Dancing in the rain

Lora: Today was a great day!
Me: It was? Why?
Lora: We had Enrichment and just as I was going outside, it started to pour, out of nowhere!
Me: Why was that great?
Lora: Because I got to dance in the rain!
Me: :)

Social studies

A Facebook friend recently shared the sad tale of a probably well-intentioned father who earned his probably mortified daughter a great big F on her solar system science fair project by doing too much of it himself.

I can relate.

When I was in elementary school I, wanting to be a broadcaster in the days before cable television, 900 channels and 24-hour news, decided to do my mandatory project on radio. Cool subject. But I needed a model.

My stepfather stepped right in. He suggested I build a crystal radio set -- a "very simple" collection of wires and other things that allegedly creates a working radio. Or it did in the 1970s.

You see how much I can tell you about it. He, being one of those parents, did the whole thing, cigarette dangling from the corner of his clenched teeth. I just wrote the report.

 I remember it had a small piece of plywood and a coil of copper wires. I believe it was supposed to have actual crystals, but it did not. And when the judges asked me if it actually worked, I had to reply, "No."

Needless to say, I didn't win.

I was reminded of that incident recently when my own daughter was forced by her elementary school to enter the social studies fair. And I saw just how easy it is for a parent to get "caught up" in the project. It starts right away.

Offered a long list of potential subjects to research, I tried to steer my then 10-year-old fifth grader to a "good" one.

Naturally, the first I suggested was Adoption, she being adopted and all, and me having just published a little book on the subject.

No. she said.

OK. How about the Houma Indians, the unrecognized tribe our hometown is named for and of which she is, therefore, an unofficial member?

No. she said.

And no  amount of persuasion or suggesting would budge her one inch. She had no interest in any suggestion I might have. None. Nothing I said appealed to her. It never does. So I gave up.

And she, completely on her own, selected, "Home remedies."

Really? You sure? Ok.

Several weeks later, I was asked -- no, ordered -- to go buy her the three-sided board necessary to complete the project. Her dad, The Coach Teacher Guy, took care of that. He also bought her the necessary border thing and a little package of letters.

A few days later, I was told I must "help" prepare said board. We had to glue the borders on.

So we cleared off the dining room table and pulled out the glue sticks and threw away the ones that had hardened into rocks and, together, we glued on the swirly red borders -- her on one side and me on the other. And they were pretty straight.

Then her dad came in. He being the math whiz (and me definitely not), he got to help her glue on the letters. First, however, she had to decide exactly what her title would be.

She: "Home Remedies"

Me: "I think you need something a little more catchy. How about -"
She: "No. Home Remedies"
Me: "Lora. You need something catchy, something to grab their attention. How about 'Home Remedies: There's a cure for that."
She: "No. Home Remedies is good enough."
Me: "Dad."
He: "Mom's right."
She: "Ok. 'Home Remedies: There's a Cure.'"

Sigh.

Then, using a very complicated mathematical formula, he and she figured out the proper spacing for that oh-so-catchy title. I left them to it. When they finished, they were left with:

A little crooked but good enough.

Now if any of my daughter's teachers or any of the Social Studies Fair judges would like to know the extent of Lora's parents' participation in said project, that's it.

No really. That is all. She never asked us for another bit of help. A few days later I came home and she showed me the printed photos she had pasted to her boards.

And a few days after that she showed me her paper.

It wasn't great.

Let's just say that any reader in search of a few home remedies would be sorely lacking in advice, except that honey is good for a sore throat and tea bags are good for a canker sore and kerosene used to be used to get rid of head lice.


Me: "This needs a little work."
She: (Rolling her eyes). "It's fine."
Me: "It's a report on home remedies and you don't have hardly any remedies."
She:  "Yes I do."
Me:  (Really long pause) "All I'm saying is, you need a few more examples."
She: .... Foot stomp.

And my work was done.

Well, that's not exactly true.

On the day of the fair -- a day I had to be in the office early as I would be the only one there -- and as I puckered up to kiss her good-bye as she boarded the bus at 7:45 a.m., she informed me thusly:

She: "You need to bring me the stuff for my model at school."
Me: (Still puckered)."What?"
She: "You need to bring me the stuff for my model. I need tea bags, lemon and honey."
Me: "When?"
She: "This morning. I neeeeeeed it!"
Me: "Are you kidding me????"

