Rage Against the Minivan

putting myself to bed (the night owl’s lament)

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 17:20:00 +0000

I have always been a late-night kind of person.

My mother was, too. I remember growing up, watching my mom get a burst of energy right around the time we were all going to bed. It seemed like this was the time when she always got absorbed in a project. It wasn’t unusual for us to hear the sewing machine start to hum at 1am. It’s still not unusual to get a phone call from her at midnight. And she’s three hours ahead living in Florida.

It’s hard to say if it’s nature or nurture, but I’ve always been the same way. As a child, I loved laying in bed and reading in a quiet house in the wee hours. In high school, that was the time when I would make a collage from my Seventeen magazine or lay out photos into my overflowing scrapbook. I’ve always relished the time between 10 and 2am as the best part of the day. Obviously, in high school, my schedule was at odds, and I spent many tired days dragging myself from class to class. Then I went to college and majored in theater, where my nocturnal habits were completely acceptable. I found a whole community of people who were energized late at night. Classes were scheduled around the assumption that our shows would keep us up late, and I was able to exult in a lifestyle of staying up late and sleeping in every day.

The problem is, I never really broke this habit. For years, I was able to arrange my life to support my night-owl preferences. My graduate school classes were at night. When I went into private practice, I set my own schedule, and most of my clients preferred to come in the afternoon. This meant that sleeping until 10am each day was a luxury I could afford, even with a professional job. Sure, I had the occasional moments of shame about my lifestyle- the mailman catching me in my pj’s at noon . . . explaining to neighbors why I didn’t open the door at 10am. But by and large, it worked for me. When I added my current gig as a part-time professor fit in perfectly, because those classes are held at night as well.

I think you know where this story is headed, though. . . . right?

It was all fun and games until the kids came along. And actually . . . . I managed to get a few good years in even then. When our kids were young, we kept them up late, and they slept late as well, assisted by blackout curtains and a mother bent on shaping their body clocks to match her own. Sure, I had to reconcile that I’d probably be woken up at 9am instead of my preferred 10, but that wasn’t so bad. But as the years ticked by and the family size grew, that wake-up time bumped up incrementally, and starting them in school all but busted any illusions I had that I could maintain this schedule.

This is the first year that I have a couple days a week where each kid needs to be at school by 8am, which means our wake-up time has shifted to 7am. Now, I know to many that doesn’t sound like a big deal, but to me, 7am is HELLA EARLY. Now one might think that the simple solution would be for me to just go to bed earlier. In theory, this sounds easy enough. In practice, though, I’m finding it really difficult to get myself to bed at a reasonable hour, despite the fact that my late-night revelry means I am exhausted pretty much every day.

This is the cycle of insanity I go through every day:

7am – wake, exhausted and grumpy, curse myself for staying up too late

8am-9pm – exist in a state of pure exhaustion, vow to myself on an hourly basis that tonight I will go to bed at a reasonable hour.

10pm – get burst of energy, begin rationalizations for staying up

11pm – MINE! MINE! This time is MINE! I feel great right now. Best I’ve felt all day. I deserve this time. I NEED IT! I want to write and return emails and just sit in the still quiet of this beautiful, blessed hour. I can pull myself together tomorrow. This is MY TIME!

and repeat.

I’ve spent the last year doing this, with varying levels of shame and frustration at my lack of self-control about going to bed. Gee, what was I just telling my students the other night about the definition of addiction? ENGAGING IN REPETITIVE BEHAVIOR DESPITE NEGATIVE CONSEQUENCES. That would be me . . . every night.

Hi, my name is Kristen and I’m addicted to staying up late.

I will be honest . . . there are times with I think about the prospect of having children who need to be shuttled out the door by 8 for the next 16 years and it truly depresses me. I need to get a handle on it. I don’t like being a tired mom all the time.

Lately I’ve tried all manner of techniques for forcing myself into an earlier bedtime. I put a program on my computer than shuts it down at 11, but then I end up reading a book into the wee hours. I have had some improvement this month – I’m in bed most nights by 12:30 which is obviously much better than my preferred 2am. But 12:30 is still not gonna cut it with a 7am wake-up call. I wish I was one of those people who can function well on less than eight hours sleep, but I’m just not.

So, my goal for this season: put myself to bed. A seemingly simple task that continues to elude me.

the slacker mom’s guide to homemade photo cards for valentine’s day

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 18:48:00 +0000

I’m not really a “handmade card” kind of mom. I think it’s lovely that other moms are, but at this stage in our family there is usually just not enough time in the day for me to indulge in my creative side . . . beyond staring at the things other people are doing on Pinterest. With Valentine’s Day approaching, though, I did decide to make some homemade cards, inspired in part by cards like this one. But, if I’m to be totally honest, it was also inspired by my desire to not have to supervise four kids signing their name to 20+ cards. We are barely recovered from “thank-you-gate” over here.

(For those waiting in anticipation, we did manage to write and deliver the thank-you cards for the twins’ birthday, after I was adequately ~~shamed~~ advised in the comment section of this post.)

Anyways, after seeing a few cute photo cards on Pinterest, I decided to make photo cards using the chalkboard wall in the boys’ room. We are in the process of rearranging India’s closet so I just happened to have a closet rod hanging around the house – but I’ve seen other people use a white plastic pipe from Home Depot for these purposes. I wrote a little note on the chalkboard and snapped a picture of each child holding what would become the lollipop stick.

I took the pics on my phone, and then uploaded them to Shutterfly with their iphone app. I hunted around for Shutterfly promo codes on a few coupon sites, and my photo order total for 25 prints per kid came out to $3 plus shipping. Not bad.

The most difficult aspect of the photo shoot was that my kids could NOT understand where the giant lollipop was. I kept trying to explain perspective to them . . . that I would print the photos and then the stick would be for a regular lollipop. They didn’t get it, and are still quite disappointed that a lollipop the size of their head never materialized.

Next, I grabbed a bag of heart-shaped lollipops at Target, along with some pink flat cards that were slightly larger than the photo to use as backing. I glued the picture onto the flat card, made a hole, inserted a lollipop, and taped it to the back. As it turns out, the hole punch wouldn’t reach the right place on the photo, so I ended up making a small hole in the picture with a steak knife.

I think they turned out really cute. The kids LOVE them.

I made a candy-less version for Karis’s class, with a puffy sticker instead of a lollipop.

Then we made a few cards with all of the kids in the picture, for family members.

Between the photo printing, flat cards, and lollipops, I spent about $15 on this project . . . for 100 valentines between all of their classes. I think I would have spent more on store-bought cards. Plus, I think the assembly is less time-consuming than folding and signing all of the store-bought cards, since my kids inevitably beg for the cards that require affixing a pencil or a temporary tattoo to each microscopic card. This feels more personal, and will be a fun memento for them to keep as well. Hopefully they can look back on it positively . . . once they are done grieving the giant lollipop that never was.

goodbye to the double stroller

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 06:27:00 +0000

I sold my double stroller on Craig’s List over the weekend.

It’s hard to explain the freedom I feel about this particular milestone. It’s been a long time coming – I’ve kept it around for the occasion big outing but finally I decided it was time for us to part ways. I’ve been schlepping a double stroller around for six years now –six years of pulling that monster in and out of my trunk. Six years of not fitting through doorways . . . of strategizing stairwells . . . of retrieving objects thrown or dropped from the children, of forcing the two walking children to hold on to a side while crossing the street, of stuffing a diaper bag under the seats, of strapping arched backs into the restraints, of cleaning Goldfish out of the crevices, of tipping the entire rig when kids exit before I’ve pulled off a heavy bag, of leaning against it as I walk the mile back to the car from the Disney exit, of having two preschoolers fight over the second seat, of stacking three kids into a double stroller in desperate moments . . . six years of this thing as a very present accessory in our family. And you know what? GOOD RIDDANCE. I hated that thing.

There is just no dignity when you are pushing a double stroller. The kind gestures and open doors you get when you are pregnant? Those completely disappear when you are trying to squeeze this monstrosity through a swinging door, with two other children in tow. I always felt as though I could exchange that thing for a shopping cart of my belongings in trashbags and the level of disdain from the general public would be about the same. The world is not kind to the double stroller dependent. Being untethered from this thing feels like a new level of freedom. I’m walking a little taller now. Literally.

There are many milestones in this parenting gig that have been bittersweet. I bawled when I packed up Karis’s newborn clothes. I was devastated at the end of our nursing relationship. But there is no love lost for the stroller. And I’m guessing I’m going to feel the same way about diapers.

Now, if I can just figure out how to offload this minivan . . .

that’s what SHE said: diversity, gray hairs, moms against moms, oppression olympics, political hypocrisy, sexist LEGO’s, and the pursuit of happiness

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 23:01:00 +0000

{click on the title to read the whole post}

On the wide world and why it matters | Chookooloonks

Since returning home from the funeral, I've been thinking about how much immigration and emigration are such a huge part of my personal story. If my great-grandfather hadn't immigrated to Trinidad from China and met his Asian/Amerindian wife, my paternal grandmother wouldn't have been born. My paternal grandfather's story is similar, with the immigration of his Barbadian family to Trinidad. On my mother's side, her people hail from countries including India and Martinique, before arriving in Trinidad. My family immigrated to the United States -- several times. And if I hadn't emigrated from the US to England for a couple of years, I would've never met my English/Irish husband Marcus, married, immigrated back to the United States and adopted our Latina daughter. Just in my family, my immediate story is touched by at least 10 countries that I can count, and there are clearly more.

"They Shot Him, Papa!": Finding Smarter Ways to Talk to Kids About Diversity | David Valdes Greenwood

By the end of the week, the limits of this approach had been made clear when a white boy told a boy of color -- one of his best friends -- that they couldn't play together anymore because of the boy's brown skin. This reaction, I have to admit, was a fairly logical outgrowth of the white child's understanding of the lesson he'd just learned in school: that a white man killed a black man because the black man wanted their races to get along. For the white boy hearing such a message, not playing with his African-American pal could equal watching out for his friend's safety.

These puppies aren’t my fault | The Bloggess

Oh, I’m getting puppies. There’s gonna be puppies everywhere. And then when Victor is all “WHERE ARE ALL THESE PUPPIES COMING FROM?” I’d just say “These puppies came from you. You brought these puppies into our house. With your wrongness.” And then he’d complain that I was the one that kept sneaking puppies in and I’d have to explain that his actions brought the puppies in. And then he’d realize just how crazy it is to fight about ridiculous shit for no reason at all. Also, the puppies get shafted because we aren’t responsible enough to have that many puppies. I mean, think about the puppies, Victor.

Your hard is hard — The EO

I hesitate in venting because when I’m doing that it so often seems that other mothers assume I’m saying I win the Hardest Award, or that I’m wishing away my life. But I’m not. I’m just talking. I’m seeking validation and there is nothing more refreshing than another mother who simply sees me and acknowledges The Hard and nods and says, Yes, it’s so hard, isn’t it? The End.

Why is she so rare?

This is the day my hairdresser asked me if I am 30 | Sassafrass

I distinctly remember the year my own mother turned 40. I thought she was ancient. Of course, I was 15 and had a hundred-thousand opinions about who and what my mother was. Now when I see pictures of her from that birthday, I'm taken aback by her gorgeous, glowing skin and thick, curly blond-streaked hair cropped around her face. I also remember when her best friend turned 40 a few years later. I was astonished that they could overcome the chasm that is three or four years age difference to be close and I wondered if it depressed my mom that she was so much older than 40 by the time her friend reached that pinnacle.

Anderson Cooper’s Love/Hate Relationship with Moms | Pundit Mom's Spin Cycle

I know your producers probably told you that this is mom vs. mom topic is one that we’re all are still fighting about. I guess they missed some of the other writing that’s been done on the subject. In case you’re interested, mothers are pretty much done with that. It’s too exhausting to put down our fellow moms, and we’ve got other more important stuff to do. Like, you know, eating bon bons while our kids are are running through the house with matches and sharp objects.

