SwensenSays

The Runaway Mothers Club--Epilogue

2012-02-10T12:19:00.008-07:00

Two years ago I wrote a post about a dear friend who was my inspiration for a "runaway mother's club." That precious friend, Kim Walton, no longer needs to run away. Yesterday she left us for another place. Huntington's Disease won't have Kim to kick around anymore. I am happy she is released--but there is a whole in my heart. I will miss her terribly.

I will not say Rest in Peace to someone who so longed to move again. Instead I say, "Kim, walk, and run and play and do a back handspring in peace! And be you again--the whole, amazing you." I love you.

The Second Week of January, 2012

2012-01-14T22:04:00.001-07:00

As far as I'm concerned, this week can just be erased from the history books.

3 different situations with 3 different kids = 1 no good, very bad week.

Parenting is agony sometimes. We went to see We Bought A Zoo tonight and I could hardly handle it--cried hard through much of it. That is, when I wasn't outside with the baby.

Ah, gees. Tomorrow is another day, and another week. Thank goodness.

Sent from my iPhone

Reflecting on our Second Year

2012-01-04T11:01:00.000-07:00

A couple of nights ago I was looking back through my journal entries of the past couple of years. It hit me that, unlike what I would have expected, the second year of our adoption was much harder than the first. In fact, I think that's probably why I blogged so much less. The first was plenty hard, as you all know. But it was a different hard, and somehow one that was easier talk about and in many ways easier to bear. It was a hard full of giardia, poop samples, medical frustrations, language frustrations, legendary tantrums, and constant adjustment. But I felt like a superhuman mom-archaeologist on the dig of a lifetime, who just had to keep pushing through to discover something wonderful.

This second year, it was like I was still on the same dig, swollen with bug bites, tired, slogging through mud, mud and more mud, and still not reaching the buried treasure. And I was no longer high on the excitement of my big dig. I needed results to keep my going--and I wasn't getting them. Last year the hard wasn't about intestinal bugs. The hard was feeling frustrated all the time--losing patience, losing hope some days, and losing my cool a lot. It was about feeling like a bad mom--feeling guilty all the time--and wondering why the good feelings weren't coming along to balance out the bad as fast as they needed to.

This is something hard to talk about, or blog about. It's something, frankly, that most people don't want to hear about. They don't want to believe it.

But now that we've begun year three, I'm optimistic. I feel like we're close to discovering the good stuff. It's just hard to hang in there for so long. But we are hanging in, and we will keep hanging in.

Look at Me, So You Can Feel Better About Your Post-Holiday Self

2012-01-02T22:43:00.005-07:00

I think it's safe to say my house is as messy tonight as it's ever been in its entire life--or at least in it's entire life under my jurisdiction. These are the rooms I see ranking an absolute 10 on the disaster scale: KITCHEN, FAMILY ROOM, MY BEDROOM, LAUNDRY ROOM, and HALL. The rest may only rank as messy, but if those key rooms are that bad who can cheer themselves up about the rest, right? Having lived in many apartments in my life, I call the kitchen, family room, and my bedroom "the apartment." I've learned that if the apartment--where I spend the bulk of my time--is messy, I feel pretty bummed about the whole house. SOOOO, do you think I spent the day cleaning my house? NOPE! Steve and I spent the last day of the holiday cleaning out the shop on our back patio. Why? Because that's what we do. Projects. Too Many Projects!

BUT,

Tomorrow I'll have everything I need: kids back in school, a new book to listen to from the audible.com account I got for Christmas, and I am off to the races. I am a cleaning machine! I will clean, the whole world will look brighter, and I might even let you in this time if you ring my doorbell.

So please take this opportunity to feel better about yourself by comparing you to me: today you were a better housekeeper than Emily. I know, they say not to compare yourself to others to build yourself up--but I'm giving you my permission to step on me on your way up the ladder to self-contentment. But just this once, please. :)

I got this note from Saffron yesterday, after she walked in the cement left to dry by tilers prepping our kitchen floor. She had ignored the sign on the door. The note was accompanied by $22.

2011-12-08T16:44:00.001-07:00

One Week in 2007

2011-10-23T22:17:00.015-06:00

"Out, out, brief candle. Life's but a walking shadow." ~macbeth
Happy 4th Birthday, Charles.

The Molecules that Make up Eternity...

2011-10-04T12:10:00.003-06:00

This is the kind of moment for which I posted those photos the other day. I looked up from the dishes, out the kitchen window, to see Jasper on the grass with the baby. I knew I had to pause, and drink it in. I saw the bookends of a decade of effort to build a family, and all the craziness disappeared for a moment. I felt peaceful. I felt grateful.

"What?? You expect me to deal with these six crazy people? I can hardly get a word in edgewise!"

2011-10-02T23:10:00.001-06:00

C Rex

2011-10-02T01:36:00.000-06:00

He Ain't Heavy. He's My Brother.

2011-09-23T14:15:00.003-06:00

Eleven Years Isn't So Vast

2011-09-23T14:13:00.000-06:00

Cheating

2011-09-22T18:27:00.002-06:00

I'm having an affair.

Today, in the middle of the workday, my partner and I arrived in separate cars at our secret destination.

In-n-Out Burger.

That's right. My husband and I met at In-n-Out Burger in the middle of the day to cheat on our children. We had cheeseburgers, and fries, and shared a strawberry milkshake.

With each other--and no one else. No bites, no sips, no messes, no interruptions, and absolutely no leftovers taken home to share.

Not one morsel.

Yes, my husband and I are cheating on our children, and we're loving it.

Emily Mabey Swensen iPhone

Nobody Knows: the Untold Story of Black Mormons

2011-09-20T01:37:00.000-06:00

If you have the documentary channel, make sure you catch "Nobody Knows: the Untold Story of Black Mormons," being rebroadcast September 25th.

It is really excellent--an honest telling of the story of the race issue in the LDS church as told by faithful black Mormons. It doesn't shy away from the hard truth of the past, but also does it with respect for the faith from those who live it, and with solid facts.

I don't get up on my soapbox very often. But for the sake of my three beautiful children who are growing up both black and Mormon, I hope people both inside and outside the LDS church watch this and put to rest all the myths--those about race and those about the church.

Oh Where, Oh Where Has My Little Blog Gone?

2011-09-16T08:00:00.001-06:00

Greetings from planet . . . hmm. I can't even think of a funny planet name right now. That's how creative my once-writerly brain has become. Has anyone been wondering why I don't blog anymore? I'VE been wondering why I don't blog anymore. It's as if I used to think in Bloggish, and now I don't.

Here are a few classic Saffron quotes I forgot to post months ago--it's almost sad to have the girls' English get so good we can't enjoy as many of these moments any more.

"Mom, my room is cute I dead!" Translation: My room is so cute I could die.

"I'm going to save my money for laffy taffy for my birthday." Does she really think she must save up for her birthday to get a 25 cent Laffy Taffy? No. Laffy Taffy = walkie talkie.

"When is turkey turkey?" Translation: Trick-or-treating

"Ruby went to get the iron man." Translation: blow dryer

Once I sent her to tell Steve to get a razor blade. Knowing it was hard, I even practiced it with her several times first. A few minutes later I turned to see him bringing me a box of Raisin Bran. Saffron thinks these moments are hilarious.

"Mom, did you say put this in the freez, or freezer?" Translation: fridge or freezer

Saffron is an excellent soccer player, and is playing on the highest level team for her age group. I went to the first practice with her and quietly tried to translate several of the coaches words for her on a drink break. After that I thought, forget it. She'll figure it out, or he'll figure out that he can't haphazardly interchange words like "halfback" and "midfielder" and think she'll know she's going to the same position. In fact, it was only after the first few games she mentioned to me that she wished the girls wouldn't "choose" her so she could play the whole game. When substitutions came in, she thought they got to choose whom to replace. She must have thought the coach just told her who to go in for because she couldn't choose fast enough. Who knows how many other things are lost in translation and we don't even know it.

Doesn't matter much, though--she's still been game MVP the last two games in a row. I taught her the word "aggressive" and told her it has to be said with a big roar on the "ggr" part, and with fingers up next to your face like claws. She laughs in embarrassment when I yell it that way from the sidelines, but she definitely gets the meaning. She has no problem being aggressive. She even heard a mom yelling from the other team's side "That girl is mean!" I told her she wasn't doing anything wrong, just playing fierce. Once she knew she wasn't in trouble, she was pretty proud of that moment. We like to say that she's playing her Ethiopian ancestors proud. She tells me she's not as good as Little Brother. He must be quite the soccer star, then. I only wish I could see him play.

The Hug Place

2011-09-14T22:22:00.003-06:00

Saffron went many years without a hug.

Tonight she had a rough evening. When she gets in trouble of any kind, she struggles to forgive herself and move on. After we talked through it we had a hug.

As we hugged she said, "When I'm in your hug I feel like I'm in a special place. When I don't get a goodnight hug I can't fall asleep for a very long time."

I think of how quickly Cyrus stops crying if I pick him up and hug him tight to my chest.

And I think of what my friend Brittney said through her tears. She recently volunteered at a third-world orphanage. Volunteers in the baby wing were forbidden to pick up the babies and hug them. They were only allowed to stroke them in their cribs. Brittney said she'd never experienced anything so excruciating as looking into the eyes of a crying baby whose eyes begged you to hold her, and not being able to do it. The agony of this memory was so clear on Brittney's face that I cried just watching her retell it.

The Hug Place must be wired into us physiologically and spiritually. I guess it makes sense that in Saffron's mind it's a place--something to be inside of, and somewhere to feel safe.

Hilarious! The New "Who's on First"

2011-09-07T21:53:00.008-06:00

This 2-minute piece featured today as part of a rerun of This American Life is one of the most hilarious things I've heard in a long time. Take a minute to listen--come on . . . you need a good laugh.

It's an excerpt from the show Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind, by the Chicago theater group The Neofuturists.

Cut and paste the link below (blogger's not in the mood to make it clickable), then go to minute 24:30:

http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/241/20-acts-in-60-minutes

We Love You, Mommie Dearest

2011-08-15T23:58:00.007-06:00

Yesterday Steve got back from a ten-day trip to Japan where he was volunteering in the rebuilding effort. This overlapped with me and the kids joining my family at the ranch in Wyoming, so we were actually apart for two weeks. This separation culminated in one of the most uplifting periods of Steve's life (because of Japan, stupid--not because he had a break from me and the kids. Wait. Right? I mean, I am right about that. . . . I think.) Anyway, as I was saying, uplifting for him, not so much for me. I've been alone plenty and Steve works a lot of hours anyway so I'm used to captaining the ship. But this was some'um else. First, no one should ever leave me alone with my children at the end of the summer when I've already had them under foot for two months. It's not safe. I'm no Andrea Yeates, but I'm also no Emily Swensen anymore. No, that pretty awesome mom has been replaced by Mommie Dearest (see above).

So, the timing wasn't great. Then, throw in a major car accident the first day of the two weeks (and the resulting rental car/insurance headaches!), a sprinkler disaster, two remodeled rooms with their contents still not put away, two huge shipments for the shipping business, a family vacation with the necessary hours of whine-driving, a two-day soccer tournament 45 minutes away, several child-meltdowns, the hottest weather of the summer, and one 35th birthday with no husband, and you have the implosion of one formerly sane mother. I think Steve and I should start the kids' therapy fund now.

Any old way, yesterday Steve got home and it was all happy day. Today, we had no phone or internet. Refusing to deal with ONE MORE THING!!!!!, I did nothing about it but just wait till Steve got home late to deal with it. At approximately 11:45 pm, he got around to investigating and calling the phone company. Turns out, if you haven't paid your phone bill in months, they TURN OFF YOUR PHONE! Um...whoops. At least we were able to pay the back balance--there were many times in our marriage we would have been up a crick.

So, the moral of the story is, don't get to thinkin yer jist a leetle crazy the past couple weeks ciz yer husband's been gone. Naw--really YOU E BEEN INSANE FOR MONTHS!!!!

Wahoo

2011-08-13T01:11:00.001-06:00

It's official. Thirty-five today. What do I wish for? Hmm....my own Alice from The Brady Bunch.

Little King Rex

2011-07-11T23:18:00.003-06:00

Happy four-month birthday, Cyrus. At 11.5 lbs and 23.5 inches, you're barely even on the size charts, but you downed bananas and even started to hold your bottle a bit today. When it comes to tongue and finger dexterity, you are a pro--clearly finding a way to carve out your own talents in the family despite being the youngest and smallest. What a blessing! Thank you for joining our family. Thank you, Birthmom.

P.S. To all of you who commented on my last post--thank you thank you. Honestly, I had no idea that many people were still aware, or that your encouragement would mean so much to me. Someday I'll say more about what we've been through. But for now, know that things are getting better.

xox
Em

Tell Your Husband You Weren't Wasting Time Reading a Blog--You Were Helping A Friend

2011-06-28T23:30:00.003-06:00

Remember how I sometimes used to lament my insecurities about blogging? I wondered what the purpose was of it all, even as I continued to post? Well back then I was wondering what the purpose was for my readers, and worrying I was wasting their time. But recently I've realized what the benefit was for me.

We've had a really difficult few weeks, during which I found myself at one point in a small room with a doctor and social worker, there to discuss a child. They focused their attention on me for a moment, and observed that it seemed I was truly venting to absolutely no one about the emotional stress I was carrying. They were pretty adamant that I make this a higher priority in my life. I got thinking about my blog--what an outlet it used to be for me, and how much comfort I took from the support I got from my readers. I stopped blogging regularly for two reasons: the time it took, and the ever unsettling question of whether I was breaching my childrens' privacy. I didn't realize the benefit I'd be giving up.

So thank you!!, anyone who may still be out there, for reading, and supporting. I needed that.

Uberwhelmed

2011-05-12T11:44:00.000-06:00

It's official: I'm overwhelmed--superwhelmed--extrawhelmed--uberwhelmed. Is there a cardinal rule against admitting that in the blogosphere? The baby I can handle. It's the other four sub-adult beings in the house, and their dishes, and their laundry, and their homework, and their lessons, and their subversion of my Great Plan of Domestic Bliss. Comrade Mother knows how to make you happy if you will just toe the line. She can force bliss into this home if you will only listen to her. She is not crazy!

Where You At?

2011-03-25T19:11:00.004-06:00

I love this song by Jennifer Hudson. Besides her amazing vocals, I am struck by how much it jives with the feeling of some of the birthmoms we came across in our adoption journey. They didn't want to talk much about birthfathers, but seemed to wonder if they would ever find a man willing to stick around. They are very strong, independent women, but it's not lost on them that they have to face raising children alone while I face it with a committed husband. A few times I felt them looking at me as if to say, "You don't realize how good you have it."

http://www.jenniferhudson.com/news/jennifer-hudson-performs-where-you-at-ellen

Welcome to the World, Baby Cy

2011-03-17T14:28:00.012-06:00

Having grown in several different ways, our family was finally completed last Friday, March 11, with the birth of this beautiful baby boy, Cyrus Rex, weighing in at a mere 5 lbs 9 oz. Cy was officially adopted Saturday. We felt there was one last little boy out there for us, and we're so grateful finally to have him. His birthmom is a woman of great courage, love, conviction, belief in God, and selfless love for this baby boy. We will always make sure Cyrus knows how much she loves him, and how courageously she faced this heart-wrenching moment in her life. Words can't express our gratitude.

****
As I am a word person and our choice of names always surprises people, I might as well explain this one. We felt Cyrus would be the final little "King" needed to crown our family. Thus he is named for the great King Cyrus of the Bible, who was most famous for integrating different peoples peacefully. His middle name is the latin "Rex," for King, used for all the kings of England--"William Rex," "Henry Rex," etc., which I have loved ever since we lived there.

You can view a slideshow of Cyrus at http://bellababyphotography.com. Password: 0311cyrusswensen

2011-02-25T13:40:00.002-07:00

I'm sitting at a local lunch counter with Willa. Minutes ago she was her normal giddy self, when one comment suddenly caused her eyes to fill with tears and that well-known cloud to descend over her face. She said something about when she used to speak Spanish. I chuckled and reminded her that it was Amharic. This was the wrong way to react, and there was no consoling her. "I should have never watched Dora!" she cried.

She can't remember a word of Amharic, and can only remember a fraction of what Saffron can remember about life in Ethiopia. Both girls feel somewhat helpless and scared about this inevitable loss of memory, but Willa rarely feels it so acutely. Pretty soon she was on my lap in tears. She said she doesn't wish she had never come to America--she just wishes she could have both Ethiopia and America in her mind. No matter what we've tried, the one seems to push out the other. We'll make some more video of them telling memories tomorrow, and watch some home videos of Ethiopia, but all we can do only slightly slows the flow. And I understand--if Jasper and Ruby had been adopted into an Ethiopian family I would want them to remember their old life here, too.

I'm so grateful we picked up the girls and saw their homeland with our own eyes. I can't imagine helping them through this without that perspective. I want to take them back to visit as soon as we can afford it, and get them an Amharic tutor as soon as they want it. Otherwise, they will have to deal with the loss of Ethiopia the way we all deal with all kinds of loss, and will be stronger for it.

Happy Willa is back now. But it was probably a good reminder for me to see the depth of feeling, of grieving, that a five-year-old can have. Ask anyone who's seen it--when she gets that look in her eyes, she could be a million years old.

2010-12-04T21:29:00.009-07:00

Merry Christmas, everybody. We just finished putting up our lights.

