Farewell, "Spec"tacle!

Today we lose a good friend and riotous lunch companion to the shiny trappings of New York City. Although I will miss him, I can't be sad--it's not like he's moving to Omaha or Fresno. I mean, I would be pissed to lose him to Omaha or Fresno. NYC I can understand.

On that happy day when Spec finally realized that he was sitting at the Wrong social studies table and began eating with us, I realized that I had made a very special new friend. You see, Spec was born with a "bypass valve" that allowed crude, inappropriate-in-mixed-company thoughts to go straight from the id-portion of his brain to his mouth, thus "bypassing" the usual (for most of us) route of Thought to Social Considerations/Self-Censorship Brain Center to Mouth.

Those with bypass valves are among my favorite kinds of people. Although I'm sure that some of the tight-lipped ladies who lunch at neighboring tables will be as happy as they can be to see him go--as happy as they are when yelling at neighborhood kids to stay the hell off their grass--I will miss the hilarious and, at times, outrageous things that loudly came out of Spec's mouth. Of course, I can't remember any of them, which makes for a terrifically lame post. J-Dog thought of one today--the most hilarious one--but now it's HER memory and Ms. Bitch Goddess said I can't use it! Can you believe her?! She's not even a law student yet, and she's just sooooooo much better than me.

Sorry.

So even though I can't recall more than a couple of things he ever said, they were funny, and liberal, and mostly intelligent, and you missed out if you weren't there.

Farewell, lovely friend! Live your life bravely! And don't ever believe the nasty things that are said about you, you piece of crap.

To Clarify . . .

I need to say a few things:

1. It's not all negative. Anthony is remarkably willing to trust us, although it's a slow process. Though I wouldn't rule out Reactive Attachment Disorder completely, Anthony's is more of the "overly attached" kind than the "don't hug me, I am a rock" kind. For this, I am grateful.

2. It's only been 6 days since he moved in. Nothing substantial gets accomplished in 6 days, and I wouldn't end an important relationship after a mere 6 days of strife.

3. Of course, Anthony is in no way to blame for his academic skills, intellectual functioning, or behavior patterns. This kid has had a rough life. When I think about his "If you don't want me, send me back!" outburst, I think that I can't imagine how tough it would be to know, as a kid, that your "parents" had that option--and that several sets of parents had exercised that option. Can you imagine? Now that Kevin and I are in the position to choose that option, I just can't see doing that--no matter how easy our life was just last week! Ignoring the mental anguish such a choice would cause, I can't imagine going through the physical motions of "sending him back." We'd have to dial the social workers, tell them, pack Anthony's few and pathetic items, tell Anthony . . . ugh. And we'd probably be out of the adoption game for good.

4. I will continue to write about our experiences and include detailed information about Anthony's progress. Our situation is far from unique but still of interest and, hopefully, of help to those experiencing the same thing or at least curious about what it's like. Plus, it helps me to vent, to remember and later turn our experiences into a book that will make us fabulously wealthy, and to get objective feedback that really does help. So thanks, dear reader!

Inspiration!

Disturbingly, it's true. Burb's blow-by-blow account of his super-normal, suburban-lifestyle evening has inspired me to write my own blow-by-blow account of the disintegration of my own homelife.

Let's see . . . I left the office around 4:30, surprisingly reluctantly. I drove a few miles down the road, picked up Stevie at his secured day care, and drove to the bank to cash one of my own checks so I could buy things with paper money as opposed to smaller and smaller coins. Then we bopped to McDonald's (right next to the bank--which is very close to the day care--such a thoughtful and convenient suburban service road!) and got two ice cream cones. Then we started the long commute home.

On the way, I alternated listening to NPR and answering Stevie's lingering questions about a book we had read two nights before. The book was about the Nashua River in Massachusetts and briefly rehashed the white settler takeover of Native American lands, thus resulting in the Indians "losing" that "battle". Stevie asked, "Why did the Indians lose?" I attempted to explain the two main reasons--guns and disease--which meant trying to explain the basics of bacteria and their transmittal from one human group to another and, after another question ("Why couldn't the Indians' bodies handle the settlers' bugs?"), trying to explain the dynamics of the spread of airborne pathogens among groups of isolated people and the devastating effects those pathogens have on people who haven't built up immunity. This is tougher than it sounds.

