Parenting

The “I Do” Adoption

My son is getting married in a couple of months. She is wonderful. She is also from a completely different culture than ours, which means we are all, on a fairly regular basis, figuring each other out.

That’s not a complaint. That’s just the truth.

When your kid gets married, you don’t just gain a daughter or son-in-law. You adopt them. Nobody tells you that when your kid says “I do,” you’re quietly saying it too. The vows are theirs. The adoption papers are everybody’s.

We’ve had our share of “whoops” moments. Some of them are hers. Some of them are ours. I’d be willing to bet that on the occasions where I thought she’d missed something, she had a perfectly reasonable explanation rooted in how she was raised — and I just didn’t know enough to ask. I’ve been married for 35 years. I still miss things. The idea that I’d have it all figured out with someone I’ve known for just over a year is ambitious, at best.

To his credit, my son prioritized pre-marital counseling before any of this got official. Smart move for any couple. For a cross-cultural one, it’s close to mandatory.

My wife is better at this than I am. She is more patient, more instinctively gracious, and far less likely to assign fault before asking a question. I am a work in progress. She has been working on that project for 35 years and will probably need a few more. It took me that long to become even slightly less selfish than I was on our wedding day.

We are, in a sense, the booby prize she gets for loving our son. She knew what she was signing up for with him. The rest of us came with the package.

What I do know is that she is trying. She genuinely loves our son. She has put real effort into being part of this family, even when this family probably made that harder than it needed to be. She’s learning us in real time. So are we.

The grace has to go both directions. Different families have different quirks even when they share a culture. When the cultures are genuinely different, you need more runway, more patience, and a willingness to say “I didn’t understand that — can you help me?” without anybody getting their feelings hurt. We are still building that. Some days are easier than others.

When they say “I do,” we all do, a little bit. We’re agreeing to figure each other out. To give grace before assigning blame. To ask before assuming. To remember that someone who does things differently isn’t doing them wrong.

I’ve needed that same grace extended to me more times than I can count.

Welcome to the family. We’re still under construction, too.

The Sarcasm Sabbatical

When her dad leaves, it’s just the two of us.

She doesn’t cry. She watches the door for a moment, then turns those big brown eyes toward me like she’s decided I’ll do. I reach out my hand and she puts hers in it. Just like that. No negotiation, no hesitation. She’s in.

I don’t deserve that.

Not because I’m a bad person. But because twenty minutes earlier I was mentally rearranging my morning, calculating what I could still get done with her here. A guy who does that doesn’t deserve to have a ten-month-old place her hand in his like he’s the most reliable thing in the room.

If I could summon any sarcasm in that moment, I’d shut it down fast. It has no place there. She wouldn’t understand it anyway, but that’s not why. It’s because sarcasm requires a little distance, a little edge — and she’s handing me something that has none of either.

Sarcasm has been my first language for as long as I can remember. Not the cruel kind — I want to be clear about that. More like a filter. The world comes in, gets processed, and comes out with a slight lean. A raised eyebrow you can hear.

My wife has spent thirty-plus years either appreciating it or tolerating it, depending on the day. My kids grew up fluent. Visitors to our house occasionally need a translation.

It’s not a defense mechanism. I’ve heard that theory. I just like it. It keeps things from getting too precious. Life has enough earnest moments without me adding to the pile.

I’ve never wanted to be the guy who buries his wit in a bowl of warm oatmeal. Still don’t.

Something is happening, though. I notice it in small doses.

She’s been in my life less than a year and the near daily exposure is doing something to my defaults. I’m slower to reach for the raised eyebrow. Quicker to just… be there.

Some of it is age. Some of it might be spring. I’m leaving room for the possibility that July heat brings it back in full force and this whole reflection was seasonal.

But some of it is the memory problem. I ran on fumes through a lot of my kids’ childhoods. Work, dinner, bedtime — repeat. I don’t have the sequential recall I wish I had. Ask me to walk through any one of my kids’ early years in order and I’m zig-zagging between fragments, hoping the effort knocks something loose.

I’m paying attention differently now. She’s clearing her first-year hurdles and I’m watching every one. Maybe that’s what’s crowding out the sarcasm. Hard to maintain the slight lean when you’re actually trying to catch everything.

I want to be clear about something. I’m not trying to shed the sarcasm. I’m not in recovery.

I like those shoes. I like walking through life as the guy with the quick smile and the wit already three steps ahead. It has served me well. It has made hard things bearable and dull things entertaining. My wife knew what she was signing up for. Mostly.

But a ten-month-old with big brown eyes who puts her hand in mine without a second thought — she’s not asking me to change. She just doesn’t leave room for it. The distance that sarcasm requires isn’t available when someone that small is trusting you that completely.

So for now, in those moments, I put it down. Not permanently. Just in the corner, where I can find it when she goes home.

Her mom picks her up and the house goes quiet in a specific way that it didn’t used to.

I don’t immediately reach for the wit. It comes back gradually, like eyes adjusting to light. By dinner I’m probably back to full strength. My wife would confirm this.

But something lingers. I’m not sure what to do with that yet. Maybe nothing. Maybe it’s just what happens when someone tiny and completely earnest spends enough time in your house.

Ask me again in August. If the heat is up and the sarcasm is fully restored, we’ll call it seasonal.

If not, I’ll let you know.

The Gruenbaum Guarantees

We all spent twenty‑ish years under the same roof, breathing the same air, tripping over the same shoes, and negotiating the same dinner table politics. You’d think that would produce six carbon‑copy humans. It didn’t. What it did produce — according to my second son, who has always had a running comedy routine in his head — is a set of “Gruenbaum Guarantees.” Not rules, not traditions, not even expectations. More like… tendencies. Family traits that show up often enough that you start to think they might be genetic, even though the real culprit is probably twenty years of shared kitchen counters and car rides.

Here are a few of the classics.

Pretty Good Banana Bread

If you’ve met us, you’ve probably eaten our banana bread. Hockey boys, exchange students, neighbors, hairdressers, the folks at Leslie’s who tested my pool water — the bread has fans on four continents, which is more than I can say for some of my luggage.

The recipe calls for six bananas, which means it produces enough loaves to feed a mid‑sized village. When the kids were in school, the ratio was six small loaves to one big one, mostly so teachers could get their cut. And if that ratio happened to give me some rounding flexibility, I didn’t complain.

Bottom line: we make good bread, and we hand it out to people we like. Or people we should like. I don’t always check the list too carefully.

We Are Active

This one starts with me, which feels both accurate and slightly unfair to admit. Work flexibility helped. When the kids were young, walking was something I did with intention — part of the time spent praying for people, moving through the neighborhood with actual purpose. Somewhere along the way I traded that habit for audiobooks at 2x speed. The results are shorter-lived but more immediately satisfying. I’m working on feeling worse about this.

Judy’s path was longer. Early marriage meant aerobics and swimming, then injuries and life made consistency harder to hold onto. She’s building it back now, with retirement on the horizon and a swimming and weightlifting routine that runs four to six times a week. She figured out what I already knew: the time to start is before you need to.

The kids took the general idea and ran with it — sometimes literally. Three of them have finished half marathons or longer. When my daughter ran her full marathon, I walked alongside her for a stretch, then finished the course on foot while she pulled ahead at a jog. I stayed well clear of the official finish line. Found her eventually, along with Judy, her husband, and a small crowd of people who had done the harder version of what I’d done. My youngest has entered powerlifting competitions. My son and his fiancé have built their life around walking and yoga.

For the ones where the activity level is harder to gauge, I take comfort in the dogs. Two of my kids have them — my oldest has two in the house — and dogs, whatever else they do, require daily walking. I’ll count it.

We Read

My wife sticks to her genre lane but is rarely without a book on the nightstand. My oldest son doesn’t always have one going, but when he does, the pages smoke. And a perfectly normal question when we all get together is “what are you reading?” or “any recommendations?” — asked with the same casual expectation as asking about the weather.

The Gruenbaums are readers. It snuck up on us, but here we are.

We Clean Our Plates

This one took time. Not every kid arrived at the table as an enthusiastic eater — the crockpot and mashed potatoes were traded for the oven and a near nightly pan of roasted veggies. Adulthood expands the palate. The ratio of protein to greens on our plates isn’t what it used to be, and honestly, that’s fine.

