Understanding Grace

I met Grace while volunteering in Cora's kindergarten classroom. She had long brown hair that seemed permanently tangled and deep-set hazel eyes. Empty eyes. Hollow eyes. Eyes that never made contact with mine. She rarely spoke and when she did she would whisper with her head down, eyes forward. If you leaned towards her in an attempt to better hear her, she would immediately move away from you.

She peed her pants at least twice a day. It was so routine that she no longer mentioned it to the teacher. She just grabbed a spare set from her backpack, bagged up her soiled clothing and quietly sat back down.

She did not know how to use a pair of scissors or write her name. She did not interact with the other students and would stare blankly at the wall while Cora's teacher gave instructions.

But Grace was not dumb. Cora's teacher knew that. The daily aides that worked with her one-on-one knew that. I knew that. She was learning. Soaking up every bit of information presented to her. She was smart.

Her file said otherwise. A child of the foster system; passed from "mother" to "mother."

Her test scores said otherwise. Grace was below average. Grace could not keep pace with grade level. Grace was failing.

Grace said otherwise. "I can't," she would repeat when asked to identify numbers. "I can't," she would say when quizzed on letter sounds. But, as I learned on Monday, she could.

Monday was Grace's last day in Cora's class. She was being placed with another foster family out of district boundaries. Grace softly told me her old mother decided she couldn't keep that house anymore and so it was best for Grace "to be in a new better house with a great big swing and a new mother." And then, while I was giving her an exit exam, she proceeded to identify every letter and correctly make the letter sound. She identified every written number through 20, and began counting and wouldn't stop. She made it to 140. I was floored, puzzled really.

During recess I showed the test results to Cora's teacher. She was not surprised. She had known all along Grace was smart, but she said sadly, she was a product of her environment. They did everything in their power to help her. They gave Grace individual attention. Coached her. Mentored her. Loved her. But nothing worked. Until she was told she was moving.

Each time Grace packed her suitcase, she came out of her shell. Even though she was told otherwise, Grace believed she was moving back home. To be with her real mother. Each time she arrived on a new doorstep, one not belonging to her real mother, she closed herself off to the world again.

I wanted to cry right there on that brightly-squared kindergarten carpet. Mostly for Grace, but also because I knew my daughters would never experience heartache like that.

I know I make mistakes as a parent. I always will. I know I am not patient enough. I never will be. I know I am not qualified to be a mother. I will forever feel inadequate. I know in 30 years I will look back with a fresh perspective and wonder why I made the choices I made as their mother. And I know I am not the only mother who feels like this. I have heard this spoken during playgroups. I have had this very phone conversation with my best friend. I have read this in blog posts.

Stop it. We need to stop beating ourselves up. You are enough. We are enough. Our children will never understand what Grace is going through.  We have made that possible.  In the midst of all of our screw ups, we have done something right.

My daughters are loved. They are loved by people who not only show it, but say it. Over and over. They have and will always have two parents who think they hang the moon. They will always have a mother stuffing homework folders in their classrooms and a father who spends endless hours kicking a soccer ball around with them. They will always have warm clothes and enough food and someone to read them a goodnight story. They will never have to pack a suitcase.

We are doing something right. Please believe that.

A Belated Valentine's Day Post

The most lovely thing about this here bloggy community is that I know I don't have to apologize for not getting V-day pictures up sooner. I don't need to explain  the kind of day I had yesterday because I know you've all had one. I don't need to excuse away my tardiness or vent about my computer eating my pictures (to be fair, they were of the delicious pinkish smoothies with strawberry heart garnishments we had for V-day breakfast, so I can totally understand why one would eat those particular pictures), because I know you guys get it. Sometimes it is just hard to be a mother. Hard to be a wife. Hard to be a human. But we survive to blog another day, right?

So no apologies, just some fun pictures of our day!

Yep, I'm one of "those" moms. I dress my kids up for holidays. Let the judging commence.

We have a tradition each Valentine's Day that dates back 4 years (see THIS or THIS for a few examples). We hand make Valentines. This year we did things a little differently. We combined the handmade with the computer era (thanks Krista!).