Once home, Stevie and I dodged the chicken poop and made it safely into the house only to find two sweaty shirtless guys rifling through our extensive CD collection. OK, it was Kevin and Anthony. One of the guys (Kevin) was visibly miffed. Uh oh. It seems as if, sometime in the near past, Anthony had randomly unloaded many CDs from their cases and placed them in "his"--read "our"--portable CD carrier. When told by me a few days ago to put the CDs back in their cases, he apparently made an attempt but, after not being able to find the corresponding cases for a large handful of CDs, decided the best course of action was to throw the (large handful of) caseless CDs under the rec room sofa. When Kevin, a few empty CD cases in hand, later asked as to the whereabouts of the CDs, Anthony went downstairs to procure them. Kevin, spying, uncovered the grisly truth when he crept downstairs and found Anthony on all fours, digging under the couch, and emerging with a large handful of caseless CDs.

At this point, I should pause to explain something about Kevin. Kevin can't stand when people leave CDs out of their cases or records out of their protective sleeves. I mean, he HATES it.

Back to the fun story! I sat on the steps, watching Kevin glare as Anthony tried to place the correct CD into the correct case. After he was done, Anthony and Stevie ran outside (good plan) so Anthony could show me the butterfly he caught for me (URGH! Has this kid heard NOTHING I've said about capturing bugs!?) and I asked Kevin how he was. I'll summarize his answer in the next paragraph.

Not good.

I, however, was feeling remarkably ready to deal with Anthony and was pleased to be able to give Kevin a break from said child. Kevin retreated to his workshop, eventually taking the recycling all the way to My Hometown, thus lengthening his time alone in his truck.

It's now about 6 o'clock. While Stevie played swords and god-knows-what-else in the back yard, I sat Anthony down at the kitchen table and attempted to teach him some geography. What this kid doesn't know about basic geography would fill a thousand geography texts. I started by having him draw a "concept map" of the U.S., which involves drawing the outline of the U.S. and trying to draw in as many states as you can remember in roughly the correct area, all without looking at a map. It's fun! Try it! How'd you do? I would bet a billion dollars (even if I had it) that you did better than Anthony.

Anthony's mental map of the U.S. was shockingly square, with a few lumps and bumps, and a total of 7 misplaced states . . . out of 7. He decided that square versions of NC and SC resided in the Southwest, and that GA was FL and FL was ND. CA was not too far off--it looked a lot like OR (perhaps a reference to the large amount of human migration from CA to OR?). OH was roughly where VA should be--I never knew we had an Atlantic coast! Finally, MA was much larger than the colonists had planned and had moved much further west, comprising the Northwest corner of the United States. This kid grew up looking at Kentucky across the river and forgot Kentucky!

OK! Discouraging! We plugged on. I had him look at a large, clear map of the states and locate the actual location and shape of the seven states he had remembered. Then I had him draw an outline of the U.S. with the map as a guide and draw in those same 7 states in their correct location and more-or-less correct configuration. God, I'm a good teacher. Of course, the reason for this entire exercise had to be explained no less than FOUR times, and was accompanied by a great deal of whining and high-pitched wails.

It was now about 6:30, and I made the mistake of telling him that we had another hour of this--which included dinner!--then he was off to shower, then to bed. Tears. Shouts of "It's not fair!" while pointing to Stevie cavorting outside. We moved on to continents. Anthony had no idea what a continent was, and seemingly had never even heard the NAMES of the continents, let alone their locations. I wrote the names of the scant 7 continents on scraps of paper and had him place them on the simple and clear continent map until, finally, all seven were correct, which only took 5-6 reconfigurations.

Globey to the rescue. "Globey" is our electronic globe. It's totally cool. There's a timed game wherein Globey yells out the name of a location and you locate it with one of those weird pens. You can start with basics like "Continents and Oceans" and move up to "Country Capitals for Globe Trotters" which is even too hard for me, and I'm some sort of freaky geography wizard. (Think you're tough? Can YOU find Bangui? Under pressure??) Anthony loved Globey, and improved over the course of two games of "Continents and Oceans". Still, it became apparent that our mini-goal of learning the 7 continents and 4 oceans is not-so-mini. (Quick update! This morning I asked him to locate North America. Unless we're now part of the Asian landmass, he was wrong. He reverted to guessing, and I went to work.)

