Capturing a Moment in Time

Twinkle is definitely her mommy's bird. As her main caregiver that is probably no surprise. Seeing her choose Adam over me or Tony is pretty rare. One night while Adam was reading, she decided to come over and check him out. I asked Adam to stay still and ignore her so I could grab the camera to capture the moment.  At this point, Twinkle was merely assessing the situation, probably thankful that Elise was not in the room.

Adam was obediently allowing this scene to play out. Here Twinkle is giving him kisses while he continues to read. She hasn't quite gotten his attention. If you know Adam well enough you can tell that he has a smile trying to emerge. This was very fun for him to experience such deliberate attention from her.

Adam is giving her his full attention and they are fully engaged in little luv kisses. Adam was giggly at this point but still just trying to respond to her in such a way that I could take more pictures without her getting spooked and flying off. She luves him!

Adam had been stroking the nape of her neck and petting her to give her the attention she was obviously seeking. In an act of submission, she lay her head down to be nuzzled. Every once in a while she'd kiss his chin as he stroked her head. Twinkle cotinually rubbed her head along his face to encourage a connection between them.

This is my favorite picture. Adam was so pleased to be the chosen one--over me or Tony. Here she is expressing 100 percent submission to him. It was such a sweet interaction between the two of them; I love that it shows how even the least of God's creatures have their own little personalities. Who needs a dog when you have such a loving little 90 gram bird!

The Statement Behind the Question

Now that I am firmly in my 40's I'm much more comfortable in my skin. The insecurities that we're like a conjoined twin that plagued me in my teens and into my 20's slowly started to dissipate once I was in my committed relationship with Tony. I am a firm believer that a healthy relationship will allow for personal growth and change, and Tony has been lovingly aside me as I've done just that. Between the security of the love of my husband--and life experiences--I've certainly come into my own; and I think it's been mainly positive growth.

I suppose it's because I finally like who I am and am confident in my life choices that it always surprises me when someone asks me "Once the kids are back in school full time are you going back to work?" And, honestly, I am surprised how many times this subject has come up now that Elise is approaching traditional school age.   I suppose it's what I am hearing behind the question that always takes me by surprise and I feel myself get a little on the defensive. What I am hearing is "As long as you have kids at home full time you can stay home; society will make allowances for you not contributing to your family income. But once your kids are in school you will have all sort of free time and become a free-loader, so it's time to get a job".  Isn't that the implication I"m hearing? OK, so maybe I'm holding onto my insecurities just a little....

When I married Tony in 1998 I became a wife and a full time 24/7 step mom to Tony's two school aged boys --nearly 6 and 9 1/2 years old -- and sadly, they were broken, hurting boys at that. Not only was I learning how to be a wife and learning to share my life on a day to day basis with him, but I was also thrown into being a mom. Oh, did I mention I worked full time for the electric company, too?  For two years I continued to work full time until I finally quit my job when Adam was born. Those first two years were very difficult years and ones that I don't think back on very often. There were not a lot of positive interactions and experiences and I keep them buried in the deep recesses of my mind. They are safer there. Really.

One of the reasons why Tony and I were so compatible, I think, is that we both came from traditional backgrounds. Our parents had both been married 30 plus years and our dads were the bread-winner, while our moms only worked part time throughout our childhoods. We both valued the stay-at-home mom and that was the example we wanted to set for our children. Being a stay-at-homer was a no-brainer for me and a family value that Tony and I embraced.

Over the last 12 years I have worked full time with kids in school, been the proverbial stay-at-home mom, and have worked part time. All three have their benefits and drawbacks. Working full time while taking care of my family was physically demanding and emotionally draining, while financially feeling very secure. There was an air of being partners and I enjoyed contributing to the household financially.

Following Adam's birth I stayed at home full time for 5 years, with Elise arriving near the end of that 5 yr period.  Financially we had to cut back but we managed nicely raising the three boys (and toward the end, adding our little girl). Tony did not love his job but it was secure and he was home for dinner every night.  Being at home full time with an infant./toddler/preschooler is challenging. Not every mom is cut out to do it but I think I made the most of my time with Adam and I look back very fondly on those years. Being there for him in those early years is irreplaceable in my heart.

