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January 31 is our Adoption Day. This year it is our 8th! One thing I’ve learned is that every year it is always the same: the days leading up to it are hyper-emotional for me. It is hard for me to let that be what it is— I tend to be someone whose knee-jerk reaction to emotional things revolving around events in my own life is to push them aside in an irrational attempt to accommodate other people (the logic in my own mind is typically: ‘yes, I’m experiencing this, but Person-X-Y-Z has it soooo much worse!’ or ‘yes, I’m experiencing this, but Person-A-B-C has it soooo much better!’… which leads to pushing aside my own true emotions in order to shift the focus to someone else… I’m very good at it). If you don’t know me extremely well, this may come as a surprise. But trust me on this one: this is my Classic Mode Of Operation.

With our adoption, though, I have consciously and purposefully tried to change that in myself. In becoming a mother something shifted in me and the emotions of it all were so overwhelming — and the importance of it all was so intense — that I deliberately worked to not force my own emotions to the side. For the past eight years, especially, I’ve been working on this. It is becoming easier and easier as the years progress. To the point where now, in my 8th year of mothering, I am actually pretty comfortable with admitting that our Adoption Day puts me 100%, full-on, completely, and utterly, over the edge. I am an emotional wreck and I’m not afraid to admit it.

There are so many emotions for all of us who are intricately linked with adoption in one way or another. There is loss and gain, love and pain, joy and devastation, beauty and horror, relief and grief, hope and desperation, and all of it is together at once, and it is so intense if you let it be. I am trying to let it be. But it is hard to do.

The only thing I know for sure is that after everything I’ve been through on our adoption journey — and knowing I’ll go through so much more in the years to come — I am still a true believer in the pure miracle of adoption. Yes, it is hard. The hardest thing I’ve ever done. But for many of us — lucky for me, I am one of them — it is the most beautiful and good and right thing we’ve ever done with our lives. I count myself the lucky one for having had the chance to experience all that it is. It is a wide range of emotions, that is for sure. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

* * *

We are so fortunate to have our kids at a school that identifies strongly as progressive. It was such a pleasure for me (particularly because it was initiated by them) to receive an email from Kyle and Owen’s teachers expressing that they wanted to make sure our Adoption Day was acknowledged and celebrated in whatever way we saw fit. I asked the boys this year, “What do you want to do — in school — for our Adoption Day?” and they responded quickly and easily with their true desires. It makes me so proud that my sons are able to say what they want for themselves, especially around an emotional and deeply personal event.

Here is what they wanted— they wanted to combine their two classes for one school Adoption Day Celebration; they wanted me to come in and read their Adoption Day book (must read here for backstory on that) to all of their friends; and they wanted a “big huge cake!” It was clear, simple, and very easy for me to implement. It was awesome.

I made arrangements with their teachers, ordered a full-sheet-cake-size cake from our regular grocery store, and that was that. And today was the day. And it was one of the best little events in the lives of Kyle, Owen, and me. For real.

When I showed up with the cake all of the kids went wild. It doesn’t even matter if they like cake, just the idea of a big huge cake is enough to make a monumental impression. It means: a big huge deal celebration! I had made sure to ask the bakery department at our grocery store to put the words in bold print (not cursive) so the kids could easily read it. They read it. And they read it aloud over and over to each other: ” Celebrate Adoption! Adoption is Love!” I didn’t have to say a word, I just watched and listened to Owen and Kyle’s friends all ooooh and aaaaah over their Adoption Day cake.

I read the book. It is hard for me to read it — ever — without getting teary. I did a good job of not breaking down into sobs in front of all the first and second graders (K & O have combined 1&2 classrooms).

We all ate cake. I cut it and Kyle and Owen got to hand it out. And that was that. It was everything that Kyle and Owen wanted it to be. And then school was over, and we took the leftover cake home to give to our friends/neighbors/students in Sayre. It was — dare I say it?! — perfect. Perfectly exactly what my boys wanted… and, I guess, needed.

They needed to share that story and that celebration with the people in their lives who they spend every day at school with. In the same way that I need to share our story ( I blog it), they have their own ways of letting themselves be known. It is good.

