Teach Your Children About My Family

I wrote a post about how I feel, about how I really just want to teach my children to love their neighbor, about how God is love, about how we should all be better than all of this, but I couldn't express my heart with words.

I couldn't make my fingers say what my soul sings about love. I couldn't give narrative to the way I felt when I woke up this morning--having had a nightmare about racism, remembering the tears streaming down Matthew's dream face. I couldn't explain the way my eight-year-old son taught me about love and acceptance when, after explaining Charlottesville to him, he replied simply that, those people are not loving their neighbors as themselves.

I just don't have an answer for how we fight racism. But it starts with educating our own children.

Biracial.

White.

Black.

Biracial.

White.

Biracial.

Black.

Brothers.

Brothers.

Brothers.

 

Brothers.

This family is everything. We are black and white and mixed and love. No one boy has my heart any more than another. Biological. Adopted. Black. White. Biracial. 

Sons. 

Period.

The Hill

They're wearing helmets because, well, they're crazy, we're those parents, and there is a metal grate at the bottom of the hill that has already been responsible for one immense goose egg on the skull of one of my children this season. This child.

This one finally treks up to the top of the hill, by himself, without whining and crying about it. Without me having to grab him by the hood of his jacket hand and drag him. But he'd still rather prostrate himself on the ground and eat large quantities of snow. 

He's trying to master his beginner snowboard. It would probably help if he actually stuck his feet all the way into the straps.

The oldest has been "snowboarding" for longer, so he's a little better. Of course, he needs to have his tongue sticking out for ultimate focus.

(He's had the focus tongue since he was a tiny guy.)

The snow can be a pain, the freezing temperatures are undesirable to my thin, sunshiny blood, but it sure is fun to spend the afternoon at the sledding hill.

Bumps & Nails

The boys were outside playing. Matthew came to get me stating that Garrett was hurt and crying. I went out to investigate. Sure enough, there the oldest was, crying and holding his head, carrying two soft(ish) swords. He'd been in a dual with a much bigger boy from across the street. The bigger boy had hit him square across the head. A large bump was protruding from the side of his forehead. I brought him in, got him ice, and put him on my bed.

Not ten minutes later, Matthew was in the playroom cleaning up. Suddenly I heard a loud bump and then an instant and ear piercing scream. I ran to him. He'd somehow managed to run straight into the doorknob. A bump to rival his brother's was already sticking out from his head. "Garrett," I said, "Quick, give me that bag of ice."

"But it's on my head," the older brother protested.

"I know, but it's been there for awhile, let me put it on Matthew's."

There I sat with both of the Bump Brothers. Two goose eggs separated by minutes.

As wounds often do, Matthew's sent him into a downward spiral stopped only by the sweet bliss of sleep. His first day of school is tomorrow so I cut his nails after I'd finished brushing his teeth. For some reason that I'll never quite understand, he became attached to one of his big toe nails. He insisted he was going to keep it. I know that as a mom I'm not supposed to be sweating the small stuff but I have to draw the line somewhere. Storing old, dirty toe nails is just not going to happen. I threw it away.

He erupted into wails and sobs that sounded like he'd hit his head on the doorknob again. Except, no. This was over a toe nail. I told him to go get in bed. Wracking grief consumed him. "Hey, calm down, you're gonna waste all the tears in your little head," Garrett scolded him. I would have told him to leave the parenting to me but I was too busy laughing.

"BUT IT WAS MY BEST FRIEND. I LOVE THAT TOE NAIL SO MUCH. I'LL NEVER LOVE ANOTHER TOE NAIL AS MUCH AS I LOVE THAT ONE! I HAVE TO HAVE IT BACK!"

All I could do was smile. Because sometimes being a mom is all fun and games and sweetness and light. And sometimes it's a pair of matching head lumps and a dirty toe nail that is, apparently, a four-year-old's best friend.

Competition

My oldest son is so much like my brother (and I imagine my husband) was as a little guy. He's steady. He's content. He's not overly competitive.

