Chookooloonks

Three Things About Which I Cannot Stop Musing Over The Weekend Thus Far

1. Let’s get the touchy one over with first: remember the Top Ten Annoying Things People Say To Adoptive Parents That, Even Though They Mean Well, Drive Adoptive Parents Up A Tree? Well, an eleventh one, one that actually should’ve made the list but was inadvertently omitted, reared its ugly head a couple of times early last week. Permit me to address it here:

In the United States (and certainly in our situation), birthmothers do not “become rich off of adoption fees.” The considerable fee paid by adoptive parents is applied to adoption agency costs, payments for the services of adoption lawyers, court fees, and other costs associated with the facilitation of the adoption process. Birthmothers do not receive a dime of the money, as the buying and selling of children is highly illegal. Furthermore, the inherent implication that my child is a commodity, is, to put it mildly, hurtful.

2. Secondly, on a completely unrelated (and much happier) note, last night Marcus and I went to hang out (or “lime,” as we say in Trinidad) over at the home of some friends. It was the first time in the six months we’ve been in Trinidad that we limed with friends without Girlie-girl. Can I tell you how excited I was about this? I mean, while Marcus and I are pretty good about scheduling frequent “date nights,” this was the first night I had been out and socialized with a group of other adults in a VERY. LONG. TIME. I went out and bought a new skirt and shoes for the occasion, I was that excited. We talked politics! And travel! And current events! And not once did I have to change a dirty diaper, or respond to “Mummy!!! Mummy!!!! MUMMY!!!” during the entire evening!

Well, anyway, I thought it was a big deal.

3. And finally, today my cousin Jason came over with his beautiful wife and baby. I’m the oldest of the cousins on my mother’s side of my family, while Jason is the youngest, by 8 years. Notwithstanding our age difference, at one time Jason and I were quite close, having practically lived together for 2 years of our childhood with our grandparents. Today was the first time we’d seen each other since we had each married and become parents, so we pretty much spent the entire afternoon staring at each other and laughing to ourselves. I mean, okay, even I admit the concept of me as a mom is pretty damned funny, but little Jason as a dad? Come ON!

And incidentally, Jason’s 6-month-old son, Jamal, sets new standards of choonkocity, even given the little rug burn on his nose:

Even Alex couldn’t get enough (much to Jamal’s considerable consternation).

A Photo Post To Hold You Until I Get Back and Put The Holiday Photo Album Together

Much choonkolocity:

From left to right: Alex's cousin Keziah, cousin Theo, Alex, and cousin Eliana

________________________

Incidentally, for sort of a "photo preview" of our holiday, click on the My Life in Pictures link to the right -- I've pre-loaded some photographs I've already taken here in England, so that the site will automatically update each day until we return to Trinidad. Note: the photos on that site were taken more for me to play with the camera; for the more snap-shot-y, storytelling photographs, you'll have to wait until we get back.

More soon.

Thanks, and more thanks

Aww, you guys are just too much. Thank you for all the wonderful birthday wishes. I had a fabulous birthday -- we didn't do anything special to celebrate, but OH! the loot I pulled in! First, the camera bag I ordered a few weeks ago arrived, just in time for our trip to England. And as if that wasn't enough, Marcus, that man-o-mine, bought me a KICKING tripod for my camera, and tells me the most amazing lens is on its way via post as we speak. And as if that wasn't enough, he also got me the latest Harry Potter book. Do you see why I keep him around? Do you see?

(Of course, with all this fantastic camera equipment, the pressure is now on for me to actually make something of this photography business. Gulp.)

Thanks also for the wonderful ideas for stuff to take on our trip to appease the Diva. (An aside: she's now added Foot Stomping to the Arched Back and High Pitched Squeal of her Tantrum Repertoire. Such a clever girl.) We all went shopping Saturday, and I must say, Girlie pulled in quite the loot herself (though she doesn't know it yet). We have stickers! We have books! We have Magnadoodles! We have crayons ... to say nothing of the Post-it Notes and Ziploc bags we're hoarding like madpeople, as well. Tonight: the search for Goldfish, Cheerios and sleep-inducing decongestant. So if this trip all goes pearshaped, it will not be because we weren't prepared, or you weren't generous in your suggestions. You guys rock. Trinidad Stew Chicken recipe to follow.

And finally, for a true definition of "looks great for her age," check out the photograph I took of Granny the Great yesterday at my parents' place.

Now that's age-defiance.

The Answers, and Three Stories About Which I Am Somewhat Amused (in no particular order)

Thanks for playing. I must say, judging from the responses to the two pictures (a) I worry that our family's sobriety so often comes in question with all of you -- what is it I have done to give you the impression that alcohol, that demon drink, is consumed in our house with such abandon? I mean it is, but what is it I have done? and (b) poor Marcus, what with all of you suggesting that he has bad taste in toddler fashion. You're right, of course, he does, but still ... poor, poor Marcus.

