Thursday, December 31, 2015

Happy New Year!

Out with with 2016!

Happy New Year, reader and writer friends!

I, for one, am excited to see 2015 go. What a year this has been! Lots of ups and downs, lots of excitement--more than usual--and lots of emotional highs and lows. I intend to have a much better year, emotionally speaking. I hope you all have the most incredible year of your life, and that the best of your past turns out to be the worst of your future!


Friday, December 25, 2015

Merry Christmas beloved reader and writer friends.

I use the Christmas holiday to celebrate my belief in the birth of Christ.

Whatever you use this time to honor, do so with love and peace in your heart.

Christmas is a time for friends and family. If you have them in your lives, utilize it well. You are lucky and richly blessed.


Sunday, December 13, 2015

It's not over.

So recently a friend recommended the documentary, Twinsters, to me....

And since it's about two young adult women adopted from South Korea, and I'm living in South Korea, I decided to watch it. Mostly because I have two cousins who were adopted from Korea, and because my friend (who is also an expat) mentioned that the documentary made her miss Korea, and I wanted to see if I recognized any sights.

Now, I have to say this: this was a lovely movie. It has an honest, albeit young, voice, as it is being told by two twenty-five year old kids through text messages, Skype conversations, etc. But it is really magical how these two women meet each other, after having been separated for their whole life to that point, and felt an instant connection. One of the sisters mentions having always felt like something was missing, or that she was lonely. It was beautiful to see how it was her sister she'd been missing all that time. Very tender and well done.

Now let's get to what sucked.....

Well...there is a scene towards the end of this film where these two young women meet their "foster moms" from their infancy, prior to being adopted. Now, I'm not sure how loosely the term foster mother is used here in South Korea, as I am told that most (though possibly not all) children are put into group homes or orphanages. So from what I can gather, these "foster moms" are the women who primarily cared for the girls while they were in the orphanage. Maybe I'm wrong. Who knows? I hope I am.

But, I digress...

So these foster mother's are led into the room where these two young women ("Sam" and "Anaise") are waiting to meet them, and when they walk in there are tears and smiles and hugs and love and... oh, it just warmed my heart to watch these young women being reunited with the women who so clearly loved them twenty-four-and-a-half years ago. In the process of an adoption, it is often easy to overlook the person in between the biological parents and the adoptive parents. There is, in most cases, someone in the middle, who gets overlooked.

I am that person.

As many of you know, we lost a daughter a couple of years ago. Not to death. To a fate I (sometimes) consider worse than death. She was taken from us, and placed back into the home of her biological family--the same people who allowed her to be neglected, beaten, and thrown into the foster care system, or more accurately, a perspective adoptive home. She was then ignored and forgotten for nearly a year, until we had started the adoption process, which was when they decided she was a pawn in a battle of wills and a show of power with the Child Protective Services of my (old) home state........and because in the state where we come from, a D+ grandparent will trump an A+ adoptive home every day of the week....we lost her. Our daughter now resides in frighteningly close proximity to the biological mother who abused drugs while she was pregnant, and neglected and abandoned her own child(ren--there are several of them now)--and the biological father who repeatedly beat her mother, her siblings, as well as her. She is not dead. Yet. She is alive, out there, and being exposed to God knows what, by God knows who. If she'd passed and was in the arms of our Heavenly Father, I would be able to take comfort. Unfortunately, that's not what happens with the American foster care system.

I've written about this before. Here. And here. Oh, and maybe here, too. It's been a long few years. And I would be lying by omission if I didn't admit that I walked a fine line between "doing okay" and "losing my grip on reality and seriously needing either a miracle or a lobotomy" for a while. By the grace of God, I got my miracle. With the help of some great friends, a loving husband, a merciful God, and a church family I still call home, I got through it. I'm shocked that I did, because there were some days when I (literally) could not get out of bed. And when I did get out of bed, I would hear a baby cry in Costco and lost my sh**, and have to go back home to get into my bed again. My other children were suffering through their own grief, but also having to watch me muck through mine, all while picking up slack that I'd dropped. My husband was starting to wonder if I needed that lobotomy (like, for reals) or if I was just going to stay a depressed sloth for the rest of my existence. My friends wanted me back, but I honestly didn't know who to give them, because I'd lost sight of who I was before my daughter, and had no idea who to be without her.

People would say, she wasn't really ever yours to begin which I always responded: "If you aren't falling in love with the child you think you're adopting, then you're not doing it right." What so many failed to realize was that when she was handed to me by her social worker, it was (emotionally and spiritually speaking) the equivalent of my biological children emerging from my womb and being placed on my chest in the delivery room. There is no difference to an adoptive mother, and suggesting otherwise is futile and uneducated. She was, by all accounts, my daughter in every way, except that pesky DNA, and we (my husband and four biological children, and I) didn't give a damn about DNA. So losing her, to us, was like giving birth to a child, having that child in our home for nearly a year, and then losing her in an instant. Poof. Just like that. Gone.

Bottom line is: those were some dark days. And now? Well, some days are good now. Others are bad. Mostly they're good. Today was bad, and I'll tell you why....

Because my daughter's biological parents, as well as her grandparents are all on Facebook. Ahhhhh, Facebook. The place where political rants can break apart families, and you can use the selfie stick and misquoted Abraham Lincoln memes to create the perfect life for all the world to see, even though it's a fraction, if not a skewered fraction, of what your life is actually like.