My youngest son is so much like I was.

Everything, absolutely everything, is a competition.

Today, during lunch, I walked down the stairs to find food hanging over Matthew's lips. His mouth was at maximum capacity. I tried to figure out why he'd crammed so much food into his trap. Trying to answer me, he gestured frantically and mumbled. I finally figured out what he was saying. "I need to beat Garrett."

"You do not need to beat him. Swallow everything in your mouth before you take another bite."

His brother calmly continued to take reasonable bites of his lunch. I went to move the laundry into the dryer. A couple minutes later, I reentered the kitchen. Matthew's mouth was jammed full food. He had two small pieces of bagel left in his hands and he was actually gagging on the massive amount he'd shoved into his face.

"This is not okay," I told him. "We do not shove so much food into our mouths that we gag. This isn't an appropriate way to eat. Put those pieces down on your plate."

He began to cry. Garrett had about three bites left so I told Matthew that he wasn't allowed to finish eating the other pieces of his lunch until Garrett was done. His crying turned to sobbing. Eventually, he swallowed the enormous bite of food. "BUT I HAVE TO BEAT GARRETT!" he wailed.

Oh Lord, help us all. It would appear that I'm raising myself.

Vikings and Dragons

The Rock Star is still obsessed with knights and dragons and castles and swords and shields and vikings and damsels in distress. He wanted to be Hiccup from How to Train Your Dragon for Halloween. Except for the shaggy brown hair, he was pretty much a dead ringer. He's just so scrawny. He could have been any old viking but, as we collected candy from the local shopping complex, kids continued to say, "Hey look, it's Hiccup!" Of course, he had his sidekick, The Little Buddy Dragon.

The best part of our trick or treating adventure was that Carl's Junior handed out free small fries instead of candy and Jamba Juice handed out mini smoothies. It was also the first time in all of Garrett's years of life that Troy was able to join us for the entire adventure. Usually he comes for a few minutes before returning to put the finishing touches on our church's Harvest Party. This year the party was held on Saturday night instead.

The funniest part was when a little boy walked by and said, "Look, a dragon!"

The mom replied, "It's a dinosaur."

When they were out of earshot, both Troy and I said, almost simultaneously, "It's a dragon."

The Screaming

My boys sometimes play adorably well together. Their happy sounds drift down the stairs from the playroom or through the window from the backyard and my heart is content.

But usually there is squabbling and shoving and choruses of, "That's mine!" or "I had that first!" or "Give it back!" And then there's the shrieking.

They both do it.

And mama's had it.

Had. It. Said in a southern accent for dramatic effect.

One of them yells. I don't know if the yeller is yelling because he's being mutilated by the other or if the yeller is yelling because it makes him seem more fierce as he yanks a toy out of the other brother's hand. It's hard to know who the offending party is when one of them screams, is what I'm trying to say.

In this regard, Mary had it made. Don't get me wrong, this is probably the only time Mary had it easy. I mean, trying to explain a virgin pregnancy doesn't sound like a picnic in the park. Watching her son and Savior being brutally killed because of her sin--and mine--had to be the worst thing any mother has ever endured. But parenting. Well.

"Mom! Jesus hit me!"

No, he didn't.

"Jesus is lying!"

No, he's not.

"Mama, Jesus stole my toy."

James, he did not. Go sit in the corner.

"Why do you always think Jesus is so perfect?"

BECAUSE HE IS!

Sigh. It might have been difficult to be one of Jesus's siblings. But his mother, well, she always knew it wasn't Him.

I can identify the screamer but beyond that I'm at a loss. Garrett points his finger at Matthew. Matthew points his finger at Garrett. They both go to their room. Because the shrieking thing is making me insane.

Today I told them that the next time they started yelling, they were getting separated. Sure enough, several minutes later, they were both howling at each other. I told Garrett he was no longer allowed to play with his brother and to go in the backyard. "I don't want to! It's hot out*!" I gave him my most hideous glare--the one that I've fine tuned to specifically say, I mean serious business--and he started to cry. But he went outside. Matthew toddled down the stairs a moment later.

