Full Circle

The town where we live is affectionately called Soccer City USA.   I'm not sure why, but for some reason every fall this town gets bitten by the soccer bug and every family migrates to the sidelines driven by some odd homing instinct.  And it's been like this forever.   

I grew up in a soccer family.  All three of us kids played, my sister and I competitively; my Dad refereed, served on the board, and coached; and my mom drove us to practices and games, and kept our uniforms clean.  (Did I ever mention Moms are always the unsung heroes?)  

I've been plotting my girls entrance into the sport since before we adopted them.  According to several coaches I know, girls with dance and gymnastics experience shine on the field.  Therefore, my girls are in dance and gymnastics.   (I know, pathetic.)  I'm proud to say both girls know, we don't touch soccer balls with our hands.  My dad taught both girls to dribble through cones and shoot at the corners.  And those girls can really put some mustard on that ball.  Soccer is their legacy, for crying out loud.  

So, imagine my dismay when La Nina looked at her first soccer field and said, "Why would you play THAT?  They just run around and get sweaty."  Okay, whatever, she's a girly-girl.  This happens in soccer families from time to time.   We've never hassled her, and there was always Maggie.  She's been the great hope.  She's naturally tough, she doesn't take any crap despite her small size AND she doesn't mind getting sweaty. 

Tonight was the big night.  Soccer sign-ups.  I had Maggie sign the player agreement (she was so excited she forgot the 'g's...it was really cute.)  And guess who suddenly was intrigued by soccer?  Yep, La Nina.  So, I headed off to the local middle school with two registration packets.  Forget the fact, the La Nina asked in detail the odds of earning a trophy for playing as well as the type of treats served at half time.  

After fighting my way through traffic, I wandered into the auditorium for a major blast from the past.  A ton of girls I played with were working as volunteers.  All marveling I had two old enough to play...forget the fact, their kids are in high school.   Then something funny happened.  I couldn't get out my married name.  I actually wrote my maiden name by accident.  After a great deal of stammering, blushing and explaining that I did know my name, I think I got it corrected.  Two things that were perfectly clear:   Maggie's name was next to mine and so was my Dad's (as the assistant coach), so I'm sure I'll get the right team.

PS-  I'm coaching Maggie's team this year because she was the first to commit.  If La Nina plays next year, I promised I would coach her team.  

Too much thinking time this week....

Why is it that you spend all your time urging your children to share, but the only thing kids are truly good at sharing is their flu bugs?

Why is it that parenthood is really just about schlepping things for your kids?  First, it's diaper bags, then it's school backpack, dance bags, etc.  Do we really ever progress?  The bags just seem to get more abundant.  

Then there's this:  why is it that children will tell you they're starving then not eat the food in front of them?  

And why oh why do they think it's okay to call you in the middle of the night to do such menial tasks as pick up their blankie when it drops behind their bed?

Why do little girls change their clothes four times a day, placing all the clothes in the laundry, only to complain three days later when they run out of clothes?

Or this:  why do they run into preschool/kindergarten without so much as a wave over their shoulder, but have nothing to say about their day when you pick them up?

And why do they complain they're bored, yet when it's time to leave for errands, find themselves so deeply engaged in some game that they can't possibly be interrupted?  

And mostly, exactly how do they grow before our eyes, yet leave us feeling as if we missed something?  

Just wondering.       

Hello Hannah!

With the Magster on the mend and La Nina clinging to good health, we decided to hit the illness seam and take the kids for what is a right of passage for every young girl in the US.  Yes, we made the pilgrimage to the shrine of Hannah Montana.  Now, don't get excited that we actually saw her live.  We're committed parents, but we're sane.  Acquiring tickets to the local show required either friends in high places, a second mortgage or sleeping in dirt for two days. Alas we didn't have any strings to pull, any interest in a bigger mortgage or camping in December, so we slummed it at the local movie theatre with the other parents who were only willing to commit so much to their children's cultural development.  

The movie itself is just a concert, but if your kids like dancing, sparkly clothes and Hannah Montana, they'll love it.  As for my opinion, it was better than the series which involves a lot of sass and that's one thing I don't need to encourage in my children.   There's no doubt Miley Cyrus can sing, dance and entertain with confidence beyond her years.  It's genuinely G-Rated too.  Even the dancing is tame.  There's nothing remotely eye-brow raising in the show.  (Hats off to Disney for keeping it clean and holding the kids interest.)

But the whole time I watched the movie, I wondered if I was watching the next train-wreck-to-be.  I mean, really, Ms. Cyrus is all of 15, she's starring on television, leading a successful concert tour, appearing on the Grammy's and Oscars...but you have to wonder, how this kid is keeping her head on straight?  She's supporting dozens of people and their families with her talent.  That's a lot of pressure for a young kid.   

I know everyone keeps saying Daddy is taking care of her.  But let's face it, her Dad's achy-breaky-bank-account is bigger thanks to her efforts too.  He's on the show with her, he's made a record with her.  His career is going through a bit of a revival thanks to his teenager and that seems like an ingredient in the recipe of disaster for other young women who grew up in the spot light.

I'm glad we went, because Hannah Montana's one of those things that will be part of my kids girl-hood like Donny and Marie, the Brady Bunch and Partridge Family were part of mine.  And I'll just keep my fingers crossed that Ms. Cyrus grows into a role model that my girls will continue to respect.  Not a natural disaster like those who have gone before her.

