Move Over, Brad Pitt - There's a New Kid in Town

My wonderful 4 year old Dylan is SUCH a Drama King. There's probably nothing I could do to overemphasize just how theatrical he can be, with, frankly, little to no effort. (I have NOOOOOOOOOooo idea where he could possibly get it - honestly!!!!!)

When one of the older kids does something he deems wrong, (basically this entails: anything they say that contradicts his intentions at the moment) his acting skills surface, beginning with a wail that crescendoes, a mouth that opens wide enough to swallow Jonah AND the whale, and the turning on of the Crocodile Tears Faucet. Miraculously, these issues are ALL cured instantly when Mom or Dad step in to save him from the Sibling Monsters, and his devilishly handsome smile reappears.

Occasionally, he tries to brush up on his techniques using Mom or Dad as targets. During a walk around town recently, he was being scolded by Dad due to his inability to follow directions and stay ON the sidewalk and OFF people's grass. (I know, I know...we ask much of the young lad.) After a couple of warnings, Dad laid his hand on Dylan's shoulder and firmly redirected him to the concrete surface where his feet should be. Our budding actor immediately grabbed the opposite shoulder and began moaning. Being the sort of parents who don't rush to fix all things, we ignored him. He eventually realized that his behavior wasn't effecting us, and the remainder of that walk was fairly benign.

Tonight, however, tops the cake.

During my half-hearted attempt at sweeping the kitchen floor, I observed Dylan toss a ball (therefore disobeying a direct order to ROLL the ball only, do not THROW it) onto a recliner, and while trying to retrieve it, he bounced backwards off the cushion and fell on his butt, PERHAPS striking his shoulder and neck LIGHTLY on a nearby bookshelf. If that actually happened, and I'm not convinced it did, but I wasn't standing in a position to be able to see clearly how he landed, it most certainly wasn't painful. Dylan the Dedicated Deliverer of Delightfully Daring and Dramatic Deeds did not disappoint. He launched a full-scale attack on my eardrums.

I.

Ignored him.

He got louder.

I planted my hands on my hips, and glared at him. I informed him he wasn't hurt. I extolled the virtues of not making mountains out of molehills. I read him the Boy Who Cried Wolf riot act.

I ended my advice-laden lecture with "When you're only a LITTLE hurt, you just Get Up and Go On."

Dylan's instant tear-infused reply: "I can't Get Up and Go On when my neck is broken!"


I'm sharing my extra tickets to the Oscars with my TRUE friends in a few years.

Quiet, Please

Our television is on way more than I'd like for it to be. Actually, I'd dearly love to toss it to the curb.

In trying to get Dylan to remember where the volume button is located, I taught him to start at the far right button and count over three. (That's the DOWN button, as the only time we need the UP button is when a train is going by the house.)

I just overheard him saying "One, two, three" and miraculously, Bob the Tomato is no longer bellerin' into my living room about Larry the Cucumber's poor choices.



Encouragement that not everything I've done lately is a screw up.




- Image from google

Do Age and Gravity Mess With These, Too?

I believe the Bible. I believe it is 100% accurate. I believe it is God's word to us. I believe that humans misinterpret it. Often.

Some times, the way things come full circle just cracks me up.

As a setup, please note that I spent my primary school years in a church-run school that sometimes took Scriptures just a wee bit out of context, and when that didn't work, they'd just make stuff up. Well-intentioned, perhaps, but thank goodness I have a brain and can figure this stuff out now!

There were lots of rules, especially about how one was supposed to dress. (Well, let me clarify. Mostly, the rules were about how FEMALES were supposed to dress.) I'm OK with rules, to an extent. I understand that law and order are paramount. I can tolerate minor irritation for the greater good. My parents didn't particularly agree with all the regulations, but they felt the good outweighed the bad.

