OC Family - Moms. Kids. Life. - (Rage Against the Minivan)

A Day at the Dunes

Mon, 23 Aug 2010 22:27:00 GMT

Yesterday we had our first foray with kayaking as a family of six. You see, Mark and I are in the process of finding new hobbies that we can do as a family. It’s our attempt at trying to feel less trapped limited when we are having family time. . . so that we can try to look forward to our free days with the kids instead of figuring out how to pass the time until they sleep. One thing we've noticed, with all the couples counseling we've been in conducted over the years, is that it seems like most happier couples have mutual interests that keep the spark alive. Like how Dog the Bounty Hunter and his wife both love catching criminals and orange tanning lotion. Or the way Spencer and Heidi are both attention whores that love making a total mockery of the Christian faith. SHARED INTERESTS. It's the glue, people.Plus, we've also made it a goal to follow as many bumper sticker slogans as possible, obviously starting with The Family Who Plays Together, Stays Together. Also taking into consideration the fact that Life is Short, Play Hard. Just Do It. Life is Not A Dress Rehearsal. We're Not Old, We're Recycled Teenagers!(and also If The Minivan's A Rockin' . . . . well, maybe I'll keep that one to myself). Unfortunately there are not a lot of activities that can safely hold the interest of a 5-year-old, two 3-year-olds, and a baby. Being at the beach means one of us is attending to the sand-eater while the other attends to three children who have no sense of the fact that they cannot swim. Kristen India hates sports, Karis is too young to participate meaningfully in anything, and the boys need to be constantly moving. So kayaking seemed like a good option because of the a) inaccessibility to sand b) flexibility in terms of children helping vs. sitting there, and c) requirement of life vests enforced by someone other than me.It ended up being a really fun experience. The kids were excited, and it was peaceful and relaxing for about 10 minutes until Karis decided that she would prefer to stand and attempt to jump into the water, or sit bent over with her face in the water. So I spent a good half hour paddling with Karis in a vice-grip between my knees (though I think it might have been an excellent inner-thigh workout). When I got tired of that, I just started splashing Karis in the face with water every time she stood up. I think I saw that on the Dog Whisperer once. It’s a classic behavioral modification technique for animals children. But even though Karis was a handful, India turned to me while we were out on the water and said, “Mommy, this is the best adventure we have ever had”. Which is a pretty great thing to hear. As we were focused on pulling the kayaks out of the water, Jafta managed to commandeer a paddleboard, and he was several feet out into the water before either of us noticed. And since we were both too lazy to swim in after him, he got a decent ride in. Thanks to The Dunes in Newport Beach for a fun day, and for not kicking my kid out for stealing that paddeboard. I’m pretty sure they all had a blast.

Technorati Tags: kayaking,family,parenting,motherhood

David's Bridal: not just for brides

Sat, 21 Aug 2010 22:04:00 GMT

Last week I went to Blogher – a huge conference for bloggers that was held in New York City. In the evenings the conference has several cocktail parties. As a busy mom of four, I am more familiar with yoga pants than snappy dresses these days, so I panicked a little trying to figure out where I could find a couple cute, flattering, and inexpensive dresses. Luckily for me, David’s Bridal stepped up and offered to “style” me for the conference. Beyond the wedding gowns and bridemaids dresses they are famous for, David’s has a huge selection of cocktail dresses. Who knew?

David’s Bridal invited me to their flagship store in Manhattan. Before I went, I checked out their website and had a few choices in mind: When I arrived at the store there were even more options to choose from, and I think I ended up with about 20 dresses in that dressing room! It was a lovely experience all around – their reps were great, the dresses were adorable, and I left with two dresses I really like to wear to the parties. (I love that little silver number and think it looks very Mad Men with the vintage shape and little rosette jacket, and had to laugh when they told me it was a mother-of-the-bride dress. I only hope I can wear something that cute when my kids are old enough to be married.)

So now, the question is: which one do I wear to the OC Blogger’s Ball next weekend?

Homeless Children in the OC

Mon, 23 Aug 2010 17:19:00 GMT

I'm working on my syllabus this morning for a new class I'm teaching this semester. I've been hunting for a documentary on HBO and as I was perusing their documentary listings I came across one film entitled Homeless: Motel Kids of Orange County. As soon as I saw the title, I knew I wanted to see it.

I've been having such a hard time with feeling content lately, and watching this trailer was like a punch in the gut. It was very convicting for me - with all the whining I've been doing about our temporary hotel life since our house flooded - that for some, this is a constant reality. It is no secret to most of us in the town where I live that many children live in motels. There are probably four of these motels within a mile of my own house, and I know it is a lifestyle that is demoralizing and difficult to leave. I also know that it is something that most of us in Orange County turn a blind eye towards. It isn't hard to do. Watch any television show about Orange County and you will see a parade of privlileged, wealthy, and overly tan white people. There are so many people who live here whose stories are never told. I am anxious to see this, but also reminded that I need to be grateful for what I have. I think this documentary will be important for anyone who lives in Orange County to see.

I'm also reminded that I want to be serving more. My church has a ministry with some of the local motels and I was marginally involved for a while. Just this Sunday, I was watching a video about a mission trip at church and feeling like it was time to get out of my comfort zone and back into mission work, but also feeling unsure of how to do that with so many young kids. Perhaps this is how . . .

Trailer

What I Wanted To Say

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 16:08:00 GMT

Well, folks, my fifteen minutes on The View is up. As nerve-wracking as it was, I am glad I was able to share a bit of our adoption story on a national media outlet. Leading up to the show, my mind was racing with points I wanted to make about adoption. It's something I'm so passionate about, and it's hard not to replay what I wish I would have said. Here's a bit of it . . .

I wanted to talk about seeing an article in Time magazine when I was 12 years old that forever impacted my life. I wanted to talk about how haunted I was of the images of Romanian orphanages, and the thought of children growing up without love or affection. I wanted to talk about how I cut out the photo and had it in my bedroom for years, and how I always knew that I would adopt.

