A day in the life

Sometime I really just want to eat my omelette... As my husband Ron and I walk I to our local hole in the wall diner we're greeted by the colorful waitresses that have come to know us by name... "Mike and Ron are here with the babies" one of them shouts. A flock of former big haired teenage jersey girls turned middle aged waitresses burst into action making sure that one of our regular two tables are clean and that they grab us the best 2 high hairs that the place has. Our children Eleanor (Ellie 18 months) and Jeremy (12 months) have been relatively calm this morning which anyone who has 2 toddlers in their home can tell you is a rare occurrence. We place out orders; a small order of pancakes for the kids to share, corn beef hash from Ron, and for me, while I'd like to tell you it was egg whites and wheat toast, it's usually more often a bacon omelette with the best deep fried homefries known to man. (Don't judge me!) While sipping our respective hot tea and coffee the waitress take turns hovering around us; usually starting one by one and then taking turns in different couplings to discuss how cute the kids are, what a beautiful family we are and how wonderful adoption is. And of course those things are all very true. The previously calm kids are now worked up and restless just in time for the waitresses to disperse as our food comes. Jeremy is normally the calm one. He typically has the demeanor of a 70 year old Englishman. Ellie is our spitfire. If she wants your attention, you and everyone in a 4 block radius will know. She loves to be the center of attention and when that attention ends, it's not pretty. We're approaching one of those times in 3... 2... 1... For better or for worse once the waitresses have disbanded and pancakes have been cut and distributed and it appears as though we might get to enjoy a bite or two of our meal, the next shift of our fan club starts: the local moms. Most of the regular families that eat at the diner know each other, if not by name, at least by sight. One or two will wave to the kids and make bizarre although well meaning clicking noises. Some will just come on over and pay a visit. We'll hear about how they can't believe how bigs the kids are and about their 3rd... Or was it 4th cousin that lives in Texas who adopted from some third world country and then we'll be asked "where did y'all get them from?" (as if they are a pair of shoes). Given that I have a big mouth and will typically take any opportunity to educate people on proper adoption language I will usually give the condensed version of our families story, being sure to emphasize terms like 'birth mother' and 'placement'. By this time the kids are done their meal and are once again restless. I can't say I blame them, sitting in an old, uncushioned diner high hair with carb overload isn't exactly my idea of fun either. So we flag down the waitress, get our check and I pay while Ron repacks the diaper bag and puts everyone's coats on. We're offered boxes for our food and scolded for 'barely even touching our breakfast', But let's face it... Diner food is never good warmed up. We pile up into my once butch Ford Expedition whose back seat is now the home to about 15 or so Care Bears and as I put the truck into drive I turn to Ron and ask "what's for lunch?" I love that we are so accepted in our community. I know that a lot of you would kill for that acceptance. I also know that we have infact been graced with 2 beautiful children whom we love to show off and brag about. But sometimes... Not always, but maybe even just now and again, I'd really like to eat that omelette.