The Old Fam and the See

Creatively idealistic

2011-07-25T21:48:00.004-04:00

Last week, I read this blog post. Then I read it again. Then I read it to my husband. Then to a friend. It reaffirmed for me that the most vulnerable remain the most vulnerable. And as I squirmed uncomfortably contemplating Dani's likely outcome, I could not help but think about how willing the officials would have been to welcome a healthy baby girl into their orphanage's care. Because a healthy baby girl is easily placed for international adoption. And where there is int'l adoption, there is money -- in the guise of humanitarian assistance or otherwise. But Dani is not a healthy baby girl. He is a toddler boy with Down Syndrome, who has been labeled un-adoptable (erroneously) by the powers that be. So his mother is turned away, left to her own devices. And we are left with a system that preserves families only as a last resort. And here I was thinking that international adoption was the last resort. Silly me.

As cynical as I may seem, I have managed to retain some idealistic notions from my college years. Back when I thought I was going to law school to serve the public sector. Before I sold out to the allure of a big law firm and an even bigger paycheck. I can still sometimes hear the voice of the 21-year old who thought she could change the world -- not just live in it-- and, although barely a whisper these days, that voice still resonates with hope.

Because I do not think the system in Ethiopia is broken beyond repair.

MOWA (The Ministry of Women's Affairs) has limited the number of cases it reviews each week and the United States Embassy is asking more discerning questions before issuing a visa. Last week, the Ethiopian government closed approximately 15 orphanages in southern Ethiopia for non-compliance. And just yesterday I read with increased optimism about a new non-governmental organization in Ethiopia that promotes, educates and advocates for domestic adoption. And if I was 21 years old again, I'd propose the following measures to further improve the integrity of the process and to ensure that the most vulnerable children are served, rather than the most adoptable:

Reduce the number of families a placement agency can have contracts with during any given period. For example, each licensed US adoption agency operating in Ethiopia may only have contracts with 20 families each year.

MOWA and the US Embassy work collaboratively to increase the scope and detail of their reviews. Face to face interviews are conducted with family members, police officers, drop-in center representatives, neighbors, etc. and files are read in their entirety to ensure accuracy. Missing or contradictory information is tracked down and reconciled.

In cases of proposed relinquishment, MOWA provides counseling to families regarding alternatives to relinquishment and provides access to support services. In cases of abandonment, there is fixed period (2 months?) during which information about the abandoned child is publicly posted.

MOWA and the US Embassy conduct these reviews prior to deeming a child available for adoption. Only after MOWA and the US Embassy are satisfied that family preservation, respite, sponsorship, etc. are not feasible options, or that a child has truly been abandoned, may a child be eligible for referral to an adoptive family.

Ben and Ellie are in camp all day. Sylvia is in camp until lunch time. Perhaps I have too much time to think these days. But, I do not want Tariku to think he arrived in our family via a bruised system that I was content to let hemorrhage Nor do I want him to think that Ethiopia merely gave up on him. Or that I gave up on Ethiopia.

**********************************************

I have made the necklaces below with beads from Ethiopia, Ghana, Burkina Faso and Mali. Each handmade bead and pendant is a storyteller's ware. And I'd like to donate the profits from the sale of these necklaces to a charity or charities that work to preserve families in the developing world. So tell me, do you have a favorite charity that fits this description that you would like to nominate? I will share information about each nominated charity in my next blog post, collectively raising awareness for their work. I will then select a beneficiary from the list of nominations. (Check out my etsy shop at http://www.etsy.com/shop/TradeBead?ref=pr_shop for more photos and descriptions.)

Wavin' Flag

2011-06-23T21:30:00.003-04:00

When I get older

I will be stronger

They'll call me freedom, just like a wavin' flag

K'naan "Wavin' Flag"

These lyrics permeated the diesel fumes and stale sweat that clogged the air while their van dawdled in typical Addis Ababa traffic. They were taking Tariku for a CT scan of his brain. Tariku was expressionless, slumped against Jessica's chest. Per agency rules, Morgan was not allowed to hold him. Steven had just landed in Addis and would meet Tariku for the first time minutes later on the outdoor steps of the one-room clinic. The 2010 World Cup was still several months away. This song would become its anthem. And Tariku's.

I am not trying to be a drama queen. Nor am I suggesting that K'naan's esoteric lyrics somehow resonate with my not yet two-year-old son. His taste in music is not that refined. I do find it befitting, though, that the World Cup video that accompanies the Coca Cola remix of Wavin' Flag has the same hypnotic effect upon Tariku that Sesame Street has upon most toddlers. Quite simply, Tariku is entranced by the colorful images of men and boys playing soccer.

Let me back up a couple of years and share part of our morning routine with y'all. (Amanda - that one's for you.) I crave sleep the way most women crave ... shoes? I do not want to forego a single minute. It is no secret that my kids are usually awake and out of bed before I am. Big whoop. They entertain themselves by reading quietly in their rooms and completing puzzles. NOT! Their notion of "playing quietly" involves racing each other down the upstairs hallway, slamming doors, cackling (probably just giggling, but at that hour it sounds like cackling), singing, and whispering very loudly. It is my least favorite part of the day. I usually admit defeat within minutes, round up the troops, and tuck them into my bed to watch Sesame Street, Caiilou, Zooboomafoo, or whatever Sprout is showing at that god-forsaken-hour. Not all that innovative, but it ~~works~~ worked. And I got to brush my teeth and sometimes my hair.

Taki did not get that memo. He has zero interest in the fuzzy (or bald) friends that had my other kids at hello. Quite frankly, he has little interest in TV in general. Except, and this is quite an exception, if we are watching sports. Football, soccer, basketball, hockey -- even baseball. He stands still, which is a feat in itself, and stares. Until something happens. A goal is scored. A touchdown. A home run. And then he hoots and hollers, arms thrown overhead, trying to create space between his feet and the ground, as he soaks up the moment. It is a sight to behold and I'm willing to bet that his unchecked animation would make a sports fan out of the most bookish of you. I have speculated, as mothers do, as to why he is so taken with sports. Both watching and playing them. I am conscious of stereotypes and want to state unequivocally that my suggestion that Taki loves sports is in no way tied, subconsciously or not, to the color of his skin. His passion is tangible and comes from somewhere deep within. It is not something that can be taught. Nor is it something that can be learned. It is one of many gifts that I did not bestow upon him. Yet, it is a gift to me, to all of us frankly, to watch him do his thing. Cuz' the boy knows what he's doing.

But, in case you are prone to stereotypes, rest assured we are not raising "some dumb jock."

And here is the Wavin' Flag remix that allows me just enough time to brush my teeth in the morning. If we had to move on from Sesame Street, K'naan ain't so bad....

Call me a hypocrite.

2011-06-14T23:10:00.003-04:00

Every time I think this blog has been reduced to a few trite words and a smattering of cute kid pics, I find myself internally wrestling with a bigger issue and feel the need to spew my thoughts.

I thought I was done with all of the adoption talk. After all, Tariku has been a part of our family for over a year, and it feels like even longer. I have talked in circles regarding issues of privacy, trauma, attachment, development and so on. Yes, I recognize that these are, in many ways, lifelong conversations, but I felt a contentedness that did not warrant further dialogue. That is, until I started thinking about my Father's Day gift for my dad.

My dad used to ask each of his kids to choose a book for him for Father's Day. As I've mentioned before, this was my not-so-subtle way to get my father to read books on subjects that were close to my heart. Two years ago, however, he bought a Kindle Reader, so we needed to devise an alternate gift plan. So instead of a book, he asked each of us to make a donation to a charity in his honor. Again, this was a convenient way to kill two birds with one stone -- I'd get to support a charity of my choosing, all the while honoring my dad.

It's no secret that orphan care is an issue at the top of my list, so I started to wade through the many, many, many, many websites of NPOs providing "quality" care to orphans. There are too many organizations with this mission (which should have been my first clue) and I was at a loss as to how I'd choose among them. I perused cliche' ridden prose and glossy photographs of fly-covered orphans transformed by the care they received from such and such organization. Tariku was in institutional care for five months -- I was not fooled.

But, it was still a battering to my ego to realize that my attention and efforts were completely misguided. That these organizations that I have long supported all enter the game too late. The children they claim to support are already orphans. They have already lost their birth families to disease, poverty, or any combination thereof. These organizations are merely putting band-aids on an often preventable injury that has already occurred. Although nothing tugs at the heart-strings more so than the plight of the orphan, would it not be better to support an organization that prevents the injury from occurring in the first place? An organization that works to improve maternal health? Or one that focuses on the education and rights of girls? Or an organization that specifically works to maintain families in developing countries?

We specifically chose AAI as our placement agency because of its reputation for conducting ethical adoptions. In addition, AAI is reputed for it commitment to humanitarian projects within Ethiopia. But, at the end of the day, AAI is in the business of placing children for adoption. Not only do they have zero incentive to stanch the flow of orphans into their care, but to do so would put them out of business. That said, there were orphans in Ethiopia long before the rush of international adoption, and there will be orphans remaining long after it winds down.

But, how many of these so-called orphans are being placed for adoption as an absolute last resort?

How many of them may have been able to remain with their birth families* if there were fewer organizations focusing on orphan care, and more resources directed to organizations that have education, economic empowerment, reproductive rights, and gender equality as their primary objective?

Then again, how many of these same kids would be dead?

I have an adopted son from Ethiopia. My cynicism must make me sound like a hypocrite, or worse. But, I am not content to look at him and be complacent. Nor, am I wiling to cut the check and pat myself on the back.

*As of April 2011, USCIS reports that in Ethiopia, mothers relinquish in 45% of cases, fathers relinquish in 18% of cases, 19% of cases are abandonments, and more distant relatives relinquish in 18% of cases.

Revenge.

2011-06-04T19:52:00.003-04:00

Revenge is even sweeter when you are a six-year old pixie with a ruffle-bottom, periwinkle bathing suit and your big-~~shot~~ brother is a mere seven-years-old. And he is outside in his skivvies, swinging a hose, ankle deep in a $10 inflatable pool. My big hearted boy got what was coming to him. But, not before showing his little brother how it's done. Next time, I will try to bribe Sylvie and Taki into wearing something other than their birthday suits, so that I may publicly post photos of their hose slinging rivalry.

Threads.

2011-05-27T23:36:00.007-04:00

Steven managed to convince Benjamin that he could run faster while playing soccer if he wore a mouth-guard. I was late to join the conversation, but Steve's explanation had something to do with the fact that he could "run faster if he clenched his teeth -- which he could do if wearing a mouth-guard." Benj seemed to buy into it, so I thought it best to suppress my guffaw. I reasoned that if he was willing to wear a mouth-guard to "run faster," the protection it afforded his teeth was gravy. It is still not obvious to me, however, why he chose a black mouth guard. Not transparent. Not white. Black. It looks to me like he has a wad of tar pressed up against his teeth. To Tariku, it must look like a camera lens cover.

Game face on.

Trying to look tough.

Does it look like he is running faster?

The mouth guard must be working.

Don't let his preoccupation with my sweater fool you... When he is not watching Ben play, he is playing with him. Sylvia, on the other hand, is truly more interested in her shoe than the soccer game.

Fast forward to today. Taki wanted to play baseball. He retrieved the gray plastic bat from the shelf in the garage and managed to knock down a tennis ball in the process. It's all the same to him. (Or so I thought.) He proceeded to toss the tennis ball in the air and try to hit it with the plastic bat. He was not having much success.

Retrieving the tennis ball from the over-grown grass.

Got it. Ready to try again.

Game face on.

You can say you knew him when....

Getting in position.

Whiff.

Recognizing that things were not going well, and refusing to believe that he had lost his mojo, Taki attributed his lack of success to two things: 1) the tennis ball; and 2) the lack of mouth-guard. He quickly retreated to the garage to retrieve the wiffle-ball, which had rolled under my car earlier in the afternoon. I cringed as he hunched down on his forearms on the crumbling, cement garage floor, derriere seemingly suspended in mid-air, and masterfully maneuvered a hockey stick to retrieve the errant wiffle-ball. Wiffle-ball in hand, he detoured to the rear bumper of my mini-van -- where I had carefully placed my camera lens cover. He picked it up. Looked at it. And popped it in his mouth. When I "gently" yanked it out of his mouth and asked him what the @#$@#% he was doing, he replied simply, "Ben-min" (his nickname for Benjamin). I gave the lens cover back to him. Wouldn't you?

Not sure if it was the ball change or the gear in his mouth, but suddenly he was a boy wonder -- making contact and running the imaginary bases.

This is how he runs. All the while, he is chanting "run, run, run, run."

Until he stops to catch his breath.

Meanwhile, not to be outdone by Ben's and Taki's getups, Ellie sprouted ears, whiskers, and a tail to play a lion in the kindergarten play, Anansi and the Moss Covered Rock. To say she was excited, would be like saying Madonna is a good dancer. She was awake at 5:00am, in her costume by 5:07am, and standing at my bedside asking me to do her make-up by 5:15am. I must say, the finished product was a sight to behold. And, although she was cursed with my nasal voice, she was spared the misfortune of being tone deaf. She owned the stage on Wednesday morning. My fierce and fancy lioness sang to her heart's content and we roared in delight.