On Gratefulness and Motherhood | Mocha Momma

Motherhood offers no badges or stripes save for the stretch marks or the haggard looks we wear. Babies don’t thank you for catching their puke. Teenagers don’t appreciate you for putting clean sheets on their beds. But in that instant when they willingly share their own truths with you there is a sliver of gratitude. There is something loving and joyous that sneaks up on you and, for inexplicable reasons, it covers a multitude of sins they’ve committed against you. It’s hard not to be grateful and indebted in that split-second.

The theater of the absurd? | Welcome to my Brain

For as long as scouting has existed, there have been gay boys camping in tents and lesbian girls sharing camp bathrooms. There have been boys who know and believe they were born girls and girls who know and believe they were born boys ... selling cookies, tying knots, having sleepovers, and earning merit badges. I don't recall reading about these children making sexual advances on other kids and creating chaos.

How Many Stephen Colberts Are There? | NYTimes.com

“There’s a common explanation that profound sadness leads to someone’s becoming a comedian, but I’m not sure that’s a proven equation in my case,” he told me. “I’m not bitter about what happened to me as a child, and my mother was instrumental in keeping me from being so.” He added, in a tone so humble and sincere that his character would never have used it: “She taught me to be grateful for my life regardless of what that entailed, and that’s directly related to the image of Christ on the cross and the example of sacrifice that he gave us. What she taught me is that the deliverance God offers you from pain is not no pain — it’s that the pain is actually a gift. What’s the option? God doesn’t really give you another choice.”

A letter to my sweet little Afton | NoBiggie

The other night I was getting your big brother out of the bath. He asked me to wrap him up in the towel and sing “Baby Mine” to him like I always do. I started to sing to him, and then I started to cry as I thought of you, and how I’ll never get to wrap you up in a towel after a bath. It was the sweetest thing…your big brother started to cry with me (which only made me cry more). He is the sweetest little boy, with such a tender heart. It was the first time I have felt that he too misses you.

Tingalayo | The Girl Who

I watch as firefighters break into Henry's bedroom window and begin spraying water. They are everywhere now, the firefighters. I count five fire trucks before turning my attention back to my house. Flames are shooting from Violet's bedroom windows and the roof above her bedroom. I think of getting her dressed in that room just hours before. Had the fire been burning then? I smelled smoke all morning, but had assumed it was the neighbor's wood burning stove. On really windy days the smoke from his chimney blows right into our house and smells like burning wood. Had I been smelling our own house on fire? Yes, I was, as it turns out. Fire in the walls. In Violet's walls.

LEGO Friends Petition: Parents, Women And Girls Ask Toy Companies To Stop Gender-Based Marketing | HuffPo

"It would be easy to assume that this is just about LEGO, but [it] is part of a much larger marketing environment that puts the interests of girls and boys into ... limiting boxes," said Cole, one of the women behind the new petition agains LEGO Friends. Indeed, other classic brands including Rainbow Brite, Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony -- and even Troll dolls -- have been transformed. The characters are much more slender, many look like they've gotten hair extensions, the Trolls carry purses.

Plastizer increases miscarriage risk. — Environmental Health News

Adults are exposed to phthalates primarily through diet. Phthalates are used to make vinyl plastics softer and more flexible. Food packaging, medical tubing and children's toys can contain the chemicals. Other phthalates are also found in certain personal care products, such as fingernail polish, perfumes and cosmetics. Because of their wide use, exposure is ubiquitous and continuous.

Why Should I Care About The Gingrich Marriage? | Lisa Belkin

By the above measures I shouldn't even have been watching Nightline last night, since an ex-wife's accusations that her husband asked permission to have an affair and to call it an "open marriage" tell me nothing about that ex-husband's legislative goals nor governing style and are therefore none of my concern, right? Not completely. There's a mark by which personal revelations can be measured when judging their relevance: that of hypocrisy.

Controversy & consequence | Livesay [Haiti] Weblog

There is certainly a time to stand up for the truth, to dissect sin issues of others, to assault heresy, talk about a foolish public figure, and/or process a painful past. In a fallen world, it has to be this way and always will be until the coming day when Jesus makes all things right. But the greater question concerns our posture. What emotions do we carry? What conversations do we have with others? What is the tone and content of those conversations? Do we have a "I sure am glad I'm not like that idiot" attitude? Or, "How in the world could he screw that one up so badly?!?!?" As if people have never wondered those same questions about me.

Dear Ann Krinsky Age Twenty | Ann’s Rants

You will spend years questioning yourself and your actress-turned-sales executive-turned-social-worker-slash-mother-turned-blogger-slash-writer-path. Yes, sales executive. In five years not only do you wed, but you also begin a career in advertising sales. Am I scaring the suspenders off of you, Ann Krinsky Age Twenty? Have faith. These skills you learn in theater bring you far—taking direction, improvisation, and especially the use of eyeshadow to make your nose appear smaller. I just killed your theater career dreams, didn't I. Don't cry Ann Krinsky Age Twenty. Use this devastation in Shakespeare class. You need it. Your childhood fared too comfortably for this serious acting business. Save those tears for ad sales. You'll be selling Dr. Laura. I'll leave it at that.

32 Things I’ve Learned about How to Be Happy | In Pursuit of Happiness

What I do, who I am, is someone who soaks up the world around me, someone who seeks happiness constantly. That hasn’t left me with a lot of money or a great skill that I can teach. It leaves me mainly with impressions, ideas, and experiences to share. It’s not much, but it’s what I have to give.

parenting a toddler: the cycle of despair

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 07:36:00 +0000

This is how I found Karis's room, not ten minutes after spending an hour in there putting things away. If it is ever discovered that I've thrown my body in front of a moving vehicle in a psychotic rage, this is why, people. THIS IS WHY.

interview with taye diggs about his new book “chocolate me”

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 05:09:00 +0000

Last week, I was asked to take part in a phone interview with Taye Diggs about his new children’s book called Chocolate Me. Yes . . . that Taye Diggs. I responded (perhaps too quicky?) and let his people know that I was a fangirl and a Renthead, and that I was really, really, super-duper dorky excited, and despite me acting like an adolescent girl about it, they still let me interview him.

Let me explain my feelings about Taye Diggs. First, there is this:

This was not modified for comedic effect for this post. THIS IS MY REAL, OFFICIAL LIST, YOU GUYS. Taye has been on there since Stella got that groove back. (Please do not mock me about Anderson. The heart wants what the heart wants).

Then there is the fact that Taye Diggs is not only easy on the eyes, but also a broadway actor. Married to another broadway actor that I adore. Have I mentioned I like musical theater a lot? Have I said that? Maybe a few times?? Let’s have a stroll down memory lane, circa 1996.

As you can well imagine, I spent the last week giving myself stern lectures about what would and WOULD NOT be appropriate questions for Taye Diggs. I am very proud of myself for refraining from asking the following questions, that were threatening to exit my mouth in a Tourette’s style fashion for the duration of the interview:

Can we sing a duet from The Wild Party right now?
Have you and Idina ever considered a sister-wife?
Would you like to hear my 56-point critical analysis of Rent: The Movie vs. the stage version?
Do your pecs have anything to say?
Would Idina like to be my friend FOR GOOD? Get it? GET IT?

I’m quite proud I was able to reign in the dorkfest and have a coherent discussion with him, because Taye has written an awesome children’s book that is right up my alley. (In fact, I included it in my list of resources for talking to kids about race yesterday). It’s called Chocolate Me, and it’s the story of a dark-skinned African American boy who is teased for being brown. It’s a really great book to get kids talking about racial teasing, and I think it is a great selection not just for children of color . . . but for all kids to develop empathy for this kind of bullying.

Taye was really generous in his interview with us – there were four other bloggers involved and we dove right in to some heavy topics. When asked about his own personal journey with overcoming teasing as a kid, Taye shared that the book was largely autobiographical.

“There was that bout , my bout with my struggle at that time as a 5 year old, just understanding the nature of race as far as white people and black people are concerned or black people and black people are concerned. Right about that time when I was 5, after that conversation I had with my mother, that kind of sustained me because things remained fairly simple until, it was around 5^th grade, because we moved a bunch of different places. And then later, we moved back into another suburb where the neighborhood was very diverse, but my grade was not. It was an interesting kind of contradiction, where the suburb we moved to was when I was first introduced to upper-middle class black people, but I was the only black person in my class. So there were still issues. I remember there was one black girl and me and whenever people would pair off, they would immediately just assume that we would partner. They weren’t very liberal with their thinking, the teacher included. When I got into high school I started to hear, from the black community, “oh everybody is more attracted to the light skin girls and the light skin dudes and the light eyes.” And from within the race the light skin black people and more lighter brown people would make fun of the darker people. So then it was a completely different kind of struggle. And then funnily enough it was when dark skinned men, and this was just from my perspective, there seemed to be a shift where all of a sudden we saw Denzel Washington, Wesley Snipes, Tyson Beckford. For me personally, when I saw Tyson Beckford kind of hailed as this beautiful man by all people, that caused a shift in my being. And I remember literally waking up and walking the streets feeling a little bit more proud.”

I asked Taye about what advice he would give parents raising children of color in predominantly white communities. His response:

“I think so much of what is needed happens at home. Again, drawing from my childhood, once my mother had this conversation with me, from that point on, my mother and my father made sure that whatever we were going to see, whether it was a movie, play, TV, they always brought attention to black performers, my mother made sure I read the auto biography of Sidney Poitier, etc. At the same time, without in any way being discouraging to other races. It was just this, “we want to make sure you understand who you are and regardless of what mainstream society puts out there or may think, this is what is happening. These are positive people that look like you and are doing great things so there’s no excuse for you to not be doing things just as great.” I have to give my mother props in that respect too. My family never made it seem like I couldn’t accomplish anything I wanted. We had no money, my father was in and out of jobs, my mother went back to school, and we were on welfare. So I think tons of people in my position, as cliché as it sounds, would have maybe turned to the streets. But those options weren’t even in my hemisphere. I didn’t know how, but I just knew I was going to go to college and I knew I was going to do something successful. So I think all of that came from the home. To this day, I tell myself to only control the things that you can the rest you have to just let it be. But that which you can control, gain control and own it. So as far as that’s concerned, I feel that so much of it takes place in the home. And to be prepared. Be prepared for the adverse reactions and build up a strong sense of self so that when darts are thrown you can kind of deflect them.”

Taye was really open and vulnerable with us. Not gonna lie - his warm personality and thoughtful responses may just have knocked Mr. Stewart out of his #1 slot. But more importantly, Chocolate Me is a really solid book for children of all colors to learn about acceptance and self-esteem. You can check out the book’s facebook page for some great discussion about kids and self-esteem as well.

Black Was Once A Color to Me: Reflections of a White Father of Black Children on Martin Luther King Jr. Day

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 00:32:00 +0000

{This is a guest post from my friend Ian DiOrio.}

Black was once a color to me, and only a color. The remainder of all colors collected and melded into one. The conglomeration of lighter and brighter colors, mixed upon and within one another to create the darkness of black. Black is the color without color; black is light without light. At least that is how I used to see black, when it was only a color to me. Today black is no longer a color, only a color; it is a social history, a narrative in and upon those whom make my fatherhood possible. I am white, and my children are black, and to me, as their father, their color is brighter than all whites and more magnificent than rainbows and fireworks. Black is no longer the absence of color; it is, as the father of black children, the divine sheen that makes my fatherhood possible.

I am white. Mostly pale and without definition. Gifted by transparent ghostly color, not shaded with highlights of oppression or social marginalization. No, white means I am the color that bleeds into none. White the color, the creator of history, the storyteller weaving mendacity among victims of precipitous hate and malformed rage. White is to have no story, other than the story that yours is the one story that bleeds all stories together, without itself being smeared or tainted. Some call white Devils, others Angels. Regardless, let it be said that the absence of color- the clean canvas of yet discovered symbols and brush strokes- embodies within its absence, a cacophony of dotted lines, stringing together unions of souls, never to be naturally united, yet by notorious events, collided histories into a common framework which makes my fatherhood a possibility.