About the time of Elise's birth we found ourselves reverting custody back to Tony's ex wife and paying her child support. Plus we had purchased a bigger home to accommodate all 4 kids. When they unexpectedly moved out after our move, we found ourselves in dire straits financially for the first time. That is when I started working intermittently. The last 5 years have been my "part time" years. For 18 months I babysat my niece in our home 40 hours a week. She is 5 months younger than Elise so it was a lot like having twins. I loved having a playmate for Elise but it was certainly challenging keeping up with two kids and found myself more house-bound than I was with just Adam. I did not have the freedom I was used to and that was definitely difficult. I also worked as a gymnastics coach for 6 months but they had to replace me after I could not return to work quickly enough following umbilical hernia surgery. By then Tony's job had changed and his hours also changed dramatically. Once he started his endless travels and 12-14 hour business days, working wasn't going so well for me.

Which, in turn, takes me back to the point of my blog anyway. So why are people so concerned with whether or not I am going to go back to work anyway?  To answer the question simply-- No, I don't plan on returning to work so long as my husband provides for us. I will gladly leave what jobs are available to those men and women who need them. If I worked outside the home it is certain that we could live more affluently and the perks of it are nice, but I don't need brand new cars, a yearly jet-setting vacation, high definition flat screen televisions and cable television (Nope. Just regular TV for us. Shocking!).


Clearly, it is the people who do not know me as well who are asking that question. No grass is growing beneath my feet. I am actively participating in the lives of my children, volunteering at school and church and in our community. Our house is (usually) neat, clean and orderly and errands are run. Empty laundry baskets grace the bedroom floors and dinner is on the table on most nights by 6 p.m. After years of raising my step sons and now completing my first decade of raising my own, I feel that I have succeeded quite nicely with the life I've chosen.  I may never stop hearing that question but that's OK. Tony's happy, my kids are happy and I am happy. Who can really ask for more than that?

Never Assume

The inner klutz in me often surfaces near knives, as was reinforced in last month's mishap with frozen hamburgers and the knife I was using to separate them. Oops, I separated the tip of my finger instead. Yuck!

I've also been known to injure myself around water. The most serious time was when I was about Adam's age. I was showing off for my parents doing crazy stunts off our diving board of our in-ground pool. Carelessly, I hit the side of the pool upon impact, knocking myself unconscious. All I remember is vomiting profusely into a towel in my mom's lap as my dad drove us to the hospital. I remember x-rays and still vomiting uncontrollably. Fortunately, I suffered no lasting effects from that other than staying away from diving boards ever since. I don't even enjoy watching the Olympic diving because I think I traumatized myself for life. I sure hope my kids decide to be on the swim team, not the diving team. I think it would send me to an early grave.

More recently, I remember a time when I was in the shower and slipped. Elise was a baby at the time and I was the typical sleep-deprived Mom.  She was napping and Adam was quietly playing downstairs. Fortunately, despite my lack of coordination, I caught myself and prevented serious injury. What I remember, though, is the fear that gripped me. What if I had been seriously injured, would 4 year old Adam know what to do? It was time to ask him.

Presenting various scenarios Adam did know the right answer. "If you are ever sleeping and I can't wake you up, or if you have hurt yourself and can't get to a phone, I am supposed to call 9-1-1." Good. As parents we had trained him properly. But the Holy Spirit was tugging at me. Yes, he has head knowledge, but I want him to actually DO it. Have him use the phone. Being obedient, I handed Adam the phone.  "Show me."

Adam looked at the hand set and pointed to the numbers....but then said "How do I turn it on?". Huge light bulb, fellow moms and dads. In theory Adam knew how to do it but putting it into practice, a whole different thing. I learned my lesson that day and I am grateful that it came without a price.

A Potty Mouth

It may surprise many of you but I believe in evolution. I really do. Okay, not evolution like humans evolved from fossils...blah blah blah. Nope. What I am referring to is parenting evolution. Parenting has really evolved for me in the last few years.