Below is my all-time favorite Christmas scene from a movie, even including It's A Wonderful Life. Few people now realize what a sad song "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" was when it was first sung by Judy Garland in the timeless Meet Me In Saint Louis. It was a lullaby meant to cheer both the singer and the listener at a time of loss and uncertainty. It reminds us to try to enjoy Christmas: hope for better times if we're down, or time again someday with lost loved ones. This Christmas I dedicate it to my brother-in-law, Curt, who just lost his best friend in a shooting accident.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, everybody. "Muddle through somehow."

(For some reason it can't be shared, so you'll have to click on the link above and view it at Youtube.)

A Sleep and A Forgetting

2010-11-11T21:05:00.005-07:00

I can't say it better than Mr. Wordsworth:

"Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!"

Saffron's birth as an American girl is like "a sleep and a forgetting." As she told me tonight, she finds silent tears on her cheeks in bed because she is forgetting her language, and her songs, and how to cook her native food. The soul that rises with this new girl "hath had elsewehere its setting, and cometh from afar." And just like Mr. Wordsworth says, she comes trailing clouds of glory from her previous home, and not--nor ever will or should be-- in entire forgetfulness of that home.

I told her she can make Wat on Saturday. I reminded her we have one of her songs on film, the only one she was ever willing to sing for the camera, and that I have put an Amharic course on her iPod. But I know none of this will be enough. She will forget, anyway. And that won't help with the people she's lost, whom I know she misses. Sometimes I'm torn between anger that her father gave her up and set her on a path to leave her homeland, and gratitude that it brought her to us.

Nevertheless, it is comforting to know that Heaven did lie about her, and her sister, in their infancy. They had a mother who loved them. Today is Steve's birthday, and so we went to see Secretariat as a family. Saffron told me that in the movie she had a memory of her mother. When she lay dying, she said to Saffron, "I wish I could give you something to remember me by." But she had nothing to give. "It's OK," I said. "You didn't need anything. You're remembering her anyway."

Here is a video of Saffron singing an Amharic song at her baptism in June. This one is about Jesus taking her hand to help her.

NPR.org - 'I Love My Hair': A Father's Tribute To His Daughter

2010-10-28T23:32:00.000-06:00

Emily(Swensen5@me.com) thought you would be interested in this story: 'I Love My Hair': A Father's Tribute To His Daughter
http://m.npr.org/news/front/130653300

This message was included:

Great story behind the "I Love My Hair" song.

SESAME STREET: I LOVE MY HAIR! AWESOME!!!

2010-10-28T21:16:00.001-06:00

A friend alerted me to this fabulous Sesame Street video. You may have already heard the buzz: this little muppet singing about how she "loves her hair" is a sensation. All three of my girls absolutely love the song, and the message. And take it from me: it's a needed message.

Happy Birthday, Prince Charles

2010-10-23T22:37:00.004-06:00

This evening our little Charles would have turned 3. Three years on, the thing that probably surprises me most is how much the kids still talk about him. Just today at Jasper's football game Ruby said, "Mom, see the way that little girl is climbing all over her big brother on the ground? Do you think if Charles were alive he would be climbing on me like that right now?" I don't remember that my sisters or I talked quite as often about our sister, Kathryn, who died as a baby. Maybe it's because she came before all of us, so we didn't experience her death.

This feels like the first time we're truly experiencing what it will be like to have his birthday come and go every year in our busy lives. The first year his birthday meant a lot of other things besides a birthday--we had survived one year since that horrible day of our baby's death. I had anticipated the anniversary with fear, but then realized the anticipation was worse than the actual day. I thought of him on my own, and didn't need a certain day to remind me. My friend Charlotte, whose son Mason had just died a few months earlier, came over and helped me make a birthday cake for Charles. She was the perfect person to spend that day with.

That first birthday passed with little acknowledgement from friends and family and that hurt a bit, but only because I had been so afraid all along that people would forget Charles' existence. It sounds irrational, but that was a tremendous fear of mine while I was pregnant--I felt defensive of him, and how little his life might matter to people when it was over in the blink of an eye. That's why I made a point of letting people stream in to the delivery room and hold him right after he was born. I desperately wanted him all to myself for those short minutes--but I also wanted others to feel him. To love him as I did. So I tried to give him to them. It was really, really hard.

And now I'm crying. I'm quite surprised. I haven't cried about Charles in a long time: probably almost two years. I realized early after his death that there were two parts to my grieving process. There was the sadness over the son I would never know, and there was the trauma of what I had been through, anticipating a child's death, pushing him out to face it, and then holding him in my arms--powerless--as it happened.

After the first year, I felt my strongest feelings about the experience came from the trauma, not the loss. I felt peaceful about having Charles again someday, and about enjoying the children living at my feet. But it was still hard to think about that day, and that time in my life, and that time in my children's lives.

His second birthday we spent in Ethiopia, in the midst of our fingerprint troubles. And though we thought of him, the trauma felt pretty far removed, and the loss felt about-to-be-filled by the girls. I felt Charles' approval and happiness for us.

But today I've felt the loss. Now that we're settled in as a new family, and a mainly girl family even though I've actually birthed more boys than girls, I've felt the loss of my little boy. Today I've felt frustrated for the lack of a little three-year-old brother climbing on the girls, and running out on the football field after Jasper in his football gear. That would have been sensational. I can't say I miss you, Charles, because I don't really know you. But I can say--I can really, really say--that I wish you were here. I wish you were here.

Phew. I'm embarrassed to admit to being that emotional about this. But it's good to get that out. It's great, though, to remember that most of the time I don't feel sad about it at all. How marvelous that life, and joy, go on.

Thanks to those of you who remembered Charles today, and sent us messages. I really appreciate it--again, from that place inside that still fears sometimes that people forget he was born. But also to those who didn't (lest I get phone calls), don't worry about it! I've realized since that first year that just because people don't mark a specific day doesn't meant they don't think about or remember you. In fact, I myself am not good at marking specific days or places. I don't go to Charles' grave often, and we didn't do anything special today, because we've learned that we're just not special-place or special-day people: we think about Charles when we want to think about him, and visit him wherever we want to visit him.

Since I don't have any video to post of a Charles birthday party, here's a little video from a party I threw for the kids last week, to celebrate one year together as a new family.

ET(hiopia), Phone Home: the Sequel

2010-10-18T22:53:00.005-06:00

Ethiopia Dad just called, out of the blue, to tell us he has sent a letter with family photos in it. We hurriedly woke the girls up to talk to him. Saffron cried in frustration because her native tongue would no longer come to her lips. She could understand much of what he said, but couldn't answer back at all, except the equivalent of "How are you?/I'm fine."

Willa can't understand or speak a word of Amharic. I had to prompt them with what little Amharic I know, and ended up talking to him myself, at least getting across that S is an amazing soccer player and W loves to dance.

Little Brother said "Selam." He sounds much older. Months ago, when we first called, he cried like a small child.

Recently I asked Saffron how often she thinks about her dad and especially brothers, and how often she misses them. "In the morning," she said. "And at school. And at night."

I have to remind myself that Ethiopia Dad relinquished the girls to an orphanage almost a year before the orphanage gave them to me. I'll never quite understand why. I didn't take them from their home--I gave them one when they had already lost theirs. But I'm not naive about the pain they will continue to go through. Contrary to what many people think, for me there is no jealousy. I am so grateful he loves them and they love him. Why would I begrudge my children the love of their first family?

Oh My Hair

2010-10-13T11:12:00.008-06:00

">

When we first had the girls and many people said, "Oh, I've heard learning to do the hair is the hardest part!" I thought--"Are you kidding me?! I'll take hair over behavoral psychology!" But, it's true that there's quite a learning curve for Caucasians to learn the secrets of beautiful African hair. I love my girls hair, and have enjoyed learning to take care of it. The African American community has been absolutely wonderful in helping educate me. I completely disagree with white moms who say they don't feel welcome in African American salons. I have gone in admitting I needed help, and have been treated very well at a couple of different salons. I'd love to help dispel this myth that White mothers are resented. Yes, I know there are some groups in the African American community who do not support children of African descent being adopted into White families. But my personal experience has been great. I have been treated like a mom, by moms.

I am NOT a hair person, but between me and Saffron we've figured out some cute hairstyles. I do the designing and parting, and we take turns at the braiding. This style, below, I love because it evokes the look of an African hair wrap swirling around the head. Her bangs are created with twists shown me by a woman at Disneyworld. They relax after that first day and look really adorable. They can be left in for about two weeks. Don't worry that she looks sad--she's just exhausted because it took four hours and was midnight when we finished.

Saffron's Wrap Hairstyle:

This style, Willa's fauxhawk, actually came about because Willa was bawling and refused to have any more braids. Saffron was braiding her hair, and always starts with a few braids on each side. So, we ended up with a Grace Jones-esque fauxhawk which we thought was actually very cute. She wanted me to leave the braids and cut the top, but I didn't think that was too great of an idea.

Willa's Fauxhawk:

Saffron and Willa in Their Ethiopian Dresses

2010-10-12T22:00:00.001-06:00

Oops--just found this photo post that never got posted. Saffron's beautiful dress was ordered online from a charming woman at Ethiopia Design in California. She rushed it for us because it was for Saffron's baptism (last June), and even included some Amharic words to remind Saffron how to say them. Willa's dress is one of the ones we bought for the girls at the Leprosy Hospital in Addis Ababa. Interestingly, the girls hated and wouldn't wear their Ethiopian dresses the first few months in America. But now they actually choose them for church many Sundays, even over their foofy American dresses.

The Girls' First Baseball Game

2010-10-02T21:04:00.005-06:00

Tomorrow we are headed on an RV trip to Zions National Park with Steve's parents. They have enjoyed getting to know the girls and, in honor of their efforts at being "new" grandparents again this year, I thought I'd post this guest post. This was written by Steve's dad, Grandpa Karl, about his experience with the girls this summer at their first baseball game. They were glued to him through the whole, long game. (I SO appreciated not having them glued to me. I am a HUGE baseball fan and I like to watch every pitch.) Here is his report:

(As Emily watched me talking with Saffron, Ruby and Willa last night, she asked me to be a “Guest Blogger” for SwensenSays. So here’s my story of our family get together.)

It was a perfect evening for a baseball game. Because we knew that Steve and his family loved baseball, Virginia and I wanted to take them to a Salt Lake Bees game.

We had perfect seats for the game. We stretched along the first row of the balcony right behind home plate. We could see everything. The seats were in the shade and the temperature was perfect.

Both teams scored in the first couple of innings. The score was tied – three to three. Then we waited through a long six-inning drought.

I asked Saffron and Willa what they knew about baseball. My first question was: How many teams are out on the field playing baseball? With an apprehensive tone, Saffron answered, “Five?”

“No, there are only two teams playing tonight,” I confidently responded. “Our team, the Salt Lake Bees, is wearing black shirts and the other team, the New Orleans Zephyrs is wearing blue.”

I could tell I was in good company to explain baseball action. Saffron and Willa knew little if anything about the game. After a few more questions and the girls providing me with guesses, I decided to just explain what happens in the game as it progressed.

I enjoyed having the opportunity of telling the girls about the events occurring on the field. And I was pleased that they thought I was so knowledgeable! I believe they thought Grandpa Swensen knew everything.

I didn’t know that the game would drag on and on for six more innings without a run. There were several hits and a couple of times men were left on base as the teams finished their innings. But the score remained tied.

It was enjoyable to sit with Saffron and Willa. We ate M&Ms like we’d never seen candy before. Ruby occasionally would reach over for some candy when it seemed her parent’s bag was full of grown-up hands. I reminded Saffron and Willa that I remember when they said they didn’t like candy (last Christmas time when they came to our home to make ginger bread houses and decorate them with frosting and candy.) Saffron smiled as if to say, I’ve changed my tastes and I like candy, now.

I suppose Willa got tired of my questions and my not answering her “Why” questions after I would explain what had just happened. She moved to the other end of the row and sat next to Virginia. Today, Virginia told me that Willa asked “Why” after almost everything Virginia told her about the game or any other topic.

The game was tied when we went into the tenth inning. The New Orleans Zephyrs scored two runs. When the Bees came to bat in the bottom of the tenth inning, it appeared the Bees had lost the game. People were leaving but the Swensen family continued to watch.

Two players walked to first. A couple of fly balls were caught. One out, then another. Then Luis Figueroa, a light hitter, came to the plate. With two strikes against him, he connected with a fast ball which skyrocketed out of the park. The crowd went wild with enthusiastic cheering. It was loud and Saffron, Ruby and Willa were asking what happened as the crowd continued to cheer. Figueroa’s home run brought in the two runners who had been walked with the final score now, six to five. The Bees won the game! The coach was quoted in the newspaper this morning, saying, “It was almost divine.”

Monday night was terrific! It was a perfect evening to attend a baseball game and a perfect ending of the game. Together we walked slowly toward our cars not wanting the event and family activity to be finished.

We missed Jasper, but he told Steve on the phone that he had a great time at his first football practice. He said he enjoyed learning about and practicing tackling. Perhaps our next outing could be to a football game.

Standing, Squatting, and Giggling with your Siblings

2010-10-02T20:45:00.004-06:00

Jasper and Ruby and Saffron are having a giggle-fest in the kitchen. Saffron has learned to love our teasing ways, and laughs her head off when teased (nice teasing, of course). She's fun to tease, because she's still not sure when it's teasing and when it's truth, or quite how to tease successfully herself.

Just now we were talking about diapers for some reason, and whether we had any. I said, "Well, there are those ones left over from when you first came. I thought you and Willa were babies, so the first couple of weeks I put you in diapers and rocked you in the cradle. But then we noticed you were a little big for a baby. You weren't fitting very well in the baby clothes, and you seemed to be trying to talk to us."

"You also seemed a little too smart for a baby," Jasper added.

Saffron looked at me quizzically at first, searching her memory and asking me if we really did this when she first came. When I grinned she burst into giggles and said. "No you did not! I don't remember that!"

Then amid her giggles, clearly with diapers on the brain, she started telling us a story about her first experience with a western-style toilet. I was about to try to write it the way she said it, but then I thought why not just film it? So here goes:

At the rodeo--proud of her new boots.

2010-08-06T21:39:00.000-06:00

Saffron at the Lincoln Cty (WY) Rodeo

2010-08-06T21:37:00.000-06:00

Saffron at the Rodeo Tonight

2010-08-06T21:36:00.001-06:00

"I'm gonna be a cowgirl when I was big!"

Emily Mabey Swensen

My Dad

2010-06-24T22:00:00.001-06:00

Today's email exchange below, between me and my dad, is an example of what I love about my dad. . . .

-----Original Message-----
To: Mabey, Ralph R.
Sent: Thu Jun 24 14:45:48 2010
Subject: Petraeus

Dear Dad,
You remind me of General Petraeus.

Love,
Em

...…................................................

Emily,

Wow. How come?

Love,

Dad

P.S. You remind me of Abigail Adams.

Female Circumcision

2010-06-12T22:44:00.007-06:00

I couldn't think of a thing to blog about lately, or bring myself to give up one of my free moments to do it. But tonight I've GOT to: I just got a doozy of a question.

Saffron just asked me, in a round about way, if in America we cut girls between the legs--in other words, do we perform female circumcision as many still do in Ethiopia (Studies in the linked article show that 79% of women in Saffron and Willa's region are circumcised). It's really interesting how questions I thought were previously resolved crop up out of nowhere months later. When we were in Ethiopia, I asked the orphanage doctor and also had our translator ask Saffron if she had been a victim of female circumcision. Both said no, and Saffron acted as if she had no idea what she was being asked (understandable, considering the uncomfortable nature of the question). I had the pediatrician here check for signs of it again when we got to America, and she found absolutely no signs of any trauma. Everything was pristine and intact. So, I put it out of my mind, assuming Saffron's slightly modern dad did not subscribe to such traditional tribal practices.

I haven't thought of it again, until Saffron asked me in the dark tonight as I tucked her in. That's her favorite time to ask difficult questions, and apparently she's been trying to work up the courage to ask this one for a long time. I quickly assured her that, NO!, we absolutely do not do that in America, and that will never happen to her or Willa or anyone they know. Once we put that fear to rest, she relaxed and got chatty about the topic.

She told me she'd wanted to ask me for a while, but thought it was a bad question. I assured her, again, that there are no bad questions to ask your mom (except, maybe, 'can I have more gum' for the fifth time when you've already been told 'NO' four times in a row). She said that in Ethiopia many people, including her father's relatives, believe circumcision (not her word, of course) makes children better behaved. They don't lie or disobey their parents. In fact, she said they believe doing it more makes children more obedient. One boy in her family was cut more than once. (I did explain male circumcision in America to her--not the details, but the reasons why some parents choose to do it, and how quickly and carefully it is done to save the baby pain or infection.)

Saffron believes her mother was circumcised, but doesn't know whether she believed in it for Saffron. Her dad was open to the idea, but perhaps not a firm believer in it. He took her to the 'doctor' once to have it done, but Saffron overheard the doctor's plan and escaped, screaming. Her father did not force her back.

Saffron had a friend, another little girl, who was circumcised. She told Saffron it hurt very bad every time she went to the bathroom. Saffron said she knew of this being done to children of all ages--from babies up to young girls--depending on what the parents wanted. Saffron saw a female circumcision on TV, and possibly in person (it was unclear). She saw a young girl tied down with a strap over her mouth, and several people holding her. Then she saw a 'doctor' cut between the girl's legs. Then she saw a lot of blood. She was horrified.

Willa then added that she gets very messy down there when she pees her pants (WAY too often, and when she's awake!). I was glad to see the conversation hadn't much phased or sunk in with the four-year-old.