Me -- after she's gone: Dammit Lora! There's no way. She needs to learn to organize and not spring these things on me at the last second... Let her fail... I have tea bags..... I don't have honey or lemons.... Good. Let her fail....
....
....
30 minutes later, I called the school secretary -- the oh-so-wonderful Mrs. Shelly:
Me:"What time is the Social Studies fair?"
She: "It starts at 9 and goes all day."
Me; "What time will they start judging? Lora needs tea bags and lemon and honey for her model, but I'm at work and I'm the only one here. I can't leave!"
She: "We'll take care of it."

And she did. They found her some tea bags in the teacher's lounge, and some honey in the cafeteria. She had to settle for a printed picture of a lemon.

It does take a village.

Needless to say, my beloved child did not win the Social Studies fair. Nor did she place or show.  (A wonderful young lady with an autistic brother won with her project entitled, "Unlocking the Mystery of Autism.")

But her dad and I didn't get an "F" either. And we can hold our heads high.

Proud mama

I did not write this.

My 11-year-old daughter did. She is in the 5th grade.

Believe it or not, she got a bad grade on this assignment.  It was supposed to be an expository piece (A type of writing where the purpose is to inform, describe, explain, or define the author's subject to the reader - Wikipedia). Instead, she wrote this:

I despise waking up. You have a great dream, BOOM! The school week hits you in the face -- Monday through Friday.

It’s like the soft white cloud above your head starts raining on you. How I woke up today? Don’t ask.

                “Riiiiiiiiiing!” screams my alarm clock. My heavy eyelids creak open. Awake? "Nooooo," I groan. Half asleep? Possibly. I hit my alarm clock as it falls. Crash! Broken? No. Indestructible forever? Of course.

                “Bite ‘er Lolleigh! Sic ‘er!” my mom commands jokingly. Never works. Lolleigh just licks my face lovingly. She

makes me feel better, even at 7 AM. Her soft white fur, a puffy cloud. I could fall asleep petting he-

                “C’mere Lolleigh!” my mom says.

I’m up. Shirt, shorts, socks, shoes. I walk to the bathroom. Hair, teeth, face, hands. Done. 

I trudge downstairs. Waffles and chocolate milk for breakfast.  That's the best food. Eggo waffles, Nesquik milk, and maple syrup. 

 My mom yells at Leigheaux for peeing on he chair. He's my rain cloud. Sigh.          

      Waking up is hard. Great dreams, Monday. Monday is a mighty monster slurping me up like I am a pasta noodle. Yuck.

Every word is true.

The calm before the storm.

She is the worst-waker-upper in the world, no matter what time she goes to bed. A grump.  A beast. She growls. She snarls. She doesn't bite (not so far anyway). She does stomp and slam things.

No matter how sweetly I attempt to wake her up.  No matter how many songs I sing or rhymes I make or tickles I give, she hates mornings.  She kind of hates me in the mornings.

Waffles and chocolate milk do kind of help, however. By the time she gets on the bus she's willing to kiss me with only a hint of a snarl. 

I hate mornings too.  Like me, she likes to write about it.


I still believe she is from Mars.

And I am a very proud Martian Mama. 

Dear Santa

I don't know if she still believes.

Just a few weeks ago, in our "cuddle" time before bed, she did ask.

"Mom," she said, very serious. "I need you to tell me the truth. There is a web site that says that our parents are really Santa."

So, I told her the truth: "If you don't believe, he doesn't come."

She took that in.

But whether she still believes or not -- or whether she's just humoring her old mom trying to keep her baby from growing up too fast --  she is a pretty amazing kid.

And a pretty damned good writer.

At last!

It's finally done. My dream has come true. I am a published author.

Adopting in America: The Diary of a Mom in Waiting is now available for 

Kindle, Nook, at CreateSpace and FINALLY,
at Amazon.com

Official launch party and book signing to come soon.

 Thank You, to all who believed this dream would come true 

and to those who made it happen.

Lo

The Talk

Ms. Darla has known my baby girl since the week she was born.

She and her husband, who used to be my husband's boss, were among the first in our community to welcome home the baby girl everyone had waited for and prayed for. Lora was just days old when they dropped by for a visit (bearing gifts!) and to see our new arrival.

It was with such joy and pride that I placed my baby girl in Ms. Darla's arms that day. She was genuinely happy for us.

Since then, Darla has watched my girl grow up.  Her daughters took care of her at the annual high school dance team camp and even babysat the night my stepson, Daniel, graduated. We also bumped into each other frequently, at the grocery store, various school functions, and, of course, at the baseball field where my husband coached her son.