I, a white canvas am the father of black children. Never did I imagine such an occurrence. I assume all who desire to have children imagine them mirroring themselves. Yet, as I take it, all children, come with surprise and difference, thus in this way, mine are the same, yet our skin tells different stories. Mine speaks of a heritage of opportunity, of warm-hearted suburban citadels, while theirs preaches of a stolen heritage, a hijacked trilogy of geography, tradition, and religion. Together we live under the banner of pithy slogans of equality and freedom, yet such quips have never been called into question in regards to my social identity, yet, for some strange and infamous reason, my children are the progeny of a widening of black humanity, which only until recently became at least acknowledged to be partaker in the credo of American society. It is therefore as a father, not only as white male, that I reflect on the heritage of African Americans on this Martin Luther King Jr Day.

For in the adopting of my children, I with them adopted their heritage. In this way my compassion is eternally bonded and engaged with the historical and current precedent of black marginalization, not because of political partisanship or agendas, merely out of love and a deep devotion to my children, who happen to be black in America. As a father I cringe and shiver at images and video of white only signs and water hoses and police dogs attacking peaceful protestors fighting for the constitutional promise that all men are created equal in the sight of God. As a father of Black children, I am drawn into a history that has always been taught as “black history”; a separate history for those “others” whose history and dignity is always in the process of being redeemed.

My children will learn of their “black history” eventually, and when they do, what should their white father tell them? How will I narrate this part of American history to my children? Black oppression, in some ways, gave birth to profound points of black identity inasmuch as those oppressed gave witness to the beauty of their “blackness” in opposition to those who hated and shamed it. How will my children seem themselves, in light of such a history, and in light of being the children of white parents?

Those who suffered injustice during the struggle for civil rights, and those who still struggle today, are surely victims of malformed evil, but their history is not one, at least from my vantage point, of only victimization, precisely because leaders such as Martin Luther King Jr. embodied strength to love their victimizers, and by doing so incarnated love. The correlation to the other as a victim creates an awareness of and bolsters a devotion to those whom you love and empathize with their suffering. Usually we are most compassionate with those we most relate to. The closer we are to the situation of those who are suffering, the greater are compassion. Compassion and empathy result from truly understanding someone as victim, and are attempts to share in their pain. To “feel with” another’s pain, is not the same as experiencing their pain in its totality, but it is the most human way of saying, “I may not understand, but I want to understand.”

In this way I am compassionately caught up in the trials and tribulations and future of those who are black in America. I am the white father of children who will be known as and classified as black. They will be known as black children of parents who will be classified and related to as white. Therefore, I empathize with and am concerned for the state of black people in America, not as one with a shared skin tone, but as one whose life finds meaning as a father inasmuch as the children I love are black. To love them means that as a white father I will have the responsibility to talk with them about the awful and vast story of racism in America. My prayer is the story of racism will be just that, a story of outdated ideologies that are far behind us, but I fear this will not be the case.

How does a white father who loves his children more than his own life explain that people who share my skin tone hated people who shared theirs? What will I do or say if, or, God forbid, when, my children will be called names or will be mistreated because of the color of their skin? Their history and color, and with them, whatever pain may come, are my own, as they are my own. Their history is my history, inasmuch as their scars will be my scars. The scars enforced on African Americans are now present on the soul of my paternal love.

Wounds of love draw me into the well of black suffering, both historical and present, and not strangely, I find Jesus there. Jesus has been described as the wound of the fathers love. The world is the wound that never heals -for how will it in a world that opens sutures of healing with vile hate and discrimination? Jesus though can do no else other than to heal. Balms of heavenly atonement never stop atoning. And because this is so, Jesus is with all those who suffer, for he is healer, forever healer. My prayer is that the healing of Jesus will flood a world which judges and divides and marginalizes over ignorance and fear, and His love will uplift such a world to new heights of grace and care, so that, in the words of Martin Luther King Jr. there will come a day when “my little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” As a white father of black children, I can hope and pray for none less.

As the proud of father of African American Children, I offer this reflection, along with overwhelming gratitude, to all those who struggled in the Civil Rights Movement.

how to talk to kids about race and racism

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 20:14:00 +0000

Last week I expressed some concern about whether or not my first-grader was old enough to be learning about some of the more violent aspects of the civil rights movement and slavery. One of the frustrating outcomes of that conversation is that a few people misinterpreted my concern as being over conversations about race in general . . . which couldn’t be further from the truth. I am a firm believer that we should be talking to our kids about racial differences from a very young age.

The truth is, at the age that most children begin to notice gender differences, they also begin to notice race. I think many of us are unaware of this, because it can be subject we inadvertently avoid. We want our kids to be "colorblind", so we pretend not to notice differences and encourage them do to the same. But in doing so, we might miss some important conversations, and even inadvertently send a message to our children that noticing the race of others (which they inevitably will) somehow makes them bad.

Children are social beings, and one of the first social lessons they learn is to sort and group. Boys hang out with boys. Girls hang out with girls. If your children shows these gender preferences, chances are they have racial preferences, too. This doesn't make them little racists. It just means that they need some gentle guidance from you to be racially inclusive. Training our kids to move from a self-centered infant into a more respectful and empathic person . . . that's the stuff of raising kids. Racial acceptance should be a part of that.

At a certain age, all kids are prone to leaving others out based on external factors. This can be gender, race, disability, etc. I think kids need help to overcome this natural tendency to seek out "sameness". I also think they need intentionality, especially when living in non-diverse areas. Kids do see color - and when parents ignore it, the lesson children learn is that diversity is something too scary to talk about.

I don’t know that there is a universal timeline that fits every child, because maturity levels vary. In my last post it was obvious that even the teachers who commented had differing views on what should be taught and when. But for my kids, ideally it would look something like this. Under each stage, I’ve added some age-appropriate books that can help parents to start the conversation. I really believe that children are never to young to start learning about racial difference and the importance of fighting prejudice.

Age 2+ – talk about physical differences, including race and gender, and the importance of accepting everyone

Age 2+ – talk about prejudice of all forms, maintaining an open forum for kids to report and discuss instances of prejudice

Age 4+ – introduce other cultures, including food, art, and role models, emphasizing acceptance and diversity

Grade 1+ – discuss civil rights in broad terms, introducing heroes

Grade 3-5+ – discuss specifics of Jim Crow, slavery, underground railroad, assassination of MLK, and other civil rights heroes, and other atrocities based on ethnicity (Holocaust, Rwandan genocide, etc)

Grade 7+ – discuss current global examples of ethnically-motived violence and oppression, issues of social justice, current circumstances of slavery, etc.

(I don’t have any book ideas for this stage – we haven’t gotten there yet. Maybe some readers have ideas?)

Obviously, Jafta learned a little more than I would have preferred in his 1st grade class, but it’s turned out to be fine . . . we’ve had some good conversations and I’ve pulled out some of the books listed above for grades 3-5 that we we’ve been holding back until he was older. I think going to a celebratory MLK Day parade this weekend helped reframe what was a scary story into a source of pride for his race and all they have overcome. The other kids enjoyed the parade and we had many talks about how Martin Luther King Jr. made it possible for people of every color to be friends.

I really want to emphasize that the books I’ve listed above are not just suggestions for African American families or transracial families. I think all of us should be introducing these concepts to our kids. A recent study, outlined in the book NurtureShock discovered that most white parents don’t ever talk to their kids about race. The rule is that because we want our kids to be color-blind, we don’t point out skin color. We’ll say things like “everybody’s equal” but find it hard to be more specific than that. If our kids point out somebody who looks different, we shush them and tell them it’s rude to talk about it. It's kind of like the sex talk. If we never talk to our kids about sex, they are gonna have to figure it out on their own. Which will probably lead to some not-so-great influences filling in their gaps of knowledge.

Here are a few practical suggestions for developing an environment in which diversity is valued:

1. Take an inventory of your home's diversity. Are your toys sending a subtle message? Make it a point to buy dolls and action figures of every race. Watch how your kids react.

2. Be intentional in showing your children positive examples of other races in the media they watch. Some great examples are Go, Diego, Go!, Little Bill, Ni Hao, Kai-Lan, Dora the Explorer, and Cooking for Kids with Luis.

3. Take inventory of your own racial biases. Be careful with the language you use around your children. Avoid making stereotypical statements or racial jokes in front of your children. (or better yet, don't do it at all).

4. Look for opportunities to immerse your family in other cultures. Try to find situations where your family is the minority. This is a great stretching and empathy building opportunity for you and your kids. Try attending a minority church event or a cultural festival. Again, observe your child's reactions and open a dialogue about how that feels.

5. Read books that depict children from other races and countries. For an incredible list of multi-cultural children's books, check out Shades of Love at Shelfari.com.

6. Just observe. Watch how your children plays with children who are different, whether it be skin color, gender, disability, or physical differences. Talk about it. Let your child know that you are a safe person to process their feelings and reactions with, while at the same time guiding them to accept children with differences.

7. Talk to your children about racial prejudice. Ask them to recall any they have observed. Encourage them to be advocates against bullying towards children who are different.

7. Lead by example. Widen your circle of friends and acquaintances to include people from different backgrounds, cultures and experiences.

How do you talk to your kids about race? What books have you found to be helpful? And how will you celebrate the life of Martin Luther King Jr. with your kids today?

. . . let us be dissatisfied until those that live on the outskirts of hope are brought into the metropolis of daily security.

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 17:58:00 +0000

"So, I conclude by saying again today that we have a task and let us go out with a "divine dissatisfaction." Let us be dissatisfied until America will no longer have a high blood pressure of creeds and an anemia of deeds.

Let us be dissatisfied until the tragic walls that separate the outer city of wealth and comfort and the inner city of poverty and despair shall be crushed by the battering rams of the forces of justice. Let us be dissatisfied until those that live on the outskirts of hope are brought into the metropolis of daily security.

Let us be dissatisfied until slums are cast into the junk heaps of history, and every family is living in a decent sanitary home. Let us be dissatisfied until the dark yesterdays of segregated schools will be transformed into bright tomorrows of quality, integrated education.

Let us be dissatisfied until integration is not seen as a problem but as an opportunity to participate in the beauty of diversity.

Let us be dissatisfied until men and women, however black they may be, will be judged on the basis of the content of their character and not on the basis of the color of their skin. Let us be dissatisfied.

Let us be dissatisfied until every state capitol houses a governor who will do justly, who will love mercy and who will walk humbly with his God.

Let us be dissatisfied until from every city hall, justice will roll down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.

Let us be dissatisfied until that day when the lion and the lamb shall lie down together and every man will sit under his own vine and fig tree and none shall be afraid. Let us be dissatisfied. And men will recognize that out of one blood God made all men to dwell upon the face of the earth."

-- Martin Luther King Jr., Southern Christian Leadership Conference, Georgia 1967.

Head on over to Heather’s post to read a call to action for today.

that’s what SHE said: good enough mothering, letting go of guilt, Michelle Obama, a father’s deployment, and more . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 21:41:00 +0000

{click on the title to read the whole post}

The Good Enough Mother | Flux Capacitor:

I thought I understood when mothers said ' by the time you have your second child, you don't change the baby every hour ' or ' you let them eat off the floor if they're quiet '... but I didn't understand the deeper implications behind these jokes- the trade offs that you make in your ability to mother in order to have a bigger family. Or I need to say: the trade offs that I make. Another person- one who doesn't struggle with anxiety, like I do, or one with a marriage that hasn't had real rough patches, or one who doesn't struggle with endometriosis and hypothyroidism and their related issues like fatigue and migraine- perhaps that person could continue being constantly calm and thoughtful in the face of the most irritating stages of childhood, or coming up with creative solutions to problems like whining, or spending 'special time' ( as we call it ) with each child individually, daily, or continually ensuring their cultural enrichment- but I can't. I work as hard as I possibly can- I really, really do- to be the best me that I can be for my children, but really... she's still not as great as the old me.

What A Long Strange Trip It's Been | DadCentric

A job didn't come, but the bridge did. It took me by surprise at first. I was overcome by something similar to vertigo and then (not so quickly) regained my composure. I texted [my wife] three words: I've been approved. And just like that, I felt some of the crushing weight of unemployment lifted from me. Some, not all, mind you. But new weights were added. The weight of leaving my family for a year. The weight of traveling to a country where someone, so steeped in hatred for my way of life, someone who considers me an infidel, someone who believes it's his religious duty, wants to kill me and my brothers and sisters in uniform; someone who would gladly do the same to my entire family if it came to that. Weights, indeed.

