Maui 2010!

We took hundreds of pictures, and I don't want to "bog the blog" with too many pictures, so I have chosen a few favorites, and the others will lie dormant on the computer for the rest of my days, I'm sure.

And the winner is...Chocolate Monkeys!

We just returned from a week long adventure to Maui with the girls. We had been before, and while we were there we kept saying how much the kids would love it. When my grandpa gave my mom a timeshare, and she offered it to us, we jumped at the opportunity to return, but this time with the girls.

We referred to our trip constantly as a week of adventure. We snorkeled, kayaked, swam, "belly" boarded, boogie boarded, surfed (Bob only), and had fun with underwater photography. We fit in a couple of movies, some shopping, and a lot of fancy eating.

As we were driving to the airport, we asked the girls what their favorite part of the trip was, and the consensus seemed to be the unlimited (but costly) Chocolate Monkeys at the resort.

A Chocolate Monkey is simply a banana chocolate milkshake. What's ironic is my grandpa who helped us take this trip is famous for his milkshakes in our family. I won't even tell you how many $6.00 milkshakes we drank by the pool this week.

Mike Wagar...

Before I begin this post I have to state something first.

I have had three fathers in this life. I have a birth father, an adoptive father, and a bonus (step) father.

I love my dad, Michael Downing. I see so many kids, especially students, who are living with step-parents, and they are/or feel unloved and unwanted. My dad, Michael, has raised me and loved me as his own. My dad made me feel wanted, and that was and still is a hard thing to make me feel. I love you, Dad!

Now, for my post...

I received a package in the mail this week. I wasn't expecting anything, so it took me by surprise. I opened the box, and pictured below is what was inside.

I have mentioned a time or two that I am adopted. I was six when I left my roots and grafted on to another clan. At almost seven, I was officially and legally a Kleinman/Berryman (a few years later I became a Downing, as well). I won't get into specifics. That is for another post.

Now, back to the package...

When I opened this box and saw the hat and belt my birth father, Mike Wagar actually wore...I just can't put it properly into words what I felt. At the risk of sounding cliche, I felt a flood of emotions. To own something that was once his means so much to me. My dad, Mike Wagar, died a few years ago, and when he did I lost the chance of ever knowing him the way girls should know their fathers. I felt cheated, left out, and unwanted.

Mike Wagar is/was the most handsome, rough n' tough cowboy I have ever known. His hat and belt symbolize his life in a nutshell.

Alicia is my brother's girlfriend (soon to be wife). She mailed me the package along with the most beautiful, sweet letter. Most amazing to me was the fact that she hand wrote the letter. I haven't seen a handwritten letter in years! Just to know my brothers know who I am, and their significant others know who I am is gift enough for me. I loved those boys. I was old enough to care when I left. They were just babies. I know they have no memories of me at home, but rest assured, I have enough memories for all of us.

I kept my Wagar name until I was married. I am proud of my non-traditional, somewhat disfunctional, and always an adventure life.

Who knew the power an old hat and belt would have over me. When I opened that box, I felt a part of something. Something I had been craving since I was six years old.

Thank you, Alicia, for sending such a special gift.

Routine?

I am not much for routine. Some people live by structure and routine. I can't stand being tied to a schedule. It drives me nuts. When I feel tied down and held back by the calendar or the clock, I get restless and irritable.

As my children are growing older, I am wondering what long term damage I am doing.

Pictured here are my boys. This is not an abnormal scene in my house. In fact, I think it's cute and funny for the most part, but I can think of at least one hundred mothers and grandmothers reading this post and gasping for air or shaking their heads in disapproval.

To this I say...

My way isn't the way for everyone. It works for me for now. I do what I can, and I prioritize quite well. I get the job done. Sometimes I do it really great and sometimes I just get by. To each his own.

But most importantly, I say...

I was once a young woman who gasped for air and shook my head at many things I witnessed parents/children doing and look at me now! Learn from my mistakes. Don't judge other people's parenting styles and choices. It will come back to bite you.

You Are Your Mother?

These jars above equal one box of pears fresh from Oregon. We did three boxes total. This was my cut/share. Mom finished the job without me.

Mom & Sabe!


