grrlTravels

two. two. whoop-de-doo.

Friday was R.'s second birthday, kicking off a weekend of celebrating toddler style. That meant a trip to the children's museum, tofu seafood soup, chocolate cake (sort of), riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiides (as R. likes to say), more tofu soup, and swimming. In fact, the weekend has been so jam packed with activities that R. has not been able to eat his cake. Every time we try to give it to him he tries to fall asleep into it.

It isn't nice to tease someone on their birthday, right? Even if they don't realize what you are doing? K. takes all the blame. And he says we will put these away until his 16th birthday.

Today is the first day of the rest of your blog

As far as I can tell, comments are back on. They might be, they might not be. As has been my entire summer. Yes. No. Maybe. Yes. No. Maybe. YES. NO! MAYBE!

Anyway. Z. Yesterday (DAY 2 OF OPERATION BABY BIRD IS REFUSING TO FLY) was a bit better and today (DAY 3, OP. BBIRTF) was worse. She cries a lot, seems very afraid, and is unable to interact with the other kids in her class. Also unable to: say hello to either teacher, listen, follow directions, sit during snack time, sit at the table when asked, walk down the hall in line, do anything remotely constructive in the classroom. She does participate during music time. And she's pretty good at running out the door at 10:53 yelling "Mama!"

They keep removing her from the room, sending her off with the speech therapist. Which calms Z. down, but doesn't seem to me to be getting us anywhere. Perhaps it is. But today my child was roaming the halls with the speech therapist, visiting all of the other classes (including E.'s) and the nurse. Hmmmm. Gosh. I suddenly have visions of my kid with a big bow in her hair and empty eyes roaming the halls of the K-2 school 10 years from now... Anyway, we shan't go there yet.

So. Personally I have not given up. I don't want you to think I have. I do worry that Z. is causing so much trouble that the teachers can't teach, and we can't have that. But seriously, it's only been 3 days and I told them over and over and over that this was going to be tough with her.

So. Z. Doesn't like school. At all. I'm not letting on that I am trying desperately to not take responsibility for all of this. The what ifs, I am drowning under the what ifs. What if I had...taken her to Gymboree / left her with a babysitter more / forced her into some kind of activity with her peers / left her more / done something or everything differently, then would this be better? [Don't answer that. It's rhetorical. Obviously things would be better now if I had done those things. But would they have been better then?] I'm working on letting it go. Parenting Z. is a challenge and I am doing the best I can. Clearly I look like a crazy overprotective freak today. But will I look like that 5 years from now? That is the question I for one am focusing on. Especially every day when I drop her off and pick her up and I get the reports.

So. Baby Bird refuses to fly. But fly she must. Only 177 more days to go!

uh. nevermind.

Comments aren't working. I do not see your comments. If you are here commenting. I have no way of knowing, seeing how the comments aren't working.

Come back tomorrow! Maybe things will be better!

I missed you too.

I'm guessing my summer was pretty much like yours. Let's see—what happened? I got a new tattoo, almost planned a trip to Bhutan, and either did or did not have cancer.

I know! Bhutan! It was sort of crazy really, a crazy little dream that K. thought should be more. I'm still contemplating Bhutan. It's far though. And it's a long time to be away. But still. It seeps into my consciousness at random intervals calling to me. We'll see. I doubt it, but you never know.

And then yeah, there was the cancer thing. One day I was taking a break from blogging and the very next day I was getting a call from my dermatologist in the hallway of Z.'s speech therapy offices. She said, "Your pathology report came back. The lab has called it severely atypical dysplasia, and they note on their report that they will not certify that it is not melanoma. blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah melanoma blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah don't worry blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah take care of this as soon as possible blah blah blah blah blah blah blah."

And then everything changed.

I had a pretty bad month. Every time I got myself calmed down someone would call and say, "So, I see you have melanoma..." and I would lose it again. I cried. I couldn't sleep. I kissed my kids over and over. I felt it. I saw it. The end.

Melodramatic? Perhaps. You can think that if you want. It's fine with me. Both of the doctors said they thought I was just being super cautious, smart given my family history. Everyone else said the word "melanoma" a heck of a lot, though. Over and over and over and over and over and over.

I thought about my mom. I obsessively lived her awful last days over and over. I had a small surgery. I hobbled around the house. My scar hurt. It reminded me of the bad thing. I struggled to find my footing, my optimism, my fight. I kissed the kids some more. I dutifully put the vaseline on the scar several times a day. I hated touching it. A lot. I gave K. all kinds of directives he didn't want to hear. I cried. I went back to the dermatologist and had another mole off. I rode my bike and played with the kids and made dinner and stayed out of the sun. I waited for calls. I grieved.

Finally, finally, I accepted that my life had changed in some indefinable important way and there was no going back. I started to work on making the new, less safe, less secure life ok. I fell in love with K. all over again. I determined that I would see my kids graduate college. I went outside for a bit. Coated in sunscreen. With a big, big hat.

[I know this is a really strange shot. I don't think the top of my ear is generally so greenish. My neck, while wrinkly, is not quite that wrinkly. My yard sadly is not that green, my garage is not that purple, and my forehead is not that...icky. We took it with my iPhone for documentary purposes. Also see me here.]

That was my summer. Well, there was a lot more but those were the highlights. Just like your's, right?

Z., you are ours. All ours.

Today is our official adoption anniversary. A bittersweet day in many ways, today I find myself weepily, deeply in love with my girl. I love her. So much. Much, much more than I ever dreamed I would during that first awful year. I am powerfully, ridiculously grateful for her tiny toenails, crooked smile, and soft giggle.

Z.

Z.

Thank you.

Thank you so much. Hang in there, girl. We are going to get through this. Together.

HELLO. WORLD.

The first day of school here in the great northeast happens after Labor Day. We stretched summer out until it was dangerous, ran home, and got ready.

E., E. rocked his first day of Kindergarten. He smiled all the way to school, lined up, had a moment of panic right before he walked into the building, and then went in without another backward glance. When he came out he was still smiling and declared that his first day was "GREAT!"

Not that I would know. It wasn't only E.'s first day. It was Z.'s first day of preschool too. While K. was searching for E.'s teacher, I was trying to convince Z. to remove herself from my leg and stand up and say hi to her teacher, the teacher's helper, anyone. Finally she did. And after that things got sticky. She had to walk into the school by herself which I knew was impossible. Her sweet, sweet speech therapist came over, picked her up, and carried her in. Screaming and crying. Yelling "Mama! MAMA!!!"

I paced around the house. What else to do? We did some errands and got to the school too early to pick her up. Stalled in the car. And finally, finally it was time to mosey over to the door. My moseying looked a lot like sprinting, but with frowny worry lines.

When we got there we stalled some more, as we were still quite early. K. said, "The social worker just went by."
"Which way?" I asked, gesturing to the left and right.
"She came out of the preschool room, looked out the window, and went right back in," and then joking, "They were probably looking for us. Ready to send Z. home."

Except it wasn't a joke.

At that point one of the parents who was peering in a small window looked at us and said, "She's crying. She's been crying." I had been trying not to peer in the window, and suddenly I was there, peering. I got a glimpse of my girl crying furiously and walking towards the door. A moment later a very teary Z. was in my arms.

We didn't expect it to be easy, and it wasn't. I handed her a Winnie the Pooh balloon, gave her a huge hug and let her relax into sobs on my shoulder. I managed not to cry until we got into the car. I'm pretty proud of that actually.