Hotel Rwanda and open adoption parenting

A few years ago I was teaching World Geography to middle school kids. We'd done a unit on the phenomenon of genocide, and at about the same time Paul Rusesabagina came to our city for a speaking engagement. I organized a field trip, and we all heard the first person account of the hotel manager who sheltered Tutsis in Rwanda in 1994.

Truly, his story is remarkable. At risk of his safety and that of his family, Paul Rusesabagina (played in the film Hotel Rwanda by Don Cheadle) used his connections and wiles to save more than a thousand refugees. Think the Schindler's List of Africa.

The audience was full of gushing praise for him. Each person who got up to ask a question at the end of Paul Rusesabagina's presentation began with some version of, "You are extraordinary." or "You are exceptional." or "You are amazing -- I would never be able to be so brave."

With each of these proclamations, I saw Paul Rusesabagina slump a little. Each time, he protested, "No, I'm not. My point is that I am just like you -- in extraordinary times, we all can be extraordinary. We all have it in us, and I am proof of that."

Still, the audience continued to set him apart.

I left the auditorium that day feeling sad for Paul Rusesabagina, who looked a bit lonely, a bit defeated in the way his message had been received. Who, as if to make my point, titled his book An Ordinary Man.

Now, on to open adoption parenting.

Thank you all so much for your feedback on my recent post about open adoption parenting.

But. And I say this with great affection. Some of you missed the point. The conversation I had with Tessa was not the result of me being an all-wise mom (I'm not). Or because I am more mature, thoughtful, ego-less than the average Jane (most definitely not).

It's just that in one moment, I stopped long enough to tune into deeper wisdom. I lived from my heart, not my fears.

And you can, too.

Don't tell me, any of you who are or will be parents, that you wouldn't run into a burning building to rescue your child. Don't tell me that you wouldn't jump in front of a bus to prevent your child from being hit. We say it all the time -- this type of love transcends all. And in a moment where you're called on to do something heroic, you would not think twice.

So why would you react any differently with the relatively minor thing of resolving your own fears and insecurities for the sake of your child?

Maybe the way I handled Tessa's question was incredible, extraordinary, remarkable. But, over and over again, incredible, extraordinary, remarkable things are done by ordinary people.

Like you.

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Hey, Baby. What's Your Rung?

Here's the way I saw the social universe during junior high and high school. Was it at all similar for you?

• Top rung: Football and basketball players; cheerleaders/pompon girls
• 2nd rung: Other jocks; friends of jocks and cheerleaders
• 3rd rung: Cowboys
• 4th rung: Smart geeks
• 5th rung: Band weenies and choir/theater people
• 6th rung: Stoners

Really, this list overstates the importance of rungs 3-6. It felt like below the 2nd rung, we were all lumped together as varying degrees of Losers.

Me? I was a Band Weenie, and proud of it. I wore a funny hat during marching band parades and hung out with other Band Weenies. We had cleaner fun than the Popular Kids -- we weren't cool enough for alcohol and other vices. We were more likely to TP a house (the quarterback's naturally; the closest I could get to him) than to attend a kegger.

I got through high school without making any really bad decisions, and I suppose it was said I had a pretty good head on my shoulders. So in a way, unpopularity worked for me.

But at the time, I was keenly aware of being low on the ladder. This fact was emphasized more recently at my mmmfrtieth reunion, when I wished I'd had a dime for every time a former Top Runger asked me, "And which high school did YOU go to?"

YOURS, you self-centered princess / narcissistic musclehead!

But no, I'm over it now. Clearly. Thanks for asking.

I often wondered where popularity comes from. I mean, at what age do you get assigned a rung? Was it before 4th grade, when I moved into the school system? Was I assigned a lower rung because I was new? Then why were other newcomers allowed access to the upper rungs? Was it simply that I was not an athlete? That my jeans were off-brand and not Calvin Kleins? (On second thought, if you clicked on the link above, I bet the reasons will become apparent.)

What were the qualities that separated the Ins from the Outs? And who got to be the judge? I'd like to think it wasn't just being, uh, easy, back in the 70s and 80s. After all, isn't it supposed to be a recent phenomenon that kids are very, uh, body-savvy by middle school?

Now Tessa and Reed are beginning to steer their way through social strata. In the early elementary grades, the rungs assignments are not yet set and the kiddies are not yet cutthroat evil vicious eager social climbers, but I'm not exactly sure when the game begins. It could be very soon for my children. Surely the foundation for each of them is already being formed.