And, of course, Sylvie had to get in on the action. But, the dear child was confused. She perfectly coordinated her Dora pajamas with her hot-pink hair-bow and the neon flower painted on her cheek, but the lady-bug-balloon-bracelet just didn't cut it. Red with pink? C'mon. Even this tomboy knows better. I'll blame the transgression on Fancy Nancy, which I can recite in my sleep. In Sylvia's world, like in Nancy's, there is no such thing as over-accessorizing.

Can you see the "diamond" necklace she chose to complement the rhinestones on her dress for our morning at the zoo?

One year later.

2011-05-20T22:06:00.007-04:00

Over the course of 365 days, Tariku has morphed into Taki (rhymes with "hockey") and has planted his flag as the heart and soul of our family. The passive, weak, and exhausted baby we brought home one year ago is barely recognizable. In his place, is a not-so-little guy who is as "strong as bull" in heart, mind and body. His sense of humor is second to none, and his mimicking ability is uncanny -- not to mention his coordination with a ball and a stick. He loves his sisters and brother FIERCELY and is extremely possessive and protective of them -- as they are of him. He is also quite protective of his personal space -- if someone gets too close, they are treated as foe until proven otherwise. He has a wicked fast right hook and has clocked more kids than I care to admit. We are working on it.... He walks, runs, skips, tries to jump, dribbles a soccer ball, and is working on dribbling a basketball. He hugs with all his heart (and all his might) and adds a "mwah" at the end of his kisses for emphasis.

Although many of his gifts are certainly "nature," I am quite certain that his skills with a cupcake are all "nurture" -- and it only took me two months to realize that he was not in fact cursing at me when he screamed uncomfortably loudly-- "mommy, aw-shits." I was admittedly slightly impressed when I realized that he was merely asking for more "chocolate chips."

So, without further adieu, I wish you a "Happy Home Day," beautiful boy. You have completed our family and have brought all of us home. (**should have posted this on 4/10/11)

Tariku's referral picture -- taken on December 8, 2009.

This is the first photo we ever saw of Tariku.

He was 4 months old.

These were taken at Layla House, AAI's orphanage in Addis Ababa, on April 5, 2010 -- the day I met Tariku for the very first time. He was 8 months old.

The right side of his head had been shaven a month earlier and he was wearing pink pants....

And this is Tariku now. One year later....

Lazy Sunday morning.

Showing off his traditional Sidama outfit.

Walking the streets of the South End of Boston with his boys.

Tackle football in the North End of Boston.

"The Snowy Day" is now merely "Peter."

Rocks are "baby balls."

Recognize the LaYlA HoWs gang sign?

Airplane.

Deep in thought about either the airplane or how he is going to snag Ben's basketball.

His nickname is Taki -- appropriately rhymes with "hockey."

Got sag?

Even this pathetic stick was transformed into a "bat."

Our neighbor's boardwalk bike.

Eye Candy.

2011-02-28T20:42:00.014-05:00

Exercising my new motto, "less plan, more play."

Although the concierge at our Embassy Row hotel assured me that everything in Georgetown would be open by 10:00am, nothing was.

It was 10:05 on Sunday morning and we were cold. Our only options for warming little fingers and toes were Starbucks and Urban Outfitters. We knew that if we went into Starbucks, we'd be besieged with requests for old-fashioned donuts, hot cocoa, and blueberry muffins. So, we chose Urban Outfitters. Mind you, Urban Outfitters is a five-year-old girl's paradise. Fuchsia sequined headbands, faux crystal lamps draped with silvery sparkly stuff, over-sized hot-pink and black coffee mugs, teal and lavender big print floral quilts, tangerine shag bathroom rugs, and rack upon rack of dresses, jeans, and skirts adorned with bling, lace, or animal prints. I had no doubt that this haphazard pop-in would be the highlight of Ellie's trip to Washington, DC.

Well, if Urban Outfitters is a five-year-old girl's paradise, then it is an 18-month-old, newly-walking, toddler's very own Garden of Eden. Everything is at eye-level. Ripe for the picking. Readily available to his trolling hand. So, it should come as no surprise that I lost sight of Benj, Ellie and Sylvie for a brief moment while I peeled Tariku's fingers from around the rump of a small porcelain bunny. When I looked up, I saw the three of them across the store, hunched over a large book. Ben's eyes were wide and his hands were gesturing wildly. Sylvie was giggling. And Ellie was holding the book in the air, tilting it so that she could explore the over-sized photographs from various angles.

I got nervous. They were a little too interested, if you know what I mean. What if the book contained (gasp) obscene images?

Well, it turns out it did.

227 pages of full-frontal, full-color photographs of cupcake after delicious cupcake.

We bought the book. (What's New, Cupcake? by Karen Tack and Alan Richardson.) Scandalous. And made these cupcakes together. Piece of cake. Literally.

Not quite dead.

2011-02-26T09:29:00.022-05:00

My blog is not dead. It was just snoozing. Deeply. I guess I have not been in the mood to publicly whine, complain, brag, process, enlighten, rant, or pontificate in a while. So be it. It's my blog and I'll write when I want to. Although, my recent writer's block did cause me to question why I blog at all. And who I do it for.

I think I initially began blogging as a way of passing time while waiting for a referral. It was a way of reaching out to the adoption community and saying, "Hey, I'm still waiting and it's driving me batty. Help!" But, I continued to write even though I received only one, sometimes two, reader comments on any given post. So, I obviously wasn't writing simply to garner support and encouragement. Obviously.

I think I continued writing because I enjoyed it. Not because I am self-important enough to believe that everything (anything?) I write is profound. Nor because I am delusional enough to believe that you actually care which products I am using in Tariku's hair. I write because I enjoy it. Plain and simple. I like exercising the other half of my brain. It is a reminder that I have something to say other than, "clean up your toys/take another bite/it is time for bed." And I like that I can sit down at the computer and in an hour, sometimes less, do something to completion. By writing, I can release the frenzy of thoughts, emotions, ideas, opinions and judgments elbowing each other for pole position in my brain. By writing, I can sweep the detritus out of the recesses of my mind and clear space for new growth.

And I realized that I write, quite simply, for myself. One of the few luxuries that is all my own. I do not need anyone's permission to write what I want to write, nor anyone's approval of what is ultimately written. And I do not bore those who do not wish to be bored. Those folks can simply choose not to read.

Which brings me to this next point. I have no clue who actually reads this blog. In my last post, I noticed that the videos of Tariku had almost 200 views, yet the post only had 10 comments -- two of which were my own, and two very dear friends each commented twice. The other four comments were also from friends who have vocally supported me throughout this process. So, who were the other 190 people who watched the videos of my son? I admit that I am more than a little bit curious. Are you one of them? If so, how about a quick hello and an introduction? Do I already know you? Are you a fellow AP? An old acquaintance from high school or perhaps a beloved college roommate? Or, are you like my sister -- a loyal reader, who has yet to figure out how to successfully post a comment (Sorry, Toast!)?

I did write one post during my month of hibernation. It was about Benj. I deleted it as quickly as I wrote it. This is my blog. Not his. A place for me to air my dirty laundry. I have been very protective of Tariku's history on this blog and very conscious of how public access to his private story could adversely impact him. I need to be equally sensitive to my other children. Ben does not need his dirty laundry aired so that his neighbors, friends, teachers, coaches, etc. may be privy to the dust-bunnies in his underwear drawer. I have that exclusive privilege as his mama. And some things are just too sacred to share with y'all.

I have tried to think of what I have done this past month instead of writing. Can't really come up with anything worthy of sharing. I haven't read Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, which is taunting me from my bedside table. I have already botched my resolution to do a little bit of laundry each day and I have almost completely forfeited dish duty to Steven.

But, we did bake some over-the-top, fancy-nancy cupcakes. That's gotta count for something, right?

Here is the rest of the month in pictures.

Because I am delusional and self-important enough to believe that some of you tune in simply to see pics of my gorgeous (all bias aside of course) kids.

Four letter words.

2011-01-27T20:07:00.017-05:00

Risk

–noun

1. exposure to the chance of injury or loss; a hazard or dangerous chance.

Low tone. Hypotonia. Head rolling. Fist clenching. Cerebral palsy. Autism. Floppy. Thin. Staring. Gumby-like. Passive. Glued to the floor. Different. Very special needs. Something. Hypoxic at birth. Atypical behaviors. Weak. Little resistance. Polio. Depressed.

All of these words and phrases were used by various people to describe Tariku before he came home. All of these diagnoses and observations contorted into one very ugly four-letter word. RISK. Pulsing neon in every email, photo, and video I received beginning last January. FEAR became my predominant emotion.

I know some of you – especially those of you who know Tariku now -- are probably rolling your eyes or making those little quacking motions with your hands to indicate blah, blah, blah. But, I’m telling you, I know what I heard. And, I know what I saw. See for yourself.

Told you so.

I am a pretty risk averse person. I do not jay walk. Drive in the snow. Or pick up hitchhikers. Who am I kidding? I am a VERY risk averse person. I even married a man with whom I shared a last name.

Admittedly, I haven’t taken many risks in my life. I have walked down a very well-manicured path, trimmed with daisies. College. Law school. Marriage. Law firm. Babies. SAHM. White picket fence. All I know about “big risk, big reward,” is that it is cliché

Tariku started walking last week. I'll repeat that. Tariku started walking last week! Sweet, sweet day. And I celebrated this milestone with joy, edged with relief. Many have said, “well, you knew he would walk.” And I did. Except when I didn’t. There was a point in time not so long ago when I did not know if he would walk. Could walk. I did not know if he would ever get up off the floor. Or have control of his mind and body. I did not know that one year later he would grasp my face in his hands, press his forehead against mine, and whisper “I yuv yoo.”

Recently, we received a diagnosis. The diagnosis that eluded me a year ago. It is so obvious now. And should have been even more obvious then.

Tariku was at risk. He was suffering.

He was suffering so. While I was hung up on the risk. The risk to me and my family. I had the right word. I was just applying it in the wrong direction. This is when I mutter another ugly four-letter word. Yep, that one.

Things are getting hairy.

2011-01-10T14:25:00.007-05:00

I had noticed her the week before. She was the only black mother in the waiting room at Ellie's gymnastics school. Her son was in the tot class that ran alongside Ellie's class. He looked to be about three years old and had the most adorable dreads. I thought she might be able to provide some tips on how to maintain Tariku's natural curls. There were plenty of empty seats closer to the entrance, but I managed to overlook all of them and plop myself not-so-discreetly in the chair beside her. Sylvie was with me, of course. Taki was home with Steve and Ben.

I was unsure how to start the conversation -- I didn't want it to seem as if I had been stalking her or her son. So, I just went for it. I causally mentioned that I thought her son's hair looked adorable in dreads, and asked at what age she started locking his hair. She was definitely puzzled by my line of questions. She looked skeptically at Sylvie -- and her pin straight bob -- and back at me. I quickly explained that my youngest son was black (whipped out a photo on my phone) and that I had contemplated locking his hair, but decided instead to let it grow in its natural corkscrews. Before she could inquire further, I asked if she had any suggestions as to how to maintain and further define his curls. She asked what products I used. I was all too eager to rattle off all of the expensive, organic, and natural-oil infused products I have used in the past, currently use, and hope to use in the future. I just kept inserting my foot further and further into my mouth. Until it could no longer fit.

I waited for her reaction. What did I expect? For her to be impressed? To commend me on how well I am obviously caring for his hair? A pat on the back?

She did not respond right away. I started re-playing in my mind the list of products I had mentioned. Did I say something to offend her? Could I possibly have named a product that contains mineral oil? Or worse yet, petrolatum!? As it turns out, if I had committed such a faux pas, she wouldn't have noticed. Because she never heard of ANY of the products I listed. She came right out and said so. She said she thought that they must all be products they sell to "white mamas of black babies." I did not know whether I should apologize or take offense. Before I could decide, she said that she thought it would be best if I "popped into an African salon and purchased a $5 vat of shea butter." Now it was my turn to be confused. An African salon? On the Main Line? You'd have a better chance of finding a personal tutoring service for your pet cockatoo. I was not overly worried, though, because I couldn't think of a better excuse to head into Philly. I was more worried about her not so subtle implication that there is an entirely different market out there for us white mamas. Say it ain't so.

Well, I was pleasantly surprised -- actually downright shocked -- to locate an African barbershop about 5 miles away. Just around the corner from the neighborhood Italian market where I spend way too much time and money. Not a salon, but an African barbershop! Images of Ice Cube and Cedric the Entertainer motivated me to "pop" in the very next morning, with Sylvie and Taki in tow. And J*****'s Barbershop did not disappoint. It was sparse. Two barber chairs, two barbers, and a room full of regulars. We almost didn't make it past the doorway, as we were held back by the gust of air generated by all of the heads turning toward us when we walked in. I took a mental note that this is how Taki will feel (has already felt?) many times in his life -- being the "only." A spectacle.

Although it felt like much longer, within minutes we were greeted by the barbershop's owner, a 30 something African American man. He was sympathetic to my questions and enthusiastic about showing me the ropes. He pretended not to notice Taki's hysterics, and worked the "grease" into his hair with magic hands. He showed me the product he used and told me that I could pick some up for a buck at the dollar store. So, I did. (And because this white mama surely doesn't know better than the African American barber, I made no mention of the fact that mineral oil and petrolatum are the two leading ingredients....Geesh.)

And, lastly, I made a standing appointment to bring Taki in for a trim on Wednesday mornings.

Where we will sit amongst the regulars.