So -

Monday through Friday, I donned my dress with sleeves below the elbows and length three inches past mid-knee. I was too young for makeup, but that wouldn't have been allowed, anyway. I left my forbidden open-toed shoes in my closet, and tamed my uncut, brunette tresses with Aquanet. Allowed color, automobiles, and running water, we confused some people who thought we were Amish.

Occasionally, we'd ask for the Biblical source of these dress standards.

On why women shouldn't cut their hair - "A woman's hair is her glory" 1 Corinthians 11:15 (King James Version) But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her: for her hair is given her for a covering.

On why women shouldn't wear pants - "Women shouldn't wear men's clothing" Deuteronomy 22:5 (King James Version) The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the LORD thy God.

On why jewelry wasn't allowed - "Women don't need jewelry to be beautiful" 1 Timothy 2:9-10 (King James Version) In like manner also, that women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array; But (which becometh women professing godliness) with good works.

My arguments against this rationale fell on deaf ears.

"If a woman's hair is her glory, then why do you twist yours up in a knot on the top of your head so no one can see how long it is?"

"Back in Bible times, I thought men wore long robes."

"Why is a strand of fake pearls around my neck bad, but you can wear the same kind on a barrette on your knotted head?"

All of those verses, when read in context, are logical. When used to validate the edicts...eh...not so much.

Remember I mentioned that if a Bible verse justifying an ordinance couldn't be found, things were just made up? Here's where it turns comical.

One of the tidbits that was shared along the way was the reasoning (?!?) behind the necessity of sleeves covering elbows. Apparently, elbows make men think about breasts.

There are verses in the Bible about breasts. Lots about sexuality, both proper and improper. Men's thoughts are mentioned a few times. But no where do I recall reading about elbows. It could be mentioned in Song of Solomon, I suppose, since he mentions just about every other body part. As beautifully gifted as he was with poetry, I'm not sure he would include elbows and breasts in the same sentence.

Over the years, I've conducted research. I've plunked my elbows on the table and asked people "What do these look like?" The eye-rolling and chortling that follow the explanation grows funnier the more I age.

But about that full circle thing I opened this post with...

Actually, I thought the breast-elbow connection was complete hogwash. Until my three year old son confirmed it.

Headed to the shower recently, I was holding the clothing I intended to wear for the day, including a particular undergarment worn on the upper portion of the female anatomy. Nothing slips by Dylan, and even though it was partially covered by my jeans and t-shirt, his vision honed right in.

"Hey Mom, are you gonna wear that on your elbows?"

Who Messed Up My Peanut Butter?

Seriously, am I the only one in the house that can successful remove peanut butter from the jar, without it looking like this? What are they using, a pitchfork?!?







Around here, it's typically referred to as "B-Bot" - one of the first words Dylan learned to say when he came to live with us. Spoonful upon spoonful, he never gets tired of it. (Thank goodness! It sure makes MY life easier!)




When I was little, I told my Dad if Heaven doesn't have PBJ's, I don't wanna go. While I've since grown up in my spiritual thinking a wee bit, I'm still hoping I get to lick grape jam off the spoon when I'm looking at my reflection in the gold streets. ;-)

The Cake, or Next Time Someone Else Can Drive

Last week, we had Dylan and Tiffany's adoption party celebration. After 16 months of waiting to adopt them, 2 months of party planning, (well, really more than that, because I've been planning to plan a party for a very long time!) and a few hours of decorating and cooking, we pulled it off.

Other than knowing we'd get to introduce our new children to some friends we hadn't seen for quite some time, the biggest thing I was excited about was their cake.

When Dylan first came to live with us, he brought one change of clothes, a couple of diapers, and a couple of small trinkets that the police officers involved in the case had given to him. That was all.

When he got to our home, he attached to a small, stuffed Jo-Jo, from Disney's Jo-Jo's Circus very quickly. Jo-Jo went everywhere Dylan went. He played with her so much that her nose wore off, so then he kept her under his pillow all the time so her "broken nose" wouldn't lose more stuffing.

In planning the party, I decided to go with a circus theme, for two reasons:

1. It describes our family perfectly!!

2. I wanted to have a huge Jo-Jo cake made by a local cake artist. (I don't use the term artist lightly...she really does do great work!)

Sunday morning, we skipped church (Shhh!) and spent the morning finishing up for the party, which was beginning at 2 PM. I left the party spot, retrieved the cake, and headed back to the party spot.

The cake was gorgeous. Perfect. Jessica did a WONDERFUL job.

(Photo courtesy of a very smart cake maker named Jessica, since I didn't get one with it looking like this!)

This trip, half-way across our small town, should take approximately 1.3 minutes, although we do have a double train track, so it sometimes takes longer. There were no trains during this trip. And apparently, I was trying to shorten the time to 1.1 minutes, because my foot slipped off the brake pedal. This, of course, caused me to hit the brakes again, a little too hard...

Yeah, you know what happens next...

I heard it going, reached back to catch it, as it was sliding off my van seats (which had been laid down for this particular excursion)...

Yeah..




Yeah....



Tom managed to salvage Jo-Jo's face, at least. Everybody said "Oh, don't worry about it. The cake tastes fine."

In the great big grand scheme of life, the fact that this cake hit the floor doesn't matter one iota...

Still...

Why You Should Choose Your TV Shows Carefully

We absolutely LOVE the Carol Burnett show. There was a 48 hour marathon on a few years ago, and we recorded a large portion of it. We've watched it over and over. Yeah, there's some scenes that are most assuredly NOT child-friendly...that's what they put a fast-forward button on the remote.

Savannah can do a pretty darn good Carol impression, and it cracks us up every time. In one of the episodes, Carol and Harvey Korman are sitting in a diner, and he has just been released from prison. Carol is portraying some loud-mouthed, gum-cracking floosie girlfriend and Harvey is nervous about attracting attention to himself. Seated at a table behind them is a biker guy. Carol raises her voice and sarcastically drawls something about "motahcycles and moooorons, moooorons and motahcycles". When Savannah repeats this, she gets the voice inflections PERFECTLY and we simply double over laughing.

Tonight, Tom and I were out walking with Tiffany and Dylan. The kids were happily riding in their little trailer while we strolled through our small town. Well, actually Dylan kept asking to go home, and I have no clue what was up with THAT, but we just kept telling him to shush it or we'd walk all night. The one police officer on duty passed us no fewer than 3 times. He waved each time, I think. See, they do like us!

Almost done with our walk, after a good hour of exercise, Tiffany was torturing Dylan with hair pulls, so Tom helped Dylan out of the trailer and he walked the remainder of the way home. Our house is on the same street as one of the two bars in town. This bar just so happens to be the tavern where bikers routinely hang out...LOTS of bikers. As we rounded the corner and the bar came into view, Dylan noticed a lone motorcycle parked outside the door of the fine drinking establishment. What didn't phase him was that there were three men standing within ten feet of the door.

"Motowcycwes and mowons...mowons and motowcyces...Dat what Sissy say!!!"


...........



We were not within earshot of these guys, but they're probably wondering why I was attempting to contain my grin when we walked by and said "Hi". My voice was only slightly squeaky.

Did I mention I was headed to Stuffmart to buy Zips, per Dylan's request a few days ago??? (Apparently when I tell him to "zip it" he thinks that's a possibility.)

Hallmark, Please Take Notice or You're Fired!

My Circle of Friends includes many families who have adopted, or plan to adopt, one or more children. This is a BIG DEAL. Promise!!

So when I went looking for an Adoption card at my local Stuffmart the other day, I was more than a little perturbed that not ONE card celebrating one of the most momentous occasions in family life was available.

I found plenty of the general run of the mill cards...
Birthdays, anniversaries, marriage, baby showers, engagement announcements...

There were other celebrated events represented...
Bar Mitzvahs (obviously being mailed out of our county - our Jewish population isn't huge here)
New homes (yeah, THOSE cards are flying right off the shelves these days!)
Moving away (Think my neighbors would get the hint, if I sent one to them?)
Moving back (Apparently some people LIKE their in-laws)
New job (Ha! Unemployment rate in our county is the state's highest, at 17.5%)

You can also find some great cards for your pets to send to each other, your friend's mother's brother's uncle who treated you like one of the family, coming out of the closet, and having your gall bladder xrayed prior to surgery to remove your heart of stone, and apparently these occasions are all MORE IMPORTANT THAN ADOPTION! More power to ya! I just want a dang adoption celebration card. Guess I'll make my own! It'll be prettier, anyway.

We didn't know it, but my sister and two of my nieces were waiting outside the courtroom when we finalized our adoptions last week. When we exited the door, there they were with balloons and stuffed animals for Dylan and Tiffany, and Hershey's Bars for the rest of us. Had my younger sister been closer than 1200 miles, she would have been there, too. They both had pictures of my kids on their Facebook pages within hours. Now THAT's what I'm talking about! It's a big deal!

Introducing...

Thanks for waiting so patiently! Without further ado...here are our babies!







Growing up, I had a List of Names I Plan to Name My Children. The list was rather long, and I fully intended to utilize every name on it. When I married Tom, his list wasn't quite as long as mine, but he didn't run away screaming when I mentioned it. We didn't have a specific number of children in mind, but we both knew we wanted several. The only name he talked about using was Preston. Try as he might to convince me it was in honor of the trucking company, he eventually had to confess to hearing it in the movie Tucker: The Man and His Dreams.

When I was about 11, I watched an episode of Little House on the Prairie that featured a teenage boy named Dylan. I loved the name, and it immediately went on my List. I planned to combine it with Michael, as my closest cousin bore that name. (Even though he was 5 years younger than me, we shared a special bond that probably had much to do with him ALMOST getting away with cutting my stringy, long hair when I was about 10 or so. My brother, unfortunately, saw Michael sneak the scissors into the room, and put an immediate stop to it. Darn it all, but that's neither here nor there for purposes of this story.)

Tom had no problem with the name Michael, but he wasn't so crazy about Dylan. It reminded him of the singer Bob Dylan. Not being aware of anything more than the fact that there IS a singer named Bob Dylan, I wasn't qualified to determine if one of our children should be saddled with the same name, so I left that choice to him. Each time I was pregnant, however, I would ask again if we could name our baby boy Dylan Michael. The answer was always "No".

So the children arrived. (For proof, see the sidebar ---->)

Preston Thomas - naturally, Daddy's namesake. Fine. I like it.

Emmanuel Lucas - compromised, because Daddy wanted Clayton, and I didn't care for it all that much, so we sat down together with a baby name book. Emmanuel is only Emmanuel when he's in trouble, however, as he prefers Bucky, his nickname from birth.

Gabriel Timothy - again, compromised, because I had agreed to Clayton this time, but still didn't really care for it. Daddy acquiesced when Mommy had to endure 48 hours of labor and an emergency C-section. Timothy is a family name on both sides. Gabriel is a Biblical angel, Gabe has Angelman Syndrome...yes, I do look for the small connections.

Savannah Renee - a name on my List from early on, chosen after seeing the previews of the movie Savannah Smiles, which I never even watched until after she was born. Renee is my niece and my high school best friends' middle name. And obviously, Dylan wouldn't have been a good choice for a female.

Then the babies stopped. Having 4 children in 5 years tends to make one rethink their List, and the worsening post partum depression with each pregnancy played a major role in our decision to save some of the cool names for other people.

If you've been around here for very long, you know that we didn't stop wanting more children just because we made the final decision to not birth more. You know that we now have 2 more children, placed here courtesy of the Ohio Foster Care System. You also know that we received adoption approval for those 2 children a few months ago.

Today, I can introduce you to the newest members of our family.



At 9 AM this morning, our two babies legally became our children.



After a 16 month, 19 day waiting period, the adoption is final and they share our last name.