Well, that's one more difficult subject faced. I hope Saffron will sleep better knowing she can cross that fear off her list. I'm actually not surprised it came up today. She's been in trouble a few times in the past couple days for lying to me, and cried when she got caught again today. She said she was trying to tell the truth but sometimes she just couldn't be good. I'm sure that got her thinking about how some girls she knew were cut between the legs to help them be good.

I take it as a good sign that Saffron feels more comfortable all of the time telling me things that scare her to say aloud. Right at the six-month mark she told me that she actually did steal the money from a neighbor's shack--the money she said before that she had been wrongly accused of stealing. But all the other facts, and innocence, remain the same. She said Stepmother told her to steal the money from the home where Saffron worked as a servant. Saffron was desperate to feed herself and her siblings, with whom Stepmother usually didn't share food, and did it. Stepmother's friend, who owned the home, then told Saffron's dad. He tied Saffron up and beat her harshly, so much so that even the neighbors pleaded with him to stop.

I felt it was a great show of trust for Saffron to tell me the real story. I then had to work hard for a couple of weeks to convince her that, even though we have said stealing is wrong, she had absolutely no fault in that situation. Stepmother and Dad were in the wrong. When a desperate child is compelled to do wrong by grown-ups she fears, no loving being, human or Divine, would hold her accountable. We've had that talk over and over.

You'd think theft and female circumcision would bowl me over, but those subjects have passed just fine. It's Willa's wide-awake potty regression that's proving more than a match for me.

Never Good Enough

2010-05-26T11:06:00.002-06:00

My day probably didn't get the best start anyway, but I'm growing really really weary of Willa's constant complaints and contradictions. I don't seem to do anything right, and apparenty I never keep my word. Right now, as I pump gas, she's complaining that I didn't pack her a big enough lunch, and everyone at preschool gets a better lunch than she does.

You Are My I Love You

2010-05-22T00:33:00.005-06:00

It's after midnight and I was in bed, but found myself thinking about my children, and people in general. I had to write it down.

It occurs to me that if you don't allow your children the opportunity to rise to an occasion, then they surely won't. They will fail every time. But if you do allow them, occasions to which they may rise I mean, then they will only fail sometimes. Other times they will rise, and still other times they will exceed the occasion, and your expectations, and even pass you up altogether.

All five of my children have risen to occasions which I doubted they could meet. Thank God above I did not manage to prevent them, underestimate them, or sell them short every time--though sometimes I tried. And I really mean its thanks to Him--He knows these marvelous children much better than I do.

Jasper and Ruby, this is especially a love letter to you. We went through the motions of giving you a choice and a voice in our adoption, but really you had none. Kids don't make their parents' life decisions for them, and shouldn't be asked to. And though this has been extremely difficult for Saffron and Willa in other ways, they have had from the beginning one advantage you did not--the desperate fear of the dark and lonely past they left behind. Because of that past, they have said they never doubted for a day that they would be happier in their new life, and better loved.

You two, on the other hand, had a very happy life with a family you loved. You faced the fear, and expressed it often, that your life would never again be as happy as it had been in the past--that you would have less love than you had in the past, not more. Each of you went through periods of great fear that your life would never feel right or happy again, and that you were completely powerless to change the situation. I agonized over your feelings. I cried in bed at night, trying to remember and rely on the sure feelings that had caused us to pursue this course, and the belief that in time we would all have greater happiness because of it.

At some point along the way, the thought came to me (the Spirit prompted me) that I was underestimating both of you, and your ability to keep trying, overcome change, try to find the joy in your new sisters, trust that your parents still loved you as much, and even nurture a tiny faith that down to road you may one day be happier than ever with your new family.

And you have risen gloriously to the occasion. You have risen above it. You have gotten up and tried again every day to forget feeling displaced and instead make a new place in a home that felt foreign, with a mother who herself probably seemed foreign and unsteady sometimes. You have included. You have encouraged and complimented. You have apologized. You have forgiven (your sisters and your parents). And, you have shared your mom. You have moved over to let someone else sit by mom--to let someone else have a goodnight cuddle. What a very hard thing for a frightened child to do! And for all of those things, for what I have seen in the two of you, I now love you more than ever before--more than feels possible. I love you not only as my children, but as wise old souls who have weathered a difficult storm and kept me safe in the process. Just like your sisters, you are now loved even better than you were in your past life. And that, my gems, is one of the many blessings I am beginning to see unfold: the new happinesses of our new family. I see you both feeling comfortable again--feeling right in your family. And happy.

I hope you two also see the change in yourselves. I hope you feel a greater sense of self worth and courage for life ahead because you have already faced a great fear, a mighty change, and risen to the occasion. After taking in stride the death of a baby brother and the "birth" of two child-sized new sisters within two short years of your young lives, I can't imagine either of you facing the giants of life without coming off conqueror.

I have a feeling that when the four of you are grown, you, Jasper and Ruby, will look with awe at what Saffron and Willa went through to join our family. I have no doubt that they will look back at you in awe of what you went through to let them in.

If I doubted you, I stand corrected. For the rest of your lives let me stand aside and let you rise: marvelous risers to magnificent occasions.

I love you,
Mom

Saffron Cooking Wat: 1

2010-05-14T15:57:00.000-06:00

This is the second half of some video I took in March when S was making injera wat. S and R were also making a movie. S wants to be a moviestar.

2010-05-14T12:31:00.002-06:00

Jasper's Volcanic Slime Birthday Cake

2010-05-10T13:41:00.001-06:00

Six Month And Counting

2010-05-10T12:27:00.002-06:00

It's getting harder and harder to blog these days, with two ball games and two lessons many afternoons. During school time, between spring field trips and planning Jasper and Saffron's birthdays, parties, etc., I barely seem to be getting the dishes done--let alone laundry or blogging. I think I may have to move to blogging just once a week. That may make more sense anyway, because we've passed a milestone: April 30 was our six month anniversary of bringing the girls home. We are passing from a major-adoption-transition phase to a learning-to-go-on-and-function-as-an-ordinary-family phase. Life is beginning to feel different. Maybe it's appropriate that I spend less time noting a major life change, and more time focusing on a sense of normalcy for the family. Just thinking.

I have thought a lot in the past two weeks sbout (ok I really love my iPhone, but why does it NEVER correct 'sbout' to 'about'?? Isn't that pretty obvious??) what a different place we're in now than we were six months ago. I've asked the girls to reflect too, but it's hard to get much detail from them. I say, "what did you think about America when you first got here?" And they say, "good."

Willa did tell me she thought America was warm when she first came. Utah in the winter?? I asked. But she explained that she meant the fire in the floor in the house (heat vents).

One of the most marked differences I see in Willa now verses six months ago is that she talks non-stop. We tease her that she can't stop talking for ten seconds at a time, and she agrees that it's true. She was silent when we first met her! Of course, that changed pretty quickly.

For the first several weeks Saffron was here, holding her hand was like holding a dead fish. She wouldn't respond at all. Now? My goodness--she wants to cling and squeeze and hug whenever she gets the chance. This is symbolic of Saffron's six-month evolution overall. She has gone from fearful, timid and withdrawn to very eager to bond, please and interact--and only sometimes withdrawn. She could still be described as very moody but, as her psychologist said, that's very understandable considering what she's been through. In fact, she's adjusting very quickly and showing very healthy emotional growth. He cautioned us to avoid labeling any parts of her personality or behavior with adult labels because she is still transitioning and changing so much (In fact, he cautioned us about doing that with any child).

As far as Jasper and Ruby are concerned, I take heart in the typical sibling tiffs they have with each other and their sisters, because it all signals normal family life. I remember the first few weeks Jasper and Ruby would come bounding home from school, only to be crestfallen when they saw their sisters waiting at home and remembered their existence. Ruby would say, "I feel happy until I realize life is not the same as it used to be." That may be hard for people to hear, but it's true. That's how kids feel, and how many of us feel when we have to adjust to a major change in life--even if we believe the change will be good for us in the long run. And believe something like that is too much for little kids. They just have to wait until they experience it. Now, Jasper and Ruby seem to have gotten over to the shock to their systems: they no longer wake up in the morning in a bit of shock to remember their new family. Their bodies no longer tense up when their space is invaded by their new sisters.

That's not to say we aren't all experiencing growing pains. Jasper still overreacts to things Saffron does that might only be mildly annoying to him if Ruby did them. Saffron and Willa still get outrageously jealous at many small things they see as injustices around the house. But they all control their reactions better. Willa's biggest problem these days is probably her constant jealously of Ruby. She lashes out at Ruby, or tells others not to speak to Ruby, and catalogues everything Ruby has (including particular colors of shirts) that she doesn't have. But at the same time she LOVES Ruby desperately and wants to be just like her and with her always. This is pretty typical little-sister behavior, except just blown up into an obsession in Willa's case. That's not unusual for the transition she's in.

No matter how much I show her and Saffron that I love them, it seems it will take them a while to believe they are full-fledged members of the family. They still measure my every word: did I say "I love you so much" to Ruby, and only "I love you" to them? They are always on the look-out for such discrepancies. I used to be paranoid, and now just try to be natural and let them see that I will not enable their neediness, but will always love and support them exactly the way I love and support everyone else. For example, I may spend an hour one night listening to them in their room after bedtime, because they suddenly want to tell me stories about Ethiopia. Then, if the next night I read a book with Ruby at bedtime and didn't read one with each of them individually, they will be upset. If I bring up the point that I spent an hour with them just the night before, and we all get our own special time at different times, it won't erase their jealousy. So I usually just go on, hoping that as they test me over and over they will see that though I constantly fail their tests I am still there, the next day, loving them like a mother. That sometimes they get in trouble, and other times Ruby or Jasper does. That it all comes out in the wash.

I think Saffron, especially, feels like she gets in trouble more than anybody else. This is probably because she does. I talked to the psychologist about this. Saffron still exhibits a strong air of self-centeredness in her actions, and a real struggle to admit when she's made a mistake, rather than making an excuse. On the other hand, at times she is extremely selfless, wanting to serve others all the time, almost to an annoying degree. I have been losing patience with this. Ruby and Jasper, on the other hand, have both been in very even and helpful phases, and therefore have not been getting in trouble much. I can see why Saffron feels put upon. Her psychologist (who has now given her an extensive battery of tests) explained to me that it's not too unusual for a child of Saffron's background to exhibit such bipolar behaviors. On the one hand, she was treated like a second-class citizen in her home, so she is just discovering how to be an individual whose needs are valued. Therefore, she begins by over-valuing her own needs, and struggling to see the point of view of others, or to see how her behavior affects them. We have to let her go through that, he says, before we can focus on teaching her how to look outside herself. At the same time, one of the only ways she felt valued in her previous life was by doing service for others. So, this is one way she seeks to show her value now as she's seeking her individual identity. She'll bounce back and forth as she figures it out. Yes, you often want to say, "I'd rather have you be nice than do chores for me!" And she'll get that--eventually.

For example, Saffron came to Jasper's birthday dinner very sulky. She was upset to have been late to the dinner, even though I had given her the choice of being late if she wanted to stay for all of dance (she hates leaving dance early). We had discussed it before she left for school, and again before dance, and she chose to stay for dance. Still, by the time I dropped her off for dance she wasn't speaking to me. The day after the dinner, I brought it up and explained to her how if you choose to act really sulky in a situation you are drawing attention to yourself, whether you think you are trying to or not. You do because people are concerned about you. You thereby also succeed in drawing attention away from the birthday person. It's not very kind when it's someone else's special day. "But I was late!" she kept saying. She couldn't admit that she'd had any other option but to act the way she did.

On the other hand, she went out of her way to help me prepare for Jasper's birthday party--to the point that she wasn't happy if I wasn't putting her to work. As I write this I realize most people probably think, "Oh, that just sounds like a typical child." But it's different. I can't explain how well enough, but if you saw it you would understand. As her psychologist said, if Saffron were exhibiting many of these signs and had had a perfectly healthy childhood without a recent shock to her system, he would worry she was depressed. But in view of what she has been through, she is adjusting remarkably, and at lightning speed. It was very helpful to hear from him that I can quit worrying about the seemingly self-centered behaviors. It is not yet any indicator of her future approach to life, he said. We just have to let her figure out how to be her own person before we worry so much about what kind she will be. She's great! he said. She has no learning disabilities or long-term emotional issues that he can see at all. She's smart and aware and, as he says, a real success story. Much of that is due to the loving relationship she had with her mother in the first four or five years of her life, before her mother died.

I realize I talk more about Saffron than Willa. With Willa it's even harder to tell what behaviors are adjustment to shock and change, which ones are age-appropriate, and which ones are her personality. We just treat her as a four-year-old, and discipline her accordingly, and let her feel like life is not fair most of the time. Probably a lot of youngests feel that way. Honestly, I try not to get annoyed by the whininess. She is very accusatory of me, especially accusing me of lying and not fulfilling promises a lot. This is very hard to take sometimes--I'm still not at my best either. I knows she's adorable and cute and sweet and I must let her off the hook for a lot of the other, because she's just learning how to behave in a real family--let alone an American family, and my family. Last night she screamed bloodly murder the whole time we braided her hair. Is that typical, or just Willa? Who knows. The one thing we agree on is that we'll keep it short until she's ready to have it braided more often. She's OK with that. Right now she's complaining to me that she does nothing ever at home, and then has to go to boring preschool. She wants a lot more cuddling and affection and attention than most four-year-olds I know, but I have to remind myself there's nothing wrong with giving in to that sometimes. She missed out on it for much of her life thus far. I wish I could feel more eager to indulge that. I'm adjusting, too, and am selfish too.

Otherwise, I notice that recently they want a lot more attention from Steve. They are now measuring his affections, too. That seems to be an indicator of good progress somehow. He is their dad now--not Ayalew. They are curious about how to relate to this American kind of dad.

I would never want to go back six months. But I would also never want to go back and undo our adoption. I am so grateful to be able to say that. I love our new family. Even Jasper, who's been slow to get on board, has changed his tune. You remember that he used to say he wished his sisters could go back to Ethiopia. We were sad, but knew he had to come along at his own pace. Yesterday I thought he was going to say the same thing, and my heart sank. But he didn't. Instead he said, "I wish Saffron and Willa could go back to being one-year-olds for a year. Then they could learn how to behave, and come back to us knowing how to act their ages and everything would be easier."

"Well," I said. "I think that's sort of what we're doing this year." We're all growing up together.

PS. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM!

Focus on the Good

2010-04-27T21:36:00.000-06:00

Truthfully, I've had a hard time with both Saffron and Willa the past few days. I believe the problem lies mainly with me, and could be due to any number of groundless reasons--including hormonal ones.

So, rather than "get online and whine about my adopted kids," as my social worker says she hates to see adoptive mothers do all the time (except she didn't say "whine"), I'm going to get over myself and acknowledge some of the good progress the girls have made lately.

A couple of days ago, Saffron said,

"What is Alexia's dad making?"

Wow. This sentence stopped me short in my tracks. She didn't say,

"What make Alexia dad?"

or

"What Alexia dad do?"

She had the "is" and the "'s" and the "ing," and everything all in the right order. This was a perfect English sentence, and I told her so. We're just shy of her six-month anniversary in America, so I was quite impressed with this accomplishment. Without sitting through a grammar class, she has developed her own understanding of sentence structure, and tense, and possessives, and has corrected her own small mistakes until, one day, a complex sentence comes out without a single mistake. She's tempted to give up sometimes because she gets corrected so frequently by so many people (Jasper and Ruby), but she soldiers on. She tries really hard, and it's paying off.

Since starting her new school, Saffron's studies have rocketed forward. I'm relieved and proud to see that. She had some behavioral issues when she first started at the school, but those have really improved, too. For other adoptive parents, let me just say I've found and my social worker has stressed that adoptees often react exactly the opposite of how people would think they would. After having had nothing, no choices or opportunities in life, the swing the other way--to a feeling of entitlement. This can be really hard for adoptive parents to take. For example, at school Saffron thought she could just inform her teacher she was staying in from recess to play a computer game. She didn't understand that no student, INCLUDING her, had a choice about recess. Many little interactions like this add up to a frustrated parent feeling their are dealing with a child who is suddenly spoiled rotten. But the truth is--I must remind myself--they came here knowing even less about choice than they knew about English. They are learning its boundaries, and must be taught when they are outside them. A million choices in school projects, and foods, and clothes, and friends, seem the opposite to them of the idea that respecting your parents and teachers means you really have no choices unless they authorize them. This has got to be one of the hardest lessons for them to understand, and one of the hardest for adoptive parents to weather patiently.

But Saffron's behavior in school has improved tremendously. Another area she has struggled with is wanting me to hide her past from everybody, and taking offense if others asked about it innocently. We've been working hard at changing this. In fact, on Saffron's birthday her teacher asked me to tell the class a little about her at each stage of her life. I had to tell about her history in Ethiopia, because that's all we know. She really didn't want me to, but I reminded her of our feeling that her Ethiopian past is something to shout from the rooftops-something that makes her special. And the more often we ignore it the more we'll start wanting to hide it. So, I told eight things (for eight years) about her life growing up, including baking her own mud dolls to play with, cooking and cleaning and carrying Willa wrapped on her back, tending cows, and even her mom's death. The children were riveted, one teacher cried, and Saffron absolutely beamed. She let herself feel the vibe of the class, and seemed to catch the vision of how good it can feel to be unique. I was really impressed with how well her teachers and classmates responded. It was a real breakthrough for Saffron, and she talked about it for days. Of course, many of the students in this small school have situations that make them feel atypical. They get it. This has really been a good move. (Now I just hope we can find a way to pay for it for a while longer.)