I wanted to talk about the research on reactive attachment disorder, and how common it is among institutionalized children. I wanted to emphasis how insidious this disorder is, at the individual level as well as on a societal level. I wanted to talk about how it can form within the first few months of a child's life, if they do not bond with a parent. I wanted to share the stories of families I know who are recovering their children from this disorder that is so damaging to the souls of children. I wanted to talk about how this is a hidden disorder, because the children look so normal to the outside world.

I wanted to talk about the literature on institutionalized children, and how passionately I feel that the love of a family is a BASIC HUMAN RIGHT.

I wanted to talk about the effects of institutionalization I am seeing in my own home. Even though my son is only three, and even though he was in an amazing orphange.

I wanted to talk about how deep my love is for my adopted children. I wanted to share the way I love them every bit as much as the daughters I have birthed.

I wanted to talk about how you can only "save" a child once. After that, it's called parenting, and it is hard work. I wanted to emphasis that while I think adoption is a piece in solving the orphan crisis, it should not be a considered a rescue effort at the familial level. And furthermore, adopted children have the same right to be ungrateful and bitter towards their parents as biological children.

I wanted to say that while some internationally adopted children may choose to return to their birth country to give back in some meaningful way, some may choose to work at a local Starbucks or spend their 20's figuring out their career, and that's okay. I wanted to challenge the notion that adopted children somehow need to "make good" or redeem themselves by being special, as that narrative is often pushed in entertainment.

I wanted to address the meme of adopted children as lucky. I wanted to point out that adoption results from loss, and that adoption loss is often deeply felt.

I wanted to talk about how poverty is not a reason to remove a child from their birth family. I wanted to talk about how adoption should not be seen as a way of moving children from an "inferior" to a "superior" culture. I wanted to talk about how children can grow up happy and loved in any country if they form secure attachments. I wanted to talk about how a lack of affection is the most disgusting form of poverty, and how that happens right in our own backyard, even in the wealthiest of families.

I wanted to talk about the reasons women place their children in orphanages, and how we need to be looking into family preservation when possible. I wanted to talk about education, and birth control, and access to medical care, and how proud I am of the work Heartline is doing on those fronts in Haiti.

I wanted to talk about the cultural stigma of adoption in sending countries. I wanted to talk about why it is unrealistic to propose that international adoption be eradicated in favor of in-country placements, because of some of the barriers in specific countries. I wanted to talk about the emphasis on blood lines and the stigma of both adoption and out-of-wedlock children in Korea, the one-child laws in China, and the restavek/child slave situation in Haiti. I wanted to peel back the layers of the cultural issues that result in children being sent from one country to another.

I wanted to talk about the need for reform. I wanted to talk about the business of adoption, and how agencies are charging exorbitant amounts to complete adoptions. I wanted to talk about the disparity of costs between adopting healthy white infants and children of color.

I wanted to talk about how, when we called our Christian agency about a healthy African American boy from LA county who was in need of a home, we were told that they had no prospective adoptive parents willing to accept a placement of a black child. NOT ONE.

I wanted to talk about race preference in adoption, and the fact that a minority status qualifies a child for "special needs" status in the US, regardless of age.

I wanted to talk about the discrimination Jafta has faced already. I wanted to talk about how transracial adoption has opened my eyes to the over and covert racism that still exists in our country. I wanted to talk about how frustrating it is when I discuss Jafta's experiences of racism and people dismiss me as being overly sensitive.

I wanted to talk about how, despite how much we long for it, we have had difficulty finding inclusion in the African-American community. I wanted to talk about how, after two years of going to the same barbershop, the elderly proprietor finally admitted to Mark that he was just now "cool with us". I wanted to talk about the sting of wanting to immerse Jafta in his culture, while recognizing that having white parents may set him up for rejection.

I wanted to talk about the deficits that we will have as a white couple raising black children. I wanted to compare it to a single mom raising boys . . . how we will need help from others. I wanted to talk about how painful it can be as a parent to know that, while I can empathize, I will never fully understand my sons' experiences as African Americans, or as transracial adoptees. I wanted to talk about how every adoptive parent needs to suck up their pride and admit that we can't do it alone.

I wanted to talk about how much I have learned from reading the writings of adult adoptees, and how their experiences of loss and isolation inform me as a parent, and also break my heart.

I wanted to talk about the persistent question I hear asking why people adopt internationally instead of taking care of "our own kids" in the US. I wanted to talk about how every child, in every nation, is deserving of a family, not just American children. I wanted to say how petty I find this question.

I wanted to talk about the way our government renames orphans and calls them "wards of the state", and renames orphanages and calls them "group homes", and how we collectively turn a blind eye to the fact that we have hundreds of thousands of children waiting for families in the US. I wanted to talk about how inefficient, unprofessional, and overworked the LA county social workers were. I wanted to talk about how many times Jafta's adoption was stalled, during the course of three years, due to someone not doing their job correctly.

I wanted to talk about aspects of Jafta's case that I just can't share because I want to protect his privacy, but that would make your head spin in anger at the mismanagement of children in the system. I wanted to share what it was like to spend three years wondering if my child, my first son, would be returned to someone who had proved, time and again, that she should not be trusted with children. I wanted to talk about the ways DCFS lied to us, and the discoveries we made along the way, and the need for reform and funding for our fostercare system.

I wanted to talk about a system that requires foster children to be placed in an adoptive home for 6 months before terminating parental rights, regardless of an absence of reunification efforts by the birth parents. I wanted to talk about how this scares away prospective adoptive parents, and hurts children by leaving them in a limbo even after years of no contact with birth family. I wanted to talk about how children whose parents have failed to reunify should be made legally freed for adoption AS SOON AS POSSIBLE, so that more people would be willing to step forward and adopt.

I wanted to talk about the 18-year-olds I regularly see on adoption photolistings. Kids like Percell who, despite being old enough to live independently, place themselves on national photolistings because they desperately want to be adopted. Because, in Percell's words, he "wants to become a member of a permanent family". I wanted to talk about what life must be like for Percell, and other kids like him, who age out of the fostercare system despite a deep desire to have a family even as they enter adulthood.

