Social Worker Cookies

When life hands you lemons - or a call to the police - , make the social worker these cookies. She may forgive any story you tell her if you tell her it while she is delighting in the chewy goodness I am about to share with you.  I am not going to lie, these may be my favorite cookies. The keys: terrible ingredients and under baking.

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Did you hear me? Do not over bake the cookies. Because then you will eat them and say "That girl is so full of herself that she thinks they are so good. They are but mediocre cookies. I am never coming to this blog again"  and we can't have that.  Take them out before you think they are done.

Please pass this recipe along to anyone you know who needs a pick me up, needs to win over a mother-in-law, teacher, say I'm sorry, or in our case, woo a social worker.  She remarked with her mouth still working through a bite, and I quote: I make cookies every week, and these, well, you could sell these. Wow. 

I am gonna give you these for free, people.  My very own made up recipe, the typos are just a bonus. 

The dough is addictive and terrible and if you are desperate to feel better about the ingredients you can substitute honey for the corn syrup. But I cannot make guarantees about quality. I am just sayin'.

And if your Leap Day is not living up to the hype with snotty yelling kids and ineffective parenting, you can get sloshed on these and vow that tomorrow is a new day. So who will you be making these for this week, you? or someone else?


Choking, Social Workers, CPS, Cops, and Continuous Bleeding

Youngest Baby inhaled a marker lid. Orange. I had seen him walking around with a marker, he loves holding things like markers, sticks, spatulas, they are like little souvenirs from his adventures in tagging along with his older siblings. All of a sudden he was vomiting. And I knew exactly what was lodged in his airway. I flipped him face down, slammed his back, nothing came out but more vomit and it was obvious no air was getting in.

Real choking is almost silent. If someone has food go down the wrong pipe, or water threatened the vicinity of the airway and they are coughing and gasping, take note: they can breathe, their throat is just overreacting and slamming them on the back is annoying and unhelpful. When an airway is blocked, especially for a baby, there is no sound. It looks very different. That is why they say the universal choking sign is hands because people, they can't freaking make a sound so they need a sign.

If I hadn't seen it, who knows what might have happened. If he had been in another room instead of walking towards me, it's almost unthinkable.

I ask the big kids (Big! Ha! ages 5 and 3 count as 'big' around here) to put the bleeping crayons and markers away about eight times a day, because they get them out eight times a day. They love to draw and color. And the babies love to dump the bins of art supplies.  We live in an unbabyproofable situation, even when I try and try and yell and clean and yell and try again. The only way I can go on sometimes is to hope God wants my kids alive and will thus fill in the gaps, send guardian angels and protect them in moments when I fail.

Brady was indeed choking, and the stupid orange lid wasn't coming out. The babysitter Liz walked in as it unfolded, and four hands are better than two, so as I continued to baby Heimlich, she reached in, did a deep sweep, pincher fingers grasped a slippery lid that could have gone down even deeper but didn't, and she pulled it out.

I was about five seconds from calling to Samantha to dial 911.

He is fine. It took about 14 hours for my adrenaline to go down.

Just in time for Tsega to flee our front door while the excellent aforementioned sitter was cleaning up an epic poopy diaper upstairs. He was found by two people in the middle of the street, who promptly called the cops. Who called social services.

Tsega is fine. We are fine. The babysitter has been reassured that she is not at fault and frankly, had he been hurt, it still would not make it her fault.  It could have happened to me -- OK, it has. Middle of the street. The person didn't call the cops that time though. Tsega is a a smart little Houdini as my FB friends know because I often poll for new ideas on how to contain him.

DSS may open a file on us. That day, the fear of social workers lit a fire under my butt to clean a few piles that hadn't been touched in months. The counter top graveyard of excessive and endlessly beeping smoke and carbon monoxide detectors was raided, new batteries installed, put up in a frenzy of mother bear terror.  Hubs commented jokingly that my motivation to impress a government entity was disheartening, and why didn't I clean with such fervor all the time? I replied matter-of-factly You will love me no matter what. CPS will not. 

Last night, right before bed, Brady cut himself enough to bleed through a few band aids.  I have no idea how. He was in my presence while it happened and I still cannot find anything that could have given him the gash.  It bled long enough to make me wonder if I was gonna have to go to the ER, which is tied with the DMV for places I never want to spend time ever. Facebook advice, medical tape, gauze and time to clot took care of the problem. But as Phil from Modern Family intoned: John Philip Sousa! this week was rough.