A nurse by trade, Darla also just happened to be on shift in the Emergency Room the day I accidentally and horrifyingly closed the tailgate of my SUV on Lora's 3-year old hand. (I'm happy to report that Lora's still mushy bones suffered absolutely no injury. She wasn't even bruised.)

She also was on hand as the school nurse the day my baby girl started at the local elementary school. Most comforting to a very nervous mom.

In fact, it was Darla who came to our house to recheck Lora's hair after I spent hours picking the head lice and nits from her gloriously long and curly hair, and gave me great tips for treating them so they wouldn't come back (and they didn't!)

So it's only appropriate that I should bring Lora to Ms. Darla now.

My baby girl isn't a baby anymore.  She is a growing-fast-as-a-weed tween, standing on that oh-so-dangerous precipice known as puberty. It's hard to keep up.

She's Godzilla in the morning and Strawberry Shortcake at night. She eats everything that isn't nailed down. And she can outgrow a pair of pants before they get out of the laundry cycle.

She's already a half a head taller than all of her classmates. She's already outgrown all the children's sizes and has moved on to juniors. She already tries to wear my shoes. She has her own razor.

And, yes. She sorta smells.

She also doesn't listen to a word I say. 

But for the last few years, Ms. Darla, now the nursing supervisor for the entire district,  has taught a very special class for young girls, where she teaches them all about the changes their bodies are about to go through and why.  So, I signed Lora up.

And last night she, and about 15 other girls aged 10 and 11 -- and their very nervous mothers -- filled a classroom at the local high school to listen to Ms. Darla dispense her wisdom.

And it worked like magic.  With her sweet sing-song voice and her ever-so-patient ways, Ms. Darla managed to explain the wonders of puberty to a giggling gaggle of girls, explaining -- with video -- exactly what is going to happen to them, how and why, what they are supposed to do about it and how they should prepare.  And what it all means.

"Just breathe," she repeated over and over as we got to the "yuck" part of the video.  "It will be OK."

And they believed her.

Without eye rolls, sighs or stomping out of the room, my girl listened as Ms. Darla explained that she needs  to wash her face, she needs to take a shower every day (or almost every day), she needs to wear deodorant.

"These things are important," Ms. Darla said. And my girl didn't argue once.

She even gave them a lovely little lesson on love: The crush (a little blow-up balloon that fizzles out when you let go), young love (a heart-shaped helium balloon that can be popped), and real love (a beat up old basketball, still filled with air). 

At the end of the program, all of the girls left with a little bag of goodies -- a toothbrush, toothpaste, a very discrete little pad to tuck away in their schoolbag for "that day," and a little pink booklet explaining things in a little more detail.

And a cupcake (Ms. Darla also happens to be a fabulous baker as well!)

Us moms, meanwhile, left with a little peace of mind and a survey. Was the class helpful? Absolutely! Then: "What other classes would you like to see offered at Community Education?" it asked.

While one mom asked if there was a similar class for boys (not yet), I had only one suggestion:

How about a class on "How to listen to your mother?"

Mom

Lora

        

*Original art by Lora.

I've linked up with other fabulous bloggers at LoveLinks.com. You can link up too!

Flashmobbed

*Disclaimer: This story DID NOT  really happen. All characters are fictional.. Everyone knows my 10-year-old daughter would NEVER act like this in real life. 

I've never seen anything like it.

Here we were, my mom and I and one of my daughter's friends, sitting at the dining table, enjoying some nice boiled Louisiana crabs on a Friday afternoon.  My favorite. Mom's treat. Even better!

We had no idea what was coming.  But come it did.

It was a flashmob. A crying, screaming, pouting, huffing, puffing, foot-stomping, door-slamming, You-Don't-Care-About-Me flashmob. Of one, ONE, 10-year old girl, obviously in the throes of a hormonal melt-down. Or something.

Forget the Terrrible Twos. This is the Terrorizing Tweens. Lord help me.

I guess I should have seen it coming.  We know she grew up fast. A lot faster than most of her peers. She may be 10 but she looks 12. She's already nearly as tall as me. She's already wearing my shoes and trying to steal my clothes. And she does have a tendency to be a drama queen at times (can you say melodramatic?)

But this ... ?

I still don't know what happened. Or why...

All I know is, one minute I was helping my daughter's friend peel a crab and find the good stuff, and the next my daughter was throwing herself on the sofa and screaming at me. Something about being too nice to her friend and not nice enough to her.

But she doesn't even like crabs!

