So there's all that. I took it all in stride, listened to their "concerns" (the human resource and politically correct term for a word whose equivalent is vulgar colloquial slang for "complaining" and rhymes with "hitching"), and went about my business . . . but it ate at me. And ate. And ate. And ate . . . until today when I finally had a chance to talk with my branch lead about it. In the "order" of things, he's directly over me--my boss. Team, me, my boss. Anyway, he filled in some additional details, during which a guy who sits in my 4-pod cube farm turned to us and said, "I'm not trying to listen, but I can't help but overhear. Dude, you need to know this: you have a pot-stirrer on your team."
"Really. Who?"
I've had some shocks in my life. Finding out my brother was getting married was a really good shock, but one that I saw coming. Finding out weef's sister was marrying my ex-roommate was another really good shock. Finding out that my dad was dying, very bad shock. Finding out my grandfather was dying . . . very VERY bad shock. This was somewhere just below the very bad shock. Hearing from an outside, unbiased source that someone on your team is berating you in front of the whole office is one thing. Finding out that it is the same person with whom you had a conversation TWO MONTHS AGO (does "two months ago" ring any bells?) about coming to me with any issues or concerns is a flat-out heart-stopping, paddle-gelling shock.
Not to mention I have the cold from hell. Literally. I think Satan has vexed our whole household with colds, sniffles, ear aches, achy joints, spasmadic coughs and general illness, the likes of which have only been told in the Old Testament. And last time I checked, Satan is supposedly from hell. Okay, fine . . . I hyperbolize, but only to emphasize a point--I'm sick. Really sick.
Part 3, coming up!
Music for the Masses
Friday, November 30, 2007
Love and Death (pt 1)
Ironically, there was an abundance of desire for both today. A paradox, to be sure. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.
Perhaps an explanation is in order.
To summarize what could quite possibly turn into a doctoral paper on the psychology of "mob mentality," I'll just say that my whole team blew up at me this past Tuesday for "never being at work." According to them, I take off too much time. The hilarious irony of that massively over-blown statement is that I was in the office *while I had scheduled myself to be off.* I had a telecon to attend, and I needed to create an executable for a help file for a guy who was going out of town. I came in because there was work that had to be done. This in light of the fact that my mom is visiting from out of state, and I don't get to see her very much. Anyway, irony aside, there were some other issues they have, apparently, all of which I listened to with stunned incredulity. "And . . . exactly *how* long have you all felt like this?"
"Well, it's been steadily getting worse over the last 6 months, but it's been dramatically worse the last two months."
Please rewind this blog to roughly the beginning of October, when we started fostering our two girls. Now, here we are at the end of Novembe. Roughly two months? HMMM.
In an effort to "head off at the pass" this exact scenario, I told my team immediately upon starting the fostering that there would be times where I'd need to take off to tend to the girls. That might be because they're sick; it could be that a sitter falls through at the last second. We've had enough friends with kids to know that just about anything you can think of won't happen; it's the bizarre stuff you *don't* think of that catches you off guard.
Anyway, I told them that at the beginning of October. I also told them that I needed their understanding and support, which I thought they had all promised. Now, almost two months later, that vague memory has apparently been sucked into the cauldron as part of the evil witch's brew that is the gossip mill.
Stand by for part 2.
Perhaps an explanation is in order.
To summarize what could quite possibly turn into a doctoral paper on the psychology of "mob mentality," I'll just say that my whole team blew up at me this past Tuesday for "never being at work." According to them, I take off too much time. The hilarious irony of that massively over-blown statement is that I was in the office *while I had scheduled myself to be off.* I had a telecon to attend, and I needed to create an executable for a help file for a guy who was going out of town. I came in because there was work that had to be done. This in light of the fact that my mom is visiting from out of state, and I don't get to see her very much. Anyway, irony aside, there were some other issues they have, apparently, all of which I listened to with stunned incredulity. "And . . . exactly *how* long have you all felt like this?"
"Well, it's been steadily getting worse over the last 6 months, but it's been dramatically worse the last two months."
Please rewind this blog to roughly the beginning of October, when we started fostering our two girls. Now, here we are at the end of Novembe. Roughly two months? HMMM.
In an effort to "head off at the pass" this exact scenario, I told my team immediately upon starting the fostering that there would be times where I'd need to take off to tend to the girls. That might be because they're sick; it could be that a sitter falls through at the last second. We've had enough friends with kids to know that just about anything you can think of won't happen; it's the bizarre stuff you *don't* think of that catches you off guard.