Dangerous encounters and police interrogations set on a backdrop of copious sass, backtalk tantrums and unsurprisingly shoddy eating habits from just about all of us (well, unsurprising from me as I spent a lot of time eating cookie dough in a feckless effort to force down the feelings of panic.) I am gonna go ahead and give this week a D+.

Four Hours

Four hours.
The night before:

Let's do your stretches again. Point. Don't let your ankles turn in. Strong feet. Good arch in your back. Squeeze your butt when you releve, yes like that. Good girl.
I will pack you a lunch. With homemade cookies! And your water bottle.

It will have a note in it with mine and Daddy's cell phone numbers. If you need to call us, just ask a teacher.
Keep your stuff in your bag.
If you don't know the adult's name that is leading your class you can say "Excuse me, what is your name?"
Let's practice that.
Remember to listen and pay attention to your teacher.
If you don't know the girls next to you you can say "I am Samantha, what is your name?"
Let's practice that.
Remember to tell a teacher if you are going to the restroom, and go straight back to where your class is when you are done. And wash your hands. 
You are gonna do great. 
The class will rotate through teachers so sometimes it will be ribbon, sometimes ball, sometimes hoop.
Yes, it's four hours long! A day of gymnastics camp! I know normally class is only an hour but tomorrow is special.
I can't wait for you, it will be so fun. 
Be safe. Be smart. Have so much fun OK?
I love you.

As I dropped my tiny big girl off for the longest she's been away from me and not with a relative since almost ever (I know I know, I am a massively big wuss), I couldn't help but reflect on the question she asked me as I turned off the light and blew her a kiss the night before.

Mom, for example, what would be a reason I might need to call you or Dad?

Oh my sweet girl. There are evil people in this world. There are horrible, evil, deranged, sick people who when I am not looking and not there, and a teacher at gymnastics camp is busy with fifteen other girls all in the same pink leotard and might not notice if one goes missing for ten or two minutes while this evil sick human lies in wait...

I didn't say any of that. I didn't tell her my fears about the worst things that can happen to little girls and boys when parents, doors, locks, teachers, the world fails to keep them safe.

Instead I smiled and said You probably won't need to. You're gonna have a blast.

She did. Four hours were fine.



Sending you along

I want to mention to newer readers that I am not a fan of the phrase "rescue orphans." And I respect the notion that many lovely non-Christian families do and should adopt and not because they felt that it was a calling or a ministry but because they want to parent children. I am not a fan of calling the children in one's family a ministry or a humanitarian project. Nope nope nope. I don't think that adoption should be about saving people as much as it is about building families. And an adoption process from another country and raising a child who has been through neglect, or trauma or loss is not a cake walk and I don't think that every person in the world should do it. But. But but but but...

This blog post is worth reading. And crying about. And then sharing again. Because maybe one of us, one more of us in the world who has toyed with the idea of adoption will be moved to adopt a kid who really really needs it. And that means -- oh no, another phrase I don't love is coming on -- that means there will be one less.

One less child rocking himself in a crib alone.
One less hungry belly.
One less soul without gentle touch from loving hands.
One less.

I never thought in a million years I'd use that phrase because it bothers me so much. But folks, I love this post. Even though the author uses phrases I don't and has a different take on adoption, I love her heart in highlighting some amazing children who really need families. I love that she's done it herself. I love learning from others' passion.

Go now. Go read. And share it.


Walk Like an Egyptian, or Write Cuneiforms like a Sumerian. Either Way.

We have a new home school history group and though in its infancy, we love it. We get together with a group of kids bi monthly to work on history projects together. We all follow a similar curriculum and recently we've been studying ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia.

This book provides loads of fun project ideas, so many we can never do them all together this year. Luckily, there is always next year (yes, that means we are going to continue home schooling into the summer and the next school year).

Our project was inspired by the Sumerians, who created Cuneiform, a kind of alphabet and symbolic language dating back about 3000 years ago. Their documents were written on clay tablets, by means of a blunt reed for a tool. The impressions left by the tools were wedge shaped, thus the name cuneiform (from the Latin cuneus, which means "wedge").

Our "reeds" were screw drivers and other found implements, but I hereby take a stand that authenticity isn't really a requirement in elementary grades.

