Musings...

You've heard the expression "I spent my day putting out fires".  Usually it's not to be taken literally.  Usually. 

We have friends here right now, visiting and doing some medical work as well.  Dave and Linda have been here several times, and it's always a challenge to keep things new and interesting for them.  Yesterday might have been our crowning glory.  Dan and the Hoffs were returning from a morning spent at the dump medical clinic.  As they approached the Extreme Response building, they immediately realized that great quantities of smoke were billowing from that general direction.  Knowing that I wasn't supposed to be cooking anything up there (which is usually the source of great billowing clouds of smoke around here) Dan became a bit alarmed.  As they got closer, they realized that the vacant lot next door to the building was indeed...on fire.  Flames were shooting about 20 feet into the air and the lot was pretty well engulfed.  Dan rushed into the building and asked his secretary Mayra to call the fire department.  Mayra started to laugh and Dan said "No, really.  Call the fire department!"  In Mayra's defense, when you live at 10,000 feet, in addition to killing off brain cells pretty quickly, the lack of oxygen makes getting a good fire started next to impossible. 

When Mayra called the FD, they said "Oh yes.  Someone reported that about 1/2 an hour ago.  There is someone on the way."  Hmmm.  Half an hour?  Someone is on the way?  Dan grabbed the garden hose, climbed up on the roof and started spraying the brush nearest the building in hopes of keeping it from coming any closer.  In the meantime, the fire department shows up.  OK.  One guy showed up.  On a motorcycle.  With a machete.  That's the fire department.  Or at least what they were offering us for the moment.  He walks around, observing the fire, and hacking rather ineffectively at the brush nearest the sidewalk.  In the meantime, Dan is still on the roof, trying to put out the fire with the hose.  About 10 minutes after Machete Guy shows up, another fireman arrives.  On a motorcycle.  With a backpack full of water and what appears to be a SUPERSOAKER squirt gun.  No kidding.  To recap.  We now have the entire field on fire, Dan on the roof trying to put it out with a garden hose, two firemen who both arrived on motorcycles, a machete and a backpack full of water.  And a squirt gun. 

I am busily writing this up in my head, given my affinity for the ridiculous.  I happen to to be standing near Machete Guy, and watching Backpack Guy walk around scratching his head.  In all fairness, he had used all of his water and was (I think) a little bewildered at the fact that the fire wasn't out.  Up the street come two police cars, carrying between them six cops.  They all jump out and start walking around very importantly.  One of them, who looked like he was about twelve, strolls over to me and says (without his voice cracking-quite an accomplishment) "Who started this fire?"  ARE YOU SERIOUS?  I gave him one of my best dumb looks (I'm an expert-ask my mother) and told him we didn't know.  He looked rather frustrated (I'm sure he had visions of a promotion in his head), wandered around for about five more minutes, and then all six of the cops got back in their cars and left.  Not because anything was necessarily under control.  Just left. 

By this time, Kristina, who I might add is my 14 year old daughter, has discovered four more garden hoses in the ER building.  She quickly connects them so that we now have a very long hose which reaches around the corner to where the worst part of the fire is.  Machete Guy comes racing over and grabs the hose out of Dave's hands.  Oh.  So NOW you want to do your job?  He just got OWNED by a 14 year old kid.  He begins strutting around very importantly, putting out the fire with a garden hose.  That a 14 year old kid found.  He is being very careful not to get too close to the part where the fire is actually still burning-just keeps wetting down the same six square feet of ground where the fire is already out.  I kindly pointed out the FLAMES shooting into the air, and he goes "Yes, I know.  I'll get there."  TODAY?  Maybe before they catch that 100 foot TREE on fire?  I should note that he is now the only one there.  Backpack Guy left shortly after emptying his squirt gun.  Machete Guy is looking quite pleased with himself at this point.  Dan has come down off of the roof (Since the "fire department" is putting out the fire with OUR water...from OUR spicket...there isn't any pressure on the roof) and we are all standing there watching Machete Guy sprinkle the fire.  Linda (Dave's wife) is taking pictures, because, as usual, no one is going to believe us when we tell them this. 

All's well that ends well, I suppose.  The lot is now completely cleared of brush, which may cut down on the rat problem.  The fire didn't actually get to the ER building, so no harm done there.  And Machete Guy went to bed last night feeling like he had actually accomplished something.  Glad we could help.

