Emma-Bug

I love the smell of panic in the afternoon

In a stunning yet graceful cosmic kick in the ass, the Universe in all her wisdom decided I was in need of a little perspective. The day started out normal, as they always seem to, and by noon? Hell. It began with a call from the daycare - which I missed because I was getting fried rice for lunch ( I am awesome) - telling me Emma was running a temperature of 103 degrees. This wouldn't have necessarily started the spin into Oh Shit if it hadn't been for the fact Emma has been on antibiotics for 5 days already for an ear infection (Curse You Ear Infections!). So you know? What the hell? And this can't be good.

By the time I got to the school her temperature was at 104.4 and she was radiating heat, absolutely glowing. My preshus baaaaybeee was all sad and pathetic looking and when she reached out for me with her chubbin arms I kind of lost it a little.

Commence parental freak out......NOW!

To throw in a crazy little twist of panic, my pediatricians office was closed until 1:30 for lunch. There were many expletives.

By the time I got her into the doctor's office her temperature was still at 102 despite my giving her a generous dose of Tylenol. Words like "bacterial pneumonia" kept coming up and I'd like to tell you more of what was said but honestly, I heard nothing after that but a buzzing noise and the thumping of my heart in my ears. Before I knew it we were rushing through traffic for chest x-rays.

Fucking Chest X-Rays y'all!

I called Mark and astonishingly he made it back to San Antonio from Houston in about 2 hours. Yes, he did drive 90 miles an hour home and thank GOD! He met me there, x-rays were taken, animal crackers were given and then we waited.

The waiting thing! Christ they need to figure out faster ways of testing!

An HOUR later the doctor called us at home and told us Emma's lunges were clear. She has a bacterial infection of some sort and it would appear the antibiotic previously prescribed was nothing more than bubble gum flavored, phlegm consistency candy which did ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. A new prescription would be called into the pharmacy.

We had to piggy-back Mortrin and Tylenol to get her fever down to 100, which it's remained at for the last several hours.

And Mark? He's been fantastic. He's cuddled her, made her laugh, read to her and he's even planning on spending the night in her room - on the floor - so he can monitor her fever. He's an amazing daddy. He even went and got us dinner when she went down for a mini map earlier. He's been a rock that we have all leaned on today.

Somehow, I just don't feel I have much room to bitch tonight.

Well played Universe. Well played.

Bi-Polar Fun with Stephanie! Neat.

I'm in the granddaddy of all funks today.  A woe-is-me mood if you will.

I feel like I'm expected to do everything from taking care of the babe to paying bills to cleaning the house to preparing meals and .... blah-blah-blah. It's totally self imposed, I'm still in my "I can't leave Emma with a babysitter" mode and I'm beginning to hit burn out. My way of dealing is apparently to take it out on my husband who has done nothing wrong really except be a "guy" in that he WON'T JUST SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME - NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, HE FEELS HE HAS TO SOLVE THE PROBLEM AND THEN PROCEEDS TO SAY REALLY STUPID SHIT THAT PISSES ME OFF!

Yes, I am going to play the martyr and then complain about it, thank you.

So I bought shoes. No, not sexy (Sex? What the hell is SEX?!) shoes, hippie shoes. Birkenstocks actually. Suck it Uber Mom shoes, I am above your bullshit shoes.

Do you see? Do you see what I'm doing?

Maybe it's hormonal.

OR MAYBE IT'S BECAUSE I'M FEELING A LITTLE PUT-UPON!

So, umm, yeah. Make love not war (NOT THAT I WOULD KNOW WHAT THAT IS)...

It was supposed to be about tile in the kitchen and then went terribly off track. I blame Perrin.

Y'all look how tiny my girl used to be! Wee, very-very wee and this was just 10 months ago. How is that possible? I look at these pictures and I'm speechless, she still takes my breath away.

In China she was so timid and so painfully shy and sensitive when we'd leave our hotel room she would hold her woobie up to hide her face. She was so scared in the beginning...we were so scared in the beginning...and now? Now she's smacking my hand in the bathtub for messing with her twirling hippos.

Ten months and 4 days we have been a family.

Twelve months and 4 days since we first saw our daughter's face.

In a single moment, a single breath, everything changed. I remember my hands going to my mouth and gasping when I first saw her. My god she was beautiful. And just like that we were no longer a single couple, we were a family and that little girl with the munchable monkey toes, she was our daughter. Nothing has been the same since. I can't remember 5 consecutive minutes of our time in China, but I will never forget seeing her face for the first time.

I won't lie, it's been a tough road, adoption is not for the faint of heart. There were a lot of late night talks in the beginning.  Emma didn't give her love easily and she made us work for her trust. All we knew was to love her and to be patient, somehow that worked.

I remember being told "as soon as you get your referral, you'll forget about the pain of the wait." Well I'm here to tell you that's not true. I remember every single, solitary second. I remember making myself physically ill, I remember crying late at night terrified something would happen and all my dreams would be gone like a puff of smoke and then what would we do? I would wake up sweating and shivering. I remember it all. But if given the opportunity to do it again - I wouldn't hesitate, not for Emma. As time passes all the emotion put into waiting becomes almost a bittersweet beauty. It was the toll before the prize.

