Hart for Haiti Event

This is a sticky post. That means it sticks at the top of my blog until after February 2. I totally did just learn that term. Scroll down for new posts.

If you are visiting Any Mommy Out There for information on the Hart for Haiti preschool dance and art sale on February 2, 2010, click here.

For all who read, but don't live here on the border of Idaho with us, Saige and her brothers and I are organizing a preschool dance and art sale to raise money for God’s Littlest Angels in Haiti, the orphanage where she lived for the first fourteen months of her life. It’s called Hart for Haiti because the kids and their friends and classmates are creating all of the artwork for the sale. (I know, Matt hates it, he says it just looks like I can’t spell heart. I can spell heart, Matt, it’s clever, it’s a play on words.)

If you do live out here on the border of Idaho with us in Sp----e (Matt’s going to kill me) and you want to help, email me at anymommyoutthere@gmail.com. If you agree with Matt that Hart for Haiti looks like I can’t spell heart, don’t email me. I’m nervous enough.

To read about GLA and the work they do in Haiti and to donate directly to God’s Littlest Angels visit their website.

THANK YOU!!! To some amazing people that have already helped SO much with this endeavor:

Kid Sports
MommyGeekology – She made that darling "hart" graphic for me and for Haiti.
Ann of Ann’s Rants – Check out how she helped GLA.

Eleven More Random Things That Are Really Just Excuses for Not Writing Real Posts

1) I spent last weekend in Portland with four girlfriends and my mind melted into a little puddle of delighted happiness at how much fun it was and how much sleep I got between midnight and nine in the morning. You can't see me, but I'm doing an annoying little dance right now about sleeping until nine in the morning three - (!!) - mornings in a row.
1a) We ate the best cupcakes ever created in the history of the world. There were cupcakes filled with cookie dough. I know. And that's not even the flavor I bought because there was a better cupcake flavor than cookie dough filled. It makes me cry a little too.
1b) My children and my house survived my absence with the following important exceptions:
1.b.A. The upstairs toilet seat is covered in what I thought was a ball point pen scribble drawing, until it turned out to be a scribble drawing actually carved into the finish of the toilet seat with a sharp object. Upon thorough cross-examination of my children, it became clear to me that Cue was the artiste in question. Upon thorough cross-examination of Matt, it is still unclear to me when and why Cue had access to a sharp object and when and why he would be alone upstairs in the bathroom with possession of said sharp object. It looks like it may become a cold case.
1.b.B. The wall beside the basement closet is devoid, in large chunks, of the dark red paint that I selected. This, it would seem, is another of Cue's special projects. You will all be relieved to know that he never had access to an actual hammer. He is quite capable of hammering the shit out of a wall with a puzzle piece shaped like a hammer.
1.b.C. Nate has his first tooth. He rewarded my diligent pumping, lovingly intended to maintain my milk supply throughout the weekend so that we could continue to bond and nuzzle in mommy/baby bliss, by rejecting my left boob with a vampirish vengeance when it was unable to pour milk into his mouth like the plastic nipples of happiness that Daddy provided all weekend. My right boob continues to be acceptable to him. We are 1 1/2 days into this bizarre right sided preference and my right boob is already at least three times larger than my left. I think my left boob has weaned. Is that possible? Why is this weird shit not in the breastfeeding books?
1.b.D. Cue has what looks like a Hobo spider bite. Hobos are one of those spiders whose venom can necrotize the skin around the bite wound. Lovely, I know. Wait! Good news! No necrotizing as of yet and it usually happens in the first 24 hours.
1c) The entire trip to Portland came out of my line item budget, but I'll be damned if the replacement toilet seat isn't coming out of Matt's line item budget.

2) I'd feel more self-righteous about the toilet seat if Cue hadn't put several pennies, nickels and possibly a quarter into his "piggy bank" this morning on my watch. Where "piggy bank" = the tape deck in our minivan.

3) hArt for Haiti. It's next Tuesday. I'm scared people will come. I'm scared people won't come. I'm lucky Matt didn't enroll us in the blogger protection program for revealing our super duper top secret location.