Willa, also at Saffron's new school now, in preschool a few days a week, is finally learning her letters. Clearly, they're doing something right that neither I nor her old preschool were. Honestly, this begins to dispel some concerns I had about her learning abilities. It just goes to show you can never underestimate the effects of a new country, family, and language, and even with the best intentions we often mistake those effects for terminal issues. With Willa I'm no longer thinking they are terminal. I think her struggle to retain learned facts has all been part of her general adaptation to a new life and whole new idea of what learning is.

Willa is jealous of Ruby and tattles on her and whines about her all the time. This really grates on me. But I have to remind myself that Willa is really good at many things--she always wants to go to school, gets ready fast, and bounds in without a word of complaint. And she still goes to sleep like my telling her to is fairy dust. Oh, and she'll eat absolutely anything. Everyone who eats with her is amazed.

So with all the things to love, why don't I always feel IN love with the girls? Well, because it's only been six months--for both of us. We're still newlyweds. We're still getting to know each other. AND, they're still learning the language. Their English has gotten so good I'm shocked at least a couple of times a week to realize how thoroughly they can still misunderstand me. And how little words, like corner, and feel, and behind can still confuse them. I think one of the biggest struggles for parents of foreign adoptees has got to be to realize how little they really understand, even when their English is deceptively good--especially their accents. I often find myself punishing them for something I realize after the fact they truly didn't understand. For example, I say "go to time out and don't come out until I come get you, when your time is up." Well, they always come walking promptly right out of time out. With sentences full of mostly simple words, it's really tempting (especially when I'm at my wit's end!) to see this as outright defiance. And I often have. But, in my calmer moments, I explain better, and find they are confused as to whether they're supposed to stay in, or come out and apologize.

Recently I've adopted the tactic of trying to see them as Etalem (their Ethiopian mom) would see them. I'm sure she'd like to smack me for not seeing their greatness all the time. That's how I'd feel, if I died and someone adopted Jasper and Ruby. In fact, even if I'm frustrated myself, it really upsets me if someone else doesn't realize how amazing the girls are. As my sister points out, that's a good sign that I do feel like their mom. I'm as defensive as a mother bear for them. Be patient, Etalem. I'm working on it. I know I'll get there.

So, how have I done? Is all this talk sufficient to turn me over, flip me up, make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside again? Maybe. Maybe I just need a Coke.

SstteeeeeeeehhRrriiiiiiiKE!!!!!

2010-04-21T11:11:00.004-06:00

Four score and seven blogs ago . . .
We the people of the United Blogosphere, in order to form a more
cyber union. . .
When in the course of posting events ...

How do you start a blog post again? It's been so long I can't remember.

This is what I've learned from the two baseball games I've attended
this evening--Ruby's and then Jasper's:

1. No matter how cool the players look in their shirts and visors, you
know you're watching a little girls' team when the parents yell things
like, "Be ready to run, Elly-Belly!"

2. There may not be any Weeping Willows beautifying the field at
Jasper's game, but that's no problem when you've got your own lovely
Pouting Willa.

How to Feed and Water an Adoption

2010-04-19T22:20:00.001-06:00

Tonight, after almost six months, I got one of those little rewards that remind me it's all been worth it. We just got home from Saffron's birthday dinner at the Ethiopian restaurant (today was her birthday). Everyone is tired, and I'm grumpy, and I thought Saffron looked like she was starting to get a little grumpy.

But, to the contrary, she just came up to me and gave me two hugs and said, "I never before had like you good mom. I love you."

When I know that I have yelled, and lost my temper, and been impatient, and made more mistakes than I can count, it amazes me that a child who's borne the worst of it could still judge me a "good mom." I couldn't ask for a higher compliment.

----------

Here is the post I wrote a couple of days ago, as a bit of an update. I've not posted it because it's really rough and I was waiting to have time to revise it. But I just can't see how I'm going to get any in the next couple days, and I've already gone too long without posting. . . .

Today was Saffron’s first birthday party—she turns 8 on Monday. We kept it simple, just taking friends to the park, and playing and having cake and presents. She seemed to think it was very fun. It’s always interesting to stumble upon something that’s still new. I offered Saffron the chance to cut the first piece of her cake, which was a round Frog Princess cake. For the life of her, she could not understand how I was telling her to cut it. She had never cut something round, I guess, or thought about how pizza pieces come out of a round pizza.

Even more fun was our visit in the road with a friend who was driving by the other day. This friend is pregnant with twin girls. We joked about the girls and possible names. After our friend drove away, Saffron asked in skeptical astonishment,

“How she know there two babies? How she know they girls?”

“Well, they use a special camera to look inside your belly and see what’s inside.”

Saffron did not like the idea of a camera in her belly one bit. In fact, I’m not sure if she really believes it’s possible to know what kind of baby you’re going to have. That’s OK, though, because Willa’s not going to have any babies at all. She likes to whine about how every little thing hurts, from her hair to her finger, and I try various different approaches for getting her over it. One day, after trying to ignore it for a while, I decided to explain to Willa how pain is just part of life so we have to get used to it. In fact, to have a baby come out of your tummy you have to go through a lot of pain. I thought this would really get her, because she loves babies, and loves to talk about them coming out of bellies. I was wrong—it completely backfired on me. Willa simply answered, “Me having no babies.” And she has stuck to it.

Spring is always a busy time with kids because it’s the time when all lessons converge—spring sports are going strong and dance has its recitals. I noticed this even with two kids, but with four it’s almost more than I can handle. These days we have an average of at least three events per evening. A couple days ago Ruby had tumbling and a T-ball game, Jasper had baseball practice, Saffron had a reading lesson, and I had a bridal shower. It would have been a miracle if we’d made them all on time in a perfect world, and we didn’t have that. Between looking for a lost Ruby after school (she’d gone to a friend’s) and getting caught in construction traffic, we missed tumbling all together. Add the doctors/psychologists/field trips we have during the day, and most nights I finally fall in bed exhausted, with a crick in my neck from all the rushing and driving.

We definitely still have extras beyond a regular family’s schedule. I’ve been taking Saffron once a week to a psychologist a half hour away who tests her for two hours--so a three hour committment. He is doing very thorough developmental age and emotional capacity testing. I’m thrilled to have him and his results will really help us argue her birthday in court and proceed in life in general with peace of mind—but it’s a BIG time commitment. Another thing: because her teeth were so dirty, I have to take her to the dentist for cleanings and rebuilding work every three or four weeks. Besides being moved to a separate school from her siblings, which makes for crazy mornings, Saffron is tutored in reading and English twice a week.

My point is just that I know it won’t always be this way, that eventually we’ll have these extra variables worked out, and that someday summer will come. Then the kids may be driving themselves and me crazy at home all day, but at least I won’t be driving all day. Though it’s a little overwhelming to adjust to this new life-—a year ago I felt like a little-kid mom and now I feel very much like a big-kid mom—-I have to say there’s a lot to like about it. I love seeing each of the kids try new lessons or sports, eager to discover their own talents. I like to see them all getting out of the house and having fun.

In fact, I’ve made Saffron put her money where her mouth is, and she’s still having fun. She told me a while ago she really wanted to run track (of course, she didn’t use those words, but described running to me). After she mentioned it several times, I finally called around. It took quite a while to find a kids track club in the area, but I finally did. I’m going to have to drive her a half hour to do it, and she’s quite disappointed that it doesn’t start for another month. Fine, I said, then let’s start now. This week I took her out in our street and had her run timed splits of about 400 meters, and then sprints. And guess what? She still loved it. So now I’m feeling pretty willing to drive her to track.

Otherwise, things are pretty good. We moved Ruby back into her own room, with her and Jasper moving to rooms downstairs. This extra space seems to have helped them both a lot. Jasper still doesn’t see how his sisters make his life better, but then, what 10-year-old boy does? Ruby seems to have accepted completely that Saffron is older than her. They are constant playmates, very well-matched, and nag each other like sisters. Willa pretty much whines about being the youngest and littlest and not getting the same privileges as the bigger kids. She also talks NONSTOP. So, she’s a pretty typical almost-five-year-old youngest.

Though we haven’t gotten all the results yet, the psychological testing has already been a real blessing. The questions alone in the behavioral studies Steve and I have had to answer have given me great insight into how a child develops, and into the ways Saffron and Willa will be behind for a while. This doesn’t mean they have any cognitive delays: on the contrary, they are both sharp and perceptive. Rather, their lack of exposure to the kind of life experiences a well-parented and fulfilled child would have-—especially an American child-—means they have many simple lessons yet to learn.

For example, they still tend to be very unaware of messes they make and things they leave all over the house. That’s because they did not grow up from a tiny age being aware of their own things or the places they were kept, as most American children do. That’s not to say they can’t clean: Saffron can clean a bedroom better than anyone if you tell her to. But after six months of being told daily, she still won’t close her dresser drawers unless I tell her to. Another example is Willa’s physical familiarity with strangers. She may come and climb uninvited in your lap when she barely knows you, even though she won’t speak to you. This is a behavior American children would learn as toddlers to avoid-—it causes both the mother and the stranger to send uncomfortable vibes. But Willa has missed this.

If I could pass one piece of advice on to other adoptive parents (if anyone actually wanted my advice), it would be to be very firm from the very beginning. This is the greatest advice I received, and I believe it has blessed our whole experience. It is tempting to indulge-—it’s easier, especially with children who need the lines of your entire world, your every expectation, drawn anew for them. But it is the quickest and surest way to happiness for all. When Charles died my grief counselor told me I had to grieve sometime in my life, so I could either go straight through it immediately, or try to push it away and encounter a much messier version of it later. I often wonder if some adoptive parents who struggle and want to give up may have had a different experience if they had been educated and encouraged about staying firm from the very beginning. I know it’s hard: either the people around you want to indulge your new children, and it’s takes great courage to be firm with a child in the presence of others who see you as harsh and don’t understand, or you become exhausted by the fights, the screaming the tantrums, and don’t have support, and just give in. I think the only reason I persevered in the beginning is because I had angels on my right hand and my left, to bear me up.

Being able to pick out more developmental cause and effect has helped me have more sympathy and patience with the girls. I think this really helps the bonding process. Bonding is still something that ebbs and flows. It’s simply a case of trying to make your behavior as consistent as possible as far as the child can tell, even though your own feelings are not consistent. It’s going through the motions-—faking it until you make it. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Still, I fail at that consistency a lot. Get over yourself, Emily, I have to say. Be the grownup here. And each time I learn again that the more love I show the child, the more love I feel for the child.

But you have to have complete faith that the feelings WILL come. To me, it feels very much like marriage. Barring abuse or extreme examples in both situations, of course, both require a complete refusal to consider an out. It’s the old idea that if you allow yourself to think, “Well, if this doesn’t work out I’ll just get divorced,” then the chances are much much higher that you will get divorced. If you’re committed to the reality of staying with your spouse, then you’ll find a way to keep loving them. You'll fake it till you make it.

Likewise, the past six months have taught me that if you allow yourself to think you may never bond with or love your adopted child as much as your biological one, then you’ll head right down that scary road. On the other hand, if you assume you absolutely will love them just as much, and it’s just a matter of time, then you’ll be patient with yourself, and with the child, and let yourself see and feel the good. You won’t put so much pressure on the relationship.

As I said, I’m excluding extreme examples, as of children who have Reactive Attachment Disorder or other severe problems. And this is just my opinion-—but I’m no dummy. I’ve been through financial hardship, three job losses, several big moves, and the loss of a baby in my marriage. Sometimes, in the darkest times, Steve and I both have had to settle for going through the motions. But we never considered not going through them. And yes, I’m only six months into this adoption, and I am dealing with no RAD or other major mental or emotional illness. But we did get a traumatic surprise in the woefully misrepresented age of our daughter, and we have been through some dark times. Still I’m convinced it’s all about believing it’s right, believing it will work, and believing it’s your own responsibility-—NOT the child’s-—to dig your bond through shallow to deep.

Pardon my soapbox. Recent current events compel one to speak out. It’s not Torrie Hansen’s story that makes me want to speak-—clearly that’s one of the extreme examples I mentioned, where neither side was fully honest or prepared for their situation. What has frustrated me is all the misinformed and judgmental discussion it has prompted about international adoption in general. One of my favorite comments was from a radio caller who pointed out that adoptive parents are just parents. Should we end biological parenthood because some mothers fail to bond with their babies? he asked. No, we grow more supportive of post-partum depression and lack of early attachment all the time. Why not allow adoptive parents the same and even a greater courtesy?

In the end, all parents will parent as they will parent, love as they will love, and raise their children as they will raise them. This doesn’t change because their children are biological or adopted. As a mother, I expect the same of myself either way.

Who's the Boss?

2010-04-01T21:22:00.002-06:00

Today my mom and Willa picked me up from the airport after my much-needed break with Steve: a week in Ireland with friends and NO KIDS. Willa greeted me and then said,

"Mom, I told you not to go. . . . And then you still go!"

She was rather indignant--as if I had been disobedient.

I then learned that Saffron had tried to boss my dad around, and Jasper had tried to boss my mom.

So what gives? You'd think these were the children of a parent who shrugs and takes flack--WHICH I DON'T!! On the contrary, I feel like I spend much of my life re-iterating to my children that I am the boss, and they shall treat me as such, and speak to me with respect, and no it won't be fair.

Jasper's smack I've dealt with for almost decade, but I must admit I'm surprised how quickly Saffron and Willa became comfortable with confronting their elders. Maybe it's a good sign that they have adjusted quickly and no longer fear adults? That I've done such a fab job I didn't even realize the progress?

Or, maybe it means I've lost it and talked too much smack to myself, setting a bad example. Maybe they're learning too much from their brother.

Nah, I'm going to stick with the fab job. That's my decision--and I'm the boss.

Musical Chairs

2010-03-29T08:00:00.003-06:00

Seriously. I mean it. This time my title is not a joke--I'm really talking about musical chairs. On St. Patrick's Day, Saffron was very excited when I picked her up from school. She was carefully guarding one green cupcake which she said she was saving to be the prize in a wonderful new game she'd learned. She wanted her siblings to compete for the prize in this special mystery game. She wouldn't let them see the cupcake.

When we finally got time to play right before bedtime, the great mystery game she loved so much turned out to be musical chairs. I couldn't smother my giggle. Jasper raised an eyebrow and said he was "too tired to play," so Ruby and Willa played a total of one round around one bar stool. Ruby won (of course, since Willa didn't know what she was doing), and they split the cupcake. Saffron was as delighted as a game show host.

I guess you never know where there are still new discoveries to be made--or which ones will be the most exciting.

Best Disneyworld Family Photo

2010-03-27T01:27:00.000-06:00

Don't they all look happy?!

http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YC5mULP2Ohk/S5dep0VZE_I/AAAAAAAAA_4/T-6FpRMPrZY/s1600-h/DSC_0314.JPG

A Diversion to Delphi

2010-03-25T23:59:00.000-06:00

You've got to visit my sister's blog, msscreensiren, and check out my favorite singing dog, Delphi, in the top left corner.

The best thing about Delphi's singing is how it came about, and how it continues. When Delphi was purchased as a puppy, Rachel was a struggling actor in New York who often practiced her singing for auditions. Delphi, feeling neglected while Rachel practiced, I think, began singing along, and competing with Rachel for volume.

Now, over a decade later, poor old Delphi MUST sing at least once a day--it seems necessary to her happiness and mental health. So, when we tend Delphi, my kids' favorite pastime is to have Delphi sing--several times a day. Delphi puts her paws on your chest when she wants to sing and then, when she finishes, kisses you all over like, "Ahh, yes! Thank you for scratching that itch." Delphi, we love you, babe. Sing for your supper!

Saffron and School

2010-03-24T08:00:00.001-06:00

In all the busyness of the past couple of weeks, I neglected to write about a two big events in Saffron's life.

First
Saffron had a somewhat disturbing experience at school.

She had walked down to the first grade hall one morning to deliver a letter to Ruby. On her way back, she noticed some candy on the floor below the backpacks outside another first grade class. That class was having an Eat-a-Read-a-thon, and lots of kids had treats in their backpacks. Used to cleaning up, Saffron bent over, picked up the candy on the floor, and stood up to head to the nearest garbage can down the hall. Just then the teacher came out of her class and accused Saffron of stealing. Saffron tried to explain in her broken English that it was on the floor, so she was cleaning it up. All the teacher heard was floor, and she responded that she didn't care if it was on the floor--it was still not Saffron's, and she was still stealing.

She then walked Saffron up to her own class, told her teacher what happened, said they better tell Saffron's mom, and that they should inform me Saffron needed to be taught not to steal--all in front of Saffron.

A while later I had a feeling I should go over to the school and get Saffron for a minute. I found her on the playground, terrified that she was in "trouble." It's the first time I've ever heard her use that word. She was afraid I would be mad, and begged me not to tell Steve or anyone else. She was afraid she would be kicked out of school. I walked into the faculty room where Saffron's teacher was eating lunch, and asked her what happened. (Saffron loves her teacher.) She told me the story, defending the other teacher and telling me she (the teacher) had said it very nicely. I must admit, I was surprised she hadn't defended Saffron.

I wanted to say "I don't care if she said it nicely!! She was out of line and couldn't have been more insensitive!" What I did say very frankly was, "Well, this is a girl who was beaten at just the accusation of stealing in Ethiopia, more than once, so I can promise you she would NEVER steal." I couldn't find the other teacher, but wrote her a note telling her the same thing, that Saffron would never steal and had been beaten for even the accusation of it before, but that she was used to cleaning and did this automatically, and that Saffron was very upset and sorry about the encounter.