These days there’s almost nothing they won’t eat. My wife might actually be the pickiest one of the bunch, which she would contest on principle.(Her list of “won’t eat foods” is definitely the longest.)

A vegetarian is marrying into the family soon. She is fully welcome. She is also fully expected to clean her plate — though given that she uses more hot sauce in a single meal than the rest of us do in a whole year, I’m not particularly worried about her appetite. The girl commits.

My standard remains: clean plate, and if there’s bread nearby, use it to mop up the juices until the plate is almost clean enough to put back in the cabinet. Almost.

We Are Planning, Going On, or Dreaming About a Vacation

This one is universal. We may not travel every year — pandemics have opinions — but someone in the family is always in research mode. I like a cruise ship with daily excursions. Others prefer hiking destinations that require actual exertion, which I respect in theory.

My wife has planned two land‑based trips to Alaska that never made it out of the planning phase. We did eventually cruise there, so I count that as a win. She does not.

Our youngest is in Portugal right now. Another is in the “let’s give my parents some grandkids” phase, already dreaming of the day travel becomes possible again — ideally with parental support. My son and his fiancée are planning a trip to India after the wedding. And another son is a camper who still jumps at a big trip when the calendar cooperates.

If we’re not packing, we’re planning. If we’re not planning, we’re researching. It’s a cycle. We’ve made peace with it.

At 30,000 feet, we look pretty similar. Even at 10,000 feet, you can still see the family resemblance. But zoom in close enough — the reading choices, the preferred adventures, the way each kid approaches a problem — and the differences show up fast.

I wouldn’t want cookie-cutter kids. And they would revolt if anyone told them they’re just like their dad.

They’re not wrong to revolt. But they’re not entirely right, either.

When we gather, we don’t compare step counts or race times. We talk about books. We talk about travel. And there’s usually banana bread on the counter, waiting for the moment someone decides they have just enough room left for a slice.

Maybe it’s DNA. Maybe it’s twenty years of modeling, nagging, and hoping certain things would stick.

Either way — similar enough to recognize, different enough to keep things interesting.

The “Pepper Incident” and Other Liquid Legacies

When I was growing up, my family was not known to waste much of anything. My kids realized long ago that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree on that one. We ate our “warmups” (leftovers), and one of the biggest tragedies of my youth was the infamous “Pepper Incident.” My mom had chopped up a batch of peppers and froze them alongside every loaf of bread and pack of buns in the freezer. Whether freezer bags just didn’t seal as well back then or it was a secret plot to get me to eat less carbs, the result was a catastrophe. For months, every hamburger or hot dog bun I touched had a distinct, inescapable “pepper vibe.” It ruined the protein and ensured I wouldn’t become a fan of peppers for decades. In fact, it got so bad I started opting for plain bread—which, in those days, my father bought in “old” bags at a substantial discount. If we didn’t freeze it immediately, that bread was destined to host its own thriving mold colony.

The Mystery at the Dinner Table

But I digress. My mother’s efficiency didn’t stop at peppers. She’d often drain the juice from canned fruits because the recipe didn’t require it. What do you do with a cup of random fruit juice sitting in the fridge? You pour it into the Kool-Aid container with whatever flavor was already there.

Dinner became a game of Russian Roulette for the taste buds. I wasn’t one to hold back. After the first sip, I’d ask, “What exactly did you mix up for us tonight?” My mother didn’t mean any harm; she was just being efficient. But those flavor potpourris made an impression—one that would eventually haunt my own children.

Upping the Ante: The Bus Stop Games

When my sons were in elementary school, they took a shuttle bus to a pickup location near our home. To show them I was thinking about them, I’d bring a snack and a drink. The snack was the easy part. The drink was where I “kicked it up a notch.”

The game was simple: “Guess What You Are Drinking?” At my disposal, I had various fruit juices, every Kool-Aid packet known to man, and a set of food coloring bottles. I’d create concoctions that looked like pond water (minus the floaties) but were guaranteed to be drinkable. This was before the pickle juice craze, so I kept it somewhat civil.