Every year, after 20something Valentines are painstakingly crafted, I curse myself for this tradition (do you know how long it takes a 5-yr-old to write all that herself!). But I also love it. And they love it. Which of course makes me love it more.

There were flowers too. These before the actual day:

    (photo courtesy of Cora)

And these the day of. Good husband, huh?

There were balloon bouquets, which made their way to the top of the ceiling mere seconds after being delivered (another photo courtesy of Cora-quite nice she disobeyed the no-touching-my-camera-rule. With many of my photos vanishing into the abyss that is our new computer, it is helpful to have a few backups). Oh and don't get me started on how high my ceilings are. Remember THIS post? I'm still bitter.

And of course there was food.

And to accompany this "lovely" french toast, imagine a nice pink berry smoothie with the cutest heart-shaped strawberry garnishment you've ever seen. It was a stretch for me and you would have been proud.

Gone also are the pictures of this pie during the making/baking stages. This is Mark's favorite dessert of all time. He allowed us girls to split 1 little piece and he promptly inhaled the rest. It was his present though, so no hard feelings.

And there you have Valentine's Day Abercrombie style. A little cheesy, but a whole lotta fun.

The boyfriend

I know I promised pictures, and they will be here soon. The thing about getting a fancy new computer is that you have to first beat it into submission before it knows who's boss. We are still in that process. Drivers aren't compatible with that one thing and that other thing isn't communicating with the whatsamajiggy. So no pictures for now.  And for the record, don't expect greatness. They might not be as rad as you envision them to be in your mind. But they are special to me. So they will be posted. Soon. Just not today.

For today I will leave you with the following conversation that took place between Cora and her 18-yr-old babysitter, Heather:

Heather's phone rings.

Cora: Who's that?

Heather: The boyfriend (she's 18. She can have a boyfriend).

Cora: How did my boyfriend get your number?

She was completely serious and completely annoyed.

Locking her in her room until she graduates is sounding better and better everyday.  Help.

Before him

Before him I kissed a few boys. Those with cooties and a few without.

Before him I was certain I had been in love with another. And I had been. But that was before I fully understood what that meant. That love was limited and small.

Before him I was positive the love I saw in movies would never be mine. You can have that love. That love is fake. Scripted. Absurd.

Before him I was unsure of myself. I had a solid understanding of who I was, but not of my place in this world. Which is beside him. I know that now.

Before him I was selfish. Reckless with my life because it was just that: mine.

And after him? I get it now. I get what all the waiting and heartbreak and endlessly wishing on stars was about. This love is worth it. Even though it's not always perfect. And the butterflies and weak-in-the-knees feelings are few and far between. This love, our love, is just right.

And while I don't need a silly commercialized holiday to make that known, any reminder to say it or show it is fine by me.

*and show it we did. Pictures to come tomorrow.

Are the twos really terrible?

Our computer is angry and sick. It is growling at us something fierce. My husband showed me various screens and explained that it is working at 100% capacity or some other gibberish talk that translated into, "I want to buy a new computer." I saw how that would benefit me as well, so he got the green light and bought another one. It should be here any day now. Knowing that we must switch everything over to the new computer, I have been going through all of my folders and organizing/condensing them.

In doing so I stumbled upon these two pictures. The top one is Cora on her 2nd birthday, the bottom Claire on hers. Seems I am a creature of habit. They are seated in the same chair, eating the same type of cake, wearing similar headgear and looking equally adorable. These pictures made me cry. Guess it doesn't even take a Hallmark commercial these days.

I love every ounce of those babies. Who are no longer babies. Which is why I was crying.

The chub is leaving their cheeks and their vocabulary is more smart than cute these days. And while I am so eager to see what life holds for them, today I am mourning their littleness.

Happy happy joy joy

It's been a long day. A long wonderful day. One of the best I've had in awhile.

The first thing you need to know is that I write for this blog. It is a couponing blog because I'm frugal like that. I adore the girls who started it. Monica and Cathy  are wonderful women who wanted to share their money smarts with their friends and family. And then it grew. And grew. And grew. And soon thousands of visitors were stopping by their little website.