Step 1: roll out clay.
I love Samantha representing girldom as the only girl in the group right now and blasting bright colors everywhere

Step 2: learn that wax paper is a terrible terrible thing on which to roll out clay, resolve to never do that again

Step 3: Give 2-year-old playdough on a separate table and let him think he is apart of things. Praise the Heavens as he takes the bait!

Step 4: Start carving into clay secret messages, your name, "Mom Rules," etc

Step 5: Check work as you go

Step 6: Keep going, erase with rolling pin as necessary

Step 7: As children sit in peaceful busy almost-silence working, realize home school history group is wicked awesome

Step 8:  For those of you considering home school, it is ALWAYS like this.

Kidding aside, dealing with the two babies is no cake walk when I try to create learning opportunities for the older two, and we certainly have days where things go to crap. But when 50% or 100% of the babies are napping, it really is like that above picture around here a lot of the time. Togetherness, kindness, cooperation and learning. I am not saying I am gonna get a tattoo that says Home school 4 life  but we really love it.  I am really excited to see where home based learning takes us.

And if you are in my neck of the woods, and want to rage against the machine with me, I will totally let you join our history group, invite you to singing class, math lab and go on field trips with us. 


Reflections on True Love

I believe...

It does not ultimately matter how smart I am.
It does not ultimately matter if I am attractive, or if I am admired or in my desired pants size or acheive excellence in organizing.
It may not ultimately matter what discoveries I make, technology I enhance, art I produce if something is missing:

The world does not need more technology, more money, more power, more intelligence nearly as much as it needs better, kinder people. I really believe this.

I believe the most important contribution I can make to the world is to love. I can do more than this, and love to do more than this, but none of those things will be as important as loving God, loving my family, loving friends, loving strangers, loving people that misunderstand me, think ill of me, try to hurt me.

And I don't mean I should sit around "loving" them, or keep them from consequences or allow myself to be a victim or excuse others from wrong doing.

I mean, letting that love change and refine who I am, and what I do and why I do it. 

Whether one believes the Bible contains powerful words from God, or that is merely a work of historical fiction, I don't see how one could argue its definition of love, which by the way, is not called 'love'  in the earliest and first English translation.

The diction holds power and poetry for me that are a bit lost when it is changed, so I give you the original English version of the timeless words from Corinthians; what I think is the best definition of true love ever written.

Love as depicted in movies is short lived and passionate and probably based 90% on pheromones.
True love is not defined by longing for a phone call while staring out the window of a subway while a mournful ballad plays, or the guy jumping out of a cab in traffic to stop a girl he barely knows from getting on an airplane.

True love shows up much much later, after it endures everything, suffers everything with and for the loved. True love means acting loving when the feeling isn't there.
True love is behaving loving when one feels insecure and vulnerable and would rather throw up walls to protect that precious vulnerability.

I can't help but notice that the scripture does not promise that the loved will love back. It does not promise that friends, children, spouses, will respond how we hope: with returned love. But it does promise that the love, charity, as it is called in the Bible will never fail. Maybe the word is charity because it is a selfless thing to love that way.  Love in the movies is about having one's needs met. True love is forgiveness, kindness, patience, selflessness.

I hope that kind of long-suffering-utterly-and-completely-unconditional love defines who I am. I have a long way to go.

Happy Love Day, especially to my Hubs.  And I hope we all give true love today and every day.


Attachment doesn't wait for the dishes

Nor, in this house, does it care.

I know I keep blogging about Tsega in the Ergo, but this is a massive part of life over here these days.

I think the company that makes this thing should pay me for my loyalty.


What to say to an obviously adoptive family

My finger has hovered over the publish button on this post because I am not convinced my intended tone is effectively coming across. So in case I utterly fail, one should read this post in a jovial, lighthearted tone. Now it's on you.

Here's the kicker folks: there is rarely such thing as an obviously adoptive family.

One of my friends is in a bi-racial marriage and her kids favor her non-Caucasian husband, and she gets questions about "where they come from" often. I don't know how she responds but I know I would want to say My children come from my uterus or if I were feeling snippy My husband impregnated me.

We all know this but it bears reminding that families look different these days. There are single moms, single dads, grandmas raising their grandchildren, multi-race families, families with two moms, families with bi-racial kids, domestic adoptive families, internationally adoptive families, and even a mix of all of these. If we all stop assuming things about each other as a society we'll all be better off.

