Pampers and Paklava

Look who’s 5. Happy Birthday!

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Look who’s 5!!

birthday

Five years ago, our daughter was born in Armenia. The first time we saw a photo of her, she was probably a few months old. After recently visiting two newborn babies, I am struck by how much of her young life we missed, even though she was 11-months-old when she joined our family. I watch newborn moms coo and snuggle, nurse and touch and fuss over their babies and know daughter missed out on this crucial bonding experience. Even though she was well-cared for by the nannies in her orphanage, she didn’t experience being “a family girl” for the first year of her life.

referral photo

referral photo

Being an adoptive mom has it’s own unique set of challenges, as does starting life in an orphanage and spending your first critical year without the security of a home and the constancy of family. I see the impact of these circumstances in my daughter.

But I also see her resilience and her strength and know these traits will serve her well. She is smart, funny and grabs life by the horns–my wild child, born in the sign of the bull.

In celebration of her fifth trip around the sun, she asked to have her nails painted this lovely spring green, with nail polish she received as a special gift from a special person, found inside the “Magic Cabinet.” Green is my favorite color, the color of life, renewal and growth. And so it is with this I wish my daughter–so full of energy and life–a year of renewal and growth. Here’s to hoping her next trip around the sun will be the best one yet!

painted toenailsHappy 5th Birthday Little Bird!

It’s all about the journey,

Beth

Look who’s 4! Happy Birthday Little Bird

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Look who’s 4! Happy Birthday Little Bird.

Birthday girl at 4

You are my inspiration, my perspiration and–sometimes–my desperation. You put both the ‘pampers’ and the ‘pakhlava’ into my blog.

Kitty girl roars

You love kitties (especially ours), ‘Bunny,’ books, cowgirl boots, twirling, cupcakes and ice cream.

With Bunny

You spend your days riding swings, climbing walls (including those you shouldn’t), watching movies, being silly.

Twirling birthday girl

You can ask for milk in French, take super duper jumps, and write a few letters of the alphabet.

Pink cowgirl boots

You are uniquely you. May your next trip around the sun be as bright as you are.

Hello Kitty cupcakes

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Take the road less traveled, Beth

Life is a lot like mountaineering

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The Three Rules of Mountaineering
It’s always further than it looks.
It’s always taller than it looks.
And it’s always harder than it looks.

– Author Unknown

Big Papa at Everest

Fifty years of life is like is a lot like mountaineering. There are the days when you feel like you are on top of the world, and others where everything feels like an uphill slog. You might lose your way or encounter unexpected avalanches. If you’ve got a few decades under your belt, you’ve no doubt experienced incredible highs and epic disasters. Ralph Waldo Emerson said it best: Life is a journey not a destination.

Happy Birthday, Big Papa!  Whether we’re at 17,000 feet in Tibet or down at sea level in Seattle, being with you sure is grand. Wishing you many, many more trips around the sun.

And Happy Birthday U.S.A.!  From ev’ry mountainside, let freedom ring.

Take the road less traveled, Beth

Maggie, the cat, celebrates her 19th

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There is no such thing as an ordinary cat.

~Collette

Maggie at 19

Yes, this is a post about my cat. But hey, it’s her 19th birthday which, from what I’ve read, is the equivalent of 93 human years. Any living soul, man or beast, who can claim that much life on earth, deserves special recognition in my book. Last year we held a ‘Maggie can vote’ party to celebrate her 18th. This year I’m celebrating that she’s still with us. Just this past week, four of my friends lost their beloved cats, so I know every day I have with her is a gift.

Cat and banana pillow

Maggie (Magnolia) came into my life as a kitten. She was small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. I think she may have been weaned too early, because she took to “nursing” on my arm, which she continued to do for many years. To her, I have always been Mama Cat. She was the second cat in my household. Madison was first, both of them Manx cats and both named after Seattle neighborhoods.

Every pet, just like every human, has their own unique qualities and quirks. And Maggie has hers.