I wanted to talk about the 300,000 orphans that were not eligible for adoption in Haiti BEFORE the earthquake, verses the 900 that were adopted. I wanted to talk about how many children around the world will age out of orphanages, due to lack of paperwork or other factors that make them ineligible for adoption. I wanted to talk about how people who can't adopt can support these orphanages, and to share about some of the orphanages who are doing it well.

I also wanted to talk about the reality that, in third world countries, most orphanage conditions are deplorable.

I wanted to talk about what responsibility we have to caring for our world's orphaned and abandoned children, and the small part adoption can play in that effort. I wanted to talk about how much we should all be bothered by the numbers of children in our world who are missing out on basic human needs. Security. Love. Affection.

I wanted to say that we should all be doing something. Not everyone should be adopting. But we should be doing something. And we should all be a little sick about it.

The View from here

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 00:30:00 GMT

So . . . some big news.

I am going to New York this week to do a taping for The View. It will air on Friday. It is for a segment about adoption.

Oh my word. I am not usually the nervous type. I AM NERVOUS.

I'm excited, too. They are flying Mark and I out. For the first time in my life, I will get off the plane and one of the drivers holding a sign up will have MY NAME on it. I think I might be most excited about that.

And New York City. Even thought we will be in the city for less than 24 hours.

I started thinking today about everything I want to say about adoption. I started planning the points I wanted to make, and the myths I wanted to dispel, and the realities that need to be heard. And then I remembered the handfull of interviews I did after the earthquake, and how fast it goes. And how you think you know what you want to say, but the questions may not give way to the points you've planned, and before you know it they are wrapping up. And suddenly you and Don Lemon are having a bumbling moment of confusion on live tv because he doesn't realize that Kembe isn't a baby, so when he refers to the baby you think he's talking about Karis, so then you explain that the baby came home from Haiti, and then he's confused because he thought your child was still in Haiti, and OH MY GOSH WHO'S ON FIRST?

And The View. I mean, those ladies. Who can keep up with them? My only hope is that I'm just talking to one of them, not ALL FIVE. Yeesh.

Only I hope it's not Joy. Because all I will be able to think of is Fred Armisen saying, ""So what? Who cares?"and talking about his brazier.

So today, because I couldn't handle the stress any more, I decided to focus on the one thing I can control: my outfit. (in psychology, we call this sublimation). I had two hours to hit the mall and try to find something that would look good on camera. Only, I imagine I will be sitting. Which means, anything I wear needs to look good while seated. And . . . yeah. That's not always so flattering. So, I went looking for an outfit that will hide the inevitable tummy spilling situation. So I'm looking for a shirt, with maybe some well-placed puckering or ruffles . . . but nothing too bulky. Then maybe some sort of short jacket in a good fabric? And then, I can't really wear a skirt because I don't want to be stressed about not showing my undies while I'm sitting there. But jeans seem too informal. And I don't really do slacks. And a long skirt looks too matronly. And . . . yeah. I pretty much came away from the mall with nothing but a clear conviction that I'm gonna need some Spanx and more than two hours to shop.

While at the mall, I took a few pictures of the latest hideous Brooks Brothers display.

This was last month's display. In case you can't see, those pants and ottoman are embroidered with tiny palm trees.

And now, this month. The seersucker is now embroidered with tiny lobsters. It's just a casual outdoor BBQ. With dandy silk pocket squares. Anyone for tennis? Let me just go grab my madras shorts, vintage racket and a SWEATER. If you get hot, don't worry. You can just tie it around the waist of your bright red shorts. Someone tell the help that we need more ice on the beer.

I seem to do this every time I visit South Coast Plaza. I don't know why I focus so much emotional energy on Brooks Brothers. (Yes I do. In psychology we call this displacement). And I don't know why they stir in me a disquieting rage. (Yes I do. Something to do with excess and pretension and moronic groupthink). But seriously. Just be warned. If you ever come near me wearing seersucker pants with embroidered animals, I will kick you in the throat. If you have an ottoman that matches those pants, I will kick you in the gonads. DO NOT TRY ME.

Wow, I just got way too heated about Brooks Brothers. If you are a fan, I promise, I am all talk. And really, as I mentioned before, all of this is really a way of diverting my nerves about BEING ON NATIONAL TELEVION . . . EEK. I am so anxious to present adoption well - to encourage others to consider adopting a waiting child, without sugar-coating the process. It's such a complex topic and I know my time with be short. I probably just need to resolve myself to the fact that I won't get it all in. But my hope is that my story can influence a broader audience to begin to think personally about the crisis of waiting and orphaned children, in our country and abroad, and how we can put our hands together and find them families.

Kristen blogs at Rage Against the Minivan.

Cleaning Out the Office, from a Former Working Mom

Wed, 26 May 2010 10:50:00 GMT

I've wanted to be a psychotherapist since I was in eighth grade. It's what I went to school for, and it's what I've done for the last ten years. I've been licensed and with with the same private practice for ten years. It was a very comfortable place for me. I liked my colleagues, I liked that the job was challenging and cerebral, and I loved that I could set my own hours and work part-time for a decent wage. One of the things that drew me to this career was that I thought it would be very compatible with motherhood. I thought I could see a part-time caseload during Mark's off days, while staying home with the kids.

This worked out well when Jafta was a baby. I really enjoyed going in to work, and the adult conversation was a welcome change to the quiet days at home with a baby. When India came along, it got a little more difficult to juggle. I felt a little more frazzled in session, and really struggled to keep up with returning phone calls and setting appointments during the week. Once I had Karis, I could barely find the time to call back the referrals I got. The few long-standing clients I saw after her arrival were hard for me. I felt like my brain was in short-circuit mode. I just couldn't get my head into a space where I could really be present with clients. I am an introvert, and motherhood was draining any energy I had that I could previously devote to my job.

