New school, new life

Several of you out there have been requesting updates on how the girls have been doing, adjusting to their new lives here in the great Pacific Northwest. Well, all I can say is, it's been great. Possibly the greatest news (if not for Katrina, who has to take the brunt of it in her new role as stay at home mommy) is that they're not above being...pissy at times. Not in an abnormal way, mind you - in a very normal, American kid kind of way. I don't want to get too specific here, as the girls will someday be reading this blog. Steve Coan, an occasional poster whom I haven't had the pleasure to meet in person, but who was adopted, encouraged me to keep this blog intact as a living record for the girls, which I intend to do... just so long as it doesn't fall victim to hijacking, as KMJ's old photoblog did. On that point, it might behoove us all to download our writings, because, as KMJ's experience shows us, it could all disappear overnight. And I shudder to think what some porn spammer would do with my domain name. But I digress.
As I was saying, the girls are comfortable enough after living with us for two weeks to be acting like, well, like kids. The nightly battle over who gets in the bathtub first was solved with a calendar posted on the wall in their bathroom. The days of the month were divided in half, and each girl got to pick which day they'd go first. It was so simple it's sick. Harder to manage is the whole "picky eater" thing. One child will eat almost anything - she's the one who'll be accompanying me to sushi sometime soon. The other one seems to base her food preferences on the mere sound of the name of the dish. If it sounds yucky, it must be yucky. One cannot argue with logic as impeccable as this. Or with a child as cute as the one who comes up with these amazing arguments. But the kid's gotta eat, so we've been working on it. The other day, Katrina served her amazing French stew. It is a culinary work of art, produced over a twelve-hour span in her crock pot. Marinated stew beef, carrots, celery, pearl onions, peas... it's a full meal in a bowl. Picky Eater decided she didn't like cooked carrots, only raw ones. Tomatoes, as all 8-year-olds know, are known as Satan's Apples (frig it all, I gave away who it is!!! Maybe I'll not let her read this post). And don't get me started about onions. After watching the child make abstract designs worthy of Picasso across the surface of her stew with her spoon, Kat finally relented and allowed her to pick the offending veggies out of the bowl. It took her an hour, but, God love her, she ate the whole bowl of stew. What a kid.
We took them for a bike ride on Labor Day to the Discovery Trail here in Vancouver. Discovery Trail is a couple miles long, and follows the path of Burnt Bridge Creek through the most idyllic little valley you've ever seen. There are points along the trail where it's easy to believe that Gandalf himself is going to walk around the bend, intent on visiting a friend in Hobbitown, so peaceful it is.
We are very firmly "mom" and "dad" now. For Nikki, who was originally the more reticent of the two, we are "Mommy" and "Daddy," and Katrina gets the occasional (every four or five times or so) "Mama." I will never grow tired of hearing that, even when it's shouted from the opposite end of the house.
I promised to write about their experiences at school. I can't speak to this too well, as Kat is the one who really knows the ups and downs of their time at school. All I can say is, their teachers seem nice, and the facility has got to be the most beautiful and technologically advanced elementary schools I have ever seen. It doesn't hurt living right next to the newest school in the district, either.
Well, I'm pretty wiped, and church is tomorrow. Remind me, and I'll write about my feelings regarding people who seem to think Kat and I have made the biggest mistake of our lives. Let me just say this, and then I"m done for the night: how, now that I know and love them, could I ever, EVER turn them away? They are my kids, exactly as much as if they were born to us. 'nuff said. More later.