OK. Full disclosure?  I did kind of egg her on a bit. After she stomped across the hardwood floor, rattling the china in the cabinet and making the dogs run for cover, she stormed into the bedroom. I yelled after her.

"Hey! Come back! You didn't slam the door! Everybody knows you have to slam the door. It works soooo much better when you slam the door. Do you want a do-over?"

"NOOOOOOOO!" she screamed back.

A few minutes later she stomped back into the room, rattling the china again.

"Are you enjoying your dinner with your new daughter?" she screamed at me.

Mom and I exchanged a wide-eyed stare. Then burst into laughter.

"Been there, done that," she said to me, cracking a claw for emphasis. "I remember those days. Oh boy are you in for it!"

"Oh really," I said. "I wasn't that bad. Was I?"

"Oh," she replied, rolling her eyes heavenward. "You were terrible! You cried all the time. You were so emotional. Don't you remember?"

I had to admit, I did.  And I did try to run away from home a few times, but couldn't figure out how to take all my clothes with me.  And I wasn't allowed to go past the paint store a few houses down. Or cross the street.

"I remember," I said. "Sorry Mom. I love you."

"Well," she said. "Your sister was worse."

Lord help me.



Linking up with Erica and friends at LoveLinks.  Expand your bloggerizons.

I almost didn't cry

I didn't cry when I woke her up and remembered that today was the first day of fifth grade.

I didn't cry when she growled.

I didn't cry when she didn't want my help to get dressed.

Or comb her hair.

I didn't cry when she didn't want me to fix her breakfast.

And I didn't cry when she didn't see the fun message I wrote for her on the bathroom mirror.

Nor did I cry when she went out to the end of the driveway to wait for the bus and I stayed on the porch.

But when she ran back to give me a hug and a kiss just before the bus arrived, well, that's when I cried.

Bye Bye Baby

"Mom?" my 10 year-old daughter asked me today. "Do moms want their kids to cry when they bring them to school?"

Huh? I thought. What kind of question is that?

She was watching this Disney Channel show called "Good Luck Charlie." As Disney shows go, it's a pretty good one.  Cute kids, sharp writing, interesting characters and a really cute little girl named Charlie. (Plus they have this awesome house. Their refrigerator has been painted with chalk board paint so they can leave all kinds of messages on it. And I would kill for their turquoise living room sofa.)

I wasn't really paying that much attention to it. She was watching while I surfed the web nearby.

But then I heard her high pitched little voice say, "Aw," in that sing songy, "That was sooooo cute" tone. Then she hit me with that loaded question.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Watch." She rewound the DVR to show me a scene where the mom is bringing little Charlie to preschool. Mom, on the verge of hysteria, tells Charlie to be brave and that she'll be back really soon to pick her up, then she asks for a hug. Charlie, on the verge of leaving the nest and going off to college (even though she's only about 4), turns on her heel and runs into the classroom without a backward glance, leaving mom a withering mess in the hallway.

"Why is the mom sad," Lora asked. "Did she want her to cry?"

And I had to explain that the answer is Yes. And no.

"Well," I said. "When moms bring their little babies to school at first, we want them to be brave and have fun. But a little piece of us also wants you to miss us too. We want you to need us."

And that little vignette really hit home.

My baby girl is only 10 1/2. Not even close to being grown. But as far as she's concerned, my work as a mom is done.

She can comb her own hair (she thinks). She can set her own water for the shower. She can pick out her own clothes (um .. sort of).

She can put herself to bed.

She also can roll her eyes at me with perfection. 

Saturday afternoon as we relaxed in the pool on our vacation, I was surrounded by parents playing with their children. Mine swam away from me. Pretended she didn't know me. Left me. Alone.

Then when we stopped for a lunch break on our way home I waited by the door to help her get out of the third row seat of my SUV.

"You can go," she said, thoroughly exasperated. "I can do this."

Really? Am I really supposed to just walk away? What happened to my little girl?  Why doesn't she need me anymore.

I got my first reality check when I realized that I was only able to hold my daughter for about 3 1/2 years.  After that she was too heavy. Then she was too big.

I know some moms of my daughter's friends who still can pick up their petite little 10-year-olds. I can't. She's already almost as tall as me. She already has stolen several pairs of my shoes. I can still pick her up in the pool, but she won't let me.


Somehow I am trying to figure out how God gave me a husband who refuses to grow up and a child who grew up so fast I missed it.

That's just not fair.

While I can't hold over her head the whole "I carried you for nine months and went through 20 hours of labor," line like most moms do, I can (and do) tell her, "I waited a long time to be a mom. You have to let me."