Katherine Heigl: Adoption Was Always Our Family Plan | People.com

While Kelley was completely supportive, Heigl admits it takes everyone time to adjust to the idea of adoption. “Anyone who doesn’t have experience with adoption wonders, ‘Does love for a child come through DNA?’ I knew it didn’t,” the One for the Money star shares. “They’re yours. You love them the moment they’re put into your arms. Josh had to learn that, but he was so gracious and accepting.”

Make the Conscious Choice to Let Judgment From Other Moms Go | Katie Granju

Sometimes, I do pick up on a vibe from certain other moms, or occasionally over the years, from people who work at my kids’ schools in various capacities, in which it’s made clear to me that they think that I am a bad parent, or that I somehow care less about my children because I can’t do some of the things I’ve mentioned due to the demands of my paid employment. This vibe used to really, really bother me, and the sense of guilt I took on when someone went all snarkily judgy on me with some kind of remark directed at my mothering could really get me down. But eventually, I kind of had an epiphany, which was that I had a CHOICE whether to feel guilty or not feel guilty when someone would say something about how I hadn’t helped out with the baseball team’s end of year party. To paraphrase Eleanor Roosevelt, the only person who has the power to make me feel bad is….me.

Why I just can’t get into decorating for Valentine’s Day | Meagan Francis

I may bake heart-shaped cookies on February 14, and I’m almost certain to end up with some pink artwork from school, which I will happily display. But I’m not going to stress out over V-Day. After all, you know as soon as it’s over, everybody will go crazy with Easter ideas and it’ll be time to take it all down, store it, and start over weeks before the holiday’s even here.

Chalkboard paint is the new “put a bird on it” | Pinterest, You Are Drunk

Source: stylelist.com via Pinterest, You Are Drunk on Pinterest

Michelle Obama is No Angry Black Woman | The Broad Side

But setting aside the First Lady’s signature issues, why should we be surprised that Mrs. Obama has influence in other realms? Our opinions and beliefs develop from an early age based on our experiences, our family, and our friends. None of us is free from the influence of the people around us; I know I’m certainly not. My husband and I regularly discuss policy. He’s influenced me throughout our 16 year marriage and I know that I’ve influenced his political opinions as well. I can’t imagine a healthy marriage between two equals that doesn’t involve this sort of give and take. So why are we so surprised that a strong, intelligent woman like First Lady Michelle Obama influences her husband’s administration?

In which I am done fighting for a seat at the table | Emerging Mummy

The one filled with white men, all reading the same books, spouting the same talking points, quoting each other back and forth. It's the table where the men - a small, select, vocal group in no way representative of men in the Church overall - sit around and discuss who is in and who is out, who is right (usually them) and who is wrong (every one else) and, a favourite topic, whether women should be allowed to write or teach or preach or even read Scripture aloud, what women should be saying and doing, how marriages should look, how children should be raised, how everyone else should live their lives in holiness.

Me? I am simply getting on with the business of the Kingdom.

it’s de-lurking time!

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 15:45:00 +0000

Today is National Delurking Day, or so I’m being told. That means it’s your day to finally leave a comment! I know . . . some of you already do. But the vast majority of you are silent readers. Maybe you are intimidated by the comment-leaving process? it’s easier than it looks, and you can log in with just your name.

Just click on the “COMMENT” button below this post, and this box will appear. Ignore all the fancy log-in options. The best way to leave a comment is to manually type in your name and email (and your blog if you have one – this lets everyone click directly to your blog instead of to an intensedebate profile). No one will see your email.

If you want your picture to show up, you should upload a photo at gravatar.com. This stores a photo associated with your email, and will show the photo on nearly every blog you visit if you enter your email when you login. (Again, your email does not show up in the comment – just the photo).

Okay, so now you know how – please leave a comment and let me know who you are. Where are you from? How did you find this blog? Why do you read it? What do you want hear more about? What would you like me to stop talking about? Talk to me, goose.

what I want you to know: forgiving a spouse

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 08:00:00 +0000

What I want you to know is that my husband is the love of my life and we have been married for 30 years this summer. But we hit a very big bump in the road during our 8th year of marriage. That was the year my husband declared that he didn’t want to be married anymore and just like that, we were separated.

What I want you to know is that I didn’t want to be separated, but, just like that, I was. Because it only take one spouse to leave the other to be separated. For me, it was like being in a foreign country and not being able to ask for directions. I was desperate to connect to my husband and get through to him---to tell him that I loved him no matter what and we could work through anything as long as it was together. But, the truth is that he had to work through a lot of issues he was struggling with on his own. I couldn’t help him no matter how much I wanted to. The truth is that I let him go, so he could figure his life out. And it was the hardest thing I had ever done. The truth is that I was soooo mad at him, yet I loved him and wanted him to be whole again. I wanted the best for him. Even if it was without me. The truth is that I knew the man I married, and I believed in him and in us. But the man who left me was not the man I married. The man I married was my best friend. He pledged his love to me. It was real. The man who left me was broken and could not love---me or himself.

What I want you to know is that the year I was separated from my husband was the hardest year of my life, and yet it was the year I grew so much as a person. It was the year I realized that no matter what, God loved me, and that with or without a husband, I would make it. It was the year I lived on my own, with my toddler, for the very first time ever. It was like climbing Mt. Everest without any training, but I did it. I realized during that year that I really wasn’t alone because God sent me real life brothers and sisters to help me through this trial. He was with me all the way.

What I want you to know is that I prayed so hard for God to change my husband’s mind and bring him back to me. And with every month that went by and he didn’t come back, I felt angry and abandoned and worthless. But then I turned the corner, and realized that I could be a whole person and that people loved me for me. I want you to know that my year of separation was a year of discovery. I shed a thousand tears, but I also learned so much about myself.

What I want you to know is that through it all, even me not understanding how I could be separated, I realized that the vows I took when I got married were real, and I loved my husband and this was the “for worse” part of the vows. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the love we had once pledged was real; I was not ready just to give up on that even though the hurt this separation caused was worse than anything I had ever experienced. I finally came to realize that I was not the one who could change anything. It was up to God. And my husband.

What I want you to know is that when I least expected it, when I was moving on with my life, and at peace with who I was, my husband re-entered my life. And he was completely different and so was I, but the love we had once promised to each other was still there and it came back with a fire and a fierceness that wasn’t there before. We both realized how precious true love is and we knew that that was what we had once found in each other. It wasn’t hard work to bring it back. It came back naturally. Because the truth is, we pledged our love when we were young, but it was real and solid and built on a faith that was solid. But, what I want you to know is that we both had to take a risk, take a chance, and be willing to forgive.

Yet, when we did, it was like….wow….. falling in love all over again, except better. Way better. And so, what I what you to really know is that life is not perfect, love is not perfect, but when you really know the person you love, then it is possible, with God’s help, to forgive, to forget and to find love again---and the blessings that come afterward are definitely worth every hour, every day of struggle and every heartbreak that you go through. What I want you to know is that you can begin again, and the blessings that come from being able to truly forgive are so much more than I ever imagined. My marriage and my relationship with my husband are so much more than I ever dared to hope for. It’s not perfect, but it’s real and it’s solid. What I want you to know is that in the end, a love that is true is worth it all. It is definitely worth taking a chance at forgiving and starting again.

haitian orphans: two years later, still UNICEF’d

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 05:28:00 +0000

I spent a little time today reflecting on Haiti and watching some of the news updates about the country on the two-year mark since the earthquake. While I remain ever grateful that Kembe, Karis, and I survived the earthquake, it’s still a hard day to remember not only how personally difficult it was, but to be mindful of how far the country still has to go to rebuild. As I was watching some of the coverage, I came across this piece talking about the current situation for orphans in Haiti. It was discouraging, to say the least.

One of the reasons we chose to adopt from Haiti was because we knew not many people were willing to do it. We knew there was not a long queue of adoptive parents waiting to be matched with a child . . . we knew that the converse way true – that many kids were waiting for a family. We were aware of the red tape and the long wait, but we were up for the challenge if it meant providing a home for a child who otherwise might not have one. Obviously, as I watch Kembe flourish and grow as a member of our family, I am so glad we did. But it was an incredibly hard process – it took nearly three years, despite the fact that Kembe’s birthparents died, and despite the fact that we entered the process with piles of paperwork recommending us fit to be parents. On occasion I will let myself dwell on what those three years did to Kembe’s spirit. . . how the difference in him coming home three years sooner might have changed so many of his current struggles. If I think about it too much, I can become seriously enraged, because it was so unneccessry. Obviously, I believe that there should have been checks and balances in place to ensure that he wasn’t being stolen, or that we weren’t psychotic. But three years? Not okay.

That’s why watching this news program was so disheartening to me. The earthquake has not changed this delay for orphans in Haiti. If anything, it’s made it worse. It’s clear that the new head of IBSER is being highly influenced by UNICEF (she says so herself). And while UNICEF’s theory of adoption as a last resort is a good one in theory, most of the people who work in orphan care on the ground will tell you that IN PRACTICE, children without parents are being denied a family based on political pressure. It is really troubling to me that, despite the number of new orphans the earthquake produced, Haiti is still clinging to it’s archaic rules about couples needing to be married for 10 years, and to have no biological children, and be over 30 years old, in order to adopt. It’s disgusting to me, in fact, that this woman who is in charge of the well-being of Haiti’s children can stand outside such an overcrowded orphanage and shake her head at willing families because the couple hasn’t been married long enough.

It’s also really concerning to me that Arielle Jeanty is using the “we need to keep these children to become tomorrow’s leaders” rhetoric. While I completely agree that adoption should be a last resort, I believe that there are thousands of children in Haiti who are in that “last resort” place. To relegate them to a live in an orphanage on some notion that they will later lead the country is so cruel. There are plenty of children living in families in Haiti who will hopefully receive the love and encouragement from a parent that will give them the confidence to be Haiti’s next leaders.

Watch the child at minute 2:40 in the video. See the way she’s rocking herself? That’s not autism. That’s a child who has learned to self-soothe out of neglect. That behavior is common in orphanages, and no doubt it’s the tip of the iceburg in terms of behavioral manifestations of neglect for that small child. It should be a horrifying sight, when you really know what it signifies. THAT should be the subject of this news piece. Notice the brief footage of the orphanage. Children are in their cribs in the middle of the day. Cribs are lining the walls. Kids are 20 to a room. It is entirely unrealistic (and contradictory to psychological research) to propose that these children should stay in the country to be the next leaders. The prognosis is not good for adults with institutionalized behaviors and attachment disorder.

If you aren’t sure about how these policies effect children, watch this video at the 2 minute mark. It will turn your stomach - but I think it's important to see how UNICEF's policies are playing out.

I am so disheartened that children in Haiti continue to suffer, and even more disheartened that children continue to suffer based on well-intended policies taken too far at the expense of those they intend to protect. If UNICEF is going to police adoption, then they should also police the conditions that children are living in. They should be working on reunification, and if that doesn't work, on a swift permanency plan. They should be locating the papers needed to move kids into permanent families, instead of setting up kids to be lifetime orphans. And if their policies are clearly leading to child neglect, they should be ashamed.

Two years later. Not good enough.

is it okay to skip out on sending thank-you cards on behalf of small children?

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 22:45:00 +0000

I have an etiquette question, and I want you guys to be honest. You are going to pretend you are Emily Post and tell me what to do. Only, you’re going to be slightly less snooty, because we’re all living in the real world here.

The deal is . . . my kid’s birthday party was nearly four months ago and I’ve yet to send out thank-you cards. We had a pretty big party, and there are two of them, and they got a rather large bounty of gifts. I was pretty intentional about documenting the gifts – I even took a picture of my kids holding each individual gift with my trusty iGIFT app. I ordered those photos and have the thank-you cards in hand. All have to do is fill in the cards. But I can’t seem to find the time to sit down and write them out. I’ve also been stressed about the prospect of delivering them, since the preschool doesn’t give out a roster of addresses. I’ll have to deliver them by hand at pick-up, which is a rather stressful time of my day even when I DON’T have a task to complete.