Now that our fourth child is here, it has become increasingly obvious that I won't be able to continue in this line of work (at least any time soon). Parenting four kids is incredibly taxing for me as an introvert - but parenting our newly adopted son also requires a great deal of therapeutic intervention. I am daily trying to help him grieve his losses and break through some of his emotional and behavioral issues. With all the trauma we are working through at home, it seems impossible to then go and help others work through their own stuff.

I'm also finding it more and more difficult to handle "heaviness" in general. I have often thought that my cynicism and sarcasm have been shaped, in part, as a way to cope with a job where I deal with the worst of humanity, day in and day out. I look back at the last ten years and wonder how it has shaped me to hear story after story of the way humans are ugly and hurtful to each other. From divorce to child abuse to domestic violence to infidelity - I have heard it all. There have been many times when I've wondered if I wouldn't be happier arranging flowers, or designing furniture. As a therapist you are supposed to learn the art of detaching - but I have found that detachment follows me into other arenas of life, which hasn't always been good.

I've been holding on to this career, though, partly because a large part of my identity has been wrapped up in this career I chose before I knew myself well, and partly because I feel like the years of grad school and student loans mean that I need to stick it out. (There is also the bigger part of not knowing what else I can do professionally, but that's another story). But I've been avoiding any acknowledgment that I'm done - telling referrals that I'm on "maternity leave", even though it's been a year. And telling colleagues that I'm just taking a break.

Last week, my office called . . . and in a very gentle and therapeutic way, suggested that maybe it was time for me to come get my diplomas and books. They were absolutely right. I haven't been into the office in nearly a year. But something in me wanted to hold that place, because I just didn't want to admit that I am too compromised to be a therapist right now. Or maybe ever.

So I went and got my things, and packed up ten years worth of books with titles like Working with Emotional Intelligence and Anxiety Disorders and Phobias. As I packed it into my car, I wondered what to do with all this books. And I don't just mean where to put these books (though that poses a problem, too). But the more existential question: what do I do now, with all this knowledge, and without the ability to apply it?

(And yes, the obvious answer here is that I can apply the knowledge with my children. But I'm having a little pity-party of vocational identity, so let's not go there, okay?)

For the time being, I'm still teaching a couple classes in the grad psych department, and supervising a few interns, but I've officially taken down my shingle as a private practice therapist. Books are in the garage. Diplomas are in a box. Self-identity undeniably in flux.

Mother's Day and Mojitos

Wed, 12 May 2010 16:26:00 GMT

Mother's Day was a nice, relaxing day - mostly because Mark let me sleep in until 9am. Oh the luxury. We went to church and then we went to Habana's restaurant - a Cuban joint at a place called the Anti-Mall. It's safe to say that Habana's is about the last place most people would choose for a Mother's Day lunch - they blare ambient techno, the servers seem perpetually annoyed by children, and it's typically full of college-aged hipsters who are taking a break from trying on clothes at the adjacent Urban Outfitters. But I love it, and five years ago when we were still a childless couple, I chose it for that very reason.

Let me repeat that. Five years ago, I had no children. To borrow a phrase from Tara, somewhere along the line, things got seriously out of control. In May of 2005, we skipped church and had a nice casual brunch at Habana's, where I had a mojito to drown out my sorrows about not being a mom. In May of 2006, we had a cute little boy with us, and I didn't get to have a mojito. Because, um . . . we had a little surprise cooking that year.

In May of 2007 and 2008, we were a party of four, and apparently were too frazzled to take photos. (Or I was too drunk. On account of the mojitos). In 2009, Karis joined the party a few weeks before mother's day. Mojito courtesy of the Medela Pump In Style. (Ya'll ladies know what I'm talkin' about).

And this year, here we are. And yes, it might be time for the ole' Anti-Mall to replace their corroding urban fountains. And I might have had two mojitos this year.

Somehow I feel compelled to start singing a little song from Fiddler on the Roof. Join me, won't you?

Sunrise, Sunset
Sunrise, Sunset
Swiftly, fly the years . . .

I would be remiss if I didn't mention my thanfkulness today for my own mom, for Nancy, my amazing mother-in-law, and for the foster mom and nannies who loved on my boys before they joined our family. And, of course, the first mothers who gave them life.

(Jafta with his foster mom, who cared for him until he was six months old)

(Kembe and his nannies in Haiti)

Happy Mother's Day, to all women who nurture children.

The First Rule About Block Club . . .

Thu, 06 May 2010 21:51:00 GMT

I got back from a weekend speaking engagement late last night, and I must brag on my husband. I came home to a spotless house, and three bathed and peacefully sleeping children. I don't know what happened while I was gone (I'm guessing that bath before my arrival was the only one of the weekend), but from all outward appearances, Mark and the kids had a great time in my absence.

There were really only two dire consequences from my time away:

1. Mark allowed a Veggie Tales CD to be played in the car.

2. Mark bought Kembe a real golf club.

Let me explain.

First, I have worked hard over the past five years strategizing through every parenting decision, with the knowledge that setting precedence for certain things only means certain things will ALWAYS BE. For example, sure, it's a little stodgy that my kids have never had gum, or have never eaten a meal in front of the tv, or peed in the backyard. But I know that if you slip just a little on such things and allow it once, these children will turn on you and ask for this special treatment all the livelong day. This is why I have never . . . NEVER . . . played children's music in the car. Or ever, really. I abhor children's music. I don't think they even need to know the genre exists. So wouldn't you know, while I'm gone Mark takes the kids to Chick-Fil-A where they get a Veggie Tales CD, which he casually pops into the car on the way home. Now I ask you, what do you think I listened to all day today?

a) Veggie Tales

b) the sound of children incessantly nagging me to listen to Veggie Tales

(The answer: It doesn't matter. EQUALLY ANNOYING).