But she just rolls her eyes at me.

This week my "baby" will begin the fifth grade. But I can still remember that first day of preschool. Marty and I driving her there with her little Kim Possible book bag. It was not long after Hurricane Katrina had devastated our area and disrupted our lives. She started school nearly a month late because of it, and she and her friends spent much of the year playing evacuation from the little house in her classroom.


"Did you cry when you brought me to school?" she asked me today.

"Of course I did! It meant my baby was growing up and leaving me."

"Aw," she said.

Little did I know it was just the beginning.

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Time for tea

It was the middle of the afternoon when my daughter came to me, her visiting friend trailing behind.

"Mom," she said. "Will you make us some tea? You know, the kind you make for me when I'm sick?"

That's an unusual request, I thought. Normally it's, "Can I have another Diet Dr. Pepper (because I drank all of the Sprites)."

"Sure," I said.

She deserves a cup of hot tea after the week she's had. On Tuesday she tripped over her own two feet at school, landed smack on her face and gave herself one heck of a shiner. She spent the rest of the week watching her face turn colors and trying to hide it from her friends.

Then, earlier today, she came to me nearly hysterical after she lost a tooth -- and swallowed it.

Sure, I said.

But I forgot. Got busy doing something else. Picking up all the pool stuff as the sun began to set. Digging up the plant I kept forgetting to water. Planting the seeds I never took the time to plant. Trying to make my Sunday afternoon in my backyard paradise last as long as it could.

Trying to turn back time.

"Did you tell them you'd make them tea?" my husband asked, quite some time later.

Yeah. I did.

"I put the kettle on," he said. Nudging me.


So, I decided to make it up to her. Instead of two cups and two tea bags, I dusted off the little red teapot my stepdaughter bought for me one Christmas.

And I dusted off the creamer from my wedding china.

And the little red demitasse tea cups my mother let me keep after the big birthday party.

And my little demitasse spoons from my silver.

And I was just about to call her down from upstairs when she came on her own, and spotted the set-up on the little table in the kitchen.

"What's all this?" she said.

"A tea party," I replied.

And I poured a cup for her and one for her friend, showing them how to hold the top so it wouldn't come off. And I dug out some little cookies for them to nibble on. And they both had smiles on their faces as they sat there sipping tea, pinkies out.

"I haven't had a tea party like this in forever," Lora said.

I know.

You're supposed to be sick, kid

"Look inside my throat and tell me what you see," my 10-year-old daughter said to me this morning, just as I finished making her turkey sandwich for lunch.  She opened her mouth wide.

"It hurts when I talk," she whined. "And when I swallow."

I looked. Saw nothing but a black hole. Found the flashlight. Looked again. Saw the back of her throat. It was red.


"Go back to bed," I told her.

"Really?"


Really. And hello, Monday! Good morning to you too!

She plopped her self on the sofa instead, working on perfecting her I'm-sick whine,  grabbed the remote and started flipping while I made a mental checklist of things I had to do.  Notify the office.  Notify the boss. Notify the husband (who still has not acknowledged that he has received ANY of my messages), notify the singing teacher that we'll have to cancel this afternoon (unfortunately, I forgot that one later) and call the doctor.

Yes, I'm one of those moms. I call the doctor. When it's me, when I'm sick, I'll over-the-counter myself to death (a  couple of times, almost literally). But when it comes to my kid, a little person who can't tell me how it hurts or where it hurts or even how much it hurts, I leave it to the professionals. Besides, it might be some horrendous tropical disease or something. And, if it is, I want them tell me what I'm supposed to do. That's their job.

And if you call early enough, you can get an appointment.

"How soon can you get here?" the receptionist asked.

"As soon as I can change out of my pajamas," I reply.

So, I drag my sick kid , still wearing her pajamas, off to the doctor, who looks in her throat, looks in her ear and looks back in her throat again -- as if she didn't see anything the first time. All of a sudden, I feel really stupid. I feel like one of those moms who drags her kid off to the doctor for every little thing.

And this is the kid who is never sick. She's had strep maybe once. A cold, maybe thrice. But never an ear ache. She didn't even throw up until she was four or five. Seriously.

"It's not strep," she says. And I am relieved. "It might just be a virus. Take some Tylenol and eat some popsicles. That should help."

Popsicles. The doctor prescribed popsicles.