They were beaming from start to finish, and I loved — and was able to truly feel — the beauty in their emotions. For them, at this point, adoption is complicated — yes — but more so it is simple: adoption is love. It is something to be celebrated.

They are not without truth, grief, sorrow, abandonment, questioning, always anchoring them. Yes, that is real. But — at least for now — it is even more real that adoption is to be celebrated. For all that it is good and hard and joy and pain, adoption is love.

Today was a really great day in the lives of my boys. I hope this post will help us remember it.

* * *

Dear Kyle and Owen, I tell you often that January 31st 2005 was the single best day of my life. It is entirely true. You made me a mom, in exactly the way I wanted to become one. You are my dream come true. Happy Adoption Day to us! xoxoxo ~Mommy P.S. For the past five months you’ve dressed in un-matching outfits everyday, but this morning you came out of your bedroom dressed, very purposefully, in identical outfits for the first time since August; I am so glad you have each other; Today you did something brave in telling your story — and you did it together — and I am so very very very proud of you both for it.

The week before this past one I was away for a couple of days on a work trip. I’ve been thinking about it a lot since. Actually, I haven’t been thinking much about the work trip itself (in my current phase of life, which seems to zoom at an exponentially-ever-increasingly fast pace, a work trip that took place 10 days ago is like ancient history and I have moved on), I have, though, been thinking about the reaction to the work trip. And in an interesting twist, it isn’t my own kids’ reactions that have me thinking, it is the reactions of the other “kids” in my life — the students we live with on campus.

I have posted about my feelings about work trips before (read here for just one of many examples). But to sum it up: it is a love-hate thing for me — the lump-in-the-throat sinking feeling of leaving my bambinos juxtaposed with the exhilarating thrill of having pure-sweet-glorious independence!

I look out my airplane window and think about all the things I’ll miss when I’m away and I wonder what on earth Braydon will feed them all for dinner and how they’ll possibly manage to function without me (miracle of miracles! they always seem to do just fine! lol!). As ridiculous as it is, I just miss them so much, even if I’m only gone for a night or two. But then, luxuriating in the beauty of Room-Service-For-One, eating whatever the heck I want for dinner (nobody to please but me!), watching whatever the heck I want on tv (note: ‘Say Yes to the Dress!’ is something Braydon would never go for), sipping a glass of wine and loving-every-beautiful-blessed-blissful-minute-of-total-and-complete-peace-and-quiet (nobody saying “Mommy! Mommy? Mommy,” every-other-second, no laundry, no backpacks or lunch boxes or sports’ bags to unpack and repack and unpack again… the list goes on)… to have a little tiny break from all of that… it is just awesome. Working Moms need work trips!

(On the way there I had a manuscript to read, but on the way home I could indulge in the rare treat of non-work-related pleasure reading. Again, there it is– the yin and the yang all wrapped up together in one nice little work trip package.)

I am smart enough to always bring home something for the bambinos. This time it was Delta airplanes for K & O and a pink poodle for M. I totally rocked the Work-Trip-Gifts this time! These gifts were big hits.

So, I’ve kind of got it down. I never have anything totally down, but I’ve got the whole work-trip-thing figured out for the most part. Except this time, I had to come home not just to my kids, but to a whole bunch of LU students who wanted to know where I had been. It prompted some very interesting conversations.

Mainly the work-trip discussions with students centered on the bambinos’ gifts. For my first 48 hours home, Meera walked around everywhere with that pink poodle, showing it to anyone and everyone who would stop to look. “I got it from my mommy!” she’d say proudly, “she brought it for me from her work trip!” Students would then — most often — react by fondly recalling all the work trip gifts they had received when they were younger.

As you’d expect (most of the students are from upper-middle-class backgrounds), many of them grew up with dads who travelled for work. Some students talked about dads who traveled extensively and internationally. Others talked about dad who travelled infrequently and not-very-far. Some spoke of parents who never took work trips, but most had some experience with it. The big difference, though, was that it was always their dads. Not their moms. I haven’t heard from one student yet about a mom who travelled– always the dad. Some moms worked, but none travelled at all for work. And this raised questions for them (and for us): ‘What is it like to have a mom who travels for work? What would that have been like? What would it be like to someday be a mom who has to travel for work? What would it be like to have a wife who travels?’