"I go owside. I go owside wih Gehwit." He went for the door.

"No," I replied. He looked at me, bewildered. "You aren't allowed to play with your brother until you can stop screaming." He burst into tears.

Garrett was in the backyard wanting to get in. Matthew stood inside wanting to get out. But they weren't yelling. And that was blessed bliss.

*I think it was about 75 degrees. I wasn't torturing him. I promise.

The Things They Say

G: This place gives me the creeps! (pause) Mommy, what's the creeps?

Me: It's the way you feel when something scares you a little.
G: Have you ever seen a creep before?


Seriously. The kid cracks me up. All. The. Time.

His jammie shirt says, "Mom's Rock Star." They were a gift from my aunt and The Rock Star loves them. The Seahawks pillow belongs to The Husband. Trust me, I'm doing my best to raise a good little Charger fan.

One of their favorite things to do in the morning is wrestle and giggle and hide under the covers on my bed and squeal and smile and get rowdy. That smile has nothing to do with the camera and everything to do with having gone an entire night without seeing his brother. "Oh Garrett," that smiles says, "how I've missed you in the past ten hours."

The brown monkey featured in both pictures is MonkMonk, Matthew's beloved. It goes absolutely everywhere with him. It might go along to college. And on the honeymoon. I'm just sayin'...

Speaking of sayin' things, Matthew climbed up on the couch today and said, "Mama, want TB. Want watch Timmy." Because that's how my children roll. They don't say anything at all until they turn two. Then they start demanding things in nearly complete sentences. Don't worry, Matthew isn't requesting a case of tuberculosis. He just wanted to watch Timmy Time on television. But, then, I kind of hope you were able to figure that one out all on your own.

Cleaned Up

My mom (and dad) usually buy my boys their Easter clothes. Oh, who am I kidding, my mom (and dad) usually buy my boys about 90% of their wardrobes. Finding good deals and collecting things throughout the year, my parents typically bestow a big box of clothing upon my sons for their birthdays and Christmas. While the box may not be the boys' favorite gift, it just might be mine. Anyway. When they were here last, my mom and I went shopping. She said she'd buy them their Easter outfits and The Rock Star's one request was that he wanted a tie.

When I set their outfits out on Saturday night, Garrett looked with wonder at the smaller of the sets. "Matthew also gets to wear a tie?" He asked with excitement.

And I'm not going to lie to you, my boys clean up really well. Troy might not have any daughters but I'm going to have to buy a shot gun just to keep the ladies away. Sure, I have sons. Sure, they'll grow up and only think of one thing. (I can barely even type that sentence without breaking into a cold sweat, by the way. To think of my babies under the unfortunate effects of testosterone is almost more than this mama can handle.) Sure, they'll get *gulp* arm pit hair and facial hair and then they'll leave me but not before I point my proverbial shot gun at some unsuspecting female piranha.

Because when they clean up, they look like this...

And they're off limits, girls. Consider yourselves warned.

And I will consider the fact that all of us look a little better when we're cleaned up.

Drum Stick Apologies

Matthew got this Bee Bop Band set for his first birthday. His is not purple but all the pieces are the same and if you think those drum sticks are flimsy and child proof, well, you'd be wrong. They are thick plastic. They hurt when used on something like, say, human flesh. I know. I've been on the receiving end of a drummer (Matthew) gone crazy. See, kiddo likes to rock out. He likes to carry these drum sticks everywhere he goes. He likes to drum the couch, the pillows, the floor, his brother. A few times he's gotten so crazy with the drumming that he's whacked his own self in the head. (Not that we don't discipline him for banging on things that aren't designed to be drums. Because we totally do.)

Last night we heard an incredibly strange sound coming from up the stairs. It was a crying of sorts but it sounded more like an animal, caught in a trap, attempting to chew its own leg off, sobbing the cry of the deeply wounded. I could not tell which child was making the noise. I turned and took the stairs two at a time.

