The Monster in Your Dreams

I’ve always been fascinated with dreams. They are magical doors to exciting worlds, escape from the banality of life. Dreams are the seeds of inspirations and ideas. They are source of nightmares and fear. They are the windows to our souls.

My little Ryan has always had bad dreams. He was two and a half years old when I adopted him so the situation was traumatic for all involved. For awhile they were every night, an hour to an hour and a half after he went to bed. I would rush to his room and pull him into a hug and tell him Momma was there. Everything was okay.

When I first brought him home he spoke Chinese and I knew none, but he learned English quickly. Months after he came home I asked him what he remembered about China. He looked at me with a confused expression and said “nothing.” He only had memories of being with me.

Over the years, I’ve tried to jog his memory. Does he remember China at all? What about when he was with us there? Or living with his foster family? He remembers nothing, to my huge regret. But he was only two and most people have no real memories from their past before three.

Ryan is five now. Lately, his dreams have changed. He tells me they are about China when he was little. But when pressed, he said he didn’t remember.

But this morning was different.

I woke up late and had to get three kids and myself ready. I was in my bathroom and running behind when Ryan came in and stood next to me, very subdued. I looked down at him and he said. “I had a bad dream.”

I kept fixing my hair and asked, “What was it about?”

“When I was little in China. And Jenna was there.” This was a new piece of information.

I glanced down at his face, uncharactistically expressionless. I sat on the floor and pulled him onto my lap, facing me. “What happened? Do you remember?”

He stared into my eyes, tears welling up. “I lived in China and you came to get me.”

I sucked in my breath as cold terror trickled down my back. His nightmares, finally, after all these years made sense.

I am the monster in my child’s dreams.

I pulled him into a hug and told him how sorry I was that it was so scary for him. He didn’t know what was going on when I adopted him. The orphanage director brought him to me and left. He was alone with a strange looking woman who smelled different and he didn’t understand what she was saying. He was traumatized. He had cried for hours.

I leaned him back and stared into his face. “It’s okay to have those dreams,” I said. “It’s okay to feel mad, or sad or scared of Mommy in your dreams. You’re not bad to feel that way. You didn’t do anything wrong. But I love you very much and I’ll do anything to make you feel better. I want you tell me when you feel this way and I promise I won’t be mad or hurt or sad.”

A tear fell down his cheek.

“Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“You need to tell me so you will feel better. If you talk about it your dreams might not be so scary. And I promise I won’t be mad. It’s okay to feel that way.”

He spent the next ten minutes with me as I got ready, holding my hand when we went to get his sisters up. Within another ten minutes, he was fine, his silly self.

But I’ve spent the morning reliving every nightmare he’s had, viewing it in a new light. What could I have done differently? How could I have prevented this trauma for him? Because isn’t that what we mothers do? Blame ourselves?

The truth is, there are things I could have done, but I’m not perfect. Maybe I should have pressed him harder sooner but I don’t think so. Honestly, I don’t think he put it all together himself.

So why am I telling the world this painful experience? Because I wish that I’d spent more time repeating his adoption “story” with him. Jenna, the first, had a bedtime story about a little girl who lived far away and her family flew over an ocean to get her. But Ryan is my third adoption and our bedtime routine has changed. I’m often in a hurry to get my kids to bed so I can work. Stories don’t happen as often as they should. Maybe, just maybe, if I talked about it more he wouldn’t need his dreams to sort out his feelings for him.

And I know that my Ryan isn’t the only one. You—the adoptive mom or dad—might be the monster in your child’s dreams. It doesn’t mean that they don’t love you. In fact, I suspect Ryan’s biggest obstacle this morning was resolving his conflicting feelings about me. It never occurred to me that he kept that horrifying day locked deep in his psyche, although it should have. It shouldn’t be a surprise it escaped through his dreams. But now I’m aware and I’m prepared. And maybe, just maybe, we can make the monster go way.

Hey! Look at Me! I'm a Bag Lady!

I've been busy lately getting ready for the release of Twenty-Eight and a Half Wishes. This means I've been preoccupied and my children have had to entertain themselves.

**GASP**

**Insert obligatory mom story about only having three TV channels when I was a kid and having to play outside all day.**

**Insert obligatory childrens' eye roll**

Thankfully, Ryan and Emma entertain themselves pretty well, as long as I can tolerate the mess. (And if you've seen my house, you know I can.) Today, I was sitting at my computer trying to organize a blog tour** for my book and I noticed Emma prancing in the entry way. Wearing a bag. A gift bag.