Yes, they're on Facebook, and for some reason, they're foolish enough to have public profiles. So whenever I get the urge--which isn't often, as I am on the road to recovery after my little year long vaycay into the seventh circle of hell we shall call "grief"--I can go to their page and scour their pictures. And sure enough....there are pictures of my daughter on their pages. Sometimes she's smiling. Sometimes she's not. Sometimes she's sleeping. Sometimes she's awake. But every single time she's looking into the camera...I swear on all things holy, she is looking into my soul. This is truth.

And every time I see it, it puts me into a tailspin.

Now, the tailspin (for me) is not the same as it was two years ago. Two years ago, I would've gone to bed and wept for a week. No really, a solid week of crying and binge eating--since I'm not a drinker. If I were, I would've been the drunkest mother-freaker you'd ever meet. We're talking, train wreck. But I don't drink, and I no longer have the stomach capacity to binge eat, so I go into myself for a while. I hang out at Club Brooke, where the pity parties are frequent, the anger is quick and private, and the tears are shed when nobody else is around. I allow myself that, and I think that's okay. Grief never quite goes away. It's like a scar. It fades and changes shape, sometimes smoothing out until it's (almost) unnoticeable. But it's always there. You can feel it, even when nobody else can see it. I accept that, even when other people don't understand it. It's okay. It's not meant to make sense to other people. Plus....and if I'm being honest....I sound like a nut-bar by saying this: sometimes the grief reminds me that it was real. That the year I spent in love with this little person who so easily filled a spot in my heart actually counted for something.

My point to all of this?

Well...that documentary did something to me. You see, I've been spending the last two years envisioning what it would be like if I ever saw my daughter in a store or some place at random now. I think of new and inventive ways to tell her family to go to h*ll, and to make them feel so awful and guilty for taking her away that they will wish they could go to hell, just to get a reprieve from the guilt. Other times I fantasize about seeing her, and having her know exactly who I am, and how she knows me. Occasionally I think about her calling me Mama one more time, right in front of them so that they can see how much she loved me over them.

I never said I was perfect. My daydreams are pretty selfish, that much is clear.

Seeing the foster mom's who cared for those young women was agonizing. They were so happy to see those girls! Their love was so tangible! It literally filled the room from end to end. Those women loved those girls, and it was truly moving to see how it changed their perspectives on whether or not they were loved or "unwanted" at the beginning of their lives. I wanted to scream: YES, you were loved! You were probably loved and cherished and valued from your first breath, and it probably tore those women's hearts out to let you go!!! I know this to be true, because I was one of those women! And it did tear me apart!

I am a smart, reasonable woman. I know that my daughter will never come back to me. Hell, I moved to the likelihood of her coming back has been reduced to dust. I know this. However, now...after watching Twinsters, I have something to look forward to. And the truth is, I have been looking--for two years--for something to look forward to.

I cannot wait to be reunited with my daughter.

She will not know who I am. She may not ever be told that she was in an adoptive home for a time between the ages of 1 and 2. She may not know what to do with that information when and if it is shared with her. And, honestly, she may even reject me. I am prepared for that. It will suck. And it will hurt. And I will likely have to mourn her all over again. However, I have to look forward to the day when I can approach her and say...

"Hi, you don't know me, but I was your mother for a short while. And I have never, ever stopped loving or missing you. Every single day of my life has a whisper of you in it, and the thought of being able to tell you that is the one thing that has gotten me through these years."

I wouldn't wish the pain of a failed adoption on anyone. Not even my worst enemy. I cannot even begin to tell you what it feels like, except that it's ugly. Horribly, painfully, undeniably, irrevocably ugly. And I still cannot believe I made it through. But for the first time since the day I walked my daughter to her social worker's car...buckled her into her car seat while she struggled and clawed at my body...ignored her and sang her primary songs while she screamed for me, begging me not to let go...not to shut the car door...not to walk back into the house.....I know that I have something to look forward to.

You know, I recently remembered a random detail about the day we learned our daughter was going to be taken away. My husband and I had driven to the courthouse separately, and I'd asked him to stop to pick up the children from my mother's house because I couldn't face my mom that day. I couldn't bear her grief (of the loss of a grandchild) on top of my own inexplicable pain. It was all too much. It was so raw, even someone breathing near me stung like acid on an open wound. So with the children my husband's responsibility, I drove home alone, walked into my house, walked into my bedroom and landed in a heap on the floor. I lay there... all the while, my heart pounding this message to my brain: call Joe, call Joe, call Joe.

I'm not particularly close with my brothers. I have friends I turn to in times of crisis, but I couldn't bring myself to reach out to them. My brother had worked as a social worker for a number of years, and I think that I knew that he would be able to tell me--with absolute truth--what I needed to hear. I dialed his number, and as soon as he picked up, I wailed....

I sobbed into the phone, yelling at him and demanding why the system, put in place to help children, was so grossly failing this little girl. I begged him for a solution, hoping he would somehow be able to make sense of what was happening, or shed some light on what I could do to reverse the decision, blow a whistle on the horrible job the social workers and judges and the Child Protective Department as a whole, and, above all else, keep my daughter. I begged him for answers, and wept with the ferocity of a mother whose child had just been hit by a car. This was an injustice. This was a system fail. This was not fair.

He had no answers for me. He listened, and cussed a little. And listened some more. And when the conversation ended, he told me something that--for the last two years--I've considered to be a sendoff false hope that he'd given me, purely out of sympathy for his (hysterical) sister. But I know now that I'd misinterpreted it. Maybe he'd misinterpreted it himself, and didn't know why the words came out of his mouth that day. Who knows?

He just said, with a decisive sniff, "It's not over."

"But how? How can we stop this? How is it not over!?" I'd wailed.

