Love and the Minivan

As a modern woman, I thought minivans were for old people, for those 40 plus moms who wear holsters with juice boxes and granola bars, and who live and breathe to chauffer their little ones to and from soccer, piano, and ballet lessons. Minivans were not for me. I drove a sensible, fuel-efficient, and safe car, that the kids fit in, but that didn’t have a single “My kids the student of the month” sticker on it, like every minivan I’d ever seen. Sure, I struggled to get the ever-loving car seats in and out of the car without gouging my shins, bumping my noggin, or swearing so loud that the neighbors took notice, but at least I was not one of those minivan moms. Then one day things changed and I began to see the light.

Our family’s obsession with getting a minivan started a few years ago when we rented one while on a trip to visit my oldest daughter’s birth family.  For me it was a miracle; everything fit in the minivan, two kids strapped in car seats, two moms, one dad, one teenaged brother, a stroller, the largest suitcase Lands End sells, and a bushel of lovies, pacis, books and toys to keep the two kids strapped in car seats, happy. For my oldest daughter, the big brother sitting in the third row, was the best part of the minivan.  My oldest daughter’s birth brother was seated behind her and he was playing with her hair. It was such a simple and loving act that my oldest daughter’s brother performed each time we piled back into the minivan.  He sat and just twirled her hair, like it was their usual routine. Although they had just met, it was not the awkward touch of a stranger, it was the magic that happens between siblings, and the most cherished memory my oldest daughter has from that visit.

Our obsession grew each time we borrowed my mother-in-law’s seven-passenger car to road trip it to visit my youngest daughter’s birth family.  The roominess, the DVD player, the cup holders; I began to love all the practical bits and pieces that came with large-car driving. My kids began to love the association between three rows of seating, and seeing their birth families. We would drive and scoop up my youngest’s birth mom and head to the aquarium, the zoo, out to lunch, back for naps and hang out time.  There is room in the minivan for giggles and smiles, look-how-big-you’ve gotten and hugs. I began to think the minivan was truly a family car, an open-adoptive family car.

My husband loved that the girls and I were obsessed with the minivan, but he wasn’t so convinced we needed to trade in our economy car for a luxury van. The doors slide, I told him. There’s room for everyone, my girls said. He still wasn’t convinced, but we got one anyways, because he loves our family. We’re now one of those families with a family car, and I’m one of those minivan moms, which I never wanted to be, but truly love being. I’m an adoptive mom with two wonderful girls, one terrific husband, and one big and loving family that all fit in my new minivan.

Ear infection for the imperial king

My husband and I call our son Maximus. It struck us one day when he was about 10 months old, slumped in his highchair with a look of disdain on his face as my husband was feeding him paté. Yes, paté. Maximus is quite the carnivore, so much so that we can drive excitement for pretty much any food by calling it “egg-meat” or “cheese-meat” or “pear-meat”.  Anyway, since then we have found his imperial view of the world wildly entertaining as well as terribly humbling for us, two well-educated professionals reduced to being the personal valet of a sometimes temperamental  toddler. Maximus is 2 now and his basic needs have turned into extremely strong preferences. We are learning the trick of positioning everything as an opportunity for him to exert his preferences and 2 yr old authority:

“Monkey jammies or dino jammies?” (ie no jammies not an option)

“Mommy will carry you or Maximus walks” (ie laying on the ground in the middle of the grocery store not an option”)

Last week we indulged our imperial prince with several extra luxuries because he brought home a painful ear infection from the petri dish (I mean pre-school).  It was the first time since we brought him home at 8 months that he’s been so sick.  The poor kid’s engine, which normally operates at about 80 mph, was down to about 10.  He was so sorrowful – a burning hot lump of coughing, wheezing love in tear-stained monkey jammies.  We brought out the big guns – Sesame Street, juice, sleeping with Mommy and Daddy – perks reserved for the most pitiful Maximus.  It started off with quite a bang at about 1AM last Sunday morning. I heard him screaming at the top of his lungs, went running in there, and found him standing in his crib with blood all over his hands and face. He had an awful bloody nose that had gotten everywhere – like a small rodent had met its demise in his crib. I cleaned him up and brought him to sleep with my husband and me.  I put him on me and propped myself up to help with his congestion and coughing that seemed to burst onto the scene all at once with the nosebleed.  It was like I had a burning hot, wheezing Darth Vader on my chest. That was the end of my sleeping until last Thursday night, when Maximus finally made it through the night in his own crib. During the week his fever went up and down multiple times, leaving him lethargic and sorrowful.  I’d prop him up in front of Sesame Street with a cup of apple juice and he’d stay there sleeping and watching until I moved him.

