call him son

This past weekend, my brother met his birth mother for the first time. I have three siblings; two older; a brother and sister and a younger sister. My older brother and sister were both adopted at birth. It's never seemed like a strange thing to myself, it's just how our family was put together. We all blend quiet naturally and people have never suspected that one or another didn't come from the same mother and father. We look similar, we've taken on traits of one another, we are family.

I've never grown up on the side of adoption though, I haven't been asked what my family medical history is and not really know, I haven't looked at my dark brown hair and question where it came from. It's always just made sense.

But to me, it's never made sense to worry about that either. Why was it something to bother over, something to fixate on? Why do my siblings care who their birth parents were/are when they have great parents right now?

I didn't get it. Honestly, I don't think I can ever really 'get it'.

But it's just been an amazing story, a simple call and there she was. To have my brother move, by the grace of God, down South. Unknown at the time of his move, he is now about a 1 hour drive away from his birth mother. He has found out that he has three half-sisters.

Just like the three sisters he already has.

This isn't really my story to share, just to say that I understand more when people talk about their roots, where they come from, knowing who made them who they are today.

Today, I'm so grateful for this woman whom I have never met that can look at my brother and call him 'son' because it means he knows.

He just knows.

I'm screwed

I stood there in the bathroom tonight, hairdryer in one hand and Wyatt's underwear in the other. I looked in the mirror, 'who the heck am I? why in the world have I decided that blow drying Wyatt's underwear dry from the tiny bit of pee he had on them make more sense than forcing him to just put them back on?'

I use to be the strong one, the one who could let them cry it out, didn't give them a choice of what to eat for breakfast, didn't take 'no' without a timeout, and here I am blow drying his underwear so he would put them back on and I wouldn't have to do another load of laundry full of McQueen underwear.

I must be getting tired.

And old.

I find his socks on top of the vents left to dry after stepping on a wet spot on the floor of the entry way. I find his underwear near the toilet after going to the bathroom (and it's not that he misses, he just gets that little 'advanced warning pee' that he needs to go and that makes him freak out). He pulls off his shirt if he spills milk on it, his pants if water happens to drip on it.

His being half-naked can only be cute for so long, right?

And what do I do? I just pick them up and throw them in the laundry hamper.

Our lucky third child is going to have the run of the house.

I'm screwed.

fun with an Anonymous friend

I turned on my comment verification a couple of weeks ago. Sorry to anyone that gets really annoyed by typing in a few extra letters. It's annoying to me too, but honestly, I'm even more lazy when it comes to deleting Prozac comments in my posts, so something had to give in and it's you - typing in word verification.

I still get fun comments once and a while though. I thought I'd share one that I got with you this past week, with commentary from me (of course).

I know I've been slacking on the blog of late, but Anonymous went all the way back to November to comment on a post of mine, the one where I got a foaming hand soap dispenser for the kids.

From my anonymous friend:

Anon: "You realize foamy soap is mostly water, and just a special nozzle that suds it up upon dispensing?" (Me: I had no idea, when I added 2/3 water to my soap dispenser I thought it was actually making more soap!)

Anon: "So, they've found a way to charge you more for less. Or, rather, to charge you the same amount for giving you less product/ingredients on their part. It's pretty ridiculous if you think about it." (Me: It is ridiculous and to think, I *wasn't* thinking about the injustice of the soap to water ratio that I could have been charged, there should be some special CNN investigation on this.)

Anon: "And, making the soap sudsy isn't what kills germs, it's how long the soap is in contact with your skin. That's why doctors lather up for a good minute or two before washing off." (Me: I volunteer at a hospital and I have never witnessed any doctor scrub his/her hands for 2 minutes, in fact they will use hand sanitizer 10 times before actually washing their hands anymore - standard procedure - not that you wanted my opinion.)

Anon: "Pre-foamed soap gives people the impression they can skip 10 seconds of washing since they don't have to bother lathering up. So, if you think about it again, pre-foamed soap is actually quite self-defeating if it comes to washing your hands properly to kill germs." (Me: Do you even have kids? Seriously, if I can even get my preschooler to wash his hands under the sink for 2 seconds and not freak out that his shirt's sleeves are getting wet, then it's been a good day here!)

Anon: "Don't mean to be a Debbie Downer, but I'm just sayin... " (Me: No way, you *totally* don't seem like a Debbie Downer kind of a person at all.)

I'm just sayin...

WW- growing grass

Growing a little bit of grass makes me feel a lot better.