"It's just... not over yet. You're going to be okay. And we don't know if she's going to be okay. But it's not over."

Nobody else comforted me that day. My husband couldn't--and couldn't provide comfort for the next year. My biological children couldn't. My mother couldn't. My friends couldn't. But my brother did. And now, two years later, I get it.

It's not over.

I'm not dead. And so far, our daughter isn't, either. There will come a day when she will be eighteen, and I will be able to send her my words. I will get to have my "Twinsters" moment with her, where I will become the emotional "foster mom" who once loved a little baby and then was cast off and forgotten. I'll get that chance, because it's not over yet.

For now, I will bide my time. I will continue to hold my grief at bay, and I will continue to live each day. Some days will be better than others, and that's okay. Because it's not over yet.


Saturday, December 5, 2015

Peace on earth, goodwill to everyone.

Last night my husband and I were talking and got a little bit deep. We both grew up hearing about the end of days, when mankind would turn on itself, and prophecies would be fulfilled and wars would destroy earth...and for the first time in forty years, I legitimately think it's happening. Like, all around us.
There is very little love and compassion between humans now, leading to awful acts of terror, wars, suffering, neglect, abuse, ignorance, horrible incurable anger, tempestuous relationships between neighbor's and even within families (mine included), and more...and what very few people are choosing to notice, is that it begins with a lack of love towards thy neighbor. 
Now, that's not to say that giving my neighbor a big hug will cure everything, Isis will stop murdering people, and ignorance will disappear, and families will magically repair themselves, but don't you think showing love to your fellow man--not by compromising your beliefs, but by showing the same compassion and acceptance we preach about to our fellow peace-seeking human beings--is a good place to start? 
Maybe instead of crying offense to every word, every greeting, every opinion or belief someone else has, we can bring back the age old theory to "agree to disagree" and show love in the mutual pursuit of peace on earth? I don't think that will stop awful things from happening. I'm not that delusional. 
But I do think bringing human compassion back might ease some of this horrible tension and rage and resentment we all feel towards each other. Because, religious or not, liberal or conservative, we can all agree that we're brothers and sisters of the human race, and that burying each other--whether it be with mass acts of violence, with horrible words, with anger, with unresolved resentments, with misconceptions, or with the refusal to accept each other's differences, and love each other anyway--is not helping. 
It's NOT HELPING. And I, for one, want to help.

Merry Christmas, reader and writer friends.

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

American Autistic in South Korea

We've all heard of the movie, American Werewolf in London, right?

Well, have you heard my family's story? It's called American Autistic in South Korea. And is way more realistic. Mostly because it's happening every day right here in Songdo.

So here's the scoop:

In case you're late to the game, my son, Sam, who is 7, is on the Autism Spectrum. He was diagnosed just before his third birthday, after losing his language skills and generally just ceasing to function in the blink of an eye. No, really. One day my husband and I noticed him sitting outside, spinning the wheels on his Lightening McQueen car unwaveringly. It lasted for a ridiculous amount of time, before we looked at each other and said, "Hey, has Sam talked to you lately?" "No. What about you?" "No." *silence* "So when was the last time he spoke?" "I don't know. I mean, he cries and stuff, but..." *silence* "Should we be worried?"

Three year old Sam dressed at Buzz Lightyear. It took over an hour of screaming for him to let me put on the hood long enough to snap a picture, and even now when he sees the picture he shudders, still remembering how much he didn't want to wear that hood.

6 months, countless tests, and three two hour long assessments done by the top psychologists and Autism specialists in our city, and whammo. A life changing diagnosis.

For the most part we've survived. To be honest, in the beginning, it was hard to have hope. We mourned for the life our Sam might not have. For the life my husband and I knew we could potentially have (an adult child living with us forever.) And for the hardships our child would likely face. Because......well, if anyone tells you being Autistic isn't that hard deserves a punch in the face. Maybe twice.

It's not an easy life. Not one bit.

In the years since Sam's diagnosis, we've been thoroughly surprised by the progress our son has made. He regained his language skills. He is highly functional. Most people are unable to tell that he is (technically) different. Occasionally he still shows his diagnosis (easily excitable, strongly troubled by certain sounds, self imposed dietary restrictions, has an aversion to affection or undue attention, doesn't always speak clearly, trouble sitting still--though it begs to be mentioned that Sam hears everything, sees everything, and often remembers everything--we always forget not to underestimate his focus, despite his wiggling body.) But for the most part, Sam appears to be an average, if not quirky, seven year old boy.

The fact that many kids don't come back from that dark, closed off place he shut himself into when he was 2 and 1/2 is not lost on me. Not at all. We are grateful, endlessly grateful for early intervention. His occupational therapist brought him back to us. She's an angel. Truly.

When we were trying to decide whether or not my husband should accept his job offer in South Korea, one of the biggest factors was: could Sam function in a foreign country. Because if we're being honest, Koreans are not very accepting of kids with special needs. Not that they would be mean. They're not monsters. But there is still a stigma attached to parenting a child with special needs--as if the parent had done something wrong by producing a child who isn't perfect. We were warned that the Korean parents may not view Sam fairly because of his diagnosis, and that some parents may go so far as to discourage their "normal" kids from having friendships with our son.

The decision to move was agonizing. On top of the stresses of moving all of our children abroad, we had to really consider whether or not the move would be beneficial for our son who--simply put--doesn't fit in to the normal mold. In our opinion, he broke the mold. But we're biased. By Korean opinion, there is something "wrong" with Sam. And frankly, we weren't going to respond very well to that.