While working with continents, I heated some pre-cooked pasta and fresh-from-the-jar sauce and slightly burned the garlic bread (one of life's seeming inevitabilities). Kevin returned from recycling respite. We ate. Anthony showered, flooding the bathroom floor at the same time. Trying to clear the tub of soap bubbles after his shower, I loudly complained about the achingly slow drainage time. Kevin quietly cleaned a large wad of dark brown hair out of the drain. Implicated! Damn raven-haired beauty! He then filled the tub for Stevie's bubble bath.

With both boys cleaned up and dressed for bed, I arranged some pillows on their bedroom floor for storytime to avoid the complaints that we always laid on Stevie's bunk because, as adults, it's no fun to crawl up to top bunks. I read them a book about Ms. Frizzle's Adventures in Ancient Egypt and endured the near-constant fidgeting of Anthony as he tried to cuddle himself into my torso.

Blissfully, the early bedtime worked. Both boys crawled into bed and looked at books and listened to music until they finally drifted off to sleep. Kevin went in to say goodnight and I could feel the dischord coming and so I yelled from the living room "Get out of there before something bad happens!" meaning arguing and whining and so forth. Kevin heeded my word.

As I flipped through the latest issue of my favorite quilting magazine (thankful for small favors), Kevin finished canoodling with the bathroom vanity. We moved it in from the workshop, and I only scraped my leg twice! Then we brought in the granite countertop. It looks gorgeous. My husband is so manly.

I went to bed with my quilting magazine, Stevie came in and "relaxed for awhile" until I turned off the light (and he padded back to his room), and Kevin continued to hook up the plumbing for the bathroom sink. I fell asleep before he was done, thus missing out on my luck once again.

Jealous?

I Grow Weary

Ugh. I don't even want to write this today, but a little writing perspective might be helpful.

Anthony has been doing pretty well--better than we expected, I guess. We experienced a mental shift once he actually moved in (last Friday). Now that he's here, there's no conceivable turning back so we have to deal with the situation before us. We've made a commitment. And, once again, kids are not troublesome puppies--there's no taking them to the pound when they chew your favorite shoe.

But this morning, I'm over it. He's tired of being corrected, which means that everytime we make a suggestion or say anything, he immediately responds with one of those high pitched, ultra-defensive "BUT I didn't blah, blah, blah!!!"

Example: He has a bad habit of moving electronics--TVs, radios, DVD players, etc. It bugs me. Every un- and re-plug and move means one more chance of breakage. Also, this compulsive moving is a visible reminder of his spasticity, as I'll call it. Last night I brought the little TV/VCR up to the kitchen so I could watch "Almost Famous" (fabulous movie--should be a classic) for the 17th time while I made Anthony's quilt. This morning, Kevin told Anthony to take it back downstairs. Knowing this, I went downstairs to tell Anthony to put it in one place--of his choosing--and leave it be. As soon as I started telling him this, he countered with a high-pitched, ultra-defensive "But Dad told me to bring it down here!!! I was going to put it on the shelf but Dad said it was too narrow!!! Blah! Blah! Blah!!!"

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

Those of you who have known me for a long time (I'm lookin' at you, ma) know that I have a tendency to, shall we say, erupt. Mostly, this is a historical tendency, but it occasionally wells up and blows, even in this modern era.

It didn't this morning, but I would be lying if I said that I didn't want to grab hold of this kid and start wailing on his little butt. Especially after I let him and Stevie sleep in my bed last night (Kevin crashed downstairs) because they were afraid of the storm and he ended up peeing in it--despite me waking him up in the middle of the night to go and, when I heard nothing from the bathroom, asking him if he already wet the bed and hearing "no" as his lying reply. This after he swung immediately from happy to sulky earlier in the evening because he agreed to pick a bedtime book for the next night and let Stevie pick the book for that night and then changed his mind and was told sorry--that wouldn't fly. Which meant that Stevie was crying because he didn't get to hear his story (through no fault of his own) because we weren't going to go as far as take Stevie elsewhere to hear a story, leaving Anthony behind. Which quickly descended into "Why don't you just give me up, if you don't like me . . . if I'm always the bad one . . ." etc.