Anyway, I told them that at the beginning of October. I also told them that I needed their understanding and support, which I thought they had all promised. Now, almost two months later, that vague memory has apparently been sucked into the cauldron as part of the evil witch's brew that is the gossip mill.
Stand by for part 2.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Much argness
On Friday, weef, girls 1 and 2, and I all took a nice road trip up to Northern Utah. My mom and grandma are visiting from back east, and we really wanted to spend some time with them. So we went up. I brought my camera and camcorder. It was a lovely day of frolicking, resting, chatting, and it was an all-around really good day.
Until I got home.
We got the girls out of the car, got them inside and in bed (it was pretty late when we left, and it's a relatively long drive). I went back out to the car to get the camcorder and camera, which I was pretty sure should have been in the console between the two front seats. The only thing there was my 80GB Ipod and a can of coke. "Ummmm . . . "
Then it hit me: I NEVER PUT THEM IN THE CAR.
So I looked up on the roof. Amazingly and in what I consider to be a small miracle, the camera was still there. 60 miles through canyons, sharp turns, and 85 mph on the highway, and it stayed on the roof. Now . . . not to diminish the miraculous nature of it remaining intact, but we have a ski rack on the roof, and the camera was nestled in the back passenger side corner. Still, the camcorder didn't stay.
Of the two, I'd have to say that I'm glad the camcorder was the one to go. I'm head over heels in love with this camera; It's just a digital PS, but it's the rolls royce of PS cameras. Full manual control, yet I can flip it over to auto, turn it over to Lori, and the pictures are just as nice. It's fantastic.
But yah . . . the camcorder's gone. Every second of video from having the girls so far is gone. It's sad, but I'm glad we have the camera.
Until I got home.
We got the girls out of the car, got them inside and in bed (it was pretty late when we left, and it's a relatively long drive). I went back out to the car to get the camcorder and camera, which I was pretty sure should have been in the console between the two front seats. The only thing there was my 80GB Ipod and a can of coke. "Ummmm . . . "
Then it hit me: I NEVER PUT THEM IN THE CAR.
So I looked up on the roof. Amazingly and in what I consider to be a small miracle, the camera was still there. 60 miles through canyons, sharp turns, and 85 mph on the highway, and it stayed on the roof. Now . . . not to diminish the miraculous nature of it remaining intact, but we have a ski rack on the roof, and the camera was nestled in the back passenger side corner. Still, the camcorder didn't stay.
Of the two, I'd have to say that I'm glad the camcorder was the one to go. I'm head over heels in love with this camera; It's just a digital PS, but it's the rolls royce of PS cameras. Full manual control, yet I can flip it over to auto, turn it over to Lori, and the pictures are just as nice. It's fantastic.
But yah . . . the camcorder's gone. Every second of video from having the girls so far is gone. It's sad, but I'm glad we have the camera.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
randomness
I collect glow in the dark stuff. Most people know that about me. If you didn't, well . . . now you do. :) ANYway, so Lori and I are also into this whole geocaching thing. Part of the fun is finding "trackables," such as travelbugs and/or geocoins. Guess who's found some glow in the dark geocoins. Ebay has a smattering from time to time. On rare occasions, they'll have really good ones, like this little guy. There's also this one, which is much more up my alley.
Anyway, I do that. So far, we have quite the little collection going with these things.
It's Sunday afternoon. I should be at church, but girl 1 has what we think is pink eye, and girl 2 is sporting a neon green/yellow snot-covered nose. Girl 2 has already been to the doctor, but girl 1 really needs to go.
Speaking of girl 1, I think she just had a nightmare. It's not like her to wake up crying for no reason. Typically, it's a nightmare, and only mommy can handle those. Daddy isn't allowed to help, or to talk, or to be in the same room . . . it's sad, but I'm positive that there's a very legitimate reason for all of those "rules" that girl 1 has established for herself. "Well, *you* need to be the one establishing the rules--not her." Yes, that's true . . . except she brings a very special set of circumstances to the relationship that I am not going to just throw out or trump. She has real, valid, serious concerns that need to be addressed. Nothing can help her move forward like respect and space in these kinds of situations. If she's just throwing a tantrum (which, trust me, is more often the case than not), then yah--she gets a talking-to and the appropriate response.
They're such sweet girls, too. I don't know everything about their history, and I'm pretty sure I don't *want* to know, but I feel like we *need* to know in order to help them the best we can. My guess is that we won't get to know anything unless we actually adopt them, but we'll cross that bridge later.
Sweet and sour meatballs tonight. Long live the almighty slow cooker!