And so, to the answers:

In the first "Guess," the correct answer is (D). However, I plead innocence: when I dressed the child, she was merely wearing the dress alone, and was barefoot -- a vision in tropicality, she was. Then Marcus found the Chuck Taylor high tops (the ones I thought I'd hidden well), and put them on her with glee. Finally, Alex has a total hat fetish going on these days, and felt the jaunty little topper completed the look. Thank goodness we weren't going anywhere that day.

In the second "Guess," the correct answer is (C) -- that look is all Alex. We had just woken up, and Alex was still in her footie pyjamas (yes, I know we live in the tropics, but our home is air-conditioned, which is a good thing, since we discovered that the cold air makes wandering snakes slow and sluggish). While Alex wandering around our bedroom (I was trying to get a couple of more winks), she found the laundry basket with the clothes yet-to-be-ironed, and pulled out that dress. She insisted I help her in it. Then, of course, she needed a stylish chapeau, and Marcus' Carib beer hat seemed to do the trick.

Sadly, all parties were sober in the creation of both looks.

Now, for the three stories:

One

Alex knows she's not supposed to play with my camera. The other day, I'd left it on my bed. I went into the next room, and when I returned, I found the camera lying on its back on the floor, lens facing up to the ceiling, and Alex standing over it.

Because I hadn't gone far, I knew she hadn't dropped it, or I would've heard it. However, I wasn't pleased -- she knows the rules.

"Alex!" I said. "What are you doing with my camera?" I put on my best scolding-mum face.

Without batting an eye, she stooped over the camera, and looked directly into the lens.

"CHEESE!!!" she said.

Child has issues.

Two

On Tuesday, someone detonated a bomb in Port-of-Spain, Trinidad's capital (this isn't the amusing part). No one was killed, but about 15 people were injured, and a jewelry store was demolished. Now, if I know my country (and I think I do), the culprit was likely some moron who was enamoured with last week's bombings in London, and decided to see if he could create equal havoc in Port-of-Spain.

He succeeded. You would've thought bin Laden himself had set off the bomb. "WAS IT A TERRORIST ACT?" screamed the press (as if al Qaeda could even find Trinidad on a map, let alone have some vendetta against this tiny island). "DON'T PANIC!" yelled the officials. The entire downtown section of Port-of-Spain was evacuated, causing traffic jams everywhere. Marcus couldn't get home until later, because as he looked outside of his office window at the Queen's Park Savannah (Trinidad's version of New York City's Central Park), there was traffic as far as the eye could see. To make matters worse, cars had decided to cut through the park to make it home -- even going so far as to drive right through the middle of a cricket match that was taking place. And of course, because of the rainy season, the Savannah was particularly muddy, so many of these vehicles found themselves stuck in the middle of the park.

Marcus went downstairs to a bar to have a beer and wait it out.

Today, they've discovered that the device was probably made in someone's backyard, and likely has no ties to any terrorist organizations. You could almost feel the anchorwoman's disappointment as she relayed this bit of information. I kinda felt sorry for her.

Three

The following painting, done by a friend of mine, hangs in our guest bedroom:

Yesterday evening, Alex and I were in that bedroom, and I found Alex studying the painting carefully. Finally, she looked at me.

"Hat," she said, pointing to the painting solemnly.

"Yes, Alex, he's wearing a hat," I said. "That's very good."

She went back to studying the painting, her brow furrowed. Then all of a sudden, her face lit up, and she smiled broadly at me.

"PEE!!" she exclaimed proudly, pointing to the painting again.

Methinks the time for potty training grows nigh.

Guess II -- and This Time, It's Personal

1. Before I give you the answer to the previous Guess, guess who dressed Alex on THIS particular morning:

a). Karen
b). Marcus
c). Alex
d). All of the above

2. Again: sober? drunk?

a). Sober
b). Drunk
c). Who knows, but it's clear there are some serious issues in this family.

Guess

1. Guess who dressed Alex today?

a). Karen
b). Marcus
c). Alex
d). All of the above

2. Was the person who dressed Alex sober, or drunk?

a). Sober
b). Drunk
c). It's not really clear

The Elixir of Life

Yesterday morning I received a call from Granny the Great. She was in the process of contacting everyone who sent her birthday wishes for her 99th birthday, and was calling to thank us for our gift.

"No problem, Gran," I said. "But Gran, ninety-nine years. That's amazing. Tell me: what's your secret for living a long, happy life?"

Without skipping a beat, Gran immediately responded:

"Rum and cokes."

You heard it here first.

Happy Birthday Granny the Great!

Today is my grandmother's 99th birthday. Ninety-nine. Do you know how long a time that is, people? I mean, when she was born, plastic didn't exist. Not until the following year, anyway. And it took 15 years after her birth for someone to finally come up with a Band-Aid. That's crazy.