And so...we had meetings. Lots of them. Meetings to plan meetings. Meetings to meet the team, meetings to plan meetings to meet the team. We sent copies of Sam's IEP, and then spent the first few months of living here, insuring that everyone who worked with Sam had read it, and understood his peculiarities. We very prayerfully made the decision that moving Sam to the international school that our children attend was the absolute best choice for him--and so far, we've been pleased with our decision. We insured that while the staff at the school would know his diagnosis and special considerations, the parent population would not be privy to his official diagnosis. We tell certain people (usually fellow Americans,) but don't offer the information to the international crowd (i.e. non Americans) until we know that we can consider them "safe" and non-judgmental. We've found a handful.... kind people are everywhere. You just have to look harder for them. And watching people judge my son poorly is sort of a trigger for me.

Because, well, if judgement is passed on my kid....I get a little....

Yeah. You get it.

So that brings us to our current story: American Autistic in South Korea. 

Since moving here, I have seen children who exemplify certain telltale ASD behaviors that I (as a spectrum mother) notice as signs of spectrum disorders. I watch in silence, wondering why these parents don't seek the intervention that so graciously pulled Sam back from the ledge when he was little. I wonder why so many parents have an aversion to the dreaded "label," rather than getting their children the help they so clearly need. I wonder if I am the only mother--at least in South Korea--who realizes that an ASD diagnosis doesn't necessarily mean no future success. It means success will come, it will just come differently. I wish I had the guts to say this to all of these South Korean parents. But I don't. Because I am not qualified to make such diagnosis'. And my own son's diagnosis has to remain a secret.....

Living as an American in South Korea--especially an American with very little experience abroad--is difficult enough. Sam had to adjust to a new home. New scents. A new church. A new bed. A new city. New sounds. New routine. New friends. New teachers. New foods...

Adjusting to not having access to products and foods that we used on the regular in Washington state is difficult. This is fact. But asking a child on the spectrum to adjust to not having his regular products and foods is downright daunting. The kid lives on the following things:

1.) Crackers--preferably cheese its, but Ritz crackers or goldfish crackers, and sometimes plain old saltines will do in a pinch. (Korean crackers all have an element of sweet glaze on them. Even cheese crackers. It's repulsive. And Sam can smell a Korean cracker from ten feet away. Don't try to fool him. He'll catch you....and never let you forget it.)

2.) Milk/Chocolate milk.

3.) Yogurt...preferably Go-gurt, from America. (Korean yogurt is runny and watery. I'm not sure what makes it that way, but it's icky, and Sam hates it. He eats it, thank goodness, but he doesn't like to. And the first thing he asks for when we land in the USA is Go-gurt. Lots of it.)

4.) Hot dogs. (They have to be American style, i.e. not fancy--the cheaper the better--plain, boiled, not grilled, and cut into coins. Don't even talk about putting catsup on the plate. He will rebel.)

5.) Nutella toast on white bread--occasionally a half sandwich on white bread with nutella will be tolerated. But don't try mixing it with other stuff, and don't bother asking him to try a lunch meat sandwich or a cheese sandwich. Homie don't play that.)

6.) Watermelon, grapes, or apple slices.

7.) Fruit snacks.

8.) Chips. (Corn or potato only. Again, Korean chips have a sweet element that Sam calls "BS" on.)

9.) Nutri-grain bars. (Blueberry or strawberry only. And they dang sure as well better not be crumbled or broken. That's just blasphemous.)

10.) Carrot sticks.............sometimes.

11.) White, plain rice. (Don't put butter or pepper on it. Just don't.)

12.) Plain, cooked noodles. (He prefers spaghetti, but will settle on bowtie or spirally noodles. Don't sauce them, otherwise that's cause for rebellion.)

13.) Mac-and-cheese. (The kind out of a box. Preferably Velveeta Shells & Cheese. But Kraft will do in a pinch. Homemade mac-and-cheese is not acceptable, and is seen as a threat. A vicious, horrible threat.)

My son has an aversion to affection. He doesn't like being spontaneously hugged or kissed, so his new Korean friends are often rejected when they try to show him physical kindness. There are also times when Sam is particularly loud in class--as he gets excitable and tends to shriek and squack when things in his classroom get especially exciting. Sometimes he has to be reminded to hold his body still, and to quiet down. He is not always easy to understand, as he doesn't speak as clearly as other children--even children who speak English as a second language.

During Chuseok (the South Korean version of both Thanksgiving and Christmas rolled into one,) Sam's class dressed up in Handbok's, which are traditional Korean formal wear, to celebrate. Well, Sam refused to try one on, and some of the mother's of the Korean students took offense. They didn't understand why he wasn't willing to put on their beautiful costumes, and I wasn't willing to explain Sam's diagnosis to them.

Seriously...Korean children in Hanbok's is about the most precious thing I've ever seen. 

Sam requires patience and consideration in areas that seem simple to the average Korean. As a whole, South Korean students are exemplar. They take their academics very seriously. They consider algebra as exciting as American's consider Monday Night Football, and their children's ability to sit still, listen to instruction, follow instruction, print legibly, and ace their schoolwork is a sign of accomplishment for all of these moms. A sign of accomplishment for me is having Sam look me dead in the eye and grin. Hearing his spontaneous laughter when his brother makes him happy. Having him lean into my body for a typical Sam-hug, which usually involves his head and face--but no arms, without my having to beg him for it.

