Old Lady's Law Office & Kitchen Table

Memorial Day

2008-05-25T22:41:00.005-04:00

RIP, Thomas Tillman Moore, Jr., TSGT, USAFR
January 18, 1923 - August 7, 2006
Veteran of World War II (Pacific) and the Korean Conflict

One Sunday night around 8 p.m. a little over two years ago, our phone rang. I picked up, even though I was literally heading out the door at the time to do the grocery shopping. It was my sister Anne calling to tell me that my dad had a stroke, or so they believed at the time. (Later we learned it was a bleeder on the brain caused by a fall when Daddy had one of the seizures that were becoming more and more common.) He had been taken to the hospital and things didn't look so good. This was the phone call I'd been dreading since my Pappaw's death when I was five.

When I started the van, the radio was on, and the song in the video here had just started playing. I broke down. Then and there, I knew my dad's final illness had begun and he wouldn't be with us much longer. That song was my sign.

I cried my way through the grocery store and home. By bedtime, I knew Daddy had gone into surgery, and at some point in the night, perhaps aware that I wasn't sleeping, my sister Susie called to let me know that he had survived the surgery. So far, so good. For a while, he seemed to make real progress; however, a couple of weeks later, a second surgery was required, and he never quite came back after that one.

It was my prayer at the time that he'd survive past Memorial Day weekend so that I could see him one more time. We'd all been planning to come home then to celebrate my mother's 80th birthday, which was the first week of June. Together with my sisters, Daddy had put together a family celebration. We all came home, and we celebrated Mom's birthday, but it was a bittersweet celebration. We spent most of our time waiting outside the ICU to squeeze in one more visit.

When I saw Daddy in the ICU, it only confirmed my feeling that it would not be long. Mom thought he would survive and eventually leave the hospital. I tried to stay optimistic for her sake, but in my heart, I knew. I believe he knew, too, though he fought hard because she wasn't ready yet. Over the summer, he had his ups and down, but by August, the months he spent bedridden had taken their toll and he succumbed to a hospital infection.

I love country music because it tells the stories of real life, and in that sense, it has become the soundtrack of my life. Hearing this song always takes me back to the moment I knew that we were losing Daddy. The message of the song, however, isn't one of sadness, but of hope that I'll see him again someday.

Until we meet again, Daddy.

There are no words

2008-05-22T23:38:00.003-04:00

Steven Curtis Chapman is well-known in the Christian community and the recording industry at large. He's one of the most successful Christian artists of all time and has won multiple Grammys. He's also known and loved in the China adoption community. At the urging of his oldest daughter, who was 14 at the time, Steven and his wife Mary Beth adopted a daughter from China, Shaohannah. Soon thereafter, they adopted another, Stevey Joy, and then, a few days after Kevin and I went to get Madeline, they adopted Maria Sue. They also started a charity that awards adoption grants to families, Shaohannah's Hope. Kevin and I had the privilege of hearing Steven sing and speak at a fundraiser for our adoption agency, AWAA, that we attended while we were waiting for Madeline's referral. AWAA assisted with Maria Sue's adoption.

We all were greatly saddened today when we read that Maria Sue, age 5, was hit by an SUV yesterday at the family's home and died a few hours later at Vanderbilt University Medical Center. Please keep this family in your prayers, especially her older brother, who was the driver of the SUV. The authorities have determined that it was a terrible accident, and no charges will be filed, but there are no words that can adequately describe how devastating it would have been for that young man, as well as his entire family.

When I get where I'm going

2008-05-20T22:52:00.003-04:00

Madeline and I had a conversation earlier this week that was one of those priceless ones you never want to forget. We were riding along in the car and she pointed out some vultures that were circling overhead on one side of the road. She mentioned that she and her aftercare teacher, Miss Jeannie, had seen some vultures when they had been on the playground. She told me that Jeannie said that vultures ate dead animals.

I concurred, and explained that around here, the vultures ate pretty well because of all the road kill. We live in a recently-developed area. A little over five years ago, the plot where our house sits was part of somebody's farm. We see a lot of wild animals.

Then the conversation took an interesting turn:

Madeline: Do vultures eat people?

Me: If the people are dead, yes. That's why when people die we bury their bodies in the cemetery. It's one way we show respect. We bury them so their bodies will break down and return to the Earth. [Well, no, not really, but it wasn't the right time to go into a spiel on the funeral industry.] They don't need their bodies anymore.

Madeline: Where's the spirit when that happens?

Me: Remember, when someone dies, their spirit leaves their body and goes on to Heaven.

Madeline: Like Grandpa? [Grandpa was my dad, who passed away in 2006.]

Me: Yes, that's right, Grandpa's spirit is in Heaven now.

Madeline: What does he look like?

Me: I've never seen a spirit, but some people claim that they look like a younger, healthier version of the person who died. If someone has died in an accident, they'll probably look like the accident never happened. Grandpa probably looks like he did when I was your age. I'm sure he's very handsome again!

Madeline: But when I'm dead and get to Heaven, how will I recognize him?

Me: I'm sure he won't look that different. Maybe his hair will be black again rather than white and he'll be able to stand up straighter. But I'm also pretty sure he'll know when you arrive and will be there to meet you at the entrance.

Madeline: Well, I know I'll recognize my Gramps [her paternal grandfather] in Heaven even if he looks younger. He'll still have a big nose!

My new favorite LOLCats

2008-05-20T22:50:00.001-04:00

Maybe it wasn't the perfect place, but ...

2008-05-12T18:30:00.007-04:00

I had a conversation that set me on my ear while at an outing yesterday. I was talking with an acquaintance who has a child that's only a little younger than Madeline. This person has been trying out some Love and Logic-like techniques for disciplining her child, who tends toward stubbornness. She was sharing that her child was angry and told her that, as children are sometimes wont to do, she wished she had different parents. In response, my fellow conversationalist told her daughter that she'd take her to the orphanage that very night. Then she preceded to explain that she'd told the child just how awful orphanages were: "You know, they chain the children to the beds, the children don't get anything to eat, only one small grain of rice a day ...." Yadda, yadda, yadda. And she said all this while Madeline was sitting right there.

What! The! Hell?!

This person knew me well before the time we adopted Madeline, and I know that she knows that Madeline spent her first 14 months in an orphanage. But I'm very bad about letting things like this pass, even though I know that, with an adopted child of a different race, I shouldn't be so slow to speak. I just don't like to make waves, and I don't think well on my feet. I've also been reading Miss Manners for too many years. Usually the best I can muster is a stern glare or, on occasion, an icy, "Whatever do you mean?" After this person left, I ask our hostess and Kevin if they'd caught the remark and, if so, what they thought. For the record, both thought it was appalling.

So, fellow conversationalist, if you're reading this, the children in Madeline's orphanage were not chained to beds there, nor were they starved. You have no business suggesting that to anyone, especially your child, who plays with my child.

No, fellow conversationalist, the children in Qinzhou were very much loved. Perhaps there wasn't money for fancy toys, pretty clothes or even a lot of food, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was love. I saw it in the nannies' faces, and though I understand only a few words of Cantonese, I heard it in their voices. I saw love in the eyes of the nanny who handed my daughter to me and the tears on her face. Those nannies were dedicated to the welfare of our children, and they treated them with incredible tenderness. As a result of being so loved, Madeline mourned fiercely at first, then bonded to us quickly and tightly. Our bond is every bit as miraculous as birth itself.

And lest my observations seem biased to you, a couple of years ago, another family in our little Qinzhou Social Welfare Institution e-group visited the orphanage and spoke at length with the director, the shorter of the two men in the picture above. As they were leaving, the family asked him if he had any thoughts to pass along to the children who'd been adopted from there. "Tell them that the people in Qinzhou love them," he said.

You may think that I've gotten very PC, and perhaps that is the case. But there's nothing like experiencing the sting of stereotyping, albeit through my child, to drive home why such attitudes are heinous. While you may not have intended any ill will, what you said hurt me because it had the potential of tearing her down, and that's just not acceptable. I've forgiven you, as my faith instructs me to do, but I ask one thing: that you think before you speak.

Happy Mother's Day!

2008-05-11T08:28:00.008-04:00

Happy Mother's Day to some very special moms (besides me) in my daughter's life. First, to her Godmother Alice, who is also her Aunt Alice.

Second, to her Grammie, Connie McGee (who is also about the best mother-in-law anyone could ever hope to have).

Finally, to her Grandma Wanda in Tennessee, my own loving mother for over 50 years now.

You make a difference

2008-05-08T15:39:00.003-04:00

I am in Reno this week taking a civil mediation course. More on what I'm learning later, but our instructors introduced us to this really neat video that I thought I'd share. For a long time I've felt that we all make a difference somehow and we detract from the life experience of others if we opt out of doing what we were put here to do. Enjoy!

The debate rages on

2008-05-03T08:17:00.005-04:00

This is a good article on a subject I loathe, The Mommy Wars. Before I became a mom, I wondered if they were real or just intended to sell soap. Now I know they are real, though probably overblown, except perhaps in the minds of petty women who like to keep score.

I work full-time, and I work guiltlessly. I'm not your ardent, in-your-face feminist, but I am an attorney, and even as a federal employee, my earning potential is pretty good. When I was much younger, I just assumed I'd stay home with kids, at least until they were in school. By my mid-30's, when I still hadn't married, my assumptions changed. I never assumed that I wouldn't eventually marry, but I knew I'd probably keep working. After all, I thought, my children would likely be born of another woman and a bit older, perhaps school age, when they entered my life -- as stepchildren, I assumed. Meanwhile, tired of headaches from pounding the glass ceiling in my previous career (computer programmer/analyst for various defense contractors), I made a U-turn on life's path and backtracked to pursue a long-time (try from junior high days) dream of becoming a lawyer. I enrolled in night law school as a prematurely gray 37-year-old. (Hence the moniker "Old Lady," bestowed on me by some younger peers, and it wasn't intended as flattery.) I graduated and passed the bar at 41. Magna cum laude, law review, various writing honors, judicial clerkship -- not only had I become a lawyer, but people seemed to think I'd probably be a pretty good lawyer, too.

In the mean time, I'd married Kevin, a guy who didn't have children and wanted them. I quickly learned that it would be difficult, and require a lot of medical intervention, for me to have a baby. Although we have no problems with assisted fertility in many cases, it wasn't for us. There are babies out there, if race and national origins are not important to you. Ultimately, we decided to request an infant rather than an older child. In terms of everything from attachment to language acquisition, it just seemed easier that way.

So ... Madeline arrived at a time when I was changing careers at mid-life and trying to establish myself as an attorney. She arrived when I had just incurred big student loans. There was no question about it: I would keep working. And because there wasn't any "work or don't work?" question, I never felt guilty about working.

It's true that some people tried to make me (and people like me) feel guilty. I've participated in a number of adoption-related e-groups over the years and frequently some neophyte will pose the question, "If you're going to all the trouble to adopt a child, shouldn't you have to stay home to raise her?" Usually, these neophytes are evangelical Christians. Agendized evangelical Christians, I might add. I was raised as an evangelical Christian and, though a fairly liberal Methodist now, I know a lot of them. But, the answer to that question is a resounding, "No!" It's actually a pretty silly question. Isn't a child without parents better off with parents, even if those parents work?

I remember one of these e-debates where a self-righteous lady told us that if she worked, her family could afford a trip to Disneyworld and a house with a three-car garage like the rest of us, but no, she was sacrificing those frills and fripperies to give her children "the best." Well! For the record, we're planning right now to take our 6-year-old to Disney for the first time. Disney won't be a yearly occurrence. That place is expensive. Oh, and the last time I checked, we had a two-car garage.

On the other hand, we ought to be able to take care of ourselves in retirement without burdening our daughter, and hopefully, we'll be able to send her to Harvard if that's her dream (and she can get in). It's much easier to do that with two incomes.

None of this is to say that there aren't rich folks out there who don't need two incomes. And there are families where it would eat away the vast majority of the extra income for both parents to work. In that case, it makes sense for the person with the lower income (I did not say "mother") to drop out of the workforce for awhile. (On the other hand, it does NOT make sense to homeschool. Well, maybe not never, but seldom. And escaping the evil public schools isn't a good reason to homeschool. Get a job, woman, and send the kid to private school like I do.)

Okay, so I have strong opinions on this stuff, too.

I have to say, though, my daughter has thrived "despite" my staying in the workforce. She never forgot who Mommy was. While she's always run to me at the end of the day, she runs to her friends in the morning when we dropped her off. She attached about as quickly as could be expected. She's been incredibly healthy. Other than begging me to buy her a Bratz doll of late (not happening), she's picked up relatively few bad attitudes and habits from her peers. She has a big circle of friends. She incorporated the Golden Rule in her dealings with others at a tender age and is learning to resolve conflicts constructively. Adults love her. She has a healthy degree of independence, but a little kid's neediness and sweetness. Kindergarten isn't over yet, and she's already reading and doing "pluses and minuses" in math. She's a little mouthier than I'd like (but so was I at that age) and she's a pickier eater than I'd like (one of her cousins asked me how she survived), but she's a good kid, and I can't help but think that her daycare experience enhanced that.

I'm no fan of Barbie, but ...

2008-04-28T21:25:00.006-04:00

Maybe they should save their consternation for Bratz.

By ALI AKBAR DAREINI, Associated Press Writer Mon Apr 28, 4:09 PM ET

TEHRAN, Iran - A top Iranian judiciary official warned Monday against the "destructive" cultural and social consequences of importing Barbie dolls and other Western toys.

In the latest salvo in a more than decade-old government campaign against Barbie, Prosecutor General Ghorban Ali Dori Najafabadi said in an official letter to Vice President Parviz Davoudi that the doll and other Western toys are a "danger" that need to be stopped.

"The irregular importation of such toys, which unfortunately arrive through unofficial sources and smuggling, is destructive culturally and a social danger," said the letter, a copy of which was made available to The Associated Press.

Iranian markets have been inundated with smuggled Western toys in recent years partly due to a dramatic rise in purchasing power as a result of increased oil revenues.

While importing the toys is not necessarily illegal, it is discouraged by a government that seeks to protect Iranians from what it calls the negative effects of Western culture.

Najafabadi said the increasing visibility of Western dolls has alarmed authorities and they are considering intervening.

"The displays of personalities such as Barbie, Batman, Spiderman and Harry Potter ... as well as the irregular importation of unsanctioned computer games and movies are all warning bells to the officials in the cultural arena," his letter said.

Najafabadi said Iran is the world's third biggest importer of toys and warned that smuggled imports pose a threat to the "identity" of the new generation.

"Undoubtedly, the personality and identity of the new generation and our children, as a result of unrestricted importation of toys, has been put at risk and caused irreparable damages," he said.

Mattel Inc., the maker of Barbie, had no immediate comment on the Iranian letter.

Barbie is sold wearing swimsuits and miniskirts in a society where women must wear head scarves in public and men and women are not allowed to swim together.

In 1996, the head of a government-backed children's agency called Barbie a "Trojan horse" sneaking in Western influences such as makeup and revealing clothes.

Authorities launched a campaign of confiscating Barbies from toy shops in 2002, denouncing the un-Islamic sensibilities of the iconic American doll. But the campaign was eventually dropped.

Also in 2002, Iran introduced its own competing dolls — the twins Dara and Sara — who were designed to promote traditional values with their modest clothing and pro-family stories. But the dolls proved unable to stem the Barbie tide.

Angel Food v. Devil's Food

2008-04-28T18:31:00.003-04:00

Here's another one I didn't write that struck me as particularly funny:

Angel's Food vs. Devil's Food...

In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth and populated the Earth with broccoli, cauliflower and spinach, green and yellow and red vegetables of all kinds, so Man and Woman would live long and healthy lives.

Then using God's great gifts, Satan created Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream and Krispy Creme Donuts. And Satan said, "You want chocolate with that?"

And Man said, "Yes!" and Woman said, "and as long as you're at it, add some sprinkles." And they gained 10 pounds. And Satan smiled.

And God created the healthful yogurt that Woman might keep the figure that Man found so fair. And Satan brought forth white flour from the wheat, and sugar from the cane and combined them. And Woman went from size 6 to size 14.

So God said, "Try my fresh green salad." And Satan presented Ranch Dressing, buttery croutons and garlic toast on the side. And Man and Woman unfastened their belts following the repast.

God then said, "I have sent you heart healthy vegetables and olive oil in which to cook them." And Satan brought forth deep fried fish and chicken-fried steak so big it needed its own platter. And Man gained more weight and his cholesterol went through the roof.

God then created a light, fluffy white cake, named it "Angel Food Cake," and said, "It is good." Satan then created chocolate cake and named it "Devil's Food."

God then brought forth running shoes so that His children might lose those extra pounds. And Satan gave cable TV with a remote control so Man would not have to toil changing the channels. And Man and Woman laughed and cried before the flickering blue light and gained pounds.

Then God brought forth the potato, naturally low in fat and brimming with nutrition. And Satan peeled off the healthful skin and sliced the starchy center into chips and deep-fried them. And Man gained pounds.

God then gave lean beef so that Man might consume fewer calories and still satisfy his appetite. And Satan created McDonald's and its 99-cent double cheeseburger. Then said, "You want fries with that?" And Man replied, "Yes! And super size them!" And Satan said, "It is good." And Man went into cardiac arrest.

God sighed and created quadruple bypass surgery.

Then Satan created HMOs.

Tears on my laptop

2008-04-27T00:44:00.007-04:00

On Fridays, I work at home. This past Friday, I fired up my virtual connection to the office, opened up my work email and learned that a coworker had died. The email had been sent on Thursday after I left, and immediately, I called in to try to learn what had happened. Suicide. It goes without saying that the day went downhill from there. I spent the remainder of the work day in a mental fog, crying intermittently as I tried to write. When I wasn't crying, or reading the email traffic about the availability of EAP counselors and the all-hands meeting for my office, I was on the phone with people from the office trying to make sense of what had happened.

There's no way that Jane's (not her real name) death makes sense to me even now, and at present, I'm mad at her. When I'm not crying, that is. And I'm spending a lot of this weekend doing just that. I've known other people who've committed suicide, but I was closer to this woman than I was to those people. I can't say that we were close friends, but we were friends and had been colleagues for nearly six years (I was hired at my current job in July 2002). Jane was actually one of my peer-interviewers when I applied for my job, and perhaps one of the reasons I accepted the job when offered. And Jane and I shared some important commonalities. We both struggled with depression, and we both battled eating and weight issues. It's the commonalities that make her self-induced death harder to accept, and like a lot of those left behind in any suicide, I wonder what might have prevented it.

A couple of people I know have told me not to think this way. One told me that Jane's passing was her choice and I couldn't have done anything to stop it. The first part is definitely true, and I suppose that a person absolutely set on ending her life would be pretty much impossible to stop.

The second friend, a colleague, told me that I shouldn't be angry, that I should understand why she did it because I too suffer from depression. That doesn't work for me. Even in the worst of my own depression, and I've had bouts of it since college, I've never been suicidal. Sure, I had some minor suicidal ideation in my mid-twenties, but it was mainly drama queen stuff in response to a job that was harder than anything I've dealt with in my life, and frankly, for which I was emotionally unsuited.

That pain was pretty bad, but it did end, by the way. My employer soon realized I was unsuited, too, and terminated me. Looking back, that was a humane act because it caused me to leave a career that would have been soul-crushing and strike out for something better. It took several years, but the road eventually led to law school. That was probably the road I should have taken in the first place, though at the time, I was probably too immature and perfectionistic to have survived law school.

