Bring Your Pet to School Day

Earlier in the week, LC participated in "Bring Your Pet to School Day" at her preschool.

I wasn't going to blog about it, since I'd forgotten to bring my camera along for the event, but Pudge's incredible teacher, Miss Ann, shared some photos so we could let the grandmas in on one of Pudge's preschool activities.

All the students gathered in a circle and preschoolers with pets had the opportunity to share their pet with their buddies and field questions from the group.

Not surprisingly, Pudge found a spot beside her beloved Eli.

But she wouldn't have turned down a spot by any of her classmates.  She loves them to bits.  And rightfully so.  They're some of the most delicious three-year-olds I've had the pleasure to meet.

Since the event occurred on Thursday, when I'm also toting Biggs to school for his individual therapies, I hoped to be able to just wheel Biggs into the room as Pudge's pet submission.  Preschoolers were encouraged to bring pets of the non-human variety, however, so we brought along the most portable pet we could.

Enter Rosie, the tarantula.

To be fully honest, I had to pull the tarantula down from where she lives on a high shelf in Jace's room and explain to LC the night before that she did, indeed, have a spider as a pet.

I've had Rosie since before Justin and I were married, actually, and the darn thing won't die.  So, I keep her out of sight, because the last thing I need is my two climbing toddlers realizing we have a third fuzzy pet they could be daily mauling.

 (LC, clearly miffed that I hadn't shown up with a toothless Shih Tzu at the end of a leash.)

All in all, the pet visit was a success, as all things orchestrated by the grand Miss Ann seem to be.

(All photos courtesy of the incomparable Miss Ann)

We're so incredibly blessed to have Pudge in a preschool that teaches me more than it teaches her and facilitates such super learning experiences for all the little bodies under its roof.

Happy Pet Day, Preschoolers!  We had such a fun morning with each of you and your animal fact-filled biggety brains.

Pickles and Ice Cream

I do apologize for our unexpected absence.  Procrastinator that I am, I allowed a few grad school project deadlines to sneak up on me and all brain powers had to be used toward that end.

Luckily, papers were submitted and survived and we decided to celebrate with a visit from our dear friend, Pickles.

By rights, Pickles is Biggie's buddy, but the squibs equally adore her, so a visit from Pickles is popular all the way around.

When our sweet buddy arrived, Pudge donned her captain's hat and rallied the troops into an afternoon of mischief making.

Biggie loves it when Pickles comes over.

Pickles loves it when Biggie wears pants.

Clearly, today's visit was not a treat for everyone.

Our house is always so much happier when Pickles is around.

Our couch is bouncier, too.

Biggie holds few things sacred.  Chee-tos top the list.  His blouse with rhinestone details comes in at a close second.  But napping is right up there.

We don't have to keep to a frantic nap schedule...rushing home when his usual "nap time" is approaching.  He just drops over like a sweet narcoleptic at 1:30 every afternoon, regardless of environment.

This meant that he spent a good two hours of Pickles' visit unconscious.

No matter.

When my two conscious toddlers are my two eating toddlers we know exactly how to pass the time.

Pudge must eat all handheld desserts while contorting her face in an expression matching carnivores devouring their prey on the National Geographic channel.


Pickles is much friendlier in her ice cream munching approach...

...but no less enthusiastic. 

Thank you for coming over to spread your sunshine, sweet buddy.

I have a feeling Pickles and ice cream could become one of our favorite combinations.

Keeping an Open Heart

"How could any mother ever give up a baby just because it was born with Down syndrome?"

Pudge and Biggs inspire a lot of questions from people we don't know.  This is truly the only one we hear that punches me in the gut.  I can excuse the inquiries about how severe their condition is or if I think they'll ever lead "normal" lives.  I can overlook those who use outdated terminology to ask questions that are ultimately none of their business.  I can sweep all of those under the "this person has no clue what Down syndrome entails" rug. 

But "How could any mother ever give up a baby just because it was born with Down syndrome?" is different.

Maybe it's because the question already communicates a judgment being passed against the birth families of my children...people I care very much about.

Maybe it's because the question implies my children were abandoned as damaged goods when they were born and that's not at all the case.

Or maybe it's because...only a few years ago...I did the exact.  same.  thing.

