She who will not be ignored, and The Patsy

This is Sibbie. She is our first, our oldest, and our lone female. The neighbor who found her had originally named her Sassy, but that was way too literal and certainly not for our new little kitten. So instead we named her after this totally obscure reference. See, how totally cool and clever we are!? Sassy; however, would have been an entirely more appropriate name.

I would call her the 'cattiest' of our 4 cats. She hates change and is quite content with you minding your own business. She has loudly protested and begrudgingly permitted the presence of all the other cats and children, only after accepting the fact that they aren't leaving. Affection is doled out completely on her terms. She will sit on your lap when she wants for as long as she wants and will nudge your arm if you stop petting her.

She's just starting to tolerate Yordi. I suspect that's only because Yordi has a core temperature of about 600 degrees and Sibbie knows a good warming pad when she sees it.

Momo (let the record show his name was not my choice) however, is a cat of the children. Last fall the kids saw him sniffing around the front porch so, you know, they just opened the door and he came in and never left. Much to the relief of the other cats, he lets himself be manhandled by the kids which takes the pressure off the rest of them. He's very curious and playful, but also a little off his teeny kitty rocker. I suspect whoever left him out on the street got tired of his midnight runs, playful nipping, and other antics. Fortunately our kids are always looking for a good distraction.

The thing that cracks me up about Momo is that he doesn't seem to have a built-in suspension system like other cats. He's a loud, hard jumper and thumps around like he's got a flat tire when he trots from room to room.

So there you have it, Chris has a cat, I have a cat, the kids have a cat, and Sibbie just puts up with all of us in her house. I really didn't want this blog to be overrun by cats, but I guess since the house is, it's kind of appropriate. My apologies to all the dog people out there who have suffered through reading this. We'll get back to our regularly scheduled shenanigans tomorrow.

Perfecting the Art of the BedTime Story

So I've started telling the kids bedtime stories after our pajamas/brush teeth/ read books routine. I have fond memories of the stories my Grandma used to tell my cousins and me. I have dreams of finely crafting tales over the course of several years that are memorable and poignant. Stories with universal themes that will be remembered for decades... maybe someday I'll actually write them all down. Maybe publish them and retire on Disney movie royalties.

But so far they have all fallen much more into the 'ramblings of an exhausted father' category and not so much into the 'Making Lewis Carroll jealous any time soon' category. I love the *idea* of spontaneously weaving a bedtime story. I just suck at it.

I'll ask the kids who they want in the story, figuring that they'd be at least mildly interested if they got to pick the characters. So my first story was about a Lion and a horse. The next one was about a Bear and a pony, and the latest one was about Joey (whoever that is) and God.

Joey, as the story goes, never cleaned his room. At this point, my cousins are rolling their eyes because they know that I ripped this one straight from my deceased Grandma's storybook. But regardless of my plagiarism, Joey goes on to have a Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout experience, except instead of the story being masterfully brought to life by Shel Silverstein, it was mumbled out by me in a darkened bedroom, squinting at the ceiling, trying desperately to put together the basic storyline, let alone any details.

Eventually though, I did sputter through it to the grand finale,

"... and then by the time his room was clean, they had filled 14 garbage trucks FULL of toys. THE END and Good Night," I said.

"Wait Daddy, what about God?" Yordi asked.

"Oh... right... um, and God said, 'Good job Joey! I'm very proud of you' THE END."

"HEY! THAT'S NOT FAIR HE..."

"Ok Time for bed, Goodnight!" and I hustled out of there.

Grandma would have been so very, very proud.

Daddy needs a little air, please...

Treading water.
Life Support.
Running on fumes.
Whatever.

You can call it what you want. It's those times when you just really don't feel like being a parent anymore. There used to be days when I didn't feel much like being married either, so I figured this wasn't unprecedented or that somehow I'd failed. I assumed it just meant something was out of balance. This time around I don't think it even had anything to do with the kids, I think it was just me being stressed out and/or exhausted and/or needing more 'Daddy alone time' than was available. Regardless, what made this weekend a little more interesting was that it was obvious Chris was going through the same thing. We were both drained... treading water... on fumes... whatever.