4) I'm flying to Ohio early Friday morning to attend my Grandmother's funeral. Thank you in advance for your sweet thoughts. It is sad and my heart hurts for my mother and my family, but she lived a long, incredible life and I am so unbelievably grateful that I traveled to Texas before Christmas and saw her one last time. Now, let's see how many ways I can make my grandma's funeral about me:
3a) It is butt crack cold in Ohio this weekend.
3b) I'm taking my left-nipple hating baby. Yay. Security with a stroller. Again.
3c) My cousins can drink me under the table.
3d) hArt for Haiti is the day after I get back and then we have another huge thing going on two days later.

5) I was going to type about that other huge thing going on after hArt for Haiti, but I would like to stay married. Can I say that it involves more airplanes and all of our children? Lord help us. (Also, we have a huge dog and a crazy man with a shot gun lives above our garage.)

6) Cue was a penguin in a former life. The kid is obsessed with eggs. He has a whole stash of eggs that he shepherds around the house, moves from box to box, carries around, etc. He loves them and pets them and calls them George. First thing out of his mouth in the morning? Where mine eggs? Last thing we did last night? Convince his screaming, furious toddler ass to put his eggs to bed in a box for the night. It's kind of creepy.

7) I have amazing friends, online and right here in Arkansas. (Where we live. Aha.) Thank you for all your support and for holding my hand. Especially you and you because you're doing double duty.

8) I am taking way more than I'm giving this month, online and right here in Arkansas. I plan to change that in two weeks when this craziness is over.

9) My house must weather another weekend without me. Please pray for the hardwood floors and the kitchen cabinets. They're my two favorite things. I mean beside my children. And my husband. Generally, unless my husband is letting my children take puzzle piece hammers to my hardwoods or my cabinets and then NOT MY FAVORITE things. Not at all.

10) People, I kid you not, in Portland, Oregon, there is a cupcake shop that sells a better flavored cupcake than chocolate chip cookie dough filled. It bore repeating.

11) To recap, I'll be traveling. I'm stressed. My left nipple hurts. My grandma died. I feel badly because I'm a sucky friend and a terrible citizen-o-the-blogosphere. On the bright side, Nate is sleeping through the night, hArt for Haiti might get a fabulous turn out, I'll be drinking with all my cousins Friday night and last Monday evening, when I pulled up in front of our house after three days in Portland, Ess, Gee and Cue ran out onto the front porch. They screeched "mommy, mommy, mommy" and talked so fast about everything they had done with their Dad that I couldn't understand a word they said. The very best part about going away is coming home.

Breastfeeding Rules and Regulations

Nate, now that you are over six months old, it is time to review the AnyMommy guidelines for older child breastfeeding. Please read them carefully, ignorance of the rules is not a defense in this family.

Breastfeeding Rules and Regulations
for the
Older Baby

Part 100 - Definitions

Sec. 101 - Breastfeeding - Providing milk for nutritional purposes to the older baby via the mother's nipple.

Sec. 102 - Googly eyes - Trying to get the attention of others with eye-contact while smiling, cooing or otherwise acting adorably.

Sec. 103 - Kneading hand - The hand belonging to the older baby that is not pinned beneath the baby when the baby breastfeeds.

Sec. 104 - Misuse of the nipple - Breastfeeding behavior prohibited or deemed inappropriate by these regulations.

Sec 105 - Mother - The woman that bore the older baby and nourishes him with her delicate, nerve-filled breasts.

Sec. 106 - Nipple - Fleshy protuberance that is placed in the baby's mouth and delivers the milk.

Sec. 107 - Nursing - See breastfeeding.

Sec. 108 - Older baby - A baby six months of age or older.

Sec. 109 - Pinchy face - A mean expression made seconds before the baby bites or pinches the nipple with his gums.

Sec. 110 - Siblings - Older children belonging to the mother.

Sec. 111 - Spare nipple - The nipple that is not being used for milk acquisition when the older child breastfeeds.

Part 200 - Appropriate Breastfeeding Behavior

Sec. 201 - Goal

The goal of breastfeeding at this point in the older baby's life should be nutrition and hunger abatement. Boredom, soothing, the need to fall asleep and a general liking for something in your mouth are not acceptable reasons for production of the nipple.

