A Meat People

So we are settling in as a family of five. Nobody has hemorrhaged or bolted yet today, so I’m calling it a win.

Truthfully, the kids are great. They keep us hopping (I started this blog post on Saturday, if that gives you an idea), but we are enjoying them just about every minute.

The hugest blessing is that, consistent with this summer, they treat the 11-yr-old as one of the pack. It’s awesome. Even when they gang up on me.

My contact name in the 11-yr-old’s new phone: MJ (Mama Julia)

Apparently she’s adopted as well. Tell that to my stretch marks.

I am meanwhile doing everything within my power to win all kids’ hearts through their stomachs. This involves meat. And plenty of it.

Once upon a time, we were essentially a vegetarian household. Then we decided to host some Latvian kids.

Nastja and Alosa most recently lived on a farm. Their food traveled about two feet to their plate. I pretty much want to live in their foster home. All the days. Still trying to figure out how to make that happen.

All this to say, our kids like meat. The other day, when I told a very hungry Nastja that the sausage in the fridge was intended for dinner but the cheese was immediately available, she replied balefully, “I am a meat people.”

(Please note my casual conjugation of “baleful”, as if I speak SAT prep on a regular basis. In reality, I stole it from someone’s vocab homework. Did I mention I have two middle schoolers and a high schooler now? Plenty of vocab to swipe.)

A very pretty meat people, if I do say so myself. That was her first-earned American dollar, now spent.

(Number of days in her new school before she was asked out on a date: .75.)

She said no. (Applause.)

I would have handled that situation so much more moronically when I was 17. Sigh.

Now, we are a meat people too.

Alosa: “Why Americans invent ketchup when they never eat enough?”

And this was a moderate quantity. Trust me on this one.

Number of hot dogs in my freezer: a lot. Really, a lot.

Alosa’s daily hot dog quota: three. Would be more, were it not for the blasted nitrites.

On another note, our old Razor scooters are seeing a lot more action these days.

I love it when they go like this.

Julia: “What would you like in your lunch tomorrow?”

Nastja: “Do you have any cookies?”

Heart through stomach, people. Heart through stomach.

Shameless shortcut. So ghetto. Dollar store all the way.

Eww, a pumpkin barfed. Cleanup in aisle six.

I always presume that corn syrup solids will withstand extreme heat. Is that genetic?

Julia: “I pretty much just need to stock about eighty of these cookie mixes at all times, don’t I?”

Joe (chewing): (nods)

Heart through stomach. Ghetto shortcuts sanctioned.

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