I've had way more Facebook time this summer than I should, but it does provide for some interesting observations.  Take the string of ridiculous quizzes that seem to be popping up everywhere.  I'm not talking about the legitimate ones, like "How many children will you have?"  (always good to get information from a reliable source!) and "What is the name of the person you will marry?"  that claims to be able to predict this through such scientific questions as "what is your favorite flavor of Jolly Rancher" and "how do you like your eggs".  No, my personal favorite is the "What kitchen appliance are you?"  quiz.  Seriously?  Kitchen appliance?  I'm shaped like a refrigerator-does that count?  It could just be my personal aversion to cooking that makes this one so offensive.  Honestly, if I had to choose my favorite part of the kitchen, it would be the door that leads out. 

I also have to laugh at the virtual worlds that one is able to create.  Farming, for instance.  I don't need a virtual farm.  Virtual milking and chicken wrangling just doesn't sound like fun.  Not to mention virtual hog slopping.  And someone has to shovel out the virtual horse stalls.  Nope.  I'm virtually not interested. 

In case virtual farming isn't for you, there is always the virtual delivery service.  You name it, you can send it.  Starbucks.  I'm sorry, but sending virtual Starbucks to someone who lives overseas and would KILL some days for the real thing is just sadistic.  Ranks right up there with posting your latest bargains at Walmart on my wall.  C'mon-have a heart.  Really want to make me smile?  Figure out how to get the Pumpkin Frappe or whatever it is down here, whipped cream and all.  At Christmas you can send virtual gifts.  Some of which they actually charge you for.  Wow.  Paying good money for a gift which technically doesn't exist.  Nothing says "holiday spirit" like spending five dollars to send a candy cane that I can't eat. 

The "like" button cracks me up.  What exactly are we supposed to like?  The other day a friend's status mentioned that he was mourning the loss of a dear cousin and getting ready to fly back to his hometown to attend the funeral.  Some knucklehead clicked the "like" button.  Likes WHAT?  Funerals?  Flying?  Cousins?  Dead cousins?  The like button is the lazy man's way of saying "I can't think of a single intelligent thing to say to you, so I'll just click "like."   Whether or not it's even appropriate isn't the point-it's the thought that counts, right?

There are some things about Facebook that I "like."  (As evidenced by the fact that I seem to LIVE on there.)  It is possibly the best youth ministry tool ever invented.  Back when we were doing youth ministry the old fashioned way-that is, coming to church every Wednesday night, connecting with our small group, spending 45 minutes trying to get them to tell us what was going on in their world (or trying to get them to stop telling us what was going on in their world, depending on the kid)...you know...connecting.  Wondering if ANYTHING that we were saying was getting through.  Now, we don't have to ask.  They put it on Facebook.  ALL of it.  There seems to be nothing that the kids won't post on there.  And not only do we know what's going on in their lives, but thanks to the new Facebooks insane homepage we know everything that is happening with their friends as well.  Although it seems at first glance to be a good thing, I do wonder if we've lost the connection part.  Virtual hugs (yes, Facebook has those too) just don't seem to cut it when a kid is really struggling.  And having some pinhead click "like" could push you right over the edge.

Somewhere in all of this there should be a balance.  I'll let you know when I find it.  For now, I'm off to find out what kind of bathrom fixture I am-supposidly this is all scientifically calculated.  And at 40 I need all of the calculations I can get.