Put Me In The Zoo?

2011-01-03T19:51:00.016-05:00

Have you ever read the children's book Put Me in the Zoo? It's a family favorite. So much so, that brave Sylvie decided to take a page out of the book and camouflage her typical effervescent self with itchy, fuchsia spots. All over her scabbed little body.

We took her from doctor to doctor trying to nail down a diagnosis. The doctors oohed and ahhed, poked and prodded, and all but tapped on the glass to get her attention. Kind of sent us into hibernation, and put a damper on our winter break. We did make it out for one, and only one, family excursion over the course of the ten-day school vacation.

To the zoo, ironically.

The Philadelphia Zoo is much like this blog. Comfortable, accessible, therapeutic. She never quibbles about how long we've stayed away, and is always poised to enthusiastically embrace us when we walk hand-in-hand back through her iron gate. We never stay away for long -- maybe three weeks at the most?

The kids know the Philadelphia Zoo better than their own backyard. (Should I be admitting this?) And Steve's schedule allows us to visit at "off" times, so we never have to contend with crowds. I am certain that when I am old and gray and demented, I will still be able to reach down deep and joyfully access the memories we have created visiting the zoo.

Steve and I typically lag behind, pulling Taki in the wagon, watching as Benj, Ellie, and now Sylvie, skip ahead toward the statue of the baby elephant and her mama at the zoo's entrance.

They know to stop and pose for a photo. (Cheesy, I know.) We watch as they scamper ahead to the hippo pool, where six years worth of visits have afforded them the knowledge of the best spot to stand to catch a glimpse of the hippo's backside bulging above the water's surface. Sylvie always turns and runs back toward us, seeking our arms to hoist her above the railing, which distorts her view.

Taki starts making monkey sounds as soon as we turn off the main drag and cross over the planked bridge that leads to the monkey house. We have all stood in awe of the mama orangutan and her newborn-baby. Sylvie used to cower behind me as we approached the gorillas, but she is now as hooked as the rest of us. Steve and I exchange knowing glances and pretend to roll our eyes, when we exit the monkey house and the kids race to the statue of the silverback gorilla and jostle for the prized spot atop his head. We have more photos of the kids in various positions atop this statue, than any other place in the zoo. Can't explain their fascination with it, but Ben, then Ellie, and now Sylvie all list it in their "Top 3" favorite things to do at the zoo!?

Also in their "Top 3" is the reptile house, along with the otters. Another, HUH?!?! But, they never tire of the game "I Spy" played skillfully with the snakes and lizards masquerading as twigs and branches in the reptile house. Nor do they seem to mind the fishy smell that permeates the air and causes me to gag as we linger too long in front of the otters' tank.

Together we have worried about the giraffe with the large "goiter" (Steve taught us this word) on his neck, and we were all disappointed to bid farewell to the zoo's "too-expensive" elephants. (C'mon. It was the first zoo in America -- it can't afford to keep its' elephants?) I have revived my knowledge regarding the differences between toads and frogs, tortoises and turtles, and crocodiles and alligators. I can identify Okapi, Scottish Highland Cattle, and Capybara. I have seen animals I had overlooked a hundred times for the first time though the wide eyes of each of my four children. Pigeons? Squirrels? Take a second look.

We end each visit with a ride aboard the colorful carousel. And their choice of which animal to mount always speaks volumes about their respective personalities. Except Tariku's. This past visit, he started aboard a tiger -- but got scared and retreated to the more passive tortoise. Those of you who knew him in Ethiopia will find this hard to fathom, but trust me, he is much more tiger than tortoise these days. Much more.

Safe inside the tortoise shell. Still suspiciously eyeing the tiger.

And the icing on the cake? The Philadelphia Zoo is located a mere hop, skip, and a jump away from my favorite Philadelphia neighborhood. West Philly. Meandering around West Philly allows me to reconcile my soccer-mom, minivan-driving, everyday persona with my more urban alter-ego. And I never run out of excuses to stop at Green Line for sandwiches, coffee, and people-watching or Abyssinia for some Ethiopian comfort food. An afternoon or morning at the zoo is a win/win for all -- and, as I've confessed to some of you, everyone has more fun when everyone is having fun.

So, here's the thing. As much as I love the Philadelphia Zoo, it is still just a zoo. Which is okay for our "now." My wish for my kids, though, is that someday their vision will not be distorted. I want them to tell me all about the six hippos they encountered while out on a rickety boat in Lake Awassa in Southern Ethiopia, the elephants they tracked in Kerala, India, and the condor that flew overhead while they were hiking in Peru.

And I want to do the same.

Can you see the resemblance?

2010-12-30T12:13:00.006-05:00

You know how they say when you've been married long enough you tend to start looking alike? Well, Robert Zajonc, a psychologist at the University of Michigan, recently concluded that empathy is the most likely factor leading couples to look more alike the longer they are together. According to Zajonc, husbands and wives mimic their spouse's facial expressions. For example, when a husband smiles a certain way, so might his wife. When a wife frowns in sadness, the husband might unconsciously mimic the expression. Facial expressions represent emotions, thus husband and wives are not just mimicking expressions, but are empathizing the feelings behind them.

I would like to take Zajonc's conclusion a step further and apply it to non-biologically related siblings.

See for yourself.

Was it you?

2010-12-27T16:13:00.013-05:00

Morgan (aka Julia) swears she didn't do it. But, I am certain it was one of you.... So fess up. Who planted the kind elderly woman behind me (and Sylvie and Taki) at the check-out line at Trader Joe's? You paid her a ton of money and insisted she read my blog -- take notes -- and scripted her side of the conversation. This is how it played out:

Lady: "Hi, honey. I love your fancy bow. Pink is my favorite color."

Sylvie: (Suspicious, but smiling slightly with her eyes.)

Lady: "It matches your tights perfectly and your sparkly shoes. I wish I had a pair of shoes like that."

Sylvie: (Nodding in agreement.)

Lady: "You must have been a big help to your momma choosing all of those groceries. I bet she is going to make you and your baby brother something yummy for lunch."

Sylvie: "Macaroni and cheese."

Lady: "I knew it. My favorite. Does your baby brother eat macaroni and cheese, too?"

Sylvie: "Yep. He likes to make a mess."

Lady: "Well, he is still a baby. What is his name?"

Sylvie: "Taki."

Lady: "That's a nice name. What is your name?"

Sylvie: "Sylvie - UH."

Lady: "Your mommy chose beautiful names. How old are you?"

Sylvie: "Two."

Lady: "How old is your brother?"

Sylvie: "I have two brothers. One is big. He is home with Daddy. This brother (pointing to Taki) is still a baby."

Lady: "I can see that. And I am sure you are a wonderful big sister."

Sylvie: "He was born in E-thi-o-pia."

Lady: "Well, you are very lucky to have him in your family."

Sylvie: "I know."

And she didn't bless me, commend me, or tell me I was her hero. Wherever did you find this woman????? She was worth every penny you spent! Best birthday/Hanukah/Christmas present ever. Just let me know where to mail the thank-you note.

And because tomorrow is my birthday, indulge me while I lug my soapbox down from the attic. The Trader Joe's lady started me thinking about how older generations perceive Tariku. (She was well into her seventies.) And a series of more recent events re-invigorated my thoughts. "Old" people. People from "that" generation. Why do we assume that they harbor racist views? And why do we tolerate and excuse their racist views because they are "old"? I don't get it. Is racism less hurtful and harmful when espoused by someone who is "old?"

I think we are doing our oldest generations a disservice by turning the other cheek. We are also doing a disservice to our black children by keeping them apart from those whom we perceive to be "uncomfortable" in their presence. By doing so, we are unwittingly perpetuating racial prejudices. Prejudices that may be based on very, very little. We are complicit. I am complicit. And I do not like the way that feels.

Many of our old people just need a personal connection with someone who is not white, so that they may release the fears and myths that have limited them for far too long. Perhaps that moment will come when they are being cared for by a Ghanian nurse. Or perhaps when they are greeted six days a week by an African-American mailman. Or perhaps it will not be until their socks are knocked off by a 16-month-old little boy adopted from Ethiopia, whose hugs can warm even the coldest heart. Either way, if we continue to shelter and protect our old people from situations and people that may make them "uncomfortable," these connections will NEVER happen. Let's start giving our older generations the credit they deserve. After all, they didn't get to be that age without having walked to school uphill both ways in the snow ... barefoot.

And just in case you are bored by my rhetoric, here are some gratuitous cute kid pics:

Snapshot

2010-12-16T21:32:00.003-05:00

How was your day?

Excuses.

2010-12-10T21:34:00.013-05:00

Can I use the fact that we celebrate Ben's birthday, Thanksgiving, Hanukah, Steve's birthday, Sylvie's birthday, Christmas, and my birthday between November 18th and December 28th as an excuse for not blogging? There have been at least a dozen posts that I've intended to write. I even started a few. But, I have not and cannot complete a single one.

I started with the "Ball" post. Quite simply, my kid is obsessed with balls. (The kind that you throw.) It does not matter if the ball is pink, brown, orange, or yellow. Or whether it bounces or rolls. What matters is whether it can be thrown. Not tossed. THROWN. With velocity and accuracy. Looking through recent photos, I've noticed that Tariku is rarely without a ball. Basketballs, footballs, baseballs, nerf balls ....even cotton balls. (His early obsession with blueberries has taken on a whole new meaning.) And his enthusiasm is contagious. Don't believe me? Let's just say that Ellie was outside shooting baskets in her pajamas (and faux suede boots), as was Sylvie. Noteworthy? Definitely. Enough for a blog post? Not quite.

(I wasn't exaggerating!)

Next, I started the somber "One Year Ago Today" post. I wrote: On November 17, 2009, Tariku entered our agency's care. And then I stopped. I didn't know where to go from there. And I couldn't help but contrast the elation I felt on November 18, 2003, when Benjamin was born, to the hopeless despair that overwhelmed Tariku's family seven years later. Benjamin was born by c-section at one of the country's leading obstetric hospitals. He was a moose. Overcooked, no doubt. Weighing in at a whopping 10 pounds, 10 oz of pure bliss. Seven years later, almost to the day, Tariku entered our agency's care. And a family returned home without their child. I could not finish this post. I felt glum. And I did not want to put a damper on Benjamin's birthday.

November 18, 2003

Benjamin Peale

Birthday kisses and wet willies.

Another post was about how I have often asked why I, of all people, was gifted daughters -- daughters who are both VERY girlie. I am not. And I have to admit I've been a little uncertain as to how to proceed down the glittered aisles of nail polish and princesses. Ellie has worn a dress EVERY single day since she was 3 years old. The more sequins, rhinestones, ruffles and lace, the better. Sylvie is not too far behind. And their pretend play almost always includes unicorns, fairies, princesses, etc. Yikes. NOT my cup of tea. I do not encourage all of the glitz, but it is admittedly hard not to be amused (and slightly impressed) by their creations. Well, last week, after her bath, Ellie asked if she could brush my hair. Brush my hair????? But, OF COURSE! Not only did she brush my hair, but she sprayed it (with God knows what), and blow-dried it. Then, she gave me a neck and face massage with Tariku's cocoa butter. Right there on the bathroom floor, in the shadows of the grimy porcelain tub. She preened and primped and declared me beautiful. And I had my answer.

In Disney -- where everything is make believe!

First day of gymnastics.

I concur.

And there was the post about Tariku's first (and only) steps on Thanksgiving Day. And his first snow on Thanksgiving Day. And his first Thanksgiving Day.

You get the picture.

The Seasons of Change

2010-11-29T20:59:00.005-05:00

Spring. Summer. Fall. Winter.

No matter the season, I am thankful.

Just Saying

2010-11-23T13:17:00.010-05:00

Dear John Q. Public,

My name is Sylvia Frances.

I am two years old.

And I am invisible.

At least, I feel that way when I am out with my little brother. I know that he is cute. Very cute. And charming. Oh-so-charming. (You should hear him imitate animal sounds. Many of which he learned from me.) And conspicuous (although, I wish that wasn't so). And I also understand, unfortunately, that you may regard him as a novelty.

But, how do you not notice me standing beside him?

You used to notice me. You used to ask my name. Compliment me on my smile. Or my hot-pink, over-sized hair-bow. Or my bedazzled flower shoes. Now, I might as well fade into the folds of mama's knee-length sweater. Can you at least fake it? Pretend to notice my owl eyes? Or my pixie haircut? Or that I am no longer wearing a diaper (a "pull-up" is NOT a diaper)? Ask me how I enjoy school? Or what mama and I have planned for the afternoon?

If that is asking too much, at least ask ME about my little brother. I can tell you his name. And how to pronounce it correctly. I can sing you a few bars of his favorite lullaby. Describe his favorite book. And answer the question that you always seem to ask .... "he was born in Ethiopia." Definitely have that line down pat. I was born outside Philadelphia, which you would know, if you cared to ask. As was my sister. And my older brother was born in Boston. But, you never seem to be curious about that. Just saying.

Love,

Sylvia

Static Cling.

2010-11-14T19:17:00.019-05:00

I am not sure if it was the warm sugar-infused-maple-syrup or the mini-chocolate-chip morsels that fed their energy.