I can relate. My mom never travelled for work, and honestly, I cannot even imagine it. I was so attached to the idea of her being a total rock solid 100% consistent always-present pillar-of-a-presence in my life… I cannot fathom a childhood that involved her going away on work trips. My dad travelled for work a ton. It was just how it was and for the most part (except for the occasional missed field hockey game or school event of some sort), I didn’t resent him for it or begrudge it. But I think it would have been really different if my mom had travelled for work too. And the students I talked with all thought that too— so, my work trip raised some big thoughts for a lot of us.

I know there are many mothers who travel much more extensively and frequently than I do for work. I respect them for the mind-bogglingly-complex-strategies they must employ to make that all mesh with their family life. I am lucky to have a job that requires what I feel is just the right amount of travel, and with a lot of flexibility for me to determine if/when/for-how-long I will go. But still… it raises questions.

The Lehigh students watched Meera love that poodle, and they watched Kyle and Owen fly those planes overhead running around outside in circles around us as we talked about work trips of the mommy variety.

The truth is, when I was growing up, it wasn’t just my own mom who didn’t go on work trips, it was all the moms around me. I knew of women who worked, and some who even had pretty big careers, but as far as I knew, they didn’t travel for work (maybe they did and I was just totally oblivious?). So, it is interesting for me to see not just my own kids, but now the Lehigh students too, see me do what I do. I know they notice. I know they think about it. And I’m thinking about it too.

MorFar has started a new phase of his career that will have him in Philadelphia frequently (read about it here). He made his first trip this week, and we planned for MorMor to visit us while MorFar was in Philly. So we saw MorFar on Monday and Thursday on his way in and out. Which was great. And we got MorMor for almost the whole week! Which was even greater.

It is ironic that we sold our big huge house, just an hour north of Philadelphia, with guest room and extra bathroom and lots of space for houseguests… just two months before my dad made this big career move. So here we are, in an 800-square-foot apartment, on campus, with zero houseguest space, and the chance to have my parents around now more than ever. Life is crazy.

We don’t regret it though. We are doing what is — there is no doubt in our minds — exactly what we are supposed to be doing right now. But it is a bummer that we can’t better accommodate my parents while they are here. So, as always, because it is my one and only life-long for-better-or-for-worse MODE OF OPERATION, we do our very best to make lemonade out of lemons.

We squeeze MorMor and MorFar into this crazy little life of ours as best we can. We are snug as a bug in a rug. And lucky for us, they roll with the punches.

MorMor spent a ton of quality time with the bambinos this week. There is so little we need to worry about now (cleaning, cooking, weeding, washing… all the things MorMor always helped us so much with in our old house… these things are minimal for us now!). The beauty of that is that now there’s nothing to do but really be together. And together we were this week.

{One night we even took MorMor to dinner in the dining hall! photo below!}

MorMor and MorFar left yesterday morning before the rest of us were even out of bed. We miss them.

This morning I spoke at an event at Lehigh commemorating the 50th anniversary year of MLK’s “I Have a Dream” speech. A few people from the university were asked to give a “reflection” on “The Dream.” Here’s what I said.

“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” ~Martin Luther King, Jr.

This is surely one of the most quoted sections of MLK’s 1963 “I Have a Dream” speech, and I, like many people, have thought about this idea countless times throughout my life.

Especially since becoming a mother.

Some of you may know that 8 years ago my husband and I adopted our twin sons from an orphanage in Haiti.

Like all moms, I am fiercely protective of my children.

And as a white mom, I am vigilant in constantly doing everything possible to make sure that my black sons are being thought of, and treated, fairly.

I find myself constantly wondering if my boys are being judged by the content of their character, rather than by the color of the skin.

Some of you may also know that 4 years ago, I gave birth to my third child– a blond haired, blue eyed, pale skinned girl.

It has come as a surprise, even to me, that since my daughter’s birth I have found myself thinking of MLK’s quote even more than ever.

I find myself constantly wondering: How much of what is happening, and will happen, in the life experience of my daughter, is the result of the color of her skin, rather than the content of her character?