Now, to the golf clubs. Mark also has a certain obsession with buying sports equipment for the kids. Despite having a large collection of golf clubs in various sizes, Mark became concerned that Kembe is a lefty and was learning to swing with a right-handed club. I know you are reading this right now and thinking about the gravity of a three-year-old forming a crippling golf swing in his formative years. So clearly, the only option for Mark was to take him to Sports Chalet and buy a special left-handed golf club made of forged steel. Which Jafta got a mouthful of this afternoon in the backyard, when he was standing behind Kembe while he practiced with his new toy.

Let me say this. A couple inches too high, and Jafta's eye would be black. A couple of inches to the right, and Jafta would be missing some teeth. Luckily, his cheek caught the hit, but now his mouth is swollen beyond recognition. He has asked all day for me to put a band-aid on the inside of his mouth. But I'm not gonna do it. Because then he would always think he could have a band-aid on the inside of his mouth.

I sustained some injures in the backyard myself today, where I went to work on assembling a set of cardboard blocks I bought the kids. I remember playing with these cardboard blocks at my own preschool, and I thought that a set in our home might encourage the kids to build a fort with something other than the sofa cushions. And besides, look how happily this kids are playing in the promotional shot:

I mean, that little girl is HUGGING the block. Surely this will buy me hours of quiet play, no?

No.

First of all, it bought me hours of assembling pieces of orgami-detailed cardboard with razor-sharp edges. Each block took about an hour to assemble. I'm not exaggerating. (Yes I am). But seriously, it was annoying and my hands are covered it cardboard papercuts. Which could kill you, FYI.

And the kids? Once they took possesion of the blocks, it looked less like the picture above and more like this:

(By the way, I was gonna put a picture of three people wrestling . . . because there was also a good bit of that once they had access to the cardboard blocks of doom. But from experience, let me warn you. It's best not to search for images of "wrestling threesome". Because Google is thinking of something else).

Kristen blogs at Rage Against the Minivan.

Social Networking: sucking time, saving lives

Sat, 24 Apr 2010 11:46:00 GMT

I think it’s fair to say that many of us who write our own blogs also read a lot of blogs. We might also spend a fair amount of time on twitter. We might also waste a bit of time on facebook. And before we know it, we might find ourselves wondering how it got to be 1am and we still haven’t put the dinner dishes away.

And by we, I mean me.

I spend entirely too much time online. It's what a call a neutral addiction. It's not hurting anyone - I'm not flying into a drunk rage or throwing my life away or getting arrested. I'm just quietly wasting lots and lots of time.

I have a love-hate relationship with social media. It has certainly expanded my worldview and made me feel a part of a broader community of moms. I have never had that sense of isolation as a mom that I heard my mother’s generation talk about. Despite the fact that some days I don’t ever make it out of my pj’s, I still feel like I get to do a little socializing every night on facebook. When my kids go down for a nap, I can catch up on my reader to see what my friends are doing, or relate to an anecdote from someone else in a similar lifestage. I can blog about my struggles with choosing a minivan, or dealing with the school bully, or my inability to remember my assigned snack day in the classroom, and the comments often feel like my very own community of women, propping me up and guiding me along the journey. It's also provided me with an amazing community of adoptive moms, with families that look like mine. I may not see them every day, but I know they are out there, and I get to keep up with them on facebook and twitter.

And really, without twitter, how else can I let John Mayer know what a moron he is, or pretend like I'm friends with Michael Ian Black?

At the same time, I often think about how social media affects my priorities (and if I’m honest, my parenting). My tether to the online world is short and demanding. For something that was created for fun, I often feel an overwhelming compulsion throughout my day to get a post up, to think of something clever to say on twitter, and to make sure I’ve caught up on everyone’s updates on facebook as if it’s a pressing to-do list. I wonder how my life would be different if I didn’t have the distraction of social media. Would I be more present with my kids? (Yes). Would I be a better cook? (Probably). Would I be competing in a triathalon? (Well, let’s not get carried away). I have frequent checks with myself about my time spent online, and I’m aware that there is a fine line between recreation and addiction. I’m also aware that I am frequently on the wrong side of that line.

I confess that there are many times that I feel tempted to go “unplugged”. I fantasize about a kinder, simpler existence where I’m not worried about whether or not my sarcasm is coming across in my tweet about wearing a MILF shirt, or whether or not my father might be reading a post about my disdain for g-string underwear. I often wonder what level of self-actualization I could be at if I went to bed at a normal time, instead of furiously scribbling off a self-mocking account of my day each evening. At least a couple times a year, I become so disgusted with my social networking habit that I regret ever having discovered the world of social media.

And yet, I can recall times when we’ve been going to Haiti, and I posted a list of supplies we needed to take down, and within a few days I had a pile of donations from friends. I am cognizant of how my blog helped me in explaining the many stages of our journey through the fostercare system as we adopted our oldest, and how many painful conversations were spared by my ability to keep our circle of friends informed online. I am aware of how easy it is to update family on our big life events (contrasting giving birth pre- and post-twitter: the hours I spend making exhausted phone calls after having India, vs. the quick text that updated twitter and thus updated Facebook and thus updated my circle of friends that Karis had arrived).

I was feeling this dichotomy fiercely at the beginning of this year. I was excited about the fact that I had helped raise $30,000 for a birthing center in Haiti with a team of amazing women – a feat that was accomplished primarily through social networking. I also completed my first half-marathon with a group of other adoptive moms I’ve known for years, but had never met in person (our bonds being formed through the blogging world). But I was also feeling burnt out on blogging, and tired of the way I felt like my writing habit was a job from which there was no vacation (and very little pay). I was again in a stage of wanting to throw my computer into a body of water and free myself from the self-imposed obligations of my online world.

And then, I took a quick trip to Haiti to visit the little boy we’d been trying to adopt for two years. And then, an earthquake.

The days following the earthquake in Haiti were every bit as terrifying as the event itself. It was a different kind of terror . . . a dull, overwhelming sense of dread and fear that had a cloudy, disassociative feeling to it, in contrast to the sharp focus of the earthquake itself. The terror was diluted with a heady sense of relief and gratitude to have survived.

