Chookooloonks

Life Lesson No. 1...

...on how to tell if the jewelry a boy gave you is authentic:

Flying the (Not So) Friendly Skies

I'm a pretty experienced traveler, if I do say so myself. I've been to several islands of the Caribbean. I've been to Canada and Mexico. I've been to Europe. I've been to Egypt, Nigeria, and the Middle East. I've been to China. I even been to a few places in South America -- a few times. By my count, I've traveled to at least 27 different countries, and to 5 of the 7 continents. Let me tell you, ol' chum, that's a helluva lot of frequent flyer miles.

As a result of this much flight time, I've got my travel mojo down pat. I know exactly what to pack in carry-on luggage so that any possible item for any possible emergency is close at hand, yet my bag remains lightweight and easily fits below the seat in front of me or in the overhead compartment above my head. I can dress so that no jewelry, belt buckle or high heel inadvertently trips the metal detectors. I even know how many glasses of wine it takes to ensure at least 6 hours of sleep on a transatlantic flight, and wake up refreshed and ready to meet the day (2, in case you're wondering). If history is any indicator, I am all about fast, efficient travel.

Now (and I'm not proud of this), one of the side-effects of this fast efficiency is a not-to-be-admired visceral intolerance of those who are, well, less so. I admit it: I have been one of those sanctimonious, insufferable business travelers who shoot dirty looks at parents with unruly kids. With one withering glance, harried, frustrated parents of high-spirited toddlers could actually feel my thoughts: "Oh what fresh hell is THIS?? Man, can you NOT shut that child UP? Dude, if you can't control your child, then by God, you should have driven." You know that flight attendant who drugged a screaming child last year? When that news story broke, there was a small, ugly part of me that sympathized with the flight attendant. With my hectic worklife, a long flight was the one event where I could get some peace and quiet. How dare some kid take that away from me?

Ah, but God has a sense of humour. A week from this Saturday, Marcus, Alex and I will taking our first family holiday together, to Santa Fe, New Mexico. It will be my first flight as a mother. And, as you all know by now, Marcus and I have been blessed with no ordinary child, but an accomplished, ultra-sonic screecher.

I'm petrified.

Most parents are worried that the pressurization of the cabin will cause their babies discomfort -- and so too are we, but to be honest, that's not my biggest worry. I'm worried about when my child's comfortable. Alex is not much of a crier, and it's likely that a pacifier or a bottle will take care of her ears pretty well. But when she's happy? THAT's my fear. Two solid hours of exuberant, ear-splitting screeching by this...

...is likely to be met with very little amusement, I don't care how cute the little menace is. Not to mention just the sheer logistics of travelling with a child -- what do you pack? How do you juggle carry-on bags, luggage and a child? How, in God's name, do you change a diaper in an airplane bathroom that can barely fit my backside, much less the wiggly, squiggly backside of a baby?

So, as a reformed sanctimonious insufferable flyer, I fall on my virtual knees before you here, and beg for your help -- please, please provide us any tips or clues you may have as to how to make this trip tolerable not just for Marcus, me and Alex, but even more importantly, for the poor passengers-cum-victims sitting around us.

Any advice is greatly appreciated. As a matter of fact, for those of you who post advice, let me bestow you with the highest blessing I can possibly give:

May you never have to sit near us on a crowded flight.

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.

Auntie Twyla's visit

Gotta love that Dr. Seuss:

Our good friend Twyla came to stay for a few days. How much does Alex like her Auntie Twy?

Well, she would like her in a boat,
and she would like her with a goat,
and she would like her here or there,
why, she would like her ANYWHERE ...

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?

Big Baller, Shot-Caller

Most new parents often wonder what hidden talents will be revealed as their children grow up. Will little Johnny inherit his father's artistic talent? His mother's facility with math and sciences? Grandpa's amazing musical ability?

With new adoptive parents, the wondering is no different -- except, of course, the number of possibilities is limitless. What if, we wonder, we have an infant Einstein? a Mandela-in-the-making? a baby Baryshnikov?