Even more amazing is how completely coherent -- and frankly, funny -- my grandmother still is. It's not just that her mind is as sound as ever, it's that age doesn't seem to have impaired her wit, either. Case in point: the other day, as we were ending our phone conversation, my grandmother said, "Give Marcus a kiss for me."

"I will, Granny," I responded.

"And Karen?" she added.

"Yes, Granny?"

"Don't get jealous. It's just a kiss."

(Incidentally, for those of you who are still around when I reach my 99th birthday -- please make sure that I celebrate it in a red dress, with dangly earrings and a chunky bracelet. 'Cause, I'm sorry, that's just cool.)

Happy 99th Birthday, Granny the Great. May you have 99 more!

Happy First Third Anniversary

Is it bad that both Marcus and I forgot that today was our first third anniversary?

Happy anniversary, my love. You're the best.

Happy Father's Day!

From the home office in Maraval, Port-of-Spain, Trinidad, The Top Ten Reasons Marcus Earns The Number One Father of The Year Award:

10. He has never, ever, complained about changing one of Alex's diapers. Not once. And this is impressive because (a) flowers wilt in the mere vicinity of Alex's diapers, and (b) if there is one thing that's prodigious about that kid, it's her digestive tract. I'll say no more.

9. He gets down on the floor to play with her all day, every day, if possible. And since Alex is just under 3 feet tall, and Marcus is 6'5", I'm sure Alex appreciates this.

8. He cooks for her. Actually, he cooks for both of us. And he's an incredible cook.

7. If Alex learns to swim in the next few years, it will because of him. I mean, I swim, but Marcus is an absolute fish. And because of him, Alex adores the water. And she's fearless. I suspect she'll be surfing by the time she's 5.

6. He bathes Alex every night. It's become their bonding time together.

5. He puts Alex to bed every night. There's a reason for this: Alex won't go to bed with me. She refuses -- as far as she's concerned, if Mummy's in the room, it's playtime. But Marcus is like Obi-Wan:

Marcus (waving his hand in front of Alex's face): You want to go to sleep.

Alex (trancelike): I want to go to sleep.

Marcus: You have no use for these toys.

Alex: I have no use for these toys.

Marcus: You want to go to bed.

Alex: I think I'll go to bed.

Marcus: Goodnight.

Alex: Nigh-nigh, Daddy! Nigh-nigh!

(Of course, by 10 p.m., she's padded into our room, and tries to get into bed with us. But baby steps, man, baby steps.)

4. Five words: Peek-a-boo Champion Of The World.

3. Marcus is Mr. Disorganization; however, he will schedule time during to go buy Alex the latest educational toy.

That runs on batteries.

And makes lots of noise.

Lots.

2. He tells Alex "Let's make fun of Mummy." Then both of them will put their foreheads together so that they touch, pretend to whisper ("psst-sst-sst-sst-sst..") and then both look at me, put their hands in front of their mouths and say, "HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE."

Okay, this one's a bit annoying. And I do find it disturbing that this is One of Alex's Favourite Things To Do. But I suppose it's another bonding time for the two of them, and that should count for something.

And the Number One Reason Marcus Earns The Number One Father Of The Year Award:

1. He loves Alex, but more importantly, he really loves being around Alex. And he doesn't treat her like a "little girl," he treats her like a "little person." And I'm so grateful he's my partner in the Quest to Raise A Strong Woman.

Happy Father's Day, Marcus. You're Number One.

Pictures from the Second Annual Father's Day Photo Shoot to follow.

____________________________

UPDATE: As promised, here are today's Father's Day pictures. Note the lovely bracelet that Marcus is wearing. Alex requested he put it on, and now Marcus is wearing a pretty little girlie bracelet for the entire Internet-surfing world to see. If that's not a sign of devoted fatherhood, I don't know WHAT is.

HusbandFather

My Marcus

We may be forced to put Marcus in dry-dock and scrape his undersides

So, yes, Marcus is back, and life is slowly getting back to normal. Several of you have asked how Alex treated him after having left her for a good 1/14th of her life, and it's a fair question.

When Marcus first arrived on Thursday night, Alex was sleeping. When she finally stirred, I brought her into the living room to see him... and she freaked out. I think she thought he was a burglar. Then, slowly, recognition seemed to come to her, but she didn't really trust her instincts, sort of like, "You look familiar... like someone I once knew... but no...it couldn't be..." And for the rest of the night, she clung to me, but kept smiling politely at him. She's nothing if not courteous.

The next day, we went to the beach (where I took the picture in the previous post), and she treated him like a close family friend. When we got home, she wasn't feeling very well, and only wanted to be held by me -- however, Marcus wasn't allowed to leave the room. She'd cling to me, refusing to go to him, but if he left the room, she'd scream bloody murder until he returned.

Marcus considered this progress.

By Sunday, however, she had completely forgotten who the hell I was, and clung only to him, like so much barnacle:

In Marcus' opinion, things are now as they should be.

