My Olympic Event - The Mommathalon (Part One)

Proudly representing Canada, I competed in the world's most revered athletic competition: the Mommathalon. 

Although not an official Olympic competition (the IOC is still arguing over its season: should the Mommathalon qualify as a winter or summer sport?), this multi-disciplinary athletic competition is not for the weak-hearted. 

It started out on a brilliant Saturday morning. Conditions were perfect for the Mommathalon. The sun glinted off the (little bits of) snow on the local mountains, and my lungs were filled with fresh air. I could taste victory on my tongue. Climbing into my unofficial team Canada uniform (lululemon pants, a ragged t-shirt, and my $10 HBC red mittens, I headed off to the gym for the qualifying round.)

After busting my lungs on the treadmill for 10km -- with several breaks for sheer exhaustion, and for a severe wardrobe malfuntion -- (an untied shoelace!) I made it home alive and thus qualified for the first event: the toddler bath. 

Olympic rules for this event are simple: the aim is to bathe your toddler in as short a time as possible, with the least amount of bath water on the floor/splattered on the mirror. 

Disqualifications include: throwing the baby out with the bath water, complaints from the downstairs neighbours that water leaked through their ceiling, and the mommy-guilt disqualifer: accidentally washing baby's hair with Nair. 

It was a dicey event, as Noah was also in a competitive mood. Word in the Olympic village was that the US sponsors of Sesame Street had planted a special on whales into that morning's episode. It was an obvious threat to the TV audience, particularly Canadian competitors. 

Noah decided he was a whale, and that included filling his cheeks with soapy bath water and spouting the contents directly at his mother. This quick-thinking mother used her core defense (the shower curtain) to avoid a catastrophe. In the end, I had two demerits (one for neglecting to clean my son's left foot, the other for a fully drenched left sleeve), but we moved on quickly to the second event.

"The diaper and dress" competition is a timed event; the faster, the better. The only rules were: diaper must be in the usual place (taped around toddler's head is not sufficient) and clothing must be on the appropriate body part. (No socks on the hands or t shirts hanging from toes.) Mothers know this event can make or break their chances. If Mom loses her grip on a half-naked toddler, her hopes for a medal are quickly dashed.

It was a dicey competition. Already at a disadvantage from an overactive bathtime, I took hold of my son's uncleaned (and therefore less slippery) left foot and held on for dear life. Although not technically illegal, the use of threats or bribes is frowned upon in this event. But this mother was not holding back.

"Want to go to Grammy's? Want a chocolate chip? Want to have everything left to you in my will?" 

That got his attention. I had him diapered, dressed, and hands folded in a spectacular 93 seconds. Which was fantastic, except that he looked at me, smiled and annouced "I went poo." 


I doubled up on the bribes "want a pound of chocolate? Want to run free at the park for seven hours?  Want a pony?" and we had him re-diapered and dressed in a respectable (but no longer record-breaking) 2 minutes, 11.45 seconds.

So how did we fare? Would I represent Canada on the Modium (momma podium) or slip up in the third and final event? Stay tuned for Part Two of the Mommathalon, including the back-breaking finale, "Get to the Ferry Terminal on Time".

In Defense of Ministry Kids. And Intercountry Kids. And Licensed Agency Kids. And, Well, Kids who are Adopted in General

I was having a great morning last week. An EXCELLENT morning. I was at a parent & tots group at the rec centre with my son, and was really enjoying myself.

I started chatting with another mom. I had guessed she was a transracial adoptive parent, but did not want to pry/offend/presume. I gave her the little gift of *not* inquiring about her child's adoption story and instead just talked to her about her little one, if this was her first, and how she was enjoying parenthood, etc.

The mom asked me a question about Noah's early infancy that I couldn't answer honestly without bending the truth.... and I knew if she was an adoptive parent, she'd probably be happy to know she wasn't the only one in the room.

So I explained that Noah joined our family through adoption. I saw the mother's eyes widen a little bit. I'm in my 20s, sitting in ragged gym shoes, and my toddler is running around with his glorious blonde curls, laughing and smiling. I drive a base model sedan with scratches from here to kingdom come. I parked right next to her Mercedes SUV and had waved to her on our way in. 

I could almost see the question on her lips "Where did you adopt him from?"  and the unspeakable follow up, which usually remains unspoken "And how much did his adoption cost?"

The silence was a bit deafening, so I gently asked "did your little one join your family through adoption, too?" To which she smiled broadly, scooped her munchkin up and proudly said "YES!"


We talked about the age at which our babies came home, and she was astounded that Noah was adopted from within Canada at age 7 months. I offered "we adopted Noah through the Ministry" and the silence was no longer deafening, it began to echo. I just smiled at her stupidly, because, well, I love my son and I'm not going to start defending him until I know what other mom is thinking.