We got him through that, reassuring him that he was here to stay. And then both boys came to my bed and heard a story and cuddled up against the storm. And then, this morning, all things reverted to lies and arguing.

I have such a headache this morning. Must be all the second thoughts rumbling around in there. Or maybe it's the constant change of season in our household.

Today's Exciting Recap! AKA Worst. Post. Ever!

Much to Burb's counter-envious delight, the guessing of little Mark's middle name ended up under an email string entitled "Everyone's favorite dead baby shark in fermeldahyde". It's actually "formaldehyde", but I have the knowledge that comes from working in the funeral business for a whole year, so I can forgive . . . but I'll never forget.

The following are the lowlights from this stupido conversation and THE REVEAL.

By the way, you can check out Burb's chain o' spite at www.whywontyougrow.blogspot.com.

Lulu: Your guesses have been amusing and, at times, very good (Thelonius), but you are all wrong so far. And, come on, spec—“Mark TED Mc”? That’s a pretty clompy name.

Spec: I was going for the “person I know and love and is part of the family already” connection.

Lulu: Huge Hint: Think of the arts.

Spec: T n’ A That’s art, isn’t it?

Gamgee: Tiberius – after James T. Kirk….

Gamgee, persistently: Thomas for Thomas Jefferson. He was artisy, wasn’t he? Designing his house and all……….

Lulu: Sorry. No. TJ certainly had talent, but there is no ambiguity as to the talent possessed by this particular person. Aww, I just gave it away. . . .

Raisinette: I feel like a total idiot for having no idea- the only ambiguous person in the arts I can think of is David Bowie. But it’s not Mark “Ziggy” Mc. More hints!

Gamgee--again!: Tyler!! For Steven Tyler! Can’t miss his talent!

MC: Tecumseh

Lulu: MC . . . outdoor dramas aren’t art, silly!

MC: Well, in my family they are!! I probably shouldn’t talk since my family also believes that David Hasselhoff should run for president…

Burb: I love that this discussion quickly shifted from her blog comments (Thanks Spec!) to Outlook. That way, her hit count didn’t move much! (Booyah!) And seriously, Lulu, congratulations and everything. I’m sure he’ll be the most celebrated Mark in your entire county!

BH: Twain? Tolstoy?

BH, after further urging: Haha, Mark Twain Mc. I just realized that. I should think things through before I say/type them.

Lulu: Yes, you should, ADD girl. Despite that, YOU ARE THE WINNER!!! You have just won 19 fabulous chickens! You can pick them up at my place this weekend, dead or alive. Your choice!

BH: Can I have them undead?

"Can I have them undead?" Curious words from a curious, sushi-lovin', dog-totin', graphic skirt-wearin', fun-lovin' bangs-sportin' gal.

And that's the moral of today's string. Good day.

A Flock of Boys; A Chicken Flock on the Verge of Death: A Blog in Two Acts

ACT 1:
Well, it's official. It's A BOY! I am so sure that everyone who so wished for a girl, bought little girl outfits, and daydreamed of playing Barbies with a little girl jinxed us.

Not really. Honestly, though we would've chosen a girl if given the chance, a boy is just as exciting! When you know the sex beforehand, the baby takes on more of an identity, it seems; we can assign a name, buy some clothes and nursery stuff, and greatly anticipate meeting him. Will he be anything like Stevie? Will he look like me? Or Kevin? Will he just love being the adored plaything/lab rat of two rambunctious older brothers?

Stevie was overjoyed at the prospect of being part of a trio of brothers. Now he'll be a big AND a little brother! When Kevin told him the sex, he literally jumped for joy. (Hey . . . what's he got against girls???)

And, of course, I was happy he was a boy because 1. I like boys and 2. I now have the perfect excuse to adopt a girl. Or two. And I will stand for no guff!

So . . . without further ado . . . please welcome . . . Mark T. McClary! Let's see if you brainiacs can figure out what the "T" stands for!