Either way, by 10:00am, my kids had already put in a full day. And so had their mama. So much so, that the three loads of laundry waiting patiently on the basement floor to be folded, seemed a welcome respite from the absolute chaos of upstairs. I put Tariku in his crib for his morning nap. I assured myself that the other three were fed, watered, and engaged in non-combative play, and I slinked downstairs to the basement to lessen my load.

I closed the door to the basement, enveloping myself in a cocoon of silence and freshly laundered clothing. I plopped my tired bum down, smack in the middle of the laundry pile, and reached first for the socks. Sorting. Extra large, large, medium, small, very small, tiny. Repeat. Again. And again. And again. Out of the corner of my heavily lidded eye, I caught sight of the plush, heather-blue, Land of Nod bean-bag lying fallow across the room. Just beckoning to be compressed. And I may or may not have abandoned my mission and crawled on all fours to the awaiting sac. Where I rested my weary head, pulled my knees to my chest, and covered myself with an over-sized sweater that had heedlessly been washed ... and dried.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four Mississippi. I think I made it as high as 11 Mississippi. And then, on cue, I heard it. Coming from above. Blurred, as if in a dream. "MMMMMMMMMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM." But, it wasn't a dream. It was Ben. He was not hurt. He was not scared. He did not need help. He did not have something earth-shattering to share with me. He just wanted "to know where I was." And it would have been a helluva lot more endearing had he interrupted me whilst I sorted my eighteenth pair of socks. And this is why, in seven years (as of November 18th), I have NEVER managed to slip a clandestine nap into my day. Never ever.

(And because my so-called nap did not last long enough for anyone to bear witness to it, these belated Halloween pics in Disney will have to suffice.)
Edward Cullen has nothing on my boy.

Disguised as an angel.

A little bit of this, a little bit of that!

And I may or may not have forgotten Tariku's costume at home...

Nobody puts baby in the corner.

2010-11-05T20:47:00.014-04:00

On April 9, 2010, Sylvie was the baby in our family. On April 10th, she was not. She was absent from the decision making process -- although, it was she who would endure its greatest weight. Because I did not carry Tariku inside me for nine months, she did not have the opportunity to see my stomach grow -- visually cuing her for the change to come. Nor was she present when Tariku was born. She did not have his neonate period, when sleep would have consumed the majority of his days, to get accustomed to his presence. To the contrary, one day we left for Ethiopia -- which to her is little more than a tongue-twister -- and returned with an 8-month-old baby, teetering on the cusp of toddler-hood. A baby who already had a personality, a voice, and a desperate need for her parents. A baby who wanted to share her toys, her cheerios, and, most profoundly, her mama. Boom. She woke up one morning and he was there. He was here. To stay. And she was no longer our baby. He unwittingly absconded the role that she had held fiercely and enthusiastically for 2.5 years, and encroached upon her toys, food, space and mama. Immediately.

All of the adoption books and social workers counsel adopting families from adopting out of birth order. Because it can disrupt the family dynamic and alter the already established roles of each child. But, isn't adopting a child younger than your youngest child disrupting the family dynamic? By definition, maintaining birth order displaces the current baby's position as the baby. And the "baby" is a very unique spot in a family's dynamic. Nothing I read to prepare for Tariku's homecoming forewarned me about this potential pitfall. True, the current baby is displaced any time another child is born into a family -- but like I said above, that child typically has an entire pregnancy, birth process, and neonate period to get used to the idea and her new role. Sylvia did not.

Before Tariku came home, Sylvie was my shadow. We did not do any "kiddie" classes or the like. We just hung out together. We'd grab donuts and coffee (hot cocoa) at the local cafe, go to the library or bookstore, take a walk, go to the park, etc. If I had to go to the doctor, she came to the doctor. Same for the bank, grocery store, post office, dry cleaners, pharmacy, elementary school, etc. And then one day, someone else was in her seat in the front of the grocery cart. And she was hanging on to my backpack as she shuffled along beside me, trying to keep up. And she was the one being dropped off at school, while Tariku got to stay in the car with mama.

And I wonder why she is having difficulty sleeping. And having tantrums. And regressing. She does not take her frustration out on Tariku. To the contrary. She likes him. Really likes him. She just does not like the diminished time I have for her. And I can't and don't blame her for feeling that way. Math has never been my strength, but I cannot for the life of me figure out how the same sized pie can be divided into additional pieces without each piece getting smaller. And despite my food reference and my expanding waistline and backside (the gym daycare is no-way-no-how conducive to attachment), the pie isn't getting any bigger. So, I guess I just need to find a way to make sure that Sylvie's slice is extra sweet and satisfying until we come out of this period. Sounds like a cop-out to me. But, as I type, I don't have a better plan. Suggestions?

A Tad Too Much Romance

2010-10-19T20:26:00.012-04:00

Pay no attention to Tariku's swollen lower-lip... Lip vs. Table -- Table won.

I made a hard-cover, 26 page Mac photo book for Tariku's family. I included photos of Tariku's first breath of salty ocean air and first and last taste of freshly combed white sand. Another photo shows him overcome with hiccup-inducing laughter, as the playground swing renders him weightless. There are photos of him sitting opposite Sylvie in the turquoise wagon at the zoo, wondering at the masked lemurs. Many show him rejoicing with his brother and sisters in our front-yard. I included my two personal favorites-- the colorful pic of Tariku perched upon the hand-carved tiger at the local BC zoo, and the candid photo of Tariku smushed against Steve's face receiving a heart-felt kiss.

I had fantasies of how this photo book would be received by Tariku's family in Ethiopia. Many of my delusions involved cupcakes, rainbows, and unicorns. Or, may as well have. I envisioned his family members rejoicing, laughing, dancing and singing in glee. Relieved, comforted, buoyed by news and pictures of their loved one. Or not. Yet again, I fell into the trap of romanticizing Tariku's (and his birth family's) journey to this point. For all I know, receiving this album will open wounds that have just begun to scab. Or cause shame. Or profound sadness and regret. Or, it may be received with complete indifference. Or not.

I have no way of knowing. I fill the gaps in Tariku's story with details that are gratifying and mollifying -- rendering it, at best, mass market fiction. As I posted earlier in the week, Tariku is not "mine and mine alone." I concede that I may have the privilege of preserving the middle, and ending of his story, but the beginning is the exclusive provenance of his family in Ethiopia. I hold out hope that Tariku's family will somehow respond to receipt of the photo book. Entrusting us with further context to his story. Except when they don't.

This is the earliest photo we have of Tariku. It is his intake photo at the initial orphanage. He is 4 months old.

Now, I digress. (Julie, cue the Air Supply.) There is one, and only one, aspect of this entire adoption journey that I am certain that I have never romanticized. And that is you. You girls know who you are. I have never had a lot of girlfriends. Always been too much work. I was never able to send the friggin birthday card out on time, or be appropriately sympathetic over a thrice-broken-heart. I haven't actually heard some of your voices, but your words play on a loop in my head all.day.long expanding my mind ... and often my waist-line.

Keep talking.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

2010-10-18T13:10:00.005-04:00

Do you think Sylvia has adjusted well to being displaced as the baby?

Ours

2010-10-15T14:13:00.014-04:00

"Are they all yours?"

"No, I borrowed two from the lady on the corner because I wanted to take four kids with me to shop for toilet paper at Costco."

(If only I had the cohones to say this aloud. Instead, I responded with a plain-vanilla, "Yep. All mine.")

They are all mine. But, not mine alone.

Before Tariku came home, Steve and I had the "talk." The "talk" about whether it was truly possible to love an adopted child as much as a biological child. Every time Steve raised the topic, I skirted the issue by tossing out trite retorts. We love each of our children differently. How do you measure how much you love a child? Cliche after cliche. In truth, I didn't know how to answer. I worried about it, too.

Fast-forward six months. I am unable to differentiate my love for Tariku from my love for Benj, Ellie and Sylvie. I forget that I wasn't there when he was born. Looking through our photo albums, I expect to see a photo of him in the infant car-seat leaving the hospital, or rocking in the glider at one-month-old, or nuzzled in the Boppie in my bed at two-months old.... He is as much mine as Ben, Ellie and Sylvie are mine. But, sometimes I am not sure that I am his. Every once in a while, he greets me with skepticism, doubt, and, dare I say, resignation? Whereas I can stare at him all.day.long, there are times when he deliberately avoids eye-contact while drinking his bottle in my lap.

At these moments (and they are getting farther and farther apart), I wish he was still in Ethiopia, in his tukul, surrounded by familiar voices, faces, and daily rhythms. I am no longer able to envision my life without Tariku in it. But, I can not use that as justification to romanticize his journey, or international adoption in general. Tariku had a family in Ethiopia. Still does. And they are very much a part of him. For me to claim that Tariku is all "mine," belittles all that they imparted to him. His name. His history. His skin-color. His serious eyes. His ringlets. His mile-long eye-lashes. His laugh. His rhythm. His dimple in his bottom lip. His sense of humor. His gentle spirit. His capacity to give and receive love. All firmly in place long before I laid eyes upon him.

Tariku is mine -- just not mine and mine alone. He is ours.

I hope that someday Tariku will think of me as his. And that, my friend, I will have to earn.

My tired, tired boy.

The Four Little Bears

2010-10-14T14:47:00.017-04:00

Once upon a time, there were four little bears.... Three brown bears and one polar bear.

Me: Ellie, do you know that Tariku is going to wear the "fuzzy oatmeal bear" costume for Halloween?

Ellie: (unimpressed) Yep.

Me: (too enthusiastically) The same costume that you, Ben and Sylvie all wore on your first Halloween.

Ellie: (still unimpressed) But, he is going to be a brown bear.

Me: (convincingly) He is wearing the SAME costume -- you were ALL cuddly brown bears.

Ellie: (emphatically) No, I wasn't. I was a POLAR bear. Tariku is going to be a BROWN bear ... his skin is BROWN.

Me: (gearing up) A POLAR bear.... Is YOUR skin white?

Ellie: (rolling her eyes) MMMMMMMMMOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM, of course my skin is NNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOTTTTTTTT white, but there is no such thing as a PINK bear.

Benjamin "Brown Bear" Peale (11 mos)

October 2004

Eleanor "Polar Bear" Elizabeth (17 mos)

October 2006

Sylvia "Brown Bear" Frances (10 mos)

October 2008

Tariku "Brown Bear" Trosper (14 mos)

October 2010

Perfection

2010-10-10T15:57:00.010-04:00

Four

fleece-wearing, wagon-riding, cobblestone-skipping, balloon-toting, lollipop-sucking, hand-holding, funnel-cake-tasting, lemonade-slurping, art-admiring, tattoo-brandishing, dog-petting, smiles-overtaking, hair-blowing, geography-learning, question-asking, high-five-receiving, music-feeling, prize-winning, sign-reading, hoop-shooting, felt-purse-selecting, raffle-entering, masterpiece-creating, donation-giving, Phillies-cheering, game-inventing, ball-spotting, fresh-air-breathing, train-hopping, bee-avoiding, minds-opening, eyes-dancing, people-watching, joy-provoking, legs-tiring, garbage-can-seeking, fingers-exploring

kiddos on this perfect fall day.

One

early-rising, weekend-working, bummed-to-miss-the-fun,

Daddy on this perfect fall day.

One

wagon-toting, hand-holding, CAMERA-FORGETTING,

Mama on this perfect fall day.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

to the

Chestnut Hill Art Fair

for providing delirious amounts of outdoor fun so close to home.

I felt so guilty for forgetting the camera ... but I more-than-made-up-for-it during our sunset date at the playground with Daddy!

You can almost see the burn on Ellie's chin from when she over-eagerly smelled the pan of home-made chocolate chip cookies. Reason 103,876 why I shouldn't cook or bake.

Never-mind the dried milk around his lips.

Or the grass-stains on his knees.

Ellie's selection from the Art Fair. She chose well.

If You Give a Pig a Pancake - A Variation

2010-10-04T18:54:00.010-04:00

If you give Tariku a bath before dinner, he is going to be hungry.

If he is hungry, you are going to make extra-cheesy macaroni and cheese for him.

If you make macaroni and cheese, he is going to insist upon feeding himself.

If he feeds himself, he is going to massage fist-fulls of extra-cheesy macaroni into his freshly-washed hair as soon as you turn your back to pour a glass of milk for your other child.

If he rubs macaroni in his hair, you are going to have to re-rinse his hair in the kitchen sink.

If you attempt to rinse his hair in the not-so-deep kitchen sink, he is going to splash water all over the window, counter, and floor.

If you put him down, so that you can dry the window, counter, and floor (before someone slips and falls), he is going to make a bee-line for the stairs.

If he makes a bee-line for the stairs, he is going to make it to the third stair before you reach him.

If you reach him on the third stair, you are going to have to carry him to the playroom (the room farthest from the stairs) while you finish drying the kitchen floor.

If you leave him alone in the playroom for 45 seconds, he is going to discover his big sister's uncapped magic markers.

If he discovers the magic markers, he is going to use his pajamas, face and feet as his canvas.

AND if he colors all over his face and feet, HE IS GOING TO NEED ANOTHER BATH.

And, I'm going to need a _______.

(I welcome your suggestions.)

I was too flustered to capture the "master-piece" on film -- these pics are from a better day. And, yes, I definitely think he is teething!

A Letter From My Son

2010-09-24T20:23:00.007-04:00

Dear Mama,

1. I truly appreciate your willingness to retract your pronouncement to never again enroll in a kiddie music class. (I promise not to tell Sylvie.)