Since that time, I've had ups and downs. My bouts of depression have mainly involved extreme lethargy, overeating, weight gain, poor sleep hygiene, a messy house, crabbiness, and tearfulness, but not losing my will to live or purposefully trying to die. I know my strong religious convictions have played a part in this, but beyond that, killing myself just doesn't compute. At some point (in my late 20's or early 30's), I realized that things usually do get better if you give them time. I've never gotten so deeply mired in depression that I haven't found something good to hold onto ... a hug from a friend, a call from a family member, an unexpected check in the mail. I don't know what it's like to lose all hope. I'm surprised that Jane did know that.

I'm not just saying this because she's dead, but Jane was a terrific woman through and through. She was unfailingly kind, endlessly caring, utterly decent, and a damn fine lawyer, too. Jane was the type who'd organize the office baby showers, retirement parties and welcome receptions for new employees. I'd worked closely with her last fall on our agency's Unity Day observance, which is an annual celebration our varied personal histories and origins. Jane always had a kind word and a good suggestion for resolving the sticky legal problem currently on my desk. Beyond my individual sorrow, Jane's death is a huge loss for our agency. And it begs the question: Did she even know how much we all loved her? I suspect she did, but the depression monster was stronger than that love.

Despite my anger about the emotional chaos her passing creates for us all, I pray she's found the peace she was seeking. Requiescat in pace, dear friend.

Ring! Ring!

2008-04-24T20:22:00.006-04:00

This is not a post about jewelry, title to the contrary. It's a post about amazing customer service that's almost unheard of these days.

I've always loved my engagement and wedding rings. Back when Kevin and I decided to get married, he did some Internet research about local jewelers after spending a rather frustrating Sunday afternoon store-hopping in a large mall. Washington Diamond, a small family-owned store in Falls Church, Virginia, got consistently high marks its customers, and so he decided to make an appointment there. We went on a Thursday night after work.

Our shopping experience there was clearly different than anything we'd experienced at the mall stores. Instead of being sized up, shaken down, or shamed into looking at bigger stones than we could afford (essentially, a used-car-buying experience), one of the owners, who'd apparently already discussed budget with Kevin, simply brought a tray of stones in our price range into his office, and I selected the one that I liked. No attitude, no condescension, no frilly showroom.

The photo above doesn't do justice to it. It was the smallest stone on the tray, but has incredible fire. Though it's not small, what it "lacks" in carats, it more than makes up in color, cut and clarity. And it was considerably less than a stone of similar weight (but of a lesser quality) that we'd seen at the mall stores.

It gets better. I brought with me a picture of a ring I liked from a bridal magazine. We found the setting in one of Robert's catalogs, and it was pricey. Robert proposed that his goldsmith would make a similar ring -- not identical, of course, but in the same genre -- for a considerably less inflated price. The goldsmith made me an elegant ring for which I still get frequent compliments. When time to buy a wedding band rolled around, we came back to Washington Diamond and they created a matching band.

So you can imagine my upset when I looked at my hand one day last fall and saw that one of the baguettes had fallen out of the engagement ring.

Together with my coworkers, I scoured the floor of my office, the hall and the restroom on the floor where I work. We took apart my computer keyboard. We turned off all the lights and searched using a flashlight. No stone.

I emailed Washington Diamond to inquire about a repair. The owner called me the next day and assured me that the ring could be repaired for a reasonable price. Essentially, I would pay for the new stone. That's it.

So last month, I finally took my ring in for repair. I left my wedding band as well so they could inspect it. No sense losing another baguette. Because before I took over the family filing system, Kevin had lost the certificate that came with the ring, so I wanted to replace that. And, yes, give me an updated appraisal, too.

I picked up the rings late last week. I swear, they looked new. The baguette turned out to be a bit more expensive than we expected because it's not a size they normally use, but Washington Diamond had cleaned and polished the rings beautifully, and replated the platinum parts with rhodium -- all for the cost of another baguette. And they even had a photocopy of the certificate in their files.

I love these guys. I love my rings!

My 10th anniversary is coming up. An anniversary ring? Oh, how I wish! But, those darned tuition payments never end. (That's not to say that she's not worth every penny of it.)

Pet Diaries: Dog vs. Cat

2008-04-22T21:35:00.008-04:00

No, I didn't write this myself. Don't know the author (for attribution purposes), but it is too good not to share.

The Dog's Diary:

8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!

9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!

9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!

10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!

12:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing!

1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!

3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!

5:00 pm - Dinner! My favorite thing!

7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!

8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!

11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

The Cat's Diary:

Day 983 of my captivity.

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates my capabilities. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. Jerks!

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage. Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again
tomorrow, but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released, and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded. The bird must be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now.

April 9, 2003, and Beyond

2008-04-20T08:11:00.018-04:00

In the fall of 2003, I did something I've always thought would be fun to do, write a feature-like article for a magazine. It all started a few months earlier -- during the thick of the events I've been describing in this series -- when I received the slick Furman magazine from my alma mater. (My first foray into higher education was at Furman University in Greenville, S.C., where I graduated in 1979 with a B.A. in history.) There was a first-person article from a classmate, Jim Ewel, regarding an adventure he and his family had in Paris, when Jim decided to take a few months off from work and get an humble kitchen-prep job at a multi-star eatery there. Now, this adventure begs the question, "Who can afford to do that?" After college, Jim seems to have struck out for Seattle and landed a job in the little software start-up that eventually ate the industry. So while I was in law school reading about Microsoft's antitrust "issues," Jim was probably making a ton of money. Oh, well.... I saw the article and said, "I can do this!" Not market Windows mind you, or slice and dice in Paris (though I probably actually could do that), mind you. No, write a first-person article for a slick magazine. After ruling out the Washington Post's Sunday magazine, I contacted the editor of Furman. He liked the idea, and six months later, I was a published author. With apologies to Paul Harvey, the " Rest of the Story" comes from my article:

On Wednesday, April 9, we boarded an early-morning flight to Hong Kong, and at noon departed for Chicago from a tomb-like Hong Kong International Airport. The trip back was somber – and very different from the journey over. On our flight to Beijing, every seat was taken, but we had congregated in the plane’s galleys, gotten to know our fellow adoptive parents and chatted up the flight attendants, who were more than happy to keep the liquid refreshments flowing. On the way back, the flight was half-empty and the attendants were wearing surgical masks and latex gloves.

By now, Madeline was adjusting to us – and rapidly becoming her sprightly self. She didn’t sleep until we were 30 minutes outside of O’Hare, when she nodded off in my arms. When we passed through Immigration, the inspector looked at her and said with a grin, “Well, it’s another ‘lucky kid’!” With a stamp and a stroke of his pen, Madeline became a citizen.

Her warm welcome to America was short-lived, however. On the way to the domestic gate, she was awakened by an overly zealous security inspector who insisted that she be removed from her harness so that it could be X-rayed. I didn’t know terrorists had sunk so low. As we took off, she started whimpering and pawing her ears, and she remained unhappy all the way home. Kevin’s folks met us right outside the security perimeter – two very tired parents with their first grandchild.

At the time, many returning parents in the China adoption community were choosing to be quarantined for 10 days. We thought this was excessive, and we knew that Kevin’s parents would never agree to wait that long to meet their grandchild. To be safe, though, we decided not to leave the house much during our first few days home.

I did, however, take Madeline to our family practitioner, Dr. Joanne Watson, the day after we got home to get more amoxicillin for what I was sure was an ear infection. I also told Dr. Watson about my illness in China. She attributed it to the same causes I had – jet lag, dehydration, stress – but told me to keep in touch.

When we took the baby to Johns Hopkins, the doctor pronounced her “healthy but small” and advised us to continue treating her scabies and to feed her whatever she’d eat. By the end of the next week, Easter weekend, all of us were over jet lag and feeling better, and we decided that Madeline would make her social debut in church.

By Monday night, however, both Kevin and I were feeling sick. Kevin thought he was suffering from allergies, but my symptoms from Nanning had returned with a vengeance, and this time with an added problem: shortness of breath.

When my temperature reached 101 on Tuesday, I called Dr. Watson’s office. Within minutes she returned the call and said, “It’s probably nothing, but I think we need to rule out SARS, and a hospital is the best place to do that.” She agreed to make the arrangements. If I was sick, it was likely that everyone in the house would get sick, so we decided that all of us should be tested. We left immediately.

Kevin dropped Madeline and me at the emergency room door, where a security guard stepped up and asked, “Ma’am, are you Mrs. McGee?” When I said yes, he led me to one side as a staff member approached, bringing masks for us to wear. He wasn’t in protective clothing and kept a healthy distance. When Kevin arrived, the guard led us all to an isolation room, where a group of doctors and nurses waited – in masks, gowns, gloves and goggles.

Five hours later, after we had endured assorted questions, tests, X-rays and specimen collections, the nurse-manager, who had been presiding over this circus, re-entered our isolation chamber and announced, “Edith, you have a probable case of SARS.” (I later learned that she had used the wrong term; I was merely a “suspected” case.) She went on to explain that I would have to be isolated until 10 days after all symptoms had abated, and that Kevin and Madeline would have to stay inside for three days – unless they developed symptoms, in which case they’d be isolated, too. She added that only the Centers for Disease Control could verify whether I actually had the disease, and the process might take a few days.

Then came the ground rules: No stops on the way home. No visitors, even for emergencies (including the guy I had scheduled to fix my dishwasher). I was to check in with the health department twice a day; they would call the next morning with instructions. If my symptoms worsened at all, I was to call 911 and let county emergency services know that I was “the SARS lady,” so they could send an ambulance crew in protective gear. Having seen reports on television about people in isolation, we wondered if the hospital intended to notify the media. She assured us that the media would not be called.

I’m sure her intentions were the best. I’m also sure the media train had already left the station by the time we reached home.

We decided we would limit the spread of information and tell people on a “need to know” basis. We called Kevin’s parents and my brother and sister-in-law, Mike and Alice. Alice offered to purchase groceries and leave them on our porch. Our niece, Rebecca, who worked at a photo store, offered to develop our film from China.

We did not call my family in Tennessee. Before the trip, my mother had called in a swivet, fearful that we would be exposed to SARS. I responded that the issue wasn’t open for debate. Our child was waiting in China, and we were going.

The next morning, I received the first of many calls from the Anne Arundel County Health Department. After fielding several dozen questions from Dr. Sohail Qarni and his nurse, Marie Crawford, I went back to bed, expecting a peaceful recovery.

Later that day, though, a public affairs officer at the health department called. “I really hate having to tell you this,” she said, “and I don’t know the source of the leak, but The Washington Post has your name. They just called to confirm that the suspected SARS patient in Anne Arundel County is Edith McGee. We refused to comment, of course.”

My reply cannot be printed in a family publication, and when I hung up I was trembling with anger. A few moments later, the phone rang again. It was a Post reporter. I hung up. He called again. Kevin grabbed the receiver and shouted, “If you print anything about my wife, we’re going to sue you!” Having confirmed my condition – and obviously undeterred by the isolation – the reporter rang our doorbell a couple of hours later. Kevin shouted for him to go away.

The next morning, the story ran in the Post and was picked up on radio and television: a 45-year-old Millersville woman who had just returned from China with her husband and one-year-old son was sequestered in their home.

The phone calls started almost immediately. Our builder’s project manager left a message: Was I the woman with SARS? He needed to know, because company personnel had been in our home since our return. Recognizing the potential for trouble, I confessed.

My boss called next. “This is none of my business, but I know you were sick in China. Listen, if it’s you, I’ll put ‘sick leave’ on your timecard rather than ‘annual leave’.” Recognizing that the amount of paid leave available to me had just increased, I confessed. Then a girlfriend called. “They got the baby’s sex wrong, but I know this is you, and I’m worried sick.” Recognizing a shoulder to cry on, I confessed. So much for privacy.

Later that day, Nurse Marie called and dropped another bomb. “The Post has been bugging our public affairs people all day. They’re sure it’s you. Won’t you give them a telephone interview?” After she assured me that Phuong Ly, the reporter now on the story, was “nice,” Kevin and I granted an anonymous interview, hoping it would put an end to the media interest.

That evening, a Baltimore news crew conducted on-the-street interviews at a strip mall near our house, and patron after patron gravely insisted that the health authorities had a duty to reveal my name to the public. So now I was Typhoid Mary.

In contrast, Phuong’s story was balanced and accurate. We didn’t look like fools, and she graciously omitted most of the identifying details. But our decision to talk to the Post only encouraged the media. We became a hot commodity.

First, the local television stations did telephone interviews. Then the national outfits wanted a piece of the action. We agreed to cooperate as long as our names weren’t used and as long as I didn’t do live interviews. We wanted to maintain at least the pretense of privacy, and I was sick enough to distrust my self-censorship capabilities. I talked with the CBS Evening News and the New York Times. Unfortunately, members of my immediate family in Tennessee saw the CBS piece, and yes, Mom, I know you told me not to go.

That weekend, CNN’s medical reporter, Elizabeth Cohen, called and requested an on-camera interview. Although I was feeling better, I was still supposed to avoid contact with others. CNN asked if we could provide footage, using our camcorder, and ship the tape. Our faces would be obscured for the broadcast. We complied, and the result was a delightful piece. Elizabeth and her producer were so pleased with our footage – “This is better than the stuff we get from our affiliates!” – that they jokingly offered to award us academic credit for our experience in news production.

Over the next 10 days I continued to improve – and talk to the press. On Monday, May 5, Kevin returned to work, and later that day the health department called to let me know I was free at last. Ten days had elapsed since I had run a fever.

Within minutes, television reporters were calling again, this time for on-camera interviews. Granted, we were a great human-interest story: “Middle-aged woman goes to China, adopts adorable child, gets very sick, then recovers just in time for Mother’s Day!”

Over the next two weeks, stations from Baltimore and Washington sent crews. Phuong Ly from the Post dropped by with a photographer in tow. Our local rag, the Maryland Gazette, and the Annapolis paper, The Capital, also sent a reporter and photographer. A Chinese language daily did a story, as did Voice of America. Sharyl Atkisson of CBS Evening News interviewed me about the effects of my two-week isolation for a story on the gaps in the public health system that the SARS crisis had exposed.

And then, by Memorial Day, it was over.

In retrospect, I doubt we would have received so much attention had there been another big story other than SARS. And despite the leak to the Post, the entire media circus would have been avoidable had Kevin and I been less accommodating.

But I think it was better that we cooperated. We offered the press a “real” story rather than fodder for the kind of speculation that fuels unfounded fears. In turn, despite having to field a few silly questions, we were treated well.

Leave it to Fox, however, to sensationalize our story. A few days after I learned that I had not been infected with the corona virus that causes SARS, a reporter for the network’s D.C. affiliate asked whether anyone had been unkind to me. At the time, there were reports that some people returning from China were being shunned by friends and neighbors. “Only one,” I said, and described a humorous encounter with another patron at a department store where I was awaiting checkout with Madeline. The woman told her young children to stay away from us because we might make them sick. Fox played that up.

Not everyone who’d been exposed to us was treated so benignly. Alice, my sister-in-law, received a call from the mother of one of Rebecca’s schoolmates, asking if she was safe to be around. My brother Mike, an airline pilot, informed his employer, and although the airline allowed him to continue flying, some flight attendants and a first officer mutinied.

The people we knew personally, however, were kind and supportive. Some of our new neighbors asked about my welfare while I was still in isolation. Our pastor and my in-laws handled with humor and grace some concerned but polite inquiries from persons I’d “exposed” at church.

Despite being able to identify a bit with Monica Lewinsky, we’re none the worse for wear. And yes, knowing what we know now, we’d still have gone to China to get Madeline.

It’s not just that she is a wonderful child, a match for our family that only God could have engineered. It’s that once we saw her picture and knew her name, there was a hook through our hearts. Even before she was officially ours, we knew that we were her parents.

And what parents wouldn’t go?

Five years later, my story still surfaces in odd ways. I'll be standing in the produce department and some total stranger will approach me and say, "Hey aren't you...." It used to happen all of the time, though, thankfully, it's infrequent and I've gone back to being Citizen Edie, rather than the Millersville SARS Mom. But, Google "Edie McGee" and "SARS" and see what you get.

I still wonder what it was that attacked my respiratory system. The tests say that it wasn't SARS, but it was unlike any cold, pneumonia or flu that I've ever experienced. Occasionally, I wonder if it will have some long-term effect on my health. I raised the issue when I had the mysterious breathing troubles after my lap-band surgery last fall, and the physician's assistant with whom I was speaking proceeded to chew me out about not sharing my story with my surgeon and anesthesiologist before the surgery. WTH? (Sorry Drs. Schweitzer and Mazza, but hey, I had surgery in 2005 and didn't have breathing problems then....) It's been five years, people! Surely my lungs are well by now. So, I keep walking on the treadmill and refusing to live in fear. It was a fluke and what a fluke it was.

Darn! I'd hoped to get my fifteen minutes of fame doing something more worthwhile than being Patient Zero in a media-created pandemic.

April 7, 2003

2008-04-19T15:31:00.013-04:00

Sorry for the long delay in finishing our story, but a lot has happened in the last two weeks. Don't worry -- nothing particularly earth shattering. I just had a personal goal of getting all our tax-related paperwork finished by April 1 so that our accountant would have a couple of weeks to work on it, and then on April 4, Madeline and I drove to Tennessee for a family wedding. (No, I did not let Madeline drive. Her feet don't reach the pedals yet, and my gut sense is that she will be a speeder.) We returned on April 6, and since that time, I've been crunching away on Girl Scout stuff. I lead Madeline's Daisy troop. I had new leader training last weekend, and the Spring merchandise sale stuff came in and had to be distributed to the parents. On top of all this, I've been doing shuttle diplomacy for four different appeals at work. I've had no time to write. Zero, zip, nada. The dust has settled now, and I can continue the saga.

We spent a few days in Nanning waiting for Madeline's Chinese passport and various other documents, then on Friday, April 4, we flew to Guangzhou for the last leg of our trip. And that's when things started to get weird -- at least they did for us. Here's an email home dated April 7, which I wrote while Kevin was at our Consulate appointment for Madeline's visa. I've interjected a few comments in brackets.

Hello everyone!

Greetings from the epicenter of SARS. We are in Guangzhou getting Madeline's visa. Guangzhou reminds me a lot of San Francisco. On the water, cool and foggy. [I will add here, five years after the fact, that unlike the City by the Bay, Guangzhou is not particularly hilly.] Although the Consulate assures us everything is okay -- no one there has gotten sick, and they have a lot of public contact -- we have been told not to go out where there are crowds of people and are complying. To save us from venturing out, they even did a "group swear" at the hotel. [After writing this email, I learned that they actually did it at the Consulate. We were told it would be at the hotel, but apparently they put everyone who showed up on the bus when the appointed time came. They did, however, allow us to send only one parent and did not require us to bring the baby.] We are also coming back one day early and avoiding spending the night in Hong Kong, which was our original itinerary.

Fortunately, this is a VERY nice hotel, comparable to a big Park Avenue hotel in NYC, so we are very comfortable even as we are cloistered somewhat. Kevin went back to Shamian Island this afternoon to shop. I'd love to see more of the city myself, but because it's raining and I've been running a low-grade fever since last Wednesday (I caught Madeline's cold), I am typing one-handed and holding her with the other.