So we, very intentionally, tag-teamed for nearly 72 hours straight. One parent would come in, the other would go out (sometimes literally, sometimes just mentally) and try to recuperate a bit before the next shift. We weren't rude or obnoxious about it, but we certainly weren't subtle either. The kids began to realize it about midway through this little relay-race and started requesting 'everybody family together' activities. But mommy and daddy were buddy breathing, so getting all four of us together wasn't really an option.

Buddy breathing is a scuba emergency technique where two people share one tank. When one person is breathing, the other is holding their breath, and it only works if both people stay calm.

So we did. We acknowledged the situation and found solutions. Chris carved out time for me which I spent mostly sleeping. (A man's gotta do, what a man's gotta do...) And she got some reading done and some much needed and deserved quiet house time. The kids probably feel like they got short changed a bit, but it was much better than any number of alternatives.

By the end of the weekend we were all able to get together and head back into our normal routine of corrupting our children's value system. And really, what better way to bond with your children AND introduce them to the finer points of American culture than plopping them in front of classic Knight Rider episodes?

It wasn't pretty but we survived unscathed and ready to face the new week. Sometimes breaking even is actually getting ahead.

Random Ethiopians

So I was at Starbucks tonight with my friend Katherine. We, and sometimes others, meet there every Tuesday to knit and share stories from the parental trenches.

These 4 guys walk in. I immediately think "They're Ethiopian." Then I spent the next 5 minutes trying to talk myself out of my first impression. Why would there be 4 Ethiopian men in my small-town Starbucks on a TUESDAY at 8:55 p.m.? Do I think all non-ferenge (Ferenge: what Ethiopians call light skinned people... means roughly "foreigner") are Ethiopian? I tried to hear them talking. Was that an accent? Yes. Well, maybe they are from somewhere else in Africa. Nope, I can't shake it... they've GOT to be Ethiopian. Can't explain it... they LOOK Ethiopian.

So I get up the nerve and ask them. Yes, indeed they are from Ethiopia. I tell them about our children and ask how they happen to be HERE of all places. Well, they're on their way from Minneapolis to Chicago. (Ok, yes, that makes sense... our SB is right off the interstate.) The 2 younger men speak accented, but very good English. The 2 older men, both missing some teeth, nod and smile and squint... not understanding. They perk up when we talk about Addis Ababa. They ask about our children and how they are adjusting.

We shake hands and part. And I'm in awe of the total random (or not?) meeting with 4 Ethiopian men who happened to stop in for coffee during the 1 hour I was there.

And now I'm kinda kicking myself, because a couple of weeks ago a couple of women and a small girl came in and I had that same feeling... that they were Ethiopian. I didn't say anything to them, because why would Ethiopians be in MY SB on a Tuesday? Guess I will ask from now on. :)

This cat... he don't like you either.

Since Chris decided to share pictures of our extended furry family I though it was only fair to introduce the yang to Murray's ying. This is Rico, formally known as War, kitten of the apocalypse. He was one of 4 kittens born in our backyard two years ago. His brother Famine still hangs around outside but Pestilence and Death have since gone ahead before us.

Rico with his game face on.

We brought him inside because he was the friendliest of the four which, as it turns out, isn't all that friendly. As a feral kitten I would coax him onto my lap and pet him. He'd see my hand coming and hiss silently then roll his eyes back and purr loudly. I must have gotten to him at a very impressionable time because now he really likes to sit on my lap, or on pants that I've worn, or squarely on my crotch while I'm trying to sleep.

Rico has relentlessly hissed and swatted on sight of the children for 10 months now and thereby has trained them far better than any of the other house cats. If the kids see him, neither will go within a 5 foot radius. They will find alternate routes. They will not go in our bedroom if they think he's under the bed. They will call for me to extricate him if he's standing in front of the refrigerator or toilet. They fear the black and white cat.

There have been several times where I've looked at that cat sleeping peacefully after we've had some massive blow out with the kids and thought that he is clearly the smartest one in the house.

Love My Cat, Love Me?

This is Murray. He is truly the best cat we have ever known. We found him at a shelter. He was scrawny and sick. Lee held him in a football hold, and Murray looked up at him and started purring and kneading his arm.



He was very sick when we got him... sicker than we knew. He was very weak, and the vet said we had to decide if we were going to keep him or get a different cat. (The shelter gave a 72 hour guarantee.) Well, we'd already named him, and the PURRING and KNEADING and he was neutered.