Truth be told, Marcus and I have been searching for signs of exceptional ability in Alex ever since she came home. And while we certainly think she's a pretty special kid, we hadn't seen anything that ... well, frankly, promised to set us up for early retirement.

Until today.

This morning, as we were getting ready for our day, we looked over at our bed, and found Alex palming a ball as big as her head:

Marcus has been trying to get the Houston Comets on the phone all day. Sheryl Swoopes better watch her back.

Alex's Top Ten Fun Things That Every Five-and-a-Half-Month-Old Should Do

10. Blow raspberries while eating solids. Make a game of it -- see if you can get little squash bits on the floor, in your parents' hair, across the room. Bonus points: do it as they try to shove a spoonful in your mouth. G'head. Try it.

9. Look at things upside down. Much cooler seeing things this way. Especially if, while your parents aren't paying close attention, you do this sort of suicidal backflip out of their arms in order to get your desired inverted prospective. Totally cool.

8. Grab your parents lips, and sink your fingernails into their skin. The best way to do this: appear to be disinterested in them, and totally engrossed in something else -- say, the lint trap of the dryer. Then, out of nowhere, just SNATCH THEIR LIPS. As they cry out in pain, slowly smile.

7. Flirt with strange men. Hey, you gotta start somewhere -- and the worried look that involuntarily crosses your mum's face is SO worth it.

6. Pull the hair out of your father's head when he least expects it. I think this is self-explanatory.

5. Palm a ball as big as your head. Seriously. You father will start scouting sports agents before you know it -- whether you actually have any athletic talent or not.

4. For God's sake, do NOT sleep through the night. Try to keep this up until you're 15.

3. Continue to rub the hair off of the back of your head. For a bit of added pleasure, reach up and actually pull hair out of your head while you suck on a bottle. Make them think you're completely neurotic. Then again -- slowly smile.

2. Smile pleasantly at your mum, but then absolutely lose your mind in uncontrollable ecstacy when dad comes into the room. Or vice versa. New parents are paranoid -- feed this. It's fun.

And the Number One Fun Thing Every Five-And-A-Half-Month-Old Should Do:

1. Screech.

Final Exam

Yesterday, we had the last of our visits by our adoption agency. In Texas, there is a 6-month “waiting” period before you can legally become adoptive parents. This isn’t about the birthparents still having rights to Alex – those rights were terminated months ago. This is all about the State evaluating our fitness to be parents ourselves. Therefore, as required by law, a licensed social worker (in this case, the director of our adoption agency, a woman we’ll call “Jan,” since that’s her name) must visit our home to see how things are going – you know, to make sure that our kid’s not chained to a wooden stake in our backyard, that we're not using our daughter’s arm as a convenient place to put out our cigarettes, that sort of thing.

While Marcus and I weren’t particularly worried (we don’t smoke), there’s still something particularly nerve-wracking about having someone come over to your house to evaluate whether or not you’re doing an adequate job as parents (especially since, let’s face it, you’re doing the best you can, and if you’re not doing something right, how would you really know? You’re doing the best you can, for heavens’ sake!) Marcus was totally fine, but as 9:30 a.m. drew near, I started to become a paranoid wreck. What if she doesn’t like our house? What if our postage-stamp-sized backyard doesn’t meet some sort of legislatively-mandated Dimensions for Appropriate Play Areas for Adoptees? What if, God forbid, as soon as Jan walks in, Alex starts screaming in a manner that can only be interpreted as “LADY YOU GOTTA GET ME OUTTA HERE THESE PEOPLE ARE INSANE!!!”?

Exactly at 9:30, Jan arrived, her usual exuberant self. She gave each of us a hug, oohed and aahed over our house (okay, groovy, so far so good, but she hadn’t seen the back yard yet), and immediately grabbed Alex.

Alex smiled. ThankyouJesus.