2. But, getting to class 10 minutes early is inadequate. The teachers scatter the colorful rubber balls -- the ones I like to throw, climb over, and eat -- all over the room a full 20 minutes before class starts.

3. When I am weeping over the absconded balls, please do not try to distract me with the noisy "eggs." Eggs are not balls. They do not bounce. And, when I throw them at the pig-tailed cutie sitting to my right, she cries.

4. Please do not sing in my ear. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you are tone deaf.

5. When the mean two-year-old smashes my fingers with her UGG boots in her sprint to sequester the most eggs, please do not comfort me with noisy, sloppy kisses. You leave wet marks.

6. After class, I am dead tired. I just want to go home and nap. I do not need to be plopped down in my pink high-chair for lunch.

7. Why do I have a pink high chair?

8. Speaking of eating, I know you only pretend to take bites when I try to feed you with my sticky little fingers. It hurts my feelings.

9. Leave my hair alone. It looks good. Save your money and avoid purchasing a new product for a week.

10. I liked physical therapy. I am going to miss it.

I love you.

Taki

What if?

2010-09-13T21:22:00.013-04:00

What if Tariku had not been the baby referred to us?

What if it had been Tamrat* or Mebret-- two infant boys who were referred on that same fateful day last December?

What if it had been Kenenisa, Abinet or Girma -- three infant boys who were referred several weeks later?

What if one family had not "come off hold"?

What if we had procrastinated in a moment of doubt and not gotten our dossier to our agency until a week later?

What if the baby's files were in a different order on our agency director's desk?

What if instead of looking back and writing about "what if," I was still waiting with a heavy heart for one of those babes who has yet to come home?

Have you ever wondered what it would be like if your child had not become your child? I had a miscarriage before getting pregnant with Sylvia. But for that miscarriage, Sylvie would not be my daughter. It's almost impossible to contemplate. Yet, in the circus that is international adoption, the possibility is very real.

I have to confess that there were days this past February, when Tariku's needs seemed "very special," that I silently and fervently wished that we had been referred a different baby. That we had been called about Tamrat -- the babe with the over-the-top adorable frohawk. Or Kenenisa -- Julia's boy. Or Girma -- who was quickly packing on the pounds. Or Abinet -- who was already old enough to crawl. They were all perfect in my mind. Succeeding in the very areas where Tariku was struggling. I was unable to suppress the shameful notion that the agency had called us about the wrong baby. (Yep, very selfish thoughts from someone who has been "blessed" and "commended" by total strangers for the "selfless" act of adopting Tariku. If only they knew.)

Recently, I learned the fate of another one of those babes. Mebret is still there. Caught in a labyrinth of bureaucracy, government agencies and orphanages. His journey has taken an alarming toll on his frail little body. The healthy baby that was referred to a family back on December 8th -- the same day that Tariku was referred to us --is now besieged with a laundry-list of both short and long-term medical issues. He could have been our son. It could have been his photo I memorized on December 8th. And I could be sitting here nine months later contemplating how I could possibly let go.

Unfortunately, I know what I would do. Because we almost did it with Tariku. In late-February, on the verge of defeat, I drafted a letter to our agency requesting that they refer Tariku to a family better equipped to meet his needs. And I asked that they close our file. We did not want another referral. As much as I had wished we'd been referred Tamrat, Mebret, Kenenisa, Girma or Abinet, I no longer coveted them. I wanted Tariku. And only Tariku. I never sent the letter. Instead, I sent Steven to Ethiopia to check on our son. And to move heaven and earth to get him the medical intervention and one/one care he so obviously needed.

Kenenisa is so clearly Julia's babe. But, he could have been mine. And Tariku could have been hers. Or Tamrat could have been hers and Girma mine. I have often pondered when Tariku became my son. It was not when we received his referral. It was when we tried to give it back.

(*Names were changed to protect privacy.)

Of Mice and Men

2010-08-31T21:16:00.005-04:00

On a much lighter note....

Our home has been transformed into a scene from Wild Kingdom. That is, if you consider mice to be wild animals, as I do. Our kitchen in under construction and my best explanation is that the contractors inadvertently disturbed the long-time home of a very large mouse family.

On our first morning back from our ten-day trip to Michigan, I noticed "evidence" under the crates of food in our make-shift "kitchen" (aka living room). I went straight to the hardware store and bought several packs of the old-fashioned SNAP! mouse traps. That evening, I was relieved to see Steve setting and strategically placing the traps before heading upstairs for bed. During the night, I silently pumped my fist in the air upon hearing not one, but two, of the traps snap shut on the unsuspecting perpetrators.

But, alas, in the morning, although two traps had been triggered and all four of the traps had been licked clean of the creamy peanut-butter bait, there weren't any captured mice. I chastised Steve for his inability to set an effective trap. Didn't he know that he was supposed to massage the peanut butter into a cotton ball, so as to entice the mice to voraciously dig for the yummy goodness?

That night, I took matters into my own hands and set the traps correctly. I slept peacefully knowing that by morning, there would be at least four less mice violating our home. Come morning, Steve scurried downstairs to survey my catch. When I heard him coming back up the stairs, however, I could tell he was not a happy camper. I had neglected to put the cap back on the jar of peanut butter after I had smugly set the traps the night before. So, the little critters went straight to the source. And left their calling card in the jar of peanut butter as further insult.

I had an out. Last week, I left with the kids for another two-week stint in Michigan at my in-laws' house. (Steve stayed behind to work.) I instructed Steve to go all out in his attempt to eradicate the vermin. He has. In the past four days, he has caught TEN mice. TEN!

Are there any logicians or statisticians reading this? If so, please answer this fundamental and very troubling question: If he has caught ten mice in four days, how many has he not caught?

I may never return home.

The crates in our makeshift kitchen.

Double Whammy

2010-08-30T22:07:00.020-04:00

Attachment and race. The two biggies in the universe of international adoption.

In my last post, I confessed to pretty much botching the whole attachment thing. But, writing about it caused me to pay more attention to it. (FYI: Tariku must know how to find and read my blog, because he warmed up to it as well.) And when I started paying more attention, I noticed that things were not nearly as bad as I represented.

Yes, Tariku undoubtedly shows a strong preference for Steve -- but when Steve is not around, there is no question that I am his one and only. He makes certain I am paying attention when he is pleased with himself (like when he crawled over the step into Grammy's dining room) -- and makes sure I'm looking when he deliberately does something naughty (like throwing spoonfuls of freshly mashed squash on the freshly bathed dog). He buries his head in my neck when approached by strangers, and will hold on dearly when someone unfamiliar gets too friendly. He smiles at my smiles, and finds my laugh contagious. In turn, I make sure he is paying attention when I notice something pleasing to him (like the flock of birds flying in formation), and make sure he knows I'm looking when he does something naughty (like biting Sylvie). I bury his head in my neck when I sense he is uncomfortable, and hold on dearly when someone unfamiliar gets too friendly. I smile at his smiles, and I find his laugh contagious.

I know I tend to confuse bonding with attachment. But, I am fairly certain that at some point the lines blur and what was once mere bonding becomes the foundation for a strong attachment.

Once I convinced myself that all was not totally lost on the attachment front, I started thinking more seriously about race. Another one of those ginormous issues that I did not have to think about (directly) with my other kiddos. As I've posted before, I love to read. But, experience has taught me that it is not possible to parent a child based on what you learn from a parenting manual -- no matter how well-written. Real life is never as cut and dry as the neat little anecdotes used by well-meaning supermoms and over-educated PhDs to prove their models sound. That said, I have read and read and read about race. About trans-racial adoption. About talking to our children about race. About raising black children with a healthy self-image. And, I am worried that when it comes to race, I am too dependent on the books. Allowing them to serve as a surrogate for my lack of real experience.

Our neighborhood is white. The public school is very white (and very good -- hence, why we live where we do.) The majority of our friends are white. We have access to diversity -- but not necessarily the diversity I wish to embrace, as it walks hand in hand with severe poverty and all that comes with it. So, I find myself taking deliberate steps to access the kind of diversity I seek. Driving to a playground 25 minutes away, passing by one, two, three perfectly good all-white playgrounds along the way. Specifically selecting activities based on the presence of positive black role models (teachers, coaches, and leaders) and other black kids. Reaching out to complete strangers in the ET adoption community.

And I'm left wondering if it is too deliberate? I would never want someone to think I sought their friendship solely because they were black. Or had a black child. But, isn't that what I am doing (at least initially) in trying to create a community where all of my children see themselves in the faces of our/their friends?

Is there such a thing as being too deliberate?

(In re-reading this post a day later, I feel the need to clarify. I would never be friends with someone based solely on the color of their skin. That would be insane. I have, however, taken very deliberate steps to place myself and my family in environments where we have the opportunity (and access) to develop friendships with more diverse folks. Does that make sense?)

Square One

2010-08-21T20:37:00.006-04:00

I said to Steve, "I don't think he likes me." Steve brushed it aside.

But, a few days later, Steve said to me half-jokingly, "Are you mean to him or something?"

He noticed it too.

There is a significant discrepancy in the way Tariku reacts to me, as opposed to Steve. I have to work to earn his smiles and giggles. Whereas with Steve, he can't suppress his belly laughs. When Steve walks into the room, Tariku will contort to greet him with waves, smiles, and glorious chants of "hi, Daddy." When I walk into the room, there is silence. At most, he will flash a half-hearted smile. He hasn't even learned to say "mama." (To be fair, I think he calls me "Ah-mmm.")

It hurts my feelings. I know that is a childish thing to say. But, I spend every waking moment trying to earn his trust and love. Perhaps, I am trying too hard. Being a parent is hard work. Parenting a child by adoption is even harder. With Benj, Ellie and Sylvie, I never once thought that I had to earn their trust or love. I just assumed (correctly or incorrectly) that I had it. But, with Tariku, I feel like I am constantly trying to prove to him that I love him. That I will protect him. That I will always be his mother. And, I think being conscious of this alters my style of parenting -- and not always for the better.

I have spent so much time and energy since Tariku's homecoming focusing on his physical and developmental milestones. His diagnosis of "low-tone," without a firm prognosis, became my obstacle to overcome. I needed to see him reach his milestones, so that I could be at ease. And, when I wasn't obsessing over his developmental milestones, I was fretting over whether he was displaying atypical behaviors (i.e head-rolling). I just took it for granted that his emotional development and attachment were progressing smoothly. It wasn't until I was at ease with the other "stuff," that I noticed that I had taken a back-seat on the attachment leg of our journey.

I now worry that my eagerness to push him towards his milestones deprived him of the regression he may have needed/still needs to form a secure attachment. So, back to square one. I am dusting off those books I read while we were waiting for a referral and refocusing my energy on building a strong attachment, rather than a strong little body! (I must say, though, that Tariku's physical transformation has been nothing short of miraculous. The little boy who Steve met in Ethiopia in February who could only hold his head up for mere seconds is now crawling all over the house on all fours!)

The Good. The Bad. And The Very Ugly.

2010-08-16T11:32:00.019-04:00

In the past ten days...

We have had much GOOD:

We (Steve) drove through the night to Steve's parents' house in Michigan. All four kids slept the majority of the 10 hour drive, and I managed to stay awake to keep Steve company.
Tariku had zero trouble adjusting to Steve's parents' dog, Rusty. So much so, that by the end of the week he had the word "doggie" down pat, and was close to saying "Rusty." (Or so I think.)

Tariku enjoyed his first carousel ride aboard a tiger at the Binder Park Zoo. His choice.

Tariku petted a two-day old calf, and wondered at the enormous mama cows.

Eleanor relished the experience of having a pet. And I enjoyed the fact that it wasn't really hers. (She even found an old book in one of Grammy's drawers and pretended it was a dog-training guide. She followed Rusty around the house attempting to teach him commands from an antique Strunk & White.)

Eleanor confirmed that she is half monkey.

Eleanor's rhinestone headband and floor-length fuchsia dress did not hinder her devotion to the cows at the dairy farm.

(Should I be concerned that all of the "GOOD" thus far involves animals????????? This is odd. I hadn't noticed until I started typing.)
Eleanor picked up where she left off with some old friends and donned some interesting garb (even for Ellie) while putting on a performance of Under the Sea and Tiny Dancer for an audience of one.

Eleanor managed to turn the Ross Business School at UofM into a very expensive playground.

Benjamin and Steve toured the new football stadium at the University of Michigan. It was a very private tour.

Benjamin survived his first tennis lesson. He is already better than his mama. A lot better. Sports that require hand/eye coordination are not my strength. Understatement.
Benjamin jumped off the dock on Goguac Lake and swam all the way to the swimming raft. He interrupted schools of small fish and obscenely large carp.

Benj overcame his initial trepidation and learned to wake board. He was even willing to float alone in 100ft water while we circled around to hand him the rope. I think I need to stop representing Benj as cautious. He's picked up a ton of confidence somewhere along the way -- I need to start noticing.

Sylvie spent quite a bit of time on the potty. And without much prompting. Perhaps I will only have one child in diapers by the end of the summer.

Sylvie frolicked on the beach and tried to keep up with Benj and Ellie in the lake. She didn't make it very far. But, she wore her very stylish life-vest just in case she had a wild hair...

Sylvie kept Doggie and Uh-Oh under wraps and did not misplace them even once over the course of our trip.

Sylvie fell asleep without mama "watching" her. Progress. But, she checked in several times each night to make sure I was still asleep across the room.