Spring is near, right?

(And I don't mean the kind of grass that you smoke, People! Geesh, I'm not that kind of an Anti-Supermom~)

Dearest Neighbor

Dearest Neighbor from across the street,

Can you believe that it's March 1st? Amazing isn't it! It feels like Spring is finally closer and the weather this weekend, mid-30's, how fabulous does that feel? (And any of you readers from Texas, do *not* make fun of 30 degrees, we Minnesotans have a skewed sense of 'warm' weather; we have to to survive it).

Perhaps you didn't know that it was March now though, I'm not really sure. The Christmas lights that you have hanging from your house might indicate that you might not.

Honestly, I feel like I've given you lots of leniency; telling myself that it's been cold, the lights aren't that bad after all they are just white icicle light and I even try to reminded myself how people get busy with kids, jobs, pets...

Then I remember that you are young and single, with two other adult roommates with (might I add) burly boyfriends, that you don't have kids' noses to wipe or dogs' poop to scoop up and that it was 30-something freakin' degrees this past weekend.

Adding insult to injury, you turn them on! You come home in the evening and for whatever reason, decide plugging your Christmas lights in makes perfect sense.

I'm begging you, pleading to you, please take them down soon. Don't drive me to eye twitches and random obscene hand gestures with your lights glowing through my picture window as I sit on my living room couch watching the twinkle push me closer and closer to the edge of sanity,

my kids already do a good enough job with that.

Sincerely,
Anti-Supermom

PS - please don't feel like I'm picking on you, I also have a letter written to our other neighbor who lets their dog out their front door and allows him to poop in our yard all. Winter. long.

double dipping

I have to admit I'm doing something I didn't think I would do, because the hippie, granola type girl gene pretty much skipped me, but I'm doing 'group' prenatal appointments. They like to call Centering Pregnancy.

My husband likes to joke that it's the future of universal health care, where women lie side by side, legs spread wide, as the midwife scoots down the line in her rolling chair, checking every one's cervix in 5 minutes flat.

Not really.

I chose Centering Pregnancy because it meets on Saturday mornings, meaning my husband doesn't have to take off any work nor do I have to take my children to OB appointments, which yes, I have had to do.

Turns out kids remember.

A few months after mine, at Henry's well check appointment, he breaks into sobs as the doctor tells him to get dressed into a gown because he was worried they were going to 'poke something in his butt'. So, I try to avoid having to take my kids to OB appointments. Lesson learned.

Honestly, I thought it would be cool to meet other pregnant women who are due around the same time for some monthly mommy talk. They also told me that there would be snacks in Centering Pregnancy and well, who can say no to snacks at any OB appointment that won't be tagged onto your medical bill?

Only the snacks were served in a clear plastic tote labeled 'Mini Pads'.

So, some of the things I enjoy about this group OB care thing are:

-I get to take my own blood pressure and weight, meaning I can cheat and write down something better than the 1lb. per week corresponding to the number of weeks I am, in my medical chart.
-The 'OB table' isn't a table at all, but a cot, in the corner of the room, where everyone can get the scoop on your lady business.
-I was going to be the most experienced pregnant person in the room with three deliveries under my belt, until I was shown up by the midwife assistant who has 6 kids and is a single mom, now I'm just a slacker.
-The clinic is remodeled from a former grocery store where they haven't yet taken off some of the sticker on the sliding glass doors, one of them saying 'we accept food stamps'.

Gosh, now that I know they accept food stamps for labor and delivery, I'm wondering if the hospital will also take coupons?

Double coupons, anyone?

make me smile

You entertained the dental assistant with your silly antics, taking off your shoes the moment Henry sits in the chair and we settle in across from him. You show her your puppy socks and ask her if 'she has any puppy socks?'. With her response, you tell her that 'she should get some puppy socks'.

You bubble over with the thrill of having tiny paper water cups at your disposal to fill up, over and over and over again.

She asks you 'how old you are' and you reply with your sweet, little voice 'tou an a haf'. You continue the conversation talking about how you first wanted a princess cake, then a 'Spon Bob' cake and how you have settled on a Spiderman cake (for the time being). You told her you have a birthday list and she smiles.

You are always making people smile. I admit, not always me, but you do make me smile. A lot.

When it came time to pick out a prize for doing so well, you scoured through the box filled with fuzzy rings, paper tablets, shiny coins and (OMGosh, please don't pick that) brand new pencils. You picked this:



A clown nose. Most fitting, for sure.