This picture doesn't do it justice, but she's ripped out the bottom of the bag and the handles are her shoulder straps.

Why yes, she is doing a pageant move with her fists under her chin. Why do you ask? *blinks*

Note: my children are not involved in pageants. Julia, who just turned 14, is obsessed with Toddlers and Tiaras and has taught poor innocent Emma how to walk with cupcake hands and blow kisses in the shape of a heart. God help me.

But why stop with dresses?

How about a cape?

Or a hat?

Ryan couldn't be left out of the fun.

Meet the future winners of Project Runway. With their use of sustainable products along with their unique style, they're shoe ins.

**Book Blog Tour: I am putting together a book blog tour for Twenty-Eight and a Half Wishes. The tour will start on my blog on the release date, July 12 and travel to other blogs for 2-3 weeks. If you'd like to be part of it, send me an email at dms052564@gmail.com. Thanks!

Why Mommy Wears Headphones

Summer vacation is here! Yay! Unfortunately, I've had a hard time concentrating the last few days. I wonder why. This video was taken just a few moments ago from my desk chair.

Be sure to get to at least 30 seconds to get the "full effect."

*this is a cross post with my writing blog

Miscommunication

I've gone a little flower crazy.

I love flowers and I used to love to garden. In an attempt to put a little more balance in my life, I decided to create a giant flower bed. It previously ended right in front of those bushes to the right. I took it to the tree. (I foresee a water feature of some kind in that bare spot.)

I also built this landscape wall, which if you're friends with me on Facebook, you saw me brag about share my pride. Lots of flowers here too, and a pink dogwood tree.

And my front porch, several pots of flowers, surely to be joined by more after my trip next week.

So now my house looks like a greenhouse nursery, which makes me really happy. I can look out my office window and see all those blooms between the bushes and the trees. But with this change in the landscape, we've learned something new about Emma.

Emma loves flowers.

I guess I knew this already. I always have to plan an extra five minutes into our walk to pick up Jenna from school so Emma can stop and pick clover flowers and dandelions. Who knew all that innocent flower picking could cause widespread devastation?

>>cue ominous music<<

Where have all the flowers gone?

What did this poor plant do to loose all it's MULTIPLE blooms?

To be fair, how was Emma to know? I didn't specifically tell her not to pick the flowers and how is it any different than our daily, every other day, a couple of times a week walks?

After a minor freak out (one of my finer moments, to be sure) I explained to her that these flowers were supposed to be looked at and not picked. If we picked them, we wouldn't have lots of pretty flowers in our yard. It took a couple of times outside for the rule to sink in, a rule that she now helps enforce with neighbor kids.

Next Tuesday is Ryan and Emma's last day of preschool. This is actually on the radar of my attention because I'm going to New York City next week and I won't be here for it. Big brother Ross is in charge of the kids part of the week, a babysitter over the weekend. In any case, I'm trying to figure out who needs to be where and when while I'm gone so I can make a detailed list. Ross already feels a bit overwhelmed by his responsibilities, I figured I'd save him an item and send the teacher's gifts on Thursday.

Which meant I had to get their presents before 2:00 Thursday afternoon when I picked Emma and Ryan up. (You think I jest. Trust me, I've been known to be that late to the game.) You can only imagine the immense pride and satisfaction I felt realizing the need for gifts on Wednesday morning. (Go me!) But what to get? Gift cards would have been easy but less personal and I wanted their teachers to know how much we'll miss them. I mean, obviously you only have to look at my children's mugshots to see how happy they've been this year.*

*Not an accurate representation.

Since Ryan and Emma loved helping me plant flowers and we needed a morning activity, I decided we'd make pots of flowers for their teachers. I'd let the kids pick out which flowers they wanted then we'd come home and plant.

We got Jenna off to school and I was checking email when I told Emma that we were going to go pick out some flowers for her teachers.

"No, Mommy. You said I couldn't get my teachers flowers."

"No, it's okay. We're going to go get some after Ryan gets dressed."

Five minutes later, Ross who'd just emerged from his cave (also know as his room in the basement) said, "Uh oh."

Any parent knows those two nonsense syllables will instantly stop your heart.

I looked up and there was Emma holding these.

It could have been worse. She could have cut down the dogwood tree.

The Reading Room

As any parent knows, once a first grader can string letters together to recognize a word, they become well acquainted with the Reading Log.

The powerful Reading Log holds control over life and death. Okay, that's a slight exaggeration, but close. Failure to maintain the required number of pages or minutes results in loss of attendance to the Ice Cream Party.