We headed to the kitchen (Jan glancing at our brand-new winerack – oh Lord, do you think she read the August 10th post?), sat down and began the interview: How are you adjusting? Who takes care of Alex while you work? Do you like your nanny? How do your parents feel about Alex? Is it harder than you thought?

One by one we responded to her questions, and I grew calmer. Jan seemed to like the answers we were giving her, and Alex putting on her best Deliriously-Happy-To-Be-The-Daughter-of-Marcus-And-Karen baby performance, even including an enthusiastic screech or two for good measure. Things were going well. After the interview, Jan asked for a tour of the house (I don’t think she noticed any underwear on the floor – perhaps she was distracted by our infinitesimally tiny back yard), and then Marcus set about making us lunch (hey, I’m not above using Marcus’ culinary skills to buy our agency’s affections. You gotta do what you gotta do).

Toward the end of lunch, however, Jan suddenly grew quiet. She watched Marcus lean over to Alex in her high chair, and tickle Alex’s feet. Finally, without any emotion whatsoever, Jan said in a thoughtful voice:

“Y’all are funny.”

Funny?

Funny?

What does that mean? Funny-ha-ha? Funny-weird? Funny-as-soon-as-I-leave-here-I’m-calling-Child-Protective-Services? Funny HOW?

Jan soon left, with hugs all-round, a kiss for Alex, and a “y’all have a great day, not long now!” called out of her van window as she drove off. And since the authorities haven’t shown up yet, I’ve decided to assume that “funny” is a good thing.

I hope.

Appellate Argument

This past weekend, one of my closest friends accused me of putting every blackmail picture of Alex that I possibly could on this website, to the future detriment of my child's mental health and social wellbeing. When I began to protest, he looked at me incredulously: "Oh, please, Karen," he said, rolling his eyes and laughing. "I mean, if there happens to be anything icky spewing out of her mouth, you snap a picture and post it on the internet. I can see it now: you're going to whip these embarrassing photos out every time the poor child brings a boy home, rendering her lonely and in therapy by the time she's 16."

Well.

Let me say here, publicly and vociferously, that I strenuously object to these unfounded charges. Okay, sure, maybe I've posted a couple of pictures on this site that Alex might be less than proud of when she's an adult (her first experience with solid foods immediately comes to mind). But every "blackmail picture"? That's a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think? I don't think I've posted EVERY one. To wit:

1. I have not posted any pictures of Alex lying naked on a bearskin rug. This, by the way, indicates a great show of will on my part (not the bearskin rug, the other thing). Alex definitely has one of the cutest booties of all time. It's just the most perfect baby booty. Trust me, I'm depriving the world of one God's greatest works by not posting a picture of her naked booty. But, see? I have discretion, I do.

2. I have not posted any pictures of Alex with a big, ridiculous bow in her hair. This is because (a) I think she looks enough like a little girl without the big, ridiculous bow, and (b) I think big, ridiculous bows look ridiculous.

3. I have not posted any pictures of Alex attempting to grab glasses of wine from our hands and trying to drink the contents herself. And trust me, there've been plenty of photo ops on this one. PLENTY.

Wait ...

...the adoption agency looks at this site, right? And we haven't finalized the adoption yet ...

... okay, well, "PLENTY" is an exaggeration. When I say "plenty," I mean "several." A "few."

Okay, "none at all."

Yeesh.

4. I have not posted any pictures of Alex eating her feet. But, to be honest, I still may. The kid can chew on her heel. That's pretty impressive, right? I might have to post a picture of that. So this one probably doesn't count.

So, okay, if I can come up with that many just off the top of my head, I can't be nearly as bad as my friend says, right?

Besides, she's just so damned cute when icky spews out of her mouth:

I rest my case.

The Groove Is In The Heart

Here's Alex, modelling her new flower power trousers (styling by that fashionista to the stars, Big Daddy):

And here's Alex showing off her patented Sitting Technique. Note the delectable toes:

And here's Alex perfecting her Sitting With No Hands Technique, and failing miserably: