My Sunflower

I keep a journal of milestones and special moments with Boy, knowing full well that it might never be given to him, that he might leave our family, making my notes and thoughts moot, or at least, irrelevant. But, we decided a long time ago that we didn't want to not do things simply because a child might leave us, and have wasted months or years if a child does stay forever, so I journal to make note of the things I want him to know about his childhood when he grows up. And if that means I get "too attached" and my heart is smashed against the pavement, so be it.

This is yesterday's entry.

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In our garden, we're growing sunflowers. They're 6 feet tall now - maybe more - towering over everything else in the garden. But they weren't always that way. Together, you and I have monitored their growth almost daily, excited and trying to be patient. Some days, the changes were noticeable - new leaves, a wider stem, or a few more inches in height. Other days, there seemed to be no change at all. A few weeks ago, flower heads finally began to form at the very top; tight, little bunches of green fronds. For sure, we were close, I thought. And then - nothing. Days of nothing. It's easy to grow impatient.

But two days ago, we saw those green fronds give way and begin to curl back, revealing a tight bunch of yellow fronds - petals - and I thought for sure we'd have fully-bloomed sunflowers the next day.

I was wrong.

Instead, those thin petals are curling back out ever so slowly, one at a time, making me wonder if we'll ever have a full sunflower - let alone one on each of the 5, healthy plants.

You, little love, are a lot like this flower. We can watch you grow by leaps and bounds one month, and then see your growth stall out, even recede, as you struggle with your reality the next month. It hurts to watch you struggle and know there's not much we can do. And it's easy to grow impatient, or expect a sudden blossoming when in reality, we need to be satisfied with, and celebrate, the appearance of one, tiny petal. And most importantly, we do not lose hope. 

You are my sunflower, and God created you as such. Only He determines when you bloom.

Dinner, Elbows, and other Grievances of Parenthood

So many completely ridiculous moments have happened in our family in the last week, I feel like I have a month's worth of blog fodder. Alas, I have promised myself that I will do nothing/as little as possible to humiliate my children online.

So I'll just share one of today's golden moments, which is more about me than him.

You see, I'm my mother's daughter. (I think I start a lot of posts this way?)

And regularly, I open my mouth and her voice comes out.

And table manners are one of my pet peeves, because they were so emphasized when I was a kid.

Today at the dinner table, I noticed Boy leaning on his elbows while he ate, which allowed him to bring his face down to his plate and thereby shorten the distance his fork must travel in order to successfully shovel each bite into his mouth. So I took his elbow and moved it off the table.

Immediately, I flashed back to my childhood, and told Matt that I just remembered that my mom used to flick my elbows with her fingers. (I'm probably not allowed to do that. And good thing too. No offense, Mom.)

After dinner, Matt informed me that my, shall we say, "emphasis" on table manners was making mealtimes tense.

I may have suggested he take over etiquette training. I may have suggested he teach an etiquette class. I may have suggested he take an etiquette class. I was in fine form.

And as we debated/argued, he finally launched this perfectly logical question: why are elbows unacceptable at the table?

I paused. All I could come up with was "it's rude."

"Why is it rude?"

...

I've got nothing. I laughed because I couldn't come up with a single reason. I laughed till I cried. And then I called my mom (who didn't answer). Yeah, mom. Why are elbows on the table unacceptable?

She didn't know either, and sent me to google. Apparently, this rule surfaced in the Middle Ages when people were seated closely and at long tables, meaning your elbow would be in the middle of another's dinner plate. Now that we dine more comfortably, many say the rule is defunct. I think I'm losing this one.

******

Also, as I write this post, Boy sits at the table, coloring a little book of pictures he made at school. This is a consequence, because if you lie to me and tell me your teacher says you're not allowed to color something just because you don't want to color it, you can bet your bottom dollar that I'm gonna make you color the whole blasted thing.

Noodle Battle

Early on in Boy's time with us, I shared about some of our meal-time challenges. I remember asking his last foster mom for a more comprehensive list of favorites, and telling her that I wasn't planning on cooking different meals just for him, so I might as well start with things he liked... Her reply confessed that she pretty much cooked separately for him at each meal because he was so particular.

That was not going to happen in our house. This is not Burger King, you can't have it your way.