Sec. 202 - Use of Nipple

(a) The only acceptable use of the nipple is sucking to acquire milk. All other behavior is considered misuse of the nipple.

(b) Misuse of the nipple as described in these regulations indicates to the mother that the nipple is being used for purposes other than nutrition or hunger abatement and shall result in appropriate penalties as set forth herein and determined by the mother.

Part 300 - Breastfeeding Prohibitions

Sec. 301 - The Prairie Dog

(a) The term prairie dog describes behavior wherein the older baby repeatedly turns his head away from the nipple to survey the room, observe siblings or other children, watch interesting events or investigate interesting sounds and then turns back to the nipple for a drink.

(b) The prairie dog is prohibited in public venues.

(c) In private, the prairie dog may be allowed at the mother's discretion, especially in cases where the siblings are interesting or distracting.

(d) Although some allowance may be made for extremely interesting moments, public prairie dog is grounds for use of the blanket or other covering equipment or temporary covering of the nipple as set forth in part 400 of these rules and regulations.

(e) Any prairie dog maneuver performed without letting go of the nipple is misuse of the nipple and will result in immediate ejection from the breast for a period of at least one hour.

Sec. 302 - Biting

(a) Any biting, that includes, clamping, mashing, clenching or pinching between gums of any sort intended to cause, or causing, pain to the nipple, is misuse of the nipple and is prohibited. Such misuse will result in immediate ejection from the nipple for a period of at least one hour.

(b) The pinchy face as defined in sec. 109 shall be considered a precursor to biting and may result in a warning or may be penalized in the same manner as biting.

Sec. 303 - Flirting

(a) Flirting while breastfeeding shall be permitted only with the mother. All other flirting while breastfeeding is prohibited.

(b) Flirting at any other time between the hours of 7:00 a.m. and 8:00 p.m. is permitted and encouraged.

(c) Flirting includes, but is not limited to, smiling, giggling, making googly eyes or otherwise engaging others in any manner.

(d) Flirting while breastfeeding is grounds for use of the blanket or other covering equipment or temporary covering of the nipple as set forth in part 400 of these rules and regulations.

Sec. 304 - The Kneading Hand

The kneading hand must avoid touching the belly rolls and the spare nipple at all times. If the kneading hand can not control itself, it will be held by the mother's hand. Any frustrated clamping or biting as a result of restriction of the kneading hand will result in ejection from the nipple.

Part 400 - Penalties

Sec. 401 - The Blanket

(a) The blanket may be used at the discretion of the mother to cover the older baby's head to prevent prairie dog or flirting as defined in sections 301 and 303 of these rules and regulations.

(b) Any frustrated clamping or biting as a result of use of the blanket will result in ejection from the nipple.

Sec. 402 - Covering the Nipple

The mother may cover the nipple and prevent access by the older baby at any time as a penalty for prohibited breastfeeding behavior.

Sec. 403 - Ejection from the Nipple

(a) Ejection from the nipple is the gentle, but forcible removal of the nipple from the baby's mouth and withholding of the nipple for a proscribed period of time as determined by the mother.

(b) Biting as defined in sec. 302(a) or any other behavior intended to cause, or causing, pain to the nipple shall result in ejection from the nipple.

Part 500 - Weaning

Sec. 501 - Definition

Weaning is permanent withdrawal of access to the nipple and all associated milky goodness.

Sec. 502 - Limited Use

Weaning shall be considered a last resort until the baby reaches eight months of age. After that time, weaning may be instituted at the discretion of the mother.

Sec. 503 - Exception

Two instances of biting with use of teeth in the period of one week shall result in weaning regardless of the age of the baby.

Sec. 504 - Substitution of Nutrition

Whenever the mother institutes weaning she shall provide an appropriate hunger abatement substitute.

Part 600 - Appeal

All decisions of the mother are final. There is no higher power than the mother.

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I know. It's a damned breastfeeding dictatorship.


At first glance, you wouldn't imagine a limitless capacity for evil, would you?

Why yes, I did edit regulations for five years of my life. Can you tell?

I know this is a frivolous follow up to the previous two posts. There really wasn't an unfrivolous way to move on. Haiti is still very much in our hearts and minds.