So I stop at the grocery on the way home to let her pick out her favorite frozen treats and pick up some children's Tylenol. Then I get her nice and settled back on the sofa while I go back upstairs to take a nap. (Hey. I'm not one to look a gift day off in the mouth).

And while I'm up there she eats two bowls of hot chicken noodle soup, a bacon sandwich, two sprites and one popsicle.  And now she wants to play Wii.

"You're supposed to be sick," I tell her. And she immediately sticks out her lower lip and squints her eyes a little bit and slouches just a bit.

"I am sick," she whines. "I feel really yukky. Can I rent a movie?"

Sure. I'm going back to bed.

The Great Outdoors is outside, you know.

She doesn't even like to go outside.

My 10-year-old daughter, the one born to be a computer whiz, a writer, a poet, a singer, a TV critic, a lawyer and/or a Drama Queen? She doesn't go out to play.  Ever.

When she comes home from school she doesn't rush inside, throw down the school bag then run back out to find friends up or down the street. That's what we did back when there were only three TV stations, computers filled an entire room and there was only one video game called "Pong."

She doesn't ride a bike. Has no desire to learn.  I'm the one who has fantasies of the two of us together, cruising the neighborhood on our bikes with cute little baskets on the front. I have resorted to putting the word out. There is a $50 reward to anyone who teaches my daughter to ride a bike before the start of summer.

She doesn't spend endless hours in the pool we built for her.   OK, for us.  (We were too old for a Jungle Gym.)  Most often, her dad and I are out in the pool, floating on a raft and getting in some oh-so-rare together time,  while she's inside designing fashions on the computer.  She comes out to check on us every once in a while.... Or she did back when she fancied being a waitress.

No. My 10-year-old daughter who is some part Native American, has no love for the Great Outdoors.

So you will understand why I was taken aback tonight when she informed us -- very excitedly -- that she wants to go to 4-H camp this summer.

For a week.

"It's four hours away," she said, actually thrilled at the prospect.

And yes, it was like a knife in this mother's heart.

Not ready, I thought to myself.  She's not ready.

I'm not ready.

One of us is not ready.

It's not that I don't want my daughter to go to camp.  I'm sure it would be a wonderful learning experience for her. The web site says it stresses teaching kids how to be self-sufficient, how to work as a team, how to be independent. Those are all skills she could definitely benefit from.

I went to Girl Scout camp when I was about her age. I still remember the Indian prayer they taught us -- complete with hand signals -- and can probably still make a Banana Boat over an open flame if I really wanted to. But that was a day camp. I got to go home to my mom at the end of the day.

This is a kid who rarely sleeps away from home, preferring her friends to come to our house instead (as do I).

And a kid who hardly ever goes outside to play, preferring to chat with friends on the computer or build a web site (No. I'm not kidding), or blog, or write an incredible fiction story that will simply knock my socks off, or draw an amazing picture of one of her friends or use her amazing voice to sing along with her iPod.

A kid who likes to stay up til 2 a.m. and sleep 'til noon.

A kid who has to have the TV on in whatever room she's in to chase the monsters away.

What would she possibly do at a camp that stresses the discovery of nature? That asks parents not to call for the entire week? That isn't stocked with Chitos? That has no refrigerator?

"It has air conditioning," she added. "No, really! Air conditioning! And plugs for my iPod. I asked. And I really want to go."

One of us isn't ready.

And so it begins ...

And so it begins...


A boy called my daughter today.

My 10-year-old daughter. A 10-year-old boy.

I didn't realize it at first, of course. At this age, he didn't sound like a boy. He sounded just like one of her other friends. One of her girl friends.

But then I heard her talking. And saw the roses rise to her cheeks. And heard her say his name.

She had mentioned him earlier this week. Said a boy told her she was pretty. The next day she told me he said he liked her.

"I made him," she said. And I don't even know what that means.

Then, as we were leaving aftercare one day, she told him good-bye. And I put 2 and 2 together.

"I don't like him," she protested.

And he doesn't like her, apparently. That's why he called her. Three times.

The first time I answered the unfamiliar name on caller I.D., I just assumed it was a girl.

"Lora's outside right now," I said. An extreme rarity, I did not add. "Can I take a message?"

"No. That's all right. I'll call back later," she said. Er, he said.

The next time the unfamiliar name came up, I told Lora: "That's for you. Some little girl called you earlier."

Wrong.

Then, later this evening he called again.

"That's him?" Marty mouthed to me as we sat in the kitchen.

I nodded.

It was a much more muted reaction than mine earlier in the day.

I did a little happy dance. No. Really. Literally. I even high-fived her friend, P.J., who was in the living room at the time.