Every week these cards get shuffled to a new pile in the house, and this item gets added to an updated to-do list. It’s been nagging me for months, and finally I decided I should just let it go. I reasoned that maybe this thank-you card tradition was a hold-over from days gone by, and that I was holding myself to some Martha Stewart standard that was unrealistic and unnecessary for a busy mom of four. I mean, really, is anyone sitting around fuming that they didn’t get one? Or even noticing at all? Surely I can’t be expected to hand-write thank-you cards for all four of my kids, none of whom can write yet. I was just about to abandon the project when I came across this post at Babble on the subject, and read the ensuing comments. Wow. Apparently, there are a whole lot of people that think it’s completely barbaric to forego the thank-you cards. Some people even gauge future gifts and invitations by it? Sheesh.

So – then I felt pressure to complete them again. Not pressured enough to have found the time, mind you. Just enough to have it nagging in the corners of my brain when I lay down to sleep at night.

I’m curious what you guys think. My personal opinion is that thank-you cards are nice but not necessary. In fact, when I receive one from a friend of behalf of a kid, my first thought is, “Oh, I wish she didn’t feel like she had to send me that”. Hand-written correspondence is awesome and has it’s place, but two moms sending each other notes on behalf of each other’s children just seems like adding a lot of extra work to our already busy plates. On the other hand, my kids are at a very diverse school and I would say 80% of the gifting families are first-generation Asian, India, or Persian. There seems to be a bit more formality, culturally, and so I feel some added pressure not to offend.

At the same time . . . I’d really like to just be done with stressing about it and scrap the whole thing in favor of preserving a small ounce of sanity, because boy, I have bigger things to deal with right now. Like the fact that the semester starts again this week. And my Christmas tree is still up. And the hamper is taking over the bedroom.

What would you do?

the new picture face

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 09:33:00 +0000

I’ve mentioned before that as soon as she started to walk, Karis developed a distinct “picture face”.

The old picture face was kind of a manic smile.

She was very consistent with it, no matter what was going on. If you tried to take her picture, SHE STOPPED AND MADE THE FACE.

No matter what.

That last picture was a year ago, and in that time, she’s grown and matured. She hasn’t matured enough to use that toilet for more than staged photo ops, mind you. But she HAS developed a new picture face.

The smile is a little less crazed, but now there is a little head tilt involved. And a cocked hip. It’s a little sassy.

(We’ve been letting her dress herself).

So there you have it. The new picture face. A little less “I’m gonna murder you”, a little more red carpet poser.

I have no idea where she gets it.

Oh. Right.

[dresses: c/o stella industries, leggings: c/o kangacoo]

that’s what SHE said: on chronos vs. kairos time, body image and fitspiration, adoptees as political pawns, black people in the hunger games, and the problem with tolerance

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 23:06:00 +0000

click on the title to read the whole post

You Never Marry the Right Person | RELEVANT Magazine

In generations past, there was far less talk about “compatibility” and finding the ideal soul-mate. Today we are looking for someone who accepts us as we are and fulfills our desires, and this creates an unrealistic set of expectations that frustrates both the searchers and the searched for.

In John Tierney’s classic humor article “Picky, Picky, Picky” he tries nobly to get us to laugh at the impossible situation our culture has put us in. He recounts many of the reasons his single friends told him they had given up on their recent relationships:

“She mispronounced ‘Goethe.’”

Yes, there are black people in your Hunger Games: The strange case of Rue and Cinna | Love Isn't Enough

I’m a longtime Hunger Games fan and have followed many conversations on the internet concerning the casting of the film. Whenever the conversation comes to Rue there is always (1) person who is surprised to find out Rue is black and (2) another person who is upset that Rue is black. Upset as if they have been tricked or as if something has been stolen from them. Upset as if they now have to reevaluate how they feel about Rue–a character many fans love dearly because of her incredible courage.

“OMG, THERE IS A BLACK PERSON IN MY BOOK!?”

2011 Lesson #2 : Don’t Carpe Diem » Momastery

Everywhere I go, someone is telling me to seize the moment, raise my awareness, be happy, enjoy every second, etc, etc, etc.

I know that this message is right and good. But as 2011 closes, I have finally allowed myself to admit that it just doesn’t work for me. It bugs me. This CARPE DIEM message makes me paranoid and panicky. Especially during this phase of my life – while I’m raising young kids. Being told, in a million different ways to CARPE DIEM makes me worry that if I’m not in a constant state of intense gratitude and ecstasy, I’m doing something wrong.

On “Carpe Diem”, motherhood, Chronos and Kairos time, and the old lady at the store - The Happiest Mom

If if I had one hope for newer moms, it wouldn’t be to try to wish away the Chronos moments, nor would it be to ignore the hard stuff, pretend it doesn’t exist, or to enjoy every single moment – because yes, that is impossible.

Instead, it would be to lift the Kairos up. To make a little extra space for them in your soul. To make them count just as much as – more than – the hard parts, even if they don’t seem to come quite as often. To give yourself a little credit for the fact that you have them at all and to give them more credence in your memory and the way you feel about your parenting.

My New Year’s Resolution Is To Stop Not Being Good Enough In My Own Mind | Sweetney & Spice

In my mind, I’ve typically projected some tangible goal or goals out into the future, and then proceeded to torment myself by way of the process of trying to achieve it. By x date this year I’m going to weigh x amount, be x size in clothing, be able to fit into my “skinny jeans.” It’s a kind of sickness, this ceaseless dissatisfaction with the reality of my own body, whatever that reality is or has been. It’s degrading and deflating and demoralizing to never be good enough in your own mind.

Rich African-Americans move out of cities 'blurring traditional divides between wealthy and poor' | Mail Online

He said a rising black middle class is promoting a growing belief among some black conservatives that problems of the disadvantaged are now rooted more in character or cultural problems, rather than race.

However Mr. Harrison said most black Americans maintain a strong racial identity, focused on redressing perceived lack of opportunities.

In One Second Everything Changes | The Girl Who

Yesterday our house caught fire. We all made it out safely thanks to a good samaritan who banged on our door and told us the house was on fire. Panic. What do you take when you only have seconds? Your kids and your dogs and that's it.
One second you're arguing over bullshit and the next second you don't have a home.

Hey Ron Paul Fans: Leave Huntsman’s Daughters Out of This! | PunditMom

As a mom by international adoption myself, I am constantly battling what seems to be a common view in our society — that there’s something wrong with your family if you’ve got a child that you didn’t create the old-fashioned way. But the larger question for me that’s raised by this negative campaign ad, is this — when will our society stop viewing families formed by adoption as something that’s “other.” News reports dealing with families generally don’t make a point of commenting about whether children are biological members of their families. So why do so many people feel the need to point out if adoption was involved? Are they scared? Nervous? Uncomfortable? I think it’s a combination of all those things, but most of all it’s just wrong.

Kindness | Uppercase Woman

At night we share our bed, each on our side, feet rarely crossing the line between us to tuck toes under knees to keep them warm. The ends of the days feel like the time after a battle has been fought, when there’s nothing to do but hunker down, him with his poetry and me with my vampire fiction, each of us alone together.

The Difference Is The Same at Christmas | The Chronicles of Munchkin Land

It will still be Christmas. As always. There will still be joy and love and happiness and cheer — and annoyance with extended relatives and the other “junk” the comes along with a family holiday. It is still Christmas, both here and there. We celebrate. Separately. With those we love. Apart from those we love. It is what happens at Christmas tables the world around, touched by adoption or not. It is, as they say, what it is.

[photo source]

Tightrope walker | The Bloggess

They remind her to smile and enjoy those perfect moments whenever they arise, because life without fear is not a life fully appreciated. She smiles – not because she’s unaware of the alligators – but because she’s aware of them and because she knows how wonderful it feels when they release their jaws from your ankles.

that is not what working out looks like | O My Family

There are photographs out there floating around the interwebs that are referred to as “fitspiration” or “fitspo”. They are pictures of fit, well toned women in athletic apparel seemingly in the throws of a hardcore workout. Their purpose is to inspire the viewer to work like the woman in the picture is “working” so that you can look like she does.

K, but here’s the thing.

THAT IS NOT WHAT WORKING OUT LOOKS LIKE.

Why we still can't talk about slavery | Salon.com

If America is a family, it’s a family that has tacitly agreed to never speak again — not with much honesty, anyway — about the terrible things that went on in its divided house. Slavery has been taught, it has been written about. There can’t be many subjects that rival it as an academic ink-guzzler. But the culture has not digested slavery in a meaningful way, hasn’t absorbed it the way it has World War II or the Kennedy assassination. We don’t feel the connections to it in our bones. It’s hard enough these days to connect with what happened 15 minutes ago, let alone 15 decades, given the endless layers of “classic,” “heirloom,” “traditional” “collectible,” “old school” comfort we’re swaddled in. But isn’t it the least we could do? What is the willful forgetting of slavery if not the coverup of a crime, an abdication of responsibility to its victims and to ourselves?

The Gifts We Give Each Other. | Blog con Queso

So I was standing in line, eavesdropping, over this mom and her four-year-old daughter who had crammed themselves around one of these tables. The mother was beautiful, in a seemingly and annoyingly no-effort kind of way, and she was dressed in the area’s mom uniform…fancy workout clothes. The ringlet child next to her was wearing some kind of pink and red fancy dress. It was 8 a.m. They didn’t have any food or beverage on their tiny table. They were just sitting there, waiting for something maybe, and the daughter was begging for a cookie. The mom said, “Sweetheart, no, no cookies, you don’t want cookies. You need to lose some weight.”

And then I stopped breathing.

Seriously, World.| Her Bad Mother

Can we discuss for a minute how horrible the word ‘tolerant’ can be, viewed from certain angles? The children come from families who tolerate difference, and so they have certainly learned how to tolerate people who are different! How wonderful of them to put up with things and people that undermine their comfort! How lovely they must be, to straighten their backs and stiffen their smiles and tolerate others who are not like them, when doing so surely strains their aesthetic fibre! Tolerate is something you do in response to icky, unpleasant, discomfiting things. It is not a marker of being a good person. I tolerate cold weather, I tolerate the taste of eggplant, I tolerate assholes – I do not expect to be lauded for these things. Tolerating minor inconveniences is how I get by in the world as a functioning human being; this is what distinguishes me from puppies and toddlers. THIS IS NOT PRAISEWORTHY. WE SHOULD DO BETTER.

what I want you to know: being an adopted child

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 22:51:00 +0000

I was adopted right after I was born. My birth mother was young and decided she could not care for me, so I was brought to my family that I know now. I had a wonderful childhood, great parents, and amazing siblings. It was a really great experience for me. My family is the only family I have known and I honestly can never say that I felt like I wasn't a part of them because I wasn't born into it. Some even say that I look like I was meant to be a part of their family. And it is because I was.

I have grown up being very open and honest about my adoption. I have a great mom that talked to me about it. Was always honest and always let me know that if I ever wanted to find my birth mom she would support me and help me however she could. It was never a subject that was taboo or off limits. I had adopted friends that were not told until a later age and it wasn't something they were allowed to talk about. Many of them have/had such negative feelings toward being adopted. I feel lucky that I don't. I have always been interested in adoption. I worked for an adoption agency in college and am now in the process of adopting my son from Haiti. To me, adoption is a way to create and grow a family. My family.

And although it all seems so perfect, I also want you to know that when you are adopted, a part of you believes that you are unwanted. That something about you made someone else decide to discard you. No matter how great your family is, how wonderful your experience, this is always in the back of your head. It feels like rejection. And of the worst possible kind. It isn't something you necessarily think about daily, but it can creep in at any moment and cripple you just when you think things are going ok. It can wreak havoc on parts of your life that are totally not related to you being adopted. Your job, your relationship with your spouse, your relationship with your own children.

That being said, when I worked with birth moms at the adoption agency, I realized that no matter what, no mother doesn't love her child. Her decision to give you up, is and will be, the most selfless act she will do. She is a teenage mom, a woman in her career prime, or maybe just unable to care for a child. They all agonize with the decision and love their child and only want what is best. They decide that they cannot do that for you. They give you to someone that can. It is truly an amazing thing. And while the "rejection" feeling never quite goes away (and molds a part of you) I can say I get it. I understand. And I thank my birth mom every day for giving me this gift. This life. This family.