If you're in second grade, death is the preferred alternative to not attending the Ice Cream Party.

But when you're in November the oh-so-distant ice cream party holds little allure in the harsh reality of twenty minutes of lost playing/TV time. Jenna, my second grader, goes through spurts of loving to read and hating it. Perhaps it's the reading material, more likely the call of her friends outside, but whatever the reason, Jenna and her Reading Log have become reluctant acquaintances.

Ryan and Emma see me nagging coaxing Jenna to read, see me set the twenty minute timer on my phone, see her camp out in a comfy chair to dive into another world. Apparently (and thankfully,) they have missed the reluctance. Imagine my surprise when the preschoolers approached me with thick paperback books this afternoon and asked me to set the timer.

They were doing their reading minutes.

Aww, isn't that sweet? Ryan's reading.

Umm, are you sure that's appropriate?

Emma's snuggled in with her book.

What? Did they start a Shannon K. Butcher book club and not tell me?

BTW, I'm friends with Shannon and this series is awesome so at least they have good reading taste.

I am NOT a Morning Person

I am not a morning person. I am a night owl and often stay up until the wee hours of morning. Good thing too, because that's the only time I can get in uninterrupted writing time. Unfortunately, my children do no understand that Mommy needs her beauty sleep. Or any kind of sleep. Especially uninterrupted sleep.

Ryan is a morning person. He wakes up at the crack of dawn, wide eyed and bushy tailed. (For the love of God! The cliche's!) Ryan has always been a quiet child, except for when he's bossing people around. Nothing like rule breakers to crack a kid out of his shell.

In the last month or so, Ryan has blossomed. He's still shy with people he doesn't know, but lately he's become chatty with the law abiding inhabitants, too. Ryan has also discovered singing. Maybe he's seen too much Glee , or maybe Mommy's impromptu singing and dance numbers have finally had an effect, but the boy loves to sing.

This morning, I was Tired. (Yes, with a capital T.) Who comes bouncing down the stairs at 7:10? (I was up at 6:45 after staying up until 1:30 watching miners jump out of capsules.) Ryan. Shouting. And singing. What could be better that shouting and singing at 8:00 a.m.? Bossing your little sister around. That's right You Get the Best of Both Worlds.*

* I have sunk to new lows, invoking a Hannah Montana song title when she's not even part of the blog.

There's not enough coffee to handle this in the morning.

The Latest Accessory

I've made no secret of the fact that Ryan has some OCD tendencies. He likes things neat and organized. He likes to arrange things just so.

So it should come as no surprise that his latest accessory, that one item you just can't leave home without would be--

Go figure.

He carries that bottle EVERYWHERE (except school, I'm not sure they would allow it at Pre-K). He even uses it. Sparingly. Guess what he's getting for Christmas!

One kid down, five to go.

Part Two: Who ARE Those Kids?

I am the single mother of six children. Some people are amazed by that fact. To me, it's just who and what I am. My oldest moved out last spring, so I only have five children living at home.

Yes, I can SEE you shaking your head at my use of the word only.

My three oldest children are biological. My three youngest are adopted. Three are boys and three are girls. Yes, I have my own Brady Bunch. *snort* Hardly. Otherwise I KNOW I would have an Alice. And a Mike. For the record, at this point I'd prefer an Alice. I hate housework.

If you want to know the story about HOW I became a single mother read this.

Some of you know my kids from when I wrote before. Others are getting introduced. After this post, you'll all be up to speed.

Trace

My oldest, Trace, is twenty-three now. He moved out last spring and into a condo with his girlfriend Cody and her four-year-old son Gauge. Trace works full-time at a pizza restaurant and is finishing his last semester of collage. He is eager to get out of the food service industry and begin a career.

His girlfriend Cody is the owner/creator of LuandEd She makes the cutest monster bags and tutus. Be sure to check her store out.

Ross

Ross just turned twenty. He lives at home and splits his time between working as an assistant manager at a convenience store and going to our local community college. His major is still undivided. He currently has a girlfriend. Ross lives in a man-cave, otherwise known as our basement, where he happily resides with the 50" plasma screen TV he bought last spring. Needless to say, I don't see a lot of Ross, but he often bring me Starbucks mochas. I think I'll keep him.

Julia

Julia is thirteen and now an eighth grader. Julia is into everything drama, whether it be in real life or on a stage. She just found out she got the lead role as Millie in her school musical, Thoroughly Modern Millie. She is in Show Choir (think Glee) and Honor Choir. Julia has a heart of gold and loves children. She is a much coveted babysitter. If only she liked watching her siblings as much as she enjoys watching other people's kids.