A boy called my daughter. Yay! At least now we won't go through life waiting for a boy to call, wondering why they never do.

Of course, quickly my brain went to her first date, her first boyfriend and prom. This just happens to be prom night in our area, and I thought of all the girls all over town primping and getting ready for this special night. I imagined my baby girl being one of those girls.

I texted my friend Daniell.

"A boy just called my baby."

"OMG," she wrote.

"Yeah."

I think the whole thing freaked Lora out a little too. Instead of being happy and excited, she was a little nervous. Worried.

Later, she gave me these little puppy dog eyes.

"I don't like him," she said. Again.

"OK," I replied. "You don't have to like him like him. But look at it this way. Now you can't ever say, 'I've never had a boy call me.'"

"OK," she said. Then the lawyer Lora came out.

"But I really think I'm too young to date," she said. Seriously.

"And I don't think boys should be calling me all the time."

My milk came out of my nose on that one.

Honey, I thought. Your dad is the local high school baseball coach. Your brother is a football coach. Your sister-in-law is a teacher at the school. And every teacher and coach at that school has watched you grow up. Believe me. They won't.

Skinny mommies are bad?

Had another interesting conversation with my 10-year-old daughter today.

Me, brightly: Hey! Would you like to come to the park with me so I can walk? Or do you want me to wait for Dad to get home?

Her, grumpily: Wait for Dad to get home, please. I'm really tired.

Me, slightly disappointed (the weather today was perfect): Ok. ... I guess you just don't want me to get skinny do you?

Her, kinda whiny: I'm just really tired.... Besides, I like you the way you are. And. I read this book. It was about a boy. His mom was about your size -- and I'm not saying you are big or anything like that. But when he cuddled with her, it felt really nice. But after she went on a diet and lost all kinds of weight, well it just didn't feel the same. His mom's hugs just weren't as good any more. And I don't want that to happen to you and me.

Me: .... (What the heck am I supposed to say to that?)

So I thought about this for a minute. And smiled to myself.

Yes. This IS sort of like my husband telling me a few years ago,  "I don't want a skinny wife. I want YOU!"

But a little nicer. And a little cuter because it's from a 10-year-old and not a grown man who should be able to think faster.

So I asked my oh-so imaginative daughter: What is the name of this book? I'd really like to read it.

Her, thinking fast: I don't remember. Maybe it was a picture book or something.

Or maybe it's a book that needs to be written .....

Adoptive

My 10-year old child has informed me that she does not like it when I call her my adopted daughter.

"I'm just your daughter," she said to me in the car as I drove her home from school.

And she doesn't like it when I refer to myself as an adoptive mom either.

"You're just a regular mom," she said.

And I just don't know how to explain to her that, no. I'm not.

Everyone tells me that it takes a special person to adopt a child. And they are right.

Sometimes it takes a person with an exceptionally big heart, who is willing to open their home and their soul to a child, often one with a lifetime's worth of baggage and heartache sitting on their shoulder.

But sometimes it takes a person like me -- a heartbroken woman with a faulty reproductive system, who is a little bit desperate and a whole lot determined.

For six years we tried to make a baby the old-fashioned way, making our way through six doctors, a few science experiments and a million tears -- not to mention a dozen suggestions from helpful friends and family members who had their own ideas about how this all works.

Finally, convinced there was no other way, we turned to thoughts of adoption. Or should I say, fantasies? Sure, everyone thinks its so easy to adopt a child. "There's plenty of kids out there that need homes," everyone says.

And there are.

And there are plenty of folks out there who would be willing to love them. If it were easy.

But adoption is hard.

Very hard.

First there is the sticker shock. Agencies cost upward of $20,000 or more. Up front. Catholic Charities was $40,000. Up front. Just to get on a list. And, as far as I know, there still is no adoption loan at the local bank.

Then there are the hoops. Paperwork, fingerprints, background checks, home studies, life books, letters of reference -- all must declare that we are, indeed, fit people to take in one of those many parent-less children that are out there waiting.

And then there are the minefields -- hearts ripe for the breaking, hopes ready to be dashed, dreams ready to be blown away. Not to mention state agencies whose first priority is to return children to their natural born parents first, no matter what they did to them.

Or women who aren't absolutely sure about what they are doing, who will wait until you're invested emotionally and financially, wait until your nursery is all ready and piled with baby booties and shower gifts to say, "Um. It was always my intention to keep this baby."