How much of what people think of her, and how she is treated, is shaped by white privilege?

Over the past 50 years many of us have been inspired by MLK and other great people in our lives to deeply question racism and to stand up against it.

But how often can any of us truly say that we deeply question white privilege and stand up against it?

My personal hope is that in the next 50 years we will put white privilege and the cumulative advantages of whiteness squarely on our radar.

I have a dream that one day my three little children will be judged by the content of their character, not by the color of their black and white skin.

Yesterday afternoon Meera got ready for me to take her to gymnastics. She dressed herself, chose her accessories, and was super proud of her final, polished, just-exactly-as-she-wanted it look. “I look just like you Mommy!” I had noticed (of course) that in a rare instance she had chosen to wear pants and sneakers instead of a dress and dressy shoes. But it took her pointed comment for me to look more closely and see what she had done. The scarf, the hair in a ponytail, the sweater over the leotard buttoned only once, the “bag” in hand packed up with all of her necessities. She was all pulled together and ready to go. “Oh my gosh!” I thought to myself, “She is a Mini Me.” I was amazed and overcome with thoughts and feelings.

That same night, when she was done with dinner but the rest of us four were still eating, she got herself ready for bed. She put on her favorite silky/shiny Tangled/Rupunzel pajamas, pulled her box of Barbies from out of her room to the kitchen floor, and played quietly while the rest of us chattered loudly about anything-and-everything-about-our-day. I looked down at her, all pink and frill, all Barbies and Ken, all quiet and to herself, all lost and enthralled in her own imaginary world, concentrating so hard on getting some glitzy outfit strapped on some crazy-bodied-Barbie, and I could not get over it: “Where did this kid come from?” I thought to myself, “She is so not me.” I was amazed and overcome with thoughts and feelings.

We have several hundred loyal blog readers. I think of them often. They read every post. From all around the world. And even though I don’t do give-aways, or advertisements, or do provocative things to pump up the readership, our readers have been reading for years. They make me feel like blogging is worth it. You know who you are.

This post’s for you.

* * *

Our past couple of weeks have been pretty tough. The holidays are wonderful (literally, wonder filled), but they are so disruptive. We are a family who thrives on routine and ritual — both in the yearly rhythms of our life, and in the rhythms of our day to day. While Christmas is an anchoring annual tradition that we cling to and adore, it also seriously breaks up our daily flow. It always — no matter what, regardless of how much we will it not to — it always shoves us out of our groove.

We get home after Christmas and New Year’s, the kids’ school starts back up, and we seem unglued. It happens every year. We are so accustomed to this, that we see it coming. We proactively try to keep it at bay; we are mindful of it; we strategize to beat it. But still, it comes.

We are off kilter. We can’t find our balance. We fight and fuss and feel sorry for ourselves. We wallow in the self-pity of the seemingly insurmountable challenges of our dual-career, 3-young-children, always-something, overwhelming life that we’ve created (and continue to choose) for ourselves. Kids are sick. Parents are sick. The backpacks come home filled with forms and homework and memos and things to add to the ever-growing-never-ending To Do List. It is cold outside. The humidifier can’t seem to make a dent in the boys’ ashy skin and too-dry hair. Meera’s ear infections crop back up. The basketball schedule is relentless. Work is hanging over us like a million burdens. Time moves too fast. Time moves too slow. Another year is upon us. It gets dark at 4:30pm. The alarm goes off and nobody gets up. We’re cranky. We’re short-tempered. We do stuff just to piss each other off.

It is January. It is February. We dream of escaping to white beaches and red-hot sun and lime daiquiris. But there are no plans for that on the horizon.

We sink into a pity party of pathetic self-indulgence. All of us. It seems as gray as the sky is gray. And the sky is very, very gray, much of the time.

* * *

After a bad day yesterday (read between the lines: it was a bad day), Braydon and I slumped down together on the couch immediately upon finally getting the kids to bed. The moment couldn’t come soon enough — it was one of those days where we were counting the hours ‘till bedtime since noon, and beating ourselves up for doing it. It was Saturday. An “S Day” — no school, no work — it is supposed to be fun. Instead it was the crescendo of a long string of terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days.