In other news: I've been tasked to make four of this cake for the birthday party of a close family friend. Four, I tell you! Her daughter is throwing quite the shindig for her. I'm struggling with what to use as cake topping: chocolate glaze? Some sort of fruit compote? I'm thinking chocolate kisses and coloured sprinkles won't do, as it's her 70th birthday.

You guys have any suggestions?

Reunited

Paranoia, and APOTDWMIA #1

The bougainvillea in bloom on our veranda/gallery/lanae/sunnae/loggi'alfresco, taken around 7:30 a.m. this morning.

________________________________

I admit it: I'm a worrier. If there's one thing I do EXTREMELY well, it's worry. I worry like it's an Olympic sport. I come by it honestly: my mother is a champion worrier. If worrying were an Olympic sport, my mom would take the gold medal, no problem.

But I would handily take a not-too-distant silver.

I worry about everything. I worry that I'm not doing enough to raise a healthy child. I worry about the crisis in the Middle East. I worry about global warming. I worry about the AIDS pandemic. I worry that reality television will be the ultimate downfall of society altogether.

But I'm most passionate, most ardent, most obsessive in my worrying about Marcus.

And since I'm pretty consistent in worrying that some evil may befall him when he's merely going to the neighbourhood pharmacy to pick up QTips and aftershave, you can imagine what a dither I'm working myself into with him flying to the other side of the planet for three weeks.

Oh, did I mention its only three weeks? Not a month after all. A mere three weeks. That's nothing, right?

Anyway, where was I—ah, yes, my manic worrying. Currently, my worries range from the not - completely - out - of - the - realm - of - possibility:

What if he didn't pack a warm-enough coat? It's early spring over there in China. He's going from the tropics to early spring. What if he's not warm enough? What if he gets sick?

to the utterly fantastic:

What if, while he's in China, there's another earthquake, which causes another tsunami, which (keeping in mind I have no idea if he'll be in a coastal region or not) causes mass devastation, rendering him trapped under something heavy and unable to call for help?

which naturally leads to:

And what if someone finds him, and gets him to a hospital, and the doctor assigned to him is a woman named, say, Mei-Ling (I've always loved the name Mei-Ling) who's not only amazingly competent in bringing him back to health, but also happens to be beautiful, built like a brick house, and her top three passions in life are mountainbiking, surfing and XBox?

which, of course, leads to:

What if he ends up staying in China? What about Alex and me?

Which I realise sounds crazy, so I console myself with:

Well, at least he'll be happy.

Which, when I think about it some more, turns into a mild threat:

I mean, he BETTER be happy, or I'll fly to China and kick Mei-Ling's ass myself.

Homewrecker.

But then I realise I'm being silly, and remember the other night when we were sitting in front of the bougainvillea at sunset, marveling at what a great life we have. And then my worries turn into a single prayer (because I believe in the power of prayer):

God, please bring him back in one piece. I'm not finished sharing all of this with him yet.

Godspeed, Marcus. Come back to us safe and sound.

________________________________

Because Marcus will likely be logging on every day while he's away, I've decided to post an Alexis Picture Of The Day While Marcus Is Away (or a APOTDWMIA), so he feels like he's not missing anything. I hope you guys don't mind. It's about to be Alexis Overload up in here.

So here are the first AP(s)OTDWMIA, taken this morning at around 7:30 a.m.:

Ed. note: It dawns on me, after looking at this second picture all day, her expression is 100% Marcus. Amazing what love does, ain't it?)

Grandma the Great

As you may recall, a few weeks ago I posted a picture of Granny the Great, my mother's mother. In the interest of fairness, I now present to you Alex with Grandma the Great -- my father's mother:

I apologize for not getting you a full-on picture of the two of them, but Grandma the Great's house is full of cool stuff worthy of exploring, so Alex was especially wiggly that day.

See?

(Note: For those of you who are thinking to yourselves, "Man, call me crazy, but Grandma the Great looks Chinese," don't worry, you're not crazy -- she is Chinese.

We're a veritable United Nations up in this family.)

Dial-Up Test Drive: Pictures at Maracas Beach

So, we've figured out how to use dial-up -- and truth be told, thus far, it's not a whole lot worse than the wireless connection at the hotel (although, it's being a bit of a pain tonight). Hope springs eternal.

Anyway, the purpose of this particular post is twofold:

1. to let you know that I haven't forgotten you, my little coconuts; and

2. to test how long it actually takes to post, including the uploading of gratuitous family photos.

And so, to the pictures:

The first is of Alex, taken today at Maracas Beach. Maracas is an extremely popular beach on the northern coast of Trinidad, about 15 minutes' drive from our new home.

I am unclear on the meaning of the expression on Alex's face in this picture. It is either (a) she's really studying the ocean and the sand, in an attempt to make some sense of it all (this was, after all, only the second time in her life she'd ever been to a beach), or (b) she's really pissed at me for the large floppy hat. Whatever, man. The sun is evil. When she's 45 and wrinkle-free, she'll thank me.