It's Mother's Day, and as I sit here completely satisfied, my memories are closer to the surface than they usually are.  Eighteen years ago this September, we found out that we were going to be parents.  I still remember like it was yesterday.  We had been married for seven months, and I had gone off of the pill in May, with my doctor's admonition to "not worry until we had been trying for a year", given an underlying medical condition that she suspected would make it hard for us to conceive.  Hmph.  Six weeks later (my birthday, as near as we can calculate) and our world changes.  I didn't suspect anything for several weeks, since I was relatively new at this (and with the doc's words ringing in my ears).  Finally a girlfriend at work actually went to the drugstore and bought me the test.  I went home and took it before Dan was even home from work.  I remember calling him, and asking him how he would like to be a dad.  Dan is not overly sentimental, but he stopped and bought me a single red rose on his way home from work.  Daniel Kenneth Maloy had a name from that day forward.  We waffled over girls names for months, but we always knew what our boy would be.  He would have been Hannah Joy if he had been a girl (Yes, we wondered about the whole "Hannah Joy Maloy" thing, but Dan's sister is "Tracy Joy" and it's worked OK for her, so we were good with it.)  His due date was April 4.  On March 21st my stepfather died after a long, terrifying illness.  I remember going from the funeral to the doctor's office.  My blood pressure was elevated, but for some reason that still escapes me to this day, I didn't tell the doctor that I had just buried my stepfather.  Might have been useful information.  Instead we waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Daniel was born on April 15, via C-Section.  The doctor had asked me if I minded going that route, and I told him that I didn't care if they pulled him out through my nose, as long as they got him out.  He weighed 9 lbs, 15 1/2 oz, and he had a huge head.  Still does, come to think of it.  I thought he was the cutest thing I had ever seen.  He fared much better than I did through all of that.  I had pneumonia when he was born, and didn't know it, so I was put on a completely liquid diet for four days.  Swelled me up like nobody's business.  I am the only person I've ever met who could deliver a 10 pound baby and come out of the hospital weighing two pounds MORE than I did when I delivered. 

My hormones being what they were, I proceeded to get a whopping case of the blues (10 months worth, to be exact).  I still wonder why no one thought I might need some help, but we were young and had absolutely no idea what was happening.  In September, when Daniel was 5 months old, I lost another pregnancy, which didn't exactly help.  In March, we discovered we were expecting again.  The doctor, obviously, was worried about my ability to conceive for nothing.  All it took was us using the same soap.  In November, we had Miss Heather Victoria.  I remember being completely shocked for two reasons.  One, she was the most beautiful little girl I had ever seen, and two, she looked nothing like her brother.  It had never occured to me that we would have a baby that didn't look like Daniel.  Wasn't he the prototype?  Fortunately, my hormones kept themselves leveled off, and other than a couple of crying spells, things didn't get too bad.  Which is probably why, exactly 2 months later, I was pregnant again.

Kristina Elizabeth is 11 months younger than her sister.  She too was the most beautiful baby girl that I had ever seen, although she didn't look like Heather.  (By this time I was starting to figure out that they might all be different.  Novel idea.)  Kristina was pleasant from the start, which was good, because I fell completely apart.  I remember the doctor coming in to discharge me, and I burst into tears.  He thought maybe we should do something.  I spent the next several weeks in counseling, and finally quit going, mostly because I was so sleep deprived that driving was not an activity that was recommended.  I had at that point, three children under three.  Three in diapers, two on a bottle and one nursing.  Daniel had an undiagnosed allergy to milk that was keeping him from sleeping.  When he got up, Dan or I would stumble down and get him a bottle, which would put him back to sleep, temporarily.  Two to three times a night was not unusual for him to wake up.  Heather was just over a year old, and was sleeping through the night only sporadically.  And Kristina, of course, was still up every two hours or so.  Dan was working 80 hours a week trying to keep our heads above water financially, and how in Heaven's name I can remember all of this is beyond me!  Finally, we figured out that Daniel was allergic to milk.  Within three days of taking him off of it, he was sleeping all night.  Heather went from getting up two or three times a night to sleeping 8 to 8, and taking a two hour nap every day.  I'm still not sure what triggered it, but it may have been Providence.  And Kristina, Lord love her, started sleeping through the night at four months of age. 

Fast forward nine years.  We now live in a foreign country, and while my life is very full, there is still a baby shaped place in my heart, waiting to be filled.  Enter a little black haired, black eyed Pea.  Patrick Jesse came into our lives and filled my heart at the age of almost eight months.  He weighed 11 pounds, and other than his first tooth, I didn't miss a thing.  I don't know how I managed to have the four most beautiful children in the world, but I did.  (Yes, I realize I'm biased.  And I don't care.  I would hope that every one of you would say the same about your children!)  Patrick wasn't sleeping through the night when he came to us.  It was a little easier, given that only one child was getting up, but I was discovering that it wasn't all that much fun to be getting up at the age of 35 in the middle of the night!  After about a month or so of this, I decided to let him yell and see what happened.  Two nights and we were cured of that little habit!  I did discover that it was a little easier this time around.  For one thing, I now had three older children who were completely devoted to this little person, and I actually had to fight for "Patrick time".  Given that I had never really had "just one" baby, I found that my energy level was a little better.  I did find myself experiencing some of the emotional things that I had gone through with the others, although not on the same level. 