Steve and I found a very cool "accessory" for our new kitchen -- an antique coffee grinder. I plan to put it right next to the Keurig.

Some BAD:

The mosquitoes feasted on Benj's and Sylvie's faces. FEASTED. Sylvie was transformed from this...

To this...

This is all the "progress" that has been made to our kitchen during the ten days we were away.

I missed the tour of the stadium. And all of Ann Arbor. I had such grand plans. So much for Mongolian BBQ, Blue Nile, and the wave sculpture garden.
Tariku didn't have a BM for four whole days.
Ellie thought it made sense to jump from a styrofoam raft to the metal dock. She missed. She needed stitches. But, didn't get any. You know what they say about the cobbler's kids...
Sylvie chose inopportune times to go "boneless."
We returned home to 94 degree heat and a busted AC unit.
Steve got glasses and grew a mustache.

And one VERY, VERY UGLY:

I tripped off the curb in Ann Arbor and have a non-displaced fracture of my cuboid tarsal. (Translation: I broke my friggin foot.)

But, it gave me a very good excuse to stay in my pjs all

day and play cards with the kids on the porch!

Bird

2010-08-04T15:06:00.005-04:00

Tariku's favorite thing in the whole wide world (other than Ellie) is a hand-knit dove in the colors of the Ethiopian flag. Steve bought it on the side of the road in Addis for the equivelant of 25 cents. The "bird," as we creatively refer to it, is perched on top of Steve's late, great-aunt's antique highboy dresser (the study in contrasts is amazing). When I go into Tariku's room in the morning to take him out of his crib, the first thing he does is point to the bird and exclaim eagerly and incessantly "duh, duh, duh" until I hand the bird to him. You're probably thinking that "duh, duh, duh" doesn't sound much like "bird." And that I better get the kid up to speed with some baby sign language. Not so fast.

It hit me one "night" at three in the morning as I lay awake listening to Sylvie cough (that's a post for another day), that I always point to Tariku's bird and say, "bird, bird, bird." Three times. And that in my attempt to speak clearly and deliberately, I somehow manage to turn "bird" into a two syllable word. So, it sounds more like this "birrrr-duh, birrrr-duh, birrrr-duh." See, the kid's a genius. He's mimicking me perfectly (very scary thought), just casually omitting the first "syllable" of the word bird.

Or, perhaps he is just saying duh, duh, duh. Duh.

(This pic was just a place-holder -- but it's too cute to delete!)

Perspective

2010-07-22T19:18:00.005-04:00

Tariku's head rolling scared me. Scared me into paying a little bit more attention. I held him a little longer. I hugged him a little tighter. I sang a little louder. I played a little more enthusiastically. I looked a little more deeply. I let the pile of laundry grow a little bigger. I let the refrigerator get a little emptier. I let the house get a little messier.

And, at some point, I stopped noticing the head rolling.

Instead, I noticed that Tariku has three different smiles. I noticed that his eyelashes on his left eye are longer than on his right. I noticed how he watches me in the rear-view mirror of our mini-van. I noticed that he prefers the wagon to the stroller, so that he can sit facing me while he rolls along (oops. poor choice of words). I noticed the pitch of his giggle when he thinks he is hiding. I noticed how tightly he holds on when he is afraid. I noticed how desperately he searches for me when I am out of sight. I noticed how easily I had forgotten the depths of his loss.

I will never again take him for granted.

I am sure he'll headroll again at some point. Maybe sooner than later. But, instead of pushing the panic button like I did this week, I think I'll just pay a little more attention.

Rolling

2010-07-19T16:44:00.009-04:00

Last week, before all the drama.

Things had been going so well. Too well. I knew the other shoe was bound to drop at some point. Well, it dropped. And, in doing so, it kicked me in the gut.

The head rolling. It's back. It had been gone - COMPLETELY GONE - since the day we brought Tariku home. We have videos of him rolling his head in Ethiopia, and detailed accounts of the behavior in emails from multiple people who witnessed his head rolling in Ethiopia. But, we never saw it once he was home. Never.

Until Sunday. He woke up in the morning and out of nowhere started rolling his head. It wasn't subtle or sporadic. It felt like every time I looked at him he was doing it. So, I avoided looking at him. But, I would still catch glimpses out of the corner of my eye. Or, I would stare at him. Trying to parse meaning from every roll. Was it playful? Was it stressful? Was it due to illness or pain? I don't have the faintest idea.

I wanted to put him down for a nap, wave my magic wand (if only I had one), and have him wake up like he was before, like he had been since the day we brought him home.

Instead, I went back to the internet and re-googled head rolling. Again. Nothing new since my last frenzied search in late-February. Most of the hits suggest that head rolling is benign. It very well may be. But, the videos of Tariku from Ethiopia, although long ago dragged to the trash bin, are not erased from my memory. I can still see him, eyes glazed over, listless, lethargic, and practically motionless, but for the repeated rolling of his head. Back and forth. Back and forth. Over and over and over again. Never mind that he is not the same kid as the boy in those videos. That he has bright eyes, sparkling with mischief. That he is far from listless and lethargic, and chases down physical, social, and developmental milestones like its nobody's business. But, that doesn't alleviate my fear. My very real fear. Of what, I'm not certain. Autism? An underlying medical condition? A cognitive disorder? I can't catalog my fear.

Under different circumstances, we would probably be able to dismiss Tariku's head rolling with a shrug of the shoulder -- as we did Benj's head banging to fall asleep. But, it just seems like so much was linked to Tariku's head rolling in Ethiopia. And we don't have a good explanation as to why it abruptly stopped. Practically cold turkey. And just as suddenly, it has reemerged.

Some moms keep sleep logs. Others keep food logs. I feel like I need a head rolling log. To document whether it is as frequent as I perceive it to be. To see if there is any pattern to it. Does he do it when he is over-stimulated? When he wakes up from sleep? When he is hungry? Constipated? What is the rest of his body doing while his head rolls?

For now, I have settled upon two plausible explanations as to why he is again head rolling. I have no idea whether either is truly the explanation, but both allow me to sleep at night.

The first is over-stimulation. Gym day-care on Thursday morning. Ellie and Ben's camp show on Friday afternoon. Four hour round-trip drive to the Poconos and zero nap on Saturday. Perhaps we over did it. Surely we over did it. Today, I kept things very low-key. Holding him in my arms practically the entire day. And he barely head rolled. Just a few isolated rolls here and there.

The second explanation I've devised is that he has an ear infection. He has been tugging on his right ear sporadically, and I noticed him rubbing the right side of his face against the padded car-seat. And, I think the head rolling decreases after I give him Tylenol. But, he does not have a fever, and does not otherwise appear to be uncomfortable.

I just don't know. And I hate not knowing.

This is a still shot from the head-rolling video that touched off all my fears. It was taken in late-February while Tariku was still at the orphanage in Ethiopia.

Beached

2010-07-12T23:12:00.004-04:00

We need four suitcases. But cram everything into two. Plus the 'pack and play'. Beach towels. Beach blanket. Beach toys. Beach snacks. Two days worth of groceries. Formula. Bottles. Wine.

Going to the beach isn't what it used to be. Or is it?

As a kid, I spent lazy days on the New York beaches with my family. We'd leave our house at the crack of dawn to beat traffic and get a good parking spot -- in the shade, near the bathrooms, and a short walk to the water. My dad always had the cooler and car packed the night before. We'd order turkey subs from the local deli and pick them up on our way out of town. My one and only responsibility was my yellow Walkman and Air Supply cassettes. And, admittedly, on some days even that was asking too much. The batteries would be dead or the headphones busted. (I knew I could always "borrow" my sister's or brother's, so I was never too concerned...)

At the beach, my goal was to lay directly in the sun in my eensy weensy teeny weeny lime green bikini (with extra padding) for an entire cassette uninterrupted, gradually moving my blanket clockwise to remain positioned in the line of fire. I didn't use suntan lotion. My parents thought I did. But, I'd only pretend to put it on. Smoothing my lotionless palms across my hairline and in the creases of my nose for added effect. Or, I'd make an excuse to trek back up to the bathroom to wash it off. The crispier the better. Yet, the back of me remained pasty white all summer.

I grew up.

And my beach experience morphed into something more age-appropriate. When Steve and I lived in New England, we sought out beaches that didn't have parking lots and where we were often the only beachcombers. We'd read books. Finish them. Switch with each other. We'd idle at the water's edge holding hands. Talk. Swim. Take long walks exploring the dunes and archaic stone structures.

We'd avoid the red tide in Newport, eat fresh lobster in Provincetown, fish off Watch Hill, and equate "big waves with big fun" on Horsehead.

Then we had kids.

We leave our house at the crack of dawn to beat traffic and get a good parking spot -- in the shade, near the bathrooms, and a short walk to the water. We pack the cooler and car the night before. I no longer need a Walkman. I am pleasantly occupied (most of the time) by the high-pitched and gleeful voices of my children calling to each other across the sand and water. Sometimes I break out the bikini -- but it is certainly not eensy weensy teeny weeny. I wear suntan lotion. And put it on 3 out of my 4 kids. My tan is very even because I am in constant motion. I idle at the water's edge holding hands. With Benj. With Ellie. With Sylvie. With Tariku. And with Steve. We talk. Swim. Take long walks looking for shells and horseshoe crabs. We explore wooden contraptions better knows as "swingsets." We build castles and dig tunnels and decorate them with the treasures we find.

We avoid jellyfish, eat mint chocolate chip ice-cream, dig for sand crabs, and equate "not-so-big waves with big fun."

Some things never change. Or maybe just ever so slightly.

Tongue-tied

2010-07-11T09:28:00.013-04:00

I am no longer grumpy. Truly. I wrote a cheery post about our overnight trip to the beach, accompanied by photos of exuberant kids splashing in the surf. I intended to edit and post it today. But, I am dwelling on a 15 second conversation between Steve and a two twelve(ish)-year-old boys while rinsing the sand and salt from their bodies under the beach shower-heads.

Steve was holding Tariku and Benj was standing beside them. The twelve-year-old boys were showering under the watchful eye of their grandfather. One of the boys turned to Steve and asked, "is he adopted?" -- while gesturing towards Tariku. Steve replied, "yep." And continued to rinse the sand that Tariku had embedded in every fold and crease of his buddha-esque body (Tariku's ... not Steve's). The twelve-year-old boy wasn't finished. "Are his parents dead?" Another, "yep."

Steve said he thought it was the easiest way to shut him up and end the conversation.

He asked me how I would have responded. After all, I've read all of the books, watched all of the training videos, and have a supportive network of friends in the adoption community. I should know how to handle these precise situations with grace and dignity. I should be adept at turning these moments into "teachable" moments for the inquisitor. Right???

As Benj would say, "au contraire." I only succeed at making these awkward moments that much more uncomfortable. When asked by an obviously caffeine-deprived stranger at Starbucks whether Tariku's parents had died of AIDS, I launched into a soliloquy as to how things are different in Ethiopia and how there are innumerable reasons why parents may be unable to raise their children. When asked by a friend why Tariku's parents couldn't raise him, I mumbled something about privacy and changed the subject. With others, I have attempted humor (defense mechanism?) and not-so-jokingly invoked my fifth amendment rights. These responses do not feel right. To me. And what about to Tariku?

He is obviously still too young to understand the questions. And my responses. But, not for long. What happens when he is Ellie's age and "gets it"? I do not want him to feel any shame. From the questions. From my responses. I cannot control the questions. As long as there are curious and/or ignorant people in the world, the questions are going to come. But, I can nail down my response. I owe it to Tariku to do so. To maneuver these situations nimbly and comfortably, so that he may learn to do the same.

Tariku. His name means "His Story." It is not my story to tell. But, it is my duty to ensure that he can tell His Story with dignity and pride.

On this topic, I really could use some help -- from both my fellow adoptive parents, as well as supporters on the other side of the conversation. What do you suggest?

Grumpy

2010-07-03T20:02:00.013-04:00

Being a mother is my full-time job. And sometimes I stink at it. (I could have used a much more descriptive term, but recognize that this is a family-friendly blog!)

I wake up each morning committed to being more like the mother I intend to be. More patient. More tolerant. More forgiving. More reasonable. More creative. More fun. Instead, by 8am, I usually can not stand the sound of my own voice. My kids are good kids. They really are. But, that does not mean that they don't sometimes drive me batty. Like when Benjamin insists that he can not find his socks. Or when Eleanor complains that there isn't enough milk in her oatmeal. Or when Sylvie decides that Ellie's sunglasses are really "hers." Or when Tariku shrieks because Ellie is crying because Sylvie is screaming that Ellie's sunglasses are "hers." It is only 8:00 in the morning. I have not had time to don my black and white striped cap and drape my whistle around my neck. So, instead of handling the situation like a professional, I find myself yelling, or even worse, pleading with my kids to just work it out. It is pathetic. I am pathetic. I absolutely detest myself when I let myself get to the point of yelling. It irks me all day. And, when I stoop to the level of pleading with them, I am flat out embarrassed.