Saffron was afraid to go to school the next day. I let her stay home one day, but sent her back the second day. What was really upsetting to me about the whole thing was the shear insensitively and bias of it. This was the first experience we have ever had of the girls being treated "differently." I'm quite sure the teacher would not have handled the situation the same way if it had been another second grader. I felt she had jumped to a mental conclusion that Saffron would be more likely to eat off the floor than clean off the floor. Besides that, I'm surprised a teacher didn't take into account her knowledge of Saffron's recent adoption and poor English in making accusations. All of the teachers know Saffron's situation. It doesn't take much forethought to imagine how upsetting this might be to a child in a new school, and how gently it could have been handled by watching to make sure Saffron walked to the garbage, or taking the candy from her kindly to throw it away yourself. To assume she has no understanding of theft seems to me the least logical response. That's why it seems like a tainted response.

Second
We got over the above experience just fine and it is not the reason for this second experience. But it did alert me to the fact that Saffron could benefit from more personal understanding at school.

Fast forward a week, and Willa's "energy" was driving me a bit crazy. I started to think I'd like to put her in more days of preschool. I toured one small Montessori private school that has pre-school to sixth grade. I was impressed with the small numbers, and the sort of non-grade-level approach that allowed each student to go at her own pace.

That night at homework I was trying to teach Saffron how to borrow a one in subtraction. Through our struggle I realized she didn't truly even understand the basic concept of subtraction. She can do it in life--give you three of her toys--but on paper she couldn't tell me whether or not you could take 9 away from 5. Between that and trying to teach her to read, and Jasper and Ruby feeling frustrated because they needed homework help, I was flooded with that familiar feeling of being overwhelmed. Suddenly, I thought of the new preschool. Rather than feeling like she wasted six hours at school to then come home and be taught by me, she could get one-on-one help and learn all day! I knew she loved her teacher and class, but could never get the kind of one-on-one time she needed in a public school. Our first goals had only been socialization and English. But now that those were well on their way, it seemed she was no longer benefitting from school.

This was a Wednesday. I talked to Steve that night, and we started Saffron in her new school the following Monday. She was scared, but so desperate to learn faster that she was willing to try it. So far the change seems to have been a great success. She is in a class of ten with only two teachers--she just walked in and I asked her how she's liking it. "It's good! I'm learning very a lot English, and reading, and minus, and take away," she says. She is one of the three oldest students in her (six- to nine-year-old) class, so she no longer has to feel behind all the time.

Because Steve just received a bonus we were going to use to pay off adoption debt, this is the only time we could have afforded this school (around $500/month:{). We were able to hold back some of the debt payment to set aside for school payments. (Needless to say, we are NOT enrollig Willa in the preschool right now.) I didn't realize how much stress I felt about Saffron's learning situation until we changed it. Hooray! I now have one extra place to drive every day, but one less major concern to carry. I'm SO SO grateful this all worked out.

ET(hiopia), Phone Home

2010-03-22T15:09:00.003-06:00

I know, I know. I left you all hanging. It wasn't intentional. That phone call came in the middle of a very busy day, and when we finished I was both emotionally exhausted and overbooked. I had no time to write a real post, but wanted to document the event.

So here's the story. I apologize in advance that it will be long: I want the details recorded somewhere. This will be nice for Steve, too, who was at work through the whole event.

Saffron has always wanted to call her Ethiopian Dad, since her first or second week in America. When he took her and Willa to the orphanage, he had Saffron memorize his cell phone number, and also put it in her school work. He told her to call when they were with a family, and let him know they were OK. But Saffron couldn't remember all the digits, and the number in her school work was lost.

She didn't think about it much, until we had called Gaetcho, our driver and friend in Ethiopia, to say HI, in Ethiopia a couple of times. Once she realized it was really possible, she then wanted to call her dad again. We first tried calling her teacher at the orphanage, whose number we had. She kept saying call back and she would have the number, but she could never get it. Then we spent a few weeks trying different numbers Saffron thought she remembered off and on, and getting a few wrong numbers in Ethiopia.

A few more weeks went by, and then Saffron started asking to call her dad again. She mostly thought of it when she remembered Little Brother, and wanted to talk to him on the phone. So, about a month ago I called Gaetcho (in Addis Ababa) with a proposal.

"Gaetcho," I said. "We can't find Ethiopia Dad" (of course I gave Gaetcho his real name). "Would you be willing to journey to Meki and try to track him down for us? If you're willing, I'd happily send you some money via Western Union to cover your expenses."

I knew Gaetcho would probably do it for free, but it's a two-hour car journey each way, and an odd request--I would never feel comfortable asking a friend on Ethiopian wages to put out that kind of gas money just to be nice.

Gaetcho, who became quite attached to the girls and our family during our long adoption process in Addis Ababa, was happy to help. He said to give him a couple weeks, and call back.

About three and a half weeks later, I was feeling really guilty that I hadn't sent Gaetcho any money. So I sat down and transferred $75 online, and called Gaetcho to let him know it was there. It was the middle of the night in Addis, so it was no surprise that Gaetcho never answered the phone.

I think first thing Saturday morning Gaetcho must have discovered all those missed calls in the middle of the night, because he seems to have gotten up and headed for Meki immediately.

Saturday afternoon, as we delivered Girl Scout cookies (feels like that's ALL I did this week!), I got a missed call from Gaetcho's number. I immediately called him back (we use onlineprepay.com, for those of you looking for a way to call Ethiopia or back), and through a very bad connection I understood that Gaetcho had been to Meki.

Meki is a very small town with one or two shops, and a few streets of run-down 'houses'. It is bigger than a village--a collection of a few huts--in that it has a sort of "main" street, and a Tuesday market day. Still it's small, and Saffron has always believed everyone in Meki knew her dad. Saffron has told us that her family lives in the cemetery, where her father guards the grounds in exchange for shelter. But Gaetcho visited five different houses and could find no one who knew where to find Ethiopia Dad. He left his mobile number with three different people, and headed back to Addis. (Though they may be desperately poor, a huge number of Ethiopians in the countryside have cell phones. They are their lifeline.)

Saturday evening Gaetcho got a call from one of the three people who put him in touch with someone (it was unclear) who knew Ethiopia Dad. Shortly after, Gaetcho either called or was called by Ethiopia Dad.

"He was very happy, and thanked me over and over for finding him, "Gaetcho said. "I think he is a good person, Emily. I think he has changed his life." Gaetcho is quite loyal to us and, I would say, a pretty shrewd judge of character. He was quite upset in Addis when Saffron told him the stories of her dad's treatment, so I was glad but surprised to hear him say this. At one point I may have thought it would be threatening to have contact with a birthparent, and especially one who really loves the girls. But now that they are here, I feel quite the opposite. I am happy for them to get to speak to their dad, and happy if he loves them and regrets the way he treated them.

So, I got out the video camera to record the event, and we called Ethiopia Dad at the number Gaetcho gave us. He answered, and we had a clearer connection than we've ever had with Ethiopia.

Saffron said (in English), "Hello? I am Tinsae!" And Ethiopia Dad began to sob. He kept repeating, over and over, "Betam! Betam! Betam! Betam!" 'Betam' means 'very,' and is even used by itself to a very emphatic 'thank you.' He thanked God for protecting them, and me for taking them, and Tinsae for calling him, and seemingly everyone he could think of. The best word I can think of to describe his reaction is overcome. He was overcome. His love for his girls was obvious, and it is easy to see why they have continued to love him, despite knowing it was wrong for him to hit them. I think I may be the only one who struggles with how to feel about all this. To Saffron and Willa, it's clear. Even when I've probed over the past several months, neither girl has every doubted his love for her. He loves them, and they love him, but they never want to live with him again. They are glad he gave them up. Saffron loves constant reassurance that she will always be in our family--that she will never go back, except for a visit. In a way, they seem to view his behavior as out of character for him--as motivated by desperation, fear, and the Wicked Stepmother.

Ethiopia Dad speaks very little English, so it was slow going. After a few minutes Saffron was able to understand all of his Amharic, but still struggled to speak back to him in Amharic. He asked things like how close is their school, do they have new brothers and sisters and what are their names, and will they come visit someday. He said he had trouble remembering Saffron's face, and wanted us to write a letter and send photos. He gave us his PO BOX (not sure if we got it right). He told us he teaches a Bible study class at the church, and says a prayer for all of us at the church every day. He said Little Brother cries for his sisters. Even Wicked Stepmother got on and said hi briefly. That was awkward. Saffron asked over and over about Little Brother because she wanted to speak to him, but he could not be roused from sleep (we called again yesterday and spoke to him).

Through pain-staking repetition and questioning, we were finally able to learn the girls' birth dates. Ethiopia Dad knew them right off, which makes it all the more frustrating to think of what we've been through over the past few months to adjust to girls much older than we were told (and that their Ethiopian records still show!), and to try and "choose" the right ages and birth dates. In fact, we had just chosen October 12, the day Saffron met us, as her third and final birthdate, and were all feeling great about it. It makes me mad now that I know for sure that these birth dates were never unknown--they were known, and they were NOT what the paperwork reported, and someone clearly lied along the way. I'm just grateful that we had not yet finished court proceedings to change their birth dates. We still have time to fix them before court.

Because Ethiopia has a very different calendar than the Gregorian one we use in the Western world, we had to translate their birth dates into our calendar. The years he gave us were unclear and varied each time Saffron translated, so I don't know that he really remembers them. We didn't get a conclusive answer on year, which reassured me once and for all that we are best to proceed according to what age fits their development best. We are using a pediatrician, dentist, and child psychologist to help us determine that. This whole frustrating and emotional age/birthday saga has taught me one thing: the biological age of your skeleton matters a lot less than your emotional age when it comes to fitting in in the world. I guess I've come to see it more as the country Ethiopians do--I'm not sure why we place such importance on tracking a person's age.

Anyday, Ethiopia Dad was very clear and undeviating when it came to the days and months of the girls' birth. After translating from the Ethiopian calendar,

Saffron's birthday is April 19.

Willa's birthday is June 15.

I asked for a few more details about Ethiopia Mom's death. Ethiopia Dad said she had no flesh, and had cancer. The paperwork says TB. I asked if she had AIDS, and he said no. After a while of talking and translating, Saffron was tired and wanted to go jump on the tramp. Willa had already talked to Ethiopia Dad, and couldn't say much (because she can speak no Amharic anymore), so mostly giggled, and had the phone impatiently grabbed away by Saffron. Neither girl ever got emotional about the phone call. I was a bit surprised. I did make Saffron translate one more question for me.

"Why?" I asked. "Why did you take the girls to the orphanage?"

In broken English, he answered, "No food, no house, no money, no thing." He added something in Amharic which Saffron translated as "He have no strong here, inside," as she pointed to her heart. Saffron added that they had "no this, only this" and grabbed the flesh on her arm, and then the bone of her wrist.

And then she said good-bye, and ran outside to jump.

Yesterday we called again, briefly, to talk to Little Brother. They were finally able to rouse him from his sleep, and like his father he cried when he heard, "I am Tinsae!" I'm sure he'll probably wonder if it was a dream. He asked if he could come to America.

Though I am very happy the girls got to talk to their Ethiopian dad and brother, I don't think we'll call again for a long time. It would be too hard on the girls, and on Little Brother. Can you imagine that little boy being dragged into his sisters world in America over and over by phone? Not fair to him. I don't think the girls will mind. I think they got what they wanted, and Saffron fulfilled the responsibility she felt to let her dad know they are OK.

And now I'm as emotionally exhausted from writing this as I was after the phone call.

We Just Got Off The Phone with Ethiopia Dad!!!

2010-03-20T15:02:00.000-06:00

Willa, Minature Rosetta Stone

2010-03-15T17:52:00.001-06:00

You can't let yourself cry about the fact that Saffron and Willa are
losing their Amharic. It is sad, but seems to be necessary to the
evolution of their English. Even Rundassa, who is a native Amharic
speaker, says his adopted Ethiopian kids can't speak a word of Amharic
anymore.

So, we continue to quiz the girls on Amharic words in the hope that
they'll retain some Amharic neural pathways, or other such deeply
hidden Amharic vocabulary that will come out someday when they visit
their hypno-therapist to complain about me.

Otherwise, there's nothing to do but enjoy the miracle that is
children learning and adopting a new 'first' language, and laugh about
it along the way. With Willa around, this isn't hard to do.

Willa thinks she should quiz me about language the way I quiz her--the
only problem is, she no longer knows which way is up, down, Amharic or
English in her whirlwind new life.
So, she constantly says hilarious things. When she still used mostly
Amharic words, I would challenge her to use the English words by
saying, "in Englizania?" (The Amharic word for English.)

Therefore, Willa thinks the word for translating something is
"Banglizanya." So, she says things like:

"Mom, 'wait' Banglizanya?"

"'Wait' is 'koy' in Amharic," I answer.

"No!" she says. "'Wait' Banglizanya 'Just a minute.'"

And then,

"Mom, 'book' Banglizanya 'paper.'"

In other words, she thinks she's telling me the Amharic word for
'wait' is 'just a minute,' and the Amharic word for 'book' is
'paper.' Hearing such confused statments is hilarious, charming, and
insightful all at once. Certainly, these moments are telling about how
quickly Willa's grasp on her former life grows tenuous. As we knew, of
course, this happens much more quickly for her than Saffron. Saffron
can't remember much Amharic, but she is aware she's forgetting. That's
the difference.

Maybe it's just that I'm a word person by nature, but I find these
little languagisms some of the most intriguing developments of this
whole experience.

Willa Models Her Fab New Look

2010-03-09T12:17:00.002-07:00

Lest I Let My Emotional Guard Down . . .

2010-03-08T22:33:00.002-07:00

Today was a doozy. I haven't had a day this hard--this emotionally taxing--in weeks. Actually, I can't even say it was a day: it was only in the evening that things began to unravel. Just when I had begun to feel the routine fall into place, to watch everyone begin to feel at home with their new life, and my own anxieties subside, I was yanked back into the reality that four months is only the beginning of this journey. All four kids reminded me of that tonight.

At dinner, Jasper, out of the blue, popped the comment that maybe Saffron should go back to Ethiopia--in front of her. When I scolded him, he began to cry, which led us to send all the kids out of the room and have a half-hour talk with Jasper about his feelings, about why he still feels so negative about the situation. We made good headway, but it was important--and sobering--to be reminded that even if he doesn't act out anymore, he still needs a lot of time to feel good about his new life.

After Jasper, I started to comb Willa's hair before bed. Willa had, again today, begged all day to have her hair cut. Then tonight, even though it's shorter and was just washed yesterday and her scalp is getting much healthier (thanks to Dr. Ross's medicine), she still began sobbing immediately and continued to cry through every gentle tug, despite my frequent pauses for her respite. I reminded her, again, that if this crying at every combing, washing, braiding, etc., (we are supposed to comb it at least once a day) continued, we would need to cut her hair and wait until she's a little older and it's a little healthier to wear it long. She insisted she wanted to go ahead and do it, and I thought to myself, "I've discussed this with her every day for four months. She's only four, and doesn't have to have long hair if she just can't deal with it. Frankly, I can't handle this stress in our life anymore. Seems like a small thing for how much stress it creates for both of us in an already difficult situation." So, I cut it all off. I was then able to get to her scalp and clear the dead scabs. It's now about as short as Saffron's looks in the photo at the top of the blog. Actually, we all agree she looks adorable. But as soon as she saw the first big clumps, Willa began to sob uncontrollably, until she almost passed out. There was no consoling her. You may think any child would cry about a haircut, but I guarantee you you haven't seen the likes of this. It is clear, through endless comments about it made by the girls, that in Ethiopia they were taught to believe short hair is worthy of shame. That's why I didn't cut Willa's hair sooner. But we've got to recover her scalp's health, and my sanity. We've spent months trying to rebuild from the ground up the girls' understanding of beauty, and I think Willa will feel better about it in the morning.

After we got Willa cleaned up and in fresh pajamas, I could see that Saffron was not in a good place. I hugged her and asked how she felt about the haircut, or to tell me what was wrong. She then began to cry, and proceeded to tell me that she has confusing dreams where I am with her Ethiopia Mom in Ethiopia, and that she is afraid of me and Steve. She knows it isn't rational (not her exact word), that we love her, that we would never hurt her, etc., but she has fear in her tummy and in her hands every time something goes wrong and she thinks she'll get in trouble. She knows better, she says, but she just can't seem to get rid of the feeling. It's like she can't get Negat (the Wicked Stepmother), out of her mind, and it affects her reactions. This is all understandable to adoptive parents, of course, but it's still extremely discouraging to hear. So, I then had a half-hour conversation with her about memories, change, trauma, and the major difference between women in American culture vs. women in Ethiopian culture. Phew.

When I finally walked Willa and Saffron into their room at 10:00 PM to put them to bed, I discovered a very sad and dejected Ruby in her bed. She was hurt that I had called Saffron in to help with Willa's hair, not her. She was feeling good for and good at nothing, all over again. I did my best to kiss and comfort and reassure, but my heart sank to hear this final news, this issue that I naively thought was subsiding recur again. I can't put into words my love for little Ruby, and my heartbreak to think that she is again doubting her worth. Fortunately, she was too tired for a half-hour talk, and so accepted my kisses and settled in for sleep.

Ay Yi Yi. I feel that yucky, scared, overwhelmed feeling I haven't felt for many weeks. Why can't I seem to make each child feel loved enough? This is hard. At least, this time around, I know the feeling does go away, and things do get better. At least I've seen a glimpse of how good, how right this new family can feel.