This second picture is of my fabulous other half, with eyes as blue as the Caribbean Sea.

More soon.

Phaklempt...er, sorry, that's verklempt (thanks, Rae!)

Ever visit someone's website, and you read a sappy comment that says something like, "OMG, that was SOOOOOOO beautiful! I'm crying real tears!!!!! You ROCK!!!!" And you know how you think something like, "I'd NEVER act like that?"

Yeah?

Well, I said the same things, until I read the comments to the previous post. I can't tell you how much your comments meant to me. Every time Marcus came into the hotel room, I'd be like, "Marcus! There's a comment from Wisconsin!" Or: "Marz! There's a post from KENYA! From KENYA!!!" Or: "Dude! Someone posted from the Phillipines!!!!" Or: "'Happy Birthday' in Japanese, man!!! In JAPANESE!!!"

Thank you and thank you again, for your generous, kind words. I can't wait to print all these comments out (once I get my printer back, of course), and save them for Alex to read when she's older. I'm going to leave the comments open for about a week or so, so feel free to keep adding comments to that post. Our little family loves reading them, and are amazed that so many international cultures have made contact with us. So thank you a third time.

The other reason I'm so emotional is that this week, Alex met her great-grandmother (otherwise known as "Granny the Great"). This is my mom's mom, widow to Henry Alexis, Alex's namesake. When I was a teenager in Trinidad, I lived with Granny and Grandpa for a couple of years while I went to school in the city, so they were like second parents to me. Granny will be 99 years old this year. The meeting between Granny and Alex is the biggest reason I was so excited to move back to Trinidad -- because, trust me, the lady may be old but she hasn't lost an ounce of her snap.

So Alex's I-just-woke-up-what's-going-on expression notwithstanding, here are Alex and Granny the Great:

Man. Doubly verklempt.

Valentine's Day Challenge

I've never been a great fan of Valentine's Day. It's the whole philosophy: why should a day be set aside for treating your loved one in a manner which you should be treating them all year long? As such, when I was single, I truly resisted the celebration of Valentine's Day -- even when I had a boyfriend. The gifts and the flowers (especially the ones delivered to work, for all to behold and be awed) just seemed too contrived, too not-from-the-heart.

Then I met Marcus. And Valentine's Day became ridiculous. It was almost like we were outdoing each other with the fabulosity of our presents. Each gift got more extravagant and more expensive. And each year, I felt more and more uncomfortable, until finally, after our first married Valentine's Day, I yelled:

"STOP!"

It was just too much. We gave each other great anniversary presents (and we have 2 wedding anniversaries -- but that's a story for another time), great birthday presents, great Christmas presents. Was it really necessary to outdo ourselves at Valentine's Day, too?

But Marcus isn't stupid. "I say, Karen, dahling," he said, "I'm not daft, you know. If I stop getting you anything for Valentine's Day, you're going to be positively steaming. I couldn't possibly forego Valentine's Day. Pip, pip. Spiffing, smashing, and all that."

(Don't you just love his English accent?)

But I wouldn't be dissuaded. "Okay, fine," I responded. "Then from now on, we have to make each other's gift. No more buying anything. It has to absolutely be hand-crafted."

And so now, each year, Marcus and I make each other's gifts. Valentine's Day means so much more to me now, because I'm always filled with anticipation, wondering what Marcus will come up with. (His most creative thus far? A lamp which projected "LOVE" on the wall. He went way deep on that one.) Marcus definitely has the edge on me with this holiday, since he's actually an artist -- some of his paintings are up on our walls (when we actually have a home, that is). But still, he accepts my childlike attempts with as much enthusiasm as I accept his creative works. And next year, when Alex is older, and more interested in drawing with crayons than eating them, we'll get her in on the action as well.

So the challenge: everybody should do this. Those of you with families, boyfriends, girlfriends, just-friends -- revolt against Hallmark and the diamond industry. Remember back in grade school, when you made your valentines? That's what this holiday should be about. Bring that tradition back in your life again.

Hope you had a great Valentine's day, everyone.

Back to the Future

Wanna see something wild?

Me, at about 12 months old, and my mom

Alex, at about 11 months old, and me

God help me, there's now photographic evidence:

I'm turning into my mother.

Man, they'll let anybody in this country ...

Back in the olden days, when "9-1-1" just meant the number you dialed to call an ambulance, or a bright red shiny fire truck, or even your friendly neighbourhood policeman, the UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY was called the "Immigration and Naturalization Service," or "INS" for short. To me, "Immigration and Naturalization Service" was such a warm, friendly name -- sort of like: "Hi. We're here to help you with your immigration and naturalization needs. At your service." I used to envision a group of elderly public servants, standing at the borders of the U.S. with giant smiles on their faces -- kind of like the government's answer to WalMart Greeters, I guess.