So we've been introducing our usual meal choices, along with a hefty plate of his favorite fresh veggies so that if he doesn't like dinner, he doesn't have to go hungry. We don't make a big deal about what he eats, which has helped minimize the button-pushing and boundary-testing, but we did notice a peculiar dislike for all variety of noodle. And it was maddening.

One evening, Matt - who is demonstrating exceptional parenting prowess at every turn -capitalized on a conversational moment with Boy to ask about his aversion to noodles. Hs response was something like:

"Well, if you wish really hard on a star, noodles can become snakes."

I suppose if I believed that, I'd avoid them too.

Matt handled it beautifully of course, and informed Boy that a) it doesn't work that way and b) noodles are made out of the same ingredients as lots of other things he loves. Like hamburger buns.

And because I'm kind of a brat, I only-sort-of intentionally planned a week's worth of meals involving mostly noodle/pasta dishes.

Sautéed chicken with buttered noodles. Boy ignored noodles.
Lasagna. Boy ate it. Didn't notice the noodles.
Tuna casserole. Boy ate that too, seemingly unaware of the noodles?

While I cooked yet another noodle dish, Matt broke the news to Boy that all of these things he seemed to like we're made with noodles even though the noodles looked and tasted different in each. Boy's jaw dropped. We stifled laughter.

Beef stroganoff, over noodles. Boy ate around the noodles, and we insisted on about 4 bites of actual noodle. He discovered that if you put stuff ON the noodle, it's actually not bad.

And tonight, I felt rather victorious as he ate most of the noodles in our Spicy Peanut Noodles, which he helped make. No fuss. No puking. Did I mention he "doesn't like" peanut butter?

So, I think that's 2 points for us, no? Too early in the game to call the winner of the Noodle Battle?

Milestone

Today, friends, we reached a milestone.

Today was the first day that I was not counting the minutes until bedtime.

You see, since boy came into our life three weeks ago, he has been expecting constant entertainment, and failure to meet his expectations was met with a battery of "I'm bored" and "What should we do now? What should we do after ...? What should we do after that?" (Yes, one after the other, just like that.

Over and over, I've answered the "I'm bored" with all sorts of things I'm sure my mother said to me:
"Do you need me to give you something to do?" (More of a threat than a legitimate question, as I rifled through a mental list of feasible chores. This was definitely my mother.)
"It's not my job to entertain you."
"Boredom is a choice, a lack of imagination."
And the most profound: "Congratulations."

But today... Ah, today was different. Today he occupied himself, finally learning that the only choices I ever give him when I'm busy are to play with toys in his room or to play with toys in his bedroom. Today, he didn't pester me with the plans for the day because he knew I'd only say what I always say: "I don't want to plan out every minute of my day" (Sidenote: This is totally false. More accurately, I don't want to share my plans. But he doesn't need to know that.) Today was a happy mix of time with Kate, time with Matt, time alone, time together as a family.

And that meant that when dinner was over and bedtime rolled around, we were still enjoying each other's company. No behavior problems. No irritations. No scoldings. Today was the first totally pleasant, enjoyable day we've had together. Milestone.

Ten Hundred Stars

Boy gets stars at school to mark his behavior - a star in the afternoon, a star at night. Until now, stars have been required for any screen time, and since that's his main motivator, it's helped him control the impulses that tell him to poke his neighbor and lose a star.

But things are changing around here as we learn about him and what he needs, we're minimizing screen time - like none at all during the week. Yesterday he got two stars and when he put two and two together that he wouldn't get to play video games even though he got his stars, you could see the gears turning. We're teaching him that being good at school is his responsibility ("his job") and we don't always get an immediate reward for doing our job.

So this morning, still wondering what would replace his video games as his reward, he peppered me with questions while we waited for the bus. I just tried to keep up.

A: "Kate, what happens when I get two stars?"
K: "I will give you a big hug and a big high five."
A: "Well, what happens when I get 200 stars?"
K: "I think we'll go out for ice cream."
A: "What if I get '10 hundred' stars?"
K: [doing mental math, 180 days in a school year, 2 stars a day, 360 maximum, ok I'm safe] "Buddy, if you get 1000 stars, we will go to Antarctica to visit the penguins." [Sure hope his teacher doesn't get any crazy ideas about calling my bluff...]
A: "What if I get 2 million thousand stars?"
K: "I'll let you be the parent, and I'll be the kid."
A: "What if I get 199 stars?"