Anyway, I do that. So far, we have quite the little collection going with these things.
It's Sunday afternoon. I should be at church, but girl 1 has what we think is pink eye, and girl 2 is sporting a neon green/yellow snot-covered nose. Girl 2 has already been to the doctor, but girl 1 really needs to go.
Speaking of girl 1, I think she just had a nightmare. It's not like her to wake up crying for no reason. Typically, it's a nightmare, and only mommy can handle those. Daddy isn't allowed to help, or to talk, or to be in the same room . . . it's sad, but I'm positive that there's a very legitimate reason for all of those "rules" that girl 1 has established for herself. "Well, *you* need to be the one establishing the rules--not her." Yes, that's true . . . except she brings a very special set of circumstances to the relationship that I am not going to just throw out or trump. She has real, valid, serious concerns that need to be addressed. Nothing can help her move forward like respect and space in these kinds of situations. If she's just throwing a tantrum (which, trust me, is more often the case than not), then yah--she gets a talking-to and the appropriate response.
They're such sweet girls, too. I don't know everything about their history, and I'm pretty sure I don't *want* to know, but I feel like we *need* to know in order to help them the best we can. My guess is that we won't get to know anything unless we actually adopt them, but we'll cross that bridge later.
Sweet and sour meatballs tonight. Long live the almighty slow cooker!
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Inner Reflections
So, we've had girl 1 and girl 2 now for almost 4 weeks, during which I've been present for more than 3. It's been an incredibly eye-opening 4 weeks; the learning curve goes for all of us. The girls are learning to adjust to a new home, and we are adjusting to a whole new life style.
We've discovered that, at night, girl 1 really needs to hear "I Am a Child of God" before she'll even consider going to sleep peacefully, so since day 1, that's what we've sung to her at least 5 times a night. There have been some nights where we've sung it about 15-20 times (after which we lost count, so the number could actually be higher).
But it's starting to pay off. Seriously. It's like her little soul *knows* who she really is. The other day, weef was having an especially hard day. Girl 1 picked up on it, and started singing "her song". Weef looked over at her, and she instantly felt better. Yesterday, girl 1 was sitting on my lap, and she spontaneously burst in to chorus: "Lead me, guide me, walk beside me; help me find the way. Teach me all that I must do to live with Him someday." I've had a handful of spiritual experiences that I would qualify as "knock 'em dead"ers; this one was right up there. She sang that chorus while she was looking into my eyes, and it was as if our souls were communicating--not our voices and ears. I looked into her eyes, and I could literally see her soul pleading for help and understanding. I gave her the biggest hug and told her that, indeed, mommy and daddy would walk right beside her and lead her where she needs to be and teach her what she needs to know. It was amazing.
Like I said . . . I've had some 9s and 10s on the spiritual richter scale. This one . . . at least a 9.5. Wedding day: 10. This: 9.5, maybe 9.9. I don't think anything will ever overtake our wedding day, but this sure was close.
God bless these little angels for coming into our home.
We've discovered that, at night, girl 1 really needs to hear "I Am a Child of God" before she'll even consider going to sleep peacefully, so since day 1, that's what we've sung to her at least 5 times a night. There have been some nights where we've sung it about 15-20 times (after which we lost count, so the number could actually be higher).
But it's starting to pay off. Seriously. It's like her little soul *knows* who she really is. The other day, weef was having an especially hard day. Girl 1 picked up on it, and started singing "her song". Weef looked over at her, and she instantly felt better. Yesterday, girl 1 was sitting on my lap, and she spontaneously burst in to chorus: "Lead me, guide me, walk beside me; help me find the way. Teach me all that I must do to live with Him someday." I've had a handful of spiritual experiences that I would qualify as "knock 'em dead"ers; this one was right up there. She sang that chorus while she was looking into my eyes, and it was as if our souls were communicating--not our voices and ears. I looked into her eyes, and I could literally see her soul pleading for help and understanding. I gave her the biggest hug and told her that, indeed, mommy and daddy would walk right beside her and lead her where she needs to be and teach her what she needs to know. It was amazing.
Like I said . . . I've had some 9s and 10s on the spiritual richter scale. This one . . . at least a 9.5. Wedding day: 10. This: 9.5, maybe 9.9. I don't think anything will ever overtake our wedding day, but this sure was close.
God bless these little angels for coming into our home.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Pre-Halloween scare
So, tonight we were trying to go to a pumpkin walk. We had already gone during the day with the girls, but after seeing some of the carvings, we thought that it would be really fun to take the girls at night. We thought we'd be smart and put them in the pjs before heading out so we could just drop them in bed after coming back (rationale being that they'd fall asleep on the way home).