The heart of the game was “taste-budding out” the flavors dancing over their palates. I’d offer partial credit—when you’re mixing two types of Kool-Aid, a splash of pear juice, and blue food dye, you can’t exactly expect perfection. They participated because they knew I wasn’t required to bring a snack, and perhaps because of the unspoken rule: If you don’t drink today’s mystery, there might not be one tomorrow. (I never did mention that part to their mother.)

The “Fun Grandpa” Era

I’d like to say I made everything fun for them growing up, but I didn’t. Like anyone, I had my cranky days. But as I spend time with my granddaughter now—occasionally offering a capful of Gatorade as a “chaser” after her bottle of formula—I hope I lean heavier into the fun side of the ledger.

If you can’t be a perfect parent, make sure you mix in enough quirky and fun to help the natives forget the days you didn’t quite “nail it.”

Cashier Karma

While visiting a local supermarket with a reputation for having good produce, I was enjoying having my soon-to-head-back-to-college son with us.  I know we swapped some light-hearted banter while my daughter found the items on her list.  (She made us promise not to get gummy bears from the bulk bins, but they were on sale. And, she didn’t care if I got a bag of the almonds that were on sale, but when I did the bag tore and made a mess within the blast zone.)  I don’t believe any clementine juggling took place.  We would not injure innocent fruit unless we were planning on consuming it.

As we chose a lane to check out (we really did not have a choice.  There was only one lane open UNTIL I had all of my items on the belt.  Once mine made it on the belt, the next lane opened up.), I looked forward to having a possible conversation with the cashier.  He was a jolly gentlemen who used to be a respiratory therapist.  The stress of that job pushed him into working nights at the above mentioned supermarket.  (There may have been a few other stops and hops along his journey to here.  If there were, he never mentioned them or I had yet to ask.)

As the groceries started going across his scanner, he asked, “So, did you find everything?”

Being a dutiful customer, I replied, “Yep.  I scattered a few almonds for the vermin that lick crumbs off the floor every night.  And, I sacrificed a mixture of fruits in a an effort to push back the upcoming winter temperatures.”

Still in character, he added, “I don’t often talk to someone who knows so much about what goes on around here.”

As my kids gave me  odd looks, I confessed to all who would listen including the lady right behind me in line, “I know you need to make conversation with whoever comes through the line, so I figured I would help you out.  A couple times ago, you told me about your past career….”

I pause for effect.  The lady behind me turns her head slightly to hear this possibly interesting fact.  My daughter is not facing me, but I anticipate an eye roll.  My son being a bit of a clown himself is curious what I will do in my moment.  And, the cashier slows up his processing of items on the belt to hear clearly if I knew about his respiratory therapy past.

“….as a male dancer.”, I finished.  The lady behind me smiles.  My son laughs out loud.

The cashier gives a chuckle and says, “My wife probably wishes that was the case.  I have never been much of a dancer.”

As I can tell my daughter is choosing not to give me any eye contact, I embarrass her further by saying, “My daughter can’t believe her dad can’t keep his mouth shut–not even to go to the store.”

The lady behind me smiles a little bigger as embarrassment must be a natural way of trying to smother the slightly inappropriate.  The cashier gives me the receipt while giving me a smile that seems to say, “Thanks for your business and for breaking the monotony of an otherwise boring day.”

While not wanting to let my moment die quite yet, I couldn’t help but say, “I know you don’t accept tips, and I don’t want you to dance for it.  So, I hope you will settle for, ‘Have a good night.'”

The conversation on the drive home allowed me to relive my moment from their perspective.  It is in these moments my kids character comes out.  My son encouraged me to continue to be my quirky self.  My daughter wanted to go home and hug her mother and tell her what a monster her father is when she is not there to supervise.  (Not really….or if she did she was discrete.)

I don’t always involve so many people in my fun.  Maybe, I need to make it a goal.  If it is not illegal, immoral or unethical, I should go for the smile.  I will keep exploring this philosophy during the course of 2016.  Maybe I will blog more…..?

Photobombing For Friends

As we walked into Disney Saturday, my son and I decided we needed an additional project.  Besides the fun we would have dodging all of the many extra people that were here over Christmas, we decided we should take advantage of the many photobombing opportunities that presented themselves on Main Street USA.  SOOOOO many people are posing for pictures and soooo many people are trusting to get a good picture to treasure for years.  What better place to photobomb?  It was great place to test out all of those “Photobombing for Dummies” techniques described in the very helpful book.  (Does this book exist?  If so, then it is certainly over priced.)