What I want you to know is that adoption is an great way to build families. It isn't any better than any other way, but it is important and it makes a difference to the child and the family. The love and caring that goes into adopting a child is a force that can heal. If you are an adoptive parent, I thank you. I thank you for fighting so hard for your child and loving them and giving them a home that someone else who really wanted to couldn't.

Being adopted isn't my identity. But it is a part of me and it defines a part of me. I am proud of it and I am proud of my family.

Here is a picture of my family with my daughter (who is my biological child) and husband. Our son still resides in Haiti and we cannot wait to get him home, added to our portrait, making our family complete.

what I want you to know: recovering after an abortion

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 08:14:00 +0000

What I Want You to Know is a series of reader submissions. It is an attempt to allow people to tell their personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the unique issues each of us face. If you would like to submit a story to this series, click here. This guest post is by an anonymous reader.

Though I believe that I have been forgiven for my past sins, one still haunts me almost daily. His name is Elijah Christian. He is my baby who never got to see my face or be held in my arms. Not because of miscarriage or illness...but by my own hands.

I have known that I wanted to be a mother since the day I was born. This has been a calling way stronger than any career path or talent. If I could have majored in motherhood, I would have. Instead I picked the next best thing, Marriage and Family Therapy.

At 19 years old, I was a mess. Though I was picked to join one of the most desirable sorority at my school, had a large group of friends, was known as a social butterfly, modeled etc., I never felt good enough. This was partly because my mother's nickname for me was "bloody bitch" and I was constantly compared to all the other children my mother knew and asked why I could not be like them since as early as I can remember. That, however, is another story all together. I hid my crippling insecurities by living a life on the edge. I partied hard, I loved hard, and I woke up every morning with the deepest depression. I had plans for suicide, had an eating disorder, and was a cutter. When the most popular guy at my school liked me, it made me who I was. I felt high and confident. We had an emotionally abusive relationship that consumed me. It became my identity to the point that I could not breathe with out him. I know now how pathetic this sounds, but at that time, it was my reality.

I was home on Thanksgiving break from college, my best friend and I were eating lunch and she commented on how big my boobs were. She asked me when the last time I had gotten my period was. I laughed and said that I have never been regular, so I had no idea. She urged me to get a pregnancy test.

I did...

it was positive...

My world starting reeling. I called my boyfriend. He said we had to have an abortion because we were not old enough to be parents. I said ok, however I started taking prenatals, stopped drinking all together (which was a BIG deal for me), started eating healthy (also a BIG deal because I was anorexic), and really took pride in being a mom. I returned to school from Thanksgiving break. I continued to live a healthy life for the baby. I told him my plans to keep it. After hours and hours of being screamed at and threatened, his reasons began to make sense. I just submitted, halfheartedly, to the abortion he had scheduled for December 18. He drove me there,it was an out of body experience for me. I closed my mind to the procedure and let it happen. I was traumatized. I saw the blood in a trash can...my baby in a trashcan...The baby I already loved, that I was too big of a screw up to stand up for... I left my body and was a shell.

I went home for Christmas break in a deep depression. I wanted to die and attempted suicide. I could not live with myself. I called my boyfriend for support, (his home was 5 hours away), he never answered. I did not shower, eat, sleep, all I did was cry. It took me a long time to get over that. This was actually the first time my mom and I got along. It was a turning point in our relationship. She saw how depressed and sick I was and even though I refused to tell her what was wrong, she supported me. I went to therapy and realized that I needed to leave my boyfriend. My therapist was so great, she helped me heal and forgive myself. She is why I am a therapist today. Recovery was a long and hard road.

I am a Christian. It took me years of therapy to forgive myself and straighten my life out. I am now 32 and happily married to a loving, supportive, man. I believe that I have been forgiven. I don't even step on the wild side anymore, I am the nursery leader at my church, I am a therapist for children, I don't drink, I am not depressed in the least bit. I love my life. I am surprised sometimes that it is MY life. I never thought I would end up happy.

This one aspect of my life though continues to haunt me. I would have NEVER made that decision and if I had been strong enough to stand up for Elijah Christian, and... I would be a mother.
As I start my first round of IVF after 2 years of trying to conceive, I can't help but wonder, am I being punished? I know that is not how God works, I just can't get that thought out completely...
I know I may be judged over this submission and that will hurt me. However, I know these words may hit home for others, so I write this for those people.

discussing civil rights and slavery with children – how soon is too soon?

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 00:59:00 +0000

We've been having some hard discussion at our house over some things Jafta has been learning at school. On Monday, he came home and told us about a book they read at school about the underground railroad. I was a little caught off-guard. Jafta also talked about slaves and masters, and recounted that slaves were whipped if they didn’t obey. I don’t know if he gleaned this from the teacher or from another student, but he was very troubled by the idea, and it led to some long conversations.

The next day, he came home and told me that Martin Luther King Jr. was shot because he was black.

Jafta is seven years old. In some ways, he is very mature for his age. He is very analytical and thinks quite deeply on things. On the other hand, he’s also extremely sensitive and has a tendency to obsess over things. He has always been inclined to the dramatic, and he is definitely an anxious kid. Much like I was at his age.

For the reasons above, I have not gone into great detail about our country’s shameful history towards African Americans. We talk quite frequently about tolerance and prejudice. The kids’ bookshelf is full of books on the topic of positive racial identity and racial acceptance, but I have steered cleared from explaining the aspects of violence and oppression because I don’t believe that he is mature enough to process it. This isn’t limited to racial issues – I haven’t talked to my kids about 9/11 or the holocaust or Columbine or any other number of historical events because I don’t think they are old enough to understand. I don’t watch the news around them. I glossed over the details of the earthquake in Haiti even though I was there. I do recognize it is a privilege that I can shield them from hardships, and that suffering is inevitable. I don’t want them to live in that bubble of privilege forever, but I guess I’m not ready to burst it quite yet, if I don’t have to. I hope to be a family that talks very openly about world issues and social justice. But not yet. I don’t know if there i a magical age when kids are ready to have the veil of innocence lifted to expose the evil that is in the world, but I didn’t think it would be first grade.

Earlier in the year, I’d had the thought that I should send Jafta’s teacher a note, asking her to give me a heads up if she was going to be talking about civil rights or racism. It was one of a million things I told myself I should do and then forgot to do – but the result is that he wasn’t prepared for these conversations. I deeply regret the fact that Jafta learned about our country’s racist history from a teacher and not from me.

It shocked me when he told me what he’d heard. I was wondering what conversation surrounded the book. Did they talk about slavery? How did the teacher frame the oppression of black people? And more importantly, how did this make Jafta feel?

I really troubled at the idea of Jafta being the only black person in the room as these issues are discussed. I can’t imagine how self-conscious he must have felt. I wonder if his classmates were stealing glances at him . . . if they felt pity or confusion or even a new-found prejudice as they looked at him armed with the knowledge that whites and blacks have such a conflicted history.

When I asked how Jafta felt, this was his answer:

I feel like I’m hurting when she talks about it. Like it hurts.

This breaks my heart.

Last night Jafta expressed fear that slavery could happen again. He worried that someone would shoot him for being black. I did my best to assure him we live in a very different world today. He took great comfort in being reminded that the president of our country is black, too. But I hated thinking of him fearing those things.

I think, for parents of black children, that it is a tricky balance between sowing prepardeness vs. paranoia. I feel like preparing my kids to deal with prejudice will be one of my most important tasks. And yet, at this stage, the information has led to more fear than empowerment. I would have preferred the lessons to focus on the heroic aspects of MLK, leaving out the aspects of civil rights and slavery that blur into “human atrocity” territory.

I actually really like Jafta’s teacher - but I do wonder if she's considered how this material feels for children of color. Knowing her personality I would imagine she is eager to teach about civil rights . . . she's quite liberal and I could see her wanting to instill the importance of tolerance in the minds of her students at a young age in the hopes that they would become little change-agents. Today I sent her the following note:

Dear Ms. S,

We've been having some tough discussions the last two nights as Jafta is processing what he's learning in school about civil rights. We are very aware that Jafta is a sensitive and anxious kid - much more than most. So I know that much of what he's hearing is then being processed and analyzed through that filter and his tendency to worry. Anyways, I wanted to give you the heads-up and maybe dialogue about what's coming up in the curriculum in terms of racial conflict so that we can be sure to be prepared, and to follow up at home and create a space where he can download the feelings it brings up. I don't know if he's being vocal in class about his feelings, but the last few nights he's had a hard time sleeping due to concerns that slavery or segregation could happen again. Obviously we are assuring him that's not the case but when his anxiety gets hold of an idea, it's hard for him to let go. Knowing his anxious tendencies we've shied away from some of these historical discussions in the hopes that with more maturity, it might be easier for him to process. Since it's coming up in school, I want to figure out what he's hearing and how we can better help him process.

I’ve not heard back yet, but I’m hoping I can strategize with her and be more proactive, especially since I’m guessing Black History Month may mean more discussion in class.

I don’t know the right answer – I just know that my mother instinct is that knowing about these hard facts will not benefit Jafta at this point in his life . . . that the hope of future empowerment does not outweigh the reality of current anxiety and confusion. I’m really disappointed he learned about it from someone else, but mostly disappointed that, as a seven-year-old, he learned about it at all.

ways I didn’t suck in 2011 (how about you?)

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 07:17:00 +0000

Yesterday I wrote a little yearly recap on 2011, and I almost didn’t publish it because I was so frustrated with myself at seeing my resolutions from the beginning of the year. Then I began mulling over the post I would write where I would scold, prod, and shame myself into change . . . really put those shortcomings out there so I would HAVE to get my act together. Publicly sharing goals is vulnerable for me. Publicly failing at those goals? Even worse. But as I sat down to write my manifesto entitled STOP SUCKING IN 2012, I took a quick look at my reader and saw this post by my friend Karen, inspired by this post by Erin, about non-goals. Both of them reminded me of the importance of acknowledging our areas of growth, both in word and in action. I decided that I would put my self-flagellation on the back burner and take a moment to recognize the areas where I didn’t suck in 2011. Amazing concept, right? Something tells me this might be a better way to start my year – with some affirmations for where I’ve succeeded, instead of a list of goals that are setting me up to fail. Wanna join me? Leave a comment below, or link up to your own post, and write down a couple things you’re proud of for 2011. Here are mine:

My relationship with Kembe has vastly improved. I no longer feel like we are in transition mode, or like I am babysitting. He and I made great strides in bonding this year.

I’ve taken time to cultivate a cuddling relationship with Karis. She was my least affectionate baby, and honestly, that was sort of easy for me with so much going on in her first year of life. This year, I was really intentional in being more affectionate with her. The change has been pretty dramatic, and now she is constantly initiating a snuggle or a kiss. I love that.

Jafta and I went on a gluten-free, dairy-free diet this year. I’ve worked hard to do this without having Jafta feel deprived or left out. W'e’ve both seen huge benefits to this diet change and I’m proud that I’ve stuck with it.

India is in preschool and is reading first-grade books. I’m not sure I can take credit for that one (it belongs to Starfall.com) but I am very proud.

I’ve managed to abandon most of the middle of the grocery store. We have made a major shift away from processed foods. Last night I had three kids eating salad for dinner. We’re still working on India, but it feels good to feed my family healthy foods.

I hosted a few events in my home for friends that were very fun.

This year I let go of some commitments that I really enjoyed, recognizing that my time is finite and my stage-of-life requires more time being present with the kids. Saying no is hard for me, and I’ve said no a lot this year. I’ve made great strides in having better boundaries.

I’ve worked hard to be more pleasant in the morning, and see the kids off to school with a smile. I hate mornings . . . a lot, and the start of the school year was a rough transition, but I’ve rallied and continue to try to have more peaceful mornings.

I have never been late to pick up my kids from school.

Our family gave generously to a number of charities that we feel good about.

I provided a ton of opportunities for the kids to learn and grow this year. They’ve been involved in sports and in music lessons. I got to take each of the big kids to a broadway play. India and I went to the ballet twice. Our house is full of music and dancing.

Mark and I spoke on adoption at a conference this year. It was our first time speaking together. It went really well. We are both looking forward to doing it again.

I got all four kids to school on picture day, wearing clean clothes and with relatively well-groomed hair and clean faces. (Darn you, winter eczema patches!)