We sat there discussing in great detail just how horrible we are at being parents. Just how much we’d love to simply throw in the towel and call it quits on the whole thing and escape forever to some far-off place as ex-pats on a mission to permanently get away from it all. We went through the blow-by-blow of all the things we’d done wrong that day, that week, that month; the nasty things our kids had said and done to each other and to us; the tears; the bad decisions; the hours we’d spent yelling and disciplining and saying “no” instead of “yes”; the things we wished we’d done differently; the worries we have for the future.

And then we talked about how this felt so familiar. So very familiar. What is this? This familiar rut of being out of our groove and so pathetically down in the dumps?

Braydon poured some wine and we sat there with our iPads, researching ourselves, scrutinizing our blog. And there it was— January 2011, January 2010, February 2009, February 2008, January 2007… Oh wow. So, there it is. A pattern so clear it stings with its smack in the face. The January-February-Funk. Laid out before our very eyes we saw the proof of our own routine: a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad deep-in-the-dark-of-winter annual J-M Family Funk.

So, there it was. And there we were.

* * *

We’re nothing if not determined, ambitious, and willful in spite of ourselves.

We determined right then and there that we’d try to beat this thing. At least get the upper hand on it.

So by the time we went to bed we had a plan in place for Sunday — another coveted “S Day” — no school, no work — it was going to be fun. Or, at least, not horrible.

* * *

Something reliable. Yes, that’s right. It has to be something we know works.

And so today we headed for Peace Valley with a stop at the tried-and-true Tabora Farm on the way. “We’re going on a winter walk and winter picnic today!” we told the kids. And off we went.

Within just minutes of our arrival Kyle and Owen were skipping rocks on the water.

How many times have I watched this scene unfold? Countless are the times I’ve seen the cathartic impact of throwing-of-rocks-into-water for my boys. All three of them.

There was dense fog everywhere. It was in the low 40s and wet. Everything was gray. It was the middle of January. Right in the depths of our funk. But there was a determination about us, and Peace Valley didn’t need much convincing to shift our centers. Little by little we started to raise our chins up a bit and put a little spark in our step. There was beauty — pure gray beauty — all around us. Everywhere we looked we could see that right there, in the dense fog, was — mysteriously — the familiar beauty that we know so well, but that is also an endless open exploration.

When the time was right we found the perfect picnic spot. We laid our blanket out on the dock and spread out our treats. Our Tabora take-out menu for the day was: hot tomato soup, fresh-baked bread and butter, fried chicken, roasted vegetable panini, Haitian Chicken Salad (yes, this is one of the many reasons we love this place; they have “Haitian Chicken Salad” on the menu), and Tabora’s famous from-scratch cookies. A picnic, on a dock, in the raw damp gray of mid-Janaury, this is the kind of thing that can turn the J-Ms around.

And turn around we did. It wasn’t long before the souls were stirred and the chins were up and the spark was abundantly right there at the surface.

After lunch we packed the little red wagon back up, complete with Meera and her bunnies. The boys scootered ‘till their hearts’ content. And Braydon and I walked and talked about plans for summer and beaches and sun-kissed kids and grilling outside with rum punch in hand as the ice melts and the cup gets covered in big droplets of condensation.  

Soon enough we were not talking about summer, but instead about the thickness of the fog, the dampness of the air, the birds in the sky, the beauty of January in Pennsylvania.

We stopped for hot chocolate. We had packed it from home in our trusty thermos— my Popop’s old thermos. It was a good moment for our family.

And we had risen above it. By then it was crystal clear.

There was time on the swings before we left.

And then we went home. Our souls soothed.

On the drive home we let the kids watch Curious George on the DVD player (something we usually only reserve for long car trips, but since this was just over an hour, we figured we could give ourselves a break and it could qualify). I handed them a big bag of Cheetos— a rare treat. And as we drove I told Braydon about how moments like this — our bambinos in the back seat, chattering with-and-to-and-about George, fistfuls of neon-orange-Cheetos in hand and mouth as they devoured the whole bag — moments like this make my heart sing. When it is behind us, this is what I’ll miss most about this life we’ve created — our precious three kids, squeezed into the back seat, damp and muddy and covered in Cheetos crumbs, cheeks glowing and hearts full at the end of an absolutely stunningly wonderful day, us in the front seat, driving home, souls re-connected, life glued back together, a sense that yes— we can do this!— yes!— we’ve got this! — yes, we can totally rock this dual-career young-family crazy thing of ours that we’ve got going. Sort of. But sort of is good enough.