But people like me are willing to endure it all, jump through every hoop, step over every minefield, overcome every obstacle and endure every heartbreak because, at the end is a child that is destined to be ours.

In the first months after my baby girl was put into my arms, I couldn't help but blurt out "She's adopted!" to every stranger we met. Other family members did it too.

And it wasn't a qualifier. I wasn't telling the world, "This is not my kid."

Rather, I wanted the world to know, "Look what we did! We did it! We stayed the course! We fought the fight! And look at our prize! Yay us!!!!"

We said it with a sense of accomplishment, of pride, of achievement.

"We adopted," to us means, "We did it."

And, "thank God."

But how can I explain all of that to a 10-year old?

I guess I can't.

The Star of the Pink Room

Pickles Leigh has moved over here as well.. If you have the tenacity to keep up with a 7-year-old (well monitored by her mom!) check it out....

http://starofthepinkroom.blogspot.com/

Dispatches from the Pink Room

Has moved over as well... And there's a new one!

http://dispatchesfromthepinkroom.blogspot.com

Words of Wisdom from Lora Leigh

It's Thanksgiving Day. I have pulled out all of my wedding gift china and my silver passed down to me from my great-grandmother. The table is gorgeous. I am very proud. I know my grandmother would be proud.
Lora Leigh says: "Mom. It's a little much."
*********************
Santa Claus has gone to Lora Leigh's school for pictures. She gets all dressed up and goes. She comes home:
Me: Did you see Santa?
Her: Yes.
Me: Was he nice?
Her: Yes.
Me: Did you tell him what you wanted for Christmas?
Her: No.
Me: Why not?
Her: Because I knew that wasn't the real Santa. That was just some guy in a Santa suit.
****************************************************
Lora Leigh would love to be on TV someday. She wants to sing and act. She says to me, "Mom. I'd love to be on a TV show one day." Me: "You would? What kind of show would you want to do?" Her, "Full House."

The things kids say.....

Lora Leigh really does have an amazing memory.  We were on our way to the Boo at the Zoo tonight, our second visit to the annual event.  Last year, we made the mistake of taking her on the Ghost Train.  She was terrified.  Tonight, she told us she wasn't going near it. Then she started rattling off all the parts of it that scared her last year?

"I remember, Mommy," she said.

"I have a memory like a Hippopotamus."

Now we're at home. And Tennessee and South Carolina are playing football on TV.
 Lora Leigh wants to know if the Tennessee team is the Pumpkins or the Home Depot ...

Dream Weddings and such

When I was planning my "dream" wedding back in 1994, my mom and I butted heads -- A LOT.

You see, I had had many dreams about my wedding day -- what I would wear, where it would be, the color of my bridesmaids dresses and flowers.  I went through the whole, "Rainbow Wedding," dream, the "Barefoot on the Beach," scenario and the "Sound of Music," epic idea. I toyed with the idea of  a tiny roadside chapel, St. Louis Cathedral and Sacred Heart on Loyola's campus.

None of it came to fruition, however. I married a man I never dreamed of in a place I never thought of, angy at my mother.

She never had such dreams, she said. Didn't understand the fuss. She just didn't get it.

But just the other night as my little girl and I cuddled in those last minutes of the day before sleep (my favorite part of the day, mind you), I found out that I was not the only one in my family who dreams of such things. In fact, my 6-year-old daughter laid out her plans for her dream wedding -- as only a 6-year-old can.

"What color will your wedding be?" I asked her.

"I want to wear white," she said, giving me the "silly-for-asking" look.

"No. What color will your girls wear?" I asked.

"Show me your toes," she demanded, then pulled off the covers to look at my silvery  toenail polish. "That color."

"What color will your flowers be?" I asked. Again I got the "silly-for-asking look."

"Mom. I think you know," said my pink-obsessed child.

"Who will be your bridesmaids?" I asked her.

We listed all of her friends -- Carolyn, Marissa, Paige, Chloe and Ashley, her half-sister.

And Courtney gets to be the flower girl.....

"But," she said. "I haven't picked the boy yet."

"You have plenty of time," I told her.

The conversation had begun in a discussion of death -- and life. Would I still be here when she graduated from high school? Would I be there at her wedding? Would Nana? Would Grandma and Pappy? Would Daddy?

"Daddies are supposed to walk with you," she said.

And I thought of Lena. and of Rhett. He got to walk me down the aisle, but not her.

We can only hope we'll all be there, I told her. I want to help you get dressed and make sure everything is just as you dream it.

Then she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep -- and dream.