At the top of the stairs, holding his ear and making the mortally injured sound, was The Rock Star. Choking back the strange sobs he managed to utter, "Matthew. Ear. Drum stick," in between gulping for air. Standing behind him, holding the stick, stood The Little Buddy. He had the most distressed, remorseful, terrified look on his face. I gathered Garrett into my arms and tried to look at his ear. Matthew didn't wait even two seconds before he quietly started saying, over and over again, "Sorry, Mama. Sorry, Mama." (It doesn't matter who he's apologizing to, Matthew adds Mama to the end of it.) As he repeated it and Garrett cried in my arms, Matthew's eyes filled with tears.

Troy came up right behind me. He hadn't heard the apology or seen the look of horror on Matthew's face so he took the stick out of his hand and was about to commence the scolding. I quickly explained that, what with the look on his face and the instant loop of sorries, I didn't think Matthew needed to be punished. I figured he pretty much knew he'd really hurt his brother and was, in fact, actually devastated.

And then it happened. Matthew dissolved into a sobbing mess of sorrow that reminded me of the time I accidentally smacked my good friend, Cassie, in the mouth with a baseball bat. I was seven. I didn't check behind me before I took a practice swing. She cried a lot. I cried more. That was the first and last season of softball I ever played. As for Garrett, his ear lobe had a swollen knot in it. We iced it and he was back to playing in no time.

Matthew, however, didn't bounce back quite as quickly. He stood by his brother's side while I iced his ear. He offered his apologies over and over and kissed Garrett several times. Personally, I was kind of thrilled. There's a compassionate bone in that kid's body after all.

I was looking over some of our adoption paperwork last night. In one particular evaluation Troy is referred to as the Prospective Adoptive Father. I am referred to as the Prospective Adoptive Mother. Garrett, well, he's referred to as Matthew's brother. Pure. Simple. Not a Prospective Adoptive Brother. Just his brother.

And it's been that way from the very beginning. Brothers hit each other. They yell. They compete. But as long as they cry and kiss and say sorry--and mean it--when they hurt each other, I will consider the day a success.

These Are the Moments

Matthew's father came this weekend for a visit. Basically, the three parents collectively decided that I'd stay away as much as possible. If you look up the definition of a mama's boy, The Little Buddy's picture stares back at you. We knew that his father would get a much higher quality visit if I wasn't around. So Troy, Matthew and his father cruised around for the better part of yesterday and today. That has allowed The Rock Star and me some quality time of our own.

Tonight I finished reading him The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. When we were just a few pages from the end, Troy and Matthew came home. Garrett was all ready for bed and snuggled in next to me under the covers in my room. Troy got Matthew ready for bed and sent him toddling in. He climbed up. Cuddling into the tiny space between his brother and me, he listened as I finished the book. Garrett got up and turned out the light.

Matthew was quiet. And so snuggly. He kept grabbing my hand and putting it on his head. Then he would grab his brother's hand and kiss it. I could just make out both of their precious faces as we all laid silently together. From some deep recess of my mind, I began to sing...

Lying here with you
Listening to the rain
Smiling just to see
A smile upon your face

These are the moments
I thank God that I'm alive
These are the moments
I'll remember all my life
I've found all I've waited for
And I could not ask for more

I could not ask for more than this time together
I could not ask for more than this time with you
Every prayer has been answered
Every dream has come true
Yeah, right here in this moment
Is right where I'm meant to be
Here with you, here with me

They listened. Then The Rock Star said quietly, "I love you, Matthew." And then The Little Buddy grinned at his big brother and my heart turned into a puddle of melted love on the spot. "You're the best mom," he added. "And Matthew is the best brother. And daddy is the best daddy." Oh be still my puddle of melted love.