I’ve continued to grow some amazing friendships, both locally and across the country. I’ve been blessed with meeting amazing women from this blogging gig and 2011 provided many opportunities to deepen those friendships, and make a few new ones.

I pushed past some long-standing insecurities in regards to a few situations this year, and didn’t let fear win.

I had some nice awards and accolades for my blog this year.

I partnered with a friend and bought ShePosts – my first ever business venture.

I took a lot of great photos of the kids.

Mark and I continue to love each other and like each other. We got away together and continue to try to establish regular date nights.

I organized the house and threw away a lot of junk.

I continued to make progress in coping with my post-earthquake PTSD and anxiety in general.

We paid off our adoption debt.

Alright, that wasn’t so hard! (YES IT WAS).

What are you proud of doing in 2011?

yearly recap for 2011

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 06:38:00 +0000

I read this yearly recap on All & Sundry’s blog, and thought I would do it myself as I reflect on the new year.

1. What did you do in 2011 that you’d never done before?

I ate only raw foods for two weeks. And I actually liked it.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

Oh boy. Here’s what I wrote last year:

Separating work time from family time – I mentioned this in another post, but finding the balance of working at home has not come easy for me. We have finally set up a situation where I have two days of in-home childcare. Our home has a mother-in-law suite in the backyard so we now have a babysitter who lives there in exchange for childcare. Previously we have rented this studio out, and it has been hard to lose that income because it paid for half our mortgage. But I’m thinking sanity is the priority right now, and this is really helping. So now I have a couple days a week devoted to working, and I’m trying to make sure I am NOT working on the other days, but also not getting sidetracked on my work days. This has not been an easy transition, because I have developed the terrible habit of working constantly, and as miserable as multi-tasking is, there is also some anxiety for me in stepping away from the computer for a few days at a time. But, it’s necessary.

Focusing on quality over quantity – this is related to above, but with the addition of some childcare I am trying to make sure that the time I am with the kids is focused on them, and the time I am away is focused on work. I think this is a win for all of us.

Getting out of the house – I could write a whole post on this one, but in a nutshell, taking for kids ANYWHERE is a challenge, and I am working on developing a thicker skin so that the potential side-glances of strangers who don’t like children in public spaces does not relegate me to a lifestyle of hiding out at home with my children.

Keeping our house stocked with healthy foods – This is related to above. I have anxiety taking the kids shopping, but I also have way too much work to do to use my limited childcare days on solo grocery runs. When I get alone time, the last thing I want to do is spend it listening to horrible muzak at the grocery store. The result is that I go way too long between grocery store runs, which means we run out of fresh foods and start eating packaged stuff out of the pantry. I want to make a commitment to getting out and keeping the house stocked with fruits and vegetables. I also want to get us on some kind of menu schedule – a task that has alluded me my entire adult life. It is time.

Going to bed on time – Again, explaining this would probably warrant a whole post but I find it very, very hard to go to bed at a reasonable time. I am tired and grouchy every day, and promise myself that TONIGHT I will get enough sleep. But then the kids go down and I have the blissful moments of solitude in a quiet home, and I get grabby about it. I become Gollum with his ring about my alone time. When I get it I gaze at it and call it “my precious”, and the consequence is that I am tired all day long from staying up until 2am.

Turning off the internet – This is related to above, because I am quite sure that if I lost my internet connection at 10pm, that I would not be up until 2am. I can spend hours reading up on current events, reading blogs, shopping online, cleaning out my inbox, etc. There is always more to do, and I get a burst of energy late at night to get things done. I am contemplating putting an application on my computer that turns off my internet at a certain time, and only giving the password to Mark.

Dealing with my emails – Is there a show about people who keep too many emails? Kind of like a Hoarders: Technology Edition? Because I need Jeff VonVonderen to come give me an intervention.

Maintaining my friendships – This has been a hard one to balance, and I am hoping to re-instate some playdates that allow me some adult interaction, and also be more intentional about calling friends and making plans and (see above) getting out of my house.

Getting outdoors and active – a year ago, I had just run a half-marathon. Then Kembe came home, and I completely stopped taking care of myself physically. I want to get back to that – not necessarily to the point of running a half-marathon, but I at least want to get outdoors, get to the beach, and break a sweat a few days a week.

FAIL!!! Fail on every level. Seriously. This is just depressing.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

No . . . for the first time in a long time, none of my sisters or sister-in-law had a baby or adopted a child in the past year. In the past five years I gained 7 neices and nephews . . . but this was a quiet year.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

My friend Angela lost a long battle with cancer this year.

5. What countries did you visit?

None. A fact that really, really bothers me. Mark and I have been talking about travel a lot lately. We both love to travel and we are trying to figure out a way to budget some bigger trips as our kids get a bit older.

6. What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011?

More balance and more sleep.

7. What dates from 2011 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

I think our 15 year anniversary was a pretty big milestone. I am really glad this year was not marked by anything majorly catastrophic. Last year I hoped for a drama-free year and I’m happy to report it was.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Having my blog named on Babble’s Top 100 Mom Blogs list was pretty nice. There are many lists like this but Babble (which is Disney’s new parenting site) is the one I’ve always considered more credible because it’s chosen by Babble instead of by random internet votes. I was shocked to be at #17, among so many bloggers I have admired for so long (many of whom were my inspiration to start blogging a couple years ago). That felt like a nice achievement on the work front. I wish I could write potty-training Karis, here . . . but we’re still working on that.

9. What was your biggest failure?

See #2

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

I’ve been really struggling with my allergies and asthma this year – to the point of being sick for most of October and November. I think allergy shots are in my future.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

I am pretty in love with my Vitamix blender.

12. Where did most of your money go?

Paying off our adoption debt.

13. What did you get really excited about?

Mark and I got to get away for weekend this year, just the two of us. That was pretty exciting. And I am always really excited to go to blogging events and connect with friends.

14. What song will always remind you of 2011?

My kids have been singing Taio Cruz’s “Dynamite” all year. Also, isn’t “Pumped Up Kicks” the official theme song of 2011?

15. Compared to this time last year, are you:

– happier or sadder? About the same, which is not great. I don’t do winter well. That’s another post.
– thinner or fatter? A few pounds heavier, despite going gluten and dairy free. My metabolism is not my friend.
– richer or poorer? Richer. Thank you, adoption tax credit.

16. What do you wish you’d done more of?

I wish I’d spent more time at the beach. I only went a few times this year. I love going, and just fail to make the time for it.

17. What do you wish you’d done less of?

I wish I’d spent less time on my laptop, and less time worrying.

18. How did you spend Christmas?

We had a mellow Christmas at home this year.

19. What was your favorite TV program?

Mark and I got a little overly-invested in Breaking Bad this year. We watched all four seasons in the course of a few months. It was a show I simultaneously loved and loather. I wouldn’t recommend it. (OMG YOU HAVE TO SEE IT).

20. What were your favorite books of the year?

I read some really great books this year. Hunger Games deserves its own post – that series took over my life for a week last month. Pretty by my friend Jillian Lauren was fantastic. Interrupted by Jen Hatmaker is the book I always wanted to write but now don’t have to. I also loved Secret Daughter, Little Bee, Molokai, Room, and Cutting for Stone.

21. What was your favorite music from this year?

I am really digging The Black Keys, Adele, and Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes.

22. What were your favorite films of the year?

I think Crazy, Stupid Love is the only non-animated film I saw in the theater this year. It was okay.

23. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I turned 37 on New Year’s Eve. We went to dinner at my favorite Cuban joint.

24. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

I think that being more intentional with my friendships would have made my life more satisfying.

25. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2011?

Hahaha. That question is cute.

26. What kept you sane?

Sarcasm. Blogging. Cuddling my kids. Time away from the kids. Friends.

27. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011.

Gluten-free monkey bread is every bit as disappointing as it sounds.

the holidays in photos

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 07:17:00 +0000

Mark went big on the lights around the house this year. Jafta went big on trying to visit the ER.

The kids got to meet Mr. and Mrs. Claus at Knott’s Berry Farm. Thanks to this and online shopping, I avoided the mall completely for the months of November and December.

India was so excited to see The Nutcracker again this year. She even asked for her own nutcracker as her main Christmas gift. I love that this is our new tradition. Though I still maintain that the storyline makes no sense and was written with the aid of hallucinogenic drugs. Seriously, what is with the rats?

We didn’t travel to visit my family this year, so present had to be shipped. My table looked like a shipping center for most of the month.

Some of our best holiday moments were nights were we just sat by the fire and sang together. It was a really busy season, but it seems like the unscheduled moments were the most precious.

We got to see some friends perform in the Christmas Together tour this year. These albums were my favorite holiday music this season by far.

Kembe was a wise man in his school Christmas program. He wasn’t so thrilled with the costume. The girls, on the other hand, were SO jealous of his “princess dress”.

On Christmas Eve we followed our tradition of ten years having breakfast with some dear friends. This is one of our favorite holiday traditions, and the kids all look forward to it as much as we do.

(eight years and five kids prior):

After our breakfast, we went to the early Christmas Eve service at our church.

Gingbread house decorating with a toddler . . . maybe not the best idea. Karis could NOT understand why we were putting candy on a house and not in her mouth.

After the kids went down, Mark and I got to wrapping. Thanks to their grandma in Florida, there was a whole lot of excitement under the tree.

India was really thrilled with her My Twin dolls. The boys were most excited about the whole punch that makes guitar picks out of credit cards. Goodbye, Citibank!

The big gift was a skateboarding ramp for the boys. Thanks, Mimi!

After we opened the gifts at home, we went over to grandma and grandpa’s.

Jafta and Kipp have a serious discussion about the roller coasters at Knott’s Berry Farm.

The day after Christmas, I let the kids dive into the gingerbread house. I’m not really sure why I made them wait two days, beyond it just seeming wrong to eat it immediately after decorating. Also, if it looks like Karis never wears a shirt, it’s because SHE NEVER WEARS A SHIRT. I’ve given up and will re-address it closer to puberty. Shortly after this photo, Jafta decided to try his yellow-belt skills on the house and karate chopped the thing into oblivion. There was a lot of screaming about that, until I reminded them that it was still edible. And then they just kept on eating.

Favorite holiday-inspired game: Nativity Scene. Karis is usually baby Jesus. I think the sponge represents Frankincense

Jafta was also excited about another holiday tradition: having a pie thrown in his face.

On the morning of New Year’s Eve, I had a little “treat yo-self” moment and had my hair done at The Drybar. They served me a mimosa and had Mean Girls on the big screen while I had my hair done. I think this will be a new tradition for me.

We spent the afternoon and early evening at my inlaws, who graciously watched the kids for us so we could go to dinner with my brother and sister-in-law. They live in Seattle and it was so nice to catch up. I’m happy to report that after my last post, I kept my expectations in check and was quite fine heading home early and watching the revelers on t.v. from the comfort of my living room.

We spent New Year’s Day with family, and I was able to preform my best party trick I learned at Camp Mighty: I sabered open a bottle of champagne with my father-in-law’s Marine Corp sword. Like a boss. My kids think I am the coolest mom ever. At least this week.

Here’s to a great 2012!

what I want you to know: being in an intercultural marriage

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 14:00:00 +0000

What I Want You to Know is a series of reader submissions. It is an attempt to allow people to tell their personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the unique issues each of us face. (If you are new to this blog, regularly schedule programming will resume after the holidays, but you can check out the “Best Of” section in the meantime). If you would like to submit a story to this series, click here. This guest post is by Amelia.

I mispronounce my husband’s name everyday. The unique sound of the Hindi nasal “n” has proven too difficult for North Americans to pronounce, so he introduces himself with an Americanized mutation of his real name. I don’t worry about it too much, as he misspelled my name for weeks when we first met. We laugh about it.

What I want you to know is that I am a woman who is in love with and committed to a man. Although a stranger would notice that we have different skin colors and different accents, we share our life, dreams and struggles as one.

There are three things I want you to know: first, our differences are deep and real. Secondly, it’s okay that we’re different: we are simply two people committed to loving one another. Lastly, what we need is love.