I would like to say that I found some sort of supernatural strength in the days following the earthquake, but in reality, I felt scared, weak, and alone. I was without my husband, and without two of my children, and I missed them terribly. I was also very worried about getting out of the country. My infant daughter who traveled with me was sick, and we were beginning to hear about issues with food and water. The phone lines were down, and we had a day where we really had no contact with the outside world.

But worse than all of that, I was convinced that this earthquake would halt the adoption process from Haiti, and that this little boy who I had visited and bonded with for two years would never be my son. We had been through so many hurdles in his adoption process, and I was certain that the mountains of paperwork now covered in concrete at the Haitian social services office marked the tragic end of our efforts.

And this is when something unexpected came from all of this seemingly frivolous social media I’ve engaged with for so long.

In the moments just after the earthquake, we had a brief interlude of internet access via satellite. My new friend Erin and I had been staying in a guest house that was now structurally compromised, so we walked with our children over to the house of Troy and Tara Livesay. Troy was able to update his twitter account that evening. He posted that there had been an earthquake, and that he and his family were okay. He posted that Erin and I were okay - which is how most of my friends learned that I was alright. As information came available, he posted about the people he knew who had survived, and about the stories he was hearing of the devastation reported by the friends who were stopping by. At this point, we really had no idea of the scope of this earthquake, though each visitor brought more and more troubling information. Troy continued to update via twitter, as we sat in their driveway weathering the terrifying aftershocks.

I can't remember how long, but shortly after that we lost internet signal, and it was off for what seemed like a long time. Erin and I were trying to get flights home. My baby was fevered and vomiting. The mosquitoes were fierce but we were also scared to be indoors. I desperately wanted to get Karis out of Haiti, and be back at home with my family. I couldn't reach my husband, and we had no way of contacting anyone.

When the internet finally came back on, we all quickly grabbed our laptops, hoping to send a few emails, find out when flights were resuming, and log into CNN to see if we could get a broader view of what was happening in Port-Au-Prince. I'll never forget Tara finding a picture of the crushed presidential palace, and the dread that came over the room when she showed us. And then hearing Troy realize that his tweets were being broadcast from every major news network. There were no reporters in Haiti yet, and no flights coming in or out. Troy was the news. He was not just updating our friends and family. He was updating the world.

Haiti was a trending topic on Twitter - and continued to be for weeks. Many people were talking about ways to give. People with friends in Haiti were asking for information. People in Haiti were tweeting their addresses and updates, but also pictures of people they were searching for. We also saw people tweeting their coordinates - "I hear a voice coming from a building at 31 Delmas - need help digging". Bresma orphanage tweeted their GPS coordinates for days, asking for someone to bring food and water to their dehydrated children. Twitter was becoming the coordination center for aid in Haiti.

And then I logged into facebook.

I thought I would quickly update my status. What I saw brought me to tears. All of my friends were posting messages for me - my wall was full of people asking about me, offering to help, and posting their prayer support. In those days of disconnect from my family and friends, facebook became a way to instantly feel connected again. It also became a communication tool. I couldn't call Mark, and we were separated by time zones. But when I had a rare moment online, I could ask a friend to call and wake him so he could get online to chat. The first day I posted about my canceled flights - and then I was offline for a day. When I got back online, I saw people moving into action on my behalf. Someone had an uncle in the military in the Domincan Republic - they were working on a helicopter. Someone knew a Haitian with a private plane - they were working on a seat. Someone knew a missionary outfitter who had a standby seat with my name on it. Friends continued to keep me updated on my commercial flight cancellations via facebook.

In the end, none of these options panned out, as the only way out of Haiti in that first month was via military jet from the embassy. But it was such a relief to know that my friends were pulling for me, and trying their best to get me home.

My husband had also updated my blog for me, which received hundreds of comments in those first few days. Even though internet was spotty, I could click on my blog comments and then read them after we lost connection - a way of feeling support in the glow of my laptop after our contact was cut off. I sat reading my facebook and blog comments long into the night - bawling and yet feeling bolstered by the prayers and support of friends and strangers. Those days after the earthquake were some of the lowest points in my life - but I also felt some of the most intense love from others. And beyond my own comfort, facebook was also a place where people were exchanging information on how to support Haiti.

Once I was home and reunited with my family, my blog and social networking sites became instrumental in the attempt to get our son Kembe out of Haiti and into our home. I left Haiti assuming that his adoption was stalled at best - but with very little hope. When I got home, someone I didn't even know had send me a message through facebook. She asked me to get involved in petitioning the government to allow already approved families who were matched with orphans to bring them into the states and finalize the adoption from here. I immediately started campaigning to get our government to grant humanitarian parole for orphans who had approved families. I penned a frantic blog post my first morning home - asking people to call our state reps. I asked my facebook friends to do the same. They posted my blog as their own status update. I watched the word get out quickly. That was a Sunday.

On Monday morning, I woke up to messages on my cell phone from Barbara Boxer and Dana Rhorbacher's office. Before I had even had a chance to call them, people had called on my behalf. I had my government leaders aware of our story and working behind the scenes - all from a blog post pleading for help. I think you know how this story ends . . . but just in case, five days later the US Secretary of State and the Haitian government agreed to give humanitarian parole to already in-process orphans. Our son came home January 23rd.

Now, I don't presume that my little blog and my facebook page is responsible for this decision. But I do believe that it was a tiny little ripple in that movement, and I'm extremely humbled by the way my friends and readers (yes, you) moved into action. And if I haven't said it clearly yet, THANK YOU. From the bottom of my heart.

So, I continue with my ambivalence towards this social networking thing . . . aware of the way I'm choosing to waste my time, but with a fondness for the friends it has brought me, and for that little moment in time when I was in a pit of despair, and a virtual mob of people put their hands together and collectively pulled me out.

Thank you for that.