Only a few years ago I gave up a baby...just because it was born with Down syndrome.  It wasn't my only option.  But it was the right option.  And that baby's life is infinitely blessed because I did.

People are generally pretty skeptical when Justin and I share the open nature of our adoptions.  They usually confess that kind of relationship would be a tricky one to negotiate.  And I agree.  Until you've experienced the relationship from both sides, it's an overwhelming thing to consider.

But once you have experienced it from both sides...once you've been on the giving and the receiving end...that question, "How could any mother ever give up a baby just because it was born with Down syndrome?" can bring to mind a thousand answers.  And every one of them will make your chest ache.

A few years ago, I found myself the mother of a baby with serious health conditions I knew nothing about.  I wasn't equipped to handle them.  This baby had health conditions I could not treat and I didn't have the resources I needed to give this baby the care that she deserved and required.

I hated that I wasn't prepared for her.  I hated that I wasn't at a place in my life where I could provide what she needed.  I hated that it wasn't in my capacity to give her the future I so ached for her to have.

So, I found someone who was prepared.  I found someone with the comfort, experience and knowledge I was lacking.  I found someone who could show confidence where I was overwhelmed with fear.  I found someone with the skills and resources that could give my daughter everything I wished for her but wasn't personally capable of giving.

I knew I risked my heart being shattered.  I knew I risked never seeing her again.  I knew that, by letting her go, I was risking the possibility that she would never know who I was or the sacrifices I was willingly making for her.

I placed my daughter in the hands of a stranger and prayed that the stranger would somehow understand that they'd been entrusted with my universe and would treasure her the way I did.

It stands alone as the most difficult act of my life.

In spite of knowing that I'd done everything I could to give her the life she deserved...in spite of knowing the God who had given her to me was following her as she disappeared from my view...in spite of knowing the only future available to her was one that would take her from my arms, I still felt my sky fall when she was gone.

I still prayed with every cell in my being that I would see her again and have the chance to tell her every one of the decisions I'd made was out of love and hope for her.

And, about nine hours later, that's just what happened.

Twice I have given up my children, not knowing if I'd see them again.

Twice I have risked living my life with an empty void in hopes that it would provide my children the futures I wanted for them.

Twice I have been reminded exactly how a mother chooses to shred her own heart just because her baby was born with Down syndrome.

And...even though I've experienced it twice...I still haven't tasted the sacrifice of my children's mothers.

When I handed LC over to a cardiothoracic surgeon, no one criticized me for not having the education to fix her myself.

When I sought the most experienced person I could find to care for my children, no one demanded that I go through my list of relatives first to see if someone in my own family was willing to give it a shot.

When I turned and left my child with a group of strangers I'd personally selected to care for them,  no one made me feel ashamed to walk away.

Had I gone home empty-handed, I would have had family and friends rallying around me to help me cope with the loss of my child.

None of that is true for the mothers of my children.

Today is the third anniversary of LC's open heart surgery.

More than a few hearts were broken in order to allow us to share it with her.

Biggie's left a trail of his own.

I hope all of the hearts surrounding my children have healed and flourished the way Pudge and Biggie's have.

I hope this is a heart opening day for you, too.

A day that finds you open to considering that children come in all varieties...families come in all varieties...heartache comes in all varieties...healing comes in all varieties...

...and the only thing we're called to do is love, love, love.

Happy Heart Day, Sunshine Flower.  You just ooze with wonder and glory.

Wordless Wednesday: New Signage

Valentining

Last night, Pudge and her sweetums worked on making valentines for her classmates.

Her job was "signing" her name using some sticker labels...

LC and her eyebrows made it very clear that my participation was NOT required.

Back OFF, Mom.  I told you.  Me and Dad GOT this.

She was right.

They made quite a team.

I invited Biggs to work on his valentines with me.

He told me to throw something together and get him a cold one while I was at it.

I asked him what his contribution was going to be.

He told me he'd slap on some aftershave and make sure those valentines were delivered by the cutest guy in school.

He gets his swagger from his father.

Happy Valentine's Day, Everyone!

Two Much Snow

We finally received enough snow to warrant the task of bundling the squibs for a venture outside.  Today marks the first day I've had two walkers able to conquer the winter abyss, so I was eager to see if Biggie's tolerance of the white stuff would be higher than it was last year, now that he can move through the snow on his feet and stay high and dry.