My husband was born and raised as a Hindu in India, playing cricket, drinking chai and respecting his elders. His first experience leaving the country was to study in Canada. Over the years he became a Christian, and grew in his knowledge of western culture and the English language. On the other hand, I grew up watching Mr. Rogers, going to Catholic Church and living in suburbia, with 4 siblings and a strong sense of American independence. When we met in university, he was the first Indian friend I had ever had.

I have no previous marriage to which to compare ours, but I sometimes suspect that our marriage has a few extra landmines. We both carry assumptions and values hidden in our subconscious that we share with entire countries, but not with one another. Our ideas of birthdays, holidays, food, family relationships, parenting and finances are often at odds.

I’ll be honest: I’m not always thrilled about this. Once, while playing a board game at a party, I became frustrated and embarrassed by my husband’s lack of pop culture knowledge. I didn’t want to be on his team, gaining sympathy but losing the game. Awful, I know. What I want you to know is, this is hard. While I blog about the goofy and hilarious occurrences, there are moments of tremendous confusion and aloneness.

What I want you to know is, it is deflating when people assume we’re a “regular” North American couple simply because we live in the West. Advice and comments that presuppose we will act, think, decide, celebrate or live like North Americans alienate half of us. I endeavor every day to make our home a middle ground, a place where Indian culture, food, music and friends are valued. Our home and our lives are a compromise, a beautiful tapestry of two colorful worlds.

What I want you to know is that I am no longer just an All American Girl. My heart is now tied to India in a deep and real way. When I have gone home with my husband to India, I feel an odd combination of belonging and loneliness. As I walk the streets and elicit unmasked stares, I recognize the oddity of my dressing as an Indian and engaging familiarly with my husband’s family. In the eyes of strangers I see questions, curiosity, amusement, and sometimes, judgment. I find warmth and acceptance in the arms of his parents. We share joy as they teach me vocabulary or introduce me to rich and spicy dishes. Like any daughter-in-law, I am thrilled to see their genuine care for me, despite our differences in language, culture and religion.

What I want you to know is, we are different, and yet we are one.

It is humiliating when shopkeepers or waitresses have difficulty understanding my husband’s accent and turn to me to translate, inviting me to undermine and embarrass him. I dislike the looks of confusion we receive from passersby who see us holding hands. I bristle at comments made by acquaintances after meeting my husband, “Oh! I didn’t realize he was so Indian!” I understand that mixed marriages are still fairly rare. I realize that holding different passports and being from countries so opposite in many ways is unusual. (The paperwork alone of being from two different countries and living in a third makes me question my sanity)

But, we are in love. We are committed. Our shared love of God unites us beyond our differences. When my husband comes home from work, I run to hug him. I do not see a “foreigner”. I see the man who works hard earning for our family. I see the man who loves, cherishes and protects me. I see the man with whom I share hours of fun; a man who is quick to laugh at himself, even when his English falters.

Finally, what I want you to know is, we don’t need you to pretend we’re not different. Nor do we need you to judge our decisions. If you love someone in an intercultural relationship, support and encourage them as they grow together. If you are in an intercultural relationship, know that you’re not alone. Love knows no bounds and intercultural marriage is a not new concept. I know it can be tough and scary and even lonely at times, but kindness, patience and a sense of humor can overcome any difference.

on hating new year’s eve

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 09:50:00 +0000

I hate New Year’s Eve.

And love it . . . sort of.

But mostly I hate it.

It’s my birthday, which is actually part of the reason I hate it.

New Year’s Eve is one of the worst days to have a birthday. First of all, typically half of my friends are still out of town visiting family for the holidays. Sure, I never had to go to school on my birthday. That was a bonus. But I also grew up having poorly-attended birthday parties over Christmas break where I was the recipient of re-gifted presents in holiday wrap. My birthday was always a hastily-planned post-Christmas afterthought. (And now that I have a child whose birthday is two days after Christmas, I am repeating the same cycle of birthday neglect).

Me, on my first birthday. Notice the Christmas wrap?

I will never forget the Christmas of my 7th grade year. I had asked for nothing but a Casio keyboard for months. I was dying to have my own synthesized keyboard so I could carry it around and play Axel F But on Christmas morning, it was my SISTER who got a keyboard under the tree. None for me, but my sister, who could care less about a keyboard, was the one who got one. I remember crying in my room all day, thinking about how thoughtless my parents were . . . how unjust it was that my sister got a keyboard when I was the one who could play Chariots of Fire AND the theme song from St. Elmo’s Fire. The humanity! I was so distraught that my mom finally had to tell me that she’d saved the (bigger, better) keyboard to give me as a birthday present. But not until I’d wasted an entire day with lots of dramatic sobbing.

Christmas/birthday gift confusion aside, New Year’s Eve sucks as a birthday because it means double the build-up, equaling to double the let-down should the day play out in any kind of mundane way. I am not immune to the birthday blues . . . those pangs of disappointment when THE BIG DAY is less than stellar. When you add New Year’s Eve expectations to that, it’s even more problematic.

I feel like New Year’s Eve is this looming holiday we’ve given so much import to . . . that there is some underlying meaning we’ve assigned to how we spend ringing in the new year. (Right? Or is this just me?) I’ve always felt like I had to be doing something spectacular as the clock struck midnight . . . like if I wasn’t surrounded by confetti and music and kissing a cute boy, the rest of the year would inexplicably be ruined.

I would love to say that I’ve grown out of this, but that feeling is still present, if I’m honest. For many years, I mitigated these feelings by throwing a huge birthday party / New Year’s Eve bash. I think we did this for every New Year’s Eve up until my 30th birthday. We rented out community centers or ballrooms, we went big with music and karaoke, we invited lots of friends and served lots of champagne. It was always a blast. It was also always a LOT of work.

That tissue paper confetti? I CUT THAT BY HAND. And I didn’t even have Pinterest to show me how or brag about it later.

After a decade of hosting a big shin-dig, I decided I’d had enough. Throwing your own birthday party is hard enough . . . throwing a birthday party where you feel responsible for everyone having a thrilling moment all the way up ‘till minute? Way too much work. And while I love my husband, partying planning is not in Mark’s gift mix. Party merriment? Yes. Party planning? Not so much. And I was tired of feeling responsible for everyone’s countdown moment. So we stopped throwing the parties, and started looking for destinations.

Ah . . . but God forbid you try to go out to eat on New Year’s Eve with a small group. God forbid you actually want to ring in the New Year at an establishment that serves food or drink . . . because they will make you pay out the nose for the privilege of occupying a chair once the clock strikes. It’s insane and nearly impossible to find a place to go that is fun, that isn’t overpriced, and that doesn’t turn into a parade of cosmetic surgery cougars come 10pm.

Then there is the drunk driving, which means everyone is reluctant to go out, combined with the exorbitant prices and the fact that everyone is out of town and the insane length of time between a reasonable dinner hour and midnight and SHEESH. It is a really difficult night. I know I need to let go of my expectations, but I can’t seem to shake the pressure.

And yet . . . one year we decided to sit New Year’s Eve out . . . to just stay home and watch a countdown, and oh my word. I just felt so old and lame and lonely. I seriously remember thinking, “This is it. This is the year we are officially old.” Was I over-exaggerating and making too much of some symbolic milestone that really has no relevancy over my day-to-day life and well-being? Sure. I was. But I’m also the girl who named her blog Rage Against the Minivan. So.

Last year, we went back out there. We’ll do the same again this year, even though the idea of watching Anderson and Kathy’s awkward banter sounds kind of appealing . . . hmmm.

Maybe well just come home a LITTLE early.

In less whiney news – I’m turning 37 this year, but last year I thought I was turning 37 all week leading up to my birthday, when a friend from childhood reminded me I was only turning 36. So! I’ve already grieved turning 37. And the loss of my memory. Bring it on!

What are your feelings about New Year’s Eve? Do you believe the hype? Do you feel pressure to be doing something spectacular or are you content with some Chex mix and the remote?

what I want you to know: coping with miscarriage

noreply@blogger.com (Kristen {RAGE against the MINIVAN}) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 08:03:00 +0000

What I Want You to Know is a series of reader submissions. It is an attempt to allow people to tell their personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the unique issues each of us face. (If you are new to this blog, regularly schedule programming will resume after the holidays, but you can check out the “Best Of” section in the meantime). If you would like to submit a story to this series, click here. This guest post is by Tiffany Pate.

What I want you to know about miscarriage. At 25 my husband and I found out on mothers day that I was pregnant. I had woken up at 6ish that morning stumbling into the bathroom, I hardly remember opening up the packing of the pregnancy test. Next thing I know there are two lines, running into the bedroom, literally kicking my husband yelling at him telling him to get up. "Get up, I'm pregnant, and going to store." I said. He said "huh? what? okay, wait why are you going to the store." He confusingly replied. "Did you not hear me" I quipped back. "I'm pregnant, I have to go to the store and get another test to make sure".

I know, it was a crazy thought process. But, I was told at 22 that I wasn't going to be able to have children after a bout with cervical cancer, so another test was needed. Honestly by the end of the day 6 test were needed.

I thought I had my fairy tale ended. I know I radiated with joy that day. Here it was Mothers Day and I found out that I was pregnant! I couldn't have written a better story! Little did I know that just 2 weeks later everything would be pulled out from under me. That two weeks later, I would be laying on the couch in more pain than I have ever been in, or have been in since, sobbing, trying to grasp that I had to say good bye to my baby. I was so devastated in a way that words just can't be formed. It's a kind of devastated where breathing hurts, thinking is impossible, and your days become a blur.

Little did I know I was going to get pregnant 2 weeks later. A pregnancy that I carried full term and now have an adorable, wildly curious one year old little boy. The doctors had said that since I had carried full term they seriously doubted I would miscarry again.

They were wrong....

February of this year, I found out I was pregnant. Totally blindsided but so over happy! We packed up the baby man and headed to the doctors a few weeks later. We went in as soon as we could because I didn't know how far along we were. We when in and saw the little baby, heard the heart beat, that wonderful quick thudding noise, the noise that catching you in your throat. The noise that dreams, well mommy dreams are made of. Everything look great with the baby, so the twitter pictures were flying! Pictures of the Baby Man holding the ultra sound of his little brother/sister, pictures of me holding the ultra sound. The pictures of me holding Baby Man and the ultra sound were my favorite.

We scheduled an appointment for 4 week later to have our officially first prenatal appointment. We knew there was going to be some poking and prodding that time so my mom watch the Baby Man. When we went in the nurse couldn't find a heart beat, and started asking me about a titled uterus. I knew in that moment that my worst fears were happening. After sending two more nurses in, trying a ultra sound machine, they went in vaginally and found the baby. Measuring only 9 weeks, with no heart beat. There was my baby on the screen, the perfect side profile of a little one, but wasn't there anymore. How was my baby gone? How did I had not know?

The hardest part of it was how others just made it worst. People say things that really just don't help.

Telling a mother that you think there was something wrong with the baby, doesn't make anything better. No mother wants to think there is something wrong with their baby. Telling a mother that they can just "try" again just belittles the life that you lost.

Once we found out that our child was missing a gene, telling a mother that "well good thing you lost the baby, could you imagine the medical issues and bills?" Really? Your glad my life was going to easier. I don't want my life to be easier, I want my baby.

Telling a mother "Baby Man is such a hand full, could you imagine how busy and tired you would be if you didn't miscarry."
Telling a mother "Everything happens for a reason." Really? Then what's the reason?

This is what I know.

Saying anything to help, doesn't help.
Tell me it sucks, tell me you want to cry, heck cry with me, don't try and fix my pain.
Sit with me, hold me hand, hug me, those are all good things. Words aren't as powerful as actions. Act. Bring some one dinner, tissues, and flower, a card, pray, do something.

Listen. Listen when I want to talk, you don't have to respond just listen. Know that this doesn't make me a freak. That I'm not the only one this has ever happened too. Know that it happens way too often. Don't look at me like your waiting for me to break. Don't handle me with kid gloves. Just be kind and loving.

Think before you say or do anything. Many times, all of us, react before we put thought into what we're doing. Those are the times that when some one is in pain that you hurt them more.

Know that no matter what I will have to live with this pain. That I know have new hopes and dreams for those children, that my children that I lost are still in my dreams, my hopes, and my prayers. That they don't just disappear. They, no matter how short of a time, have made an impact on our lives. So don't try and 'speak' that way.