ACT 2:
And now for something totally unrelated . . . . Our chickens are out of control. We have 26, they have the run of the place, and there is chicken crap everywhere. If we don't hose off the porches daily, well, it's gross. So, today, I threw a fit in the driveway and loudly and petulantly demanded "Death!" Marriage is funny: Kevin has been itchin' like a backwoods no-gooder to kill a chicken and savor it's yummy organic goodness, but I have been stupidly sentimental and refused to let him rampage. However, for the past couple of months, I have been practically begging him to kill a few so I wouldn't have to endure the sight of their excrement during my tender belly time. And he hasn't! What's with this insubordination? Anyway, after this latest fit, he said, "Tell me how many you want when you get home from work today." I asked, "You mean, how many chickens do I want alive at the end of the day?" "Yes" was his reply.

Butchering several chickens is an all-day thing. (See a long-ago post for details.) And I knew he wasn't going to spend this day butchering chickens. He was fixin' to just kill some! So I told him I'd think about it.

You see, we now have FIVE hens who do nothing all day but sit on sand-filled plastic Easter eggs and get all bite-y when we go to collect the eggs that OTHER chickens laid that they have jumped on and kept warm for us (a bad thing). These are eggs that will never hatch, but these chickens are too dumb or desperate to become the stereotypical "mother hens" with their fluffy flock following them around the barnyard that they refuse to acknowledge this fact of unfertilized nature. They do nothing but give us attitude and eat feed they don't deserve. They need to die. BUT, three of them are bantams (mini chickens) meaning that they have about 2 T. of meat on them and are hardly worth butchering. These are the ones that Kevin wants to just kill and toss into the woods. BUT, they're really cute, too! The other two are Ameraucanas, which are the ones who lay the cool green and blue eggs. BUT, they're not laying eggs; they're just sitting there, brooding. A brooding chicken is a lot like a brooding human--a useless and annoying pain-in-the-ass that needs a neck-wringing.

The other useless chickens--six of them--include a bunch of feather-foot bantams--mostly roosters--that technically belong to my nephews. There are two problems with this. One, my brother hasn't built a contraption at his place to house them. Two, my nephews live in Mississippi. I'm going to call my brother today and try to convince him to lie to his children about an incident involving a tragic meeting of useless, unbutcherable, bantam roosters and a rabid pack of wolverines.

So that would get rid of about 9 chickens. Right now, I only want 6-8 total. We have some lovely big chickens who DO lay eggs. However, a few of them have made the dread discovery that they can bust open their own eggs with their killer beaks and eat the delicious goo inside. Once a flock has discovered that they can create their own food, they become predators competing with vastly superior humans for food. Since Kevin and I can't follow them around all day, snatching eggs from their downy-bottoms as soon as they are laid, we must assert our human right and kill those chickens. And you can EAT those chickens.

If you would like to save a chicken or two from the inevitable bloodbath that will commence at our once peaceful farm this weekend, let me know. Otherwise, we're culling the flock--with a few exceptions, including my beloved "Gabby"--and eatin' good.

Broke.

How is it that I bring home 33% more than I did before The Promotion, Kevin is nearly matching what he made at his "real" job, and yet we're broke all the time?

We spent about $600 on a bunkbed and bedding for Stevie and Anthony. That was a big chunk, but a rare chunk. I spend $3-4 on lunch per day, but it's my biggest meal of the day and we don't go to the store very often. Kevin, who used to spend $25-30 a week on lunch, now hardly ever eats lunch on the road. We spent about $100 on aquariums for the boys (birthday and welcome gifts), but otherwise have spent virtually nothing on big ticket items. We have no furniture except for what we've received from others (besides the bunkbeds), and no flat-screen TVs. Even our lawnmower is a hand-me-down. Hell, my car is a hand-me-down.

What gives?!

Our credit cards are right back up there because we've had to use them for basic items. I need to go to the store tonight and find that I have about $62.00 in my bank account.

Of course, a 2-minute reality check (s'funny how things run out of your mind. Important things.) just turned up this total: $2,523.00. That's just five bills--mortgage, day care, land payment, truck payment, and student loan payment, in declining order. That does NOT include electricity, phone, garbage, GAS, food, laundry detergent, clothing, library fees, flytraps, film developing (rare), and freaking credit card payments. That brings the total to roughly
$6,783.27 per month, which is why I'm paying for lunch with the contents of Stevie's penny bank. Seriously. I'll pay him back. Don't worry.