Willa, Interrupted

2010-03-05T17:22:00.001-07:00

Well, I promised to write the good AND the bad, and as I've been faithful about the bad, I'm compelled to record some good, too. The last little bit Saffron has been absolutely delightful. What an amazing girl! Last night she asked me if she could take me up on an old offer to make a video history. I turned on the camera and she proceeded to talk for half an hour about her life in Ethiopia. This will be GOLD to her some day. Right now she's telling me how her brother Wassie could run to the store faster than she could.

The funny thing is, we are all enjoying Saffron's cheerfulness except one: Willa. Today Willa said with a frown, "Mom, you said me everyday nice. Saffron everyday sad. Now, ahune, Saffron nice."

"Aren't you happy Saffron is happy? Don't you want her to be?" I asked.

"No!" she said.

And it's true. She isn't. The more even-keel Saffron gets the more uneven Willa gets. It's rather hilarious. I think Willa was thriving in her identity as the easy one, and now she's going to have to reinvent herself. Ahh . . . It never gets boring around here.

Jasper and Ruby: since you are reading this I must
be dead, and you must be reviewing my collected works for posthumous publication. For the record, I love you both desperately and am still caring for you and cherishing you everyday--even if you're not making the Blog News. Take it as a compliment. I'll make it up to you in the will.

Hiding

2010-03-04T15:20:00.001-07:00

Yesterday Saffron was excited to be trusted with tending Willa alone
for the first time (in America, since those three years in Ethiopia,
of course). I had a lunch appointment, and Saffron had stayed home
from school.

She called me several times to give me an excited play-by-play, but
the best was when I came home to find they had barricaded the front
door with a cooler. Apparently, they found this more protective than
the boring deadbolt I had suggested.

This morning I finally succumbed to that nap I've needed for a week. I
turned a movie on for Willa in the room next to me. When I woke up her
movie had ended and she was hiding behind the couch in the other room.

"Boo!" she said as she jumped out. She was giggling, but she explained
that she had been hiding since her movie ended both because she wanted
to jump out at me, and because she was scared.
"Next time if you're scares just come in my room," I said.

You can take the girls out of the place where they had to preserve
themselves, but you can't take the preservation out of the girls.
----------------------------------

Willa is just now eating lunch (well, a few bites when she can fit
them in to her busy schedule) while she plays an African drum, and
gives me a play-by-play of her thoughts. This includes:

-"This kitchen?" said while pointing at her meet. Chicken and Kitchen
are forever confused.

-A recount over and over of how she jumped out at me.

-Accusations of me "copping" (copying) Saffron because I dared to make
stew, which is very much like the Ethiopian wadt Saffron makes, minus
her three-alarm spices. "Mom you watch Toukoul cook and then you make.
Why you copy?" (Willa refers to Ethiopia as 'Toukoul,' the name of the
orphanage.)

"Actually, this is America wadt and my mom made it when I was a
little girl."

"Oh! So you go Toukoul even you face no brown and then you grow big
and mama."

So apparently, if my mom ever cooked this then we must both have lived
in Ethiopia--even though our faces are not brown.

And . . . Back to the drum. You gotta love this stuff.

Emily Mabey Swensen

Willa: A Day in the Life

2010-03-02T09:07:00.000-07:00

"Mom, K'non door open mine window?"
(Can I roll down my window?)
-Willa, just now.

Have I mentioned that Willa is pretty much delighted all the time? All the time. As my mom says, thank goodness Saffron has given me a run for my money or this would all be too easy! Of course, Willa brought her surrogate mom/comfort zone with her, and she's too little to understand the magnitude of what she's been through, so it's easy to see why her transition is easier. But that's not all: the other half of it is that this girl naturally has the sunniest disposition I have ever seen. I'm not saying she doesn't also have a black belt in pouting-- she does. She just doesn't choose to pull it out very often.

Here are some typical daily Willa-isms:

1. Mom, look (she says 'look' constantly). Jasper ticklish me everyday!
(she looks at me like, 'what are we gonna do with that silly boy?')

2. Yes, today.
This is Willa's interpretation of 'yesterday' which can be used to refer to many various time periods.

3. Mom, look. My room...my room...my room clean big. Me small.
In other words, the mess of my clothes on my floor is just too big for me to clean. Oh well.

4. Mom, me everyday nice. Me everyday funny.
A self-rxplanitory example of Willa's confidence.

5. My dad hit. Look, my dad hit Willa. My dad nice, then wait, then no nice.
This to the neighbor, who--luckily--was smart enough to realize she was talking about Ethiopia Dad, not Steve. Willa's life is an open book, and we just go with it.

6. Dad, you said me pizza bread. Pizza finished!
No, Willa, I said have a piece of bread.
Ok. (She then rips a bite-size piece off a slice of bread and looks at Steve like 'This is a pretty lame snack, but whatever you say.'

7. Me ja-lock-it yes!!
Willa says this all the time, about everything she likes. This comes from my saying a sloppy, 'Willa, d'you like it?'
She especially likes to say this to try to win points when one of her siblings refuses to eat something. Willa eats everything.

8. Me I see no!
Don't look at me! Especially when she's waiting to jump out at me.

9. Ok. (zonk)
If Willa wakes up in the car and I tell her to go back to sleep, she's like a robot--she zonks obediently out right away.

10. Mom buckled yes?

Mom, is your seatbelt buckled?

Willa remembers a surprising amount, for her age, about when she first met us, and the first days in Addis. Especially since she didn't say a word or smile and seemed to be in shock, you would think it all might be a blur. She remembers that the necklaces we brought them with their
English initial were a gift from Dad, specifically (I thought this was just a casual touch I added as I handed them to them, so that the man behind the camera would get a little credit). She rememebers what she wore, and what clothes we gave them.

One thing she doesn't remember but I do distinctly, and we always laugh about it. When we sat at lunch at our guest home on that first day, Birhane (Willa) sat next to me. Because neither of the girls had uttered a word or showed any signs of trusting us with even a smile, I was shocked when Birhane suddenly tapped my leg and whispered a nearly inaudible word sounding something like "ka-ka.". "Umm," I said to our translator. "I think she needs something. It sounded like...kaka?" Oh yes, they told me. That means poop! So, Willa trusted me enough to tell me she needed to
poop. And this was her first word, we like to say.

This post is brought to you by the letter I, as in 'I,' an extremely useful word to master in English, but inconvenient for kids to learn because it sounds like 'eye.' Just yesterday Willa finally made the big stride of progressing from 'me hungry' to 'I am hungry.'

I Wear My Sunglasses at Church

2010-02-28T22:19:00.001-07:00

"Mom me everyday drink. Me everyday bathroom, flush, wash hands. Me everyday sleep."
-quote of the day from Willa
"Mom, my shoes offing."
-quote of the day from Saffron

I'm blogging from my phone to try and trick myself into not thinking I'm blogging. Otherwise, it stresses me out.

So, isn't it true that getting back into real life after a vacation is a lot like getting hit by all those gallons of cold water on the river rapid ride at Disneyworld? Except not as fun. We all got in late last night, and after a week of far too little sleep, church this morning and homework makeup tonight were pretty grumpy and grueling. In fact, because fatigue headaches always go to my eyes (because of previous eye disease) and make them very sensitive to light, and because I always have a pair on sunglasses with me, I couldn't resist sporting my white 'Hollywood-incognito' sunglasses all through Sacrament Meeting. It was either that or leave. I hope everyone enjoyed speculating on whether I had a hangover or just bad taste. Either way, now that the girls are better behaved in church I figure I need to give the masses some new distraction.

Speaking of behavior, how do you discipline hyper eight-and-six-year-olds on a tiny airplane? Never considered that question? Neither had I until last night. All the things that used to work with little kids are no longer succesful.

We were on our second leg of our flight home last night with Jasper finally getting his turn to sit by me, and Ruby sitting by Saffron (Steve and Willa flew separately). Ruby and Saffron got a terrible case of the giggled which would have been acceptable on the bedroom floor, but not so much on a quiet cramped airplane. (Except that their giggling and my quiet but urgent reprimands provided entertainment for the bored, cramped passengers. My calling in life, apparently.)
I calmly scolded, coaxed, threatened, and explained airplane danger and etiquette for about an hour before deciding I better get serious. Jasper had already been feeling left out all week and missing me, because he is older and independent and kept getting sent off to ride rides with other people, so I wasn't willing to make him go sit by one of the girls. As happy as I was to see Saffron and Ruby having such fun together, it was really time to put a stop to it. This was bothering people. So, I said they had to separate and because Saffron is older, I sent her back to a seat two rows behind us for a couple minutes. Boy! That was a serious affront. She came back and proceeded to cry and pound and stomp in her seat. This was zero improvent over the giggling. This went on for a while and included the usuals, like refusing all food and crying pointedly at me, almost leaning over the aisle. But, then she just stopped.

"Mom, you mad me sad?"
"No, I'm not mad," I said.

And then she was fine. They all went to sleep. And it reminded me how amazing it is that they've come so far in four months. This vacation went better than I ever imagined--the girls got along, and took turns, and usually kept the pouting to a minimum (except for the time Saffron told me 'I want lost,' and and pouted away from us while we rode the Honey Pooh ride. I knew she wouldn't go far and we had a scout keep an eye on her.)

Saffron is one complicated girl, and we'll never understand it all. Just yesterday she told me the reason she sulked for so long after I scolded her for not saying thank you to a brother-in-law who bought her dinner, was that her dad used to punish her for eating at neighbors' houses.
"I know you not like my dad, Mom, but me scary. I don't know.". But Saffron is also one quick learner-- she pays attention, and adapts, and makes huge strides every week. The women in my family are pretty tough cookies, and I think she'll fit right in.

It was interesting to hear my family's impression of the girls. They said Saffron seemed very attached to me and always wanted to know where I was when she was off riding with other people. This was nice to hear, as I always feel like Willa would happily move in with anyone who would play with her and feed her unlimited bananas. I'm just the one who put her shirts in time out when she wouldn't put them away, and limits her daily banana intake. But that's ok. We all need time to bond.

So, all in all a good trip to the happiest place on earth.

This post is brought to you by the letter M, as in 'moviestar.'. Saffron put my sunglasses on in church while I went up to sing with the choir. She was thrilled thst the woman behind us leaned forward and said "You look like a 'moviestar!"

"What's a 'moviestar?" I asked.
"I don't know."

Is It Really Disney?

2010-02-23T19:39:00.011-07:00

"Is this really? Is it play??"

This is the question asked over and over by Saffron throughout our past two days in Disneyworld. When it's been less than three months since you saw your very first movie, rode on your very first airplane, saw your very first Christmas lights and discovered your very first talking toy, how do you even begin to get your mind around Disneyworld?

From the lights, speed, water-soaking special effects, and sheer fear of the rides, to the colors, music and animatronics of the shows, Saffron's imagination is on absolute sensory overload. She can't process it all, yet she is loving it and drinking it up. The thrill rides are the perfect example: yesterday at Animal Kingdom we began the day by riding the Mt. Everest coaster, where you speed through the dark only to find that a Yeti has broken your train's tracks, and you then slide backward down the hill at perilous speed--still in the dark. When we came out of the ride, Saffron and Ruby both burst into tears. And they continued bawling for about 10 minutes! The funny thing was, Ruby was crying because she was scared, but as an American girl knew all along that the monkey wasn't real. She was just afraid of the dark. Saffron, on the other hand, was sobbing because she was convinced a real "monkey" had broken the track, and we had fallen almost to our death. I kept telling her it was all part of Disney's plan, but she just wouldn't believe me. She was mad at me for taking her on the ride, and kept asking why we would think scary was fun--in her mind they were two completely different things. But how could we have prepared her? We tried to explain a rollercoaster, but quickly saw it wasn't computing and so decided to let her discover it for herself. I'll never forget the picture of Saffron and Ruby sobbing on their way out of the ride--hilarious, and very telling about each of their current grasps of the world around them.

Fast forward to today at Disney Hollywood Studios, and Saffron GOT it. It only took her a day to figure out that fear and fun CAN go together, and she ate it up. You couldn't drag that girl off the Tower of Terror. She was very disappointed not to have a chance to try the Aerosmith upside-down-in-the-dark coaster. She has loved every show, but is confused and constantly asks if the actors mixed with animatronics mixed with film and music are "really" or "play?"

So, one of our two new favorite Saffron quotes is "Is it really??"

Our other favorite new quote came from both Saffron and Willa last night. As we walked to the car, they kept saying to me, "Mom, Me have lot hangups." We laughed so hard. "Yes, you do have a lot of hangups," I said, "but I think right now you have a lot of hiccups, too.'"

As for Willa? Oh, she's eating it all up. Except she's not sure what she's eating up. "Where Disney? This Disney?" She keeps asking. "This is all Disney!" Steve keeps answering. "No," she shakes her head. "This not Disney!" Her favorite was definitely the Kali river rapids ride. Any four year old with any background can appreciate how funny it is to be sitting in a boat with a bunch of adults, fully clothed, and be doused with gallons of water. Now that's fun in any language.

"Neither Cast Ye Your Pearls Before Swine, Lest They Trample Them Under Their Feet," Or, Don't Read This if You're Not Going to Be Nice

2010-02-20T11:46:00.009-07:00

Don't you dare tell my mom and dad I am blogging. We all have to catch a plane in about three hours and I'm sure they're already sitting next to their suitcases with their jackets on saying, "I bet Emily and her kids are going to make us late."

From the comments I've been getting from people, it's clear I'm not going to be able to let our little "Walk to Ethiopia" go without a wee bit more explanation. Why were they attempting the 'long road home?' Well, let's just say negotiations at the Swensen Summit were falling apart on both sides.

1. Saffron's camp had fallen back to trying to force the I-am-Willa's-mom agenda, the I-roll-my-eyes-and complain-about-every-request agenda, the I-do-things-myself-without-asking agenda, and the Superior Sulking agenda.

Don't get me wrong--things are fabulously improved and quite smooth overall these days. We have very few tantrums or long periods of pouting, and many good times. It's just that after almost four months, I have lost my patience with the kind of behavior I could take in the beginning, and so I was having a really hard time dealing with this backward slide. I was struggling with the fact that I've already ruined my streak with these kids. I remember when I ruined Jasper: I had been a perfect mother for about 5 days, and then when he was still less than a week old, Steve and I had an exhaustion-driven argument in front of him. "Great." I thought. I've already ruined my streak of perfect parenthood. At least I got to let go of the gold early, and be content with the consolation round.

Also, as Steve pointed out, now that the major behavioral issues had all calmed down--now that survival mode was over--I had enough time to face all my feelings about the past few months, and to re-realize that this is going to take a long time. Yes, their English has come an amazingly long way, but it still has much much further to go before we can communicate purely. This struck me when we went skiing and I said to the instructor "their English is pretty good." My nice, soft-spoken dad then turned to him and corrected, "Their English is lousy. You'll have to show them everything." Gees, I thought. I guess that's how it looks to someone who hasn't seen every tiny progression. So, I was tired, and discouraged. This led to . . .

2. Mom's camp had degenerated to the shape-up-or-ship-out-because-I-can't-hold-my-tongue-anymore agenda. ******MIND YOU*****I did NOT mean ship out to Ethiopia--just out of the room. In other words, if Saffron grunted and rolled her eyes when I put her dinner in front of her, I would say, "That's it. You can go to your room." Period. No arguments. I knew she knew the food rules by this time. I was having a hard time not taking things personally.

And then, I broke the cardinal rule. When she complained that there was nothing to do because I wouldn't let her play computer games or watch any more TV, I said a few things like, "Well, I don't know what you did for entertainment in Ethiopia but it must have been pretty awesome because we sure can't keep you happy here in America. You always want more more more, and better better better, and maybe you just liked life better in Ethiopia. I know you wish you were back there with Etalem, but you're stuck here, with me as your mom."

Is this a little too "frank" and "honest" for the World Wide Web? I'm guessing that yes, frankly, it honestly is. But there it is. This is hard. I've been a grown-up through most of it, but recently I had degenerated into a child, saying petty things about Ethiopia vs. America-which is never, ever fair--and about their perfect biological mom vs. me. As Belinda would say, "I was so junior high."

And I knew it. I knew I was out of line. I knew I needed a change of heart, and a whoopin', which I am always good at giving myself in my mind and did continually.

Saffron, it must be said, also knew that I had NOT said I wanted her to leave. She understood that I kept saying she was stuck with us for good, but she wanted to punish me, understandably. So, she embarked on her epic journey.

I have a fear of "casting my pearls before swine" (not that y'all are swine) on the internet, so I often don't share the tender moments that get me through. But lest ye all think I'm a crazy women, I do have those moments. We all turn somewhere for comfort and inspiration--I turn to my faith. Monday night, after the runaways returned and were in bed, I asked Steve to give me a blessing. In our religion this is like a prayer, but a bit stronger, where another person, a Priesthood holder, basically prays and asks the Lord for a personal message for you.

The gist of what I felt in that prayer was reassurance that we are on the path that is right for our lives and our family, that I am doing just fine as a mother to all my children, that the Lord loves me, and that many people around me are standing ready to support me, and everything will be OK. And during that blessing I was also reminded of another major tender moment that got me through, around Thanksgiving. I never shared it here, but will now. Hopefully those readers who might not appreciate it have already gotten bored and stopped reading.

Remember the day I took Saffron to my friend Emily's house, pulled her from the car screaming and left her there so I could cool off? When I went home to take a nap, I first opened my scriptures. The fell open--literally--to the following passages:

Verily I say unto you, concerning your brethren who have been afflicted, and persecuted and cast out from the land of their inheritance--yet I own them, and they shall be mine in that day when they shall come to make up my jewels.