After spending Thursday touring the Nanning countryside and visiting a farm village similar to the one where Madeline was likely conceived and born (you've never seen poverty like this, believe me), we got all her paperwork on Friday morning and flew to Guangzhou on Friday night. Madeline did very well on the plane. [Kevin tells me he's seen far worse poverty in the Philippines. The guides did tell us that this particular village was relatively wealthy; nonetheless, seeing it was still sobering for a rich, fat American like me.] No screaming. She just went right to sleep. We spent Saturday getting her visa physical exam and photos made, as well as shopping on Shamian Island. BTW, Madeline is 28.5 inches high and weighs 19.3 lbs.

On Sunday, we went to church on Shamian Island right by the Consulate. It was an "official" protestant church, but the people were very fervent. [It's a partial misconception that people can't worship in China. You can worship, but it has to be at a government-approved church. The government-sanctioned protestant denomination is called the Three-Self Patriotic Movement.] We sang hymns in Mandarin -- same hymns, and they had the Pinyin (English phonetic) words on an overhead screen. They had an English language translator for the sermon. The sermon was on 2nd Timothy. It was more in the nature of a Bible study than an American sermon, and definitely had a cultural twist. The pastor talked about being a good citizen of China AND Christian. He also admonished the younger parishioners to obey their parents and grandparents. [Very Chinese.] We met a bunch of young university students who spoke good English and had a nice visit while waiting for the service to begin. They were very supportive of international adoption of orphaned or abandoned children like Madeline. On Sunday afternoon we saw the Guangdong Folk Art Museum. What a place! Beautiful paintings, ceramics, bone carving, wood carving and embroidered pieces to die for. Today was the group swear. Since they only needed one parent, I stayed in the room with Madeline and Kevin went.

Madeline is doing beautifully. She still has a cold and scabies, both of which we are treating, but she's really warmed up to us and is showing us what she can do and who she is. She's a velcro baby with me and is gradually warming up to Kevin. She took her first steps on Saturday afternoon. The orphanage told me she was right on the verge of walking. We had a meeting to do paperwork on Saturday, and we, of course, brought her. She saw a ziplock bag of Cheerios (a favorite of this little girl) on the other side of the room and just took off. She's not real steady on her feet, but she walks on her own, and we got to witness those first steps. Unfortunately, we didn't have the cameras with us at the time.

She also talks a little. In Cantonese, of course. The waitress this morning translated, and she's definitely trying to communicate with us. She asked us for milk (nai-nai). She also calls me "mama" and Kevin "dada." She also loves to steal things from us and play games. She's anything but peaceful and quiet, which is another meaning for her name.

I'll write some more when I get back. It's hard to do this with a baby on your lap!

One of my few regrets about the trip was not getting out more during the Guangzhou leg. We'd heard time and time again from adoptive parents that Guangzhou is a terrific city with wonderful, child-friendly restaurants and fabulous shopping, much of which is on Shamian Island where the U.S. Consulate is located. (The fabled White Swan Hotel is also on Shamian Island, and most adoptive families stay there. Our agency, America-World Adoption Association, doesn't use the White Swan, so we missed that part of the China adoption experience. Oh, well. Some parents are peeved when they learn that AWAA uses a different hotel, but the agency has its reasons, and they are good ones. And the China Hotel where we stayed is itself fabulous.) We'd heard about the lovely park across from our hotel. We'd heard about the famed open-air food market where you can get just about anything you might want to eat, including animals that we Americans consider house pets. We'd heard about the beautiful Six Banyan Temple, a renouned Buddhist cultural site. We missed all that. And we broke our rule and ate at Mickey D's our first night there. It was next to the hotel. (I don't regret eating at McDonalds, but I do regret introducing Madeline to french fries at such a tender age. She was also introduced to another favorite while still in China: chocolate ice cream. See the video above.) Hopefully, we'll get back to Guangzhou in not too many years. I want to see it properly.

We also missed our Hong Kong layover. I've always wanted to go to Hong Kong. We'd planned to fly out of Guangzhou with our group the morning of April 9. Our group was leaving Guangzhou at 6:30 a.m. and taking a 30-minute hop to Hong Kong, then flying back to Chicago at noon. We planned to check into the airport hotel instead, spend the 9th playing in Hong Kong, and leave on the same flight the next day. Our agency advised us that it might be wise to return with the group instead, so we changed our flights while we were in Guangzhou. While I was disappointed on both counts, it was smart to do what we did, given that the World Health Organization had declared Guangzhou to be the epicenter of SARS the very week that we arrived there.

While the email above sounds totally cheery, the truth was, I felt like crap. I didn't have a low-grade fever, unless you consider 101.5 to be low-grade. I had a dry, hacking cough and trouble breathing. Even though it was cool in Guangzhou, sweat just poured off of my body with the slightest activity. I had zero energy. It was hard work just getting out of bed and taking care of the baby. My gut was going crazy, and I was losing weight at a precarious rate. I was disappointed to have to miss so much on this long-awaited trip, but there was definitely something wrong with my body. I wanted to go home. April 9 did not come a moment too soon.

March 31, 2003

2008-03-31T19:32:00.013-04:00

An email message I sent from Nanning, China, on April 2, 2003:

Hi everyone!

It's no accident it's taken me 2 1/2 days to get back to the computer. It's 10:30 p.m. here in Nanning. Kevin and Madeline have crashed, and I'm running on adrenaline down here in the business center of the hotel. Since our first meeting is at 10 tomorrow (a late one for me), I can stay up another hour or so.

We had an uneventful flight to Nanning on an aging 737 operated by China Xinhua Airways. We arrived about 6 p.m., and it was 90 degrees in the shade, with 200 percent humidity. (Since the Chinese don't care much for air conditioning -- they have it, but they don't crank it up like we Americans do -- Kevin and I have been hot, hot, hot! Especially lugging around a 20 pound "velcro baby." I've dropped at least 10 pounds in the past week, as has Kevin. Nanning reminds me a bit of the Florida panhandle, flat and semitropical. The city itself reminds me of Baton Rouge for some reason.

The first 48 hours have been a little rough. They handed Madeline over on Monday night at the Civil Affairs Office. I knew Madeline instantly on seeing her. Her nanny grinned at me and pointed to me and said something to the child. Then, the nanny pointed to Madeline's cheeks and to her own. Both of us have dimples, and the nanny knew that from the photos of us I had sent to the orphanage. It was so cute -- they had all the babies dressed alike in little red and black matching Chinese-style pajamas.

Madeline was just taking it all in when her nanny burst into tears. Well, that started Madeline crying, and the next thing you know, I had both a new baby and a young Chinese woman in my arms comforting both of them. We went back to the hotel and they shot the pictures for the adoption certificate -- two sweaty but happy parents and one screaming infant in our case. Madeline was inconsolable for the next three hours and finally cried herself out and went to sleep on our bed

The next morning, she was sullen and clingy, obviously in mourning. She was clingy and quiet all day, wouldn't let me out of her sight (and still won't), and she wouldn't eat very much. We went to the Civil Affairs office and completed the adoption, then went to the notary.

We also met with the orphanage staff. One of the nannies told me she had actually been the one to name her An An, which means, in Cantonese, "safe and sound." You see, Madeline was found at three days old on the steps of a Qinzhou police station approximately 10 minutes after she was abandoned there. Her birth mother made darned sure she'd be safe and sound. Pretty amazing, isn't it? God works in wondrous ways.

When we returned to the hotel in the afternoon, Madeline felt hot, so I took her temperature. 100.5. I called our guide, Alice, and asked about a pediatrician who practiced WESTERN medicine (thank you very much). I wasn't taking any chances.

Well, I know we signed up for an adventure by adopting in another country, but a trip to a third world hospital? Heaven forfend! But we did it. And it was a very nice hospital. Apparently, Nanning has a well-regarded medical school with a sterling hospital. It was attractive and clean, and we were in and out of the emergency room in an hour. The bill was a whopping 52 yuan, which is roughly $6.50. That covered a doctor visit, lab work and three prescriptions. Alice came along to translate.

Madeline had a viral infection, but is rapidly improving. She smiled for the first time at the hospital (the nice young doctor flirted with her) and has really come along since then. She's obviously feeling better and her temp is down. She's acting like a normal year-old child now, flirting, laughing and cooing and stealing food off my dinner plate. This morning at breakfast she stole my watermelon cubes and ate them with gusto. She practically stood on the table when she saw a banana we had gotten her from the buffet. The kid is a bottomless pit.

If Madeline's eating, Mommy is not. She is too busy feeding Madeline. This might be a good thing. I needed to lose more weight anyway...

Off to bed.

The email sums up the basic events of our first meeting with Madeline. There are a couple things that were inadvertently omitted, however. We left Beijing mid-afternoon of Monday the 31st. As some of us were waiting in the Radisson lobby for the bus to take us to the airport, an elderly woman in Mao pajamas came over to our group and started talking to us in rapid-fire Mandarin. She moved around our group, bowing again to each of us and saying the same thing over and over again. Of course, our guides were outside at that point. After the woman left, the front desk clerk explained what she'd been doing there. Apparently, she was related to someone who worked at the hotel, who tipped her off whenever a group of adoptive parents stayed there. And she'd come to the hotel to thank the parents for taking care of the little girls. A couple of times later on in the trip, we ran into other seniors who had a similar reaction to seeing us -- a gentleman in the park in Nanning and one in the Guangzhou airport, a married couple (who did speak some English) on Shamian Island near the U.S. Consulate. These people all remembered life before the one-child policy took effect and held in high regard its small victims.

The second thing I omitted is lighter. After they handed me Madeline, it suddenly hit me that I knew very little about taking care of babies. Sure, I'd read a couple of childcare books, but I had almost no practical experience with the little ones. I didn't even know how to make a bottle! The next morning, I arose before Madeline started to stir and crept out into the hallway with my bottles, liners and the bag of formula that the orphanage had supplied and figured out much formula to use in an 8-ounce bottle. I'm sure my ignorance and inexperience with babies definitely played into my decision to take Madeline to the hospital later that day for a 100-degree fever. That trip to the hospital, by the way, probably had a significant impact on my own health, but that's for another post.

I sent several emails from China to friends, family and colleagues relating the events as they happened, but looking back on those emails now, I realize they didn't capture my roller-coaster emotions. No doubt, this was because I was entirely focused on figuring out how to care for this squirming little person who'd joined my family. I realize now though that they seem a bit dry. To write about what all this felt like adds an entire dimension to the story. We left for the Civil Affairs Office within minutes of arriving at our hotel in Nanning. I remember clearly the oppressive heat and humidity, the nervous chatter on the bus, and other parents asking our Nanning guide Alice about a thousand questions as we wended our way through the streets. I remember walking into the Civil Affairs building, which was a converted hotel, and down a narrow hallway and into a paneled ceremonial room with a huge silk carpet and red lanterns and tassels hanging from the ceiling. I remember the high-pitched laughter of the group ringing in my ears, sweat pouring off my forehead and stomach acid creeping up my throat. I remember standing around the perimeter of the room and hearing babies crying in the hallway, while the provincial Civil Affairs officer droned on and on about the responsibilities of parenthood. I was thinking, "Let's just get this done!" It was labor of sorts. Interminable labor, no less. (But my video is much more tasteful than the ones people show of themselves giving birth.)

As they bring in the babies on the video, you will notice that the nanny in a burgundy blouse points directly at the camera and speaks to the nanny next to her, who was carrying Madeline. I didn't notice this at the moment, but when I saw the video for the first time, I had one of those forehead-smacking moments and realized that the nanny in burgundy was identifying me and Kevin to Madeline's nanny. Madeline's nanny then caught my eye to let me know that she was carrying my daughter, so we'd know which baby to film. Or to try to film. The man standing between us and Madeline was well over 6 feet tall. But you can hear me and Kevin talking about which baby was Madeline in the video clip.

I will always wonder about the nanny who handed us Madeline. I wonder if she (and the entire orphanage staff) knew more about Madeline's origins than we were told: that she was found at a police station. Looking back, I have good reason to doubt that story. Madeline's nanny seemed incredibly attached to her. While a few of the nannies were sniffling a bit when they handed us the babies, she was the only nanny who let loose and bawled. She cried so much that they had to take her out of the room. Before she left, however, she gave us a handful of snapshots taken over a few months. One of the photos was clearly taken in a private home.

Those photos are a gift, but sometimes they make me wonder all the more about who my little girl might be and what the orphanage didn't tell us. Madeline had no developmental delays and there's almost nothing about her that would suggest early institutionalization. I find it hard to believe she was simply, as one of our fellow travelers put it, the teacher's pet. I do know, however, that she was meant to be our daughter. I know that beyond any doubt and I find it humbling to have been given such a child to raise.

March 28-30, 2003

2008-03-29T08:49:00.011-04:00

We spent March 27th and 28th on airplanes. From BWI, we flew to O'Hare, where we met up at the gate with most of our travel group, which was comprised of 55 people, or 17 families. A few stragglers, e.g., people who had beaucoup frequent flyer miles on airlines other than United, a dad-to-be who was a CPA and swamped in seasonal tax work, etc. (To no avail, we had tried to use our own 120,000-plus United frequent flyer miles -- Kevin used to travel a lot for work -- to upgrade to business class. Grrrr!) Our plane to China was literally full, every seat of the big 777 taken. Fortunately, we had good weather and lenient flight attendants, and I spent much of the flight standing in the back galley talking with people whom I'd previously only "met" online and in a video teleconference a few days before the trip. We shared family pictures, including referral pictures of the children who were waiting in China for us, and life stories as the plane bored its way through the Friendly Skies. We also talked with other travelers, including a bunch of retired folks who were on a group tour. One little old lady kept expressing her amazement that we were able to adopt from "Red China."

We landed in Beijing a little after 3:00 p.m. China-time on March 28. Our guides Sherry and Johnson met us at the airport. Sherry was a young, sweet-faced kid -- I believe she was 24 at the time -- who spoke fluent, idiomatic American English. Johnson was a 40ish man with a kind smile and apparently quite an expert on internal travel in China. They had a tour bus waiting and whisked us away to the Beijing Radisson, where we were free until 8:00 a.m. the next day.

The Radisson looked like any downtown hotel in small-city America. It could have easily been in Chattanooga. A mid-size city hotel, it had the requisite sunny atrium lobby with cushy jewel-tone chairs and a brass-and-fern bar off to one side.

Kevin and I have always felt strongly about resisting the temptation to Americanize our foreign travel. So while a number of our fellow travelers planned to dine at KFC or Pizza Hut, both of which had restaurants near our hotel, we decided that we should eat what the locals do. We asked the front desk manager -- a young American kid -- if he'd recommend a good seafood restaurant (and not necessarily one that catered exclusively to foreigners). The manager first checked the reservations list for the hotel restaurant, which was a celebrated Cantonese-style eatery, and found that nothing was available. Then, with a wicked gleam in his eye, he told us that he had just the place for us. It was 3 or 4 blocks away, and he drew a little map for our use. "You'll feel like you've walked into a National Geographic special," he promised.

We found the place easily enough and, yes, our young friend was right. There were rows and rows of aquarium tanks filled all kinds of sea creatures. My sushi-loving husband went nuts. There were also a couple of big tables displaying various uncooked vegetable dishes. The place was full. We were the only Caucasians -- heck, we were probably the only non-Chinese -- in the place. One of the wait staff approached us, showed us to a table, and procured a couple of beers for us. He then explained, more in sign language than in the bit of English he knew, that we needed to make our selection from the tanks and the table and the chef would prepare our meal. We chose a spiny lobster, some dumplings that we thought we recognized, and a vegetable dish with snow peas. Apparently, the chef would decide how these raw materials would be prepared.

A few minutes later, the waiter returned with lobster sashimi. Kevin was ecstatic. I did not eat raw fish at that time. I was hungry, though, and I didn't want to insult the chef or the waiter, so I dug right in, thanking God with every bite that I'd endured a round of hepatitis shots a few weeks before. And it was good! I've eaten sushi occasionally with my husband ever since. Hunks of raw fish still aren't my favorite, but I'm not grossed out by them either. Later, the waiter brought us more lobster, this time deep-fried in a spicy batter, and of course, our dumplings, veggies and more beer. This truly delightful repast cost us $23, I think.

The next morning, after an English-style breakfast in the hotel dining room, we boarded our tour bus again for a day of sight-seeing. As we chugged down the broad avenues of Beijing, which was relatively quiet early that Saturday morning, we noticed two things: the unbelievable smog and the tiny trees that looked barely alive. China has a serious air pollution problem, folks. Pollution, in fact, has become an issue for the upcoming Olympics. Although I was feeling no ill effects from our gastronomical adventure the night before, my sticky eyes and runny nose testified to the atmospheric conditions.

As Sherry was regaling us with tales of growing up in China, our bus pulled up to Tiananmen Square, and one of the men in our group piped up and asked, "What can you tell us about June 4, 1989?"

A dead silence fell over the group, though in our heads a lot of us were probably screaming, "Oh, no!!!" I know I was. Next to me, I heard Kevin gasp. Sherry handled the question beautifully. "As you know, I am only 24 years old, so I was a small child in 1989," she began. Then she lowered her voice, and with the most serious expression on her face, said something like, "You would be very foolish to discuss these matters anywhere outside of this bus. Do not ask questions like this to the people you meet here. Do not talk about the Falun Gong. Do not take pictures of an military or police equipment you see or of people wearing uniforms. The Army wears green. The police wear blue. The secret police wear gray." While the Cold War imagery conjured up by the little old lady on our flight didn't exactly fit the China we were seeing that morning, it was abundantly clear we weren't in Kansas anymore -- or anywhere else where the First Amendment applied.

I'm sorry to admit that much of the rest of our time in Beijing is a blur, for Sherry and Johnson ran us ragged over the next two days. We started at Tiananmen Square, then visited the Forbidden City, Temple of Heaven, Summer Palace, Great Wall at Badaling, and several shopping outlets for silks, jade, pearls, and cloisonne. We had a festive dinner on Sunday night at a famous restaurant where Peking Duck was the house specialty. Down the street from the hotel, we discovered Carrefour, a huge French-owned Walmart-like place with an amazing and colossal western-style supermarket on the ground level -- think Wegmans -- and a department store above. On Monday morning, I spent close to an hour upstairs in Carrefour looking for fuses for Kevin's CPAP machine, which he uses for sleep apnea. His machine had blown a fuse, thanks to the uneven power supply in the hotel. (Unfortunately, we were never able to find the right kind of fuse. I endured a lot of snoring for the rest of the trip, and poor Kevin didn't get a good night's sleep until we got home.)

Besides the pollution and the scrawny trees, there were a few other things that struck us during the Beijing leg of the trip. First, we never saw a bird. Downtown Washington, where I work, is just full of birds. Later on, we learned that Mao thought they were pests -- rats with wings! -- and launched a campaign to get rid of them during the famine of 1958-61. Second, although Beijing itself was crowded and bustling, there was little traffic on the way to the Great Wall. Sure it was Sunday morning, but even in the middle of the Bible Belt, you'd seldom see a 12-lane freeway that was virtually empty on Sunday morning.

In a similar vein, we were struck by the extreme contrasts between new and old, rich and poor. Besides beautifully-maintained freeways (not that hard when there aren't many cars), there were buildings going up everywhere, construction sites ringed by bamboo scaffolding. The street where the Peking Duck restaurant was located was a sea of neon reminiscent of Times Square or Piccadilly Circus. Walk a couple of blocks off the main drag, however, and you'd see decaying buildings and other signs of extreme poverty.