Perhaps the hardest child to talk about is Gracie.  Lauren Grace came to us at the age of three, and we had every intention of adopting her, right along with Patrick.  She too was the most beautiful child that I had ever seen.  Five for five!  And she was the only one, out of five, that actually looked like me!  Gracie lived in our home for 18 months.  She still lives in my heart.  Circumstances beyond our control took her away from us, but her picture is still on the mantel.  She is still my little girl.  I have asked God over and over why it still hurts like it does, and so far He hasn't given me an answer.  I know where she is, but my heart won't let me go to her.  I don't know if I could resist not picking her up and bringing her home, and yet I don't think things have changed enough for that to be possible.  So she stays in my heart and every once in a while the tears bubble up for a moment.

Today is Mother's Day.  I am so blessed.  I have four (five) amazing children.  I have a wonderful husband who brings a smile to my face whenever I think about him (which causes people to question my sanity...if they only knew that there are so many more valid reasons to do so!), and I have family and friends around me who love me.  I know that my Jesus loves me...I know that He loves my children...and I know that they all love Him.  It just doesn't get any better than this. 

Around the corner from our house is a little Chinese restaurant called Chifa.  We don't frequent it, but we do use it for emergencies (such as when I don't feel like cooking.)  It has come to our attention that the service there is...shall we say...atrocious.  Prices are right (we can feed six of us for $10 with leftovers) but the service is unbelievable.  For instance, there was a period of time (about six months) when there was a car parked in one half of the restaurant, with mattresses strewn all over the place, and laundry hanging on a line strung between the car and the wall.  The whole family was living in their car...in their restaurant.  Convenient.  Then there was the night that Dan and I popped in, and witnessed the waitress riding her bicycle around the (full of customers) restaurant.  Just wheeling in and out of the tables, oblivious to the fact that we were all staring at her like she had two heads.  There are two toddlers in this family.  Grandpa's job is to watch the babies, which he does.  He watches them run around between the legs of customers.  He watches them throw screaming tantrum fits in the middle of the floor during dinner.  He watches them stand on their chairs and throw food around.  He's a good watcher, that Grandpa.  Two nights ago, we were there with Patrick.  Dinner had started out with a rousing game of Family Feud, courtesy of...you guessed it.  Then the real entertainment started.  One of the toddlers, of the girl variety, divested herself of her pants.  In the middle of the floor, in the middle of the restaurant.  They don't use diapers, so Sweet Cheeks was there in all her glory.  Patrick nearly lost his mind.  He's got a very indignant sense of propriety (he's as OCD as his brother, basically) and you DO NOT take your pants off in a restaurant in Patrick's world.  Dan kept trying to gently distract him and get him to finish his dinner, but it was not to be.  He kept pointing at her and going "But, but, but".  Or maybe it was "butt, butt, butt".  Nothing worse than a stuttering five year old with a speech impediment that doesn't normally involve stuttering.  As we hastily gathered our apoplectic son and headed for the door, I was mentally reviewing a conversation that Sally and I had a few weeks ago, in which we wondered just exactly how bad it would have to get before we quit going there.  The service can't possibly get any worse (hopefully) so we have decided that if they raise their prices, we're finished.  After all.  You have to have some standards.

My husband is a nice, mild-mannered, God-loving man.  Until his daughter gets out on the basketball court.  His alter-ego comes busting out of nowhere, and I'm left apologizing to the people sitting around us.

Kristina is a good ball player.  She's fast, aggressive and wears ribbons in her hair on game day.  Today after school we're sitting in the stands watching a pretty good game.  That doesn't always happen with the JV girls, but hey.  They're in it for the fellowship, right?  Uh Huh.  Kristina goes barreling down the court and BODY SLAMS one of the girls on the other team.  I look over and Dan is high fiving with about four other dads, and yelling "That's my girl!"  And this insane display of sportsmanship isn't limited to your own daughter.  Our friend Rich was yelling "She never touched her!"  Kristina hit this little girl so many times during the game that by the end, she would see Kristina coming and just fall down.  Less painful, I suppose.  With two seconds left in the game, Kristina finally fouled out.  I swear I saw the other girl cross herself and say three Hail Marys. 