This being said, there are many articles out there floating in the Internet titled something like "Top Things to not Ask an Adoptive Family." Even though some of these posts contain nuggets of truth and can be helpful,  I think the mere title of these kinds of posts can put lots of well meaning, supportive people on the defensive. The adoptive families are nodding and have their hands up in the air having hallelujah moments, adoptees are probably going "you all have it wrong" and the lay people trying to support and understand adoption feel like the post is actually saying "Top Things Not to Say you Insensitive Moron."

My sister told me reading pieces like those I reference make her think  I don't want to say anything because no matter what I am gonna offend someone.

This is a problem, because the last thing adoptive families want is to stop dialog about adoption. Adoption needs more understanding and support for birth families, adoptees and adoptive families. We don't want to shut people down. Adoption isn't secretive or shameful, though for some it can be. (I hope this is changing more and more.) So in this vein, I wanted to share some thoughts on what to say.

It should be strenuously noted that I write this as an Expert Situation Screwer-Upper. I say the wrong things all the time to family, friends, strangers, and obviously, adoptees and other adoptive families may feel differently than I do about all of this.

There are typically three kinds of people who tend to approach families about their unique "probably adoption brought them together" status. Here is a little advice to each of type of Approacher about what to say when they feel the desire to engage.

Type 1: This is a person who has contemplated adoption. Or has read blogs about it while researching adoption. Has toyed with the idea of adoption and or may already be in the process of adopting.

These folks border on stalker in the best meaning possible because likely, they really want to connect. I have been a Type 1 Approacher before and not known how to engage a PAF (probably adoptive family).

Here is an idea what to say:  (If there are more than one and if they do not match) "All your kids are so lovely. What a cool family you are. I know this is presumptuous and I am sorry if I am off here, but would you mind me asking if you are an adoptive family?"

Sometimes, Type 1 Approacher might feel foolish because the parent of the PAF might answer no, but live and learn. The phrasing was important though because Type 1 let the family know she or he understood it was a personal question and were willing to take on the risk of being on the awkward side of the interaction.

So often, people who approach adoptive families ask questions in a way that is based on assumption, and forces an explanation. At least in this scenario the Approacher acknowledges that.

If they say Yes, we are an adoptive family, and if this Type 1 Approacher has questions to ask about adoption, about the process, or wants to know if this family (please, God please) lives in their neighborhood now is the time to be brief.

Say: "Ya know, I've always thought about adoption (or we are in the process ourselves whatever the quick version of your interest is) and would really love to talk to you more but I know we are in the store. Could I shoot you an email sometime?  I really want to connect with other adoption families."

Almost every single adoptive family has been blessed by the advice, help and support from a stranger who has done it before. In adoption, the internet is your friend, much of the time anyway.

I am now calling on all adoptive families to be gracious enough to say "Sure!" if someone asks this, since I am telling them to ask you this.

And that, friends, is it. There really isn't anything more to say or ask that is appropriate at this juncture. Even Where is the obviously different child from? assumes the family adopted internationally. This kid could be a foster child, or a domestic placement, or really, a friend's kid. Just smile and move on.

Type 2: Grandmother or Auntie or neighbor or friend of adoptive family who wants to give a shout out, or an emotional high five to the PAF.

This type also wants to connect. He or she also may want to bust out the picture and story of their niece from Ethiopia or China, or just be a ray of sunshine on a family that might get crap from time to time.

A suggestion: "All your kids are so lovely. What a cool family you are."

If conversation continues and the mom or dad appears to want to engage, feel free to bring up your adoption connection, say how great you think the family is (as opposed to "You guys are so great to take this poor orphan in") and then smile and move on. Remember, they may not be an adoptive family.  If you would like to ask if they are, like Type 1 Approacher, admit you are being nosy and graciously ask knowing they might say no or bow out of conversation.

It is important to take cues on if the the parents really want to talk. Take note, is their cart still moving as you are talking in a passive attempt to escape? Are the children whining/crying/stealing gum from the check out display? If yes, just smile or ask if you can help load their stuff onto the conveyor belt or ask the parent if they need you to hold a kid while they pay.  -- This advice might be sounding a little personal at this point. This is coming from the perspective of a woman with four hand grenades posing as young children that could go off at any time. Sorry. 