I will admit my son and I did have some reservations as we attempted to “place” ourselves in the various pictures.  As it said in the book, the key to this art is being discrete without being excessively obvious.  Our efforts largely failed on the side of being overly discrete.  Possibly to the point where the distance between us and the “real” group being photographed was too far to be consequential or rankable in the annals of “photobombing”.

As we counted our failed attempts, we somehow found ourselves in the line for “Pirates of the Caribbean”.  My attempt to photobomb while in the “pirates” line failed on the “to obvious” side.  Because of the line, it was hard to walk-on and pretend like it didn’t happen.  So, my lips got ahead of my head, and I spilled my guts and told the photographer (an early 20’s girl traveling with her sister, mom, and boyfriends) of my son and my “challenge”.  She was overly sympathetic.  She even snapped another picture almost immediately where I could “photobomb” without any remorse.  It was a very liberating feeling.  No upset photographer, and I got to score a photobomb.

The rest of the 1/2 hour or so journey through the Pirates line was spent talking with 2 or 3 or the members of this family.  One used to live in Dallas. (mom)  One was a football player for the U of South Alabama football team (They got beat by Bowling Green in their bowl game.), and one was his girlfriend.  (The rest of the crew was not as chatty with outsiders.)  It was a good way to get my “fix” and get myself into the fun that is available while wandering through lines that are a necessary part of the pre-ride experience.

Later in the day, we saw this same family in the “Haunted Mansion” line.  I made a comment about “not photobombing anymore” as we passed in the wandering line.  As the line got closer to entry, we ended up where we could have talked in the line.  But, it seems friendships formed while photobombing are not long-lasting friendships.  And, as much as I felt semi-bonds were formed earlier in the day, it just seems appropriate the bonds formed while engaging in such destructive behavior were horribly short-lived.

Who Moved My Chair?

CIMG0519

 

Saturday was the culmination of many hours of labor for my 8th grade robotics team.  Although I was their “coach”, they didn’t really need me very much.  They are all very good students, and my primary role was keeping them on “task” over the past few months.   The FLL program they participated in is very well organized.  Feel free to follow the link for ALL the info you may want to find out about the program.

My entire Saturday was spent mostly keeping the team in front of the correct door or the correct table at the designated time.  Coaches were not allowed to be with the kids while they were being judged or while they were running their robots on the course.  Translated:  There was a bit of down time.  Also, since the school that was hosting the Robotics judging was hosting more people than it was used to, coaches were instructed to bring chairs if they wanted to be guaranteed a seat.  With my card table chair in hand as I entered the gym, I had my permanent spot reserved for my posterior whenever I wanted to park.  (In my mind, I didn’t think outdoor collapsible chairs would work.  They are outdoor chairs, aren’t they?  Sure they are cool with their armrests, but I just didn’t think this was the type of chair to bring to an event like this.  Would it hurt the wood gym floor?  I guess I am sometimes overly-conscientious. )

Each of the 26 teams at this robot judging, received an 8′ x 8′ area for their team to setup.  My team’s area was right by the main entrance.  The robot course tables (see above) were just in front of our area inside the main entrance.  Whenever a judging took place, all of the parents who were not permitted to enter any of the judging areas, flocked to watch their child’s team robot do all of the task it could in the 2:30 minutes it was given.  Additionally, each team got 3 chances to run this course.  Hopefully, my description implies it got a little crowded in front of our “space”.  As it worked out, we willing relinquished a portion of our space before eminent domain was necessary.  We huddled in the back half of our space knowing it was a contribution we were unlikely to be thanked for offering.  Other than one of the kids getting sick in the bathroom and having to go home early, the morning was pretty smooth.