Bathing assistant

She is a very chatty cat. I’ve often thought that if ever there were to be a cat to start speaking, it would be Maggie. She has an immense repertoire of meows, mrps, brrps, and all manner of cat communication. If I say a sentence or two, she replies, then I follow with a few more words and back and forth we go.

Lying on deck

For a cat (as stereotypes go), she is intensely “dog-like,” meaning she is not aloof as one might expect, but instead a companion at-the-ready, wherever we might be: in the shower or bath, at the table, in the office or outside in the garden. We have dubbed her our “Shower Assistant,” and there is always one chair–with her name on it–at the dinner table.

Cat in bed

Then there are her little “routines.” Bedtime, in particular, has a specific order. Jump into bed, stomp around on Big Papa, settle down. When both “Big Kittens” are in bed, and the lights turned off, this is the time to jump down and get a final snack. Then, return and hunker down wedged solidly in between Mama Cat and Papa Cat. If, during the course of the night, there are opportunities to turn sideways and claim more territory, by all means, go for it.

Maggie office work

Maggie always promises she’ll do more office work, but when it comes right down to it, she’s more on task for her many union-mandated breaks. And, should there be any question regarding the pecking order in our household, the photo above clearly shows who wears the pants in our family. Cat on the office chair. Husband on the floor. Makes perfect sense.

One of the most unexpected joys our sweet geriatric kitty has brought to the family, is her acceptance of Little Bird. I wondered how she would handle it when, at 17, her life as the sole child was completely upended when we brought a crying baby into our home. Maggie has been nothing if not patient.

“My ride the cat, Mama.”

“Walkin’ together,” (said with Maggie not even a whisker’s length away).

Maggie or ‘Maggie Moose,’ as Little Bird fondly calls her, has been an awesome ‘big sister,’ so sweet and tolerant.  And Little Bird is utterly delighted by her mere presence. We’re so fortunate that our daughter’s first experience of life in a family with a pet has been so positive. It makes me love our old kitten all the more.

Two cats

Happy Birthday Maggie Moose!

You’ve been by my side–literally–for 19 years. You bring so much joy, laughter and warmth to our hearts and into our lives.

Maggie on the blanket

Take the road less traveled, Beth

 

Golden birthday

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Turning Three

Guess who’s 3 on the 3rd? Happy Golden Birthday* Baby Bird!

I'm 3

Three! Our girl is growing up. She’s not a Baby Bird anymore–she’s a ‘Little Bird.’

*A golden birthday year is the year when the celebrant turns the age of their birthday. Baby Bird is 3 on the 3d; I was 15 on the 15th. This special birthday is referred to as a “golden birthday.” Since a ‘Golden Birthday’ is sometimes called a champagne birthday (and occasionally a grand birthday, star birthday or lucky birthday), it seems fitting the adults helping Baby Bird celebrate her day, should also enjoy some bubbly!

 Take the road less traveled, Beth

Our family turns 2!

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March 22, 2012

Gyumri, Armenia

Mother Armenia Gyumri

Snow and ice covered the ground and temperatures hovered near zero. We spent the morning trying to distract our minds from the wait, the wait to find out if the judge would grant us permission to adopt one tiny 11-month-old baby girl.

Our driver took us to see Mother Armenia. Fitting considering the circumstances.  We climbed the stairs and stood in her shadow. All of Gyumri lay spread out in the distance. We were, literally and figuratively, standing on the precipice of parenthood.

It felt surreal then and it feels surreal now when I remember that day, and everything that led up to that day. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Years of waiting.

Then we got the news. Tears of joy? Yes, absolutely. But also relief, bone-deep relief that we were–finally–parents. And some sadness too, that my father (who passed away, literally two months to the day and hour we became parents) would never know how everything came together, would never meet his granddaughter nor see us as a family.

I also thought about how this decision would impact our daughter–our daughter–sometimes I still marvel at those words. Too young to understand that we were about to become a family, these two people who spent a few weeks playing with her.  Strangers, really, who were committing to a lifetime of nurturing and guiding her…as best we could.