When these mom's look at Sam, I am pretty sure they don't see his disability, but I am not a stupid woman. I see that they notice something. I see that they can tell Sam is different. I can see them judging him, and it infuriates me...but I can't say much. Not without hurting Sam's chances at having friendships with the Korean students, and not without opening the floodgates for the parental population here to judge my son in ways that are heartbreakingly unfair.

My beautiful Sam on his first day of kindergarten. Notice the "Q" chew hanging around his neck. Lots of ASD kids seen input in untraditional ways. Sam used to chew through clothing. Just gnaw and gnaw until there were gaping holes in all his shirts. Those "Q's" saved us. (I'm very glad he outgrew the chewing phase.)

I will not do that.

So Sam exists.....he runs around this city, and rides his bikes along the sidewalks, squealing and yowling with joy when his body can't contain his excitement. He sits in the front rows on field trips--even though he cannot understand a word the tour guides are usually saying. He volunteers to participate with his tiny raised hand, every single time his teachers ask for assistance. He talks to people, even though his brain screams NO NO NO. He works ten times harder than every other student in his class. He exhausts himself conforming to a world that doesn't fit him, and in a country that is even less likely to cater to him. My little seven year old son is infinitely stronger than most adults I know, and I am in awe of him.

When we go places here, people touch his white-blonde hair. They marvel at his big, blue eyes, and his pale, freckled skin. They want to hug him and kiss him--especially the senior citizens. But Sam often insults them by his unwillingness to try their delicacies, or participate in their cultural activities. He is naturally aloof and sometimes rude...and our hands are tied. It's not smart to share with people why he is the way he is. If we do, we run the risk of him being labeled as a retard, and I just won't respond well to that at all. My son is not retarded. Just the use of that horrible word makes my skin crawl. He is more intelligent than most of the people I know, he just functions differently than most people. He is infinitely more amazing than anyone gives him credit for.

Remember the mother bear?

My Sam is such a joy. You see, my heart is split into seven separate but distinct pieces. One belongs to my mother, one to my adorably nerdy husband, one to my oldest teenager, one to my teen daughter, one to the daughter we lost, one to my precocious nine year old, and belongs to my dear, sweet Sam. I know....with every ounce of my being...that we were brought to South Korea for a purpose. I'm not sure what that purpose is yet, but I know there is one. And I am extremely anxious to find out what the purpose in Sam's life will be. Why in the world God brought our little American Autistic to South Korea.

My Sam. <3

But I can't help thinking that South Korea may wind up being better for having housed him for three years.


Saturday, November 14, 2015

For France.

Having a hard time keying down for the night. 

My soul is restless for all of the devastated families in Paris. I am so grateful that my loved ones are safe. This blessing is not lost on me. 

My heart hurts for the grieving people in France. There is so much to say, yet not adequate words to say it. 

To quote the wise Forrest Gump, "Sometimes, I guess there just aren't enough rocks."

Tuesday, November 3, 2015


It's November, and I am an author......therefore I am subjecting myself to NaNoWriMo. Why? I have no idea. Probably because I am a glutton for punishment. And because I need to get a book written. Stat.

No big deal, right? 50,000 words in 30 days is entirely possible. I can do this. Right?

So why do I feel like this?

Pressure. So. Much. Pressure.

There are certain things I feel perfectly capable of. Overeating? Yes, I can do that. I try not to, but I can do it. This is fact. Being loud? Yes. I'm loud. This is fact, as well. Writing a good book? Yup. I can do it. But can I do it in 1 month? Egads! I have no idea! Backing down from a challenge? Not exactly my style. In fact, I tend to go b*lls to the wall when I am challenged. Maybe I CAN write 50K words in 1 month!

To quote my husband...."Are you sure you're up for this? This is going to mean a lot of take out meals, isn't it?"

To which I respond:

And so.....

The supplies and rations have been stockpiles. The children and husband have been warned. The internet has been turned off. Facebook has been blocked (not really) and I am focused. I will write a book in 30 days. I will finish a novel for NaNoWriMo. I will. Watch me!

Of course.....the next few days will be filled with moments like this:

And this:


And when I look at my laptop, I will likely feel like this:

But I WILL persevere in this manner:

Minus the beard.

(Though I may have to stop once in a while to do this for a moment or two.)

Because every time I feel like stopping so I can get ready for the upcoming holidays, I need to remind myself to stay focused. Don't lose sight of my end goal!

Though there are moments when I feel like this is accurate:

Especially towards the end of the month......

But oh my......when I'm finished, I will feel like this:

And when I send my Nano book to my editor, I will feel like this:

I can do this. I know I can.

What are you doing this month?


Sunday, October 11, 2015

Have you read...

The Carny yet?

Check it out here:

At a town fair on the coast of Oregon, handsome Native American carny, Vincent Youngblood, bestows an unforgettable kiss on shy, awkward teenager, Charlotte Davenport. Then disappears without another word, leaving her baffled and enamored. 

Ten years later, Charlotte is still living in the small fishing town of Astoria, while being trained to--reluctantly--take over for her philandering hotelier father when he retires. After all, who else will do it? Her two perfect sisters are busy being married to their flawless husbands and having cookie cutter children, while Charlotte remains single, childless, and every bit as mousy as she was a decade ago.

 As Charlotte struggles to climb out from underneath her judgmental parents thumb, the carnival rolls back into town, and Charlotte finds herself face to face with Vin again. He's back to run his father's carnival, walking away from a promising career in medicine he started in Chicago. Will her biased and judgmental family accept her relationship with a man who is not only a Native American, but works as a carny for a living? And what unsavory secrets bind the well-educated and seemingly superlative Vin to that ramshackle carnival? After all, you can t judge a carny by its cover.

