it sounds to an Adoptive Parent who hears someone say, “adoption was our first choice,” when for them, it wasn’t. For goodness sake, what the heck does it matter if someone chose to adopt because their plan to have a biological child didn’t happen? Does it make them a lesser parent? Do they love their child less? Of course not. So then why use phrases that would create that feeling in other AP’s?

I understand where this line of thought comes. I have read enough Adult Adoptee blogs to know that a common grief many AA’s share is one that they were, “second best.” Their parents could not have a biological child (which was first choice), so then adopted (which was second choice), leading to feelings of not being good enough for the child, as they aged. What then happens, us AP’S chime in and say, “oh no! Not for us! Our daughter/son was our first choice, they were our Plan A!!” Again, where does this leave the AP’s for whom it was their plan B? And more importantly, where does it leave their CHILDREN? Just because it was our “first choice,” does not mean we are going to be any better at it, or that our kids are going to be any better adjusted. So what if I can tell my daughter that we intentionally chose to adopt? Because I have certainly seen with our situation, (and I don’t think we are so far from common), that we have had a rough road in terms of bonding to one another. Whereas some of my friends, for whom it was their “Plan B,” bonded with their child almost immediately. In terms of the big picture, what child is going to benefit more? The one who’s parents have formed a secure bond to him or her, or the one who knew they were their parents, “Plan A?”

I say, let’s ditch the whole, “Plan A, Plan B,” thing, and just start saying that for all of us, adoption was our choice.

Our kids were our choice.

I’ve had low grade chills, pressurized sinuses, aches and very low energy. I’ve been trying to rest, balanced with maintaining normal life. Still trying to work out a little bit so that my head space doesn’t tank. By 3pm I’m so completely done that I’m ugly to be around. I’m actually done by 9am, but I try to hold it together for as long as possible.

The problem is that I can still function, but not well.

I’m not a gracious sick person. I’m done. DONE DONE DONE. I want to feel better again. I lose perspective when I’m sick. I start saying things like ‘My life is horrible, it sucks, I’m depressed, there’s no hope, I’m dying of some weird obscure disease, I feel stuck….’

I have to be reminded that last week I really liked my life and had enough energy to be doing my life and an extra ambitious list.

I’ve decided to call this sickness The Misery. I feel worse than I look. It makes me cranky and depressed. It throws two of my kiddos off emotionally, which makes everything much harder.

Anyone have any ideas of how to get rid of The Misery? I’ve got it.

PS. I’m still rooting for having this beat by tomorrow night when I’m supposed to go out with Maple Walnut Mama for some bistro time!

I sit here, in the rare quiet of an afternoon, with one child napping and the others all at the playground.

I’m eating chocolate that was in my desk drawer. That chocolate, to be exact.

It’s with some frustration that I sit here. At night, when I am struggling to sleep, I will either try to answer questions that are bothering me or I write blog posts in my head. Good blog posts. With depth, meaning, and amazing sentences. I’m not joking, I really do this. I think to myself, “I need to remember that line!”

Come morning, I can’t.

I will remember themes, and so that is what you will get today. The theme that I have been rolling around my head the last few nights is about gratitude, self care and celebrations.

You see, it wasn’t too long ago that I started reading Ann Voskamp’s book ‘One Thousand Gifts’. One passage helped me  clarify why I do too much and feel so busy. It was a profound learning experience for me, one that I continue to try and remember. I find myself driving more calmly these days. Focusing more on the one thing in front of me instead of what all needs to be accomplished during that day. It’s baby steps, but I am noticing a difference. I had to return the book to the library before I finished it, and I don’t actually know the whole point of the book. I am going to make the assumption, and those of you who have read it may correct me, that the basic simplified premise, is of her journey to learning contentment and happiness by making gratitude a daily practice.

I understand that practicing gratitude is a good idea. It’s a great idea, in fact. Gratitude can shake up a bad mood, shift a selfish mind frame, dust off self pity and remove discontent. To focus on being grateful, even when you don’t feel like it, is a practice my mom taught me, and something that both Hoty and I have been reminded to do in our marriage by those wiser than us.

It’s safe to say that I understand that gratitude is wonderful and healthy. Much like exercise. You don’t necessarily feel like doing it, but once you are, it can feel great and the cumulative benefits are far reaching.

Practicing gratitude has always felt like exactly that. Exercise. It doesn’t excite me. Keeping a gratitude journal feels almost cliche these days. Like our lives are so pathetic, narrow and selfish that we have to force ourselves to swallow a spoonful of gratitude every day just to keep our emotional selves from atrophy, or worse, apathy.

While chewing on all these thoughts, I had been  feeling rather petulant and selfish for saying that I didn’t want to keep a list of gratitude’s. It was at this point that I gave it up. I gave myself permission to stop trying to keep a list of reasons to be grateful. It feels like too much work, yet another thing I have to do,  another list hanging around.

I started thinking about an experience I had with a counselor. Actually, I think he was a psychologist. Regardless, he was a very educated and wise man. I saw him twice after my hostage taking in Swaziland. If I had had the courage, I would have continued seeing him. He was one of those people that cuts through all the crap and gets to the heart of the matter. In the first five minutes. It was Hard Work with a lot of processing time required afterwards.

We covered my story in Swaziland, about my nightmares, and he asked about any other sexual abuse I may have experienced in my life, during my first visit.