In other frivolous, fun news, thank you to the sweetheart that put my name on this list. It was such a trill to see it there, however silly that is. (I'm way down, keep scrolling. Still. Fun.) And also, thank you, Amelia. I have no way to respond to your comment directly, but it made my day. That's one of my favorites too.

Haiti

I don't know what to say. I have no real connections in Haiti, no close friends, only acquaintances. I have the same horror and grief that I know every single person feels when they watch the news or click on the images. That and this terrified reevaluation of the future as I imagined it. The loss of important people that I haven't met and most likely would never have known.

The careful scene that replays in my mind at some vague date in my daughter's early teens is forever changed. Can we go there? Yes, we can. Could we find her? It's possible. We have her name, her picture, some information, I know there are people that help adoptees find information about their birth families. What is the answer now? I don't know. So many people lost. So many relocated. Records lost. Families and neighbors scattered.

Tragedies on this scale always create gripping human stories. Heros. Heartbreak. Hope and hopelessness. If you want to follow and support people on the ground, helping all they can, may I introduce Troy Livesay and his family and Dixie and John Bickel who run God's Littlest Angels orphanage in Petionville, Haiti. Both have been able to keep their blogs fairly current and Troy is twittering regular updates as of today.

If you have a child "in process" for adoption in Haiti and for some reason you haven't seen this information elsewhere, READ THIS.

If you want to donate, you probably already have and the Red Cross is an amazing first responder. If you want a long-standing, incredibly well-run organization that has been on the ground with Haiti's children for decades, give to God's Littlest Angels. Truth be told, I should have asked you to give to GLA two years ago. They do astonishing work. They cared for my daughter and for the little boy that was briefly ours for over a year. I lived there for three weeks in January 2005 as a volunteer and witnessed the hard work they do.

I didn't ask because I imagined that we all have our own causes, but now as the world focuses on Haiti, I am shamelessly making my suggestion. GLA was caring for 150 children in a difficult, unstable environment on Monday and their job is infinitely harder today. They have the experience, they have the resources, they are accepting cash donations and they are also accepting supplies at their Colorado Springs office. They have brought containers into Haiti many times in the past and whenever that becomes a viable option, they will do it again. Until they can bring in supplies, I know funds will be vital as available supplies in Haiti become even more expensive, processing adoptions are halted and children orphaned or displaced in the earthquake arrive at their gates.

The world has a huge heart, I know. The response to this kind of humanitarian disaster always humbles me. We do care. That doesn't change the fact that children were starving to death in Haiti on Monday. I am guilty of being willing to forget that knowledge, submerge it in the details of my every day life. All I can think is that if, after the rubble has been cleared and the injured aided and the dead buried and the water delivered, after the world's attention has shifted and the organizations that settle in for the long haul have hunkered down to rebuild, if this brief spotlight can have one tiny, positive outcome, let it be that an organization like GLA has the resources to continue caring for fragile children for two more decades and beyond.

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I've been looking through the album of my weeks as a volunteer. These are some of my favorites. I don't know why, just thought you might like to look with me.

Comfort. Stacey and Rosie 2005.


Anticipation under the orphanage gate 2005.


Crooked Presidential Palace 2005 (I have horizon issues).


Delivering rice with "the brothers" 2005.


Rice lines 2005.


Rice lines 2005.


Tugging heartstrings under the orphanage gate 2005.



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Untold Stories

It's almost midnight and I have a pounding headache and I'm awake. I'm a chronic insomniac, so that's not surprising, but oh god, it pisses me off. It makes me so mad when all four children are sleeping and my mind races and my heart pounds over little things that never even cross my mind during my busy days. It makes me so mad that I will never get to sleep if I don't let it go and think of something else.

I think of earthquakes. I think of a frail, thin, now twenty-four-year-old woman, a birth mother, and where she is tonight.