He spent the night at the vet and seemed to have turned a corner. He got stronger every day. Then we noticed he was trying to, well, have relations with our female (spayed already) cat. She was (and is) a MOOSE, and he was no match physically for her, so she'd stand up and walk away. Turns out he wasn't neutered... probably so dehydrated and sick that his body didn't see a need to make his fuzzy peas visible.

We love this cat. The kids love this cat. He has never hissed at them... he lets them pet him usually and he purrs in their general direction. Both kids say "Aw, sweetie-cat! Look Mommy, he's _________ing. Awwwww."

Both kids have asked me if I should die, who will get Murray. Um. And Yordanos has said that when she is grown and moves out, she's taking him with her. I told her over my dead body.

Star Wars and the next generation

I admit it... I'm a Star Wars snob. I consider Episodes I, II, and III to be cruel and unusual viewing punishment. Don't try to talk me out of it. I'm pretty inflexible on this point.

My favorite SW episode is V: The Empire Strikes Back. I won't go into all the reasons that it is the best. Just take my word as law on this issue.

Introducing the children to the world of Star Wars has been fun, EXCEPT, like all the other children who did not see the original release of IV, they LOVE Jar Jar Binks. Sigh. I tried to talk them out of it. And Yordanos cannot get enough of the Ewoks. Sigh.

I hope I don't come across as a geek in this post... hmmm... probably too late. BUT, I am apparently not the only one who feels the love for TESB...

Witness... Behold the Wonder of THIS.

I totally want one. My birthday is June 7. Thank you.

P.S. Arnez, I'm totally jealous that you got THIS for your birthday. I knew what it was right away and coveted. Alas. My birthday is June 7. Thank you.

P.S.S. Dudes! I forgot that it is April 1 today as I write this. The item from TESB is NOT REAL. I am SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooooooooooo disappointed. KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!

How do they know?

If I go to bed at 10 p.m., the children will sleep until 8:30, giving me a solid 10 hours of sleep. If I stay up too late reading or playing Wii, and go to bed at midnight, they get up at 6:55.

I KNEW, I just KNEW, as I finished my book last night around 11:40 that it would not be a sleeping in day. Blast. It wasn't.

So, my original question: How do they know? Do you other parents experience this phenomenon? Will they get up at 6:30 during the week, but have to be dragged out of bed at 7:30 on Sunday for church?

I know I have it better than my friend Katherine, whose children wake up at 6 every day, regardless of the fact that their room is absolutely dark. Habtamu sleeps later now that we've got the blinds up.

Guessing Game

Can you guess what we did last week from this clip? Obviously, it left a huge impression on the children.





Maybe this video will clear it up for you...




Also, here are some pics that show the fun we'd been missing in our lives B.C. (Before Children.)

Latest Pics

Here's Yordi getting ready for prom.

As you can see, Habtamu has really been taking full advantage of our YMCA membership.

It's unbelievable how quickly kids grow up these days. Sigh... it seems like less than a year ago when we picked them up from Ethiopia.

April Fools! I know, I know, I fooled you all.

Back on planet Earth... Habtamu and I were loafing around the other day, and he started grousing because I told him that he had reached his TV limit. He needed to go exercise his body or his mind and I got the usual, "There's nothing to do and life is hardly worth living without TV" script read to me in return. I told him if he didn't find something to do, I'd put his head on a cat.

That stopped him in his tracks, and the best part was that I played it so straight, he couldn't tell what the heck I was talking about. He then told me that I couldn't because God wouldn't like it.

So I dragged him over to the computer and introduced him to the wonderful world of Photoshop, or more specifically, Gimp, a free photo editor. I pulled up one picture of him and one of our cats, selected his head, cut, paste and voila, we had the quickest, dirtiest Photoshop hack job in the universe. It was so bad it's not even worth posting, but he got the idea and so I pasted his head on several other pictures just for grins.

When Yordi came home, she didn't have the advantage of seeing the process unfold. She had to piece it together what had been going on that afternoon from her brother's excited description and a picture with her head on a mutt. Fortunately she really likes the yellow dress in the above picture and that got Daddy out of the doghouse. She keeps asking to see it and comments on the accessories every time.

The picture may be pure fabrication, but I may have created a very real monster...