We stayed like that, all cuddled into one another, no one quite sure whose hand was holding her finger or whose pajamas he was feeling with his toe. Of course, boys will be boys and neither of mine can stay still for very long. The Rock Star started to tickle his brother who, in turn, laughed hysterically. I let it go on for several minutes, convinced that there is nothing in the world as heartwarming as brothers giggling together. Then I looked at the clock and realized it was time to end my perfect moment.

But it was one of those times that I'm sure will be etched in my memory forever. Two brothers, missing each other from two days apart. And mom, holding both of them in her arms, because they're still small enough to fit--for now.

Age Appropriate Behavior

The Rock Star is pretty obsessed with the fact that his baby brother is now two years old. Today, while at the pediatrician for his well check appointment, Garrett kept informing the doctor that The Little Buddy is two now.

In the car, on the way home, a very tired Matthew was whining and fussing and being generally unpleasant. A very helpful big brother sighed loudly and then shouted, "Matthew, you are acting like a one-year-old!"

Mommy, Tissy Hit & Similar Such Sentences

When my brother was a toddler, he came around the corner one day and declared, "Mommy, tissy (sissy) hit." It was his first complete sentence and an incredible foreshadowing of how our relationship would go until he surpassed me in height, muscle mass and speed. Apparently, I was stunned.

This morning my youngest, rather nonverbal, son slid down the stairs, his tiny bum bouncing on each step. When he reached the bottom he sat there, looked at me, and tattled. "Mama. Hit." Then he smacked himself. I narrowed my eyes, trying to figure out what, exactly, he was reporting. When I didn't immediately respond he increased his volume. "Mama! Hit!" He smacked himself again.

"Who hit?" I asked.

"Dare-dit!" Which, in the event that you can't decipher toddler, is his word for Garrett. But I feel like most of you probably figured that one out for yourselves. Now, in the event that any of you think that my oldest is following in his mother's sibling abuse, allow me to assure you that the reason Matthew knew that you are supposed to tell on a hitter is because he hits his big brother at least three times a day. The Rock Star has only recently begun to retaliate.

Matthew was not wounded--physically or emotionally--in any way. He simply discovered a new word and decided he'd use it to tell on his brother. He was really rather proud of himself.

"Garrett?" I called.

"Yes, mommy?"

"Did you hit your brother?"

"Um. No." He replied.

"I'm going to ask again. Did you hit your brother?"

"...no?"

"Then why did he come down here and say that you did?"

Boy did that kid look like the cat who ate the canary. Garrett has always been incredibly honest. Matthew has never been able to talk. So apparently we're entering new realms of parenthood wherever we look.

"Um. Yeah. I hit him." The Rock Star stammered. Because there was really nothing left to do but tell the truth.

You Can't Sled With No Snow

It's 12 degrees y'all. And, yeah, I know I shouldn't be complaining because in Cheyenne it's -5. But. Like. Still. In San Diego it's 56 and right about now I think that would feel downright tropical.

And I'm tired of putting up with freezing temperatures and no snow. Not that I'm asking for a blizzard, mind you, but at least with a little snow we could make snowmen. Or build Garrett his snow cave that he's been begging for (and I keep explaining would, at this point, have to be a dirt cave). Or do some more of this.

As is evidenced by the little one's smile, my boys really like their sledding.

As is evidenced by Garrett's "focus tongue" sledding is both fun and hard work.

Matthew cackles, hysterically, the entire way. We only let him go alone for about five feet. Otherwise he is firmly planted between the legs of a parent.

Yeah. We miss our sledding. If we're going to continue to freeze to death with nothing to show for it then I'm going to head to Bermuda. At least that way my boys could learn the fine art of boating.

Now Is Now

Bunk beds are in my sons' future. Someday. When Matthew is no longer in a crib.

It's been awhile since we moved The Rock Star's bed into the playroom. The Little Buddy started his midnight parties filled with giggling and squealing and Garrett simply couldn't sleep through it.