* * *

Tonight, after the kids were in bed, our home peaceful and content from a truly great day, we marveled in the miracle of just what a difference 24 hours can make.

And I finally felt like I had it in me to blog.

We’ve got a few weeks ahead of us that surely won’t be easy. And the road ahead is completely unknown (we fear our blessings being snatched away from us at any moment). But for now, here we are. And we are so, so thankful.

So, tomorrow the kids will go to school. Papi will go to work. Mommy’s spring semester will officially begin (and oh my gosh, looking at my calendar right now, I am guaranteed of nothing except of just how very full it will be). It is continually overwhelming. But we’ve always got our tried-and-true soul-soothers (Peace Valley as just one of them) tucked away for the grayest, dampest, darkest of days in the depths of our January-February Funk.

May we always be so lucky to have such a simple thing make such a difference.

I hope this post brings lightness and reassurance to you all out there who can relate.

Thanks for reading y’all! ~Heather

Some years are better than others, and 2012 was a particularly great year for us. We did some big-time moving and shaking to get our actual life more in-line with our vision for our life. And after a year of massive transition and upheaval we found ourselves in a really good place when the 2012 Holidays rolled around.

* * * * *

When you live as a family of five in an 800 square foot apartment, in a dorm, on campus, it is daunting to think of putting up a Christmas tree. We weren’t going to do it. But Meera really, really, really, really wanted a Christmas tree in our home. I listened closely to her, heard her, and decided we should do it for her sake. I took her to buy a nice, small, tree (we had gotten rid of the tree we used in the old house, which would have been much too big for our new space), and we got out the box of (paired down) ornaments, and we did the whole deal. And I’m so glad we did. That little tree, weighted down with years of sentimental objects hung all over it, made our whole apartment glow through the season. And it was a reminder to me of the importance not just of listening and hearing others in our lives — but actually taking the next step and acting on what we believe is right to do. That — acting on what we believe is right to do — was the theme of 2012, so that new little tree was very symbolic.

* * * * *

For us, this is Chrismas: hitting the road!

This is Christmas: Family Skiing!

Day 1: Bretton Woods with Kyle and Owen, while Meera has a special day of “alone time” with MorMor and MorFar. Just the drive to Bretton Woods alone is worth the trip. But the day itself is the real gift that the four of us wait for all year long. One of our best days of the year. We are hard-core about this– we ski even if it rains (which it did this year). As long as there is snow on the mountain, there is no stopping our coveted day of Bretton Woods pre-Christmas skiing. Day 2: King Pine with the whole crew. Even Maria came up from Boston, with her boyfriend and his adorable baby. Kyle and Owen used poles for the first time this year! And Meera was bombing down the hill with a lot of help from (i.e., being held up by) MorMor.

This is Christmas: the lead-up to Christmas Eve with our long-held annual traditions.

Dressy kids in Christmas outfits; Gilbert’s for seafood and chowder; The Magic of Christmas concert at the Portland Symphony Orchestra; Christmas Eve Day with Pageant Rehearsal, followed by bowls of soup and hot dogs roasted over the campfire and Swedish glogg with my parents’ friends and the bambinos playing in the snowy field.

This is Christmas: Christmas Eve and Christmas Day — the 24 hour climax of all the festivities.

My mother’s traditional Christmas Eve Swedish Smorgasbord (the centerpiece of our holiday); Christmas Eve Candlelight Service at the Freedom Church; complete with The Pageant (certain kids get really into it as a gift to their MorMor and MorFar); Christmas morning!; MorMor’s Swedish Butterhorns! (the most awaited and anticipated treat of the year); Christmas presents; MorFar’s Christmas Day Dinner.

This is Christmas: a winter week at MorMor and MorFar’s house.