She has been with us 2 days longer than she was inside Yangchun.

I like to say that...

She has been with us, her family, longer than she was in the orphanage.

What a ride it has been...

Ok, YES! She's eating cake. Don't judge me.

Hungry, cranky child thanks you for your well wishes. She would like her story to serve as a warning to others. It is not an urban myth, Cheetos are the intestinal orange hounds of hell. Spread the word.

Cat? Still a little pissed over the Cheeto dust truth be told. And also foot that is in his fat-cat lounge area.

Mama soothes guilt with copious amounts of cake with blue frosting. May need more.

Bad Parental Decision No. 126,547

1.  Go to grocery store late and buy a $.99 bag of Cheetos to hold-over hungry, cranky child until you can get home. Open bag after securely locking hungry, cranky child in carseat. Think to yourself "How many could she possibly eat? We're 3 minutes from home and awwwww, she looks so cute with her ginormous bag of Cheetos!"  Drive home and remove child from carseat. Discover hungry, cranky child is not so hungry or cranky anymore as she's apparently consumed the entire $.99 bag of Cheetos, Hoover like, on the 3 minute drive.

2.  Think to yourself "This can't be good."

3.   Child refuses to eat dinner because hello?! entire $.99 bag of Cheetos! Proportionately that's what? A Hefty bag of Cheetos to an adult?

4.  Child leaves cheese dust fingerprints on walls, cabinets and cat.

5.  Play, play, play. Bath. Books. Bed.

6.  Forget about Cheetos.

7.  Child wakes at 4:30a HUNGRY. Stick to your ribs goodness? Cheetos are not.

8.  Also, a wee bit of diarrhea.

9.  And then more diarrhea.

10.  Curse Cheetos.

12.  And again with the diarrhea.

13.  5:30a. convinced Cheetos are the devil.

14.  7:00a. what the hell were in those things?!

15.  Whole next day? Screwed.

Or Maybe Chlamydia and Cheese Doodles (the generic kind)

Kikalee and I used to play a game called "Smells Like They Look". It's exactly what it sounds like, come up with a smell or group of smells that describes the way a person looks.

Kikalee won with Michael Douglas smelling like dehydrated mushrooms. Classic!

We always got hung up on Jude Law for some reason. He's a hard smell to define.

Anyway, did you know Britney Spears' new perfume is about to be released?

Yep.

I would imagine it smells like.....?

Vagasil and Chili-Cheese Fritos?

Hottie McHottenstein

Brace yourselves ladies, there's a new stud in town...

Black ankle socks...crocks...pasty, ash-white legs and a baseball cap;  can you say HOT!

You know you want him.

Uber Moms *cough*suck balls*cough*

I'm all about the sharing people, so think of this more as a public service announcement than a post. Heed my warning, learn from me, because what I'm about to share is nothing short of Dante's Fifth Ring of Hell.

As I believe I've expressed previously, my daughter Emma (have I mentioned her before?) is a toddler spaz to the umpteenth degree. I say this with love of course, but let's be frank the child does not sit still. Ever. Mommy and daddy are old and therefor only want to sit still. It's a bit of a dilemma, a challenge if you will. So we're always looking for something to do that will wear. her. ass. out. so mommy and daddy can take a nap FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?!  This is especially true during the weekend when after about 5 - 6 hours of constant running around and lightening quick Ms. Grabby-Hands, we want to begin drinking heavily. Unfortunately that would require a short span of time in which movement would have to cease and no.

So maybe what I'm saying here is not so much about nap but time for a mid-afternoon beer.

Pohtayto - pohtahto.

It begins with "Little" and ends with "Gym" and it is evil and dark and should come with a warning much like cigarettes "May cause low self esteem and feelings of inadequacy. Do not enter unless one article of clothing or accessory is Prada. You know what? Don't even try, you're a loser."

I am sans child because I want to check it out first without the distraction of Emma doing complex  writhing moves to escape my clutch and/or the previously before discussed boneless maneuver where she oozes out of my arms.

It's early morning. I'm wearing denim shorts and a David Bowie t-shirt. My hair is half piled on top of my head, half falling down. It is brushed only in the most basic of terms. I have chosen to wear no makeup. In my hand is the biggest cup of coffee to have ever existed on the planet, it was bigger than my face. I am not fully awake yet and I'm standing in the lobby with my mouth slightly ajar, breathing out of my mouth because the damn Allegra-D hasn't kicked in yet.

Sexy thy name is Stephanie.

It's a gym right? It's in the title! Why would I dress up for a gym?

As I waited for the previous class to end and the toddler class to begin I had the unfortunate opportunity to gaze upon the other mothers.