But still I don't get it. Are we in the depression that comes after buying a house but before the wealth (inevitable wealth, right?) begins to acquire? Before we get the tax benefits? Before the ol' 401K starts crankin' (inevitable wealth, right?!)? Before I get my, hopefully, huge bonus? How long does said depression last?

Or is this what it means to be middle class in America today? Do people actually do this forever? That is, living paycheck-to-paycheck to have a nice house, drive a nice car, pay for these omnipresent bills, and maintain health insurance, all the while feeling a might bit trapped and a big bit nervous about losing, in our case, The Job that allows for all of this?

It was a beautiful weekend. Kev, Stevie and I hung around the house, working and playing. We never left, and only received 2 phone calls (bliss!). Our house is very pretty, and our yard is wonderful. But when I look at it, I am conflicted. At one moment, I see a REALLY nice home that, with some shuffling here and a push there, will meet our needs for a long time. I see a place perfectly capable of handling a large party of BBQers. I see a front porch with flowers spilling out of big barrels, beckoning you to come and swing awhile, dryly take in a summer storm, or watch the neighbors across the field shoot off fireworks (no less than 5 displays this year!). I feel the breeze through open windows and hear it carry the babylike cries of Fency the Peacock.

At other times, I see a $1000+ a month albatross, and feel the load of five years of doing a job I don't love--not even close--to, hopefully, acquire the funds needed to live in a way that requires only a couple of earths as opposed to seven (yes, seven. More, even, than Burb.). A way that means no commuting, no leaving the house, and no regrets about how I spent my day.

It's Official! NOTHING is Sacred!

So, I'm reading The Education of Little Tree, which is presented as the autobiography of it's author (duh), Forrest Carter.

Turns out it's all a lie.

I was just informed of this by a coworker who doesn't have a clever blog nickname (care to share, anyone? Her first name begins with a "V"). A quick google search turned up this article:
http://www.nativeweb.org/pages/legal/carter.html

It's still a good book. And current editions are largely free of the slimy layer of deception.

And I must say that I disagree with the assertions of some of the scholars who say that Carter's white supremicist views are "thinly veiled" in his depiction of his made-up Native American ancestors. Call me dense and unawares, but I haven't felt any sudden surges of White Pride! as I've read. Until V told me the truth about the author, I had come across no reason to doubt the authenticity of the core of the story (details, though, are always iffy when trying to recollect what happened when one was five).

The criticism extends to Carter's stereotypical depiction of Native Americans as 'one with the earth.' One scholar states: "Little Tree, the half-Cherokee child of the mountains, is mystically attuned to his environment. The naive American reader accepts this, because it seems true to liberal stereotypes about man's primary connection to Nature . . . as well as to the belief that Native Americans were the first environmentalists . . . . By playing with the reader's sentimental prejudices, Carter's mythologizing of the Cherokee people renders an important Native American heritage just another stereotype in a long string of stereotypes" (45).

Am I completely ignorant of and full of sentimental prejudice for Native Americans? Historically, were they not fairly well attuned to the natural world? Didn't they build religions around the doin's of the earth and their connection to it? Wasn't it Native Americans who had no concept of "wilderness" as defined by whites (the untamed places where the devil roamed)? If he was categorizing all Native Americans as children of nature because Little Tree is the main character, that wasn't the impression this naive American reader was getting. Is there something wrong with depicting a five-year old kid who grew up in the lap of nature as "mystically attuned?" Lots of five-year olds are--hell, if I didn't know better, I'd think they were on a non-stop 'shrooming binge!

Little Tree's granma tells him that he is a sibling to the trees, the rocks, the water, the wind, and that he will never be truly lonely even after his loved ones die (he is an orphan). What's the difference between that and telling a kid that God will always look after her and she will never be lonely if she walks with Jesus? To me, they are both a comfort. (Though I very much prefer the former type.) Furthermore, there is little talk of Native American spirituality--they go to a Baptist church every Sunday. There is talk of "the Cherokee way", which comes across as an instilling in Little Tree of pride for his ancestry and not as a gross stereotype of all Native Americans.

Anyways, it's a bummer that the story is a lie depicted as truth, and that Mr. Carter was, in reality, a hateful segregationist jerk. Still, the supposed hidden racist agenda is completely lost on me. Perhaps the scholars have a point--why would a former KKK-member write a book that lovingly depicts one particular Native American family without having a sneaky agenda to undermine all Native Americans?--but the point is irrevelent if 99.999% of the readers in the last 3 decades have completely missed it. Somehow, someway, there's a lot of good in that book.