However, it's a new age, baby. There are some scary people out there. The United States will still accept your tired, your poor and your huddled masses yearning to breathe free -- but only under very controlled circumstances. No need for the whole world to think that the U.S. is one giant welcome mat, right? Well, that's certainly what the U.S. government thought after September 11, and therefore decided to come up with a far more foreboding, intimidating name for INS. As such, the UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY was born. The name just sounds like it should be in all caps, doesn't it?

So anyway, this week Alex and I accompanied Marcus to the UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY for the final interview for his green card. The interview was short and sweet.

The good news: I present to you one of America's newest Resident Aliens and green card holders:

(Note: This is Marcus' imitation of a terrorist. Strikes fear in your heart, doesn't it? Needless to say, he didn't do this for the immigration officer.)

The bad news: When Marcus gets out of hand, I can no longer use the threat, "Boy, don't make me call the UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY!"

I'm going to have to think of something else.

Fast.

Feels Like Home

Over the past month or so Alex has really discovered music. If anything slightly harmonic hits the airwaves, Alex immediately looks up at one of us, smiles, and starts swaying back and forth. If she's standing (with some support), she starts to stomp her feet. If she's lying down, she kicks her legs and waves her arms.

As far as preferences, she seems to like classical quite a bit. This morning we were rocking out to Gwen Stefani's new album, but I think I was actually prancing around with more abandon than she was. But her favourite?

The blues, man, the blues.

Recently, I purchased Norah Jones' "Feels Like Home." Tonight, I put it on, and Alex almost swooned. The following pictures are snaps of her enjoying the music.

And it definitely feels like home.

I'm buying flashcards tomorrow

I turn my back for one minute...

... and Marcus is teaching the child X-Box.

This can't be good.

This Year's Thanksgiving Was Brought to You by the Letter "F" and the Number "11"

Well, we made it to the other side. And before too much time passes, I'd like to thank the cast members of Thanksgiving 2004. It is their presence, both on that day and in my life, for which I am truly thankful:

The Family:

The Husband and Daughter

(a.k.a. "Thanksgiving Robo-Husband" [Marcus] and "The Only Actual American In Attendance" [Alex]) You should've seen them. Marcus was saute-ing, and braising, and slicing and dicing, and sprinkling the turkey with paprika, if you please. And while we were flying around the kitchen, Alex was happily cooing in her high chair. They were both champs.

The Paternal Grandmother

(a.k.a. "Diana," "Mum," "Gwam Ma") Oh sure, she was feeding Alex when she got fussy, coming up with alternative foods for Alex when she wouldn't eat her baby food (Mashed bananas! Sheer genius!), but her real superpower?

Scraping a bowl clean when emptying the contents into a casserole dish before baking at 350 for 30-45 minutes. I mean, not a morsel was wasted. Amazing.

The Uncle

(a.k.a. "Matt," "Matthew," "UnkaMatt") So while we were all cooking in the kitchen, and without any suggestion by Marcus or me, Matt took it upon himself and cleaned out the closet under our staircase, and in the process FOUND 10 BOTTLES OF LIQUOR we didn't know we had, including an unopened bottle of PREMIUM TRINIDADIAN RUM.

Can you even comprehend the esteem to which I hold this man?

The Maternal Grandmother

(a.k.a. "Mom," "Lita") In addition to acting as Empress of the Biscuits, she kept The Maternal Grandfather in check. This is no easy feat. To wit:

The Maternal Grandfather

(a.k.a. "Dad," "Pops," "Poppy")

See what I mean?

Luckily, he made a mean rice dish. And you bring a good dish to my house, you earn the right to act the fool.

The Friends:

Stephanie

A lovely Ph.D. student, visiting from England. She was only here for a few weeks as part of her doctoral program, so we thought that we'd add a bit of local culture to her education. I don't know if she learned anything, but, bless her, she certainly brought a much-needed element of class and dignity to the day (see The Maternal Grandfather, above).

Andie

(a.k.a. "Andrea," "Auntie Andie") Bearer of Flowers for me and Cool Squeaky Things for my daughter. You bring flowers and Cool Squeaky Things into my house, you earn the right to wear cowboy hats with purple rims.

Dan

(a.k.a. "Dan the Man," "UnkaDan") Dude. This man taught my daughter how to high-five and whistle. You heard me right: my 8-1/2-month-old can whistle. With sound. I'm trying to figure out how to convince Dan to move in with us. I mean, can you imagine? With his teaching abilities, my daughter will be solving quadratic equations by the time she's three.

And finally, The Featured Guests:

The Red Wine

The Trinidadian Rum Punch

And honey, they both flowed like water.

And for that, I think we were all very thankful.

A Bit More Monty Python Than Tony Blair

This is my husband, Marcus:

Marcus is English. Now, I know what some of you are thinking: "Well, of course Karen would marry a Brit. After all, consider her upbringing by her make - Colin - Powell - and - his - wife - look - like - Fred -Sanford - and - Aunt - Esther - parents. She was bound to marry a proper, oh-I-say, scones-and-clotted-cream, spot-of-tea-drinking-Brit."