I must confess that as sad as he was, I loved the extra cuddling time.  When he’s well he’s definitely up for a hug, but I have to be quick or turn it into a game to get him to stick around.  He was incredibly snuggly all week when he was sick, and even the nighttime interruptions were worth it to me to get to be so cozy with him.

Every day I wish time would stand still because I know the day will come when I won’t be his rockstar mommy anymore.  The ear infection seemed to slow down the time a little, by slowing down and multiplying all the hugs and snuggles that tornado by me when he is well.  And of course his bug spent 4 days fortifying itself before it made its way into my husband and me, so now we’re down to 10mph while he’s back to 80.   Maximus’ personal valets may not be performing to his exacting standards right now, but when we’re back in action we’ll make sure his paté is just the right temperature, spread with just the right thickness on his whole wheat party crackers.

Puzzles and Blue Eyes

There’s a partially completed puzzle on the table.  K and I are in our 750 piece stage.  500 pieces aren’t typically challenging enough, and 1000 pieces are overwhelming so 750 seems right.  This puzzle is a picture of two horses.  The last one was wolves, and the one before that was a dragon.  Regardless of the picture, K and I start with the border.  We always start with the border.  When I was a girl, my Mom (K’s Nana) taught me to separate the straight pieces from the others and complete the border first.  When K and I started doing puzzles, I taught her.

Whenever we do a puzzle, we talk about Nana and how much she loved puzzles.  I tell K how Nana couldn’t walk past an undone puzzle and how much I loved doing them with her.  We talk about how Nana loved to do puzzles with K when she was really little.  We talk about how some day K will tell her little girl to start with the straight pieces. 

 We’ve added our own flourishes – the tap, tap, tap on top of a piece when it goes in, the announcement to each other “I got a piece!”, the pre-selection of which piece should be the last – but it’s always border first.  Recently, K was working on a puzzle with her three year old cousin J.  He’s a puzzle master but goes straight to the center.  K tried to convert him to border first but so far, he remains unconvinced.  She’ll keep working on him.  It’s how our family does a puzzle and it’s important to her that J knows that.

 We’ve seen a lot of family lately.  The rooms have been full of people with Nana’s blue eyes.  K’s eyes are blue but not light blue like Nana’s or mine.  K’s are so bright they are almost purple.  When she was a toddler, a stranger once stopped us and proclaimed K had Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes.  My family loves to look at old pictures.  In the cousins’ baby pictures, it can be hard to tell who’s who.  If the photos aren’t labeled, we resort to clothing choices to confirm identities.  K is all K.  Those shining eyes and smile are hers alone. 

 I recently found a picture from my own childhood.  It included my mom, dad, younger sister and me.  I was the gangly, awkward teenager standing next to Mom.  However, it wasn’t the teenager that caught my attention.  Rather it was seeing my mother’s face from years ago and recognizing that face as the one I see in the mirror now.  How could that be?  Mom was middle-aged in that picture!  Then I ran the numbers.  Truth be told, even if 50 is the new 40; I guess I’m middle-aged too. 

 It occurs to me that K will never look at pictures of me years from now and see her own face looking back at her.  I don’t know if that will make her sad or fill her with relief.  I hope that she does recognize the face of a woman who loved her.  I hope she sees the face of a woman who didn’t pass along the color of her hair or the color of her eyes but did pass along how to do a puzzle, how to love a book, and how to make a cake.  I hope she recognizes the face of the woman who was so very proud to be her mother.