They have pored endless hours into that blog. It is their baby (not to take away from the 9 human babies they collectively have between them. Yes, they are saints). And while I have been writing for the blog for almost a year, they recently came to me to contribute in a different manner. They wanted to take the blog to next level. They asked me to head up the PR side of things. Work with the media. Get the blog some exposure. Spread the word.

So I crafted a media blitz in the form of an email. It was good. It was really good. I was proud.

I fine tuned, proofread and polished it up. Then yesterday I sent it out to all of the major television and radio stations in the area. Less than 24 hours later, I got this phone call:

Me: Hello?

Caller: Is this Amber?

Me: It is.

Caller: Hi Amber. This is Mike Vogel from KTRV Fox 12. I just read your email and I have to tell you I was impressed. We have received a few emails from couponing websites wanting us to do stories on them, but your email caught my attention. I loved the fresh perspective.

Me: Um, uh, um. Thanks.

Mike: Are you going to be home today?

Me: Yep (seriously. I said "yep." Because in addition to being frugal, I am also classy).

Mike: Would it be alright if we came over in an hour to interview you so we could do a piece on your website for the evening news (the same evening news that has teasers during American Idol. As in, our teaser would play during the most watched show in America).

What I was thinking: Seriously dude, 1 HOUR? 1 HOUR, really? 1 HOUR until you want me to appear in front of a camera?  I need 1 WEEK to carefully select my words and my wardrobe. I have no makeup on and my house is a wreck and I have no clean black tops because the camera adds 15 pounds so a black shirt/sweater/moo moo is a must and there is absolutely no way on earth I can craft a coherent thought and put on blush and eyeliner and straighten my hair into submission in 1 HOUR let alone usher you into my house o' filth so the entire city can judge my parenting style my disheveled appearance and pretty much everything else about me.

What I said: Absolutely. 1 hour would be perfect.

And then I hung up and promptly did a happy dance around my house while my husband began to question his choice in a mate. And then I called Cathy and Monica. And then they proceeded to do a happy dance.

Somehow all three of us pulled ourselves together, found complimentary wardrobe choices and faked a bit of smarts for the hour and a half they were interviewing us. It. Was. Awesome.

Then we called everyone we knew (and their mothers) and told them to set their DVRs. Because we were pretty much famous TV personalities at that point.  Minus the famous. But for 2.5 minutes we were a big deal. And I was a part of making that happen. And I think that deserves a happy dance, don't you?


*Please forgive my dorkiness and my ridiculous facial expressions if you happen to watch the video. Oh and while I do have swimmer's arms/shoulders, my right arm is not that massive in real life. It's not right? That was just a bad angle, right? Anyone? Anyone?

The wrath of the 80's

Want to know what happens when you teach an 80's kickboxing class and you need a big fat bottle of Aqua Net to secure that crimped side ponytail you're sporting? Well you leave said bottle of ozone killer (what's that you say? CFC talk is so 1990?) on the counter in easy reach of your 3-year-old. Then you go take a shower to wash all that hot pink lipstick off. But not before you hand a rag and a spray bottle of water to each of your daughters who are on a hardwood floor cleaning kick.

You emerge from the shower to the gleeful screams of those proud little house cleaners. So eager were they to impress that they not only cleaned the hardwood floors, but also the walls/cabinets/doors/baseboards. Which would have been ideal. Which would have crossed a number of things off of your to-do list. Which would have been the perfect start to a fantastic day had your little tow-headed child not replaced her "broken" spray bottle with that big fat bottle of Aqua Net and sprayed every. last. surface. with a thick coat of hairspray. Wipe with rag. Repeat. Wipe with rag. Repeat.

And when you order her to her room and she fails to make it there because somewhere between the front door and her bedroom door her tiny little feet stick firmly to the hardwood, you laugh. And laugh. And laugh. But mostly because you're high on hairspray fumes.