For the first three years I would call it the Physical Attachment era: In the first year, it's all about taking care of the baby's most basic needs. Lots of diaper changes, feedings, baths--and in Elise's case, keeping one step ahead of her colic; on the flip side of that is the attachment aspect. Getting to know them personally and bonding with them--hopefully teaching them that they can trust us and rely on us. The second and third years can be even more demanding as they learn to walk and talk and begin to gain a sense of self and independence. There is a lot of danger intervention in these years trying to keep one step ahead of the next potential accident. Put on your running shoes for about 3 years, parents. Game on!

In our household, with a 5 and 9 year old, we have evolved into one of my favorite eras. This is what I call the Communication phase. Starting around age 4, I really noticed a sense of independence and increased confidence in my kids' abilities to take care of their needs. Adam has been making his own breakfast and packing his own lunch for a few years now. He makes his own bed, takes showers and is a self-starter when it's homework time. What is interesting, though, is watching Elise blossom into her own little person. She dresses herself (albeit often mismatching), brushes her own teeth, makes her bed. I am finding myself having to do less and less for both kids--which I am totally alright with by the way.

However, I am doing a lot more talking. A lot. That's why I call it the Communication phase. They have a lot of questions between the two of them. Adam is in that "not a baby but not a teenager" phase. 9 is the new 13 so I think its safe to say that he is officially a pre-teen. He is noticing things--lots of things--and has questions, and some tough ones at that. We talk about what dating and marriage is about. Even sex comes up in little spurts (thank goodness for the slow entry into this one!) We talk about school and taking personal responsibility. We talk about what peer pressure looks like and why kids tease. We talk about what his personal beliefs are and why we believe the Bible is the Word of God and why we pray. Adam has always been a good talker. From preschool days on I've always been able to get a dialog going about what happened during his day. He'll tell me who he sat with at lunch and what games they played in p.e. Adam will share what book they are reading aloud in class and what book he's reading with his reading buddy. Which special class did he have that day. Yes, there is a lot of talking going on in my house.

Elise is stereotypically a talkative little girl. She loves to pretend, having long conversations with her stuffed animals, doll house family, and sometimes just to herself. She is also the one who asks the toughest questions like "Was Moses the first baby talked about in the Bible?" Wow, good question. I know the answer is no, but I had to think about who was mentioned first in baby form. I think it was Isaac, but you know I'm not even exactly sure myself. Most of the more well known people of the Bible were already adults before they are mentioned so the fact that she even asked that made me know she's always thinking.

As of late, her biggest obsession is with writing words and sounding out letters. Rarely will she go more than 5 or 10 minutes without telling me what a word starts with, or without asking me to spell a word for her. So last week while I was making dinner it didn't really phase me when she asked me to spell ICUP.  For those scholars out there, I know icup is not a word but again, I would have to say this is typical Elise. She loves to combine letters and ask if they form a word. Surprisingly, some of them do. Like when she spelled A-S-S on a pretty picture she was making to give away. Nice, Elise. Good job!

In that haphazard way where our focus is really on one task, but asked to focus on another, I answered her I-C-U-P. I said it slowly, ready for her to copy the letters as I say them. But, alas, no paper in hand so she says "No, Mommy, slowly". Again, I repeat I-C-U-P and say, "Do you have that now?" and turn back to the stove.  For some reason she appeared a little bit huffy as she left the room,  like I was not playing along, and I certainly noticed that her carefree attitude had switched. In just a few moments time, I hear Adam and Elise talking in a quieted hush. Nothing like a little whispering between your two kids to notice that is there is something fishy going on.. That is when Adam came into the kitchen and asked "Did Elise ask you to spell icup?" to which I said "Yes, twice. What's up?"

"Spell it again, Mom. slowly this time" He said in a voice that sounded exasperated, just like his sister. Giving him my full attention I repeated "I C U P". Adam smiled....then I got it. I-C-U-P.  I returned his smile, "Oh, I see you pee. Cute, Adam. Very cute."

Oh, I had forgotten this inevitable stage of life: Potty Talk. That's OK. I could use a few good laughs.

Coming to America

On this Veteran's Day there is a lot of buzz about being an American and the freedoms that allows us. I wonder how many of us really contemplate what that freedom truly means? I presume that for many Americans it's not something they think about --except on holidays such as this or Memorial Day, Independence Day, and maybe Thanksgiving. And that is sad.