So this makes me think: how can I best help them navigate the emerging strata in their social lives? How do I teach them to balance their individuality (Tessa has a unique sense of fashion , and Reed is one of the most enthusiastic Jedis-in-training in this galaxy) with attempts to fit in and conform? How do I keep them from being either the hurters or the hurtees?

What are your thoughts?

• What was your position and memories of your own ladder?
• Where does popularity come from?
• How will you / did you / would you help your children with these issues?

Hands-off Mom

"Dear God -- " my mom prayed when I was 2 years old and she was pregnant with my middle sister.

You might think she prayed for a certain gender, for a healthy baby, for an easy delivery. But her prayer was along different lines:

"Please make this baby not persnickety about its hands the way Lori is."

Apparently I was born fussy. I have always disliked having dirty hands. It doesn't stop me from doing much because I can accommodate -- gloves are my friends.

I am always attuned to whether my hands are clean or dirty. Mostly they are clean. But if I handle garden tools, take the kids to Chuck E Cheese, unwrap a package of chicken, pet a dog, scale the monkey bars or hold my son's hand for any length of time, I am keenly aware of their sullied nature. I do not touch my face, clean dishes or clean clothes until I wash my hands and restore my inner harmony.

On my own eve of motherhood, my prayers (unsaid because I was just happy to finally become a mom) would have been the reverse of my mom's:

"Please, God. Give me clean children."

HA! you say. Yes, you and God.

My children lack the attunement I have. They would gleefully dunk their hands in a bucket of snot and then give me a gooey hug. They have no qualms about hiking in mud and horsepoop, taking off their mucky socks in the car and putting the soggy things on their hands. After an hour in the tubes at McDonald's PlayLand, Tessa and Reed approach me with enthusiasm, inexplicably wanting to stroke my hair and face. I am repulsed.

Back in the diaper bag days, it was easy to wipe off hands because I carried around my own sundry store. But I refuse to put wipes in my purse now. And don't tell me about hand sanitizer -- it kills germs but it doesn't banish dirt.

We have therefore seen every single public bathroom within 10 miles of our house, and many outlying ones, too. I have hoisted them at every sink.

Don't think I'm not into kisses and hugs. On the contrary -- I'm all aBOUT kisses and hugs.

Immediately after bathtime.

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Which is more difficult?

Note: this post has to do with motherhood.

This Momversation is a discussion about which is harder: being a mom or being a wife.



Dooce, having experienced post-partum depression, says that marriage was much easier, and she shares many good reasons why. She votes for Motherhood as the more difficult.

Finslippy says (among other things) that it's easier to neglect marriage, making it the more difficult of the two.

GirlsGoneChild, who experienced marriage and children in rapid fashion, also agrees that marriage is the more difficult.

Dooce got more than 700 comments on this and has shut them down. There are conversations going on at GirlsGoneChild and at Momversation, but I was wondering what my readers think about motherhood vs wifehood, either in the concrete (you are a parent) or in the abstract (you will one day be a parent, and you give your best guess as to which will be more difficult for you).

Conventional wisdom might say that for Infertyls, motherhood will be incredibly rewarding after the long and tortuous route to get there. And that, consequently, achieving that hard-won dream would make parenting less difficult than marriage (especially a marriage that has been tested by IF).

But my own experience did not fit into that mold. Regarding marriage, I know how to navigate a peer relationship, a (mostly) rational relationship of (mostly) equals.

I struggled then, and I still sometimes do, with the irrational relationship I have with purely emotional beings. As they become more rational, parenting them becomes easier for me.

And in theory, I should be the One In Control in my relationships with Tessa and Reed, right? I am Authority and they should, at all times, defer to my more seasoned judgment. (Don't laugh. My parents expected this of me, and I have forgotten that I rarely gave it to them.)

Smack! That's reality hitting me upside the head on an almost-hourly basis. My kids DON'T stop fighting when I tell ask them to. They DON'T keep their dirty and clean clothes in different places. They DON'T accept my wisdom about not eating boogers as gospel.

Control is an illusion. Tessa and Reed just might have more of it than I do. It certainly seems like it at times.

These are some of the reasons why motherhood is, for me, more difficult than wifehood.

(Well, that and the fact that Rob cooks.)

So, for you, which is or will be harder -- being a mom or being a wife? Please share why you think so.

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Perfect Moment Monday: sweet surrender

Perfect Moment Monday is more about noticing a perfect moment than about creating one. Perfect moments are just waiting to be observed, and can be momentous or ordinary or somewhere in between.

We gather here once a week to engage in mindfulness about something that is right with our world, if only for a, well, a moment. Everyone is welcome to join. Details on how to participate are at the bottom of this post, complete with bloggy bling.

Now, here's mine.

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I'm well aware of my shortcomings as a mom. I lack enough patience. I don't engage deeply and often enough with my kids. I have an overwhelming need to have time and space away from them. I am not Fun Mom simply because of my aversion to activities for which there will be more than 90 seconds of cleanup.

I am also aware of my strengths. I have healthy boundaries with them. I respect myself and expect that they treat me (and others) respectfully. I model for them how to love one's body and treat it well. I model lifelong learning and inquisitiveness.

I added something new this week: the ability to sit with pain and discomfort without fixing it.* Which, not surprisingly, mended the situation.

Reed is surrounded by alpha people. The other three members of his household are all very bossy eldest children, and his best friend is a hellion spirited child. Reed is incredibly resilient, and has a wide range in which to accommodate the whims and demands of others.

One day last week, he'd had a particularly pushed-around day. He got blamed by his kindergarten teacher for something another kid did. His best friend wouldn't give back Reed's Star Wars game, and later when Tessa got home, she kept interrupting him as he tried to tell me his troubles. He grew increasingly whiny and pouty.

Rather than my usual reaction to whining, which is to send him to his room until he can be pleasant again, I simply picked him up and carried him gently to another room and told him, "It sounds like you've had a hard day. Sometimes it's hard to share, isn't it?"

His little body collapsed into mine and he sobbed into my shoulder, more relieved to be understood than sad about the day. Tessa came to get in on the action, and I gently asked her to wait for me in the kitchen (and she complied!).

Reed got the message that he deserved 100% of something once in awhile.

Then it was over. And his surrender was a perfect moment for me.

*I was grateful that I'd recently read this post by Melissa that predisposed me to an empathic approach.

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Cruel to be kind

(Children mentioned. Originally posted at Mile High Mamas.)

If my son forgets to wear a coat on a chilly October day, he experiences cold.

If my daughter forgets to bring the lunch I pack for her, she experiences hunger.

Neither experience will cause lasting damage. In fact, my hope is that such lessons will leave lasting impressions.

I want my children to pay consequences they can afford. Like the time Tessa left her brand new Thumbelina on a playground swing, and we weren’t able to find it when we went back the next day. Tuition for this lesson? About $20 and a bucket of tears.

Or when Reed didn’t have enough money to buy the Power Ranger costume he wanted (we kicked in the first $10) because he shot his piggy bank wad in a manic spree at Chuck E Cheese. Tuition for this lesson? About 20 minutes of tantrum.

Most times, it would be easy to bail them out. To bring the coat, the lunch, to school. To buy another doll or spring for the costume. Time and money are small prices to pay to avoid tears, right?

True. But wrong. I think we do our kids a disservice when we separate their actions from the natural consequence of those actions.

It takes love to allow them to feel a little pain.

If our kids learn with small consequences, they are more likely to be able to avoid the big consequences. By “big,” I mean getting a costly ticket (or worse) for speeding. I mean getting arrested for shoplifting or being involved in a drunk-driving accident or facing an unplanned pregnancy — any of these could be natural consequences of their actions. If my children grasp that there is a link between what they do (or don’t do) and the results, they will, I hope, make more logical decisions.

So I hide my heartache when Tessa wails over her lost doll. I stay strong when Reed pulls out all the stops to get me to buy him the object of his affection. My children may never know how hard it is for me to be mean* and how I struggle to keep my eyes on the prize.

Sometimes mean = love. And it’s not easy being mean.

* OK, so deeeeep down inside, I’m going, “Bwahahahahaha!” But in my defense, it’s very, very deep.)

Tales from Lake Toothbegone

I am heartsick. I literally feel sick in my heart, punched in the gut.

Tessa is going to lose her front top tooth. Her permanent front top tooth.

It's a 3-chapter short story. (The photo shows Tessa's smile before The Troubles.)

Chapter 1: The Break
Three months ago, we (meaning my sister, my parents and I, and NOT my Democrat husband) took Tessa and Reed to a Ron Paul rally. As an aside, he was an amazing speaker and the jam-packed room was even more squished than a Japanese train at rush hour.

After the event, we adults were chatting as the room emptied. Tessa, Reed and their cousin Dominic busied themselves by running around a bank of chairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tessa fall. In slow motion, I saw a speck of white and a gush of red as she crumpled to the ground. There was an interminable hang time before I heard her wail.

"Please let it be a baby tooth, please let it be a baby tooth," I chanted as we rushed to her.

The bottom half of her front, top, permanent tooth was no longer there. I found it on the floor nearby.

My mom scooped up Tessa as I got out my phone, not yet knowing who I would call on a Friday night. In a cluster we began walking out of the convention center (mom climbed several sets of stairs while carrying 45 extra pounds -- yay, mom), in search of a Starbucks. Not for a coffee, but for a cup of milk. To put the tooth chip in.

I got our family dentist on the phone. He said (proverbially) to give her Tyl.enol and call in the morning.

Tessa had been so freaked out just the week before at her teeth cleaning that the family dentist recommended she have her cavities filled by a pediatric dentist. So the next morning, I called the peds dentist and was invited to come in immediately.

Dr Jill got an assistant to come in on a Saturday morning to help her glue Tessa's chip back on, performing a pulpotomy (nerve treatment) along the way.

But, she said, the x-ray looked good, and with luck and care for the tooth, the rooted stub should last a long time, even if the glued-on chip doesn't. Tessa spent the next several weeks swishing with an antibiotic rinse to help heal the gum trauma.

Chapter 2: Say Ahhhhhh
Tessa had extensive dental surgery in March. Most of it wasn't related to the trauma. But all of it was related to the depletion of her college fund, as we are uninsured, dentally.

Recently, the stub began looking grayish to me, so just two weeks ago, we took her to an endodontist, at Dr Jill's urging. Again, Tessa required a lot of cajoling just to let the poor guy even take a look. He ended up saying things seem fine, and to come back in 6 months.

I thought we were in good shape.

Chapter 3: "Owwwwww"
During my trip last week, Rob told me over the phone that Tessa's tooth was hurting. We figured it was the adjacent tooth, which had been loose.

After I got home, her complaints intensified. We tried to pinpoint: was the pain in the tooth or in the gum? Was it a sharp pain or a dull ache? She was not able to be any more precise than to say simply, "it HURTS, Mama." Last night it looked like a canker sore. Good, I thought. A temporary condition.

Today she's doped up on both Tyl.enol and Mo.trin, and is unable to eat for the pain. Even fruit-yogurt shakes have no appeal. And Dr Jill can't see her until tomorrow afternoon.

Looking for more immediate relief, I called the endodontist we just visited. What I thought was a canker sore is probably an infection coming from the tooth through the gum.

She will likely lose the tooth. How could such a minor event have such huge repercussions?

I feel terrible.

(But I'm not blaming Ron Paul.)

Quickies

...quickie updates, that is.

1. My dad is home and out of the hospital. You may have seen at the bottom of my post over the weekend that as he was taking my children to church, he experienced chest pain. (Coincidentally, it was as he was lifting Reed to carry him into Palm Sunday service.)

Because he'd had a heart attack last spring, my mom immediately took him to the hospital, where he spent 6 hours in the ER and overnight in Telemtry. No test they gave him indicated heart damage, so we're grateful it was likely just a muscle twinge from hoisting my growing son.

2. Tessa's surgery (mentioned here) is over. We spent much of yesterday at Childrens Hospital for some extensive dental work: two extractions, two crowns and some sealants. The only tough part was that she didn't want to drink the Verced prior to the rest of the procedure. Silly girl. I tried to demonstrate for her but "Dr Sleep" (as they called him) wouldn't let me partake.

I was able to stay with Tessa until she went under with the "banana gas" (which she also fought -- the only part of the day where I cried). She woke up 3 hours later with an IV in her hand -- a "straw under her skin to feed her water" -- and she was even cool with this.

Tessa's most challenging personality trait is also her saving grace. She is resolute (read: stubborn) to the point of being supremely resilient. She simply decided she was going to be OK, and she was. She woke up cheerful at 5:45 am for the trip to the hospital, remained cheerful until the Verced showed up, and woke up from the surgery cheerful. Except for the moments at the tail end of a dose of Motrin, she's remained cheerful for a full 24 hours now.

She made this ordeal OK for herself. I could learn from her. I fretted for 3 days last week over a simple blood draw.

"Cuz I need a man!"

While sitting on my lap last night, Reed and Tessa found some Grease songs on YouTube.

Reed chose the song "Greased Lightning." Luckily, I managed to pause-skip the line, "You know that ain't sh!t when we'll be getting lots of t!t." Don't want Tessa and Reed spouting that on the playground at school.

Tessa saw the box for "You're the one that I Want" on the sidebar, so we chose that one next. She's memorized the audio (it's on a CD I made for her), but this was the first time she's seen the video. I'd forgotten what a teeny-weeny waist Olivia Newton-John's had. Literally, a hand-span. Of a kindergarten girl!

I hope the image didn't settle into Tessa's brain as a dormant seed of anorexia.

But back to my main issue.

This morning, she sings repeatedly, "Cuz I need a man!" While I'm pouring milk on her cereal: "Cuz I need a man!" When she's wiping up crumbs from her bagel: "Cuz I need a man!" While she's sneaking into her Halloween stash she thinks I don't know about: "Cuz I need a man!"

Might this refrain bother any of you?

So I says to her, I says, "Tessa. You don't need a man. I don't need a man. A woman doesn't need a man."

She says, "But I want a husband someday. I DO need a man. You have Daddy."

I say, "I don't NEED Daddy. We're together because we WANT to be, not because I NEED him."

She sings, "Cuz I need a man!"

I say, "Tessa. It's OK to be with someone because you enjoy being together. But when you NEED another person, you are giving your power away."

As I said it, I remembered the overwhelming, every-thought-occupying NEED I had to bring Tessa and Reed into my life.

And I dropped the conversation without a leg to stand on.
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For your viewing pleasure...

My son, the dentist

If you saw my last post, you know that our home had a recent visit from the Tooth Fairy.

We were having a family dinner after Tessa and I returned from our road trip. Tessa's tooth had been snaggly for about a month -- sticking almost straight out in front.

Rob and I kept checking the tooth for its readiness to come out. After dinner, Reed asked to check, too. Tessa opened up.

More quickly than can be described, Reed popped the tooth out and blood was everywhere. Tessa was so shocked that she swallowed the tooth before she even knew it was out. She felt it in her throat. That and the blood, freaked her out.

Which made Reed freak out. He felt awful for being the cause of all that blood.

The bleeding stopped and we calmed them both down. After a few minutes we were all able to laugh about it. The kids have enjoyed telling the story to classmates, teachers, grandparents and other relatives on the phone ever since.

My question to you is: how much would you put into retrieving the tooth? I've been saving Tessa's teeth, planning to give them all to her some day, and I was chagrined to lose this one. I actually thought about donning big rubber gloves and finding that sucker. Would you?

The opportunity has passed, by the way. And I didn't get the tooth.

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Reed is placed in our arms during our Entrustment Ceremony, on Drama 2B Mama.

WWSMD? What would a SAINTLY mother do?

So I'm sitting at my kitchen table, keeping an eye on the kids in the backyard while I work on the laptop. I am making over an adoption profile for a couple who has been passed over by expectant parents several times over the last 7 months. I've just figured out why, and I'm eager to write their profile review.

Tessa asks if she can turn on the hose. I say yes and watch her do so, telling her to turn down the pressure a bit.

Tessa and Reed squirt each other an squeal with delight for several minutes. I step away for a moment to put laundry into the dryer.

When I get back, Holy Crapoly! Water is showering in through the kitchen window -- all over the laptop and the my clients' photos.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" I yell loud enough to scare the neighbors. I can see that Tessa has attached a fan-type sprinkler to the end of the previously naked hose, and she's ordered Reed to turn on the water full blast, which he does in his usual dutiful manner. "TURN OFF THE WATER YOU LITTLE.....IF YOU DON'T TURN THAT OFF RIGHT NOW I'M GONNA..." The thoughts are finished in my head, but luckily the words don't come out of my mouth.

In an instant I decide to head for the water source, though in hindsight it would have been better to get to the window and close it.

I'm blocked at the door by the spray of water, but I forge through and take the patio steps down two at a time to the faucet and turn it off.

"Get inside the house. NOW!" I yell at the kids. Reed begins to cry. I laser my anger at Tessa.

I scream at her with my aching, streppy throat: "You're SIX!" (This fact needs to be pointed out to her frequently, since Tessa believes she's actually 19 and can thus remove splinters from her brother's thumb with a needle, watch Sex and the City DVDs with me, answer my business telephone, and boil water for french-pressed coffee -- which resulted yesterday in a burned potholder.) "You do NOT get to put on sprinklers! YOU'RE FREAKING SIX!!"

By now I am totally out of control, shaking my head like a crazy woman and waving my arms madly.

"Look at this table! My computer is ruined -- and the pictures, too!" They scamper inside. "Get in your rooms, both of you!"

To unleash some of my anger I stomp my feet on the kitchen floor. This scares Reed, who is terrified in his room, crying that he didn't do anything (which is mostly true). I feel bad for him.

Tessa is at first defiant. "I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!" she matches my anger. "Reed turned on the water; IT'S REED'S FAULT!"

This re-enrages me. "You're SIX and he's FOUR! You TOLD him to turn it on! Whatever happens to the computer is YOUR -- FAULT! YOU'RE -- SIX!" my teeth are gritted as I struggle to avoid words I'd regret.

I see myself out of control, ugly, mean. But I can't stop. I know I'm going to wish I'd handled this better, more calmly. And since all the windows are open, I'm sure the neighbors are hearing my rant. I wonder if anyone is calling social services, or the state mental hospital.

I grab a towel and wipe off the laptop. Luckily, it's positioning has protected the keyboard and screen, and I'm able to wipe off the non-vital parts. No harm. My pulse rate begins to lower, and I consciously breathe. I remember that Reed is scared.

I go to his room and tell him it's OK. That it was an accident and he couldn't have known what would happen. He asks me, several times, to make sure I tell Daddy (when he gets home) that we've already talked about this and he's done his time. I promise to.

By now, Tessa has also come around. I can hear her in her room sobbing, "It's all my fault. I ruined Mom's computer. It was me. All me."

I go in and embrace her. I tell her we were lucky -- the computer isn't ruined. I tell her, "Tessa, you're six. You could not have known what would happen when you attached that sprinkler, but I could. That's why you need to ask anytime you do something new." I also acknowledge the fact that she has taken responsibility.

She nods. She cries and apologizes. We check out my client's photos and she helps me clean up the table. She suggests I tell the clients that it was all her fault.

What Would a Saintly Mother Do? Don't ask me. I'm more Joan Crawford than Mother Theresa. Today, anyway.

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Come read "Adoption Profile," the latest episode on Drama 2B Mama.

Score one for the X chromosome...and one for the Y

Today, two stories about my son, Reed, as he prepares to begin pre-kindergarten.


First the Y tale.

"Mommy, which weapons can I bring to school?"

(Now, don't go judging me to be a pistol-packing mama. Our son, despite the fact that we didn't introduce him to guns, either in toys or in movies, managed to turn everything -- a broom, a stick, a playing card, a chicken leg -- into a weapon. As a toddler, he had all of his older sister's babies to play with, but still he would rather form carpet lint into a "shooter." I'm convinced this behavior is largely hard-wired into that Y 'zome.)

"Honey, they don't allow weapons at school."

"How about I leave my guns at home and bring just swords."

"No, Sweetie. Schools don't let you bring guns or swords."

"Can I bring my light sabers? Just one?"

"No, Honey. Sorry."

"OK. But school doesn't sound like much fun. When I come home will you swordfight with me?"

"Sure."

"Yay, Mommy!"


Now the X.

Reed and two friends are playing in the cul-de-sac as I sit on our front step. I see the three of them begin to congregate in the middle of the circle.

"I'm gonna kill it with my gun!" says Will as he rushes in bearing the plastic rifle.

"Let me run over it!" cries Evan, barreling over in his wheelchair.

"No!" shrieks my son. "Don't kill the roly-poly!" And he puts his body in the way of the poor creature's would-be tormentors.

I feel like a good mama.

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I make the counselor cry is today's post on Drama 2B Mama.

Sure to endear me to the kindergarten teacher

Recently, Tessa has been cheerfully bursting into high volume song. Following is her refrain for the last couple of days. How do you think this will go over when school starts?

" I'm a joker
I'm a smoker
I'm a midnight toker "

Maybe I should lay off the Classic Rock station for awhile...?

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Please visit Homestudy, today's entry on Drama 2B Mama.