I often find myself doing and saying things my mom says or does. It's not as frequent for me as Joan, but it does happen. I won't get specific, but I don't mind turning into my mom. She's a great lady, and from what I can tell...She is turning into her mother, so we are all headed in the right direction.

I was feeling ambitious and ordered a box of pears. I saw they were starting to go bad and started to panic inside. Like my mother, I hate to see fresh fruit go to waste (hence the frequent banana bread and smoothies in our house). Luckily, my mom called me in the same predicament. These pears were not going to last the weekend. Good thing Mom is a canning master. I was but the learner, and I am not yet a master, but I'm working on it.

We canned pears, pear jam, and even a little pear syrup by mistake.

Thanks, Mom!

P.S. Dad helped. He peeled and took some pictures for us.
P.S.S. Yes, that is a fabulous apron, thanks to Nic.

If You Build It...

Bobby is building a Christmas Village for the Visitors' Bureau. It will be located at the Quartermaster Depot for the month of December. There will be an ice skating rink and many other family style activities for folks to participate in. We are very excited to be a part of it, and you are getting a sneak peek at what Bob is creating.

I am so fortunate to have a talented, creative, and hard-working husband (three things I am not). I admire his fine qualities. Special thanks to his supportive and ecnouraging parents for raising up such an awesome guy.

I posted the pictures with Scott in them, so you could get an idea of the size.

Irish Twins!

UrbanDictionary.com defines "Irish Twins" as two people (siblings) born less than 12 months apart (from the stereotype that Irish Catholics have many children).

That would define my sister, Katie, and I...Sort of. Technically, we are 364 days apart, and we are sisters. I guess all that back story will someday have to be written and posted, as well. Man, I better get on all of these writing assignments.

I was so lucky to have my Katie Kat in town (if even just one night). We went out with the parents to dinner, shopped at Sam's Club, watched television until midnight. Add a book and some Oreos, and you don't get much better than that.

Remember when we were kids, and we would countdown until the big day? It was at the forefront of our minds for weeks and weeks. Strange how priorities shift with age. Now, the forefront of my mind is fogged with boring, mundane things (not even worth mentioning). When I do have time to think about my birthday, I shove it out of my mind as quickly as possible because I just think about the wrinkles and chub appearing everywhere.

Well, I'm just glad I was able to age with my Irish twin this year. We have finally settled on an age to tell everyone for the next few years, and that feels good.

Two Boys!

I was brought home from the hospital and raised for just about seven years with the name "Sabra Faye Wagar." I am adopted as many know. I have yet to post regarding the topic, but it does not mean that I have not written something. I have written, but I have held back posting. Someday.

I have two brothers from my birth father. They are younger than myself, and they know Bobby from high school. Small world. Anyway, I stole this current picture of them off of FaceBook, then scanned in a couple of pictures from when we were kids, and had to share. One of Strider's nicknames is "Wagar James." He reminds me of these boys before I left my father's home (both in action and appearance). I think, I might finally have a child that resembles my side of the gene pool.

Tell me what you think.

Oh, and to answer the questions that always follow the topic of adoption: Yes, no, and sort of.

September 5th, Yet Again...

This was my seventh September 5th. Strange. Each year the date comes and it goes, but it's different this year. As it was approaching I grew very anxious. It's a date I dread. The date forces me to remember. Most September 5th's I keep myself busy, but on this particular one I was sick in bed (had been for a week). I had plenty of time to think. I hate that most...TIME! On July 24th and September 5th, I indulge myself (if I'm so inclined) to feel sorry for myself for a minute, hour, or day.

I have a dear friend. We have only known each other a short while, but she is already in the "dear" category. Nuts how that happens. She lost her son last in August to cystic fibrosis. My heart has been aching for her, and this has put my always quiet, "sorry for myself" moment on the back burner.

I remember an old friend telling me seven years ago that at first I would survive this tragedy just second by second. Then minute by minute. Then hour by hour, and one day I would turn around and an entire day would have gone by without tears, meltdowns, aches, or pains. I didn't believe her at the time, but now I know this to be true.

I thought of my dear friend on September 5th and knew she was surviving minute by minute. I love you, dear friend. You are on my mind. I walked in to the school today and music was playing. A smile spread across my face for so many reasons.