Lunch time for 40 (30 kids and 10 adults) equals about 16 pizzas, or at least it did today.  Although we (the emphasis on the kids) tried to eat them all, about 1/4 of them made it home with us.  After lunch, my team had about an hour before their final robot run.  As I walked into the gym, a quick rightward glance showed my chair was gone.  I gave it a little time thinking someone had borrowed it and would return it after lunch.  As my team worked with their robot to figure out what programming changes they needed to make to allow their robots to work on the slightly larger (only 1/4 inch or so, but it makes a difference) course, I walked the gym looking for where my chair may have taken sanctuary.  I received a few looks as my glances moved from chair to chair.  As it turned out, the only card table style chair was right across from our space.  I was sure my chair was more gray rather than the olive gray offered by this chair candidate.  I roamed the halls and the cafeteria trying to determine if someone had hijacked my chair to any of these other locations.  I thought I might getting a text with a ransom request, but it never came.  I guilted someone into giving up their chair to the “poor guy who lost his”, and I mentioned my predicament to the staff.  I didn’t want momma to think I lost it without at least trying.

While I suffered through this possible loss of the chair, my robot team had a very good run on their third try.  Apparently, my “hands off” coaching style was continuing to prove itself yet again.  As the meet was winding toward awards, I approached the group where “my” chair was setting.  They claimed it showed up right before lunch.  Since there was difference in time of disappearance, I was pretty sure I would be walking out with this chair even if my chair didn’t turn up.

As it turned out, my chair obsession in no way hindered my daughter’s team from success.  They got second (or third) place at this meet.  And, since the top 6 were going to the regional on February 14th, it looks like my Valentine’s Day would not be spent smelling roses or eating chocolate.  Fortunately, the chair I walked out with did have at least one twin at our home.  I credit my chair obsession as the reason for the team’s success.  Kids like a coach better when he is not in helicopter-mode.

 

Knuckle Grapes

CIMG0480

A visit to Sam’s brought a new 3 pound container of green grapes into the house.  While not all past vine dwellers were as welcome, I am happy to say my daughter picked very well today.  The texture gave slight resistance and the skin was just the right firm.  The only thing slightly wrong with them was their size!  Most of the grapes were as large as the top half of my thumb!  As we ate some of them with lunch, the smaller mouthed individuals made each grape last for 2 or 3 bites before the grape was fully consumed.

After lunch, my son decided to participate in a game we occasionally do to assist in father-son bonding.  Usually the game consists of tossing M&Ms into the air on an arc toward his head.  If I do my job correctly, a couple small neck adjustments will allow the M&M to easily be caught in his mouth.  Because we apparently needed to do some “power bonding”, we attempted the M&M trick with these over-sized, under-seeded fruit ovals.  My sons skills were quickly evident.  He adjusted how far he opened his mouth (he had to open it ALL of the way), but otherwise, it was the same eye-mouth coordination as before.  The first two grapes followed this pattern.  He zeroed in on the grape, caught it in his mouth, and he was careful not to choke on the green projectile.

Although I did not consciously want to “mix it up”, my sub-conscious was likely a little bored.  The third grape did embark on an arc just like the other grapes, but as it knuckle balled (my fingers planned this without my realizing it) toward my sons mouth, it ended up being to great of a challenge-the “center” of the grape was to hard to calculate .  It smacked him in his upper lip as his mouth was anticipating the impact.  We did allow a “knuckle-less grape” do over which was much more successful.

While fruit does not always bring people together, I am glad my son and I can “rework” old games with grapes as a centerpiece.  I have not always been a perfect father, but on the days when I “know” I have done a pretty good job, it usually involves a bit of laughter and a dash of ridiculous.

 

Maturity Regression

After my youngest son graduated from high school in the spring, he had a great summer of semi-transitioning into adulthood.  He worked many hours at Chick-Fil-A, and he was a responsible social creature. He did stay up too late more nights than not, but he did seem to be on a declining video game schedule.

When he started at college in the fall (really not even late summer), he seemed to find his college stride.  He only visited home a couple of times.  He complained about the food in the cafeteria almost every chance he could. He had a couple of missteps with his assignments and with the colleges curfew policy, but despite his frustration, he worked to resolve the problems in a mature way with only enough pain to remind him not to do it the next time.  He got involved in extracurricular activities which limited his opportunity to make bad decisions. In summary, he spared us the challenge of helping him solve problems from 3 1/2 hours away.