On Not Puking at the Mall

Tue, 20 Apr 2010 22:09:00 GMT

I went to South Coast Plaza with the kids yesterday. ALL FOUR KIDS. I'm sure that this is an indication of a very small and sheltered life, but achieving this? The feelings it inspired were similar to the feelings I had after running my first half-marathon. If I can do this, I can do anything!

I didn't intend to take them to the mall. I had a small window with a babysitter. But let me explain small windows with babysitters. There is a LOST-style time-warp issue when I have a sitter. Suddenly, time moves very quickly, and in the three hours of freedom, I typically manage to achieve what could be completed in about 10 minutes of normal time. It's a similar phenomenon to what happens when I take small, crying babies on a plane. Only with that situation, it's the converse, and time moves very, very slowly.

Anyways, my plan for my morning of freedom was to get fitted for some new running shoes, take a quick run, and then swing by the mall for a quick errand. I got fitted for the running shoes and then my time-warp clock let me know that it was suddenly, inexplicably, time to pick up the kids from preschool.

But I really need to run to the mall. I've been needing to get some new underwear for weeks. I left most of mine in Haiti, and I've been getting by on a small rotation of the pairs I left behind. And yes, I should probably be boycotting Victoria's Secret for some reason or another. They are an awful company that promotes the sexualization of women in consistently submissive poses. But darn it if their cotton collection hasn't cornered the market on wedgie-free, non-hideous undies. I've tried others. Really, I tried.

VS, I can't quit you.

Now I know some of you may be reading this and thinking, "Non-wedgie underwear? You should just wear a g-string! They are soooo comfy! I love g-strings!" And to you people, I feel compelled to say this: I look at you like I look at the women on that show I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant. There are only two plausible options:

You are lying
You are missing some nerve endings in your lady parts.

Seriously, with the wad of fabric in your butt all day. Who can tolerate that?

And how can someone not know they are pregnant? And why do I still keep watching this show? Why?

Okay, this started as a post about the mall, and quickly deteriorated. Back to Victoria's Secret. I did feel a little bad about taking my young, impressionable kids in there, what with the godzilla-sized posters of half-nekkid, airbrushed women. But they seemed more interested in dousing themselves with sample perfume than looking at the giant sexy ladies, so hopefully their gender expectations have not been too marred. I was able to grab a few pairs of sensible cotton bikinis and get out of the store with my sanity intact, and with only a few annoyed glares from the clerk as my kids knocked over a display of glittery body lotion.

I have a little routine when we go to the mall, on the rare occasion that I really need to go there with the kids. Basically, I bribe them. A mommy store, then a cupcake. A mommy store, then the carousel. All the while, I warn them that their ability to partake in the cupcake/carousel is dependent on their behavior in the "mommy store". It's pretty effective leverage.

Kembe has finally gotten over his fear of carousels and really enjoys them. Only, he calls them playgrounds. As soon as he spots it he starts yelling, "A playground! A playground!" A fact that India likes to correct in her "There is no Dana, only Zuul" demon-voiced teacher impersonation. "It's NOT a playground. It's a CARA-SELL!!" (If you would like a better visual on what her face looks like and how her tone sounds when she screams at Kembe, take a look at this video.)

Ayways, the kids were good enough to ride the carousel AND get a cupcake. For some reason, the carousel attendants were giddy on power and made me ride the carousel with them. Unlike my children, I do not enjoy carousels. I get carsick from the slightest motion. I almost puked. But I didn't.

Then we went to the cupcake store. They sell mini-cupcakes for a dollar, so it's a very easy reward for the kids. Jafta and I have done this routine numerous times, and I can't tell you how many times he has inhaled a mini-cupcake and then upchucked it right in front of Bloomingdales. He just eats it soooo fast, and then it comes right back up - always on a certain spot of tile just in front of the makeup counter. I think that the Clarins lady shudders a little every time she sees us come through, since she knows he'll be puking on the way back out. This time, Jafta tried to eat his cupcake in his typical caveman fashion, but I slowed him down. He almost puked. But he didn't.

And that, folks, is how we define success around here.

Pretending to be an Adult

Tue, 06 Apr 2010 23:06:00 GMT

Mark and I had some friends over this evening. This is something we haven't done in a long time. We've had people over, but usually it involves other friends with kids, so there is a lot of chaos as we yell over the noise of the kids, and try to remember where the conversation left off before one of us was interrupted by rescuing a child off the side of the trampoline, or cutting someone's chicken, or telling the boys that they must allow the girls to play with them, etc etc. So yeah. The whole intentional "just adults" socializing/hosting thing . . . it's been a while.

We used to really like entertaining. Today I felt like I was trying to re-awaken some dormant part of myself. But simultaneously, I felt like an impostor - like I was trying to pretend to be a normal, functioning person again . . . . a person who lights candles in the evening, who puts music on the stereo, who sits and chats for two hours without falling asleep, who talks about interesting subjects beyond choosing a preschool or potty-training techniques. And the sense of pretending, or the sense of trying to be someone I used to be . . . the thing is, it wasn't for the benefit of the guests (although the feelings of wanting to impress where there, certainly). But more so, there was this overwhelming feeling of wanting to be a "normal", functioning, socially-connected adult again. And then a sad sense that I wasn't, and that something as simple as having another couple over for coffee was outside of my capabilities right now.

The friends that came over are single. The guy is one of my husband's friends from high school. He's dating a cute girl in her twenties that I've only met a few times. Something about that combination - a guy in the corporate world, who doesn't spend a lot of time with kids, and a girl still in college, coming over to my house . . . something made me start looking disapprovingly at my dirty floors, my fingernails, my formula-stained sofa, my three-inch roots, and my living room full of plastic toys. Suddenly I was looking at myself from the gaze of my former self, and wondering when I had gotten so tired, so messy, so scattered. So old.

I did manage to get the house decently clean, and the kids in pajamas before they came. I didn't, however, manage to wash or brush my own hair today (or to pick up the prescription at Target that has been waiting for three days, or return the overdue library books or return one single email. But I digress).