For me being an American is part of my family heritage and an important part of my testimony. My mom emigrated from her Yugoslavian born heritage via the Queen Elizabeth, arriving at the port of New York's Ellis Island on February 24, 1950 at 11 years old. After escaping the third ethnic cleansing camp Gakowa (also known as Kakowa and Gakova) on August 10, 1947 a few months before her 9th birthday, they walked over 100 miles to the first steps of freedom crossing into the Hungary border. Can you imagine their relief and elation taking a step into a country where they were no longer in daily fear of losing their lives?  To understand what 'Freedom' looked like, you have to understand from the situation in which they came. For three years they were under the Russian Red Army control. Over the duration of three years they lived in three Yugoslavian towns -- Molidorf, Gudriz and Kakowa -- converted into concentration camps, surrounded by armed guards. They had been stripped of all their worldly possessions and all the documents that gave them their identity. They were prisoners of war who had no proof of who they were or where they came from. They did not exist in the government of Yugoslavia and had nothing to present to explain their identity. All the documents of today: birth certificates, passports, driver's licenses, state identification cards. None of them existed for them any longer. They had all been destroyed in the attempt to wipe out the Yugoslavian country. They were people without a country. Literally. Stepping out of a country of bondage to the first steps of freedom. You can almost hear the sigh of relief.

The third camp Kakowa was known as the 'escape camp'. If you were fortunate enough to be taken there and had the financial or physical means to bribe a guard, escape was entirely possible. My family is among the 'lucky' ones who were able to convince the guards to turn a blind eye to their escape, even aiding them to start out on their trek for Hungary. Walking was done only at night in the darkest hours so they could not be seen. Refuge from the day had to be found in fields or barns and often in the safety of homes and farms along the way who were sympathetic to their cause. No one had much in this time of war but people were generous in sharing what they had. Our family had nothing but a kind smile, a thankful word and a grateful heart to give back.  The journey lasted nearly a month. Another image plays in my mind when I think about this long, arduous journey. My great grandparents were in their late 40's by this time but their bodies were broken. To quote my grandma's newspaper interview "My mother was beaten with slats with nails in them because she would not tell where (her husband) was. She could not. She did not know. She was like a clump of dead meat, all black and blue. She died several years ago, never able to fully recover from the mistreatment she endured".  My grandma who was sent to Russia to work as a slave laborer while the rest of the family resided in the camps in Yugoslavia endured her own terror as she would worked to the bone, nearly dying from overwork. These physical ailments had to be overcome to travel the hundreds of miles that lay in front of them. And my mom at the tender age of 8 -- incomprehensible to me to endure what she did in what should have been a carefree childhood. Personally, I cannot wrap my brain around the pain and fatigue and fear that accompanied every step.

From Hungary, my mom, my grandma and great-grandparents then traveled on foot to Austria where they lived with distant relatives. It was reaching Austria that they finally felt safe. Now in neutral territory they no longer had to fear being turned over to their homeland.  From Vienna via the train, they travelled to a refugee camp in Schalding, Germany. It was there they found a sponsor, a distant relative (The Andersen's) of my mom's to leave from the port in Cherbourg, France to sail to America on the Queen Elizabeth. From New York they traveled to Chicago to work for the Andersen's as indentured servants for three years.

To finally arrive in America and to live in freedom for the first time in many, many years was nothing less than a miracle. God's hand of protection was with them at every turn. They were given a second chance to create a life--a new life. And they did. They worked hard taking nothing that they had been given for granted. They learned the language and worked hard to become honest citizens of this great country of America but never forgetting the life that they had left behind and the men and women who sacrificed to save them.

The Cardinal Bird

Last year on the last day of  August, Adam stepped onto our front porch and heard a rustling deep within the prickly needles of our bush. There was a sweet baby Cardinal trapped within the confines of the buds, eagerly flapping his wings, hoping to find footing in this chaotic environment in which he found himself.