Additionally, everywhere we went, we were accosted by people who wanted to sell us touristy trinkets. "Worth 50 U.S. dollar, ma'am, but I give it to you for five!" One of the first Mandarin expressions Sherry taught us was, "Bu yao!" or "I don't want it!" Self-defense, I guess. It did, however, come in handy.

And on Monday evening, so did the second expression she taught us: "Wa ai ni," which means, "I love you."

Five years ago today

2008-03-27T06:24:00.003-04:00

Five years ago today, Kevin and I were getting ready to embark on an amazing journey, an adventure of a lifetime. Our ride to the airport, Kevin's parents Bud and Connie, would be arriving at 5:45 a.m. in the morning. The leftover Papa John's pizza from dinner was wrapped up in the fridge waiting to be eaten for breakfast. Our little dog-boy Alex, our only "child" to that point in time (we also had cats and a parrot, but it's just not the same) was already at Grammie and Gramps' house. The crib was assembled and made up with fresh new linens. Tiny dresses and overalls -- mostly size 9 months -- were hanging in the closet of Madeline's future room. Four or five changes of clothes, eight or ten baby outfits, a couple of dozen diapers, bottles, formula, snacks and lots of medicine were crammed into two large Costco suitcases, one of which had been procured the day before. We both had fresh haircuts. A video camera with several tapes, a still camera, a dozen rolls of film and $5,500 in cash -- crisp, new $100 bills per our agency's instructions -- and $2,000 in travelers' checks waited in Kevin's carry-on. My carry-on was packed, too. It was a spiffy new Land's End diaper bag. At ages 45 and 47, we were finally going to be parents!

And it's been an adventure in so many ways. Sure, I knew parenting would be an adventure. Adopting a child is like Forrest Gump's proverbial box of chocolates -- you never know what you're going to get. With Madeline, we have been extraordinarily blessed, or we lucked out, whatever your perspective. I have friends with adopted Chinese children whose kids suffer from attachment problems, behavioral issues, learning disabilities and the like.... actually like a lot of biological children that I know. Madeline has none of those issues, knock wood, at least of which we're aware. And, believe me, I've looked for them. She's going to be book-smart, she's already gifted athletically, she is emotionally intelligent out the wazoo, and if that weren't enough, she's pretty. And this is what other people have said about her. No, she's not perfect, and she can definitely act too big for her britches sometimes, but all and all, it's been good.

The trip itself was also an adventure. Sure, we knew we'd have a great vacation trip in China. We went looking forward to seeing all the things we've read about and seen in pictures. We went to gain an up close and personal appreciation of our future daughter's native country. We went determined not to be "ugly Americans," but instead to represent all that is good about our country, our culture and our faith. I think we did all of these things, but there was a lot that happened over there and after we returned that was, well, unexpected.

Come along, dear reader, while I re-live a very special journey that began on March 27, 2003.

When my child has a home of her own

2008-03-24T20:25:00.005-04:00

A friend in one of my Yahoo groups wrote this and posted it today. It's too good not to share.

When My Children Have Homes of Their Own

I can't wait to visit them. First I'm going to drop my coat on the floor. In S's house, I'll make sure I track snow all the way into the dining room before kicking my shoes across the room. In Z's, I'll simply remember to bring six or seven pairs of shoes and leave them ALL in a heap by the front door, even summer sandals when I visit in December.

Next I will go into the refrigerator and take out the milk and forget to put it back. I'm going to eat half an apple and finish the orange juice and put the empty carton back in the refrigerator. I'll complain heartily that there's no good food.

I'm going to snack, a lot, on the awful food they do have, and I'm going to make sure that I leave the dishes under the couch. With my socks.

I will make a point of missing the wastepaper basket when I drop lip gloss blotted Kleenex towards it, and I will figure out exactly how to make the faucet not quite turn off.

If they do ask me to pick something up (I hope they won't because I'll be so elderly, but they might), I will promise to do it in a minute. I will promise this several times, while they still ask nicely and when they lose their temper (assuming they would do such a thing with their poor elderly mother) I will definitely manage to look hurt and act as though they had only to ask nicely once. Of course, I'll have the benefit of senility to give credence to my performance.

I plan to forget things when we leave the house, and not remember until two blocks from our destination, and then I will blame them for rushing me.

And at meals, I will definitely want to leave half of the food on my plate and put it in the garbage before asking ten minutes later what else there is to eat.

I know that as frustrated as I might make them, they wouldn't dream of yelling at me.

Happy Easter to All!

2008-03-23T21:50:00.010-04:00

The girls -- Madeline and her cousin Amber -- had their own private egg hunt at Grammie and Gramps' house today. Obviously, not the point of Easter, but fun to share anyway.

Here they are, showing off their Easter finery.

Ready... Get set ... Kevin had to hold them back.

Go!!!

Score!

So how many did you find? I dunno. How many did you find?

More influence from The Great Beyond?

2008-03-20T22:35:00.008-04:00

I love what my friend Lorrie at Clueless in Carolina has done with the Eliot Spitzer story. Reading her post was what we in one of my adoption e-groups call a "spitting coffee at the monitor" moment. Great job, Lorrie!

Now, with tongue firmly in check, let me share my slightly different take on the matter. As you already know, I think Daddy has thrown not one, but two Super Bowls from the Great Beyond, and he's probably sitting up there right now cackling with his buddies making plans to get the Big Orange into the Final Four. But he's not the only mischief-maker there.

Last week, I was talking with someone who lost her husband of many years last summer. I knew that said husband had been an attorney, though I never knew him personally and wasn't aware of his practice area. Out of the blue, she said, "If I believed in an afterlife, I'd swear someone was getting even." "Whaddya mean?" I asked. She went on to explain that her husband had represented some of the very organizations Spitzer persecu-, I mean, prosecuted (not the prostitution rings, the Wall Street targets). She explained that Spitzer had been (at least in my opinion) ethically-challenged in dealing with the defense. This, of course, is no secret -- it was fairly obvious from the press at the time that he was quite the crusading prosecutor. And now all this extracurricular activity came to light, only a few months after her beloved spouse had passed on. Why, it was almost enough to make a Believer out of her!

Am I surprised by it all? Of course not. While it's unlikely that my friend's late husband (or my Daddy) are exercising any undue influence, as the Bible says, we reap what we sow. I'm not defending "innocent" ladies of the evening or Wall Street swindlers here, but it seems that like a lot of crusading types, Spitzer had a dirty little secret.

Tiny Dancer

2008-03-19T10:36:00.003-04:00

I thought you all would enjoy this clip. Madeline is learning one of the solo parts for the "Little Swallow Dance," which is a traditional Chinese children's dance. Her teacher, Miss Gina, is playing the mama bird -- a role that will be played by one of the older children in the dance company in the actual performance. Madeline is sort of the lead baby bird. They are dancing in Gina's basement studio.

Gina has been teaching Madeline's class at Hua Sha since January. She is new to this area, but taught Chinese dance in Hawaii for several years and coached a team of small girls to first place in an international competition. Like all of the adult members of Hua Sha, Gina does a lot more than teach dance. She has a Ph.D. in one of the hard sciences, too. They are an amazing group of women!

Jumbotron!

2008-03-14T23:16:00.006-04:00

It's been a busy week and I haven't had time to post this, but last Saturday was quite a night! It was the PTO auction at Madeline's school. As an old special events person back during my political days, I was on the auction committee, so I was definitely going. After tagging along with me at last year's overly-crowded event, Kevin decided he didn't want to go -- he's not a party animal and the theme was country and western, which he cannot abide -- and stayed home with Madeline. Since he wasn't going, I decided to volunteer all evening, even though I paid for a ticket.

Early on, I bid on and won a session of day camp for Madeline. The laser tooth whitening and some of the jewelry and furniture looked awfully appealing, but I have to pay for camp anyway. For those of you who think that's oh-so-upper-class and indulgent, let me translate "summer camp" into working-class English: day care for school-age kids. The camp certificates were in one of the first sections of the auction to close. Since I'd paid well under face value for it and was feeling generous, I decided to participate in the wine bottle raffle and buy a $100 ticket, i.e., one chance.

For my hundred bucks, I got a raffle ticket and a bottle of wine that the auction committee had obtained from some generous merchant. Now, the wines they give away are hardly Petrus. Instead, they're in the Wine Spectator 85 to 90 range, wine that might sell for $15 or $20 a bottle. But if you enter the raffle, you have a good chance of getting more than an overpriced bottle of wine. They only sell 100 tickets in all, and they have 10 prizes, i.e., you have a 1 in 10 chance of winning something. A few times during the live auction, they stop and draw names out of the fishbowl. The grand prize gets drawn last.

I was sitting with my friends (mainly other kindergarten parents) during the live auction and about halfway through, it was time for me to go to do my job: running credit cards at the check-out station. So I left and went out to the foyer. As the live auction was ending, someone yelled across the room, "Hey, Edie, I think you just won something inside." I was in the middle of typing a transaction with a customer at my shoulder, so I ignored the person who sung out. A couple of minutes later, the auction chairman and the development director, who'd been running cards with me, but had suddenly disappeared without my having noticed she was gone, came marching up and told me I'd won the grand prize.

The grand prize is a 52" Sony LCD widescreen TV! My very own jumbotron! The auction co-chair, her husband and I managed to wrestle it into the minivan sometime after midnight when I left.

Kevin practically had a heart attack when I called him and told him what I was bringing home. I'm sure when the phone rang at 10:45, he thought I was calling to tell him there was some sort of emergency (I'd been in a wreck, couldn't get the van started, etc.), especially when my first words were, "Honey, are you sitting down?" When I told him, he was literally speechless on the other end of the line. He's really been wanting one, but it just hasn't been in the budget. Unbeknownst to him, I had been putting aside money to get a much smaller one (maybe 40") this summer as an anniversary present to him.

The TV is still sitting in its crate. Any day, however, FEDEX will deliver the lovely French Country stand I purchased this week from Home Decorators.com, and we will be livin' in Hi Def!

Now we are six!

2008-03-01T20:08:00.005-05:00

It's hard to believe, but mah babee is six. The skinny little munchkin that we brought home almost five years ago weighs 40 pounds and is now reading (sorta), in training to be a prima ballerina (Chinese-style) and getting ready for her investiture into Girl Scouts.

Of course, we are celebrating Madeline Birth Month instead of her birthday alone. Her actual birthday was February 22nd. She was home from school that day (ice storm), and fortunately, I had the forethought to pick up an ice cream cake the day before at our neighborhood Baskin-Robbins. I love to bake, but my munchkin doesn't like cake and has been telling us for weeks that she wanted "one of those cakes made out of ice cream." As she's having an expensive birthday party next weekend, Kevin and I gave her a few small trinkets from the toy department at Target -- it takes so little to make her happy -- and some spring clothes. On Sunday, her Grammie and Gramps gave her more birthday gifts.

On Saturday morning, she was entertaining herself by journaling. Since last summer, Madeline has done this. She started pulling magazines off the coffee table or cans and boxes from the pantry or the newspaper, then she'd sit at the kitchen table and copy the words off these items onto clean paper filched from my printer. I'd find pages of 8 1/2 x 11 paper with dozens of words written in pencil or mini-marker: "Scientific American," "National Geographic," "Washington Post," "Quaker Chewy Granola Bars," "90 Calories," "Del Monte Lite Pear Halves," you get the idea. Last fall, she progressed from publications and merchandise to stories about her world. They're doing this kind of writing in school, and they encourage the kids just to get it all out on paper and not worry about spelling at this time, just to spell things like they sound.

So she presented me one of her stories on Saturday:

I asked her to translate the next to the last sentence: "Mom I want to you bow down to Mego [she calls herself "Meko" after the little forest animal that befriends Pocohontas in the Disney cartoon] because Mego is the Queen of the Rabbits. But Rabbie [her white rabbit "lovey"] is my baby." Okay.... I made a big production of bowing and scraping, and she loved it.

So late Sunday afternoon, I arrive home from the grocery story to see my sister-in-law Alice's SUV parked out front. Nothing unusual there. Occasionally, she drops by our place on Saturday or Sunday afternoon. Inside, Kevin was assembling ... a THRONE. Yes, Alice brought the Queen of the Rabbits her own throne. She said she and Rebecca (Madeline's cousin) saw the throne somewhere and just had to get it. It was the perfect present, they thought.

And no, they had not heard that Madeline had crowned herself Queen of the Rabbits the day before.

Very Funny!

2008-03-01T20:02:00.001-05:00

Bored, tubby, mild .... This is a cute video and all too true for us Boomers.

My Take on the Super Bowl

2008-02-07T23:05:00.001-05:00

This is a bit late in coming, but like a lot of the other people, I was thrilled to see Eli Manning follow in his big brother's footsteps and earn a Super Bowl ring. We were cheering for the Giants at our house because it's an NFC-East team. The Redskins couldn't get their act together -- Will they ever? -- but we were at least somewhat represented at the big dance.

I called my mother during the game and she didn't want to talk. She was too excited about the Giants pulling ahead to upset the undefeated Patriots -- with her boy Eli at the helm. She was equally excited last year about the Colts' victory, even though I chided her about rooting for the team that had abandoned the fair City of Baltimore, where I live, under the cloak of darkness. After all, her boy Peyton was leading the charge.

So what is it about those Manning brothers? My mother, a pro football fan?

In a nutshell, Peyton played for the University of Tennessee, and my father was the biggest UT football fan that ever lived. Daddy spent (or perhaps misspent) his freshman year of college at UT before he joined the Army Air Corps during World War II. After that, his blood ran orange. While he didn't get to attend that many games, he was always glued to the television or radio when the Vols were playing. The names "Doug Dickey" and "Bill Battle" were whispered in reverential tones at our house. Daddy cut clippings after each game and sent them off to my brother-in-law, an expatriate Big Orange fan down in Florida. He wore a UT ball cap when he did his chores or attended outdoor events. Though none of us kids decided to attend UT, Daddy was thrilled when a couple of his granddaughters ended up as alumna there. And on his last day of life, he lay dying in a hospital bed wrapped in my brother-in-law's orange and white throw something like this one, a Big Orange fan to the end. I am sort of glad that my mom didn't do this, however.

So what does this have to do with last week's Super Bowl? Daddy's enthusiasm for UT football extended to alums of that program, including Peyton Manning. Daddy was a huge Manning fan. (I can understand his affinity for Peyton, but I suppose Eli gets lumped into the pantheon because he's the little brother and attended another Southeastern Conference school rather than go somewhere in the Big Ten.)

Daddy died in August 2006. The Colts, led by Peyton Manning, won Super Bowl XLI in 2007. The Giants, let by Eli Manning, won Super Bowl XLII in 2008.

Does it sound like someone is exercising undue influence from the Great Beyond on behalf of the Manning boys?

Okay, that's a bit farfetched, but I'm sure Daddy is smiling this week.

Update on China Weather Crisis

2008-02-07T22:33:00.000-05:00

I received this email message yesterday. It's a broadcast email from Jenny Bowen, executive director of Half the Sky. Although I haven't asked permission to quote it, I doubt she'd mind. In fact, she'd probably appreciate the exposure. The email shows both the severity of the crisis and the strength of the response. The part about Chenzhou Social Welfare Institute (SWI) brought tears to my eyes.

By the way, for those not familiar with Chinese customs, people travel to their ancestral homes for the New Year celebration. Young people who've moved from the countryside to the big cities like Shanghai and Guangzhou for work ride trains for 24 hours or more to get home, and the entire country essentially shuts down. The storms came in the midst of this annual migration, thus complicating the problem.

Dear Friends,

Tonight is Chinese New Year’s Eve. Families across China who’ve not had to cancel their holiday plans are cozy together preparing huge feasts to greet the New Year. Although it gets harder and harder to reach anyone,we at HTS have not stopped reaching out to orphanages in central and south China that have suffered through the recent storms.

Despite the difficulties -- anyone who possibly can has gone home, all shops and offices are closed, no one answers the phone, the whole country is suddenly quiet -- we had some success today in getting the word out. In all of the six hardest-hit provinces we’ve managed to begin spreading the word, town by town, that we (and you!) are here to help. We’ve begun getting calls from directors of some of the small county-level institutions. We expect their numbers to grow over the coming days.

The weather remains bitter-cold but no serious snow is forecast now until the beginning of next week. For families in China, that’s wonderful news, as relatives make their way from house to house with greetings and treats for the new year.

For our little ones in the institutions, it’s good news too. Thanks to you and the provisions and heaters and winter clothes you’ve made possible, most will have a snug and safe holidays.

There has thankfully been only one instance so far where we felt the children were in real danger. In Chenzhou, Hunan, the subject of many recent news stories, the institution has been without power or running water for two weeks. In fact, a giant power grid was destroyed by heavy snows and the whole city has been dark for days. Yesterday in Chenzhou,11 workers died in an attempt to restore power.

We were worried about the children at the Chenzhou SWI – over 150 infants,some of whom were falling ill. Food supplies were running out and coal for heat was becoming prohibitively expensive. The SWI director was borrowing funds from caregivers to buy supplies at inflated prices. Even candles tripled in price. To complicate matters, because of the power failure, all banks were closed and the roads were closed. We were feeling pretty helpless.

I’m happy to tell you that an intrepid little group, led by my husband, Richard, is now heading home from having successfully stabilized the situation at the Chenzhou SWI. There is now at least a week’s worth of food, 2 weeks worth of coal, blankets, diapers (another group managed to drop off diapers and clothes as well and today a local farmer came by with a cart of cabbage) and plenty of money to buy what they need if they runout. Richard tells me that all they lack are 60 infant snowsuits and, assoon as the stores re-open after the holiday, the director knows where to get them. Although it’s expected to take 3-6 months for Chenzhou to fully return to normal, we’re so relieved that the children are safe and, at least for now, out of danger.

I hope to be able to tell you more of the story soon. Meanwhile, we will continue to monitor the situation in Chenzhou daily.

We will not stop reaching out to all potentially affected institutions,especially smaller ones, that we haven’t heard from yet. We’ve made a commitment to the hugely over-burdened Civil Affairs offices, that we, as a community, are going to take care of the children through these critical days, with everything we’ve got to give.

You are giving a great gift to the children in this New Year. You are also giving a great gift to me and my colleagues at Half the Sky. It is such a privilege to be empowered to help so many children in need. I feel very lucky right now!

Jenny, by the way, is an amazing woman and Half the Sky has an amazing mission: To ensure that every Chinese orphan in an institution knows the love of at least one caring adult. Jenny was recently selected one of 8 foreigners, and the only American, to carry the Olympic torch on Chinese soil later this year in a contest run by the China Daily, the official English-language newspaper.

Today was Chinese New Year, and we are now in the Year of the Rat. Gong Xi Fa Cai, or ...

Weather Crisis in China

2008-02-03T08:51:00.000-05:00

In case you haven't been following, China is in the midst of a record period of cold weather. Even areas of the country that are semi-tropical, including the area of southern China where from which Madeline hails, Guangxi province, have been griped by a freakish record cold snap, huge snowstorms and freezing rain. It goes without saying that the orphanages there are suffering. Most don't have much more than space heaters (and in this far south, central heat isn't required), and record snowfalls have crippled transportation and caused widespread power outages. Orphanages are running out of food and diapers, and their dedicated staff members have braved the elements for hours without proper coats and boots to care for the children.