The next time I saw him, we talked about how there had been an extended family party that I felt obligated to attend, but had allowed myself to make the choice not to go. I knew that one of the people who had abused me would be there. I have been to family events where this person had been before, and I almost always just ignored him and his. It’s been horrible and awkward, but I’d always felt that I should go to support other people in my family.

This time I looked at the situation. I looked at my head space, and decided. No. No, I am not going. It’s always weird and awkward, gross and unresolved. I don’t want to go.

And I didn’t.

After talking about this whole scenario, the counselor gave me homework. To do one thing for myself everyday. He said my face lit up in a way he had never seen, when I told him about allowing myself not to attend. In choosing not to go, I did what I wanted, and what was healthiest for me.

I haven’t been deliberate about this homework for quite some time. I dust it off when I’ve had a really hard day and I need to push myself to do some self care so that I don’t implode. It’s turned into a crisis tool, instead of something preventative and life giving.

The other piece to my midnight stewings, has been that I often get lost in the lists and ‘to do’s', the necessaries and mundane of my life as a stay at home mom with 4 kids. I grew up in a home that celebrated the major things, such as birthday’s and the big holidays, but otherwise, we were a hard working, stoic, quiet family. I saw that putting together the events to celebrate birthdays was a lot of work for my mom, and having any company over was very stressful for her.  I often heard the words duty, should, hard, and because, growing up. I now struggle to celebrate. The idea of having a celebration often feels like a lot of work and exhaustion to me. I need to practice the art of celebration. The definitions of the word celebrate, include ‘having ceremonies, solemnizing, lavishly praising, publicly proclaiming something favourable, observing, commemorating, having a party and an uninhibited good time’.

There is a whole host of different ways to celebrate! And some of them don’t even seem like a lot of work.

The other night I had an idea. That instead of forcing myself to journal gratitude’s, I would rather try doing one thing for myself, and find one thing in my life to celebrate, every single day. Even if it’s just sticking lemon water in a pretty glass and toasting the fact that the children are alive and tucked safely into bed. Or buying myself one flower for my bedside table.

I am excited by this idea. This doesn’t feel like a should, or the proverbial cod liver oil that is good for me and will make me feel better when it’s done. This feels more like a treasure hunt. To pursue the finding of one thing for me, and one thing to celebrate each day. And the next. And the next. These two things also feel manageable. I woke up happier this morning knowing that I am allowed to pick one thing to do for myself, and one thing to celebrate.  Perhaps this will make my mornings a little bit smoother. Less focused on the ‘To Do’s’ and more focused on the delights in my life, right here and now.

I know that my children will love joining me on the celebration idea, not so sure they will get behind my more selfish one.

Today I chose to buy myself a new stash of chocolate and a bag of yummy grapefruits.

Today we are celebrating the fact that it is a sunny day and Hoty’s work has shifted to being less stressful. We may even pull out some crystal glasses and drink some wine.

I confess that I thought my last post was funnier than it apparently was.

I confess that I did NOTHING on my list today, and while I’m loving getting so many things done, I may take February off from lists.

I confess that I hate and loathe running errands and not getting anything successfully done. It irks me.

I confess that I hide chocolate in my desk drawer. And a few other places in the house. Besides the chocolate cupboard in the kitchen.

I confess that I need a decorator to come into my house. I need help with the kitchen, living room, bathroom, and everything, except the girl’s room.

I confess that I kicked dirt underneath the fridge instead of sweeping it up.

I confess that I pulled my toddlers out of preschool and have hired a personal assistant/nanny one day a week with the money instead. It’s amazing to leave the toddlers for a whole day, every week, knowing that some extra things will get done in the house for me while they have quiet time.

I confess I struggle to not feel guilty with this regular help, but it’s the same financial strain as preschool and way better for me. And the toddlers can join the free toddler programs that are every where in my hood.

I confess that I was going to cleanse (food wise) and I haven’t. In fact, I’ve had more latte’s than normal.

I confess that this is probably the most mundane Confession Friday, ever! You will all be glad to hear that I am mulling over, and editing, some less fluffy posts.

Have a great weekend! We are going to play, visit with friends and hopefully get a few things done. What are you doing?

Me: Crossing stuff off my list! – this said triumphantly refering to the things I got done that day.

Hoty: Is making sweet, sweet love to me on your list?

Me: Only if you want to get done once this month.

Giardia.

The ironic part is that Miss Joy didn’t bring it home.

B. man did. I guess it was all that time at the water slides, and playing in sprinklers in agricultural areas, while we were away.

The family that lives together, poops together? The family that poops together, sticks together? I almost took a picture of the lineup of poop sample bags on our mantle awaiting delivery to the lab. Aren’t you grateful I spared you that delight? Ya, me too.

Thankfully, only 2 of the 6 of us are testing positive so far. The shitty part? One Dr. gave a prescription for Joy, and our family doc for B. man.  He gets pills, she gets liquid. His costs $19 and can be crushed up. Her’s can be drunk and costs over $50.

I would rather crush, I’m just that cheap.

And yes, we are all carefully washing hands and disinfecting the bathroom. It’s still safe to visit.

I slept 13 hours the other night. Straight through.

With no pee breaks.

I was shocked when I woke up. I haven’t done that in years.