Family

Here we are, two years later. Older, grayer (though leaner and more fit!), maybe a tad wiser, more lines from the stress and frustration that comes with parenthood. How do we handle this? What do we do about that? Navigating things we never dreamed of when we thought about what it would be like to bring a child into our lives.

And here she is. Baby Bird is no longer a baby, but a toddler, growing bigger, stumbling and learning, thriving. Bringing laughter and discovery into our home in ways we never imagined.

The three of us 2014March 22, 2014

Happy Birthday to us–Our family turns 2!

Take the road less traveled, Beth

Birth-day

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Mt Aragats under cloudsMy daughter was born in the foothills of Shirak, Armenia in the shadow of Mt. Aragats. The landscape is rugged, the winters long, brown hillsides fold into each other and barren beautiful vistas stretch as far as the eye can see.

But come springtime—and May—the month she was born, miles upon miles of wildflower meadows unfurl under snowcapped peaks and icy mountain streams. Sheep and cows dot the valleys and farmers till the soil.

When I think about my daughter’s birth, I will always remember where she is from, an ancient and awe-inspiring place. I have seen it with my own eyes and, one day, she will too. This land is in her blood, in her soul.

And in this month of May, a month of renewal and new beginnings, I will also hold a special place in my heart for the woman who brought her into this world, a woman who will always have my deepest respect, because when faced with difficult circumstances, she made the choice to ensure her child had a home where she would be loved and cared for, even if this home couldn’t be her home. My daughter’s first mother wished for a new beginning, a wish I take seriously in my role as mother.

So when we blow out my daughter’s birthday candle, to celebrate her first trip around the sun, we will also light another candle in her birth mother’s honor, a candle made from tuff, a stone of volcanic origin as old as time, like Armenia where it is found, a stone that is light, strong and beautiful…just like my daughter.

What are the odds?

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Math bookMath has never been my forte. When I was in grade school, I was fair to middling at math. Unfortunately, in tenth grade I suffered through “SMSG geometry” and a teacher—amazingly enough, a woman—who did nothing to inspire or motivate me. So by the time I was a senior in high school, I was doubling up on art classes, enrolled in college-level English and Sociology, but taking remedial math.

In graduate school my statistics skills were abysmal which, as a budding sociologist at a school known for its statistical prowess, did not bode well for my future as an academician. I left the program ABD (all but dissertation). The thought of cranking out all the statistics I’d need to support my thesis, froze me in my tracks.

Ironically, I married a math major. Or maybe not so ironic, since there are many ways Big Papa and I balance each other in our relationship.

It’s funny, this math-phobia of mine, because I am deeply fascinated with “the odds.” “What are the odds?” I frequently question, generally when the odds aren’t in my favor, which has been a greater percentage of the time these past few years. Or so it feels.

Remember: Big Papa and I were the couple who first lost the site where we were supposed to be married. Then we lost the B&B where we were going to spend our wedding night. But the kicker was when we lost our officiate, the person slated to marry us, just three hours before the ceremony.

Then, there’s the spate of “you’ve got to be joking” tales of woe related to our adoption. Two trips to try to register a child, plane flight to parenthood canceled at the last minute and botched paperwork. If I hear: “You’re the first family to…” or “Our form doesn’t cover your unusual circumstances” one more time, I’m contacting the Guinness World Book of Records.

Yet despite the sorry stats that have haunted my life over the past few years, the truth is I can recite an equal number of amazing percentage-defying outcomes too. Like the date Big Papa and I met for the first time: January 9, 2005 or 1-9-0-5. This significant date in our relationship matches our house number—1-9-0-5– the house I drove up to on 1-9-05. What are the odds?

And while we were nearly stood up at the altar by the person who was supposed to marry us, we managed to find an (even better) replacement, via an online Yahoo chat group (all hail ‘IslandMoms’) barely an hour before we said, “I do.” What was the chance of that happening?