Sylvie is having sleep issues. To put it mildly. She will not go to sleep. I employed the Ferber "cry it out" method with Benj and Ellie and they are both world-champion sleepers. But, I assumed Sylvie would be our last child and I therefore savored rocking her to sleep. Or, letting her fall asleep cuddled against me in our bed. I told myself I didn't mind going into her room repeatedly to soothe her back to sleep when she awakened during the night. She was my baby. I thought I was being loving. Doting. Attentive. But, in reality, I was depriving Sylvie of developing the skills she needed to fall asleep on her own. I am now paying the price. In millions. At night. And during the day when she is even less flexible than her typical-two-year-old self. (Really brings out the best in me, let me tell ya!)

In order for Sylvie to fall asleep, I need to be in her line of vision "watching her." If I try to tip-toe away before she is in a deep sleep, she will immediately awaken (the ancient A/C clicks on, I step on a creaky floorboard, I bang into the door jam, the phone rings, etc), leap out of her bed, and tear down the hallway shrieking that I'm supposed to be "watching her." This cycle often lasts close to two hours. My back is killing me from sitting on her floor. Precious seconds, minutes, hours tick away. Time when I could be doing something productive around the house. Or talking to my husband. Or reading the newspaper. Or watching Entourage! Instead, I am just sitting there. Glaring at her. Willing her to sleep. (Julie, is this when I summon help from above?!)

Dangerously replaying the day in my mind.

It is not a match I can win. Guilt creeps up on me. Like a boxer sizing up his opponent. Hitting slowly at first. Its jabs easily pushed aside. But, then it goes for the jugular. Beating me down until I crumble on the mat in a heap of mediocrity. A voice within me roars. ONE! Guilty that I lost my cool over a pair of socks. TWO! Guilty that my plans to be more patient, forgiving, encouraging, etc. were destroyed before the opening bell had even rung. THREE! Guilty that Tariku hears me yelling and watches me come undone (the kid doesn't miss a trick). FOUR! Guilty that he withdraws after one of these episodes. FIVE! Guilty that I don't spend more time alone with him working on the fundamentals of attachment. SIX! Guilty that I don't spend more time alone with the other kids, giving them each "special time." SEVEN! Guilty that I view Benj and Ellie's hours at camp as a reprieve. EIGHT! Guilty that I want to pin Sylvie to her bed and not let go until she falls asleep. NINE! Guilty that I look forward to when they are all finally asleep so that I can have some time alone. TEN! Guilty that I am writing this post, instead of rambling about Ellie's lost tooth, Sylvie's use of the potty, Tariku's successful scooting, and Benj's completion of Diary of a Worm. I am down for the count.

Aching. And defeated by GUILT.

Tomorrow is another day. (In the meantime, I'm heading downstairs for another handful of Nestle semisweet chocolate morsels.)

Got Milk?

2010-07-01T17:21:00.004-04:00

Actually, more like coconut, mixed-berry smoothie.

Selfish

2010-06-28T13:15:00.019-04:00

Sylvie's new thing is to proclaim each and every thing as "mine." I have tried every which way to gently encourage her to use the word "ours," when she feels the need to assert her possessiveness. No go. So... I'm throwing in the towel for a quick post and jumping on Sylvie's bandwagon to proclaim these four curious, silly, exhausting, mischievous, courageous, spontaneous, and beautiful kiddos as "mine, mine, mine, mine!"

Here they are in all their splendid glory:

It's kind of funny to see "Gentle Ben" aiming a water gun. The kid was in all his glory. There was a staged "pirate ship" docked at the Hyatt and Steve and Ben used kayaks to launch a sneak attack. If you look closely, you can see that under the tough-guy facade, Benj is clutching his much-loved Rabbit.

At Benj's kindergarten graduation, Ellie was given the tinseled "boa" by one of her afternoon teachers -- who obviously knows her oh-so-well. Ellie, apparently, thought the boa was the perfect complement to her "yachting attire." After spending each day frolicking in the pool and devising creative positions in which to go down the water-slide, Ellie would retire to her chambers, change into her "party dress," accessorize with her tinseled "boa," and clip the over-sized "iris" into her hair. The fact that we weren't leaving the boat was irrelevant.

It was really, really hot. Sylvie was tired and hungry. The staff at the Hyatt had just started a game of limbo for the kids. Ellie was the first in line ... so Sylvie had no choice but to put on a brave smile and follow closely behind. She lasted all of two rounds. Even the purple lei didn't life her spirits. I desperately wanted to get her back to the boat to eat and rest, but I was reluctant to disrupt Ellie's performance. I finally tracked down Steve and we did a "hand-off" -- I took Sylvie back to the boat, while Steve watched Ellie contort under the pole...

It took four kids and a trip half-way around the world for it to happen. Steve is finally the favored parent. Tariku thinks Steve framed the sun and hung the moon. I had been taking pictures of Tariku all morning and he wanted no part of it. We were about to head home and decided to sit on a bench in the shade for a few minutes to cool off. Steve grabbed the camera and walked behind the bench. Tariku borrowed some of Ellie's limbo moves and contorted to face Steve. With a little assistance, he pushed up to standing and voila! He put on a show... For the record, Steve is not a skilled photographer (nor am I), Tariku's eyes just really do sparkle like that!

Tradition

2010-06-24T11:47:00.014-04:00

A while back, before the days of Kindle, my dad requested that we give him books for Father's Day. My sister, brother, and I (as well as our spouses) were each to select a book that we enjoyed ... errrrr, that we thought our dad would enjoy. This was my not-so-clever way to get my dad to read books that were important to me. I doubt he expected to be reading books about children orphaned by AIDS in Ethiopia or the eradication of TB in remote parts of Haiti. But, he did. And, I dare say, I think he may actually have enjoyed a few!

Around the same time, I decided that books would be the perfect gift for Steve for Father's Day, as well.

We typically use the public library. Yep, we are the dorks who sit down with our library cards and annotated book list and request books from the local library system. We only buy books that are "keepers." "Keepers" are generally books that both Steve and I read, continue to reference, and hope to share with our kids someday. If I am reading a book from the library which I deem a "keeper," I'll often be the first customer in-line at the bookstore the very next day. This way Steve and I can read the book simultaneously. (I already conceded that we are dorks. See above.) Steve and I usually agree which books are "keepers" -- Harry Potter notwithstanding. We both express a strong preference for non-fiction and historical fiction -- books that feed our imagination and allow us to walk somewhere else in someone else's shoes, if only for a few days.

I digress. The books Steve receives for Father's Day are not the books I describe above. On Father's Day, he receives children's books.

Benj, Ellie, Sylvie, and Tariku each choose a book they want Steve -- and only Steve -- to read to them. I try not to guide their hands (with the exception of Tariku's). Benj and Ellie each choose a stack, more like a mound, of books to select from. I have to read each. and. every. one. before they make a decision. It is quite amusing to see what they ultimately select ... and to hear their explanation as to WHY! For example, last year, Ellie selected It's the Best Day Ever, Dad. Of course she did. In this book, two sisters, their dad, and their dog make funny-shaped pancakes, go to a dog park, eat pink ice-cream, watch a movie, play dress-up, and have a tea-party. It could have been written about Ellie. This year, she chose I Want a Dog. And she does. Very, very badly. Benj chose You Can Do Anything, Daddy because he truly believes Steve can. Sylvie has chosen Knuffle Bunny two years in a row. She thinks that Knuffle Bunny is her beloved Doggie -- and I'm not about to tell her otherwise. She is two. She has a temper. For Tariku, I chose On the Night You Were Born. It begins:

On the night you were born,

the moon smiled with such wonder

that the stars peeked in to see you

and the night wind whispered,

"Life will never be the same."

In the front cover of each book, I inscribe a little "poem" or "love letter" including special details of time spent between Steve and each of Benj/Ellie/Sylvie/Tariku over the past year. I also include a photograph of the two of them together. It is like a time capsule to go back and read the inscriptions -- especially because I did not have a blog back then! Here are some of my favorite lines from years past:

There once was a girl named Eleanor

Whose temper could rival a dinosaur's

(Ellie was in the throes of "terrible twos.")

When we're beat and all the games have been played,

We head inside for some Gatorade.

(Benj had been begging to taste Gatorade for eons -

after he'd played basketball outside with Steve for hours in 90 degree heat, we gave him a sip)

Everyone says she looks just like you,

Long lashes, big eyes and chubby cheeks, too!

(Sylvie is Steve's clone)

And, finally, from this year:

You came to Ethiopia to make sure I was okay,

I showed you my moves and invited you to play.

I knew then and there that you were the one,

That together we'd have a lifetime of fun.

(With Tariku, Steve finally gets the chance to be the "favorite" parent!)

Disclaimer: It was A LOT easier to write clever poems when there were only two kiddos and two books!

Benj and Steve 2007

Sylvia and Steve 2008

Eleanor and Steve 2009

Tariku and Steve 2010

Creativity

2010-06-16T21:49:00.005-04:00

While I was doing this:

Sylvia did that:

Do you think she's trying to tell me something?

Oops

2010-06-14T21:37:00.004-04:00

At first, I was offended. Then, I was merely frustrated. Now, I laugh.

Here are some of my favorite mis-pronunciations of "Tariku." I am not making any of these up. I swear.

TAIR-ih-koo (perhaps south of the Mason-Dixon Line?)

Tuh-REE-koo (maybe in Japan?)

TAIR-uh-boo (Happy Halloween?)

TAR-uh-cue (rhymes with barbecue)

Tah-coo (this is Sylvie's pronunciation - it IS actually very cute)

TAR-uh-cow (moo, moo)

George

The first of many...

2010-06-14T16:29:00.007-04:00

Kindergarten graduation from W.

Benj started at W when he was just shy of thee years old. It is a neighborhood school, based primarily on the Montessori model. I recall how nervous I was when we interviewed for a spot at W. Interview!?! For pre-school? This isn't New York City... I "practiced" doing puzzles with Benj and made sure he knew all of his farm, forest and jungle animals, as well as the days of the week.... Someone should have intervened. Taken me by the shoulders and shaken me. I quickly realized that W was NOT that type of school. The "interview" was merely an opportunity for the Director to meet the prospective student and determine which classroom/teachers would best complement his or her personality.

Benj was placed in Classroom 3. He was the second youngest kid in the class. Since W uses a Montessori model, the ages are mixed -- ages 2.9 -5.0 yrs are all in class together. I was a bit skeptical. I worried that Benj would get lost in the shuffle. That he would be too timid to participate. That he would be intimidated by the older kids. That he would be embarrassed to ask to use the bathroom.

Well, he was not lost in the shuffle. Yes, it took him a few weeks to find his wings, but he has soared ever since. He was more than willing to participate, and eventually lead. He was not intimidated by the older kids -- in fact, several of the boys a grade ahead of him remain his closest friends. And he was not embarrassed to ask to use the bathroom -- he just would not go alone!

Benj remained in Classroom 3 for three years. Benj thrives on consistency and routine, and the comfort of his classroom, teachers and peer group allowed him to take greater risks and explore the outer boundaries of his comfort zone. He was willing to walk to the bathroom by himself. He started a journal. He painstakingly sounded his way through Bob books. He looked up to the older kindergarten kids, and welcomed with kindness and patience the young three-year-olds.

This year, Benj started Kindergarten at our local public school. Since the public school only offers a half-day kindergarten option, he rode the bus from the public school to W each afternoon for Afternoon Kindergarten at W. He was no longer in pre-school. He was no longer in Classroom 3. He did not have the same teachers. Change. Benj does not do well with change.

I should not have worried. Yes, Benj learned to read. And, he learned to write. But, he also learned to relax. To laugh at himself. That it is okay to make mistakes. That it is okay to not know. His confidence blossomed -- as did his sense of humor. He found his voice. And it was heard. On the soccer field, on the bus, on the playground, at the lunch table, in the classroom.

Next year, Benj will start first grade at the local public school. No more W. At W graduation last week, the Director described Benj as "kind, eager to learn, and a friend to one and all." It is why she is so good at what she does, and why W is such a special school -- she knows, and I mean really knows, each and every one of her students. And she makes sure they know that each and every day.

I think the refreshments were their favorite part of graduation!

The crew.

Benj and G were the two youngest in Classroom 3 when they started together almost 4 years ago!

Falling.

2010-06-08T09:40:00.007-04:00

Newton's law of universal gravitation states that every massive particle in the universe attracts every other massive particle with a force which is directly proportional to the product of their masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them.

Gravity.

Tariku is attempting to defy it. I am quite certain that Tariku's experiments with blueberries closely resemble those performed by Sir Isaac and his beloved apple.

Tariku's highchair is really a booster seat that clips on to our kitchen island. There is no tray. Instead, we place Tariku's food on the counter in front of him. He has gotten pretty good at using the 'pincer grasp' to feed himself cheerios, puffs and other bite-sized foods. His favorite, though, are blueberries.

Usually, Tariku savors each blueberry. Picking it up. Rolling it between his fingers. Bringing it to his lips. Grinding out the juice. Sucking in the shriveled fruit. Lately, he has found that blueberries are good for something besides eating. Falling.

I don't mean throwing. Or tossing. Or just making a mess. Nope. Quite the opposite. Tariku LOVES to watch the blueberries FALL. He picks up a solitary blueberry. Turns his head and torso to the left in his chair. Extends his neck so that he can see over the side of his chair. Lifts his arm over his head and drops the blueberry. Watching. Watching. Watching. His eyes widening as the blueberry nears the ground. Plop. Satisfied with himself, he picks up the next blueberry ... and pops it in his mouth!

No longer a stranger.

