School Day

6:30 a.m.
Wakie, wakie guys. Unravel your heap, time to get ready for school.  Look Jerry, aren't they cute, where's my camera  . . .

7:26 a.m.

Yay, school bus!

You ever get ready for work without a loud toddler or three holding your ankles?  Bliss.

What happens at school, do you have friends, do you get sad, happy, laugh, in trouble, can you follow directions, do your teachers like you, what do you dislike, love, do you wonder about your brothers? Me?  Such a mystery.

12:00 p.m.

Here come the squeals pulling down our driveway. There they are standing at the bus door before the bus stops rolling (better, inescapable, restraints are coming). There is the bus driver cutting up, shaking his head, slapping high fives. Here he is allowing the boys to open, close, open, close the door, calling to our dogs who make an entrance onto the bus every morning, every noon. There I am yelling at the dogs, scolding the boys, hands off the door, get in the gate, come on, come on, laughing.

12:10 p.m.
Woop it up. Filthy, forbidden, busy, screaming fun.

1:00-2:00 p.m. Sleep, go to sleep, part of going to school is sleeping, we get up so early, please sleep.

Tsega-Mega

Are they twins?
Well, actually they're triplets.
Triplets!? But this one is bigger.
Yeah, well, actually it's more like these two are smaller (by about 3 inches).
He has a more mature look on his face too.
Yeah. These two are still baby faced.
Triplets, boy, oh boy!
Oh, boy!


Tsega is his Ethiopian mother's image. They share almond eyes and I think when he grows up he will have her massive hands and feet. People often think more of Tsega, like more advanced relative to the "twins" or something, because he has this charm with people, a sort of maturity or wisdom on his face. And he's bigger. One lady used to tell me, I'm just drawn to him. In reality, he tests no higher than them in any subject so far and I notice no real differences in emotional and cognitive skills, just physical. He’s strong and intense. Like he's constantly cupping my face in both his hands and squeezes my cheeks together too hard. He does this to the dogs too. I watched him jump 10 steps down a loft--from the top of the highest step all the way to the floor--at preschool open house. The teachers gasped a little and admitted that they had never seen a kid do that before. Tsega went a little limp with embarrassment, or maybe he surprised himself, then grinned that coy way he has with his eyes still shut. Nice effect. The funny part of that story, about 5 minutes before he jumped, the staff asked about Tsega's talents and I said, "He's very good with his body."

He's powerful, still bangs sticks, tough boy, but he's a sensitive soul and he and I spend much time embracing. Sira and Bereket may look like baby brothers, but inside they are strong and excited about life like bigger brother. And Tsega is just as baby inside.

New Look of Love

Don't be alarmed, I mean it's not like Jerry shaved his beard or anything. I decided to go Jane, like Plain Jane, for a new blog look in Tripletland. Groovy.

Triplet-Speak

Made-up words, sounds, symbolic noise that one triplet originates and the rest agree upon to mean something. This is how the boys sometimes communicate outside Webster's.

Examples of Triplet-Speak:
Ah-new: orange, both color and fruit. (Sidenote: Tsega recognizes the color pink but instead of saying pink, he points and hums the Pink Panther tune.)

Bee-bee with an arm swirling around: let’s go somewhere in the van.

Ba-Ba: brother, Bereket, or Sira (Tsega cannot distinguish between his 2 identical brothers thus both are Baba).

Ma caw (i.e., my car): mine (doesn’t have to be a car).

N-guh: (1) all done; (2) give me that (ie, you’re all done); (3) hear ya go.

Annie: owie (as if every owie is a cat scratch but not necessarily from Annie, one of our many cats). Disclaimer: I don't believe Annie has ever harmed a hair.

Gn (difficult to put letters to--guttural and comes from the nasal passages): shoes, please find my shoes.

Abby-Abby: bunny, or Bugs Bunny.

Loo-loo-lala or just Loo-la: yet to be determined; a private joke of Sira's that always makes him laugh. When in doubt, Loo-la.

Oh, and Tsega tells tall ones. Apparently every day that I am not stay-at-home, either daddy or nanny take him to the zoo to watch the monkeys (they don't). And the dog ate his eyeball and at least part of his foot. And he will tell you, no no no, climb that fence and go near the river and you will be spanked. Yes, all that from about 3 words and lots of arm waving.

BTW, mama is dead. It's now Mommy and just plain Mom. And always respond to Mom! when it comes from Tsega because he is surely tattling on something naughty the "twins" are working on. Like climbing clear on top of the van. No, no, no!

To Bed

It was the end of spring and blog dryout was settling in as the days grew long. Posts were written, never published, then forgotten. Here is one still intact and begging to be seen. Picture this: footy jammies, bedtime, cats pouncing, boys (well, Sira and Bereket) jumping outside and running from the inevitable, gardens yet to be filled in.