Type 3: Curious people. They just want to know what is up with this family. Here is what to say, are you ready? It's going to sound familiar at this point since we heard this for Type 1 and Type 2 Approachers:

"All your kids are so lovely. What a cool family you are." And then smile.

If the parents want to be ambassadors to adoption (and sometimes we do, OR, *UPDATE* if you're like me now in 2015 and want very much to stop their illusions of grandeur about the "beauty" of international adoption, you really are fine with telling them to stay away) we might give you the information you seek. We know you are curious and appreciate that you are being polite by not directly pumping them for info on their unique bunch.

Or they may smile back and be grateful you didn't join the masses grilling them in public in front of their kids.

Type 3b: Curious people with an agenda. These are the folks who typically inspire What Not To Say posts. They tend to be the "your kid is so lucky does she have AIDS did her parents die how much did she cost you guys are just like Brangelina i could never love a kid who wasn't my own don't you know there are plenty of kids in the US without homes my adopted cousin is a druggie aren't you scared the kid will be screwed up?" message bearers.

To these curious people who want to know primarily so they can share their opinion and negative views about adoption or mixed race families or whatever:  Just don't say anything.

Just be content knowing you aren't alone, and that this family has already heard your thoughts about adoption from someone else, and has weighed those thoughts very carefully over years of scrutiny from the FBI, social workers, doctors, local police departments, teachers, therapists, their mail carrier who sees mail come from USCIS and the FBI,  foreign embassies, etc., ad nauseum.

Now, I read one of those What Not to Say" articles recently that listed as a no no "Don't approach child and speak their native language."  Even if what the author meant is "It's not OK to assume you know what my kid's ethnicity is by the way she looks or assume she speaks that language." I think that is a bit over sensitive.

If an Ethiopian adult recognizes my clearly Ethiopian child as such and wants to yammer at my kid in Amharic, I'd be delighted and hope to teach him to smile and respectfully say in Amharic Amarigna alinagerem. It just means "I don't speak Amharic."

I hope those of us who adopt internationally get all our children connected enough with people from their country and teach pride in birth culture enough that this interaction is a non-issue.  Frankly, even if a Haitian or Kenyan started speaking to my kid in their own native tongue which none of us will understand in the slightest, I'd be trying not to lick this person to contain my excitement because I will wonder if they live close by (*see Editors note below).

Everyone is different, we all have different things that get under our skin. Parents of kids with disabilities and in wheel chairs get this stuff too. I have a friend with a child with Cerebral Palsy and she hears What's wrong with him? on occasion. I know I would be tempted to say Nothing, what is wrong with you? 

Any family who looks "different" could use a wee bit o' restrain from Approachers of all Types. Because you catch more flies with honey than "Where did that larvae come from?"

Be nice to an adoptive or otherwise unique family. You don't have to grill them on first contact. And they - ok, we-- will share. Because that is the thing, we love adoption. We love our families. We love our kids and often their birth families and cultures. We are ambassadors and advocates for unique families. And most of the time, questions aren't really rude. They are just numerous.

So maybe what I mean to say after all this rambling is: There is nothing wrong with wanting to talk to adoptive family, share in the obvious joy radiating off of us, at least, the joy that is radiating when no one is throwing a massive tantrum and I am trying not to yell.

There is nothing wrong with being curious, but when in doubt, you don't have ask anything. We will probably tell you if you stick around long enough.


Sneaky Mom and Grand Cayman

In January of 2010 my brain went on a dive bomb when I realized I was on the pregnancy train very unexpectedly. Within days my body followed my brain I was on bed rest, and didn't move for awhile. Then came two babies, and the rest is history.

The point of the recap is that save a few pockets of effort and a somewhat disappointing stint with physical therapy last summer, I have not had a good handle on my body since December of 2009, which is sad and also a very long time ago.

A few weeks ago we planned a trip to Grand Cayman. (No, we are not going alone, yes we are bringing all the kidsdoyounotknowmeatallIcan'tevengotothebathroomalone.) There are two things I am doing to combat this stagnancy in my health and self esteem as swim suit bottoms loom in the near future and I wanted to share, for accountability's sake.

One, is actually exercising. Like, for reals at least five times a week. Even if it's only twenty minutes. Even if my knees kill me. I have been doing it. And oh Internets, it is humbling.