Len, who is our pastor (the names have not been changed to protect anyone)  spends his time yelling "Basketball is all about smiting!"  This came about after my friend Mary told him to be nice.  He used to yell "Whack her!  Knock her down!  Kick her in the shins!"  Smiting covers most of that...I think.  His daughter is one of those "small but mighty" girlies who is capable of smiting, even without her dad's encouragement. 

I will say that at least our girls try to play fair.  They don't always play well...but they do try to play fair.  One can only be pushed so far before one resorts to smiting.  And their dads are well meaning.  Even if they are obnoxious. 

For all of you who were concerned...Dan and I are perfectly compatible.  I'm an introvert and he's an extrovert, meaning that I would prefer to stay home and avoid the general population...and he won't let me.  Which is probably a good thing-it keeps the neighbors from speculating on my mental state.  Any more than they already do, I suppose.  I'm also slightly pessimistic.  Sort of an Eeyore with splashes of Piglet.  I always knew I was an Eeyore.  The Piglet part was a bit of a surprise.  Maybe it's what keeps me off the medication. 

I wasn't sure about the whole personality test thing at first.  I mean...what if it turned out that I didn't have one?  That for the last 39 years it's all been some grand farce?  Kind of like "The Truman Show" in real life.  Or worse yet, what if two or three showed up?  (My kids swear I have several roaming around in my head.)  What if...halfway through the test...I suddenly shifted gears?  The examiner is a pretty level guy, but I'm sure if I were just testing along nicely and all of a sudden jumped up on the table and started doing the Macarena, it would probably throw him a little. 

It was interesting to note that I am a person of extremes.  I am at the extreme high end of introversion.  In English, this means that if I were any more introverted I would probably turn inside out.  We took a Spiritual Gifts test.  I scored "perfect" in serving and mercy.  There was a 42 point difference between the highest and lowest gifts.  Incidentally, my lowest gift is preaching.  If you need a shoulder, I'm there.  Looking for a sermon...can't help you.  I could probably think of all kinds of things to say to you, but the introvert in me would throw up before I could get up to preach.  Dan is a nice, evenly keeled guy.  His Spiritual Gifts range was all within about 15 points or so.  His personality was right near the middle on everything.  No wonder I drive him nuts.  With my extremes, keeping me in line is kind of like trying to hold onto a helium balloon in a hurricane.  The next time you see him, if he looks exhausted...you'll know why. 

Over the last three weeks, just about every electronic item in my possession has gone on strike.  First, my laptop decided that it would pick and choose what it would allow me to log into.  I monitor my children's web activity, but I never expected my computer to monitor mine!  Logging into Facebook lately requires a note from my mother and a $20 deposit.  Grrr.  How else am I supposed to waste time when I should be studying?  Which, incidentally, my computer does not seem to mind.  I can log into my school website just fine. 

Today, for apparent reason, my cell phone quit.  I am rather fond of this particular phone.  It's a nice, not too expensive Motorola, and it has an Eeyore cover on it that I really like.  I have spent the afternoon trying to figure out if it's worth getting another phone, which will require getting another Eeyore cover...I'm really annoyed with the whole thing.  I don't overuse my phone, unlike my teenage daughters, who text until the thing rolls over and yells "Uncle!". 

I don't know if a toaster is an electronic item or not, but you plug it in, so I would assume so.  Three weeks ago, I came downstairs to a smoke filled kitchen and my 16 year old son standing there with a sheepish look on his face.  Lying on the counter were two coal black bread-shaped hunks.   It seems that the feature on the toaster that tells it when to pop so that it doesn't char-grill the bread had gone out.  Now.  My grandmother had the same toaster for 61 years.  It was a GE model.  The only think my grandpa ever did was replace the cord.  My brother has it now, and it's still toasting nicely.  Mine, on the other hand, was only a year old.  I went to Sukasa, which is an overpriced version of Pier One, to look for a new toaster.  They had about six to choose from, which down here is what we call an "impressive selection".  I could choose the Mickey Mouse version, which cost $89 and came with ears.  No kidding.  Then there was my personal favorite.  $600.  For a toaster.  I couldn't even imagine all of the things that I would expect from a toaster that cost me $600.  Babysitting and a regular massage came to mind.  $600.  I'm pretty sure my credit card would have laughed hysterically and self destructed if I had even attempted that purchase.  I finally settled on a nice $21 toaster.  The only one cheaper looked like it would probably melt the first time I plugged it in. 