Fascists: The Source of My Irritation

After talking with Mr. Golly a few minutes ago, I realized one of the reasons why today's news irritated me even more than usual, and why I should have spent the commute listening to Bob and Tom.

He gave me a book to read. It's called The Education of Little Tree. It's a great book. It's an autobiography of a Cherokee boy who was raised from the age of 5 by his Cherokee grandparents. His grandparents were among the few Cherokee who managed to stay in the Appalachians. The time period is around 1930.

Though it appears to be a "My grandpa taught me how to fish" sort of story, and that is a lot of it, it also has currents of the prejudice, poverty, corruption, and injustice of the time. Of all times, unfortunately. The chapter I read before going to bed last night was a recollection of a piece of the grandpa's childhood. He hid in the woods and watched a down-and-out Confederate family (in 1867) get help from two Union soldiers in planting their little valley in corn and apple trees. The grandfather would help the family by catching fish and leaving them in trees on the edge of the yard. In other words, it was a story of people from all "sides" coming together, helping one another. Everything was going well until apparent ancestors of George W. and Cheney--the Regulators--came to the farm, killed the men, and uprooted the apple trees. They weren't profitable, don't you know. But the land was. Soon, a rich guy owned the land and sharecroppers did all the work.

Then I got up, turned on NPR, and heard the story all over again.

Woody Guthrie said "You fascists, you're bound to lose." Mr. we could use a man like Woody Guthrie again.

Word Jumble

Does anyone else out there think that our president is evil and is dragging our country through the mud? I do.

Neocons and other idiots like to spin the story that liberals hate their country. That's a bunch of bunk. I'm a total liberal, and I love my country. I just hate the president and his evil administration. Those guys are poison. I try to find the good in most people, but I have failed with them as all I can see is unabashed greed--no matter what the cost--with a big American flag waving in front of it. (Al Franken says that neocon-types love their country like a 4-year old loves her mommy--she never does anything wrong and saying something bad about her is not O.K. Real patriots love their country like adults in mature relationships--willing to admit that things aren't always great, but always striving to correct problems, apologize for past wrongdoing, and move on to better things.)

Today the big news is the bombings in London, and al Qaeda is taking "credit." Good for them! What a wonderful thing to take credit for! (I'm kidding.) Neocons will also say that liberals blame their country first and apologize for the terrorists who hate us because of all of our many freedoms. I'm not apologizing for the terrorists--they're murderous asshole psychopaths who need to die in creative ways. But I can't let our leaders off scot-free: despite their pathetic soundbites, it's their (our) actions in the world--their hideously greedy and heartless actions, their flaunting of wealth and total disregard for others, their irresponsibility for wrongdoing coupled with the conceit of being the "beacon of hope"--that breed this hatred. I'm not about to blow up innocent people, but I feel the hatred, too. It sucks.

In fact, I am so disgusted with this current administration that the thought crossed my mind--as it briefly did on September 11--that they were responsible for this bombing. Maybe not directly, but they allowed it to happen. As for the latter, what a perfect excuse for waging a war and securing a bunch of oil after 8 years of peace! And as for today's events, what a great way to get Tony Blair to leave the G8 summit before the world press gets to hear him argue for an agenda that included reaching an agreement with the U.S. over global warming, increasing our aid for African and other countries, and other things that would, according to Bush, 'put too much stress on the American economy.'

Kevin woke me this morning at the usual 6:15. The windows were open, a cool breeze was blowing over me, and I was perfectly comfy and cozy in my crisp white sheets and light down comforter. Stevie was sleeping beside me, snuggled in a fuzzy red blankie, looking like a perfect little angel. I didn't get out of bed until 7:15.

I should have stayed.

Shaky

Anthony. Let me tell you a bit about Anthony. I have said very little to this point because 1. we have only been with him 6 times and 2. I am rather confused about how I feel about this whole thing, which makes for long, rambling posts.

This past weekend was the first time Anthony came to our house, as opposed to us going to his hometown for a weekend of expensive "Kids First!" type activities. In other words, it was a much more typical portrait of what our lives are like, despite Stevie's birthday and the big cookout in his honor.