Saturday, October 3, 2015

Fruit salad.

When you move abroad something happens to a sort of splits them down the middle, and they have to compartmentalize their thoughts and feelings and actions in a way I am completely unfamiliar with. I'll try to explain...

Not my legs. My legs aren't that hairy.

My husband? He is the compartmentalization king. The man can take a thought, pack it away in a little box, and come back to it later...or never...either way, he is fine. My seven year old son, Sam, is the same way. Being on the Autism spectrum, he is able to take the list of tasks he needs to do, complete them, put that in the back of his mind, and move on to the next job or game or task. So long as he's had the time necessary to check everything off of his list, Sam is fine, and can move on without thinking about or rehashing things. He can separate himself from a completed thought or task without questioning himself in a way that baffles me.

But me?  I am completely unable to do that. There are conversations I had in the eighth grade that I still go over in my mind, thinking of new and more inventive ways to have gotten my point across without sounding like a boob....which, if history serves, was a significant pattern in my life. I still go over arguments in my first marriage where I feel like I could have been more succinct or clear. I talk and talk and talk, trying desperately to get my point across, because I never quite feel like I am heard, even though most of the people around me feel like all they DO is listen to me. I am forty years old and have a knee-jerk reaction to everything, not because I am a loose cannon, but because I usually have no fewer than 11,934 thoughts running through my mind at any given time, and I want--nay, NEED--to get them out. And what my husband is able to get out in 2 sentences or less, I am unable to get out in fewer than 5K words, including bullet points and color coding.

In other words, I'm mental. I have problems. If you've learned nothing else here, you should have learned this. This is elementary Brooke Moss stuff, reader friends.

However, that being said, moving abroad has forced me to learn (somewhat unsuccessfully thus far, but I'm getting there) to compartmentalize. To divide myself in two. The American Brooke. And the expat Brooke. Both of which are normal, every day mothers who have too much on their plates and not enough time, money, patience, or energy to go around...but only one of which should be present at any given time.

When I am in America, I can be free to be me. Silly, irreverent, loud mouthed, outspoken, introspective, open & transparent, self conscious and painfully self aware, firm, stubborn, true to my belief system. I have friends there who know and love me, and when someone doesn't understand or like me, who cares? I have a few dozen other people to pick from. I have laws and rules to back up my incessant need to say what is on my mind at all times, and I can always fall back on the fact that "It's a free country, I can say what I want!" Because, well, when in the good ol' USA, that's the case.

But unfortunately, I do not currently live in 'Merica. I live in South Korea, which is lovely and modern and quite up to date in their thinking, it is definitely not the US.

Because I am living abroad, I am not so free to speak, whine, gripe, complain, freak-the-crap-out, lose my temper, cry (sob), or post. I have learned over the last 6 months of expat life that I always need to be open minded and calm. I need to think before I speak (or type), I always need to know my audience, and I need to keep my opinions to myself. I also need to let sh** go, and I need to let stuff roll off my back. And of course, I need to be careful who I open myself up to, and accept that not everyone is going to like me.

It sucks. Hard.

In America, I have an established "tribe." I have a group of friends who accept me just as I am, and I am very blessed to have them. And if a relationship goes awry, it's okay, because there are a billion other American women to befriend. There are always new people to meet, new relationships to establish, and new connections to make. That's the beauty of being in my home country. Convenience is a blessing I took for granted, folks. Big time. I miss it.

Since moving to South Korea, I have felt, in a way, trapped. When I am awake here in Songdo, everyone at home in America is sleeping. When I email friends, they rarely email back, and when they do, the moment has passed, thus removing any instant communication that we human beings have grown so dependent on. The main source of communication with the people that I lovingly refer to as my "tribe" is done via social media, because that seems to be the place where I get the quickest response. That seems to be where I can carry on "normal conversations," normal being the operative word, because instant messaging via Facebook has become the "new norm" for me.

The problem is, when I whine and complain about my life here in South Korea, I isolate myself from my burgeoning friendships here. My local friendships, which are still in their infancy compared to my friendships in America, become strained because every time they log onto FB, all they see is my complaints about a life in a country I don't enjoy (yet) and they themselves have already learned to enjoy.

"You're so negative all the time." "We're worried about you because you never have anything positive to say." "Does it occur to you to do anything to fix these problems, instead of b*tching about it on Facebook?" "It gets old to hear you complain all the time."

I've heard it all. Sometimes it's said in a manner meant to make me feel like they care about me, like they want to help me through my rough time. (Big eye roll.) Other times it's said in a way that clearly says, STFU because you're annoying. I've learned to accept each kind of "help"...which usually means letting them have their say, then going home and eating ice cream while I let all of their words drain out the other side of my head. I know that (some) want to help me through this rough transitional phase of expat life. I also know that (some) don't really like me very much and wish I would catch the next plane home. And frankly, there are days when I agree with them. I wish I could catch the next plane home, but alas, I can't. My life is here.........for 2.5 more years.

(*squeezing eyes shut* I can do this, I can do this, I can do this...)

The problem is...I have to make these relationships work. I can't do this expat thing without friends, guys, it just doesn't work without them. But forging friendships out of thin air is tricky for me. Making lifelong friendships has never come easily for me. I've found myself in many a controlling, unhealthy friendship, and I've found myself being taken for granted or generally just mistreated in my friendships before, and so now, at forty (almost) I am very careful who I let into the "tree of trust" and who I push off the branches. I no longer look at friendships with "quantity is best" goggles. Now I look at friendships with "quality is better" goggles. No more backstabbers or sh*t pot stirrers. No more phony friendships with people who make me look good or who have money or connections, I would rather have one or two or three most excellent, loyal friends who are like-minded and who share my belief system, than a plethora of friends I can't really count on or stand by in good conscience.