Our babies are biological siblings. Our little boy came to us on April 9, 2008. His birth mother was pregnant at the time. On July 7, she gave birth to a little girl, who came to live with us at 9 days of age.

We changed their last name only. Our daughter's name is Tiffany Navayah.

...and our little boy's name?

Dylan Michael.



Is my God good, or what?!?

A Little Boy's Thoughts...

Today I took the kids to my sister's house to see the chickens and ducks. Mister D was happy chasing the dumb birds all over the yard while they squawked their indignation at having to deal with both he and our anti-social dog.

He fed sticks and walnuts to the fish in the small pond. When he was scolded for disobeying a direct order and throwing a rock into the water, he very firmly informed me, "I not throw it. I drop it." This was true.



He found the dirt pile and discovered that the dog would jump and catch clumps of hard dirt if he threw them up for her, so he spent several minutes in complete bliss "making it rain" dirt. His deep, hearty chuckle and the impish grin on his face was pure BOY.

He was content with throwing handfuls of dirt, until Aunt Teresa brought out the shovel and pail. Gone were his concerns about dirty hands. Out of mind were any thoughts about playing with ducks. He was now a workin' man. Why is it that a pail and shovel will entertain little boys for hours on end?

This short visit occurred during nap time, so the ride home was relatively quiet. Baby T was sleeping peacefully within minutes of leaving the driveway, and Mister D was silent. I glanced in the rear view mirror, thinking he would be asleep.

He wasn't.

He was simply staring out the window with a content smile on his little face.

I wonder what he's thinking when he's quiet, which isn't often. It seems that he's the most subdued when we're in the van. His countenance is pensive and he almost appears to be in another world. Is he remembering a ride with his mother? Does something look familiar to him?



Today, he is happy to sit and watch the field for cows and butterflies. And I am happy to watch him watching.

Stimulating Thoughts In Honor of Crooked Politicians Everywhere - But Which Have Little To Do With Politics

Overheard at the beauty salon:

In a discussion regarding the recent birth of 8 precious babies to a woman who has 6 additional children: "Shouldn't Social Services step in anyway? They only have 3 bedrooms!" um....call me nutty, but I don't believe not having individual bedrooms is cause to require a visit from Child Protective Services. And silly me, but I'm thinkin' that CPS is probably onto the case, as it's PLASTERED ALL OVER THE WORLD!!! Leave the poor woman alone!

Apparently one of the hairdresser's children has contracted the horrible disease known as Chicken Pox. "And she had the shot!" (I nearly fell off my chair laughing at Savannah, who was nearly falling off her chair rolling her eyes. Fortunately, her bangs were covering her eyes good enough that only I knew she was rolling her eyes.)


Points to ponder:

If you're going to drive left-of-center for an extended period of time when I'm advancing toward you minding my own business in my own lane, you probably shouldn't identify yourself with "S---n Farms" splashed across your windshield. I'm just sayin'...

Little Mister D, it is never a good idea to demonstrate that you've had enough dinner by picking potato and cake crumbs from your plate and flingin' 'em over your shoulder when Mama is watchin' ya...

Style Courtesy of PIXAR

When the nearly-3 year old decides he isn't going to take a nap no matter how many times Mommy comes into the bedroom and tells him otherwise, and when that nearly-3 year old is self-sufficient in his own mind, the nearly-3 year old does not always come out of the bedroom looking the way he did when he went in to the bedroom some 3 hours ago...




Cute.

Still means EARLY BEDTIME.

Why DO All the Cows Have Udders in that Movie???

Having not come anywhere near mastering the art of ridding his body of waste products in a manner fit to be discussed in public, Little Mister D is none-the-less skillful in his defense of such problems.

Why, just this morning, as Mommy was changing his rather rankish behinder into something fresher, said Mommy oh-so-kindly stated "D, your butt smells like a barnyard."

D, not missing a beat - "I wike Barnwad. I git pig dare."

Yes, the speech has progressed nicely. Or not.