Well, not quite.

The fact is, Marcus is a California-surfer-boy trapped in an Englishman's body. He grew up in Cornwall, at the southwesternmost tip of England, where he spent most of his days either mountainbiking or surfing its rocky coast -- usually wearing a couple of wetsuits and a helmet, in case he went flying into the granite outcrops lying just beneath the waves. (Okay, he's cute. I didn't say he was smart.) He has this funky way of combining English slang with surf-ese ("Cheers, dude!"). He lives in Hawaiian shirts. Apparently, when I met him, he had just cut off waist-length dreadlocks (thank GOD. Can you see me bringing home a 6-foot-5, Hawaiian-shirt wearing surfer with dreadlocks to meet my parents? I'd STILL be apologizing.) We met while I was living in London, and in a sea of reserved, closed Londoners, I found his open, easy manner and... well... astonishingly blue eyes pretty breathtaking. And, for once in my miserable dating life, this amazing man felt the same about me.

Eighteen days after our first date, Marcus asked me to marry him, and I said yes.

Every day since, Marcus has proven to me he's as wonderful as I thought he was the day we met. He's warm, and he's attentive, and I merely have to look slightly uncomfortable before he hops up to do whatever he can to make me content again. He really is a great husband, and I have to admit, more than a few of my single girlfriends look at me wistfully, shake their heads and say something to the effect of: "You bitch. You are so lucky. You bitch." And honestly? I can't say I blame them. I am so lucky. He's the absolute best.

And if he's a great husband, he's an even more fantastic father. Marcus adores his daughter -- and I have to say, Alex is pretty passionate about her father. When I walk into a room, I generally get a big smile from Alex, as if to say, "Oh, hi, Mum! It's great to see you!" But when Marcus walks into the room? It's "OH MY GOD!!! IT'S DADDY!!! DO YOU SEE? DO YOU SEE?!?! IT'S DADDY!!! I'VE BEEN WAITING ALL DAY FOR DADDY AND NOW HE'S HERE!!! DADDY'S HERE!! OH GOD I JUST WET MYSELF IT'S DADDY!!!" They bond in ways that are different to the ways Alex and I bond. And since I tend to be a bit more ... shall we say... high strung than Marcus, it's good that Alex has a haven in her easy-going, unflappable father.

All of the above notwithstanding, and even though I'm normally charmed by this father-daughter affection, their relationship has recently taken a rather ugly turn. Perhaps it's just that Marcus is more relaxed than I am. Perhaps it's because I did have a much stricter upbringing. Perhaps it's just because I wired a little more tightly than Marcus. Whatever the reason, I can't help but be a bit put off by the latest lessons Marcus has seen fit to bestow upon our innocent little girl...

... he has taught Alex to spit and make farting noises with her mouth.

It's horrible. I walk down the hall, and I hear them in the other room -- first she makes an offensive noise, then he makes one back, then she, then he, until they eventually both collapse into giggles. At first, I thought if I ignored them, they'd stop and find something else more tasteful to amuse themselves. But it just keeps getting worse.

Finally, this weekend, the two of them started up again, in front of Twyla, our friend and our houseguest. Exasperated, I just lost it. "Marcus, PLEASE!" I yelled. "Can you please STOP SPITTING AT YOUR DAUGHTER?!?"

He looked at me, and hung his head. Then, in a very small voice:

"She started it."

Happy anniversary, beautiful man. I love you more than you will ever, ever know.

Pod People

This is my dad:

and this is my mom:

I don't know if you can tell from these photographs, but my parents are very, very distinguished. Excruciatingly distinguished. I'm talking make - Colin - Powell - and - his - wife - look - like - Fred - Sanford - and - Aunt - Esther kind of distinguished. When you deal with my mom and dad, boy-howdy, you better mind your p's and q's. Know which fork to use. Speak in conversations replete with pleases and thank-yous.

Have I made myself clear?

As you might imagine, my little sister and I had a very happy childhood -- but, by God, a very structured one. My father, in particular, with his Ph.D. and his own strict upbringing by a school headmaster, took his job of raising us to be Young Ladies of Integrity very seriously. He was extremely fond of The Lecture, and often sprinkled his long discourses with such grave proclamations as: "If you lie down with dogs, you will get up with fleas." I remember that one of our family vacations was a weeks-long driving tour of Ivy League universities, so that I could start thinking about where I wanted to go to college. I was TEN. Worse, one of my more recent memories, and I'm so not kidding here, is when my father wanted to call a family meeting so that we could come up with ... get this ... a family mission statement.