But when you're an expat, all of your rules go out the window.

Making friends as an expat is much like making a giant fruit salad. Stay with me, I have a point, I swear I do.

Most people like one or two kinds of fruit. Me? I really dig nectarines and watermelon. Grapes will do in a pinch, and I really love apples--but only when they're from Washington during the months of September through November. (I'm sort of picky about my apples--a side effect of being a lifelong Washingtonian.) I don't particularly dig bananas or cantaloupe. My husband CANNOT STAND watermelon or nectarines, but likes pineapple and mango. My kids would eat watermelon until they puked, and then wipe their faces and eat some more--but ask them to eat a Kiwi and they all act like you've asked them to eat a live puppy.

My point? Everybody likes different kinds of fruit. But very few people will pick them all to eat at once. Because different people have different tastes.

Well, when you're an expat, especially in a city like Songdo, that has a very "small town" exclusivity, despite the high rise apartment and Gucci purses everywhere, you are basically thrown into a "bowl" with a handful of other "fruits," and expected to be friends and play nice with everyone.

Uh huh. I just compared expat life to being in a fruit salad.

So here's the deal: let's just say that I am a grape. A very tart, sour grape, if we're being honest. Well, tart, sour grapes don't really lend themselves well to, say, cantaloupe, which is a very fleshy, mild melon. Or let's just say another person is a crisp, green apple, but they're thrown in a bowl with a soft, thick-flavored mango. Normally these fruits would likely not be used in a fruit salad together. The tropical fruits are usually thrown in together. And berries are usually thrown in a salad together. And the local farm fruits usually hang together in recipes of their own. Some people add marshmallows to fruit salads. Others like shredded coconut. Some like whipped cream based dressings, and others like it naked, with just the fruit juices to moisten the salad. And tomatoes? Hell, they're a fruit, but nobody is ever stupid enough to throw them into a fruit salad, are they? Yes my friends, tomatoes are here in the expat fruit salad, and it's baffling!

Expats come in all different sizes and colors and kinds. As an expat, you are thrown into the bowl with people of other religions, people of different races, people from countries you've only ever heard of, and people to think and behave WORLDS different from you. You're tossed around in the bowl with people that, if you were back in your home country, you would likely never become friends with. Not because they are different religions or races, so don't go there, but because they have completely different lifestyles, and because other than the expat factor, you have nothing in common with them! And the tricky part can't just walk away and say, "I'm not trying with that person" because they're one of just a small array of fruit from which to pick from. And all the fruit know each other, so if you reject one fruit, they're all going to discuss length. So you have to buck up. Try the fruit. Give it a chance. It's fight or flight time. Sink or swim. Make friends or don't. That's where I'm at right now.

For the most part, I'm excited. Some of the people I've met are pretty incredible--not to mention the languages and accents I hear every day! Super fun for a small town American girl like me. But there are days when I feel so overwhelmed, so lost, it makes me  feel like I'm going to start climbing the walls. Some days I don't want to be part of the fruit salad. I want to go back home to my predictable array of friends and family, who love me no matter what I say, or how much I complain about my life on social media. They're predictable. And safe. They don't judge me as much as I am judged here in the expat fruit salad. And I miss them. Good Lord, how I miss them.

But I know that I've been brought here for a reason. To grow. To stretch myself. To gain some perspective and maybe even some appreciation for what I had at my home back in America. And I also know that it is my job to buck up and allow myself to find new fruits friends to share my time with. I've already met one or two women that make me laugh and who don't seem to mind when I am whiny or complaining. It's those times with those friends that remind me that I'm still me. Just because I've moved 6k miles away from "home" and live this jet-setting lifestyle that feels to uncomfortably foreign to me, doesn't mean I'm not still the same silly, mouthy, goofy chick I've always been.

And as for the other "fruits"....well, I'm learning. I'm learning to take them at face value, and let the rest go. Sure, sometimes they say and do things I don't understand or agree with, and sometimes they judge me harshly for just trying to muddle my way through something that turned out to be much more difficult than I anticipated. Sometimes they hang out without me, and that stings, and sometimes I feel like my kids are being left out of things, and that makes me want to go all "mama-bear",  but.......over all, they're not bad people. They're just different. They do nice things, and not so nice things. They say the right thing, and sometimes the wrong thing. They accept me sometimes, and they judge me other times. That's all part of being different, I suppose, and sometimes different is cool. There are lessons I'm sure I am meant to learn from these people, and there are experiences I'm sure I am meant to have with these people. Will I stay in touch with them long after I leave for home in 2.5 years (not that I'm counting)? Some of them, not all. And that's okay. It's sort of like high school. You keep in touch with some, others you let go. And that's acceptable.

You don't have to like all the fruit. You just have to try all the fruit.

In the meantime, I'm going to keep working on compartmentalizing myself. I'm going to work on finding the good in these different kinds of fruits, instead of focusing on how much my fruit doesn't go with theirs. Having one foot in two different worlds is not easy for me, and I might struggle with it forever. Who knows? But I take comfort in know that someday I will be back home in the USA and I will be able to look back on my time abroad fondly.........

And thank God that it is over.

Until fruit salad!


Sunday, September 13, 2015


Living abroad changes a person. My dad used to say that (he lived and worked abroad for years before his retirement) and I never listened to him--much like I never listened to anything he said, which is why I am almost 40 years old and still alarmingly terrible at math. But that's a blog post for another time. Today, I am focusing on those wise words my dad would say during his rare trips back home to the USA that I never listened to.