My bowels are filled with compassion towards them. I will not utterly cast them off; and in the day of wrath, I will remember mercy.

Therefore, let your hearts be comforted . . . for all flesh is in mine hands; be still and know that I am God.

And in that day the enmity of man, and the enmity of beasts, yea, the enmity of all flesh, shall cease from before my face.

And so I was comforted, and reinvigorated, and rose to parent another day. That got me through another 10 weeks, and I guess on Monday I just needed my own message again.

I think a lot of the struggle for me and Steve and the kids has simply been a result of readjusting expectations. When you think you're getting two very tiny girls, and end up with one small but one very big girl (especially big in presence, and attitude, and life experience), you have to travel a long way to come to terms with it. I'm sure this is also one of the biggest struggles for the girls: I can't even imagine what their expectations of life in America with a family might have been, but no doubt the reality is nothing like what they thought.

But then, most of life's challenges can be boiled down to readjusted expectations. When we got pregnant with Charles, we thought we would have a healthy baby boy. We didn't. That expectation was not fulfilled. When my friend got married, she thought she would live married forever with a loving husband. They are now divorced. Her expectation was not fulfilled. When you take a job, you assume you'll have it for years. When you're let go, that expectation is not fulfilled. When you start reading this blog post, you expect to be finished before now. Your expectation has not been fulfilled.

Now that you've fallen victim to another bout of "Emily's TMI," let me put your mind at ease before you go. I have no regrets. I am so grateful and happy to have these girls in our family. I have no doubt that in a year or two this family will run like a well-oiled machine and we won't be able to imagine it any other way. If you're thinking about it, do it! Whether it's international or older child adoption, or a risk you've always wanted to take, go for it! Here I sit right in the midst of the hard part, and I can still say Hooray! We did it! We ARE doing it. SO GRATEFUL to be doing it. So go for it.

And now we're off!! Disneyworld with all the cousins, here we come. The girls have no idea what they're in for, but they're excited anyway.

The Runaway Mothers Club

2010-02-17T16:05:00.004-07:00

The worst part about having your kids run away is that people suddenly get very concerned about them. Yes, of course, we all want people to care about our kids, yada yada yada, etc., with sugar on top. But let’s be honest, people—meaning MOTHERS—don’t we want people to care about us, too, just a little? Since you all have appointed me the Queen of “frank” and “honest,” I’m happy to admit that on behalf of all of us.

(And that I have been to a therapist, and that I have taken anti-depressants, and that I feed my children processed sugar—spooned straight from the bag ala Mary Poppins, six times a day. Anything else?)

That’s why I have to say Thank You, Big Bahama Mama, for throwing me a line in your comment and noting that I may want to run away, too. But since I was already at the edge of my rope on Monday, I wasn’t sure where to run.

We all have memories of running away as children—it’s pretty hard to get anywhere. But I think it’s even harder for adults. Just a couple days before the girls ran away, I heard the best “mom runaway” story yet from my good friend, K.

K is pretty amazing. She’s one of those people who faces such difficultly in her life that you might wonder how she gets through the day, and yet each time you worry about her you run smack into her worrying about you.

K has Huntington’s Disease. This genetic disease has many heartbreaking symptoms, but the most noticeable to others, and to K in this stage of her life, is the chorea, or jerky movements. These make things like driving difficult, so K voluntarily gave up her license over a year ago. For a mother of three active teenagers, this is just a teeny tiny bit of a challenge. K is used to requiring help from others, and accepts that help with grace and dignity. But sometimes even she gets sick of it.

Recently her husband was out of town for the week, so he and K planned ahead by arranging rides for all the kids to their various sports and other activities. K ran the show from home, making sure the kids’ lives got off without a hitch, and being there to welcome them with a hug when they got home. Everything went fine except one thing: at the end of the week, K realized she hadn’t left the house once. She had been stuck there, stir crazy in the middle of winter. Suddenly all her frustrations and difficulties came crashing down on her, and she stomped out of the house. She told the kids she was going for a walk and they offered, as they’ve been directed by their kind father, to escort her.

“No!” K said. “I’m going by myself.”

As K tells it, she marched up the hill in a fury, dragging and stomping her feet like a little kid.

“I can’t even get in the car and go anywhere!” She fumed. “I can’t even run away like an independent adult.”

You can guess what I said to K. “Oh, K, why didn’t you call me?! You know I would have come in a heartbeat.”

“But I didn’t really need any help,” she said. “The kids were all taken care of, everything was under control, and I wouldn’t even have known what to ask you to do.”

And right there K and I decided she’d hit the nail on the head. That’s the problem with mothers. It’s not that we won’t ask for help—it’s that we only know how to ask for task help.

When it comes to our children, we’ll ask anyone to do any task to help them. We’ll make sure they’re taken care of. But once we’ve either performed or assigned out every task, sometimes we still find ourselves out of sorts, as K did. We don’t ask for help for ourselves, because what would we ask for? There’s food in the fridge, the kids have rides, their homework is done, and there’s a load of laundry in the dryer. We may still feel crumby, like we need someone for something, but there are no tasks left on the list.

We don’t know how to ask for the kind of help we really need, and sometimes even if we try our friends only offer to do tasks for us. It’s not their fault—they’re mothers, too, and like us they only speak task language. We’ve all forgotten to think outside the task.

And so, that’s why we need a Runaway Mothers Club. There should be a clubhouse where we can runaway and hide, with one sign that says “No Children Allowed” and another that says “No Tasks Allowed,” and ice cream, as Big Mama said, and a white flag to raise when you need some kind of something from someone but you don’t know what and you don’t know how to ask for it.

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

This post is brought to you by the letter S, as in ‘sense,’ of which this post probably makes NONE because I have been constantly interrupted by CHILDREN while writing it. YES you can have some chips and NO you can’t play computer games and YES it was just an accident and No I didn’t know there was a song about Cornflakes and YES YOU SHOULD STOP YELLING AT EACH OTHER!!!!!!!!!

Walking to Ethiopia

2010-02-15T16:48:00.002-07:00

Saffron and Willa have run away to Ethiopia. I suggested they take some food for the journey, but they refused.

Bored, Nothing to Post

2010-02-14T20:20:00.004-07:00

It's official: it has been over a week since I posted. In fact, this is not a real post so the clock is still running. Either I'm really really tired, or I just have nothing to say. Let's look at a few post options I'm considering:

1. If you like me, check this box.

2. "Roses are red, Violets are Blue, I love the Olympics and"

"Valentine's too?"

Not really--used to, but now it's too much work to be Cupid for the kids, make pink rice krispie treats for school, and try to be nice enough to deserve my own Valentine.

"So should you?"

Of course you should, and I'm sure you already know that by now. As my friend Brooker said, park yourself. For 17 days. Don't let anyone beg you to do otherwise. The winter games only come every 4 years. Right now I'm watching the opening ceremony on tivo and the real red people are skiing straight down out of the ski. Cool. That's all I'm saying.

"Corn Pops too?"

OK, TMI about what I just ate. (Two bowls.)

3. When in doubt, give a boring, straightforward picture of your current situation:

As we are all parked on the couch in front of said Olympic ceremonies and red skiiers,

Saffron is braiding Willa's hair as Willa cries and Saffron says things like, "Willa, no hurt. Willa, mom said finish braid or bed, right Mom?" and gives a running commentary on the Olympics with details like "I don't understand, it's Canada? US? I no know. OH! Black change! And necklace. First, and necklace? Oh my goodness! It's computer, what? That is very cool."

Steve is holding Ruby, who is holding the dog, and who is giving her own commentary: "That's amazing! Oh, I can see that they're really on wheels but it looks like skates. I can do that."

Jasper, having been forced to join us for this family bonding, is watching his iPod. Of course, his mom is on the computer so what can I say. GRRROOOOSSSSSSS!!!! That's what I can say--Saffron just brought a huge pile of hair full of scabs, which she pulled out of Willa's head. TMI?

"How to Raise an Inclusive Child," Or, Who Will Sit By Saffron the Lonely Girl?

2010-02-06T00:52:00.002-07:00

Sometimes growing up with my mom was a real drag. She had pretty high expectations for her girls (four of us, no brothers), and I was reminded of them exactly 29 gazillion times a week. These were the kind of ridiculous things she expected of us:

Be a giver, not a taker.

Be a doer, not a whiner.

Let it out, or let it go.

Look for the fault in yourself first.

(“If one finger is pointing at your friend, three are pointing back at you.”)

And always—always—be an includer.

Let me tell you that it is simply no fun at all to come down the stairs with a long list of completely valid complaints about your sister, which you have very clearly been indicating to her through your huffing and puffing around only to have your mom say,

Well, did you tell her you’re mad at her? Did you tell her why?

“Of course not! I’m not speaking to her. What do you expect me to say—‘I am mad at you because . . .?!’”

Yep. If you don’t tell her you’re mad at her, and give her a chance to fix it, then you have no right to go on being mad.

RRRGGGGGG! I hated that. “Mom, you are so—RRRRGGG.”

And it is really supremely stinky when you come home from school wounded to the point of spilling emotional blood by a supposed ‘best’ friend, when you did absolutely nothing to deserve it. You get a word of sympathy and then, before you can even stick out your bottom lip and enjoy it, here it comes . . .

“Do you think you might have done something to make her feel bad? People don’t usually get mad for no reason. It takes two to tango.”

Tango Schmango. “Mom, you are so—RRRGGGGGG!”

And the final insult, the message that seemed to be my mom’s credo:

The more the merrier.

You can find something to like about everyone.

Some people are happy as long as their kid has one friend. Well, it’s not enough just to know you have a friend. I expect my girls to look around and see who needs a friend. Who is sitting alone in the lunchroom? Who is being left out? If you sit by and watch it happen, you’re just as guilty as the ones doing the excluding.

“OKKKKKK, Mom! Leave me alone! Why does it always have to be me? Why do I always have to be the one reaching out? You KNOW that’s why I end up having all the weird loner boys like me.”

Seriously, my mom really put a damper on my childhood. Just when I would be enjoying myself with my friends, I would think “Uh oh, why is that girl sitting over by herself?” And when I passed that totally gross Derek kid in the hall, I would suddenly hear my mom’s voice in my head droning, “You can find something to like about everyone—even him.”

……….

These days my friend Belinda, with whom I love to throw parties, likes to joke that if we just want our fun friends to come, she should do the inviting. If I do it, she laughs, we’ll have to invite everyone or else feel guilty about it.

I didn’t always live up to my mom’s expectations, and still don’t. But I find I want to. Some of my most positive young experiences came when I saw that with a tiny effort I could lift somebody’s spirits—it bounced back and lifted mine. And some of my best friendships have developed with people I first sought out grudgingly. I start out thinking I have something to offer them, and they end up returning the favor tenfold.

Now, just like all moms, I find myself saying the very same things to my kids that my mom said to me. Some things I repeat out of habit, because I’m exhausted and the words leak out from somewhere deep in my brain, without thought. But these expectations I repeat on purpose.

Now that I’ve lived through some good and bad in life, and see my kids doing the same, I want so much for them to be the doers, the givers, the includers. I know they are sick to death of hearing it from me, and I know they don’t always do it. But I hope at some point, my thoroughly annoying voice begins to ring true in their heads. The best news I’ve received in weeks was when a parent told me he liked having Jasper over to play with his son, because Jasper was one of the few who included the little brother.

So you see why it’s hard for me to hear that Saffron is eating lunch alone—this time I can’t tell my kid to go over and sit by her. I’ve already told her over and over to go join another table, or ask someone to be with her, and she’s tried—a little. But there’s only so much she can do. Her English is only so good. She’s already lightyears out of her comfort zone. She’s scared. So now I’m hoping for those other kids, whose parents are also ruining their childhoods, to notice, and roll their eyes, and say to themselves, “Fine, Mom! I’ll go sit by the lonely girl.”

Traditional Remedies: Mom and Saffron Square Off

2010-02-04T22:27:00.011-07:00

Mom's:

Problem: Saffron is screaming in her room, because she got sent to bed (it's bedtime anyway), because she got mad at Mom for not buying her dinner at Wendy's, even though the reason she wasn't at Wendy's with the family was that she was eating dinner at a friend's house. Willa is screaming in the bath because Mom is combing her hair out while the conditioner's in it, because that's the only way to get the snarls out, and because Willa screams whenever anyone touches her hair. Ruby and Jasper are yelling from the kitchen for help finishing their homework because they're tired and want to go to bed.

Mom's Solution: Drag screaming Saffron from the bedroom into the bathroom so she can comb screaming Willa's hair, so they can scream together and Mom can go get the dang homework finished and get all the vocal chords in bed.

Saffron's

Problem: Willa's perpetual stomach aches, even after giardia treatment (which had been Mom and the doctor's solution).

Saffron's Solution: Follow Ethiopia Dad's treatment regimen: First dig your thumbs into Willa's tummy really hard until it hurts. Then massage the tummy with thumbs. Then tie a scarf as tight as possible around the tummy right where it hurts, and use scarf and Willa's ankles to hold her upside down. Run around with her upside down like this for 10 minutes. Put her down and the tummy will supposedly feel better. (Haven't tried it yet.)

Problem: Willa's ever-present head sores, which she's apparently had on-and-off her whole life, which ooze and bleed, and which confound the dermatologist.

Saffron's Solution: Follow the Orphanage's treatment regimen: First put some unknown red medicine all over Willa's head, put gloves on, dig your fingers in and scrub her head so hard all the scabs break and bleed (and, presumably, she screams bloody murder). Then, braid her hair in large braids: leave for one day. Then, take braids out and blow all over her scalp. Then rub oil all over it. Sores should be cured.

(Haven't tried it yet--still plugging away with the derm's medicine, and seriously considering cutting the hair.)

In Other News . . .

2010-02-02T16:49:00.002-07:00

After a couple of serious posts--dun dun dunnnnn--I couldn't resist posting this very serious and profound video clip. It's an old favorite that brings me to tears every time. Pay close attention . . .

For a higher quality view of the same video, visit this previous post.

Emily, this post is brought to you by the letters D and C. D is for 'Dis!', which Willa exclaims as she points out that in this video that Ruby suddenly has some new, larger body parts. C is for Cheesy, because Jasper's cheesy grin was born for Disco.

"Dis America dance?" Willa asks in wide-eyed admiration.

Adoption in Haiti and Little Brother

2010-02-02T16:48:00.004-07:00

There’s a delicate issue that gets to the heart of the situation Haiti faces with its children. I think about it in terms of Little Brother:

I wrote a couple days ago about Little Brother, Willa and Saffron's brother who remains in Ethiopia with their father. (In answer to questions, Yes, we do know his name but I don't feel I can share it online, as he is not mine.) Thinking of Little Brother helps me keep in perspective the plight of many children in Haiti.

Of course, we are sad that the girls are separated from both Big Brother and Little Brother. We worry less about Big Brother, because he has long since lived with their kind auntie, and been able to go to school. He is almost a man, in Ethiopian terms. But in our many conversations with the girls about Little Brother, I have thought of whether it would be possible for us to have him in our family. Now that the girls see there is enough room in the house, they'd like to call "Red Rover" to their dad and have Little Brother sent right over to America. To them it seems simple.

But it's not simple. I did leave word with the orphanage that we would be interested in either brother if they were ever placed for adoption, and most orphanages give families with other biological siblings the first chance to take new siblings. But it is illegal for us to contact the girls' father and ask him for Little Brother. And it absolutely should be illegal.

First, if we asked if Ethiopia Dad would like to send LB to America to live with us, almost surely he would say yes. Few parents in a third world country wouldn't. He knows we could provide opportunities and security for his child that he cannot. But that does not mean it is fair ever to ask the question. It doesn't mean that America is best for LB.

We know LB has a living father who loves him. We know he has a vocation (caring for cattle) that he enjoys and is proud of. We know Wicked Stepmother always treated LB better than the girls. And if the dire situation did, indeed, improve after the girls left, as Ethiopia Dad hoped, then it may be that Little Brother is now experiencing a happy Ethiopian childhood. It is true that he doesn't go to school. It is true that his father is old, and his mother is dead. It is true that his family is extremely poor. But these are not reasons to strip him away from his family, or his culture.

I fell in love with Ethiopia in my two weeks there. I saw the overwhelming pride its people take in their ancient heritage, their flowing green hills, and their diverse and rich tribal cultures. I saw an openness and love and generosity from which we Americans could take a lesson. I felt and still feel sad in the knowledge that our girls will lose most of this heritage. I'm grateful for the sacrifice they've made to join our family. I have no doubt their situation was bad and it was right for them to come here. But I also understand why international adoption is the choice of last resort for countries. I understand why Haiti must be so very careful. Children are a country's greatest resource. Two beautiful, talented and smart Ethiopian girls have joined our family because they were in a terrible situation. They will no longer grow up to contribute to Ethiopia, but will instead contribute to the United States.

If children are not in dire straits--if they are only poor, with limited resources, but have parents or relatives who love them and a country who needs and will cherish them, they shouldn’t leave their homelands. To pillage a hurting country like Haiti of its children in a time of crisis would be akin to stealing a nation's natural resources, their oil or their minerals, while they're down. The world stopped condoning that practice a long time ago.

There will be tens of thousands of children in Haiti for whom no family or resources will be found. The limping nation will not be able to absorb them, and it will need the citizens of other nations to adopt these children. But only slowly, and carefully, after every effort has been made to verify their situations.