2010-06-03T20:43:00.006-04:00

Apples or bananas. Ergo carrier or stroller. Lullabies or rock-and-roll. Light on or off. Blanket or pillow. Dr. Seuss or Benjamin Bunny. Blocks or balls.

One month, three weeks and three days ago, I didn't have the first clue as to what made Tariku tick. What caused his eyes to dance with delight. What led him to flap his arms in distress.

He was as much a stranger to me, as I was to him.

As of next week, Tariku will have been home for two months. And, I think that maybe, just maybe, I am starting to figure him out.

He absolutely LOVES:

pulling bows out of Sylvie's hair (he throws his head back and just bellows)
sneaking Sylvie's binky into his mouth (with the most mischievous grin overtaking his face)
waking up to Benj, Ellie and Sylvie piled into his crib (the more the merrier)
having his finger/toenails clipped outside on the patio (I've relinquished this task to Steven)
getting his hands and feet massaged with shea butter (especially when I interlace my fingers with his and rub the inner webs of his fingers)
bath time with his brother and sisters (I think he would climb into the tub by himself if he could)
crinkling the blue plastic bags in which I dispose of his diapers
destroying the white paper on the examining table at the doctor's office (reduced to shreds)
clapping hands (he is quite proud of himself quite often)
rocking to Row, Row, Row Your Boat (no more head lag)
having me blow on his face (he crinkles his eyes and purrs)
mimicking (with his mouth, tongue, arms, hands, etc!)
having his inner thighs tickled (to the point of hiccuping)
black olives (??)
dark meat chicken (especially drumsticks)
lentils and red beans (nature)
chocolate-covered oreos (nurture)
Ellie's and Sylvie's sparkly shoes (they ARE rather mesmerizing)
big round rubber balls (they apparently taste good, as well)
standing up at his bookcase (holding on) and tossing all of the books to the floor
feeling the pages (using his index finger) in his Usborne 'touchy feely books'
sticking his fingers in the holes of his mini-puppet books
being held upside down on my lap (waiting for me to blow on his neck/face)
wading/splashing in the pool (this is also good for his "low-tone")
balloons and bubbles (what kid doesn't like these things?)
straws (pulling them out of my iced coffee and dripping the contents all over both of us)
riding in the "red race car" cart alongside Sylvie at the grocery store
sitting in the grass (watching the clouds move and the trees sway)
waving (bye-bye) (or hello) (or sometimes just to show off)
pulling my glasses off my face (this is especially fun in the middle of the night when I can't see a dang thing)

He absolutely LOATHES:

having his diaper changed (I should be the one complaining)
getting his face lotioned (but he smells SO good afterwards)
brussel sprouts (he liked the black olives, so I thought maybe...)
the "stay and play" option at my gym (too much like the orphanage?)
when Sylvie cries (he becomes VERY distressed - shrieking, arms flapping - which only causes her to cry louder)
pureed baby food (or anything that comes neatly and conveniently packaged in a plastic container) (yogurt is also on his "no" list)
having his blood drawn (we've muddled through twice -- still missing a couple of labs --they'll remain missing for a WHILE)
being left alone (he starts whining as soon as he realizes he is alone -- which is not often!)
large crowds of people (old habits rear their ugly head when he gets overwhelmed)
cuddling in my bed (he'll play for a while, but will not lay down and cuddle)

He is no longer a stranger.

Typical.

2010-06-02T21:26:00.004-04:00

It was dinner time. I couldn't find a bib. All of the kids wanted to eat NOW. I stripped off Tariku's shirt. Figured he was going to have a bath after dinner anyway. Of course, after I prepared his meal -- he preferred to gnaw on the paper cup. Based on the leftovers that remained on Ben's, Ellie's, and Sylvie's plates, I think they would have preferred the paper cup as well. (Those of you who have tried my cooking, do not come to their defense!)

But, tell me, how could I possibly stay mad at this face!

Strawberry Saturday

2010-05-29T21:07:00.010-04:00

We picked ten pounds of strawberries. Tariku ate another pound, at least, out in the patch. Stems and all. He didn't seem to mind. Love this kid.

LUCKY? (Day 5 will have to wait)

2010-05-24T16:07:00.008-04:00

Wishing upon a dandelion.

I am jumping WAY up on to my soapbox. Indulge me. Or stop reading now. I just need to set the record straight about something that is really starting to irk me.

"What a lucky little boy."

I must hear this statement at least four times a day. At the supermarket, post office, library, bookstore, cafe. From complete strangers. Casual acquaintances. Close friends. I know that most of these people truly mean well, and their intent is not to offend. But I am starting to get offended. It is just too simple. Too neat. And it minimizes all that he has survived, and all that lies ahead.

Lucky? Lucky.

Lucky to have been born on a continent terrorized by war, corruption and greed?

Lucky to have been born in a country where 25,000 women and girls die each year due to pregnancy-related complications?

Lucky to have been born in a country where more than half the population has ZERO access to basic medical care?

Lucky to have been born in a region reliant upon rainfall and devastated by drought?

Lucky to have been born to a family who could only offer him their love?

Lucky to have been born to a family who recognized that love alone could not keep him alive?

Lucky to have been brought to an orphanage at three months old?

Lucky to have been in an orphanage for over five months?

Lucky to have been in a room with at least eight other needy babies at any given time?

Lucky to have been taken outside for "fresh air" once a day (week?) into a concrete courtyard?

Lucky to have been held for feedings... and sometimes only for feedings?

Lucky to have been in a Bumbo chair instead of a mother's arms?

Lucky to have been taken by complete strangers to another continent 7000 miles away?

Lucky to have been physically removed from his people, culture, history, language, customs?

Obviously, he did not feel lucky. He rolled his head from side to side to soothe himself. Sucked his thumb to soothe himself. Stuck out his tongue and clapped his hands to stimulate himself. Himself. He was not "lucky" enough to have someone soothe him. He was not "lucky" enough to have someone stimulate him. He was not "lucky" enough to have someone rock him to sleep. Read him a story. Comfort him when he cried.

Perhaps at this precise moment as he is tasting his very first rainbow-sprinkled-chocolate- frosted donut, he is "lucky." BUT, he first had to be VERY unlucky to have ever gotten to this point. And it's going to take a lot of work (not luck) on his part (and ours) to make up for all that bad luck...

Wordless (aka Lazy) Wednesday

2010-05-19T21:56:00.002-04:00

More of Day 4 and other things I've forgotten to mention along the way...

2010-05-18T21:10:00.007-04:00

I totally neglected to mention our escapades at Addis Ababa University in my discussion of Day 4. It is worth discussing, if only to memorialize our "American-ness."

Since (at that point) we hadn't been able to find an Ethiopian soccer jersey for Benj, we decided to change gears and get him an Addis Ababa University t-shirt. After all, he loves to say "Addis Blah -blah-blah" and elects to wear his University of Michigan t-shirts every.single.day. Makes sense right?? I think the sun must have been getting to us. After all, we had walked to AAU from Shoromeda, where we purchased traditional Sidama outfits for Tariku. We did stop for a soda along the way and 'enjoyed' being chased down the street after we walked off with the glass bottle. Like we weren't enough of a spectacle already! Who knew we were supposed to chug the pop and leave the bottle?

I took this pic as we were chugging our Pepsi.

Well, you know what they say about the best laid plans... First, we walked in the "exit" to the campus and got hissed at by passersby. Apparently, the entrance should have been more obvious to us. Next, we stopped the first white person (assumed fluent English-speaker) we encountered to inquire as to whether there was a campus store where we would be able to purchase an AAU t-shirt. We quickly realized our two mistakes: First, the vast majority of people on campus are fluent English speakers because all post-secondary education is taught in English. Second, a campus store!?!?!?!?! Where did we think we were -- Oxford?!

The kind woman (an ex-pat journalism professor) who was the unlucky recipient of our naive questions managed to contain her smirk -- and invited us to join her for lunch (so as to educate a pair of ignorant Americans!) I think she was mortified to learn that we actually shared her alma mater - Go Blue!!! She took us to an Ethiopian restaurant just across the street from the university's campus (in Karl Marx Park) that I will dream about for years to come. It was a real student spot. We were the only "ferenge." There was an outside sink behind the restaurant where we washed our hands with a communal bar of soap. We ordered the vegetarian sampler. It was perfect. Warm, tasty, rich and messy. There were no napkins. And the macchiatos will likely be the best I ever consume. Our total bill (for the three of us) equated to $7.00.

After lunch, we headed back to campus to find a bathroom. We were directed into the campus museum and up several flights of stairs. There was a sign indicating a bathroom. But, forgive me, it was not a bathroom. It was a dark hole in the floor of an exposed closet. I was wearing a long skirt. I decided that I did not have to go that badly!!! Steve called me a dork. I think he could have come up with a lot worse!

I can't for the life of me remember when we went, but at some point we visited the ALERT Leprosy Hospital. It is one of the few places in Addis where we could bring Tariku and we had heard positive things about its gift shop -- where all the merchandise is made by patients in the complex. I am not sure where the miscommunication occurred, but for some reason the Director of the Hospital thought we were affiliated with an organization that wanted to assist with funding the Hospital. This led to us being escorted into the Director's office to learn more about the Hospital's mission. After about thirty minutes, Tariku wanted out. (So did Steve.) I was intrigued by the statistics the Director was citing and anxious to tour the facility. It was quite a place. A reality check. Thirty new leprosy patients are admitted EACH DAY. Men. Women. Children. Makes me feel like quite the ugly American for fussing about the toilet.

(FYI - Only 100 cases of leprosy are identified each year in the United States. And these are easily treated with antibiotics.)

Our walk from Shoromeda to Addis Ababa University to the Sheraton.

Eleven Reasons Why I Am Not Winning Any Awards This Mother's Day!

2010-05-09T16:37:00.008-04:00

Letting Ellie go head-first down the slide didn't even make the list...

1) Last week, I accidentally tossed one of Tariku's diarrhea saturated outfits into the washing machine without rinsing it -- along with three days' worth of Ben's, Ellie's and Sylvie's clothing. I finally had a free fifteen minutes to fold laundry ... and EVERYTHING was caked with cooked sh-t. Literally. Including my brand new washing machine and dryer. I welled up with tears. And spent the next thirty minutes sterilizing the machines. Needless to say, all of the clothing needed to be re-washed. Zero accomplished. Moving in the wrong direction. Steve doesn't know about this. I'm testing him to see if he REALLY reads my blog....

2) I asked Benj to squish the ants that appeared within seconds on the playroom floor after I spilled the contents of Tariku's bib. I hate bugs. I hate cleaning.

The bibs get quite messy.

3) I propped up T's bottle on a wicker basket, so I could make the other kiddos breakfast and pack their lunches for school. I needed two hands -- and the Ergo carrier was in the car.

4) I left Sylvie's beloved "doggie" in the bookstore. We had spent thirty minutes reading books together. All was going well. But, I had both Sylvie and Tariku "unrestrained" - no stroller or Ergo for either kid. Tariku got fussy and wiggly and Sylvie did not want to leave the store. It took all of my energy to get both of them out of the store and safely into the car -- but I forgot the friggin' stuffed doggie! Had to go back inside... All three of us! And the children's section is upstairs.

Sylvie's doggie goes everywhere with her!

5) Sylvie sleeps in her shoes. I pick my battles. (As I write this, I'm rethinking my decision not to fight this one....)

6) Ben lost another tooth on Friday. The tooth fairy didn't come. She was either sound asleep, laying in bed with Sylvie and her shoes, or feeding T. (She came on Saturday - despite the power outage.)

Checking out Ben's missing tooth!

7) Tariku has already been to McDonalds and Starbucks.

8) I haven't shaved my legs in a week. (Not really on point, but still shameful!)

9) I ask my kids whether they want chocolate milk in the morning, just so I have an excuse to pour myself a glass. A very large glass.

10) My ONLY time alone with Tariku is when I feed him a bottle in the middle-of-the-night.

11) I let Sylvie put bows in Tariku's hair.

So, come on all of you moms out there ... leave me a comment confessing your dirtiest secrets! I can't really be alone in my misdeeds, can I????

Day 4: Not My Story to Tell

2010-05-05T20:09:00.011-04:00

"This is not to say that everything about adoption is wrong, but everything about adoption is painful. For our modern, legal concept of adoption to exist, families must be broken. Adoption is not, and can never be, a best-case scenario. It relies upon the worst-case scenario having already come to fruition. Yes, there are adoptions that go right and adoptions that go wrong. But the truth is, behind every adoption is a family that went wrong. Behind every adoption is a tragedy so horrific that it should not have existed. Every adoption that occurs is a black mark on the humanity of the rest of us, because every adoption represents parents who were unable to acquire the assistance, resources, or community necessary to raise their children or plan their families." (I read this on another blog and thought it was an appropriate introduction to today's post.)
Day 4. This was the day I had been waiting for. In my mind, I had played our meeting out a thousand different ways. I wish I could share more about the experience of meeting Tariku's relatives, but that privilege is exlcusively his. It is his story to tell, in his time. I will say that I spent a morning with two extraordinary men, who traveled by bus eight hours in each direction to say goodbye. Two brothers, coffee farmers from Sidama, whose love and courage gifted us our son. For Tariku, I hope I am able to do justice to their story, to his story, and to their unselfish love for him. When the time is right.

This is a short video clip of Tariku with his relatives. I hope it brings him the same joy later in life as it did at that moment...