Until my husband decided to move us to Incheon, Songdo, South Korea.

Yeah. I'm living in Asia.

You see those grain towers in the background? Yup. We used to climb them. Please don't try to do this. It's super dangerous and actually pretty stupid.

Me! A born-and-bred Washington (state) girl. A girl who stopped wearing shoes in early June and didn't put them back on until early September, when my mother so rudely forced me to wear them to school. A girl who spent more time climbing grain towers (dangerous--not recommended!) and playing hide-and-seek in wheat and lentil fields than anything else. A girl who didn't realize that people on the street didn't want to look me in the eye and say hello every time they saw me until I was in my mid-twenties. A girl who grew up paying 25 cents for a soft serve ice cream cone every single day of her life during every single summer of her life until she was eighteen.

I now live in a city where it is considered extremely invasive and rude to look people in the eye and smile at them on the street. I live in a city where buying ice cream requires dipping into the kid's college fund, and not minimally, friends, liberally. I live in a city where people not only wear shoes in the summer, but expensive ones with four inch heels, and red bottoms....can someone please explain why women are willing to pay thousands of dollars to have a red sole on their shoes?? A city where kids' activities are structured, organized, and paid for by wealthy, stressed out parents who only want their kids to climb things because it looks good on their college application if they've tried physical activities once or twice.

I am a fish out of water, friends.

But there's a silver lining to my South Korean experience. Hear me out.

When I was growing up, I did not think very highly of my rural eastern Washington upbringing. I thought the place I lived was old and dirty--and I wanted new, fancy, and shiny--and the people there were archaic, closed minded, rednecks. I thought that the city of Spokane, and more specifically, my tiny town of Fairfield was a pathetic zit on the landscape of our fair state--and I was counting the seconds until I could get the h*ll out of dodge. And I did! At 17 and half, I moved. Then I moved again. Then I moved again. Then I moved again.......and found myself living in Spokane as an adult with children.

And then my husband got a job at Samsung. Which brought me to South Korea.

Now, I should clarify: I love being in Songdo. It is an adventure, and for the most part, I am enjoying the experience. Besides some homesickness (which is to be expected) my children are happy and my husband is gaining some important experience. Plus...we are going to crush our debt to pieces by living here for three years. So BAM. Suck on that, creditors!

However, moving to South Korea has opened my eyes to some really precious points that I might've otherwise spent the remainder of my life overlooking. I'd like to share these points with you, if for no other reason than the fact that this blog has become my diary of sorts, and well, I've got nothing better to do, except write another book, which I PROMISE I AM WORKING ON.

1.) I never realized how beautiful my home state of Washington was. I mean, it has desert, rainforest, lakes, rivers, and rolling plains. It has camping, hiking, biking, skiing, and more. It is an outdoorsmens' paradise, which my Montana-born husband does our 16 year old son who would prefer to live in the back yard MacGyver style, than anything we have to offer him--like shelter, food, and a shower.

2.) My tiny hometown of Fairfield is quaint and rustic. The people there are people I've known my whole life, who know more about me and my life and my heartaches and accomplishments than anyone else on earth--possibly more so than some of my relatives know. Calling them all rednecks is stupid on my part--as most of the friends I have in the Fairfield are are some of the most open-minded, all-inclusive, loving human beings on God's earth. And that right there is a fact.

Plus, Flag Day is celebrated as a national holiday in Fairfield. Who can argue with that?

3.) What Spokane lacks in ethnic diversity (because, let's be honest--it lacks. Come on. This is a very caucasian city.) it makes up for in loyalty, kindness, friendliness, self sufficiency, spirituality, and patriotism. Call my city a million things, but you can never call it an unfriendly city or a city that isn't proud to be a part of our great nation. Nearly every house has these three things hanging where the rest of the city can see it: a Gonzaga Bulldogs flag, a Seattle Seahawks flag, and an American flag. And well, if you're asking me, (which you haven't, but's my blog, so deal with it) being patriotic is never a bad thing. America is a great nation, and the people of Spokane will tell you so. Twice.

4.) How can anybody deny the natural beauty of the Inland Northwest?? I mean, granted, thanks to the cheesy vampire movies, everybody knows that the western side of Washington state is covered in moss and all ethereal and moist and green. But have you ever looked at some of the beauty of the middle and eastern side of Washington state? How about northern Idaho? It's gorgeous! Sadly, it took moving to freaking Asia for me to realize it. *forehead slap*

5.) We grow things in the Spokane/Fairfield area that ya'll eat on the regular. Yes, it's true, we crank out wheat, peas, lentils, potatoes, hay (you may not eat this, but the cows that become your ribeye steaks do, so there!), cherries, apples, pears and hops--and although I'm not a drinker, I know that most of ya'll are. So you're welcome for the hops.

6.) The skies in my lovely home state are stupendous and breathtaking. Instead of the pollution haze that so many see in big cities (I live close to Seoul and across the sea from China--I see pollution haze every single day--and it makes me sick.) in Washington state, you see THIS:

Right?? It's stunning. I literally dream about skies like this. That's how much I miss Washington skies.

7.) It's taken my moving to South Korea for me to appreciate these little golden nuggets? Sometimes you just don't appreciate what you have until it's gone.......

Don't worry, Washington. I'll be home in 2.5 years, and when I come back to you, I'll never leave you again. And dad, if you're reading this, you were right.

Moving abroad changes you.