Both girls like to run around crazy-psycho style any time they sense that they're getting ready to leave the house. Girl 1 was in just such a mode when she ran away from Weef and into the kitchen, where we promptly heard a very disturbing *THUD*, followed by a blood-curdling scream. Recognizing this as being way beyond the whiny "Mommy, I hurt my hair!", we both bolted off the couch and to see what had happened. Weef picked up girl 1 and held her, I rubbed girl 1's back and said, "Show daddy where it hurts." She looked up at me, and I could feel the blood drain from my face. Her mouth was the deepest, darkest, bloodiest red I had ever seen. Her top two teeth were gone, and she was hemmorhaging from her upper gums. "Pumpkin walk off. Pack 'em in the car; we're going to the emergency room." Weef, not knowing what was going on, asked what was going on. I picked up one of the teeth from the floor and showed her, and then the light of realization flooded down upon her in shocking horror.
So off to the emergency room we went.
Prognosis: reconstructive dental work. The two teeth were knocked back pretty severely. Fortunately, we already had a dental appt scheduled for Monday, so looks like Dr. Dentist dude is going to be pulling double duty.
Anyway, it was awful. Watching a 3.5 year old scream uncontrollably because of some unimaginable pain that you can't do anything about is gut-wrenching enough. Combine that with the frustration of sloth-style traffic that doesn't care a hoot about the trauma that's unfolding in our back seat.
And, of course, since it's Saturday night, no one at DCFS is around to answer any phone calls, nor is anyone at any number listed in the medical binder that was given to us. We left about half a dozen messages. By "we," I mean Lori, which is a good thing because if I had been the one leaving messages, well . . . let's just say they wouldn't have been friendly or polite. I mean, if a number is posted as being for medical reasons, and it says "24-7", I expect someone to pick up the phone and speak--not get some lame recording saying, "Leave a number and we'll call you back." I feel sorry for whomever returns the call.
But the crisis has passed. Girl 1 took a motrin and went right to sleep when we got home.
It's just rough.
Both girls like to run around crazy-psycho style any time they sense that they're getting ready to leave the house. Girl 1 was in just such a mode when she ran away from Weef and into the kitchen, where we promptly heard a very disturbing *THUD*, followed by a blood-curdling scream. Recognizing this as being way beyond the whiny "Mommy, I hurt my hair!", we both bolted off the couch and to see what had happened. Weef picked up girl 1 and held her, I rubbed girl 1's back and said, "Show daddy where it hurts." She looked up at me, and I could feel the blood drain from my face. Her mouth was the deepest, darkest, bloodiest red I had ever seen. Her top two teeth were gone, and she was hemmorhaging from her upper gums. "Pumpkin walk off. Pack 'em in the car; we're going to the emergency room." Weef, not knowing what was going on, asked what was going on. I picked up one of the teeth from the floor and showed her, and then the light of realization flooded down upon her in shocking horror.
So off to the emergency room we went.
Prognosis: reconstructive dental work. The two teeth were knocked back pretty severely. Fortunately, we already had a dental appt scheduled for Monday, so looks like Dr. Dentist dude is going to be pulling double duty.
Anyway, it was awful. Watching a 3.5 year old scream uncontrollably because of some unimaginable pain that you can't do anything about is gut-wrenching enough. Combine that with the frustration of sloth-style traffic that doesn't care a hoot about the trauma that's unfolding in our back seat.
And, of course, since it's Saturday night, no one at DCFS is around to answer any phone calls, nor is anyone at any number listed in the medical binder that was given to us. We left about half a dozen messages. By "we," I mean Lori, which is a good thing because if I had been the one leaving messages, well . . . let's just say they wouldn't have been friendly or polite. I mean, if a number is posted as being for medical reasons, and it says "24-7", I expect someone to pick up the phone and speak--not get some lame recording saying, "Leave a number and we'll call you back." I feel sorry for whomever returns the call.
But the crisis has passed. Girl 1 took a motrin and went right to sleep when we got home.
It's just rough.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Good things come to those who wait
Well, I guess there's some good news: the girls now feel so comforable around us that they feel that can say "no" and go unpunished. There's been a dramatic shift in mentality over the last few days. While girl 1 is now much more comfortable around me and doesn't feel so threatened (though she still whines for "mommy" much more often than is necessary), girl 2 is now following her sister's old example and throwing tantrums at every opportunity.
For example:
Me: "Honey, eat your pizza."
G2: "NO, DADDY! NO!"