If my father saw his job as raising us to be Young Ladies of Integrity, my mother saw hers as raising us to be Young Ladies of Courtesy. She wanted to make sure that my sister and I consistently left the impression that we were gracious, polite young women, leaving a crowd of appreciative admirers swooning in our wakes. (Incidentally, while she may have failed with me, my sister did win the title of "Miss Polite" of her high school graduating class -- a fact which I will never, ever let her live down. Ever.) Mom would never let us leave the house for a friend's sleepover without calling after us: "Don't forget to thank your friend's parents for having you over, eh?" And I remember cringing when any one of my friends would come over, engaging in some unforgivable sin such as smacking her gum -- because upon her departure, I would be inevitably faced with my mother's horrified reaction: "But, KAREN," she'd exclaim, "that child has no breeding!"

But that was THEN.

NOW, my sister and I each have a daughter of our own, rendering our parents GRANDPARENTS. And for some inexplicable reason, they view their mission in their new roles as apparently to be as indulgent as possible. "It's our job to spoil them," my mom is fond of saying, "and your job to fix it."

So these days?

It's candy all-round. New toys handed out on the hour. My parents' previous children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard approach to parenting has been replaced with encouraging loud self-expression by screeching right along with Alex. Bad, spoilt behaviour is in, it seems. Reserved, courteous manners are so "last generation."

Case in point: my parents recently returned from a weekend in San Antonio, Texas -- a town full of rich Texas history and Mexican culture. In the past, my parents would have seized this opportunity to educate my sister and me by buying us Texas history books or Mexican folk music, followed by a fun little pop quiz to be sure we'd internalized the trip's lessons.

So, imagine my horror when my mother gleefully announced, "Look what your father bought Alex!" and pulled out this:

and this:

and, God help me, this:

I mean, seriously -- "kicks butt"?! "Because" is spelt "'cuz," and not only did my parents not sniff with disdain, but they BOUGHT IT??

Who are these people, and what have they done with my mom & dad?

We Are Family

Happy Memorial Day, everyone!

This Memorial weekend, Alex got christened -- and her Auntie Kate and "Uncle" Mark flew all the way from Cornwall, England and Toledo, Ohio, respectively, to fulfill there godparent duties. Here's a Quicktime slideshow which chronicles the weekend's activities. This slideshow is brought to you courtesy of my Nikon D100 digital camera, my iPhoto software, Alex's Auntie Kate, Uncle Nigel, Cousin Ellie, Cousin Keziah, Auntie Natalie, Uncle John, Cousin Julia, Popi (Alex's grandfather), Lita (Alex's grandmother), "Uncle" Mark, Tanti Jacqui, "Uncle" Gordon, Father Patrick, Marcus, Alex, me and Sister Sledge. As usual for files this large, please give it about a minute or so to download; a bit longer if you have a slow connection.

Enjoy.

Download wearefamily.mov

My Two Favourite People

Since my company doesn't allow for paid maternity leave for adoptive mothers, I had worked out with my very flexible boss that once Alex was born, I would work from home (with frequent visits to the office) for at least 3 months. After doing this for a month, however, it has become painfully apparent that I need to return to being at my office on a full-time basis. Realise that my boss certainly hasn't made this demand of me -- the work's been getting done, and he is, as I said, quite flexible. Nonetheless, I sense my absence is noticed, and for this reason, tomorrow I return to the office for 8 hours a day.

I realise that I shouldn't complain: other similarly situated women in my company had to return to work the day after their newborn came home. Furthermore, prior to Alex, I was working far more than 40 hours a week -- at least now, my hours will be a more reasonable 40.

Nevertheless, I'm quite sad to be returning to the office so soon. But then, I realise that the reason I work is for my two favourite people, above -- just as Marcus works for Alex and me. And I figure that these reasons are the best reasons in the world.

And so it begins

It finally happened last night: my parents returned from their holiday to meet Alex for the first time. I had been dreading this night, because I knew this would be the night Alex Turned My Parents to The Dark Side.

Unfortunately, Alex had an advantage: my mother, who is coming down with a cold, was uncomfortable holding Alex lest she come down with the same. My father, however, was hale and hearty -- therefore, Alex was able to divide and conquer. And so the corruption began.

First, you must know that my father's name is Kermitt. Because of his unusual name (and as you might well imagine), my father has the largest collection of frogs known to mankind. He has frog ties. Frog tie clips. Frog Christmas ornaments that croak "Jingle Bells." You name anything froggy, Dad's got it.

So, for her first visit with her grandfather, Alex chose this outfit for his homecoming:

It worked.

Dad wouldn't put her down. We had to beg him to come eat dinner. Like a man in a trance, he followed us to the table, his eyes starting to turn into mad pinwheels as he succumbed to do her every bidding. It was painful to watch: this strong man, usually able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, became a quivering heap. By the end of the evening, Mom had to literally carry him out to the car, as he rocked quietly, muttering like Rain Man: "Gotta-do-what-Alex-says. Love-Alex. Gotta-do-what-Alex-says. Love-Alex."

And Alex? Well, when we returned from helping Mom, we found her like this:

That smile again.

And the scary thing? I knew she was planning her next conquest:

Her Grandmother.