Jenna

Seven-year-old Jenna is a second grader. A product of the Disney Channel, Jenna is hip and sassy, but is actually more sensitive than I expected. She's a girly-girl through and through and would rather play with her American Girl doll than kick around a ball. Jenna is very social and love her friends.

Ryan

Ryan is now four and in Pre-K where he gets speech therapy. Ryan was born with a cleft lip and cleft palate, but they were repaired in China before we adopted him at two and a half. Ryan likes things neat and tidy. He loves nothing more than to boss people around and tattle on them when they don't follow the rules, which explains his nickname: Officer Ryan. When Ross isn't around (most of the time,) he is the only boy in a sea of estrogen. God bless him.

Emma

Three-year-old Emma is the baby. Since the day I met Emma at three months, she has always had a strong will. A character trait to be admired, most of the time, but not when you are battling over the appropriate place to poop-- the toilet versus your panties. It's her very stubborness that helped her survive malnutrition in a Vietnamese orphanage and a case of RSV when she was four months old that left her on a ventilator for six days. While her tenacity can be annoying at times, I wouldn't change it for anything.

Cutting the Strings

Today, Emma started preschool. For a couple of weeks she had told everyone she encountered that she was going soon. Her enthusiasm for school put her older siblings to shame.

Last week, was Meet the Teacher Day. As we pulled up to the school, she practically squealed with excitement, something that Ryan couldn't relate to. (Ryan started his Pre-K year a couple of weeks ago with the school district early childhood center.) Emma marched right into the school and her classroom. She eagerly sat at the table with her folder.

Because, hello! Who doesn't like candy?

Emma's class is The Stable Room. Amazingly enough, she wasn't tested before her class assignment to insure the proper room placement. Talk about serendipity.

Emma and Ryan explored her new room. Ryan was very hesitant at first and Emma led the way.

Her favorite area was the Home Living Center. Notice the folder in her hand. She wasn't about to let that go!

Fast forward to today.

Not so happy.

I think Emma figured she did her 20 minute stint of preschool, it was fun while it lasted, and it was a done deal.

Uh, no.

The only thing she got excited about was her lunch box. Actually excited might be the wrong word. Let's try POSSESSIVE. All of my children have their first day of school pictures with their backpacks. Emma's is lying on the ground. She's got her lunch box looped over her shoulder.

Toudee and Foofa came along to make sure she got to school without incident. She still has her lunch box.

On her way to class. The fact she is walking on her own two feet was progress.

Toudee and Foofa had to rest in Emma's backpack while she went to class. Convincing her of this was fairly easy. Giving up the lunch box? Not so much.

Then it was time for me to go and my baby cried as though I was never coming back. After six kids, I'm supposed to be immune to such displays of hysterics.

Someone forgot to tell my tear ducts.

I walked away in tears, wishing I'd had time to give her another kiss. That I had reminded her to tell her teacher if she had to potty. But I didn't. There wasn't time.

It occurred to me that this is really life in a nutshell. I sent Trace to college and drove away wishing I had warned him to not wash his darks with his whites. To eat less Ramen and more veggies. Then Trace moved out into a condo with Cody last April, and I wanted to tell him to change his furnace filter every three months and try not to park on the street.

The truth is when you are in the moment of separating from your child there isn't enough time to tell them everything you think they need to know. Honestly, they're not listening anyway. As a parent, we're still clinging to them and they are ready to be set free. As it should be. Sure they might cry, or scream as in Emma's case. But they need to be set free.

It hurts like hell, but that's our job. It's not to cram the information we think they need to know at the last minute. It's to teach them along the way.

When I picked Emma up from preschool, she was exactly how I expected her to be. Happy.

But her teacher told me when she asked the class who wanted to come back on Thursday, Emma was the only one who said she didn't want to go.

Guess I still have some time to teach her about those air filters.

Descending into the Circles of Hell

As parents, we do things for our kids that we would never do if left to our own devices. I can promise you I wouldn't spend mindless hours watching kids swing at the park or willingly sacrifice my brain cells, one by one, to spend quality time with an over-sized rodent known as Chucky Cheese.

Sometimes my children will request an activity and my answer requires little thought.

"Mom, can I have half the 7th grade come over for a party?"

No brainer. "No." Although I confess, sometimes depending on the request, the no might usually has a bit more drama attached.

"You want to do what? Have you lost your mind?"

Okay, so I need to work on my responses.