Dressing for the snow is no small endeavor...especially with two toddlers who wrestle their way out of every diaper change.  But, everyone knows that a toddler who is truly loved must look like a bloated starfish before leaving the house when snow is on the ground, so I gathered the necessary articles of squibwear and got down to business.

To keep everyone snug and dry, I wrestled the squibs into
two pairs of footie pajamas
two pairs of socks
two pairs of snowpants
two zipped fleece sweatshirts
two sets of ziploc bags for feet
two pairs of boots
two sets of ziploc bags for hands
two pairs of mittens
two earflap hats
two winter coats
and snapped up two hoods.

We waddled out into the yard and after two seconds...

which quickly became...

I thought he might be too warm and annoyed by the difficulty of moving like a human pillow, so I stripped him of a few layers.

It looked like the solution.

It wasn't.

So, we delivered Biggs from the snowy land of rage by plopping him back into the playroom.

Pudge made quite sure, however, that I knew of her intentions to remain outside.

Since a sliding glass door separates our playroom from the backyard and I was able to keep both temperatures of squibs in sight, I let her stay outside.

She was in a snowy paradise.

She played everywhere she usually does in snowless conditions, but also took advantage of the weather and whipped up a batch of snowballs.

This required lots of careful measuring and stirring...

She said they were delicious...one of her best batches.

I'm afraid Biggie was unavailable to sample the snowy wonders...

...so he'll just have to take Pudge's word for it.

Surviving the Stool

It requires no verbal announcement.

The poor kid's head speaks for itself.

But, in case you somehow weren't aware...I personally cut Biggie's hair. 

I do it because a trip to the stylist inevitably goes as follows:

1.  I force a smile and gently croon, "Sit up like a good boy, Biggs.  We're fighting stereotypes here," as Biggie proceeds to wail, foam at the mouth, and look like a bald Tazmanian Devil being attacked by a pair of scissors for the duration of the process.

2.  The hair cut Biggie comes away wearing is exactly what you'd expect a constantly moving, shrieking, punching, grabbing, back-arching customer would receive.

3.  I get to pay for the cut, generously tip the shell-shocked stylist for enduring Biggie's abuse, and leave the salon with a winded, spit-covered child wearing a hairstyle that everyone will assume I gave him anyway.

So I just.  cut it.  myself.

An additional benefit of cutting Biggie's hair at home is my ability to utilize tools to facilitate the process that aren't available to professional stylists.  A big screen t.v...Chee-tos...physical bondage, etc.

Usually we're relatively successful in getting Biggie prettied up without too much fight from the customer.

But, once in awhile, the Chee-tos run out before the scissors are done.

...and we have to use...

the stool.

I should mention here that the stool was actually a lovely gift from my husband.  I have a table in the laundry room an office where I do my grad school studying.  I use a table taller than an average desk, so Justin got me this stool to sit at while I work.  I adore it.

Especially when it's time to trim the Biggs.

If you've ever chased Biggie with a vacuum, you know that the boy has excellent survival instincts.  He knows he's the slower, juicier squib and most desired by the hungry, hot-breathed sucking machine.  He will literally knock Pudge five feet out of the way to make sure he has a straight line between that vacuum and safety.  He's gotta lotta meat to protect and the boy knows how to do it.

So, I take advantage of those instincts to keep Mr. Swats-A-Lot's hands at bay while I finish his cut.

Little boys who are clinging to a stool for dear life haven't the energy or interest to punch their mothers, which gives me ample time to finish his 'do.

Trust me.

I'm aware I may be crossing some ethical lines.

I guarantee at least three grandmothers just shrieked at the screen "GET HIM DOWN FROM THERE" and I'm sure countless aunts, cousins and fans did as well.

But, honestly, aside from the time it took me to document Biggie's therapy-inducing terror, I'm in constant physical contact with him when he's on the stool.  So, he's pretty safe.  Really.

And I work pretty quickly during this stage of the cut.  Really.

And he's pretty forgiving afterwards.  Really.

Especially when the ladies at Wal-Mart start hitting him up for his digits.

This evening, another cosmetic procedure was survived by the Biggs.

I gave him a big smooch afterwards.  And then whispered the same reminder I give him after every red stool visit.

"You know, the woman at Great Clips has a chair with amazingly secure seatbelts..."