Day of Love Full of Red

It's been a long time since I had a week like this one.  The poor Magster has been down with a virus since Tuesday and it's no fun in our house.  I'd forgotten what a drag it is to have sick kids.  Sure they watch a lot of television and are a bit lethargic, but they also want to be held 24 x 7.  While the cough and fever may make the Magster miserable, the bloody noses are killing me.  

Just to back track, the Magster's always been prone to bloody noses.  When the air dries out, my little one from the very moist South China pays.  Her skin gets sensitive and her nose dries out causing spectacular nose bleeds.  (Yes, I've seen a doctor...it's fairly common.)  She isn't uncomfortable when the nose bleed hits, but the whole episode surprises her and the blood flips her out.

So, last night, when I put her to bed, it was with a humidifier, a vaseline swabbed nose and tissues tucked under her pillow, just in case.  At 10:30 she started wailing.  By the time I got to her--a second after I heard the first cry--she looked like she'd been stabbed.  Her face was covered with blood as was her shirt, her bed, her pillow, her blankets, etc.  I got her up and stopped the flow pretty quickly, but then the bed needed to be stripped, the Magster needed to be washed her up and changed and it was after eleven before I got her back down.  

After that, she was so scared, she couldn't sleep and  I was up hourly for the rest of the night.  No other nose bleeds, thank goodness, but more "Mama-I-need-you" type things:  a dropped blanket, a potty run, a dose of cough medicine, stuff like that.  When I finally did really fall asleep about five, I was so exhausted I didn't think I could sleep.  

Which brings me to today.  About a week ago, I eliminated the last of the caffeine from my diet.  And I longed for it all day.  As I looked at the pile of laundry created from a single nose bleed, I yearned for a diet coke.  While I played Hello Kitty checkers, I dreamed of a mocha.  While I swabbed her nose hourly, I swear I could smell a pot steaming hot Kona Gold brewing in the kitchen.  It was torture.  I finally closed my eyes for a few minutes about four this afternoon, but it didn't help.  I dreamed of the Starbuck's drive thru.    And decaf just doesn't cut it.  

Back to my little one, she seemed better today.  Only one minor nose bleed while we were picking up La Nina from school.  So, she's down now again her humidifier, swabbed nose and tissues once again.  I added a special "no-nose-bleed" towel over her covers too.   I'm hoping we both have a better night tonight.  For some reason, missing a night's sleep just didn't bother her as bad as it did me. 

Ignorance is Everywhere

Background:  When the school year started, I debated sharing La Nina's adoption with her teacher.  I chose not to.  In my opinion, her adoption is history and is irrelevant in terms of her education.  This attitude goes against the advice of many adoption professionals, but the way I see it, it's simple:  Adopt is a verb.  La Nina was adopted once.  She is my daughter.  Period. I refuse to qualify that fact by turning "adopted" into an adjective or a qualifier.

I'm in charge of the Chinese New Year celebration in  La Nina's kindergarten class.  I've been working with the other moms to plan a nice little party, I loaned a bunch of my Chinese culture books to her teacher and I'm planning a little presentation about some of the traditions around the holiday.   This afternoon I went into La Nina's class to finalize the festivities for tomorrow.  While I'm describing some of the projects to La Nina's teacher, she turns to La Nina and says this.  

"You're so lucky to get to celebrate this holiday.  Is your daddy Chinese?"  

I was floored.  She's met the Dad on several occasions, he's decidedly not Chinese.  I'm not Chinese.  She knows La Nina was born in China.  What the hell does she think happened?  Does she think I traveled to China to give birth in a third world country with notorious low standards in health care and human rights?  But more importantly, what exactly is poor La Nina supposed to say in answer to her teacher's question?  

I looked down at my daughter and she turned her big brown eyes to me.  I could see she was totally confused.  I stepped in and said in a glib tone, 'Technically, her mother and father are both Chinese.  Come on' La Nina, let's go."  And we left, mid-conversation, without any further explanation of my statement or discussion of tomorrow's event.  I wasn't going to discuss La Nina's personal history with a person who didn't have the wherewithal to make some basic assumptions.  

The relief on La Nina's face was visible once we got outside of the classroom.  I gave her a big hug.  I made sure she understood my answer to the question and she did.  I told her she's free to give this answer and leave the room any time someone asks her a silly question.

And that's what it was:  a silly question.  The problem is it stems from total ignorance.   I know there's a lot of ignorance out there, I've been dealing with it for years.  But for some reason, experiencing it in a kindergarten classroom stunned me and it gave me a good idea of what my daughter is going to be dealing with going forward in school.  

Now, I'm sure some of you think, well you should have told the teacher.  I'd argue No.  If a teacher's so closed minded that adoption isn't a possibility, then I'd rather her not evaluate my daughter from her obviously biased point of view.   Let her think I went to a Chinese sperm bank.  Let her think I gave birth in China.  Let her think whatever she wants about me...but leave my kid out of it.

It's too late in the school year to change La Nina's class to get her away from this teacher, and frankly, she's having too much fun with her classmates for me to do it.  But let me tell you, the Magster will not have this teacher in Kindergarten.