Seconds later, selfishly, I think of the church that is paving our back yard. I look out the back windows of our dream house and my heart is a lead fishing weight that sinks to the slimy, heavy metal contaminated bottom of a silty, polluted river and gets eaten by a tumor-ridden catfish. The large church two blocks away, facing away from us, fronting a commercially zoned, arterial street, bought up the properties behind us to expand their parking lot. The two adorable little homes directly behind our house, which had been two homes on a residential street, two homes that backed up to the church parking lot, but buffered us and our neighbors and the whole street. They are gone. Knocked down. Nothing left but a huge hole and an empty fight before the zoning board about whether they really will allow it all to be paved.

They probably will. Most days, we soldier on. It's okay. It's not that bad. Every once in a while, our wide, fear-filled eyes meet and I know we are both thinking it at once. Oh god (aha), we've saved and planned. We poured our heart into it - we poured our money into it. Will our home, this character of a house that we bought when it was falling apart and nursed and patched and remodeled back to health, will it be worth anything? Will it be worth even a fraction of what we've invested in it? It doesn't matter, we tell ourselves. It doesn't matter because we love it and that is what matters. The blood, the sweat, the tears, they are still here, the work is still ours and the result is still beautiful.

It isn't fair! I want to scream it to the congregation on Sundays. I want to scream it to our neighbors and then I laugh. Because yeah. Right. Exactly. Life isn't fair. Ask the people at the bottom of rubble heaps that used to be buildings in Haiti. Life is craggy and complicated and bedazzling and joyful and rich and varied, but it is not fair.

Can we really ever know anyone's story? We judge based on snapshots that we take, moments that we witness out of context of the whole. We never really know what kept them up all night. When you see that tired mother at the grocery store tomorrow with her out of control kids. Or you hear the sharp word that starts the crying that could have been avoided. When we think, I would never, I can't believe, why doesn't she, do we ever pause to consider the story? Maybe her cherished grandfather is dying. Maybe she just lived every mother's worst fear. Maybe her precious baby brother is in a lot of trouble.

Maybe it's trivial. As trivial as an unexpected zoning change.

I trace my finger over the only picture we have of Saige's mother and I wonder if she is in pain. Is she trapped? Is she safe? In shock listening to the pain around her? Does she take any comfort from the fact that her little girl is as far from disaster and aftershocks and UN intervention as a child can possibly be, safely asleep in her own little bed with three blankets in a restored house two blocks from a huge city park on a quiet residential street?

I think, who am I? Who am I to lay here - in my structurally sound, three bedroom, two bathroom house with cupboards full of food and clean running water and the thermostat set at 68 degrees - and cry because a big ass church is paving my backyard.

Who are you to judge me?

Ten Reasons I Haven't Posted Serious Stuff Like I Said I Would

1) We abandoned our four crib system and Ess, Gee and Cue are now all in toddler beds. In the same room. This involved changing the furniture in their room and you all know how I feel about change. (Post(s) I should have written: (1) There is Life and Sleep After Cribs; (2) I Promise They Are All Still Alive.)

2) Nate's car seat has been moved into his crib. In the nursery. (Post I should have written: Why Didn't I Do This Two Months Ago?)

3) We are on our fifth night - our fifth night - of ten hours of sleep. Consecutive sleep. (Post I should have written: There Is a God and She Loves Me.)

4) Cue ate tinfoil. Then, he split his lip open. The two incidents are unrelated unless you count the day (yesterday) or the state of my mind (absent). (Post(s) I should have written: (1) I don't know, but it would have been funny. YES, that's right mean commenter, I find it funny when my kid eats tinfoil. Because it's over and he's all right and life is funny; (2) I Have to Look for the Tinfoil Where Now? (3) Needing to Be Somewhere by 9:00 Practically Guarantees Blood Before 8:00.)

5) Nate held his own bottle and I enjoyed a peaceful (?) dinner with Ess, Gee and Cue. Sob. (Post I Should have written: Sob. Practically Driving. Last Baby. Sobbbbbbb.)

6) Matt initiated a budget system that involves categories and writing shit down and oh I don't know actually being responsible for a budget. (Post I should have written: I Have to Write Down What I Spend Money On and It Is Seriously Killing My Chai Habit.)