Without hesitation, I scooped him up into the safety of my hands. Certainly still a baby, he had soft gray and brown downy feathers. Upon closer inspection it was clear why this baby appeared to have been abandoned or had fallen out of his nest: His left wing was badly injured.  Having little to no experience with birds, I called a local wild bird rehabilitation center. They were an organization I knew and trusted. The first Mother's Day following my mom's terminal diagnosis she asked in lieu of buying her a gift to donate to one of her animal charities. Knowing my mom's deep affection for birds, particularly hummingbirds, I had selected this local group.

They confirmed for me on the phone that most likely the bird, who was probably born in late July, was being forced to become independent by his frustrated parents. The dependency on parents is very short for wild Cardinals--often being forced out of the nest as young as 3 weeks old.  The harsh reality was that the parents were probably tired of caring for him and despite his health, or actually because of it, over time they would abandon him completely.

Not fully aware of the extent of his injuries and hoping that she was wrong and perhaps he had fallen out of his nest and his parents might still be looking for him, I conclude that he should stay in our yard to see if his parents would come. Under my watchful eye, I hoped he would improve and I would not need to bring him to the center. Our next door neighbors became aware of the situation and the teenage daughter Kate helped me prepare a small box to serve as his nest.                                                    

While I really didn't know much about birds or what was involved in caring or rehabilitating them, I did know that this little bird was going to be my answer to prayer. Just 11 days earlier, we had to put our dog Boo to sleep after a lengthy illness and my own selfish attempt to keep him with us. With the death of Boo, we were pet-less. Our two cats had passed away in the previous two years and I found myself without a pet for the first time in my life. Ever. The silence in the house without Boo was deafening. Not that my sweet old dog was loud; to the contrary he was just an old dog who did little else than sleep--he certainly wasn't capable of running and playing like in his golden days. But he was still my faithful little companion for 14 years--before husband and children--my little guy, and my life was a little too quiet now.

Having this bird to care for filled that void. I diligently fed him water from an eye dropper and fed him seeds and fruit, while Kate collected insects to supplement his diet. I nursed his wing, hoping that while he may never use it, the wing would heal and he could live a quiet life. During the day we kept him outside, where his parents did in deed come back to sit with him and feed him. Yes, they found him and when we were not outside with him, we saw his parents taking the time to care for him. At night we brought him indoors. Coyotes, deer -- even stray dogs and cats-- were a threat in the night. He certainly wasn't able to defend himself and did not want to make him easy prey.
So this schedule continued for a few days. The kids enjoyed holding the baby bird and caring for him the best we knew how. The parents were on-looking in a nearby tree, never too far from where their baby was. But, alas, he wasn't healing and I knew that my feeble attempts to take care of him wasn't cutting it.

Perhaps I already knew it in my heart, but when Carol looked at him from Wild Bird Rehab she said that his injuries were too great. In my ignorance, I did not notice that under the soft belly and downy feathers laid his intestines partially outside his body. There was no way to save him. We were doing all the right things for him and he seemed to not be experiencing discomfort, but he couldn't recover from this. Taking in a deep breath and sighing heavily, this was almost too much for me to hear. I had lost all three of my pets--and my mom-- over the previous 2 years. Could I at least take him home and care for him until he dies naturally, I wondered aloud. To my utter shock and disgust, I heard the words "No". Wild birds are federally protected. Caring for him in a home-care situation was against the law. She could not let me leave with him. While I totally understood the precarious situation she was in, I was at a loss.  Really, I thought to myself. I understood the nature of the law -- to prevent people from taking in wild birds and domesticating them, interrupting the nature of the life-cycle. But this was extenuating circumstances. Surely there was a loop hole. To my frustration, I left with my empty homemade nest and two children who believed that he was going to be treated and released. They didn't need to know the truth. They saw their mom doing the right thing and I was going to give them the happy ending.

At the end of that day knowing that I had unintentionally sent him to his demise, I had the peace in my heart that my intentions were pure and my motives honest. I took the time to care for the least of God's creatures. In the end I had only bought him a few days time--or maybe I had shortened what time he would have had if we had not intervened, but this experience had taught me that as much as it hurt losing one pet after another -- and having to say goodbye to a mom I thought I'd have another 20 years with -- I could love again. Perhaps the baby Cardinal was the just the little soft whisper I needed to hear from God to embrace the idea of another family pet.

Enter Twinkle, our cockatiel. But that story, my friends, will wait for another day.