Snowy New Hampshire; spending all day in our comfy cozy clothes/pjs; playing with new toys and reading new books; relaxing; our little extended family all under one roof; a Celtics game on tv; the hot tub; time with the bambinos’ only cousin, Sadie (this is soon to change! next year a 5th kid will be on the couch! a baby boy is on the way!!! a brother for Sadie! a second cousin for K, O, and M!).

The whole week goes by in a flash with a whirlwind mix of activities and downtime, and before we know it, Christmas is over and we’re hitting the road again. This year a big storm was brewing, so we got out of there fast to try to get home before getting caught in it. We made it to Connecticut before we had to pull over and find a hotel in a blazing snowstorm making the roads bad enough for even Braydon to finally give in to it. We made it home the next day to find a very quiet Lehigh blanketed in a fresh coat of snow.

We spent three days at home before hitting the road again. Those three days are a total blur to me now — I was slammed hard with a bad case of bronchitis and the other four J-Ms had bad, bad colds/sinus infections/etc. What I do remember of it is a fuzzy memory of us five cozied up on our couches, under blankets, watching movies and eating take-out. If truth be told: if you only have three days at home during a two-week holiday break, spending it that way is not bad at all.

We got out once, to make it to a Lehigh Men’s Basketball game, after which we had the special honor of hosting our beloved Zahir for drinks so that we could meet new girlfriend. Zahir is a wildly successful Lehigh alum now, but we luck out in getting to see him pretty frequently since he returns sometimes for basketball games. Meeting his girlfriend was a high for me– a high because it was such a sweet thing to me that such a special student of mine wanted to introduce me to his girlfriend; and a high because happily we all approved of her as a fabulous lovely choice for Z (and we are picky! and protective!!). Other than that, we just chilled out in our deserted dorm, making full use of having the laundry room all to ourselves (nice perk to our living situation: a set of commercial washers and dryers that make coming home from a week-long trip’s worth of laundry relatively very easy)!

New Year’s Eve day we headed to Connecticut for our tradition of New Year’s Eve with the Slavins. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: there’s nothing better than New Year’s Eve with your college roommate!

We came home on New Year’s Day, which is also — just as importantly for us — Haiti’s Independence Day. In line with a tradition we started last year, I made Soup Joumou, and we celebrated January 1st with this special meal.

And so 2013 begins.

Happy Christmas Eve Day to those celebrating! And Happy Everything to everyone everywhere!

Joy Joy Joy!

…and if you’re looking for a good chuckle… here’s a flashback to our all-time favorite J-M Christmas Story: click! (from Christmas Eve 2006, when K & O were 2-years-old, and wishing for a baby brother/sister)

We are heartsick over the Connecticut school shootings, and I’m having a hard time blogging about our very blessed life while others suffer such profound tragedy.

In an effort to catch up on blogging prior to our annual pilgrimage to New Hampshire for Christmas, here goes~~~

We’re all fully recovered from our ordeal, and doing our best to enjoy this precious life of ours to the fullest again. I often think about how lucky we are to get to go to what have to be some of the funnest parties on the planet. We’ve had a string of them in the past few days~~

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Our dear friends, the Kulps, annual Christmas Party (this party is always outrageously festive and unbelievably amazing!)~~

Spencer’s 5th Birthday Party (at a bouncy place! Meera was on Cloud 9!)~~

Zoe’s 8th Birthday Party (at a bowling rink! the bambinos had an absolute BLAST!)~~

And a First Friday (this time was Kyle and Mama; and they are almost never on a Friday anymore; this one was on a Saturday)~~

Every ‘First Friday’ feels so special. This one felt so special. I took Kyle to a fancy classic steak house (steak = his favorite, and he is becoming quite the connoisseur). We had the best time together and savored every minute of that deliciousness (the food and the time). I will say this: my boy Kyle is quite the charmer. I have a hard time not imagining what he’ll be like on a date with someone special someday in his future. He is a boy who knows how to make his date feel like a million bucks. And he definitely appreciates the finer things in life and enjoys –more than anything– seeing others enjoy them too. I hope and pray that I’ll be able to see how his life continues to unfold.