There are several fine charities that work with the hundreds of thousands -- actually, I believe there are probably millions -- of children in Chinese orphanages, both the ones who are waiting to meet their forever families, and those who will never be adopted. Half the Sky Foundation is one of the best. It's a charity formed by the parents of adopted Chinese children in the U.S. Half the Sky provides training to orphanage workers and pre-schools for institutionalized children and pays for a high school education for older children (the Chinese government only pays for primary school for orphanage children). Kevin and I have supported Half the Sky for a few years now. I give through the Federal Combined Charities program, and we've also given contributions in honor of family members. When my dad died in 2006, a group of my adoption community friends gave a large donation in Daddy's memory.

Half the Sky is raising much needed funds to help the orphanages with this weather crisis. If you click on the link above, you'll see references to the Little Mouse Emergency Fund. If the spirit moves you, please give to this fund and give generously. There are also links on the home page to regular updates from the executive director, Jenny Bowen. The stories she tells are truly heart-rending. Please consider making a gift today.

Bariatrics, Part 10: Restriction!!

2008-02-02T09:58:00.001-05:00

Wooohooo!!! The fill has kicked in, and I have restriction again. It usually takes a day or two from what I understand. I think that's because the saline has to work its way back through the tubing into the band, but I may be wrong. I just know that I felt no different on Thursday (except where she jabbed me on her first attempt), but I woke up on Friday with a very tight band. I have also lost at least part of the water weight. Might another scale drop be on the way?

Right now, my poor stomach is pretty upset from the insult of having the band around it tightened. Think of how your waist feels wearing a too-tight belt, and now imagine that it's your stomach and not your waist being squeezed. So ... I'm living on liquids -- tea, soup, milk, and the like. I know, however, that I'm not too tight for solid foods because I can get my meds down without a problem. Anything larger hurts, though. I took Madeline to International Night at a local elementary school last night, and of course, they had food from everywhere. It was at the dinner hour, and I was hungry, so I ate a dumpling from the Korean display. Ouch! Back to the Gatorade for me!

Madeline's dance class was part of the entertainment at the International Night. One of the girls in her class attends kindergarten at this school, which apparently has a huge international contingent, as do many of the schools in this area. The girls did their recital dances. Most of the entertainers, however, were adults -- there were two or three groups of Korean dancers, Indian and African dancers, Irish step-dancers, and an adult member of Madeline's dance company.

There were also children dancing from the Howard County Chinese School, which, for those not familiar with the concept, is sort of like Hebrew School for Chinese-American kids. Generally, these schools are run by Chinese immigrants for the Chinese community. They offer Mandarin, plus other classes such as Tai Chi, cooking and traditional Chinese dance. One of my colleagues runs such a school in Northern Virginia.

Madeline does take a class in Mandarin and Chinese culture, but not from a Chinese school. Her teacher is Mrs. Haas, a Chinese-American woman who immigrated as a child in 1949 (when Mao came into power). Although she is now 70 years of age, she still teaches 4th grade at a local private school. She's the sweetest woman you'd ever want to know and seems far younger than her 70 years. Most of the students are adoptees, and Mrs. Haas has said that she has a special place in her heart for these girls.

We considered regular Chinese school, but were hesitant to commit for a few reasons, including the fact that parents aren't allowed to sit in on the classes -- at least at the schools we explored. Although we are under no illusion that we can learn a lot of Mandarin, much less get the tones right, we did want to see what and how the children were being taught. Moreover, regular Chinese school is rigorous, a several-hours-a-week commitment. We felt that Madeline was already in school each day from 8:10 to 3:10 and already had homework (yes, in kindergarten, though it's hardly egregious), and it was unfair of us to saddle her with more school on the weekends, unless that's what she really wanted. (And, some day, if she does, we will certainly allow her to enroll.) Yes, we are wusses. Early exposure to a foreign language is an proven aid in fluency. Hopefully, she's getting enough exposure with Mrs. Haas each week.

Bariatrics, Part 9: Fill 'er up!

2008-01-31T22:00:00.000-05:00

I went for my first "fill" today. It was also a follow-up checkup. I've been losing restriction for three or four weeks now and white-knuckling a bit much to keep my portion sizes small and avoid snacking too often, so it was time. I'm down to 251, though my weight this morning was 255. Probably all water, I might add. You can tell from my fingers, ankles and waist. I've probably been eating too many carbs, and I know I'm struggling to get enough water in every day.

Pat, Dr. Schweitzer's nurse-practitioner, agreed that I needed a fill and went off in search of the syringes and saline. Apparently, the Bayview clinic has some new techs who didn't know to put these things in the examining rooms when a lap-band follow-up was scheduled. When Pat came back, she had me lay down on the examining table, then raised it to a comfortable height. She palpated my abdomen a bit around the long scar and thought she found the port. She stuck me with the big needle -- this sucker was huge -- without any surface numbing, I might add. It only pinched a little, then wham -- PAIN! I shrieked. Apparently, she'd completely missed my port and caught my abdominal muscle instead.

This spooked both of us and she asked if she could examine the patient next door while I collected my wits and tried to talk myself into sticking around. A few minutes later, she came back and had me stand up. There I was, pants open, blouse pulled up to my bra and held in place by my upper arms. Pat palpated right around my bra band on the side with the big scar and found it. She stuck the needle in again. Yes, there was definitely a little pinch, but the needle burrowed through what I'm sure is a wall of solid fat and -- bullseye! She hit the port perfectly. I swear I could feel the saline slipping in through the tubing.

Pat put 4 cc's into my 10 cc Vanguard band. She normally puts 6 in for the first fill, but thought I might still have a tiny bit of residual restriction and didn't want to make it too tight.

By mid-afternoon, things started to tighten up again, and a bowl of chili from the deli across the street held me nicely until 7 p.m. Then, I ate ten or so tortellini -- the leftovers from Madeline's plate -- for dinner and was full. Hopefully, this means the scale will be cooperating again soon.

Christmas wrap-up (I guess that's a pun)

2008-01-19T22:36:00.000-05:00

I've been meaning to post about Christmas since shortly after I put up my posts about keeping Christ in Christmas (actually, He's never gone anywhere). I'm such a perfectionist that I couldn't bring myself to write this post -- Excuse No. 846: Not Enough Time To Do It Right (whatever that means) -- until only the detritus of the holiday season remained to be packed away:

Yeah, I preach a good game, but I didn't do any better than anyone else. I pushed myself too hard trying to make it all perfect. Of course, it wasn't so perfect, and I got stressed out about that. But . . . I'm still married and my kid still loves me. I managed not to cry about anything. I didn't stand there proclaim that some inconsequential glitch had ruined the holiday for me. Nope, it was fun!

Christmas by the numbers:

0 gifts purchased on credit cards

1 dance recital

1 chocolate cheesecake

1 bourbon fruitcake

1 rum cake

1 10 lb. rib roast

2 kid concerts

2 batches of candy

4 batches of cookies

6 batches of muffins

And, of course, one happy kid!

Highlights? Or are these low lights?

I am not one of those mothers that gets all horrified when someone gives her kid a Barbie or something with the Disney Princesses on it. After all, Madeline is a child whose favorite subject in school is science and who tries to play football with the boys. Here's the undeniable proof that I'm not allergic to The Princesses:

This is a tent. My mother-in-law gave it to Madeline -- at my suggestion, no less, as the child was making tents out of the sofa cushions and throws in the family room. I pictured a pup tent. Instead, the tent in question fills half the living room. That's okay. We don't have any furniture there anyway.

And here's the Christmas tree in the process of being decorated. Note that it lists.

Our trees for the last four years have listed. Last year's tree listed so bad that we had to rig up a contraption with Joe Weider free weights and kitchen twine to hold it in place. The tree three years ago listed so bad that it fell over, breaking a bunch of my funky blown glass ornaments. (Now I keep the expensive ones on a tabletop tree instead.) All of these trees have had crooked trunks. We bought them all at the same lot. This year, it finally occurred to us why all our trees have been crooked: they are seconds. Yes, seconds.

We found the lot near our house 4 years ago, the first Christmas we lived here. We decided to buy from there because the trees were all so fresh. The cashier told us they truck in a new supply in from North Carolina every week rather than bring them all at once early in the season. The price is also good. The trees run $10 to $20 less than those sold by various civic clubs and churches. But every darned one of them is either crooked or suffers from severe gap-osis. So we're betting that these people sell the fullest, fluffiest and straightest trees they harvest to high-end nurseries, where people who are richer than we are willingly pay $150 for 7-foot trees. The seconds go to the neighbor tree lot. Or that's our theory.

This stuff drives me crazy

2008-01-19T21:56:00.000-05:00

A poster in one of my China adoption Yahoo egroups complained today about something. Apparently, she's searching for paint colors and ran across a sort of beige color called "China Doll" on the Sherwin Williams website. She asked why it was okay for corporate America to incorporate racism towards Asians into advertising and asked us all to join her in a letter-writing campaign.

Geez!

It's highly unlikely that Sherwin Williams was talking about Asian women. Back before there was plastic, dolls were made with cloth or leather bodies and porcelain heads. "China" with a small "c" is another name for the porcelain bisque that was used for the doll heads. Bisque is obviously quite fragile, ergo the connotation of delicacy that accompanies the term.

The term "China doll" with a capital "C," however, has an alternate meaning that is at best unfortunate and at worst a racist stereotype. It describes a stereotypical portrayal of Asian women as submissive and hypersexual. This is not the way I want society to see my daughter, but almost certainly not what Sherwin Williams meant.

The poster's concern reminds me a bit of the flap over a D.C. mayoral aide's use the word "niggardly" a while back.

While I believe that those of us who have adopted children of other races have to become a lot more sensitive than the average white bear to racial stereotyping and occasionally can serve to educate our fellow travelers to the error of their ways, I've noticed a tendency in our tribe to get carried away and imagine slights where none were intended.

I cannot believe that another parent is spending her free time tilting at this particular windmill when there are so many real problems in the world.

Sing Along with Julie

2008-01-12T17:35:00.000-05:00

Ever since I first sat spellbound in Mary Poppins over 40 years ago, Julie Andrews has been one of my favorite singer-actresses. Recently, Miss Andrews, who is celebrating her 69th birthday, appeared on National Public Radio and sang the following. As someone who just turned 50, it resonates with me, too, a little more than I'd like to admit (or is 50 the new 30? 35?). Anyway, everyone together now, to the tune of My Favorite Things:

Maalox and nose drops and needles for knitting,
Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings,
Bundles of magazines tied up in string,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Cadillacs and cataracts, and hearing aids and glasses,
Polident and Fixodent and false teeth in glasses,
Pacemakers, golf carts and porches with swings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

When the pipes leak, when the bones creak,
When the knees go bad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And then I don't feel so bad.

Hot tea and crumpets and corn pads for bunions,
No spicy hot food or food cooked with onions,
Bathrobes and heating pads and hot meals they bring,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Back pain, confused brains and no need for sinnin',
Thin bones and fractures and hair that is thinnin',
And we won't mention our short shrunken frames,
When we remember our favorite things.

When the joints ache, when the hips break,
When the eyes grow dim,
Then I remember the great life I've had,
And then I don't feel so bad!

January is National Hobby Month ...

2008-01-11T23:30:00.000-05:00

... and Madeline has been asked to bring her hobby -- or one of her parents' hobbies -- to school next week for Show and Tell. The instructions from her teachers state:

In the past we have enjoyed learning about a variety of hobbies. One child brought a duck decoy that her father had carved. Another child brought the equipment he wore when playing ice hockey. We have seen lots of rock and shell collections, trains, matchbox cars and action figures, coins and stamps.

Let's see .... Madeline could bring pictures of herself in Chinese dance class and at her recent recital. The problem is, except for the fact that all the little dancers save one are clearly Asian, they look like any beginning ballet class in the pictures, replete with pink leotards, white tights and pink leather ballet shoes. Or she could bring her notebook from Mandarin and Chinese culture class and show everyone how she can write the ideograms representing the numbers one through ten. The problem is, Chinese New Year is coming up soon. She had planned to show off her Mandarin tourist phrases and calligraphy during my presentation to the class on China.

Or perhaps she could talk about my hobbies, which include laundry, dishes, and vacuuming. Oh, and counted cross-stitch. I have a handful of unfinished plastic canvas Christmas ornaments she could take in. Me and everyone else's mom, I'm sure.

Noooooo. How about Kevin's hobby? Perfect! I gave Kevin a couple of hundred dollars worth of supplies for his new hobby, which is -- beer-making. Yes, Chez McGee is Maryland's newest microbrewery. Obviously, we're not going to hold a beer-tasting for the kidlets, but we could definitely send pictures of our first batch in preparation.

Now, children, this is a picture of the hops, which give the beer its distinctive flavor:

And this is a picture of the grain while we steeped it -- it's just like making iced tea!

And here is the beer while we boiled it:

Here's the nasty ol' yeast residue in the bucket where we fermented the beer on the kitchen counter for a week. Smells just like dirty socks!

And look, children, here's the finished product! Only 16 more years until you can try it.

Think the teacher will be impressed? Or will we get sent to the Principal's office?

Bariatrics, Part 8: SVs and NSVs

2008-01-09T21:08:00.000-05:00

Today is the three-month anniversary of my surgery, and this morning, I weighed in at 254 even. As has become my custom, I asked Kevin to document the landmark last night because I was wearing something new and looked pretty good in it. While I've "only" lost 3.8 pounds since my two-month surgiversary (or bandiversary, as they call it on OH), our time frame ran from December 10 through January 9.

The loss was in spite of a lot of very naughty food -- probably not the best descriptor for food; food is morally neutral -- lying around the house and the office. Let's start here at home, for instance. We're talking about 4 batches of homemade candy (3 of truffles, 1 of maple fudge), most of which was given away, but all of which I sampled liberally. We're also talking about 5 batches of homemade cookies, some of which were given away. And that doesn't count the cookies and fruitcake my mom sent. And speaking of fruitcake, there was that fruitcake from Gethsemani Farms that the good brothers of the Abbey of Gethsemani make and sell. Now to be fair to me, I'm not a fruitcake eater (sorry, Mama). But I did eat some of the rum cake I baked for Kevin right after Thanksgiving and tried a muffin or two of the five batches I made for Grandfriends Day at Indian Creek, Madeline's school. I also made (and sampled) a chocolate Chambord cheesecake for Christmas Eve dinner dessert. Speaking of Christmas Eve dinner, there were those two rib roasts. Plenty of leftovers there. I also went to several parties, including a half-dozen retirement parties at the office. (Federal employees seem to like retiring at the end of the year.)

The thing that made this year different, though, was that I was able not to overdo it. The band is my friend in that respect. As long as you don't eat around the band by sending a steady stream of nibbles down the hatch, it helps you stay in control because you can't eat much at any given time. So ... yes, I partied a lot, but it was a meatball here and a chicken wing there, not overflowing plates full of food. At work, I used parties as an opportunity not to buy lunch, since most were scheduled for early afternoon. Probably added a whole $20 to my Christmas budget that way, but saved a lot of calories. I also kept up the exercise. Losing weight during the holidays? Priceless! Now, back on the wagon.

Here's the NSV: My big pants are now so big that I can no longer wear them comfortably. They gap at the waist. They drag the floor even with a belt. I can pull them down without unbuttoning or unzipping them. They have now been relegated to the guest bedroom closet to await their new owners.

I have a nice wardrobe in my current size. Unfortunately, it consists of spring and summer clothes. Back in 2000 and 2001, I was a patient in the George Washington University Weight Management Program. (This, by the way, is a great non-surgical weight loss program. Expensive? Yes. Covered by insurance? Not at the time, but this was during the Great Tech Bubble when Kevin worked in the private sector.) Horrified at the thought of being desperate enough to have an operation to lose weight, I enrolled after the first time a doctor suggested surgery to me. And I lost down to 257 pounds. I hit my low weight in the summer and bought a bunch of clothes for my then-job as an attorney in private practice. I still have them. I am hoping they don't look too ridiculous by the time I can wear them. On the other hand, a couple of the smaller outfits that don't quite fit yet are dressy suits, suitable (yes, that's a pun) for church or dinner in a very nice restaurant. A good thing, too, because my niece is getting married in April.

So I let myself go shopping for some bridge clothes. Despite the fact that I was surrounded by signage that said, "Up to 80% Off," I bought one outfit. At home, where I work 3 days a week,I can live in sweats and shorts for a few more weeks. I'm only in town on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Some winter things still fit well enough to wear awhile longer. The outfit I bought is washable. I won't go naked. (I wouldn't do that to people anyway.)

The really cool thing about the outfit, though, is my non-scale victory this week. Before October 9th, I wore a 28 at Lane Bryant, where I have purchased a goodly portion of my wardrobe for a few years. (I'm such a good customer, in fact, that I have their platinum card.) These pants, also from Lane Bryant, are a size 24! And they have a young, hip, skinny cut, too! Wouldn't have done that 60 pounds ago.

I love the picture. I can really tell I'm losing weight now, and when I wore the outfit to work, everyone else could tell. I must have answered the question, "Are you losing weight?" a good twenty times yesterday. I can also really tell in this picture how much I look like my siblings. With a fatter face, that was hard to tell. I blew the picture up to 400% and realized, "Omigosh, I look like a cross between Mike and Patsy!"

Enough about me. Here's a news item I saw today that's relevant to this post. Apparently, the Aussies are considering expanding coverage of lap-band surgery for the morbidly obese to include preventive surgery. Quite a concept there. Here, many health insurance providers cover it for the morbidly obese (body mass index of 40 or more, which usually translates to about 100 extra pounds), provided the insured has one or more co-morbidities (e.g., Type 2 Diabetes, Hypertension, etc.) and provides some kind of proof that she has been unable to lose a significant amount of weight by diet and exercise. I had to provide a big pile of paper to GEHA. (Not as much as I had to give to China for an adoption, though.) Even then, people get turned down.

The Aussie proposal sounds radical, but the bill for my surgery will come to about $22,000. That's cheaper than replacing both of my knees. Now, the old knees may make it until I'm eligible for Medicare. The surgery was probably cheaper than buying me several years worth of diabetes meds and disease management services, too.

To be sure, the Aussies have a single-payer system (i.e., national health care). But even in our patchwork system, the payer would realize a long-term savings by doing this, not to mention the benefits that would accrue to the patient. It's a darned shame most payers here are too blinded by the need to turn a profit each quarter to see the benefits down the road. It could be done here, too. Is it likely to happen? No.

P.S. If you're getting this on a feed, please forgive the duplicate. I am learning to fool Blogger. My dear friend Lorrie, whose closets definitely look better than mine, has now taught me how to fool Blogger into letting me skip a line. It was ignoring my paragraph breaks when I included a picture. I am certain that this is a bug and not a feature in the new release of Blogger.

I think I like this lady

2008-01-09T18:48:00.000-05:00

An Iowa mom finds alcohol in her 19-year-old son's car, so she placed an ad in the newspaper and sold the car. I like her. Love and Logic in action!

http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/national/1120ap_odd_car_ad.html?source=mypi

And, since part of my rationale for writing this blog is to create for Madeline a tangible record of her childhood:

Madeline An An McGee, let this be a lesson to you!

Mom

New Year's Wish

2008-01-02T18:01:00.001-05:00

A friend posted this to an e-group we both read. You may have already seen it, but it's worth passing along:

May peace break into your house and may thieves come to steal your debts!

May the pockets of your jeans become a magnet for $100 bills!

May love stick to your face like Vaseline and may laughter assault your lips!

May your clothes smell of success like smoking tires!

May happiness slap you across the face!

May your tears be that of joy and good health fall on you like a ton of bricks!

May the problems you had forget your home address!