Right now, I am feeling that we have begun the worst part of the journey, and both Kev and I are wondering just why in the hell we're doing this and hoping that we didn't do something really stupid. I know this attitude differs from my previous ebullience, and that's one reason I haven't blogged about it. First of all, I haven't had much time to blog. Secondly, it's not embarrassing, but it is somehow uncomfortable to share such an important change-of-heart with the blogging universe-at-large.

'What's so bad?' you ask. Imagine that you have made a commitment that is certainly on-par with marriage or having a baby, only much more public and involved and even serious because you have convinced social workers to trust you with a child AND told a 10-year old child who has had a fairly crappy life that he has a family now and that family is you.

Now imagine that this child has come to your house 2 weeks before permanently moving in with you and displays nearly every obnoxious characteristic displayable by a child. Not the freaky stuff, mind you. No, these are the characteristics that people talk about when they say "I hate kids." Stuff like disrespectful attitudes and arguing, extreme whininess and mood swings, doing stupid things because they don't think through a situation, being mean and stealing from happy-go-lucky littler kids, being sneaky and manipulative, obviously favoring one parent over the other, being completely ungrateful (and treating you like a walking moneybag), and being a skinny white kid who talks like a ghetto rapper. "DAAAAAAAAANG! Is that where you be at, Lulu?" Yes, that's where I be at.

Now, imagine that everyone is watching you and asking questions, many questions, as this child moves into your life and you try to bond with and love this child as you love your delightful-walk-in-the-park biological child. And imagine wondering--despite a lifetime of wanting to adopt and over 2 years of pain-in-the-butt hoop-jumping to do so--if you will be able to bond with and love this child in that way. And imagine being the "bad" parent and trying to bond with and love an obnoxious child that doesn't seem to like you very much!

You know, my Zen-master social worker has often said "Things happen for a reason. If you don't get a child, you weren't meant to have that child, and the other way around." I have to have faith--yes, faith--that "it" will happen, and everything will be all right. But I would be lying to you, gentle reader, if I said that I wasn't wondering what would have happened if we had adopted the little girl that I wanted (but that Kevin was hesitant about), or any other child from the state, or a little Chinese girl, or opted out of adoption altogether.

Oh, who am I kidding? Though pregnant now, who knows what will happen? And I don't want to have any more biological children. And I want at least 3 children! And I can't let a disconcerting weekend or two rattle my resolve to adopt, and to adopt this child, in such a major way. (Or can I? See? Confused!)

The thing is, it's really too late now. I couldn't say "Eh, we're calling it off." First of all, I know that we've only just begun, and I would be a sucka to not give this more time. Secondly, we've already made the commitment--to Anthony, to his foster mom of 2.5 years, to a whole team of social workers, but most of all to Anthony--who went through a broken placement just last summer.

Perhaps it's the inevitability of it that is giving me such anxiety. That, and the radio incident. You see, he was hauling around one of two radios all weekend. Last night while Stevie was in the tub, he took a radio in the bathroom and plugged it in for Stevie's listening pleasure. It was far away from the tub, but it startled me. I started thinking, "This kid does stupid and impulsive things. What if one of these things hurts or even kills Stevie? Or the baby? Or himself?" And, I must admit, it was mostly Stevie that I was concerned about.

When I asked him if he knew about the dangers of bathtubs and electrical appliances, he gave me a sigh-heavy, mom-weary, "Yeeeeess, mom!" ("Duh!" unspoken, but implied.) "I'm just checking," I said. "It's going to take awhile for us to get to know each other, and I needed to make sure you knew that."

Another hour later (this was all last night), he whined because he wasn't receiving any money for the chores he had offered to do (and had done), and was completely ungrateful of all the presents and clothing he had received from us and various relatives. This pissed me off, and we ended the weekend on a very low note. And then I went to bed and felt like a shit. I lost my cool (relatively). I wasn't being patient enough. I need to remember that he is a kid, a troubled kid, and that this must be very hard on him--harder, even, than on us.

And after talking to various tolerant people today (and to my amazing husband last night) and blogging this just now, I feel better, but not great. We have 10 days before he moves in, and 8 years to navigate before we set him loose in the world. All I can say now is "yikes".