I am grateful we don't experience Arctic suns or my boys would never sleep. The haze of the shallowest light shuts night sleep out so that since the time change bedtime is a late 9:30 or 10:00 (upside: 8:00 wakings). Waiting until a more natural crossing-over to take place makes for more relaxed home. Until late spring we suffered rarely from protest at bedtime, but the post-bedtime scene of late had grown wild and long. A night's example: bed jumping and bed exchanging; a gathering of three in one bed (sounds nice, ends bad); blanket stealing; the dislodging of all clothes and diapers; screaming. We even suffered from a little fear of the dark that seems to have moved on. (Note: The Bear, a movie about a bear cub, although sweet and adventurous (the boys love movies about animals, Born Free and Old Yellar among their faves), terrified Sira and instigated Tsega's insistence that a large stuffed lion be removed from the nursery--he, the lion, has since returned.)





Resignation . . .





August Update: late night parties, sleeping in, and easy enough bedtimes continue, until next time change. Too hot for footie jammies and no more fear of dark.

Breaking Ice

There must be a post-adoption line many of us families eventually cross where suddenly your insides screw up, you hide, and things like blog posts and words drop off to unknown depths before you can share them. It's not adoption ethics, inequalities, loss, racism, or the complexities of transracial relationships that are suddenly stirring and disorganizing my head (I'm not that slow), it's . . . I don't know . . . I think it's the cross over from babies to boys that's doing it. Or maybe triplet mania has hit hard. Remember, I used to scoff at this line: you sure got your hands full! OK, I admit it, we do! We do! Overwhelmed, totally.

I've also phased into the kind of adoptive mother who chills when strangers start their prying. Are they adopted, what's their story, why Ethiopia . . . ? Hey, it's not their fault, I mean what did I expect? I'm just tired hearing my answers over and over; it bores me. Anyway, I am squeezing this blog post out to break my writers block. It's either that or end it all (the blog I mean, this is not a cry for help) and although I played with the latter idea, even drafted a final post, I still need this outlet, for now, or parts of me may explode.

Gawd, that felt good.

So here is what's going on. My boys are growing up and that's a big deal! I never knew three was such a symbolic number. Yes, the three turned three one month ago. Next month they start Pre-School, four mornings a week. My unchattery bunch, who remain not speechless but behind in language, will indeed attend Head Start as I blogged before. Did I ever tell you I fought tears, big heavy tears, as I sat at an oval desk feeling cagey and circled by about a dozen hot faced HS faculty? Mama doesn't take this growing up stuff very well, it seems.

Here's the biggy: for the first time ever since my boys began as zygotes, they are to be separated. Separated into three different classrooms. I knew one day the school system would strong arm me into this. But as I heard their arguments and I heard what I was telling them, it was clear. Imagine, tripletism can be bad for your brain. For example, one builds blocks, another knocks them down, and three are off wrestling. Great for the body and character, but that big old brain needs more singleton-like exercise.

Sentimentalism, that's all I suffer from. Growing up, starting school (with a school bus and everything!), separate classrooms, speech delays, it's all still a big party to them. And 3 three year olds definitely makes a party. Everyday. :)

Those Big ol' Eyes

Reflecting my image (click, you'll see). Quite fitting seeing how Sira, as my mom put it, keeps me in close sight these days. He wants to ride on my back all times (mama back, mama back . . . ), but the problem is identical Bereket has to copy everything Sira does, so he sees this and starts begging too. No back!

Don't let those sad eyes fool you. I was trying to take pictures of Bereket and Sira stole the spotlight quite cunningly.

I like the little freckles in the whites of Sira's and Bereket's eyes. And who doesn't love long lashes and a good brow?

Come and meet . . .

. . . my dancing feet. Care to guess which set of gams belongs to me?

Is 39 too old for chorus girl? Hell, I guess not since I'm just getting started. And when you got my legs and move them like I do, I should be playing a bigger role in our community theater production of 42nd Street (uh-hum, snap to those who decided). Actually I feel a little more like this when I'm all prettied up for the stage:

OK so maybe there is an upper age limit on what is right. I'm tired, cranky, I miss getting fat on the couch with my kids, I missed most of American Idol and I'll miss So You Think You Can Dance, my ego hurts, my feet hurt, my brain hurts (I've killed a heck of a lot more brain cells than these 20-somethings, so give me a break). But as silly as it sounds, and it is silly, I'm indulging a dream I've had since I was little: to sing and dance in a musical production. And this is a good one. It'll all be over at the close of June. All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up. After this I may just cram all my dreams down the throats of my boys. Come on boys, pick up those feet and lay 'em down.