Me: "If you don't eat your pizza, you can't have any more milk; you'll have to have water."
G2: "NO, DADDY! NO! WANT MILK!"
Me: "Then you need to eat your pizza."
G2: "NO, DADDY! NO!"
Me: "Then you'll have to have water."
G2: "NO, DADDY! NO!"
For those with a sharp eye and better-than-average short-term memory, you'll notice a reoccurring theme amongst G2's responses. That was G1's attitude all of last week and a majority of this week. There seemed to be a paradigm shift around Thursday, though. G1 started acting more like a normal 3.25 year old girl instead of how she was acting (which, given her situation, was completely understandable; yea, normal for those of her circumstance). Since Thursday, it hasn't been all rose petals and cherry blossoms with G1, but still--dramatic improvements.
Then G2, who is apparently late to the whine party, decided that it was okay to throw herself on the floor and thrash around when she doesn't get her way. Oh yah--and everything in the house is hers: silverware, couches, toys, CDs, DVDs (no, those haven't been locked away just yet, but we're working on a very nice solution), dog food, dust bunnies, sponges, wash rags, bath-time barbies . . . they're all hers. It's annoying as . . . well, you know.
The running joke between weef and me is that we just look at each other and mouth or flash the sign for "7", which is how many years we spent praying and begging God for the chance to be parents. Now we have to remind ourselves that we did indeed ask for this for 84 months in a row. Yes, ladies and genlemen, you read that right: 84 months in a row. Fasting, praying, begging, pleading . . . and this is the end result. :)
But we're so glad. They're adorable little girls, and we've made so much progress with them in the last 2 weeks. Weef and I also ask each other, "can you imagine what they'd be like if we had had them from the get-go?" It's amazing. G1 will now automatically say a prayer on any food that is placed before her at any meal. We don't have to say, "Fold your arms and close your eyes" or anything like that; she just does it. And G2 is starting to pick up on it, but her articulation is much less than that of her older sister, as it should be. She's not even 2 yet, and her sister is 3.25 years old.
Progress in the forms of hugs and "daddy/daughter" time. Progress in the "mommy/daughter" department. Progess in the number of tantrums G1 throws. Still feisty and fidgety? You bet. What 3 year old isn't?
Good times.
For example:
Me: "Honey, eat your pizza."
G2: "NO, DADDY! NO!"
Me: "If you don't eat your pizza, you can't have any more milk; you'll have to have water."
G2: "NO, DADDY! NO! WANT MILK!"
Me: "Then you need to eat your pizza."
G2: "NO, DADDY! NO!"
Me: "Then you'll have to have water."
G2: "NO, DADDY! NO!"
For those with a sharp eye and better-than-average short-term memory, you'll notice a reoccurring theme amongst G2's responses. That was G1's attitude all of last week and a majority of this week. There seemed to be a paradigm shift around Thursday, though. G1 started acting more like a normal 3.25 year old girl instead of how she was acting (which, given her situation, was completely understandable; yea, normal for those of her circumstance). Since Thursday, it hasn't been all rose petals and cherry blossoms with G1, but still--dramatic improvements.
Then G2, who is apparently late to the whine party, decided that it was okay to throw herself on the floor and thrash around when she doesn't get her way. Oh yah--and everything in the house is hers: silverware, couches, toys, CDs, DVDs (no, those haven't been locked away just yet, but we're working on a very nice solution), dog food, dust bunnies, sponges, wash rags, bath-time barbies . . . they're all hers. It's annoying as . . . well, you know.
The running joke between weef and me is that we just look at each other and mouth or flash the sign for "7", which is how many years we spent praying and begging God for the chance to be parents. Now we have to remind ourselves that we did indeed ask for this for 84 months in a row. Yes, ladies and genlemen, you read that right: 84 months in a row. Fasting, praying, begging, pleading . . . and this is the end result. :)
But we're so glad. They're adorable little girls, and we've made so much progress with them in the last 2 weeks. Weef and I also ask each other, "can you imagine what they'd be like if we had had them from the get-go?" It's amazing. G1 will now automatically say a prayer on any food that is placed before her at any meal. We don't have to say, "Fold your arms and close your eyes" or anything like that; she just does it. And G2 is starting to pick up on it, but her articulation is much less than that of her older sister, as it should be. She's not even 2 yet, and her sister is 3.25 years old.
Progress in the forms of hugs and "daddy/daughter" time. Progress in the "mommy/daughter" department. Progess in the number of tantrums G1 throws. Still feisty and fidgety? You bet. What 3 year old isn't?
Good times.
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