Needs no comment

2007-12-18T18:40:00.000-05:00

A high school friend with whom I've caught up during the past five or so years periodically forwards things to me. While I don't re-forward a lot of what I get -- hey, I like hearing from people, even if it's one of those circulating pieces, but I know that a lot of folks can't stand them -- this one is definitely worth sharing. It speaks for itself.

Who Started Christmas?
Author unknown

A woman was Christmas shopping with her two children. After many hours of walking down row after row of toys and after hours of hearing both her children asking for everything they saw on those many shelves, she finally made it to the store elevator with her two children in hand. She was feeling what so many of us feel during the holiday season time of the year, getting that perfect gift for every single person on our shopping list, overwhelming pressure to go to every party, every housewarming, taste all the holiday food and treats, making sure we don't forget anyone on our card list, and the pressure of making sure we respond to everyone who sent us a card. Finally the elevator doors opened revealing a crowd in the car. She pushed her way in and dragged her two kids and all her bags of stuff in with her. As the doors closed she couldn't take it anymore and blurted out, "Whoever started this whole Christmas thing should be found, strung up, and shot." From the back of the car, a quiet calm voice responded, "Don't worry, we've already crucified Him." The rest of the trip down was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop.

Don't forget this year to keep the One who started this whole Christmas thing in your every thought, deed, purchase, and word. If we all would, just think how much better this world would be. Jesus is the reason for the season. Wise men still seek Him.

Bariatrics, Part 7: A Big NSV (Non-scale Victory)

2007-12-13T19:06:00.000-05:00

So yesterday morning, my primary care physician's office called me. I had gone in on Monday for quarterly blood work related to diabetes. They were calling to give me the results.

Every quarter, persons with diabetes should have a Hemoglobin A1c test, which measures long-term blood glucose control. The HA1c monitors the amount of glucose that bonds itself to red blood cells. The average red blood cell lives about 3 months, so an HA1c test reflects the status of your blood glucose control for roughly that period of time.

Why is this important? It is the overage of glucose in the bloodstream that leads to diabetes complications. Chronically elevated glucose can damage the eyes, nerves, cardiovascular system and kidneys.

A normal, non-diabetic person has an HA1c score of 5 percent, which means that roughly 5 percent of the red blood cells are glycated. This translates roughly to an average blood glucose level of 100 mg/dL. If your score is above 6 percent, you are considered diabetic. The American Diabetes Association says that a score of 7 percent or less means that your blood sugar is well-controlled. My last HA1c reading, taken in late August, was 6.1 percent. In other words, I was "barely" diabetic and in good control of my blood sugar. Of course, I was also on extended release Metformin. Otherwise, it would have been higher.

Now, enough with the background and dramatic build-up. My doctor's office called me to tell me that my first-post-op HA1c score was --

5.3!!!

Now for some fun. I found this on a website and thought I'd share:

1 pound = a Guinea Pig
1.5 pounds = a dozen Krispy Kreme glazed donuts
2 pounds = a rack of baby back ribs
3 pounds = an average human brain
4 pounds = an ostrich egg
5 pounds = a Chihuahua
6 pounds = a human skin
7.5 pounds = an average newborn
8 pounds = a human head
10 pounds= chemical additives an American consumes each year
11 pounds = an average house cat
12 pounds = a Bald Eagle
15 pounds = 10 dozen large eggs
16 pounds = a sperm whale's brain
20 pounds = an automobile tire
23 pounds = amount of pizza an average American eats in a year
24 pounds = a 3-gallon tub of super premium ice cream
25 pounds = an average 2 year old
30 pounds = amount of cheese an average American eats in a year
33 pounds = a cinder block
36 pounds = a mid-size microwave
40 pounds = a 5-gallon bottle of water or an average human leg
44 pounds = an elephant's heart
50 pounds = a small bale of hay
55 pounds = a 5000 BTU air conditioner
60 pounds = an elephant's penis
66 pounds = fats and oils an average American eats in a year
70 pounds = an Irish Setter
77 pounds = a gold brick
80 pounds = the World's Largest Ball of Tape
90 pounds = a newborn calf
100 pounds = a 2 month old horse
111 pounds = red meat an average American eats in a year
117 pounds = an average fashion model (and she's 5'11½"!)
118 pounds = the complete Encyclopedia Britannica
120 pounds = amount of trash you throw away in a month
130 pounds = a newborn giraffe
138 pounds = potatoes an average American eats in a year
140 pounds = refined sugar an average American eats in a year
144 pounds = an average adult woman (and she's 5'4")
150 pounds = the complete Oxford English Dictionary
187 pounds = an average adult man
200 pounds = 2 Bloodhounds
235 pounds = Arnold Schwarzenegger
300 pounds = an average football lineman
400 pounds = a Welsh pony

Here's the latest ticker:

In other words, I've lost a human leg, a Guinea pig and a couple of first-class letters since my initial consult with Dr. Schweitzer.

I am The Dancing Queen's mother ... and this and that

2007-12-11T20:42:00.000-05:00

Trumpet fanfare: I now weigh less than my husband!!! In all fairness, he is 4-and-one-half inches taller than I am, but if you're an obese married woman, you understand the significance of this achievement.

My great achievement (you ought to be able to see my tongue in my cheek, by the way) comes after a particularly hectic weekend which followed the craziness of last week. First, for all who called or emailed, Kevin is fine. He needs to see the doctor, but it wasn't a heart attack. He was having shortness of breath, fainting and palpitations, but not the crushing pain of a heart attack, so he knew he probably wasn't having one at the time they took him to the hospital. But his EKG while there was a little flaky, so they want him to get it checked out. It was probably something to do with his mitral valve prolapse, a.k.a. "heart murmur," instead. I suspect there's some sort of insufficiency. My dad had something similar and ended up having open-heart surgery in his mid-60's.

Anyway, spending a snowy evening at Howard County General Hospital set me back on my heels a little for getting things done, and the next thing I knew, we'd reached the "insane holiday-time weekend that parents of small children dread." You know, the one with multiple mandatory activities.

On Saturday night, we had Madeline's first dance recital. Madeline is a student at Hua Sha Chinese Dance Center. Hua Sha is a troupe of semi-professional dancers organized and choreographed by Ms. Xiao Fang Xu, who was a famous dancer in Shanghai. While most of the dancers are teens and adults -- indeed, one of the soloists works where Kevin works -- Ms. Xu offers dance classes for children. Last year, Hua Sha performed at the Lunar New Year party at Kevin's office. Madeline was captivated! She had already shown some interest in taking dance lessons, and I was looking at ballet and tap programs, but when she saw Hua Sha's rendition of the Tibetan Dance, she was all ready to sign up then and there.

To be sure, we promised the China Centre for Adoption Affairs that we would raise our daughter with an appreciation of Chinese culture. The fact that Madeline wanted to study at Hua Sha was certainly in line with that goal. Nevertheless, late last summer, I told her that she could either study at Hua Sha, or I'd look into classes at the Maryland Hall for the Creative Arts, where her best friend Amanda takes ballet. Madeline emphatically told me that she wanted to study Chinese dance. When I asked her why, she said that the costumes were better. Probably not quite what CCAA had in mind, but we'll take it.

Saturday was the culmination of an autumn's worth of weekly dance classes. Ironically, the recital costume was the pink leotard and white tights she wears to class. After an afternoon of rehearsals at church for the Sunday School pageant to be held on Sunday night, we showed up with grandparents in tow at the Howard Country Center for the Performing Arts shortly before 5 p.m., when the recital was slated to begin -- at least according to the ticket. What we didn't know is that Ms. Xu would run the entire program twice, once as a dress rehearsal at 5 p.m. and once as the real thing at 7 p.m. Next time we'll know to ask, and we can take two cars. I hated to put Kevin and my in-laws through that. But the kids were cute, and the big kids and adults were fantastic. After she danced, Madeline sat transfixed on my lap while the others danced. And yes, as you can see from the picture, the costumes were as lovely and memorable as the dances themselves.

After the recital, we went to dinner at the Double T Diner in Ellicott City (good, cheap and fast), where the arts center is located. We got home around 11 p.m., a very late night for a tired little girl. Sunday night was the church pageant. Sorry, but the pictures turned out very dark. I was sitting too far back in a dimly-lit sanctuary to get great pictures, and at any rate, I didn't feel right about walking up front and using a flash.

As wonderful and crazy as the weekend was, I'm getting further and further behind on preparations for Christmas. Cards are not done. Shopping is not done. Baking is not done. House is not quite clean and certainly not entirely decorated. I'm definitely feeling the seasonal stress. Note to self: Read that post on 1st Corinthians 13 one more time.

P.S. Check out Therese Borchard's wonderful blog Beyond Blue on Beliefnet. Her Holiday Survival Thoughts are a stitch!

A Christmas I Corinthians 13

2007-12-06T00:29:00.000-05:00

One of my e-friends sent this to me today. I love it! A recovering perfectionist, I needed to be reminded of the principles in here before I started feeling too sorry for myself for not having Christmas in the bag yet.

It's been a rough day. I've spent the past 8 hours or so in or traveling to or from a hospital emergency room. Kevin was transported today from work for a possible heart attack. As it turned out, it wasn't one, but my best-laid plans of what I was going to accomplish tonight went up in smoke. I needed to be reminded. We all do.

If I decorate my house perfectly with plaid bows, strands of twinkling lights and shiny balls, but do not show love to my family, I'm just another decorator.

If I slave away in the kitchen, baking dozens of Christmas cookies, preparing gourmet meals and arranging a beautifully adorned table at mealtime, but do not show love to my family, I'm just another cook.

If I work at the soup kitchen, carol in the nursing home and give all that I have to charity, but do not show love to my family, it profits me nothing.

If I trim the spruce with shimmering angels and crocheted snowflakes, attend a myriad of holiday parties and sing in the choir's cantata but do not focus on Christ, I have missed the point.

Love stops the cooking to hug the child.

Love sets aside the decorating to kiss the husband.

Love is kind, though harried and tired.

Love doesn't envy another's home that has coordinated Christmas china and table linens.

Love doesn't yell at the kids to get out of the way, but is thankful they are there to be in the way.

Love doesn't give only to those who are able to give in return but rejoices in giving to those who can't.

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never fails. Video games will break, pearl necklaces will be lost, golf clubs will rust, but giving the gift of love will endure.

Merry Christmas and lots of love to you and yours!

Some of us would give our eye teeth ...

2007-12-03T21:03:00.000-05:00

This picture of the actress Jennifer Love Hewitt is generating a lot of press this week. Apparently, the paparazzi caught Miss Love Hewitt in the act of looking like a normal, healthy woman. Some of the comments on TMZ.com, which published this photo and one of her rather average-looking backside, were excoriating. Interestingly, most of the mean ones came from women. The guys were more willing to give her a pass. As one guy said, "I'd still give my left testicle for a piece of that." Food for thought, ladies, food for thought.

How I got so big

2007-11-30T08:39:00.000-05:00

I wrote this last night in a thread on ObesityHelp. I think it pretty well sums up how I got here.

I am overweight because I suffered from undiagnosed depression since my late teens. I was only diagnosed a couple of years ago.

Depression went undiagnosed so long because I wasn't so crippled by it that I couldn't go school or work. Amazingly, I earned 3 degrees and several academic honors. It just screwed up a lot of the rest of my life. I was never suicidal or horribly sad during this time, except when I lost my dad last year. I was just ... listless when I didn't absolutely have to do something, like get my job done at work or study for law school exams. My condo (I was single until I was 40) was messy and I couldn't care less about how I looked. I was a loner a lot of the time.

And, of course, I self-medicated with food. Food, I think, was my drug of choice because I was raised as an evangelical Christian, and gluttony is probably the one vice or addiction that's not completely unacceptable to a lot of Christians. I mean, alcohol, sex or drugs weren't real possibilities! (Much of this time, I needed a security clearance for work, so I also stayed on the straight and narrow for that reason.) I had a serious addiction to premium ice cream up until my mid-30's, when my gallbladder went haywire. And I loved real sodas, especially regular Pepsi. I also ate a lot of fast food because I was too "busy" being depressed to cook.

Although I was an athletic (and slim!) youngster -- I was a competitive swimmer -- I was too depressed to exercise regularly after college. Of course, exercise would have helped the depression, but I was sort of stuck in idle and watched the tube a lot instead.

Every now and again, I'd start to feel like life was passing me by and go on a starvation diet and lose a significant amount of weight You can imagine how this affected my metabolic function.

When I was 39, I met a really nice guy who wasn't a fat fetishist but also didn't mind that I was hefty. I married him in a size 24 bridal gown. Of course, living with someone made it hard to binge, so I went and got myself some help in the GWU Obesity Management Program. I really cleaned up my eating habits, except for the soda pop. I also became a proficient cook and lost 55 lbs. in a year. Mr. Husband is Mr. Gourmet and it looked like a fun hobby, so I wasn't entirely strict that year. Thus, during the year at GW, I did happen to learn controlling your weight didn't necessarily mean asceticism.

Unfortunately, after the year was up, I started into private practice and the grueling hours meant lots of convenience food for me. I gained the weight back, all but 10 lbs. For the next 5 years I yoyo'd over a 30 lb range and my health started to be affected by the weight. Finally in late 2005, I was diagnosed with diabetes. Then, in the spring of 2006, my dad fell and hit his head and had a bleed on the brain. Two brain surgeries and four months later, he died of a massive hospital infection. He never quite came back after surgery #2 and was so weakened by being bedridden that he succumbed to infection.

I've never known pain like that in my life, but it made me realize that I had mental health issues, and had probably suffered from them for many years. Losing Daddy forced me to confront those issues once and for all. As part of talk therapy, my shrink and I brainstormed what I could do about my weight, since my metabolism was so obviously screwed up. The first thing was to start exercising, which I did. The second thing was to look at weight loss surgery. It came as a bolt from the blue, and I had never seriously considered it before. (Makes me wonder if Daddy was up there pulling strings in Heaven.) My shrink encouraged me towards the lap band because it was the safest, most conservative form of surgery one could have.

Depression and extra weight can be a pretty wicked vortex. One leads to the other, which leads to more of the other, and on and on. Like therapy and medications, weight loss surgery can contribute to breaking the cycle. And that's what I intend to do.

Bariatrics, Part 6: To Fill or Not to Fill

2007-11-27T22:12:00.001-05:00

As of today, I am seven weeks out. I had Kevin take this picture tonight because people have been asking to see a picture, and I'm an obliging sort (except when you're hitting your kids in my presence, see infra, then all bets are off). My little shadow, of course, wanted to be in the picture and I obliged her, too.

I've weighed as little as 260 here at home without clothes, though in the office and fully-dressed, I was a little heavier than that. I am barreling in on Kevin and will pass him by in a few weeks.

Today, I had my 6-week check-up with Pat, Dr. Schweitzer's nurse. Supposedly, I was to have a fill. The big-bore needle was waiting for me on the counter in the examining room, right along with my chart. But, I'm down by more than 2 pounds a week since my last appointment and I still have significant restriction. Sometimes I do well to get a half-cup of protein in at a meal and that'll hold me for almost 6 hours before I'm hungry again. For these reasons, Pat and I decided that I didn't need a fill today. She told me she's had bandsters go for 8 months without a fill because they have enough restriction from an empty band to keep dropping weight at a good clip. I may be one of those lucky souls.

Oh, and my blood pressure was 119 over 76. Soon enough, I'll be able to drop that med, too.

I have to admit that this doesn't bother me one bit

2007-11-27T21:25:00.000-05:00

It seems that Massachusetts is considering banning the spanking of children. While I'm usually a strong proponent of individual rights, I have to admit this doesn't bother me one bit. I hope Maryland follows suit.

Back when Kevin and I were trying to become parents, we, like everyone else who wants to adopt, had to undergo a home study. A completed home study is a state's "parenting license" for people who plan to come by a child by any means other than the old-fashioned way. It involves handing over a lot of documents -- from fingerprints (which are submitted to the FBI for a criminal background check) to driving records to vaccination certificates for household pets to the results of medical exams to a statement of net worth -- to a social worker, who interviews the prospective parents extensively. The social worker asks the parents-to-be, together and separately, dozens of questions about their respective families of origin, as well as questions about how they intend to parent said child. And, yes, some people do fail home studies.

In Maryland, the home study process requires you to sign an agreement stating that you will never engage in corporal or any other form of humiliating punishment. And since Kevin and I had agreed that we would use other disciplinary methods, we gladly signed.

I've always had issues with parents hitting children, and apparently so do a lot of other smart people, including the American Academy of Pediatrics. There are good reasons for not hitting kids, and I'll leave explaining those to the experts in my links. As a lawyer, moreover, I wonder why on earth it's okay for a parent to hit her kid, but if the same parent were to hit me, I could (and would) charge her with assault and battery.

As parents, we've had great success with other methods, including our favorite, Love and Logic. Not to be one of those obnoxious bragging mothers, but my daughter's teachers just told me how much they enjoy having her in their class. Friends volunteer to sit for her. Mothers of friends comment about how she's a good influence on their kids. Strangers in restaurants -- the kind of restaurants that don't have children's menus -- have noted her good behavior. Last summer when we were on vacation in another country, the owner of one of those fancy restaurants (and a French restaurant at that!) told us we could bring her back any time.

Yes, she acts like a kid a lot of the time. She's certainly energetic, spirited and opinionated enough for three children, but she also knows who's in charge around here and who has the power to impose consequences for bad behavior. And we do.

And no, we can't take all the credit. The baby the nannies handed me in south China had already been described at age 13 months as "sweet," "smart" and "close to the nannies." So we had some pretty good material to start with.

As I've gotten older, seeing and hearing parents abusing their children in public has gotten more and more unsettling for me, and as I've gotten menopausal, I've gotten a hell of a lot more honest with people. The last couple of times it's happened in front of me -- both times in the supermarket -- I've called the mothers on it. Both times, they were trailer-parkish sorts of women in too-tight jeans and too much makeup, young enough to be my daughters. (Yes, I am a snob. Deal with it.) Both times, the discipline imposed went well beyond a whop on the butt. Both times, it involved multiple blows to the face or neck. One of the children was, in my estimation, around three years old. Both times, the scene that ensued was ugly, and I believe that only my girth and gray hair that protected me from the young woman's wrath. Both times, I had no doubt in my mind that if the mother acted that way in public, she was doing far worse in the privacy of her home. Both times, I wished fervently that if I whipped out my cell phone and called the cops, the young woman would leave the store in handcuffs and the child would leave in the custody of Child Protective Services. But that'll have to be my fantasy until the Maryland General Assembly decides to do something about it.

It's time, Maryland. It's time.

Worth quoting

2007-11-26T20:43:00.000-05:00

The ObesityHelp Lap-band forum has wonderful folks in it, many of whom are excellent thinkers and some of whom even write well. One of our most successful members -- Bette in Connecticut, who has lost over 200 pounds and maintained for a while -- periodically re-posts the following essay that she wrote when she was about one-third of the way to goal. The essay is one of many reasons I love Bette.

The Easy Way Out

“Well, you’ve lost 69 pounds. How do you feel?”I must have looked at the doctor like he was speaking Swahili. How do I feel? Lighter. Overjoyed. Smaller. Happy. Healthy. Exhilarated. Terrified. Doubting. Is weigh loss surgery a “cheat”? Is it “the easy way out?” That, unfortunately, seems to be the opinion of a lot of people, probably more than anyone realizes, since most people with that opinion seem to be smart enough to keep their mouths shut. Hell, if you had any balls, you’d lose weight the old-fashioned way!