Among the other electronics that we have replaced or decided to just live with lately...the hot water heater (gave the landlord the bill for that one.  It's his house)  The stove doesn't need replaced, as it heats nicely.  The problem is that it has a short in the igniter, which causes it to click insanely for about 45 seconds every five minutes or so.  Cooking the turkey on Christmas Day was enough to just about push me over the edge.  The neat thing about this particular short is that if you stand there with your finger on some metal part of the stove, it won't click.  Just what I need is another reason to stand around and do nothing. 

We're taking bets on the TV (Charles Gibson is looking a little orange lately) and I won't even discuss the DVD player situation.  The VCR works OK but is missing the little door thing, and the gate phone (answers the front buzzer) shocks you when you pick it up.  The microwave makes this sick groaning sound when you turn it on, and the refrigerator sounds like a sick tiger.

At this rate we should be sending smoke signals (conveniently produced by the smoking toaster) and cooking over an open flame any day now. 
 

As I sit here contemplating going back to work tomorrow, my New Year's Resolutions (NYR's), or lack thereof, are staring me in the face.  Lose 50 pounds, eat better, feed the children nutritious meals every night, keep the hubby happy...then reality sets in.  I am never going to lose 50 pounds.  I packed these on when I was pregnant with Daniel, and they've been here ever since.  He's 17-if I could lose them, don't you think I would have by now?  This rolls right into eating better.  I live in a fruit and vegetable paradise.  I can get wonderful stuff for dirt cheap.  And yet somehow I still manage to navigate myself to the local Supermaxi (go ahead and laugh-we all do) every week to stock up on junk that I know is rotting my arteries and shortening my life.  I justify it with my busy schedule, but if I keep it up, that won't be an issue any more, now will it?  As for feeding the children nutritious meals every night, that involves them actually BEING here every night, for dinner, and wanting to eat healthy.  Right. 

I'm actually amazed at how much of my world (and budget) revolves around food.  It's sad, really.  I'm sure somewhere in all of this I could blame my mother, but it's really not her fault.  Other than the fact that she's a fabulous cook, and I'll never be that good, there really isn't any reason to blame her.  I could wish that she would come down here and cook for us, but then I would gain 50 pounds instead of losing them, so that won't help either. 

I'm only going to make one resolution for this year, and I'm only holding myself to it until January 31.  Then I will reevaluate.  I figure I can do anything for a month, right?  And it's already the 4th-only 27 more days to go.  My goal is to have dinner on the table every night.  No take out, no egg sandwiches (our favorite standby) and no popcorn.  Dinner.  Fairly balanced, hot, and something that everyone will eat.  I'll keep you posted. 

This past Friday, Dan and I drove to Latacunga to get yet another signature in the endless quest for the completion of Patrick's adoption.  For those of you who arrived late to the show, let me recap briefly.  Patrick came to us in June of 2004 at the tender age of almost 9 months.  He is now five.  We filed his adoption paperwork in January of 2007.  It is now November of 2008, and we are STILL "almost" finished. 

Our latest quest involved obtaining a new birth certificate for him, with our names on it, and his new name.  (His Ecuadorian name was Fausto Rodrigo.  Nowhere to go with that.  Couldn't even find a nickname.)  Because he was born in La Matriz, we needed to go to Latacunga (capital of the province) to get the new certificate.  The drive is about 2 1/2 hours away, and Dan did a marvelous job of not scaring the liver out of me during the trip.  We took a guy from our attorney's office with us, as he understands the insanity and gets things done.