I've had a respectable commitment for several weeks now and results are s-l-o-w. And that is new for me. My butt just doesn't want to lose itself apparently. From here on out, staying in shape, fitting into jeans, feeling like I like my legs could very well could be an uphill battle. Oh youth, where art thou?!

I haven't been going to a gym, or to classes. I've been trying to do it the free way: finding videos online of the personal trainer that Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow use. Yes. I am now that girl. The one who wants to have a celebrity booty.  I know it's shameful to care but just in case you are as shallow as I am, here is one of the vids I found and Oh Mama it's a good little work out.  Just try it.

The other change around here has been brought to you by another device. I know I know, I tried to sell you a mop last week and here I am again oversharing appliance love.

In this blender are
a whole orange,
a whole apple with seeds and stem,
a banana,
1 cup of kale,
half a yellow squash,
a whole carrot,

and before blending I added a little bit of soy milk.

I know the price of a Vitamix blender is staggering. Disgusting. Preventative. We managed to get ours for hundreds off the sticker price due to luck. I wish all of you the same luck in the timeless words of Ferris Bueller: If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up.

See, this appliance has changed our lives and our health. I am fairly certain it can split the atom, maybe solve cold fusion, but more importantly it hides all sorts of vegetables in yummy smoothies. It takes less than ten seconds to pulverize all those ingredients I listed here

to this

and in less than one minute you are here

Almost two liters of raw fruits with three vegetables hidden in and we all drink it like it's a dessert. 

This picture is totally unnecessary but it was pretty.

This one is necessary: This is a kid who thinks he had a treat but he just had more than half his veggie and fruit requirements for the day.

And it's pretty.

Here is to the Cayman Islands Butt-into-Swim-Suit Countdown, and  feeling better about myself. Come on over, I will make you "treat."


Six: an Ode to Early Intervention

Soon, we may be up to six sessions of Early Intervention a week. And it isn't too much. Not even close.

These women are angels of mercy in our house. They have been the most solid, constant support for my boys since they came to live here. Tsega and Brady love their teachers. I might love them even more.

I beg of you, if your kid isn't reaching a milestone. If he struggles with sensory processing. If he isn't speaking yet, anything that makes you wonder if your child is not progressing, call your local Early Intervention office. Yes, it's true most kids will get "there" eventually. But it baffles my mind when people don't want these geniuses in their home. Did you know that therapists for children are flipping wizards? That they can coax words out of previously silent children? In our case, on the first visit.

Did you know they can coax strength from frail limbs in ways you nor I ever would have thought to try? That they see reasons why your kid does or doesn't do something that you are not trained to see?

If you are as lucky as we are, they will swoop in and with love and care and teach you how to parent your child better. How to help your child reach his or her potential.  They will stand in as mild therapists for you, too, as you voice concerns and fears for your child. Or they will stand as witnesses to the marvelous uniqueness and insanity that is your (OK, my) home.

They will be there when your 14-month-old throws a blanket over his face and runs like a bat out of hell into a wall for fun. They will be there when that same child climbs to the top of the bunk bed and jumps off, but catches himself with one arm and then gently lowers himself down a la Cirque du HolyCrap. They will watch that same child at 18 months go grab a 9-inch chefs knife and attempt to make a sandwich.

They will asses that child and find that he qualifies for therapy for sensory seeking behaviors that interfere with tasks, and developmental therapy to help him interact more with adults making eye contact, asking permission, etc. Later speech therapy will kick in.

They will help your preemie baby strengthen his hands so he may one day use them to crawl. They will show tricks to help a child build strength in his tongue so he may one day suck and speak. They will help you strengthen his neck so he beat back the torticollis. They will show you how to help him sit so he improves his balance and strength. They will know better than you sometimes (or all the time), what the next goals should be and how to get there. They will teach you ways to interact with kids that are not taught in Parenting 101.

They will understand what an amazing mile stone it can be for a baby to finally track with this eyes. Or laugh spontaneously. Or use those pincher fingers. Or throw his plate on the ground when he's done eating. Or make eye contact while saying hello. Or attempt to copy the words up up up!

They will rejoice with you at the little things.

They will change everything. But like I said, only if you are as lucky as we are.

This post is brought to you by the wonderful women pictured with all three of my boys in this post. They have blessed us more than I can ever express or repay. They all deserve massive raises and free passes to heaven.