Lately, I've been in full edit mode on my novel, preparing for a conference I will attend in Denver next weekend. I feel guilty. I've spent more time on my book and less time on my kids. Everyone knows it's a temporary thing. Nevertheless, I feel guilty.

Here's a motherhood truth no one warns you about, along with too many others to mention here: the moment your child is placed into your arms, your life is ruled by guilt. The only way to escape it is to... I got nothin'. There's no escape.

When Julia and Jenna begged and pleaded to go to the American Girl Store GRAND OPENING on Saturday, the reasonable, sane part of me would have said:

"I would sooner cut off my right hand and feed it to the lions at the zoo."

But guilt-ridden Mom said:

"Okay."

And so began my slow descent into hell.

Now to be fair and before the canonization process for my certain sainthood gets underway, let me confess, I was not little Miss Molly Sunshine the entire way through. Even the night before I had a bit of an attitude. Julia wanted to leave at 8 am to arrive for the 10am opening of the doors. (I think they actually opened at 9.) I might have been suckered willing to wait in line for hours but I sure wasn't going lose precious sleep for it.

We left at 10, with a Starbucks detour on the way. Of course. We arrived at 10:45 and encountered the crowds gathered to visit the mecca of young girls everywhere.

Trust me this line was nothing.

They divided the pilgrims into groups. The group entering the store was 5. We were given tickets for group 11. Then we were free to wander, meander and shop in the mall , checking a digital display that announced what number of group they were lining up like cattle on the way to the slaughter house. (note: photo above.). I was with FIVE children (Julia brought a friend), in a crowded mall. On a Saturday. Did I mention that I had FIVE children? And one was Emma.

I descended into another circle of hell.

Shopping with teenage girls.

While Dante's circles of hell were Seven Deadly Sins, my own personal circles of hell were Aeropostale. The Disney Store. Claire's. Navigating a maze of ramps with a Sit-N-Stand stroller is my idea of torture. I tried really hard to remember being thirteen and wanting to shop for hours on end. I must have killed those brain cells at Chucky Cheese.

I confess, I did do some shopping. I bought the kids more school clothes. I bought an outfit for my pitching session with a literary agent next weekend. If I had to be there, I might as well get something out of it, too.

Around 1:00, we tried to eat lunch at the food court, but that was impossible. The eating area was overrun by eighteen-inch dolls and their dressed alike chaperones. Instead we went across the street, ate a quick fast food lunch and went back to the mall.

Amazingly enough, it was time for us to enter the cattle guards. Equally amazing, Emma had had enough.

Talk about bad timing.

Emma did NOT want to wait in line anymore. She was done. But little things distracted her. Like these paper cone cups.

That came from these. You would have thought Emma was a camel replenishing after a two-week trek in the desert. After about five cups of water, I had to drag her away. As you can imagine, that went over well.

Which explains why she's not in this picture outside the entrance.

FINALLY, FOUR HOURS AFTER WE FIRST ARRIVED.

The Promised Land*

*enter at your own peril

There's a happy face.

Emma was happy too. When the girl is upset, all you have to do is give her a stroller. I see a great future as a dog walker ahead of her. Or nanny. Or rickshaw driver.

THIS is when I decided I would descend to the lowest circle of hell, wallow around like a rutting pig and not shower for three days. Ryan wanted a "boy doll" and I decided "why not?" So I got Bitty Twins -- a boy and a girl. When I opened the box and handed the boy to Ryan, his face lit up and said with great excitement, "He looks like me!"*

*Not exactly. While we requested the ASIAN Bitty Twins, we actually received the Hispanic Bitty Twins. But hey, Ryan doesn't care so why should I?

And what did Ryan name his new friend? Little Ryan.

We came home, SIX HOURS after we left and the girls dressed their dolls up in the new outfits. I sat down at the computer and frantically tried to catch up on the work I missed and I wondered: Will my kids remember the time that Mom took them to the American Girl Store Opening and bought their dolls' outfits? Or will they remember tired and crabby Mom, whose back was killing her from a poorly designed mall? Only time will tell. Until then, the only thing I can do is to keep on trying.

Even saints are human.**

Hey, those dolls look just like my kids.

** Some might suggest that I am not actually eligible for sainthood after my trip to the AG Store. Some who know the actual criteria for sainthood would scoff and say that MIRACLES have to attributed to the person suggested for sainthood. They would propose that no miracle had occurred. And they would be wrong.

You tell me that one over-caffeinated, stressed-out Mom can take five kids to a crowded mall for five hours and not kill ANYONE doesn't qualify as a miracle.

Saint Denise. I like the sound of it.