The rest of us are toughing it out with exercise and the ability to push ourselves away from the table!

If you had any willpower, any self-restraint, you wouldn’t be fat!

Jeez, try a salad once in a while!

All you had to do was get some doctor to staple your stomach a little and, voila! Instant thin person! Anyone can that! I can’t imagine that two dieters would say to each other,

“You’re doing low-carb? You’re taking the easy way out!”

“Oh! Weight Watchers – that’s taking the easy way out!”

“Jenny Craig? Hell, you don’t even have to COOK! That’s the easy way out!”

But what damn difference does it make HOW anyone loses weight, as long as the result is the same: better health and a better quality of living.

“The Easy Way Out.” I wish I could have been reminded that I am taking the easy way out five minutes ago when I was throwing up my dinner. Again. You know what I ate? Two baby shrimp and two strips of chicken that, together, were the size of my little finger. Folks, this IS the hard way. It means that I’ve tried a lifetime of diets: Slim Fast, rice diet, high-carb/low fat, high-fat/low carb, cabbage soup. Hell, I even tried those diet candies called “Aids”. Remember those? Yeesh. What a publicity nightmare that product name turned out to be after about 1985! But they sure were tasty! The diets never worked or, rather, they worked for a while, then they didn’t. I lost weight, and gained it back. Lost weight, gained it back. It’s like the instructions on a shampoo bottle: lather, rinse, repeat. Diet, gain, repeat. And those returning pounds never came alone; they always brought a bunch of friends with them to take up residence in my ass.To make the decision to have weight loss surgery is to face the realization that this is it: the end. I’ve heard people call it “the last house on the block.” Your options are gone. You’re never going to get any thinner. You’re certainly not getting any younger. Those knees, hips and ankles are going to need replacing sooner rather than later. And chances are, you might not live much longer. The short time you have is going to be filled with can’ts and don’ts and never agains. Stares, giggles, comments.

“We don’t have anything in your size here.” “Wideload.” “Fatass.” “Orca.”

The short time will be full of big things like diabetes and high blood pressure, of osteoarthritis and edema and congestive heart failure. Of annoying things like recurring yeast infections and skin ulcers. Of little things, like not being able to cut your own toenails or wipe your own ass. Then, finally, it’s resignation; it’s just giving up. You reach the point of living the rest of your increasingly short life in discomfort, pain, illness and depression, or reaching out and praying that there is one last hope. It’s reaching the point of being willing to subject yourself to dangerous surgery, pain, and possibly even death. It should be given a scenic kind of name, like “Desperation Point”. They could sell postcards:

“GREETINGS FROM DESPERATION POINT” This IS the hard way. Every meal has to be as carefully and scrupulous[ly] studied as if you are on a diet: because you are. Not for a month, or until your vacation, or until the wedding.

For the rest of your life.

But it is so much more than just a diet. There is the missing element of eating as pleasurable. Instead, there’s constant worry. Is that food, which you always loved, going to “agree with you” still, or will it make you sick? Have a couple of bites of your half-cup sized dinner before your last meal has cleared your new stomach, and it’s coming back up. Have one tiny, pencil-eraser sized bite of food too many and it’s coming back up. One chew too few and it’s coming back up. Too much fat or sugar and you’ll get “dumping syndrome”. Not enough protein and your hair will fall out. Not enough iron and you’re anemic. Not enough potassium, and your heart will stop.This IS the hard way. It’s living with the terror of gaining the weight back and knowing that there will be NOwhere else to go. There are NO other answers. This is it: the last house on the block. It’s there, every minute of everyday. And it’s not “the easy way out”. This is the toughest thing I’ve ever had to do. THIS is the hard way. And is it worth it? Hell yes. The joy is overwhelming. To be able to buy clothes in a regular store. To tie my shoes. To be able to walk even a block again. To lose the painful edema in my feet. To sit comfortably in an armchair. To wear my cowboy boots again. To know that my blood sugar levels are down and that I don’t need to take as many meds. To know that I’ll be able to spend even a few extra years with the husband I adore.

Worth it? Oh, yes, yes . . . YES!

The good news about adoption

2007-11-23T19:54:00.000-05:00

This voice clip was on NPR this morning and someone in one of my adoption forums pointed it out to us. The gist of the clip is that, over the long term, adopted kids aren't any more likely to suffer from self-esteem issues than biological kids. Of course, in our house, we knew that already. But, in larger international adoption community, there's a group of parents who always have their kids under the microscope just looking for problems: attachment and trauma issues in infants and toddlers, evidence of a gaping Primal Wound, insurmountable identity issues in older kids and the like. And then there are the adoption professionals that serve these Nervous Nellie parents, the ones who tell us our children are wounded for life or, for those of us who've adopted across racial lines, that our children will invariably be subject to all kinds of racial prejudice that we are just too dumb to understand. Some even tell us that we're the New Colonialists who've done an evil thing by adopting our children and that they regret having adopted their own children now that they've seen the light. (Of course, they always wait until their families are complete to have such revelations.) The intensity of these parents and professionals is unmatched anywhere. They seem to spend a lot of time online trying to educate the rest of us fools. None of this is to say that real problems don't exist. Certainly, a percentage of orphanage children have attachment issues or bear evidence of early neglect. Certainly, a percentage of adopted kids will struggle with birthparent issues. Certainly, some of our children will suffer prejudice or hostility because they look different than the majority or were born in another land. But, is my daughter by definition a broken doll who'd have been better off if I'd left her in an orphanage in south China? I don't think so. And neither should you.

On being thankful

2007-11-21T21:57:00.000-05:00

Taken from my post on ObesityHelp this morning (gratitude thread, Lap Band forum):

First, I am thankful to God, whom I know through His Son Jesus Christ.

I am thankful to be an American. This isn't a perfect place, but at least for me, it's pretty darned good. I think it's easier to succeed here than it is in most other places.

I am thankful to have grown up in a loving family, warts and all. I am thankful my sweet dad had 83 years here on Earth and that my mom survived breast cancer twice and is still with us at 81. I am thankful for 4 terrific siblings (and their spouses), a boatload of nieces and nephews, and now, great-nieces and nephews, too. I know so many people who hate one or more of their siblings. It's a mystery to me how people feel that way because I love of all mine and consider them friends.

I am thankful to have met and married my sweet Kevin, warts and all, and can't wait until I weigh less than he does. And darn it, that target keeps moving downward, despite the fact that he eats more than I do and drinks beer.

I am thankful for my daughter, Madeline. I cannot imagine loving any human being more. It's a privilege to be raising this child.

I am thankful for a veritable army of friends, both in the flesh and in cyberspace.

I am thankful for the chance to get a great education and for the generous people who made that possible for me by funding scholarships and seeing my potential. I am thankful to have done well enough that Kevin and I can provide a great education for Madeline.

I am thankful for a really good job. It's a job that uses my education, stretches my brain, teaches me new skills, pays pretty well, and gives me the flexibility to be a hands-on mom. I'm also thankful for really terrific managers and kind, mature colleagues.

I am thankful for having more than enough materially.... plenty to eat, a nice home to live in, a nice van to drive, a closet full of clothes, etc. While we are not our possessions and often take them for granted, or worse, feel entitled to them, life would be a lot tougher without them.

And last but not least, I am thankful for the band, as I'm over 30 pounds lighter than I was 6 weeks ago. I am thankful for the skilled hands and mind of Dr. Schweitzer and the entire crew at Hopkins Bariatrics and Bayview Medical Center. I'm even thankful that GEHA approved me on the first letter!

I'm sure there's more . . . .

I think I married better than this guy

2007-11-21T12:12:00.000-05:00

I met my husband, pictured here, in the online dating world over 10 years ago. As a big girl (which definitely puts you at a disadvantage in the "meet market"), I kissed a lot of frogs before I met my prince at age 39.

There's a video circulating today regarding an email that ended up on Gawker written by a guy who was just trying to find a little female companionship. Gawker apparently labeled hims the "world's worst person." The video speaks for itself. Check it out, and try not to barf.

I think I did much better in the marriage sweepstakes. Right now, my only complaint about Kevin is that he still weighs less than I do. I am down to 261 today.

Of Turkeys and Teacher's Conferences

2007-11-19T20:08:00.000-05:00

Kevin took this about a week ago. It's not the best picture of me in the world -- among other things, I've spilled something on my shirt and you have a real good view of my turkey wattle -- but it shows progress. On the progress front, today is a big day because I crossed the 30-pound mark. Tomorrow is six weeks out. Not too shabby for someone in "Bandster Hell."

Bandster Hell is the period of time after your surgical swelling in your stomach goes down until you have had enough "fills," i.e., saline injections to inflate the band and give you good restriction. Unlike the malabsorptive procedures, particularly the Roux-en-Y, the band itself does nothing to abate hunger. Without restriction, the food doesn't stay in the upper part of your stomach, where it stimulates the vagus nerve, which sends satiety signals to your brain, for very long. You can overeat. Some people actually continue to gain weight during this time.

I can eat more now than I could a couple of weeks ago, but fortunately, I still seem to have a little restriction, particularly in the morning. And my doctor's CNP says that I may be one of the lucky few that does. Other times, I'm trying very hard to keep my quantities low and to make good choices. I haven't been perfect. I have had a couple of homemade chocolate chip cookies from the batch I made for Madeline's lunches. But I'm not obsessing about the cookies and filching 2 every hour, nor am I beating myself up about eating them. I planned that snack and made a conscious choice to eat them. They were good and I savored every nibble. (It took 30 minutes to eat 2 cookies.) It's unlikely I'll go back to the cookie tin except to put them in someone's lunchbox.

I haven't gotten sick on anything I've tried yet. And that's good, because throwing up leads to complications. I've learned from experience, however, that pasta doesn't do well in my pouch, nor does bread. The gluten turns pasta or bread into a gooey blob, which blocks the stoma (exit into the stomach) for hours on end. Not a good feeling.

Dr. S's nurse Pat let me go back to Curves at four weeks out, and this is helping with my energy. I'm sure it'll help with inch loss, too. I missed Curves while I was out. Now if I can just hit the treadmill the other 3 days a week.

I'm cooking Turkey Day dinner this week for family. I think there'll be 10 of us. My mother-in-law and sisters-in-law are doing some of the side dishes, but I'm cooking the bird and stuffing and making my cranberry relish, which has become a family favorite. I'll be picking up an Amish bird on Wednesday morning and putting it in a brine bath overnight. Last year, I learned that brining makes for a moist and flavorful turkey!

Now, the other picture .... I had a teacher's conference today. The verdict: she's acing kindergarten academically, but she talks too much in class and doesn't always pay attention. Nothing we didn't already know.

Too Cute Not to Share

2007-11-13T22:30:00.000-05:00

If you like LOLCATZ, you'll appreciate this one. Someone posted it in one of my Lap Band forums.

Bariatrics, Part 5: Thunk!!

2007-11-10T16:44:00.000-05:00

Well, the scale hath "thunked" again. I am now at 266.8, which means I'm 1/3 of the way through my first hundred pounds and rapidly gaining ground on my spouse. (All my 10 readers who are larger-sized married ladies can appreciate the latter. "Oh, to weigh less than my husband!") I've threatened to steal his too-large jeans. When he balked, I told him that surely he didn't want to ever have to wear those jeans again, and I promised not to stretch them out in the butt, which is an easy promise for me to make since I'm kinda flat back there like a guy.

Here's the latest ticker:

We took Madeline to Mandarin class today, and afterwards, attempted our first meal out, at Lebanese Taverna in Annapolis. Note to Edie: Next time, order from the appetizer menu and not from the regular menu! This is going to have to be my rule now for most restaurant meals. I hate to waste money and food, and my tiny tummy certainly has its limits. A couple of stuffed grape leaves would have been enough lunch for me, and it sure would have cost less. Hey, I've gone from being a "cheap date" to being a "really cheap date"!

I ordered a chicken kebab, which came with a huge pile of rice and a salad. I didn't want to try salad yet -- technically, it's not part of a "soft" diet -- but I knew the chicken would be covered in tomato-ey sauce and sufficiently moist. Thankfully, nothing got stuck. I managed to eat about half the chicken and a bite or two of Madeline's hummous, wondering all the while if the tiny scrap of pita bread holding the hummous would get gummy in my tummy and stick in the stoma. Kevin and Madeline finished off my chicken and salad. I don't feel as guilty about wasting rice as I would have felt about wasting meat. Everything stayed down. No indigestion or pain.

The lunch out got me to thinking and me and Kevin to talking. A lot of the newbies in the weight loss surgery forums -- actually, the forum I read most is a bandster forum -- worry about what they'll have to give up. And a number of the veterans run off at the mouth (or is that "run off at the fingers"?) about how we shouldn't be enjoying our food and food is nothing more than fuel. Gad, I hope I never say that! I love a good meal! I appreciate good ingredients that are well-prepared. It's one of life's great pleasures, band or no band. Once a foodie, always a foodie.

Thankfully, my doctor's people don't seem to have a problem with my philosophy. (Some doctors seem to. I swear, maybe I'm imagining things, but from the stories I've heard, I've gotten the impression that there are bariatric surgeons out there who secretly hate fat people.) While I also have some healthier habits, including buying only 1% milk and cooking with olive oil, I told the nutritionist that did my pre-surgery eval (and could have rejected me for surgery!) that I use butter. Not Benecol. Not Smart Balance. Delicious, creamy butter. Accept no substitutes. And I use half-and-half in my coffee. None of this skim milk fake diet stuff. She didn't bat an eye. She told me that if I was a foodie before the surgery, I'd be an even pickier foodie with the band. If you can't eat much, what you eat must be absolutely divine. She's seen it happen before, and it's actually easier for someone who appreciates good food (read: someone who doesn't frequent the McDonald's drive-thru 6 nights a week and dine at TGIFriday's on night seven) to be successful with weight loss surgery. Ah, the value of mature and refined tastes! And though I'll still eat butter, I just won't be eating enough of it to hurt me with a band. Food snobbery will work for me!

So, after lunch we promptly walked over to Whole Foods and went shopping.

Bariatrics, Part 4: One Month Out

2007-11-09T10:55:00.000-05:00

Today is my one-month "bandiversary." For the past week, the scale has been bouncing back and forth between 268.4 and 268.8. I went back to Curves on Wednesday, though, and that might have something to do with the scale being "stuck."

That doesn't matter, though. This morning, I got some news that's even better than a scale-drop.

If you're diabetic or know something about medical testing, you'll know that the normal range for fasting a.m. blood glucose is 80 to 120. Yep! For the first time since I went off Metformin, my blood sugar is sub-diabetic!!! What a happy day this is!

If you're considering Lap-Band surgery and some surgeon tells you that only a Roux-en-Y will help diabetes, don't buy it. I'm not the only one who's gotten this kind of result.

Bariatrics, Part 3

2007-11-01T22:37:00.000-04:00

I haven't lost any weight since the last post. I don't lose every day. Today, I did wear a pantsuit I haven't been able to wear much since we came back from China in 2003, and it was loose and comfortable! I can't wait to get back to Curves and lose more inches.

I would be losing every day if I'd had a Roux-en-Y or Duodenal Switch, but both of these procedures scared me. They both restrict the stomach size and cause a certain amount of malabsorption by removing part of the small intestine. In my research, I came to believe that causing malabsorpotion is like playing Russian Roulette. There's a small chance of getting the bullet in your brain, but if you do, you're 100% dead. If malabsorption causes problems for you, you're in big trouble. The Lap Band has an advantage over other restrictive procedures because there's no resection of organs, very little chance of bleeding during surgery and zero chance of leaks, which are a dangerous complication of the other surgeries. One OR nurse told me, "RNY patients don't look good when they come out of the OR. Lap Band patients just look healthier." I can understand the desperation of someone who weighs 400 or 500 pounds in wanting a fast rate of loss, but that's not me. I'll take the slower, safer route.

I'm feeling more and more normal every day. I have less indigestion and tightness in my stomach. For the first five or six days, I wondered what on Earth I'd done to myself. I have less soreness in the abdominal muscles. I was convered with bruises coming out of the hospital. Every time I turned around, someone else came into my room bearing needles for lab work, blood sugar tests, insulin and heparin shots, an extra IV line. I was so tired of getting "stuck." The bruises are now fading. The incisions are healing. My energy is coming back.

I found another really great post in my Obesity Help blog. This one discusses how I felt going into the surgery. I posted it October 8, the night before surgery.

Here, we are at 10:30 p.m. the night before. Since my surgeon does not do a pre-op liquid diet, I just ate a couple of slices of semolina bread and drank a big glass of water. That was on top of a lovely, healthy dinner of chicken breast, rice and green beans with pineapple sherbert for dessert. I have a huge stomach capacity, unfortunately, from years of major pig-outs in my late teens (when I actually burned 4000 calories a day) and my early 20's (when I didn't), which of course is why I'm having this surgery. I am concerned about being hungry in the morning and not even being able to drink water. My surgery isn't until almost noon. Going that long without food or water is rough on me. I'm a breakfast person!

Madeline's school was off today for a teachers' in-service day, and as a Federal employee, I was off, too, so we spent the day doing errands. Then, I came home and did as much cleaning as I could until it was time for dinner. Had a little time with Kevin after the kid was in bed. He is off to bed now. I'm staying up until midnight and drinking lots of water. I want to be well-hydrated. I'm also ironing, as the child will need school clothes later in the week.

I'm not nervous yet, or at least I'm not admitting it to myself. Kevin is more nervous, as is my mom. On an intellectual level, I know I'm being operated on by one of the very best bariatric surgeons in the world. This guy pioneered some of these procedures, and Johns Hopkins is still the #1 rated hospital in the country. I'm in good hands tomorrow and I know it. And that feels great.

But there's more than that. I'm riding along on this wave of love. I have so many friends ... on OH, on the various China forums I participate in, at my daughter's school, at our church, in my extended family. I'm hearing from these people today and have been for the past week. It's amazing, heartening. I feel so lifted by the love and the prayers and the messages of support. It's humbling to think about it.

Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home

2007-11-01T20:19:00.000-04:00

This is my little diva caught red-handed in the middle of trick-or-treating. She kept me out walking for 2 hours last night, which was great for my health, but now I have a huge bowl of candy to tempt me -- or maybe not, since I lost 80% of my sweet tooth with the surgery. I have placed the bowl in the highest cabinet. I need a stepstool to reach it. That should deter me from re-growing my sweet tooth. If it doesn't, I'll give it to Kevin to hide.

The diva is a ladybug, in case you can't tell. She had planned to be a cheerleader and took her cheerleader uniform and appropriate accessories -- the pink and orange crepe paper (hey, that's what I had on hand) pom-poms and pink socks and sneakers -- to school for the parade and party. I thought this was great because I bought the cheerleader uniform for "football day" in pre-school and it hasn't gotten much use. Fortunately, the diva grows slowly and most clothes from last year fit. But some wicked little boy made fun of her (this seems to happen quite a bit), so she decided that the Redskinette look was unacceptable. She came home wanting to be something else. We had the ladybug costume on hand from "insect day" in pre-school. (Are you seeing a pattern? Last year, I procured quite a few special garments for the various "days" they had in pre-school.)

I told her to put on the ladybug costume with black tights and her black school shoes and we'd have a great costume. She happily did so, but came downstairs complaining that the costume was "scratchy." (Another common occurrence around here.) So I had her put the red leotard on underneath. She decided to forgo the wings, which attach with velcro, because she thought she might need to put on a sweater after we'd been out a while.