Our first stop was at the local public health office.  We were able to get the paper filled out (by hand) that we needed.  We also watched several people come to see the doctor, and one person who needed a shot for their cat.  Right place, right time, mad cat...there you go.  Once we had the paper we then went to the Registro Civil, which is clear across town. Upon arrival, we immediately noticed the big sign on the window that said "no paper for birth certificates, marriage licenses, death certificates or cats."  I was less than pleased.  Washington, our guy, ignored the sign and proceeded to wheedle the girl behind the window into doing what we needed.  After several minutes of wheedling, we were informed that we could return in about an hour and a half to get the certificate.  We decided that it might be a good time for lunch, as Patrick was looking like he might waste away to nothing.  (HA!)  Washington informed us that we were not in a safe part of town, and that we should head back to where we were before (shots for babies and cats building) to find a place that was safe.  (Safe down here is relative.  I simply wanted somewhere that I might have a chance at not having to treat all three of us for amoebas when we got home.)  Off we went, back across the crazy mid-day traffic.  Washington's idea was to eat at a little Italian place.  I SWEAR the sauce was Spaghettios.  It had that same un-natural orange color to it.  My favorite part was the restroom.  Now, down here there is not usually any such thing as a public restroom.  You need to patronize a place to use the facilities.  We were patronizing, so I took advantage.  This particular gem had no seat, no towels...and a large porthole in the door with no glass in it.  Martha would not have been pleased.  Not only were there no little scented soaps to welcome me lovingly...there was no soap.  Mood lighting consisted of a single bulb hanging from a bare wire.  And the soft background noise designed to put me at ease was actually the sounds of the dining room which was...right on the other side of the door.  The one with no glass in it.  Which meant theoretically they could hear me. 

After our delightful repast, we headed BACK across town to the Registro, where our certificate was to be ready and waiting.  Yup.  The lady behind the window, after a little more wheedling, began working on the process for us.  About twenty minutes after she told us it was supposed to be ready.  She typed furiously on her 1963 Selectric (WHERE do they get the ribbon?) and handed us the paperwork to look over.  It had Patrick's old name on it.  I sighed and pointed this out, knowing all the while that it would somehow be my fault.  She took the original document and WHITED OUT his name and handed it to me to put in the correct name.  If I could fill it out, why didn't they just give it to me in the first place?  After much typing and hemming and hawing, the certificate was taken to the office of the Jefatura del Provincia.  Not sure what that translates to, but he had a nice office, so I'm sure he's somebody.  He looked over all of the paperwork from the ENTIRE adoption, and then signed it.  Came out, shook our hands, smiled at the 900 people packed into the hallway and disappeared back into his office.  At 3:30 we finally left for home.  We had been in Latacunga since 11:00 in the morning, made four trips across the city and stood in approximately 28 lines.  And this is just one piece of paper.  At this rate, Patrick will be 35, married and have six children before we finish this. 

Yesterday I opened an email from my mom, and discovered to my great surprise that she had sent me instructions on what to do if I'm ever kidnapped and stuffed into the trunk of a car.  I pondered this for a while, and the more I thought about it, the more attractive it began to appear. 

First, I am all alone.  No one other than the guy who put me there knows where I am, and he's not in the mood to talk to me.  I am all alone, and it is quiet.  I can think deep serious thoughts that have words with more than two syllables in them.  No one is fighting.  I don't have to referee the computer.  There is no puppy on my lap, alternating between licking my chin and biting my elbow.  (Don't ask about the elbow thing.  I have no idea.)

I can take a nap.  Presumably, whoever put me in the trunk is going to want to take me some distance away, to keep my loving husband from rescuing me too quickly.  I could get a good couple of hours of uninterrupted sleep in here. 

I don't have to cook dinner.  Or do the dishes.  Or monitor anyone's homework.  Or wrestle anyone into the shower.  Or make sure that everyone has clean clothes for tomorrow.  And in the morning, Dan will have to get the children up and dressed and off to school before he can even think about rescuing me.  And in the meantime, I will have had a good night's sleep for the first time in 16 1/2 years.  (17 if you count the pregnancy!) 

I realize that at some point the guy will realize the futility of actually taking me.  Missionaries don't have any money, and therefore it's kind of pointless to keep us for very long.  He will presumably take me home, dropping me fairly close to where I live (Ecuadorians tend to be quite polite about these things) and will be off to seek someone who might actually have more than $24.56 in her checking account on a good day.  I will roll back into the house, refreshed and ready to rejoin my life already in progress.

I will enjoy that nap.