7) My face broke out horribly. (Post(s) I should have written: (1) Oh, Hello Hormones I Haven't Seen in Five Years; (2) Honey, Maybe We Should Discuss Birth Control; (3) I Ate Too Much Chocolate over the Holidays; (4) It's Probably Expensive Caffeine Withdrawal; (5) No, Your Nasty Brewed Coffee Is Not "Just the Same.")

8) Matt bought a bottle of tequila and margarita mix. (Post(s) I Should Have Written: (1) See Above Re: Birth Control; (2) Also, Not the Same and Not Really Appropriate at 7:00 A.M.)

9) I had two blissful wine nights with the women I could not live without. One involved my first hangover in five years. (Post(s) I Should Have Written: (1) Zzzzzzzzzzzzz; (2) I May Have Caved on the Chai.)

10) My children had to write their thank you notes. By "write" I mean color the front of the damn cards. (Post(s) I Should Have Written: (1) OMIGOD, Just Color the Front of the Damn Cards!!; (2) My Children Are Never Getting Presents Ever Again; (3) Are the Holidays Over? I Think the Holidays Are Over.

Secret Garden

In my memories, it is huge and wild. I'm sure they aren't accurate. I'm sure they make the mistakes of scale that all childhood memories make. I wouldn't care to go back and see it as it is. I like the pictures when I close my eyes. The overgrown rose bushes, the carefully laid out, formal paths overgrown and shabby, the hidden pockets of bare space tucked among seldom-tended, sculptured hedges. The grotto, or was it a cave? Truth be told, it was most likely a caved in bomb shelter. Grass grew on its roof, I remember that. Its bones were cold, damp rock walls. You entered through its sagging mouth, a small step down to a dirt floor and you were underground and yet, not, looking out through its collapsed side at the expansive, formal gardens of a once-grand English manor house turned RAF Officers' Club.

It was where the fairies lived.

No, I wouldn't want to go back and see it. I wouldn't want to stand at its edge and note the buildings close by, the easy view from the big house, where watchful eyes most likely supervised our ramblings more closely than I'd like to admit. I wouldn't want to understand, through my adult eyes, how tame and domestic it was.

To me, to my sisters and I and our two small English girlfriends, it was wild and magic and as removed from our parents as if the back of that shelter kept going forever, into Narnia and beyond. In those gardens, I was different. I wasn't a ragged ten-year-old, awkward with my own body, unsure, in faded pants and an ill-fitting t-shirt. I wore layers of cream and rose tulle beneath my sparkle-dusted wings. In those gardens, my lank hair didn't straggle around my narrow face, it bounced with my steps in pretty curls that never needed any brushing or washing.

That is the magic of secret gardens and deserted bomb shelters and little girls.

I doubt it was perfectly safe. I doubt our parents were far, but they were inside, no question. Any blood required a desperate dash for the big house, the injured fairy trailing along behind, sobbing. I think, if I remember right, there was access to the sea, though I can't remember braving the beach on our own. Perhaps we actually listened. Perhaps we were too enamored of our fairy games to wander.

I know that that same year, when I was maybe ten and my sisters were seven and four, I often watched them alone in our tiny English hamlet and we commonly walked to the sea. About a mile from our village, on one-lane roads that ran along side windy, deserted hay fields. On the beach, we wandered around and looked for rocks that the fairies had carved into hearts because those rocks were wishes. On the way home, we stood on the big retaining wall and threw our wishes into the waves. Big, crashing, white-capped waves swirled with gray and green and deep, deep blue. North Sea waves. I don't know what would have happened if one of us had fallen. Or maybe I do. Those waves were hungry for children.

Can you see the headline? American Child Drowns at Bawdsey Beach. Would you know about it now? No. Only we would know, our own private grief, though the village might remember, there might have been a cold stone plaque in the 600-year-old cemetery of the 15th century church. Commemorating the tragic accident. Or was it shameful neglect? Criminal negligence?

I had an incredible childhood. I knew fairies. I conversed with hungry waves. I hunted wishes.

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Sometimes, I wonder, could I ever give my children the same? Have we analyzed and judged and safety-strapped and recalled and litigated the living stuffing out of childhood?

You don't have to answer that. Just tell me you believe in fairies. I'm working on my answer, which seems to consist mostly of more questions. I'll try to put it up tomorrow.