At this point, I'd like you to know that the procurement of the costume has nothing to do with one of the looniest traditions in the China adoption world. Through some bizarre set of coincidences (I won't relate the story because there are a gazillion versions and I don't know which one is true), ladybugs have become the de facto symbol of China adoption. All the nutty first-time entitled parents-to-be, particularly the mothers, run out and buy ladybug things for their future daughters, then brag about having done so in the online fora. I'm sure several thousand little Chinese girls adopted by Americans have been ladybugs on Halloween. BUT, my husband, who is definitely not into the looney traditions of China adoption, bought this costume. Last April, I went on a business trip and forgot about getting something to wear for insect day. Kevin went looking for bug costumes to buy over the internet and found this one. So there you have it, my little ladybug.

Bariatrics, Part 2

2007-10-31T10:17:00.000-04:00

So I did it. I had my surgery on October 9th. Instead of a Roux-en-Y, I went with an Adjustable Gastric Band (Lap-Band) for several reasons. After seeing the surgeon initially, I did some more research and talked to a few people including my shrink and my primary care physician, then emailed the surgeon to let him know I'd chosen the band.

I chose the band because it's less invasive, in that there's no cutting and re-routing of one's innards. It's just a little silicone and titanium device that stays inside forever and reminds you that you can no longer overeat. I believe the band will work for me. It's not like I can't lose weight without it. I can and I have. I can diet. I can and actually like to exercise. After I saw Dr. Schweitzer (the surgeon), I joined Curves and went faithfully. I have and use a home treadmill. It's just that I get too hungry to last for many weeks on a diet. While I like sweets, I didn't want to give them up forever and be punished by "dumping" for indulging in a very occasional scoop of ice cream or slice of cheesecake. I just need a little helper sitting on the outside of my tummy reminding me that I can no longer indulge in seconds of a really great tuna casserole or meatloaf, and in fact, need to keep the first portion child-sized. Works for me.

So ... between the time I saw Dr. S. on June 11 and my surgery day, I dropped 7 pounds. The picture was taken the weekend before surgery. It's going to be my benchmark picture. I'll have Kevin take one each month, same dress, same door, same child with me. That way, you can see her grow while you see me shrink.

Since surgery, I've dropped 23 pounds. I attribute the rapid loss in part to giving up sugar, including my nasty Pepsi habit, and white flour. Now that I've been detoxed from sugar, it's a lot easier to avoid it. The post-op diet is protein-rich, similar to South Beach. I also have to keep the (non-caloric) fluids going all day. Between the two, I've probably peed off most of the 23 pounds. My calves and feet are no longer swollen. My legs look downright skinny. My shoes were the first diet casualty in that most of the ones bought more recently have been wide width to accommodate my swollen feet. I bought a comfortable pair of size 9 mediums yesterday. My bras have also been a casualty. I'm temporarily, until the swelling in my midsection goes down, unable to wear underwires. Good thing I bought sports bras the weekend before the surgery. And the best news of all is that I'm off Metformin!! My blood glucose has been inching towards normal since the diet change, and the liquid Metformin I ordered is too gross to drink. I asked my primary if I could just skip it, and she agreed.

I had my first follow-up with the surgeon's office and his CNP Pat -- you usually don't see The Man, as he's a busy, busy guy -- two days ago. She was very happy with me, especially when it came to what the scale shows. I have my first fill, if I need one (seem to still have restriction from surgery), on November 27. I'm still on the pureed diet (the first week was full liquids), but I get to start working regular soft foods into my diet next Tuesday at 4 weeks out. I also get to go back to Curves then.

So, here are the weight stats so far:

June 11 (consultation) 299
October 9 (surgery) 292.2
October 31 (today) 269.2

Yes, I do rock!!!

My surgical experience was an interesting one. Had a few minor complications. Here's my post about it from my Obesity Help blog. I wrote this on October 13th:

It's amazing what a couple of nights at home in your own bed can do. The earlier part of this week seems like a bad dream now. Thankfully, all is well, but things were a bit dicier a few days back.

Everything started pretty uneventfully. When I got to Johns Hopkins Bayview on Tuesday morning, they had me ready to go within an hour, and since the OR was free, they got started an hour early. It was the usual stuff. The anesthesia team came by and asked lots of questions -- amazingly enough, the anesthesiologist is in the process of adopting from China!!! -- and got me prepped. Dr. S. came by with the informed consent, and I started to see why lots of reviewers say he has a wicked sense of humor. The nurse anesthestists were trying to start an IV at the time he showed up. I have notoriously small, rolly-polly veins. They were on their 3rd attempt when Dr. S. came in and he chided them about that. Accommodating soul that I try to be, I told him that 3 tries was NOTHING, that it took 6 tries for the IV they inserted before my nose job. "Don't tell them that!!! You're just encouraging them!" he said, with a little false-consternation on his face. It was priceless. We both had a good laugh. Dr. S. went over the informed consent and told me I could expect to lose 50% of my excess weight, "statistically speaking," or something to that effect. I looked him in the eye and said, "I am not a statistic." He broke into a big grin at that point, and then, after Kevin kissed me good-bye, they rolled me back.

I remember being settled on the table and Ron, one of the nurses, pushing a wedge under my knees and shoulders to keep my back comfortable. (Dr. S. had asked me about my back problems in front of them earlier.) The next thing I remember, there were several masked faces circled around my head and Ron was shaking my shoulder and telling me I'd sailed through the surgery without any problem and it was 1:00 and they were going to transfer me to recovery. I remember being wheeled into there.

I woke up again at 2:30 in a little bit of pain and the nurse told me they were having trouble with my oxygen saturation levels. I was hovering around 87/88 with oxygen canulas in my nose, and they wanted the mid-90's. The nurse encouraged me to keep pushing the button for pain meds until the pain was gone, then they gave me an incentive spirometer to get me breathing more deeply. I kept bugging them to call Kevin and let him know how I was. I didn't want him to worry and had seen how nervous he had gotten when his dad had surgery a couple of months ago and ended up in recovery for several hours. Finally, at about 6 p.m., they were able to transfer me to my room. A good thing, too. Had I not been able to get my numbers up, I might have spent the night in the SICU.

Once in my room, Kevin came by to see me, then I learned I'd get nothing by mouth for another 12 hours. I desperately wanted chicken broth!!! And Jello!!! And water!!!!They brought me water and a little sponge on a stick like we had to use to clean my dad's mouth out during his final illness when he couldn't eat. (He had had neurological problems and they didn't trust his swallowing reflex.) My mom has cried and cried over having to use that little sponge on Daddy when he so desperately wanted to eat something. Well, I got a 12-hour taste of what Daddy experienced, and oh my! As the song goes, I wish I didn't know now what I didn't know then. Just to think about my dad living like that for the last four months of his life tears me up.

I had a roommate. Said roommate was suffering severe diabetes complications and was clearly in a great deal of pain. She told me she'd already lost a leg and was losing toes on the other foot. Since she wasn't obese or even appreciably overweight, I asked her if it was type 1 and she told me, no, she had type 2. Yikes!!! I saw what the future without weight loss surgery might have been and it wasn't pretty. However, to this lady, I was also obviously a child of a lesser god because she kept the frickin' TV on ALL night. And the light on her side. I could not sleep. Meanwhile, the nurses kept coming in and telling me to breathe because my pulse oxygen level was really low. Finally, dawn broke and I got to eat and ate some yogurt and drank Crystal Light and water. Kevin showed up about 10 to pick me up and they told him I wasn't going anywhere. I hadn't been able to pee yet and they'd removed the Foley. Kevin got pretty upset about that because they'd told him the day before that I'd be ready to go by 10. Hell, I was upset, too. I made him go home. Meanwhile, I read over my release instructions and realized I wouldn't be driving for 3 weeks instead of one. I started freaking over that, because all the carpooling, etc. arrangement I'd made were for naught. I worried about what Madeline would think about my spending another night. I worried about Kevin being anxious over my not coming home. Worse yet, I was just exhausted by the roommate's behavior the night before. Now, every time they came in to check on me, the roommate would try to get the nurse over to her side for some minor complaint.

So, here I was, thoroughly stressed out and feeling worse and worse, and I finally just started crying. My meltdown got everyone's attention, and all of the sudden, my half of the room was filled with nurses, CNP's, residents, etc. Dr. S's main resident came to see me, too. Together we all figured out what to do. One of the CNP's told me that there was no way I'd be allowed to go home that day. In response, I told her she was going to have to call my husband and work things out with him, because he was upset and afraid. She did and was successful in her mission. As for all the other crap I was sitting there crying about about (work, carpool obligations, etc.), they told me everyone would just have to understand, so I could stop worrying right now. And amazingly, I did. (And everyone involved has been more than understanding.) One of the CNP's came back and told me Dr. S was concerned about things other than my lack of pee despite a dose of Lasix (did I have congestive heart failure?). First, I was burping a lot (so, had the band slipped already?). Second, my heart rate was speeding up and my blood gasses were still not good (did I have a blood clot or pneumonia?). Bottom line: I would have to spend another night and have some tests, and the *%(^! Foley catheter would have to go back in.

As the nurses were reinstalling the Foley -- fortunately, it wasn't really that bad, compared to having my nose packed after sinus surgery -- Dr. S. peeked into my room and told me how sorry he was to put me through THAT again, and that he had to eliminate all the possible complications, so I would spend some time being tested that afternoon. He told me he expected that everything would be all right, but he had to check to be sure. Pat, his CNP, also came up and talked with me about fills and held my hand a bit. They put another IV in (Ana the nurse gets a gold star for getting it on the FIRST try!) and x-rayed my lungs. We went downstairs and did an upper GI and a CT scan of my heart and lungs with contrast. Fortunately, everything was okay.

The roommate was transferred out some time that afternoon. Phew! At 5 or so, Kevin and Connie (my mother-in-law) walked into my room and asked if I'd like to see Madeline. Amber, the tech, came with a wheelchair to get me and wheeled me out to the lobby on the 6th floor, where my family was waiting. Kevin had really wanted Madeline to see that I was okay and asked the hospital to make it possible for her to see me beause she was too young to be allowed back in the rooms. He said when she got home from school on Wednesday and learned that I wasn't going to be home that night, she was inconsolable. Bayview gets high marks just for making the visit possible.

I went back to my room and had dinner, then the respiratory therapist came to see me and I went to sleep. At 4:30 a.m., they brought in my new roommate, a woman from the ER with mystery chest pains. She soon found out I was on Vicodin and started bugging the nurses for pain meds. They wouldn't give them to her and she threatened to check herself out. Meanwhile, she talked nonstop on her cellphone and watched TV all night and into the day.

On Thursday morning, they took out the Foley, gave me more Lasix and I performed the requisite toileting activity. I also got up and walked around a lot. By 10, they received the final reports from the studies and let me know they'd be cutting me loose that day. When Georgeanne, the CNP, gave the high sign, I called Kevin and he was there within the hour and I was safely home by 2:30. To the very end, the nurses kept checking my oxygen levels and kept making me walk around. In the process, we discovered that one machine they were using tested everyone's oxygen levels as low, including the level for the nurse who was testing me. So, I suspect that that the blood gas problem might have been part machine failure.

However, there was a real problem. My chest xray showed that my lungs were "wet," as though an infection was in the works. I think had this been the case on my pre-op x-ray they would have postponed the surgery. I was exposed to a sick kid last weekend. Thankfully, the fall-out was minor, though I now have a nasty chest cold.

Things have gotten better and better since then. Bayview sent a home health nurse today, and she felt I was doing well. I'm more chipper and alert than I was after the gallbladder surgery, though every bit as sore, particularly at my port incision below my left breast. But I have no fever, my incisions look great and my blood sugar levels are PERFECT without meds.

So that's the whole ugly story.

Worth pondering

2007-07-09T19:52:00.000-04:00

A friend directed me to this voice clip from NPR. Enjoy, dear reader.

From the clip: "Race, blood, lineage, and nationality don't matter. They're just the way small minds keep score. All that matters about blood is that it's warm and that it beats through a loving heart." This is the most profound statement about international adoption I've seen in a long time.

Too funny!!

2007-06-20T22:15:00.000-04:00

This is cute! How many of these things have you said to your child this week?

There is a God

2007-06-16T22:06:00.000-04:00

Of course, I knew that already. I am confident that He exists. It's just that the news that Mike Nifong was disbarred today has put me in an especially expansive mood. I abhor all forms of official misconduct, but I especially abhor prosecutorial misconduct. An overly zealous, say, health inspector might succeed in separating Joe Businessman from money he didn't want to spend, but an overly zealous prosecutor can do much more harm. It's not about money. It's about liberty and sometimes life. A prosecutor's first duty isn't to ensure that law enforcement's most likely suspects go to jail or to represent victims' interests. Nope, it's to finding the truth and representing the people's interest in maintaining an effective but fair judicial system. And in these respects, Mr. Nifong grossly failed the people of North Carolina. Being an attorney is a privilege that he no longer deserves. So he's not one anymore. Good.

Bariatrics, Part 1

2007-06-12T20:11:00.001-04:00

Yesterday, I had a consultation with Dr. Michael Schweitzer at the Johns Hopkins Center for Bariatric Surgery. As you can see from a picture at Pumpkin's 5th birthday party, I'm a big girl. Lucky for me, he thinks I'm a good candidate for bariatric surgery -- fat enough to qualify, but not so fat or so sick as to be a huge surgical risk -- so we are going forward. I had been thinking about a gastric band because (1) it's easily reversible if need be, and (2) the surgery has a lower complications and mortality rate (which makes sense because you're not resectioning anything, but instead, just adding an implanted device). I was also concerned about constriction in a healing roux-n-y'd stomach being a problem for some of my meds. I'd heard from a roux-n-y patient that she had to crush all her meds before taking them for a few weeks, and darn it, I need those extended release meds! Extended release meds are uncrushable. Dr. Schweitzer assured me there wouldn't be a problem. So now we're going forward with the paperwork. Next stop: a medical necessity letter from my primary (not a problem), a nutritionist appointment and a psych eval. Meanwhile, I'm keeping on at Curves.

Kids Say the Darndest Things, Part 1

2007-06-04T22:18:00.001-04:00

Best friends forever

My daughter was recently in a production of The King and I. She's only five and was in pre-K this year, but her preschool is part of a larger school that goes through high school. The Upper School did the production and asked kids from the Lower School and early childhood classes to participate.

It was a lot of fun for both of us. Obviously, when you ask young children to do something, you are really asking their parents to jump in, too, and I did. I sewed big silky pillows for the king's palace, mended the odd costume, and applied makeup to little faces. The experience took me back to high school and college productions, and I loved it. My daughter seemed to love it, too. While she was initially skittish about being up on stage in front of lots of people -- at least until I assured her that the lights would be so bright up there that she'd never see her audience -- she was sold as soon as she learned her best buddy was going to be in the performance.

DD was supposed to be one of the children of Lady Thiang. If you're familiar with the story, you'll know that Lady Thiang was the head wife of many and the mother of the Crown Prince. She sings the song "Something Wonderful," which is one of my favorite Broadway numbers. I very much like the young lady the school selected for the role, and I have to say she was wonderful herself with my daughter. And DD was crazy about her.

I received an email today from "Lady Thiang," who wanted to share with me something my girl had said to her backstage. By way of introducing these comments, let me say that most of the kids in the show were not Asian like my daughter, and so they had to be made up to look at least a little bit like Thai people. Beside using the brownish foundation and the exaggerated eyeliner on the kids, the powers that be decided that all the kids' hair needed to be sprayed with black temporary hair color unless unless they already had dark hair. This spray stuff was icky, looked fake (see the picture of DD and her best bud, who is a blue-eyed blonde) and according to the other moms, required a lot of shampooing to remove. DD's hair is very dark brown, so she was one of the lucky ones who escaped the paint sprayer.

Without further adieu, I quote "Lady Thiang's" email:

"[DD] looks up at me with an excited smile and says, 'Did you know I'm Chinese?'

Me: 'No way! I had no idea [DD]!!! That's so cool!'

'And I don't have to spray my hair because I'm already Chinese,' [DD] said proudly."

Art Linkletter said it best, "Kids say the darndest things."

Oh, and the production was outstanding. My unbiased opinion, of course.

Please tell me this is a joke

2007-06-02T11:43:00.001-04:00

So I got an email today, which is, in part, pasted in below. (I've omitted any identifying information to protect the guilty.) I don't know this person. I have no idea how she got my email address.

Yes, there actually were pictures. Pictures of the clothed variety, i.e., not porn, showing the woman's face.

It may just be a come on, a way to get access to a lot of Paypal accounts. I doubt it contains spyware, as it made it past 2 different filters. No, I really do think some people feel a sense of entitlement to things like this. "Hey, if they can raise money for this little Sally's bone marrow transplant, maybe I can raise money for my mammoplasty!" Whatever. It just boggles the mind.

I NEED A BOOB JOB!!!
THIS IS NOT A JOKE, I NEED YOUR HELP
I AM 33 YEARS OLD AND I HAVE HAD 3 BABIES IN THE PAST 4 YEARS. MY BREASTS WERE SMALL BUT GREAT BEFORE I NURSED 3 BABIES. NOW THEY ARE DEF[L]ATED.... WE CAN'T AFFORD THE $5000.00 IT WILL COST TO GET THE SURGRY. I AM ASKING FOR JUST $1.00 (OR MORE IF YOU REALLY THINK I NEED NEW BOOBS) FROM EACH PERSON, WHO OUT OF THE KINDNESS OF THEIR HEART, OR WHO JUST WANT TO SEE THE AFTER PICTURES OF MY NEW BOOBS, TO SEND A DONATION:)

And so on and so forth.

This is wrong on too many levels to count

2007-06-01T22:14:00.000-04:00

On the other hand, this video just might be a hoax. Knowing something about Southern California, however, it wouldn't surprise me if it were true that a Los Angeles mom paid $1300 at a tanning salon so her little one could have the Lohan Look for a school picture.

So what are we about here?

2007-05-31T22:36:00.000-04:00

This is the second time I've attempted to blog, and hopefully, the charm. By way of introduction, I'm a 50-ish wife, mother and practicing attorney living outside of D.C. When I originally named this blog, I'd intended to include legal commentary, but I get enough of that at work. Moreover, I like to receive credit for my work, and I intend for this blog to remain somewhat anonymous in nature. So my comments will go to parenting a five-year-old, international adoption (source of the five-year-old), life in general, that ol' bugaboo "work-life balance" (ha!), popular culture, current events, politics and, very occasionally, legal topics. As for anonymity, if you know me already, you'll probably recognize me. If not, that's fine. Hopefully, I'll keep you entertained anyway.

Comments? I have them coming to me before posting to weed out junk comments or really nasty ones. If I can figure out how to control it, not every post will allow comments. If the issue is too hot and makes people too angry at me or each other, well, as one blogger I love has already said, "My blog is not a democracy."

There's a lot going on in my life this May 31. School is only a couple of weeks away from ending, then summer camp begins for the child to be known here as Pumpkin. Meanwhile, I'm trying to line up Chinese language and perhaps dance classes for her for the fall. The spouse, known here as DH, is going abroad for work for two weeks this summer. (Lucky him! While the country he'll be visiting is lovely, and wouldn't Pumpkin and I just love to go with him, the set-up for his project there is not conducive to visitors. Too bad!!) And me, I'm being evaluated for bariatric surgery in a couple of weeks. I'm a big girl. Have been for a long time. Tired of it all. No doubt I will track my progress here as well.

So I welcome you, dear reader.