Let us call them Stepford. Or bitches, again pohtayto - pohtahto. They were sparkly and shiny and painful to look at. There was a murder of them, a gaggle if you will, and apparently they had all called each other that morning and collaborated on their wardrobe because their outfits were all matchy-matchy. Looking impossibly awake and refreshed they were dressed in clothes which had no wrinkles, stains and which appeared to be adult in manner and not remnants of college bong-years-gone-by. They were blond and their hair was pulled back in that nifty little twist held perfectly in place with tasteful clips. The twist, by the way, which I have never been able to execute successfully. They were drinking bottled water and I felt.... well I felt like I was the San Antonio version of Britney Spears y'all.

It was as if one of those neon signs with the big arrow lit up behind me and began blinking - TOTAL TRAILER PARK RIGHT HERE PEOPLE!

I kept my head down or directly at the woman who was showing me around. I may have burned holes in her head with my gaze.

The "Beasts" class (I'm not kidding, that's what they call the 19 month to 2.5 year class) (so appropriate by the way!) begins at 9:00a on Saturday. And you know what that means right? It means getting my ass out of my pajamas and mom'd-up to leave by 8:30a. On Saturday. That's 8:30a.

Bwahahahahahaha!

Oh you know I'm going to do it! I'm going to bitch and moan about it, I will play the martyr, but I'm going to do it. The place actually looked like it would be fun for Bug, so FINE! But I'm digging out my Prada bag, those bitches won't know what hit them. 

Hi, I'd like you to meet our Asian-American, adopted daughter. Her father and I are WASP's, Mark is an earth-destroying Republican while I am an unrealistic tree hugging Democrate. Occasionally we like to get freaky with candle wax, and you?

Oh indeed I am crabby. You could tell huh? Well, there you have it. It's work people, woooooork, in combination with the Col. of Doom who insists on calling me twice a day to "check-in" even though he doesn't start with my company for another month. There is nothing to talk about, nothing to firm up, yet there he is. Calling me. Now when I see it's him on the phone, I don't answer as I am way professional and grown-up. I'm one "what's up" away from writing him a note stating "I don't like you" which I will pass to him in homeroom.

Then there's the Padre. Yes, it's that time of year again. Now don't get me wrong, Me + The Pio = tight, but his main homies are quite the taskmasters when it comes to building a shrine in his name and as it turns out, "Give It Up for The Pio, Yo!" did not go over well with the Monsignor. Or it could have just been me and that small faux pas I committed during last season's fund raising. No sense of humor those robe wearing folk.

And let us not forget about this trip coming up. The Babe and I are going to Thelma and Louise it to Vegas for a little gambling and cocktails. Maybe take in a show and cruise the strip for dudes. Or visit daddy who will be an industry show for an UNGODLY 2 weeks. But still. Can I just say how freaked I am of traveling all by my lonesome with the babe? Let's forget about how I'm going to manage a stroller, suitcases, carry-ons, purse and babe while having my shoes checked for explosives and maneuvering down ridiculously crowded terminals onto a plane full of folks who have already begun to get their Vegas-on and will be eying me like the plague as I maneuver my nomadic pile of crap towards an empty seat. 

I'm also frustrated with myself over my last post, evidently I'm not expressing myself well. If you took from my writing that I'm introducing my daughter as my adopted daughter, I apologize for the confusion, that's not the case. Nor have I found, to date, anyone in my immediate circle who introduces or addresses my daughter in that manner. That would be unacceptable and I would expect more from my circle of friends and family. Should that error be made, it would be corrected immediately. I am not a shy person, especially when it comes to my Emma.

What I was trying to convey is I don't believe it's realistic to think the word adopted will at some point in the near future cease being used as an adjective which will in part define our daughters by the general public. So as I see it, we have a choice; we can create confusion by telling our children how wonderful it is to have adopted them and then turn around and be annoyed and frustrated when someone uses the word in casual conversation. Or, we become advocates and fight The Man and attempt to explain away the confusion to our children. Because regardless of how you approach it, there will be confusion among young children on the definition and tone of the word if there are two standards associated with it. How could there possibly not be?

I agree "adopted" is a one time event and shouldn't be a label hanging around their necks for the rest of their lives and like I said, in a perfect world that would be the case. However its human nature to group and classify and that's not going to change, ever. So I get extremely irritated with those who do the "get it" and "don't get it" when it comes to adoption. There is no "getting it" or "not getting it" - it is what it is. Our children are adopted. We are adoptive parents. I have an adopted daughter. Simple, basic phrases, no complications. The only way I can think of for Emma to even have a chance of overcoming the monstrous hurdle that will be her processing her abandonment and subsequent adoption will be for me and her father to not falter on the definition under any circumstances. 

Of course I wish this wasn't the case, obviously. I truly wish the whole world would just nod their heads and agree that my daughter is my daughter and really, there's just no need to classify her any further. But their will ALWAYS be classification. As an Asian-American. As a Texan. As an adoptive daughter. It sucks (especially that Texan thing - poor girl), but again, it is what it is. It's just a word, a single word. The weight attached to it, the complications, the significance is placed there by us.

Next time, I'm just sticking to words like "fucknuts".

Dear Auntie C

I love my new woobie...

Thank you so much! We are inseparable.