Two Years

April 4 was the two-year marker for my instant motherhood.

A (terrific!) social worker drove up on that day in 2007 with a scared 7-year-old. We unloaded the SUV, including a bike; and lugged a huge dufflebag of clothes and stuffed toys into my place -- which was now also her place.

I had traded dipping my toe into motherhood to flinging myself headlong into it. I also discovered what a sinner I am.

In short

• I yell (and can still call up a horse trainer's yell, designed to reach the other end of the 200' outdoor arena).
• I'm petty.
• I'm selfish (I want that last donut hole, and I will wait till you're in bed to get it).
• I'm cranky.
• I'm short-tempered.

Not only that, I don't yell at my terrier if he growls at my daughter ("His body language was loud and clear, kiddo, for you to back off"). And I now understand why God grounded the Israelites in the desert for 40 years.

A caseworker once told me that after about two years, things calm down a lot for older adopted kids and their new families. That's been the case for us, and we're now swapping stories about "the good ol' days."

So I'm not sure if it's because "things calm down a lot" or if we parents grow up too. That's my guess -- and life is never boring.