I didn't have to wait too long. "Oooh, we looked at the Ministry, too." She commented. "But all those kids are so DAMAGED." 

I looked at the little 'perfect infant' sitting next to her- the little child who, by the very fact that he was an adoptee, and the fact that he was in a transracial family, also had "special placement needs". He, too, would have his own unique challenges and questions in the years that followed. I looked at them and my heart broke a little bit.


I sat there, toying with my options. On one hand, I have to be professional in how I respond. It's kind of my job. On the other hand, I have the right to defend my child and his peers and all the WAITING children in the Ministry program who will only wait longer if the prevailing notion is that every one of them is damaged and unable to be parented. If I go on the attack, I'll never be able to gently lead this lady towards expanding her way of thinking. I took a deep breath. I did a mental inventory of the hats I could have worn: adoption support, intercountry support, enraged adoptive mother, sympathetic listener, and just hung all the hats up. 

I spoke like one proud parent talking to another: "Well, our little guy is doing just great. I don't find him damaged at all. A handful, certainly! But first and foremost a kid." I smiled. 

And with that, my little blond haired angel came running across the room, tripped, fell, and landed squarely on the other woman's baby. 

Way to go, Noah. Not exactly the approach I was looking for, but at least you got your point across. You showed her, by your giggles before you fell, and the horrified look on your face once you got OFF her baby, and how you patted him on the head and said "You okay baby!?" that you were just a KID. Just like her kid, just like every kid. 

You are loved and lovable and deserving of love. And you are certainly NOT damaged. Just like her baby, you needed someone to love you forever, a mommy and a daddy, or one or two of each. You needed someone to pick you up when you fall and wipe your nose when you sneeze. And just love you for who you are and embrace your capabilities and your challenges like we do for ALL our children, no matter how they came to us.

In defense of Ministry kids, and Intercountry kids, and kids adopted from within Canada, and kids adopted by their step parents... and kids who joined their family through any non-traditional means..... the lesson is the same. I'm a KID! LOVE ME!

And Noah, of course, had his own sly message. I'm lovable, BUT.... if you ever call me damaged again, watch out. And he can do that, because he's two. And I'm 28. 

Way to go Noah. I'm proud of you, son.

DON'T LOOK AT ME! (The Terrible Twos Strikes Again)

Ah, the terrible twos. I never doubted your power, not for a moment. Just when we thought we had Noah's manners down pat, you struck again.

This time, we were in church. Noah's behaviours were so wild that we had to relocate mid-way through the service to what we fondly refer to as the "naughty Noah room". It's really a four walled prison cell with a plexiglass viewing window, and the disembodied voice of the minister piped in for good measure.

The pews are all gnawed by generation after generation of pint-sized parishoners. The song books are half-shredded. And usually, there's a gaggle of young families in various stages of riot mode hanging out in the naughty room. 

This time, there was one young mom and her baby, who looked to be about 8 months old. He sat quietly on the floor with his pacifier, occasionally crawling about inspecting forgotten cheerios or the pattern in the carpet.  

Noah behaved himself reasonably well upon arrival to this room -- which is strange because we don't reward him for the naughtiness that necessitates the change of scenery. We don't let him down to play. He sits on our lap or next to us and munches on cheerios (from our supply, of course, not the casualties on the floor). I think he just likes that room because it's closer to the exit door. 

Every once in a while, he climbs up on my lap, cradles my face in his pudgy little hands and hollers "I ALL DONE CHURCH MOMMY!" I stifle my giggles, re-seat him on the bench, and try to pay attention to the service.

All went well until the end of church, when Noah took one look at the poor unsuspecting baby, and declared "DON'T LOOK AT ME!!!"

Sigh. Another day, another attack of the terrible twos. There's always next week Noah.

A Retreat to Remember

After months of planning, hours of meeting, and too many chocolate chip cookies from Costco to count, our retreat day finally arrived.

We ended up welcoming two dozen adoptive parents of persons with FASD to our "Growing Together" Retreat... a jam-packed day designed to give a break, a voice, and a little bit of reprieve to parents who very much deserve it. They earn it every day.

Three of my sibs have the diagnosis, and while that was our "normal" from the moment they joined our family, it was always clear to me that the FASD world was special. You had to live it to understand it.

In the months after we joined the FASD club, I saw my parents (for the first time) as human. They couldn't fix every problem. They couldn't anticipate every behaviour. Typical strategies were useless. And no one from the club was there immediately to say "That's normal. That's not your fault. That's the way things are. Here, let me help."

I think they could have used a day like yesterday. It would have helped remind them that, even after FASD became our everyday, my parents were still unique people!  

The families who joined us yesterday had varying stories; some had young children who were recently diagnosed, others had lived in the FASD world for decades. All were a joy to welcome and visit with.

Thanks to all for joining us, and to the many supporters who helped us host the event. It was a wonderful day to be part of.