There are more stories…

A few days ago, I want to a ‘Mamas with Cameras’ meeting. At the end of the session, when everyone else gathered around to share their best shots of the month, I wandered into the kitchen to chat with the guest speaker and her neighbor, a friend whom she’d brought to the meeting.

“I’m probably the only mom in here without a kid,” I told them. As I recounted the five-cent version of my adoption story, the speaker’s friend turned to me with an understanding smile. It turns out she is also an adoptive mom, with an adoption horror story that rivals my own. She told me how she ending up spending seven months in the country of her son’s birth before being able to bring him home. I felt like I’d found a kindred soul. What were the odds? If I hadn’t gone into the kitchen, we’d never have met. I told her I’d love to chat more, but by the time we left, we hadn’t exchanged any contact information.

The next day I saw an ad for an item I was interested in on ‘MadronaMoms,’ a listserv I receive. I exchanged a few emails with the mom who posted the ad and got her address. Guess who answered the door when I got to her house (a mere mile from my own)? The adoptive mom I’d met just the night before!

Then, there’s the recent celebration of my birthday. For my last two birthdays, Big Papa and I have gone camping at Salt Creek County Park on the Olympic peninsula. Each year, two years in a row, we’ve also stopped into Harbinger Winery for a few bottles of their delicious wine. This year, we were chatting with the gal in the tasting room and asked her about the owner and winemaker, because we’ve never been able to meet her. “Oh, she’s not at the winery today. She’s celebrating her birthday.” She’s never been at the winery when we’ve visited, because she shares the same birthday as me. Go figure.

I guess the moral of this story comes down to what my college professors told me: you can always find statistics to support your thesis, no matter what it is. And maybe there’s some truth to that.

There are days when I feel like I’ve got a target for bad luck plastered on my head, that if I was a betting girl, I’d be heading home empty-handed.  Yet on days when my cup runneth over, I can just as easily “prove” the world is a small, friendly place filled with good karma and it-was-meant-to-be destiny. So after going through a long stint where I’ve felt like the world is set against me, I’ve decided I’d like to start spending a greater percentage of my time looking at life through rose-colored glasses. A world where the odds are squarely in my favor sounds pretty sweet to me.

Statistics can be made to prove anything – even the truth.  ~Author Unknown

Big birthday breaths

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“Come on now. I want to see five big birthday breaths,” our spin instructor tells us. “Like you’re blowing out candles.”

I took as much air as I could into my lungs as he started to count.

“One—two—if you don’t breath you won’t make it to the end of class.”

Inhale. Exhale. I blew the air out.

“Three—four. Come on now, reach deep, the good stuff [oxygen] is at the bottom. Five.”

Birthday breaths are on my mind. This week I turn fifty-something.

While I might wish that my neck was still as taut as it was in my twenties, my hair a bit less gray, I feel fortunate. I am still breathing.

Breathing seems like such a simple thing. Most of the time, we do it without thinking.

Recently my sister was hospitalized due to her ongoing battle with brain cancer. She told me that while she was there, she experienced trouble breathing. I can’t imagine how frightening that must have been, not be able to do one of the most basic things in life: breathe.

The years pass quickly. Despite new aches and pains, the loss of beauty or the ability to do some of the things we did when we were younger, I still feel every year we get is a year worth celebrating.

My father occasionally says to me, “Don’t grow old.” I understand what he’s trying to say, that the “golden years” aren’t always that golden. Still, I always look him in the eye as I tell him, “But dad, the alternative is to die young.”

I am grateful for every birthday that comes my way. Each morning, I say thank you as I awake to familiar scents in my home, feel my lungs work hard in my spin classes, enjoy the fresh breezes and sweet aromas in my garden. As long as I’m able to breathe in life, I will.

Even on the days when I’m gasping for air, when I feel like I have no breath left in me, I remind myself: Reach deep. Sometimes the good stuff is on the bottom.