But then, two weeks ago, they shared a tent with my dad and Matthew did so well that four nights ago we let Garrett sleep on the floor of the bedroom, just to see how they'd do together. The oldest, remarkably, didn't try to sneak into our room to sleep on the carpet next to Troy's side of the bed. The youngest, even more remarkably, didn't throw a party in the wee hours of the morning. Well, actually, he might have. According to Garrett, Matthew woke up and started to play. He claims that he said, "Matthew, go back to sleep." Whether that happened or not will remain a mystery. There's a video monitor but after four years of learning to tune out the small noises of sleeping children, a symphony could probably drift through it's speaker without waking me.

The next night we did it again.

And the next.

"Garrett," I offered tonight, "would you like to move your bed back into the bedroom?"

Oh. Boy. Did. He. Ever.

So after dinner we spent an hour rearranging both rooms. Every five seconds The Rock Star would ask me if he could please go to bed right then. Every five seconds The Little Buddy would grin and babble something that I think had something to do with his big brother's bed being in his room.

I lowered the railing on the crib thinking that maybe we'd just see what happened. Go big or go--uh--to bed, right? After I'd read the boys their Bible story and we'd prayed I laid Matthew down in the crib and I crawled into the bed with Garrett. I've been reading half a chapter a night out of Little House in the Big Woods and I knew we were going to finish it tonight.

The moment I started reading, Matthew sat up, looked at us, and was over the side of that crib in record speed. So much for that. Garrett giggled, "Uh oh." His baby brother toddled over to us, climbed up onto the bed, and laid directly on top of him. Garrett smiled and scooted over, allowing enough room for the three of us to fit--incredibly snugly--in the bed. I read. They listened.

I was thinking of what a sweet moment it was, of how peaceful our nights have been since they've been sharing a room again, of the way my heart skips a beat when I'm blindsided by a snapshot of perfection with these brothers.

I was already having a moment, is what I'm saying.

Pa's strong, sweet voice was softly singing:

"Shall auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Shall auld acquaintance be forgot,
And the days of auld lang syne?
And the days of auld lang syne, my friend,
And the days of auld lang syne,
Shall auld acquaintance be forgot,
And the days of auld lang syne?"

When the fiddle had stopped singing Laura called
out softly, "What are days of auld lang syne, Pa?"

"They are the days of a long time ago, Laura,' Pa
said. 'Go to sleep now."

But Laura lay awake a little while, listening to Pa's
fiddle softly playing and to the lonely sound of the wind
in the Big Woods. She looked at Pa sitting on the bench
by the hearth, the firelight gleaming on his brown hair
and beard and glistening on the honey-brown fiddle.
She looked at Ma, gently rocking and knitting.

She thought to herself, "This is now."

She was glad that the cosy house, and Pa and Ma
and the firelight and the music, were now. They could
not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It
can never be a long time ago.

-Laura Ingalls Wilder

I will not forget the fourteen months leading up to Matthew becoming a permanent part of this family. Like stones from the Jordan river, I will remember what the Lord has done for me. But I am thankful--ever so thankful--that now is now.

A statement

Scene: Somewhere on the 15 in Provo. A car drives North. Two children are in the backseat in strapped to their car seats. A mother is in the driver's seat.

Matthew: MOM?
Me: What?
Matthew: MOM?
Me: What?
Matthew: MOM! Agabababanonoflundenflock!
Garrett: Matthew, that is not a question. That is a statement.

Joy

Yesterday, as I drove around, my boys cracked each other up. They were laughing so hard that both of them were struggling to breath as they exhaled their mirth and inhaled the other's.

G: Matthew, what if you had a crystal on your head?
M: (As soon as G stopped talking) HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
G: (Unable to speak because M's laugh was cracking him up) HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
M: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
G: What if you had a watch on your head?
M: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
G: HAHAHAHAHA! What if you had an alligator on your head?
M: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Their belly laughs were so deep, so blessedly beautiful. And, as they rung through my ears and filled my car I could not help but laugh, hysterically with them. Tears sprung to my eyes as I listened to their voices rising and falling with glee. It's truly a wonder I was able to stay in my own lane.