And as they arrived, it was as I expected. They seemed refreshed and energetic, bearing a cute jug of high-end beer. She was adorable. She did brush her hair this morning. Her toenails were painted, her clothes were not caked in baby food. Her purse was not overflowing with diapers and sippy cups. She was funny and charming. So was he.

When they arrived, my kids were doing their usual routine of running through the house full-speed, trying to avoid bedtime. Not five minutes in, I could see them grimace at the noise level. It was loud. I was self-conscious. And then, the question. The question that was sort of a joke, but also an observation. An observation tinged with a little pity, and maybe just a hint of concern.

"Is it always this loud?"

Yes. It is.

The kids went down. The guests both went to the bathroom. I winced at the thought of how that room smells (a result of two boys with very bad aim and a neglected diaper genie). I made excuses. Haha - the bathroom stinks. Haha - don't mind the laundry in the hallway. Haha - that drywall hasn't been patched yet. Haha - sorry the hand towels are so dirty. Haha - Kristen SHUT UP.

We chatted. It was nice. They were lovely. We laughed at the chasm between us as we discussed carpooling to a mutual friends wedding, and debated whether we should drive in their Porsche or our minivan. Haha - I have a minivan.

But still . . . I felt like I was pretending. Pretending to be more than a tired, frazzled, overwhelmed mom. Pretending to be a grown-up. But a younger grown-up?

I don't know.

It was a simple evening with friends, but it brought up a lot of stuff for me. I need to be more content. I need to be more grateful for my kids, and less whiny about the inevitable obstacles in this lifestage. I need to stop assuming that the fatigue I feel this week is the way I will feel forever. I need to get more sleep. At the same time, I need to take some breaks from the preschool set. I need to figure out how to be a social being and not just a mom.

I need to find more balance. And I need a pedicure. Stat.

Celebrating Mediocrity

Tue, 23 Mar 2010 23:29:00 GMT

I am not one of those moms who does a lot of fancy stuff for the holidays. It just seems like a lot of unnecessary work. At Christmas, I'm lucky to get a tree up. Every year at Easter my mother-in-law takes pity on the kids and dyes eggs with them. On Valentines Day she makes heart-shaped waffles with them. She always buys them cute seasonal shirts. I'm beginning to see a theme . . .

But I am the mom who then forgets about the cute seasonal shirt until aprox. three days after the actual holiday, and then wonder if it would be weird to dress up my daughter in a brand-new t-shirt with a darling Happy Halloween logo on November 3rd.I have to admit, I am really ambivalent about this parenting choice. Most of the time, I feel like I am trying to keep things simple, and all of the holiday clothing and decorations and teddy-bears and toys amounts to more "stuff" for me to store and ultimately forget to bring out at the right time. When I pass by all the seasonal stuff in those dollar bins at Target, I'm certainly tempted to buy the antler headband, the bunny ears, or the green leprechaun hat. But then the holiday passes and those things end up in the under the sofa or at the bottom of the toy bin until I finally find them and throw them away.

It doesn't help that a certain family member (my sister-in-law) is the queen of making holidays special. She is the mom who will have the kids in matching orange shirts at the local pumpkin patch on the first day of fall. She is the one who will have the kids in head-to-toe red white and blue on Fourth of July, or in matching Angels shirts and hats at the ballgame. I love this about Sarah, and I also love that my kids get to benefit from her creativity and thoughtfulness. Most of the time, I feel comfortable in allowing that every mom has their strengths, and that it's okay for me to slack in this area. I have other special skills!

Like reading sheet music, playing piano, British/Cockney dialects and tumbling.(Okay, those are the special skills from my acting resume ten years ago. But my flips on the trampoline are impressive).

Anyways, I do still suffer from that horrible female condition of comparing myself to other moms. This morning, I woke up and remembered it was St. Patrick's day, and frantically searched for green shirts for the preschool set. Having not remembered the day in advance, I did my best. Jafta's was more of an army green, Kembe's was teetering dangerously close to yellow. I sent them off, and then sat down to catch up on some blog reading. The first post was from a mom who served her kids Lucky Charms for breakfast, along with green milk. Then there was the mom who pack her kids' lunches with all green items. Then of course, the mom who handmade adorable green dresses for her girls. I feel my shame rising. I start the self-talk:It's okay, Kristen. That's not you. That kind of behavior only gets you into trouble. Keep things simple. Those are just distractions.Then I pick the kids up from school, and notice the plethora of girls wearing matching green bows and socks. It was India's turn to bring snack today, which I actually remembered, but apparently the generic snack I brought was saved in the pantry because another mom thought to bring green cupcakes for the kids. As soon as we got in the car, my kids were going on and on about St. Patrick's day.

Mom, good thing we're all wearing green!
Mom, can we go looking for rainbows?
Mom, we could go find some gold. And eat some chocolate gold coins!
Mom, let's have a leprechaun hunt in the backyard! (Wuh?)
Mom, are we having a special St. Patrick's treat? It's a holiday!!

Argh. Of course I have nothing planned, and I'm suddenly feeling like my "keep it simple" mantra might be laziness and indifference. Obviously my kids are excited about holiday celebrations. When we get home, I quarantine the kids to the backyard and start tearing the house apart for something I can throw together. I search for cookies: none. I search for frosting: none. Cream cheese? none. Finally, I find some random shelf-stable pudding cups in the back of the pantry. I have NO IDEA where these came from or how long they have been here. I empty them into fancy parfait glasses and add a few drops of pastel green food coloring. Remember that scene from Better Off Dead when John Cusack's mom serves a digusting green slime that bubbles?

I am not kidding, that is EXACTLY what this stuff looked like. In parfait glasses. I called the children in and cheerfully announced that we had a St. Patrick's day surprise. And they screamed and giggled and ATE IT UP. They were so excited and thought it was such a special treat.

I'm not really sure what the moral of the story is here. Do I need to try harder? Or is this just proof that kids will be excited even if we try less?

Or maybe I just need to stop trying to be someone I'm not.

Kristen blogs at Rage Against the Minivan.