Seriously, this went on for about 10 minutes until I finally told him my brain hurt. However, I think I've promised myself to: ice cream, a happy dance, Matt's happy dance, the dog and cat each happy-dancing, 12 high fives, and there may have been some talk about a trip to the moon.

Boy with Sensitive Palate

Boy likes to pray over our meals, and one of his most memorable prayers recently included asking Jesus to "help Kate from making me eat all the yucky stuff."

It's not like I'm feeding him Brussels sprouts and creamed spinach!

I don't like to label kids, but most of the world would call Boy a picky eater. Let's go with "we're learning to try new things" (and not force ourselves to throw up at the dinner table if we don't like something). Seriously.

So we have a few rules around meals in our house:
1. What is served for dinner is for dinner. You don't have to eat it. But there will be no other food until the next meal. (We plan a small variety of sides, including his favorite carrots and broccoli, so that if he doesn't like dinner, we know he's getting some nutrition.)

2. Everybody tries two bites of everything. Small tastes are fine.

3. If you don't like the taste, the fastest way to get it out of your mouth is to swallow it.

And my personal favorite, added just for Christmas Eve when I needed an extra card to play:
4. If you puke at the table, we will assume you are too sick to open presents, and we will go directly home. (Followed by "don't think I'm kidding" and a firm "do you understand me?" I sound like my mother.)

By and large, his least favorites seem to be:
Meat products of any kind, especially if hidden in gravy, except hot dogs and hamburger patties (ground beef doesn't fly).
Noodles, even mac & cheese
Peanut butter

So, you know, that pretty much disqualifies 92% of my menu options.

But his favorites:
Cheese pizza
Carrots, broccoli & ranch (hardly a meal, but whatever)
Quesadillas
Hot dogs
Jam sandwich (I sneak peanut butter in - a tip from his last foster mom)
Yogurt (breakfast, daily)
Bananas, apples

And thank goodness he tolerates the multivitamin with iron.

Boy

We don't have a clever Internet name for him yet, so I'm just calling him "boy" - #lifewithboy. I promise it's not a sign that we don't love or adore him - we tossed around "little man", "little dude", etc but they all seemed too young. So "Boy" it is.

Boy is 7 1/2 and came to live with us a week ago, on 12/21. The week prior, we accepted the placement, planning to transition him from his previous foster family to our home after an overnight stay proved that we were a good match for each other.

It seems to me that God preserved this child for us because he has no evident challenges and yet he wasn't being snatched up by other families. A few days before we accepted placement, the story of Jericho was brought to mind in several different ways at different times. I felt God encouraging me to pray around my own Jericho, the DSHS building, and so I did. On day 4, we learned about Boy. On day 6, we accepted the placement. On day 7, we met him for the first time - the walls came tumbling down.

Boy is clever, silly, enjoyable, outgoing and very funny. He can socialize with anybody and was excited to be with us the moment we met him. He loved our car, our house, our dog, his room, and he told us so.

So 4 days before Christmas, Boy came to live with us. And he proved that I am a girl raised by a single mom. I have always enjoyed the boys at church, but I get to send those ones home. This one stays. And I like him - love him even - but he's a boy. He wants hot wheels, video games, cartoons, and to write in ballpoint pen on my furniture. I'm a girl. I want to sew, cook, shop, make and preferably keep my furniture graffiti-free.

He and Matt get along smashingly. He definitely craved a dad figure, having lived with a single mom in his last foster home, and he's responding well to Matt. Matt is in father-son heaven - cars, trucks, tools, sports, trains, etc. And he's not just another kid in the house - he's really an excellent dad. Case in point, today he coached me through a sticky parenting situation when I was home with Boy and at a loss with a choice he made. I was so grateful for his insight.

And Boy and I are bonding. He likes hugs, cooking, books (as long as I'm the one reading), and just being together, so we're finding ways to connect.

Boy's case is considered a long-term placement, and while none of us really can be sure what that means, we're happy to have him for however long.

Memphis is especially happy to have a boy of his own.