family history


More than usual, my darling husband and I have had conversations with Daniel about adoption not unlike that conversation this past January. Some of it can be attributed to natural curiosity about who he is and where did he come from that comes with growing up and entering…

DUN DUN DUN…

Adolescence.

But given the conversations about real parents and real sisters…as opposed to the fake parents and fake sisters…I am thinking Daniel is having to endure the shiny, happy stupid that is some people’s perception of what adoption is all about. No, not his peers. It’s the shiny, happy and stupid that is their parents and other adults who influence their thinking.

Thank you shiny, happy people!

You’re welcome for the ear worm, too.

Don’t worry. Daniel is assured of the fact that I am really his mother, Bill is really his father and Hollie, Zoë, Abby, and Jodie are really his real sisters…in spite of the fact that he is adopted and in spite of what shiny, happy, stupid comes out of people’s mouths when they speak of adoption.

Which brings us to Multi-Cultural Week at Daniel’s school this week and what would he like to do for his family culture project. We could talk about Russia and all the things we learned about his biological ethnic origins thanks to Winter Games being held in Sochi, Russia this year.

“Why can’t I talk about my REAL family?”, he asks.

Truth be told, mom, his real mom, is far more interested in his biological cultural and ethnic roots than he is right now. So we begin to discuss the ethnic and cultural history of his real family. Daniel decides that he wants to talk about the origin of the Scarborough name and the Scarborough Castle because it’s kind of cool to have a real castle in your family’s history even if it isn’t really our castle.

Really!

 

pinteresting this week


I think this every time I hear people I know complain and snark about other people’s happiness. Even better they claim to be their friends. Friends like that? Um, no thank you. Just be super happy. It will drive the ugly people crazy.

What will I do with all those bobby pins after Jodie is done dancing competitively?

What nursing is…and what it is not…like no, we did not settle for nursing instead of becoming a doctor. P.S. Nurses Week is May 6-12 just in case you are wondering. We like coffee, wine, chocolate, massages, pedicures and always, gratitude and respect for taking care of you and yours.

This may or may not have been my darling husband last Saturday night.

My son will be needing this.

And my grandbabies will likely need these…maybe my kids…okay, me too!

And for my Zoë, who really doesn’t need map coordinates to find her way to Disneyland since it is her backyard and she is there every chance she gets.

Elizabeth Weinzirl (pictured in Minneapolis 1978) has brightly colored tattoos winding around her body from her neck to her knees. She says she loves her ink and got the tattoos because her husband wanted a tattooed wife “and I didn’t want to move out.” According to a 2012 Harris poll, 11 percent of those 50 to 64 years old and 5 percent of those 65 and older have tattoos.

Asparagus Egg and Bacon Salad with Dijon Vinaigrette – perfect for Easter dinner.

You know what is scarier than clowns? Easter Bunnies at the mall.

 

Word.

 

 

the waiting


And the question on Facebitch, er, Facebook today is: how many people will you get behind in the drive thru at Starbuck’s instead of parking and going in?

We all been there at one time or another. We all have found ourselves stuck in what seems to us to be an ENDLESS line in a drive-thru.

OMG! The waiting! It just might kill some of us I am sure…like my facebitching friend.

So do you have a limit? Three cars? Six? Twelve?

On Facebook it would seem that six is just too much…and fodder for judge-y shaking of one’s head as they park their car and get out to go inside to get their latte. Twelve or more is just absolutely, positively ridiculous. Ain’t no one got time for that.

Right?!

But then again parking and getting out with two or maybe three or, oh dear god, FIVE kids to go inside might give one pause; especially if kids in car seats are involved. It also will guarantee that the family-size police will jump all over that…extra points when it is the vice principal of one your kids’ schools because he’s like the captain of the family-size police.

Or perhaps the weather outside is frightful and the seat warmer in your car is so delightful.

Maybe you just finished a 5 mile run and , well, you’d rather not share that sweaty, stinky, hot messiness with anyone…that is if you sweat so bad running five miles or more that you look like a salt lick. It’s a public service you are performing. You are welcome Starbucks’ customers!

You just might be THAT mom who drops the kids off at school while you are STILL in your jammies. No one needs to see that…except your favorite barista. Y’all know they can see all of you in the car as they hand you your order? The former baristas I birthed have told me stories. Oh dear glob! And my favorite barista loves to tease me when I do manage to put on clothes.

Oh, and then there is  my favorite barista. He handles that twelve-plus car line like nobody’s business while the counter guy is still trying to figure out how to spell your name on the damn cup. Just in case you were wondering, counter guy never spells my name right. But my favorite barista knows what my favorite drinks are and will often just ask if I want it hot or cold. I pull up to the window and it is there ready for me. Counter guy, on the other hand, would be asking me to repeat my drink order to him…for the third time…because a non-fat white mocha, no whip, two pumps raspberry can so freakin’ complicated.

Then there are the times where I just enjoy sitting in the long drive thru line. I have come to appreciate the time in the line to just be still, not be in such a hurry and to just get lost in my quiet thoughts and meditations.

I’m thankful for the waiting sometimes.

Bonus when everyone is paying it forward…okay except when the guy behind me ordered four drinks and pastries.

 

 

it’s hard out there for a cat


Oh enough with this mawkish talk of punctuation! You want to talk about a hard life. Let’s talk about a hard life.

It’s an exhausting life!

Spending your day curled up sleeping in someone’s bed.

Stretching and yawning…then going back to sleep.

You need that nap because soon enough you need to get up and play in a sink full of water because…WATER!

You can’t even begin to know how exhausting that five minutes of play can be.

Zzzz…

She meows in her sleep. No, really. She does.

And then she wakes up, stretches. Jumps up onto my desk to get into my face and say, “My food bowl is half empty.”

It’s hard out there for a cat.