Well, we have just been though the worst week of sickness in the history of our little family’s life. I’m going to try to use as little detail here as possible, in order to spare any readers from the disgustingness that has been our existence for the past six days. I’m writing this post for posterity’s sake; it is important to remember the bad and the good. This was in the category of BAD.

Friday night, at 8pm Owen threw-up in the most gruesome way imaginable. And that was the start. Braydon and I were up all night with Owen that night, who was violently ill for most of the night.

We spent Saturday trying to nurse Owen back to health, trying to make it through the day with two parents who had pulled an all-nighter, trying to occupy Meera and Kyle, doing loads and loads of laundry, and Cloroxing everything.

Sunday was a great day. We thought we were over it– and it was onward and upward!– as far as we were concerned. Little did we know.

Sunday night Braydon and I went to bed at 11:30. Half-an-hour later, at precisely midnight, Meera through up for the first time. She had been sleeping in our bed; we should have known, when she insisted that she go to sleep in our bed that night (highly unusual), that something bad was brewing. But hindsight is 20/20. I won’t describe the situation that proceeded for that entire night. I will say this: It was the worst case of a stomach virus I’ve ever witnessed in my entire life. I’ve never seen anything like it. Our poor, poor, poor girl was sick beyond belief. Read between the lines here people: it was absolutely HORRIBLE. Again, a long night of absolute non-stop misery.

Monday Kyle and Owen went to school. Braydon and I spent the day trying to nurse Meera back to health, trying to make it through the day with two parents who had pulled an all-nighter, doing loads and loads of laundry, Cloroxing everything, and attempting — with only limited success — to clean the carpets.

Kyle got home from basketball that night, walked in the door, and threw up. It was another long night.

We spent Tuesday trying to nurse Kyle and Meera (who still wasn’t fully recovered) back to health, trying to make it through the day with two parents who had pulled another all-nighter, doing loads and loads of laundry, and Cloroxing everything.

Tuesday night the most dreaded occurred. Mama got it. We knew things were bad when, at 2am, I fainted on the bathroom floor. It was the first and only time in my lifetime that I have ever fainted. We thank our lucky stars that Braydon was right there with me when it happened. It was another bad, bad, bad, bad, bad night.

Wednesday all three kids went to school. Braydon went to watch Meera’s 9am school show (I was so sad to miss it), then promptly returned home to spend the rest of the day trying to nurse Mama back to health, napping, doing loads and loads of laundry, and Cloroxing everything.

Yesterday I was still in recovery mode (lesson learned: a 40 year old does not bounce back as quickly as an 8 year old). Kyle and Owen went to school, and Braydon stayed home out of sheer exhaustion, an upset stomach upset (was it a touch of the flu? or was it purely psychological? we will never know), and to take care of Meera (who is home on Thursdays, normally with a babysitter, but we could not let the babysitter into our sick house).

A record number of videos were watched this week by our three bambinos. They loved that part of it.

Today we are all up, all going, and at work and school. We are over it.

It has given us a lot to think about. Mainly, how grateful we are for our health, our family, Clorox, and our living-on-campus-industrial-toilet.

Lots more blogging to come in the days ahead (I promise: not about vomit or diarrhea, but about lots of other — much better, and less self-absorbed — stuff)!

Owen’s letter above: “Dear Santa, I would like rollerblades this year please.” At bottom: “an easy maze for you!”

re: Kyle’s letter– in 2010 Kyle asked Santa for a bow & arrows. His interest in archery has waxed and waned over the past couple of years, but has lately been fully re-inspired by: 1) our move to a home with 1,800 acres of woods literally right in our backyard, 2) his obsession with The Hunger Games books/movie/story/the-whole-9-yards, and 3) his love of the movie Brave. Note: a quiver is the thing you strap across your back to hold arrows. I just learned this.

Note re: Meera’s picture at the bottom of her letter — “it is the erf with Santa and Rudolf bringing the presents to all the childrens of the world.” FYI: “erf” = ‘earth’

For the past four years of J-M Santa Letters click:

• Dear Santa 2011
• Dear Santa 2010
• Dear Santa 2009
• Dear Santa 2008