We don't need you Mr. Sun

It's gray. It's icky. It's depressing. No sun. No blue sky. No sign of spring in the foreseeable future (curse you groundhog). So what do you do to escape the drab that is winter? Yes, retail therapy IS the correct answer, but payday is still a week away. So we did the next best thing: get the heck out of dodge. Same colorless weather plus new location equals momentary pause of the winter humdrum.

Mark and I have been going to the McCall Winter Carnival for years. Back before mortgage payments and 401Ks, when we still believed that our future offspring wouldn't be anything like those freakish tantrum throwing kids in the grocery aisles. Back when red coats were in (just smile and nod like you know what I am talking about, because apparently we were the only ones who got the memo that stated you MUST wear a red coat while visiting McCall or you will be stoned. Or something equally tragic).

See how young and naive we were. All fresh-faced and full of life. See what that foreign bright yellowish object can do to a person. Oh Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun please come out before I am forced to break into song.

Anyway, we felt it time to pass that tradition onto our daughters. We packed up the car with all of the necessities, ie. DVD player to distract restless children, food to distract restless children, coloring books to distract restless children (we forgot all of the actual necessities, namely: snow boots/suits, etc.).

See how distracted she is. She doesn't even know I'm there. We put Up in the DVD player and never heard another peep out of them until it was over. How on earth did we ever travel without that miraculous piece of technology?

When we arrived we did a lot of touristy things. We walked around.

We went sledding (the downhill was a piece of cake. Climbing back up was another story).

We posed in front of a ridiculous number of ice sculptures.

And we played in the snow.

And then we did what any logical parents who forgot their now soaking wet, Popsicle-like children's snow clothes would do. We got ice cream.

While my husband sat back and once again marveled at his estrogen-filled life (while sporting a, wait for it,  red coat).

Deep down I think he was thinking what I was thinking. Man was that a good good day.

Bet you think this blog is about me. Don't you?

I'm not sure what I want this blog to be when she grows up (that's right, I said "she." Because let's face it. Shes are just more lovey and emotional and understanding. I want her to be all those things). When I started it, I wanted my blog to take the place of that sadexcuseforascrapbook that still sits empty in Cora's closet. And she does that. I am able to record their pictures, milestones, silly sayings. And my family logs on from all parts of the country to witness two of their favorite little girls growing up. Which makes them feel not so far away. Which makes them happy. Which makes me happy.

So one day when my friend Krista told me about Google Analytics, it peeked my curiosity. But her suggestion came with a warning: be prepared to be disappointed by how many people are reading compared to how many are actually commenting. I told her my blog was our family blog, so I suspected there might be like 10 readers. And of those 10 readers, 5 of them are family members who don't even know how to leave comments regardless of how many times they have been taught (love you Mom!).

I input my info and was all set to see how many people visited my little ol' blog. 24 hours of waiting later (and not patiently I might add) it spit out a report. On the day I posted Tell Me I'm Pretty, I had 172 unique hits to my blog. Which might not be a big number to most of you. I mean 172 people visit the Pioneer Woman every other second, but 172 people for me. Well. Wait? I don't even know 172 people. Was that right?  It was.172 people read that post. And for a split second I was kind of happy.

Until I realized that of those 172 people only 6 had left a comment. 6 out of 172. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that comment to viewer ratio is pathetic. And it bothered me.

Did my writing stink?

Was my topic uninteresting?

Was my blog a big ol' pile of mush?

The irony was that particular post was about having an "I suck," day. And I started having one.

Because although originally I thought my blog was a family historian, it has blossomed into more. Which I didn't even realize recently when having a conversation with this gal about this post. I still thought I was blogging for my family. For my daughters. And I am. But me too. And me mostly.

This is where I vent. Hash through things. Throw up my insecurities and tell dumb stories and seek much needed advice. This blog is very much about me.

Stands to reason then that it took a little puff out of my sail when I realized only 3.5% of you comment (you see, I'm a mathlete. Yep, mathletic. So I can do percentages in my sleep. And now you know).

Pathetic how a comment can make us do a little happy dance. Make us feel important. Ah, the little things in life.