Unfortunately, while he was home for Thanksgiving, I realized there was still quite a bit of boy in there.  Two days before he was coming home, he called me asking if I would transfer money from his saving to his checking account.  He wanted to pull money out of an ATM to buy someone’s lightly used Nintendo DS (newest model I think).  Since he had been good this quarter, I agreed.  After he got home, he seemed to spend a good bit of his time with his computer.  He was playing RuneScape.  (He did do other social things, but I rapidly was becoming convinced he was not letting the influence of the other students in the honor dorm break him of all of his habits.) Lastly, him and his brother went out and did some “Black Thanksgiving” shopping Thursday night.  He did buy some Christmas gifts for others, but he also purchased himself a new game.   And, he went to GameStop on Black Friday and bought even more stuff.

As I look back, I can’t help but believe this bit of regression is rather normal.  After taking almost exclusive responsibility for himself AND his laundry for a few months,  it is so easy to fall into your old behaviors.  Although we would likely still recognize his more mature self, it is comforting to see him regress just a little bit.  And, as much as I would like to see the mature young man who calls us about once a week from school, all regressing is acceptable….as long as the report card confirms he is as mature as we think!

Kind Of Parallel Lives

As I was entertaining a toddler today with hand gestures at Panera while his mother and grandmother were chatting , I got an chance to strike up a  conversation with his grandmother.  Even though the conversation with “Granny” was brief  while mom was in the bathroom changing juniors diaper, we found out we had quite a few things in common.

Me:  How many grandchildren do you have? (asked while she was clearing off the table and depositing everything in the trash can just to the left of my table.)
Granny:  I have 3.  Two in Florida and one here with one more on the way.  We had two kids of our own..
Me:  We have 4 kids.  Two of each.  Fourteen months between the boys and 16 months between the girls.  (Her daughter who was in the bathroom was pregnant with #2-18 months between her kids.)  Right now, we also have 2 exchange kids.
Granny:  When the kids were younger, we had 7 exchange students.  Four from Germany; 1 from Switzerland; 1 from Finland, and 1 from Chile.
Me:  I am sure there was quite a contrast between the European and South American exchange students!  In the past we also did foster care. (I don’t know if I was trying to “top” her accomplishments or not, but I did seem to want to find an area where I had exceeded their families desire to “do good”.)
Granny:  We adopted a sibling group of 3.  The oldest two moved out when they turned 18.  The youngest is still at the house.  When he turns 18 in two years, he is probably going to leave too.  I told him I would get him back to Pennsylvania, and then I guess I will be done with him like I am with his brother and sister.
Me.:  When you told me before, you said you only had 2 kids….
Granny:  Yes, I know.  They just never felt the same.  I adopted them at 11, 10, & 8.  They just never felt the same.  Jenny (who is now done with changing diapers has joined us) was 23 when we adopted them.  I kept our adopted daughter from getting pregnant, and I kept our adopted son out of prison.  I had higher goals, but those are the only things I really think I accomplished with them. (she pauses)  When the last one leaves, we will be done.
Me:  Wow, well God bless you for doing that!  I know it must have been hard!  My wife and I had a sibling group of 3 for awhile.  We didn’t adopt them, but the family that did, watched them leave their families as soon as they graduated from high school.  They packed up their things and moved to Florida with their older siblings.  I hope it is something you are glad you did even though it wasn’t what you hoped for.
Daughter:  (She was noticeable irritated.  The adopted siblings didn’t seem like a favorite family discussion.)  Okay, mom.  Time to go.  (Looking at her mother.)  After the baby is born, I am hoping to take some hot yoga classes, will you be able to come and watch the kids while I go.  Since they are 5:30 in the morning, I wanted to……

I felt sorry for the mother and daughter.  I am sorry their family didn’t get the support and counseling they needed. (okay, it is hard to know everything in a brief conversation. ) And, of course, I feel sorry for the kids who were adopted and either never felt loved OR would never let themselves be loved.  Also, I feel very grateful my family never went forward with any adoptions.  We could have, but chose not to jump so far into the unknown.  However, I am slightly jealous in a way.  With all of the blessings my family has, it would seem like we have a responsibility to share them in a larger way then we presently do.  Maybe the “idea” for doing sharing our blessings is just a conversation and a Panera visit away….