I would love to have Little Brother join my family. We wanted a boy, and sometimes I wonder if he is the long lost brother we seek. If his father dies, or decides to take him to Toukoul Orphanage for some reason, we will be waiting with open arms. But we recognize the sacrifice he and his nation would make to let him become an American boy. We would not want either to make that sacrifice unless his opportunities of thriving in his original, marvelous, ancient, Ethiopian and Amhara (tribal) heritage had been exhausted.

In international adoption, a birth country reluctantly gives up its most valuable and precious resource. It gives up future mothers, fathers, wage earners, indigenous language speakers, and cultural flag bearers. In return, its load is lightened and it is, we hope, rendered better able to care for the rest of its citizens. But its sacrifice is great, and it must never be undertaken lightly.

Thank you, Majestic Ethiopia, for giving me two of your gems. Thank you, girls, and Ethiopia Dad, and Little Brother, and Big Brother, and Kind Auntie, for trusting me, a stranger in an incomprehensibly foreign world, with your most precious possessions.

Haiti and Adoption

2010-02-01T21:41:00.001-07:00

As the world turns its heart to Haiti's horrible plight, much attention has turned to international adoption. This is mostly good, as any attention opens a door for more people throughout the world to consider international adoption. However, much of the media coverage and resulting discussion by people around me and on the web has made me cringe. I must address a couple of the things I've heard.

First, for today: It is completely UNTRUE that Haiti bars LDS families from adopting its children.

This is the policy of one adoption agency, only concerning their Haiti program and most likely based on the religious policies of the particular orphanage with which the agency affiliates in Haiti. This idea has been spread around the web as some kind of regulatory truth. It is FALSE. One of the many misunderstandings about international adoption is that all agencies have the same policies about each country. This is not true: as long as they are within the policies set by the US State Department and that country for international adoption, they can add some of their own specific policies. For example, many agencies will add that families can only adopt children younger than their youngest child in the home, because they believe it is best not to disrupt birth order. Other agencies will limit the number of previous children a family may have, even if the country doesn't limit it.

Also, in most countries each agency must partner with an individual orphanage system, or sponsor its own. These orphanages are mostly privately run, and can institute their own policies about how their orphans can be placed--again, within the bounds of government regulation.

It is also completely UNTRUE that the LDS church has any policy which demeans people of color. On the contrary: the church and its scriptures preach love and equality for all, including women and people of color--take it from a strong LDS woman who has experienced full support in adopting interracially. As many American institutions in the 1960's, the LDS church did once have a policy that restricted members of color from holding certain positions. Church leaders ended this policy in 1978, immediately and completely. In the 30 years since, the LDS church has grown throughout the world, including millions of members in South and Central America, Africa, and the Pacific Islands People of color in those nations and in the US leadership can and do hold the highest and most sacred positions. There are now more LDS church members outside the US than inside the US--mostly in multiracial countries. In fact, I imagine the LDS church has more non-white members than many of the churches who regularly attack it.

Click this link for Haiti's official adoption requirements, as published by the US State Department.

Little Brother and His Cows

2010-01-28T22:01:00.004-07:00

Saffron and Willa have two brothers still in Ethiopia. Big Brother is a teenager who lives with their kind aunt and goes to school. Little Brother is between Saffron and Willa, probably about six years old, and still lives with their father and stepmother. Now that they can express themselves better in English, the girls love to reminisce about Little Brother—understandably so!

For Willa, especially, Little Brother was the world. He was her constant playmate, and apparently a funny one. When Saffron was sitting down and leaning back on her arm, he liked to knock her arm out of its spot so she would fall down. Though Stepmother did like boys more than girls, she still did not allow Little Brother to go to school. As many little boys in the Ethiopian countryside, he was charged with caring for the family's cows.

Willa likes to tell how he would sit on one of the cows as he kept watch over his tiny herd of 3 or 4. Little Brother and Dad would walk to the store sometimes to sell some of their milk, and at Christmas they would slaughter one of Little Brother's cows. This, along, with a tremendous loaf of bread, was Christmas feast and Christmas present all wrapped in one.

For Willa all cows are a reminder of Little Brother, and we name them to match. When Grandma told her to choose a toy at the store, she chose a cow. Every time we eat beef we like to tease her that it's one of Little Brother's cows, all the way from Ethiopia.

When Saffron and Willa went to the orphanage, Little Brother was very sad. He wanted to go, too.

Good Karma

2010-01-26T03:05:00.001-07:00

Right this minute I am sitting at Groove Dance Studio watching Saffron try out a ballet class. (She tries, but can’t contain her smile.) In front of me are 8 adorable girls, with approximately 8 years of life experience each, standing un-selfconsciously in leotards and tights with shoulders slouched and bellies poked out, as they practice their positions. Eight different faces adorn 8 very different body types, and each is a beautiful combination. Oh, enjoy it, lovely girls! Before you get a few years older and a few miles more self-critical.

After this, Saffron will try a jazz class, and later in the week she will try tumbling. Then she gets to choose one class to take. Yesterday my dear cousin Roxey, who owns the studio, generously offered to allow each of my girls to take one dance class for free. Thanks, Rox. The girls have SO wanted to take all sorts of lessons, with dance being the first choice, and I’ve had to put them off for financial reasons. So we are thrilled at Roxey’s gift.

Roxey’s sweet daughter, K, sits next to me as I type. We have matching make up because I arrived barely showered and un-maked up and, having two hours to kill, thought I might try to beautify Mt. Rushmore. K followed me into the bathroom, not remembering my name but having that kid-like confidence in my safeness and kindness because I am her mom’s relative. So, I gave us matching faces.

Roxey is the kind of sweet, thoughtful person who probably would have offered lessons anyway, but after I talked to her last night I thought back over our friendship—because we really are friends as well as cousins. I’m glad I felt it was important a few years ago to start Ruby at Roxey’s studio, to support Roxey. And I’m glad I always paid, and paid on time, and didn’t ask for family favors. (You’d be surprised how many people send their kids to dance without paying.) Because—though I know, as I said, that Roxey probably would have offered anyway—I feel I have treated her fairly and can in good conscience accept her gift.

This reminds me of the situation with Saffron’s teacher. Saffron’s has the same teacher for second grade that Jasper had. Second grade was--how shall we put it--NOT a good school year for Jasper. Gently speaking, Jasper's teacher did not find the joy in him that I find in him. Jasper was frustrated, I was frustrated, and his teacher was obviously frustrated. I considered complaining to the principal, or asking for a class change, but decided instead to try to communicate openly and continuously with Jasper’s teacher, and hope for improvement. I tried to keep two things in mind: one, Charles was born during this school year, so neither I nor Jasper was at our best, or most rational. Two, one mother I knew had a daughter in the class who was having a wonderful experience. I was tempted to blame this teacher entirely and assume she was no good, and bawl her out, but I didn’t. Instead I tried to think she and Jasper were not a good match for teaching and learning style. I managed to get through the year without saying anything I regretted.

I haven’t always been successful at thinking the best of a person or situation, or keeping my mouth shut. I hate that there are people in my life I would not want to run into at the grocery store (Donna and Beth from 1999), and I didn’t want Jasper’s teacher to be another. Good thing, because I did run into her at Costco last year, and I said hello, and she said she heard we were adopting children from Africa, etc. I was friendly. At this time I thought we were getting a kindergartener, and had already talked to Ruby’s kindergarten teacher, whom I loved, about having our new daughter in her class.

But we didn’t get a kindergartener, did we. We got an eight-year-old, and decided she must go to second grade. I asked that Saffron be in one of the other two second grade classes, because they both had children of color in them. But the principal informed me that Jasper’s old teacher was the only ESL certified teacher, and therefore must have Saffron. “Of course!” I thought. Because that would just be our luck. I was very glad at that moment, though, that I had not said anything unforgiveable, and even gladder that I had fought in my own mind to give this teacher the benefit of the doubt.

And guess what? Saffron loves her. And she loves Saffron and is wonderful to her. And guess what else? She did deserve that benefit of the doubt, and I am a little saner now than I was then (I KNOW. If I'm better now, just imagine what I was like that year! Jasper told his counselor I slept a lot and didn't cook.).

I’ve done a lot of really stupid things in my life, but I’m glad I haven’t screwed up every situation, because this year I need all the good vibes I can get.

P.S. Tonight I must remember to educate Saffron about the straight legs and pointed toes that accompany ballet movement. I am definitely all wrong for ballet, but did get in a few years of lessons before I figured that out. (I remember the exact moment: I was watching the video of our latest ballet recital, in which I portrayed a winter berry, and realized I looked like a football player among a class of winter berries. I quit that year.) Then I learned more from watching all of my sisters--everyone but me--excel at ballet. Now there’s an issue I could definitely take to therapy—except I don’t remember feeling bad about it. Gee, I guess we actually CAN have "different talents" without losing our self esteem. I'll have to show Ruby the winter berry video.

Dance at Aki's.AVI

2010-01-26T02:46:00.001-07:00

Here S is in her comfort zone: Dancing a traditional Ethiopian dance from the Guragi tribe, with Ruby and Willa following along.

When I Lived in London with Robert Browning

2010-01-21T00:02:00.001-07:00

When we were living in London five years ago, I was feeling a bit pathetic. We were there for Steve’s second masters, and my sister and her husband, our dearest friends there, were also both in graduate school. I was the only one not studying. As I was the one who originally got my own graduate degree and then pushed Steve toward graduate school, having him pass me up was a blow to my pride, I admit.

I reminded myself that I was lucky to have the time to see and learn everything I wanted to about London, and I did (everything you can see and learn with two little kids in tow). I forced myself to write periodically about my experiences, to keep my skills up. And I listened to lectures and read voraciously. But I still felt dissatisfied.

One day in early December, as I pushed Ruby’s stroller down the wet sidewalk, I was hit with overwhelming power with the idea that I needed to take the LSAT. The feeling was so strong and undeniable that within a day I registered for the test, and found a prep class right in London. Steve and I sacrificed to get me to the class, and my dad helped by covering the cost. I shut myself in the bedroom of our tiny flat night after night to study. I felt really rusty and was sure I would have scored much better if I’d taken the LSAT seven years before, when I narrowly decided to go to writing school instead of law school. Still, I pulled a pretty respectable score. I wasn’t too concerned about the logistics of law school, because I knew the score was good for five years. I had plenty of time to figure out how to fit it in to my life.

Fast forward five years: as our plane took off from London Heathrow en route to Ethiopia this past October, my LSAT score officially expired. By that point my mind was on other things, of course. But in the months previous to our adoption, I spent a lot of anguish thinking about the LSAT issue. I knew there was no way I could go to law school and do a good job integrating our new children into their new family. I didn’t feel I could have gone before now, because we could never have afforded it. Oh yes, and there was that time lost to a baby's death.

Yet why did I feel SO strongly—so inspired—five years ago, that I must prepare for law school? If it was inspiration, then why did my score expire worthless? Some have suggested that the importance of the test was just in taking it—in giving me something to do, a way to use my brain and “study,” so I wouldn’t feel so left out in London, or to prove to myself I could still do it. I just don’t feel that’s really it. I haven’t satisfied the question.

I may be a chronic malcontent. I should be happy to be in the midst of fulfilling one life goal, and not expecting to pursue another. I know, but then I hear Mr. Browning say

“Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,

Or what's a heaven for? …

I know both what I want and what might gain,

And yet how profitless to know, to sigh

"Had I been two, another and myself,

"Our head would have o'erlooked the world!" No doubt."

No doubt.

A Six Year Old Discovers Mr. King

2010-01-20T23:58:00.002-07:00

I regret letting Martin Luther King, Jr. Day pass without a nod.

So, let me just mention this: when Ruby heard what day it was she said,

“Oh, I love him. He’s my favorite one of our saviors.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You know,” she said. “The people who have saved our country.”

“Why is he your favorite?” I asked.

“Because he said it doesn’t matter what color your skin is, you can still play together.”

I’m so glad Ruby’s teacher takes time to teach her students passionately about their collective history. I remember when Jasper had her and she taught his class about the Twin Towers on September 11^th. He has never forgotten. And now Ruby, who has two new sisters of a different color, has discovered a national ‘savior’—someone besides her mother telling her that skin color doesn’t matter. She'll never forget MLK.

Thanks, Ms. S, for not underestimating your First Graders.

Miss Saffron Apron

2010-01-19T16:38:00.009-07:00

Oh, Saffron, Saffron. What is thy life these days?

For starters, when you grow up I am confident you will be forever grateful to Grandma Swensen for giving you the perfect word to teach people how to pronounce your name. (My “Africans” v. “Afrikaans” was a bit obtuse, I admit.) Grandma’s simple, “Well, it’s just like apron” will get you much further in life.

This has been a much bigger issue than I ever dreamed it would. In fact, though I’m a devoted word person who would never have considered spelling Ruby’s name “Rubie,” I have recently considered changing the spelling of your name to “Saffren.” It felt like heresy, but I had to consider whether that spelling would bother me less throughout my life than the mispronunciation of your name would. The problem at school has become so bad that now you can no longer figure out how to pronounce your own name the way your family does—you keep saying “Saff-rawn” and don’t yet have enough command of English to understand the difference. Poor thing. I didn’t mean to saddle you will something so difficult. Perhaps we should have gone with our second choice—Pat. That’s why we’re so grateful to Grandma S. So, let’s remind everyone once again: It’s Saffron, like Apron. If you typically say Aprawn, then I must remind you that you are talking about seafood rather than women’s culinary wear, and there is no hope for you. You’ll just have to call her “S.”

And, so you’ll always know why we chose such a beautiful if troublesome name, let me remind you that Saffron is one of the most beautiful and exotic spices and colors in the world, and IS the most valuable spice in the world. Not to shabby, eh? Certainly stands up to ‘Ruby,’ a most valuable woman, and ‘Willa,’ one of America’s greatest female writers. (Eudora Welty, I also love your writing, but wasn’t so keen on ‘Eudora,’ or ‘Welty.’ Sorry.)
Remember,
saf⋅fron [saf-ruhn] –noun
“Coming from the dried stigmas of the saffron crocus, it takes 75,000 blossoms or 225,000 hand-picked stigmas to make a single pound which explains why it is the world’s most expensive spice.” --The epicentre.com

Yes, we could have given you a more typically American name. But saffron is a spice and a color that is valued the world over. The spice is ancient—transcends time. And the color is the choice for the robes of peace-loving Tibetan monks. It is as beautiful and transcendent and ancient as is your Ethiopia. We knew you would never be like Willa—you would always carry your memories, your culture, your Ethiopia with you. We wanted to honor that. Don’t let anyone underestimate your value, or you name. Ever.

And so, Saffron, what else can I tell you? You love watching TV. You want to all the time. You have no regard for content. You just want to watch. Always. Why? Is it an escape? And why do I often refuse? Why does it irritate me? I think it’s too early in your American life for me to worry about you becoming a couch potato.

I have figured out why you don’t play with friends or talk on the playground, and why you struggle to entertain anyone but Ruby at home. There are two reasons:

One, you are much more self-conscious about your English than I realized. You have finally told me you are afraid to speak without me or Ruby there. And now that I’ve learned to ask you about specific words and sentences, I realize you are understanding less than I thought (though still an amazing amount for 2 ½ months). It’s OK. People aren’t looking for you to fail! You must try.

Two, in Ethiopia you didn’t play. Now that Willa can express more and has become obsessed with repeating to me facts about life in Ethiopia, I know that 'Sam' and Willa played everyday, but Saffron never did. Saffron only ever watched. I can easily imagine you squatting, as you do, next to your shambles of a hut, and watching the other kids play. Willa often says “Saffron no play” when she talks about life there.

Somewhere in the last few weeks I lost my patience with you and began responding to your negative attitude, rather than transcending it. If I take the high road, you usually come along pretty quickly. But if I join you on the low road to nowhere, we both languish there. It’s good for me to be reminded what you came from only a few short months ago, and how far you’ve progressed. It’s my job to turn again with kindness, over and over and over. That is what is required for older child adoption. They tell you over and over how different it is from young child or infant adoption, and they’re right. Parenting you and Willa is night and day. Older child adoption is definitely more difficult, but the rewards are worth it. There is something amazing about a child old enough to recognize the mighty change in their life.

Finally, your hair. I have neglected to mention that we removed your extensions over Christmas break. They were coming out, and getting yucky. We knew they would only last about two months, but this was still very traumatic for you. You bawled for hours. You hated me for a bit, I think, and sulked for a few days. Now that I realize how much that hair meant to you, I think I may have made a mistake in letting you get them so early.

When you came, I was very eager to help you feel confident when you started school. I knew you wanted extensions in Ethiopia, so I hurried to get them for you here. We quickly got your teeth fixed so the brown spots didn’t show. I told you how beautiful you looked. So why should I be surprised now to realize you have wrapped your self worth in America up in that hair? Perhaps a better approach would have been for me to teach you about inner beauty, and let you feel good about yourself for a bit before I rushed to help you cover your short hair.

Well, now we have had that talk about inner beauty--about a kind heart, and a ready smile. You cried, and it occurred to me that you had probably never had anyone tell you that before. You wore a scarf over your head for a week, but we have since found some cute hairstyles for your short hair, and pointed out many beautiful women with short hair. To their credit, Ruby and Jasper have made a big deal about your lovely short hair. I keep telling you—honestly—that I prefer it. Your delicate neck and jaw, the graceful features which first made me see you as a Queen of Africa, are now visible, not hidden by fake braids.

You and Ruby are both suffering in the self-esteem department right now. But we’ll fix that. We’ll borrow some from Willa, who’s self-contentedness is ever effulgent, and before you know it you’ll be two supremely confident sistas.

Cook the Pianist and Leave the Sweet Potatoes Alone

2010-01-19T16:27:00.000-07:00

Though we don’t have the major drama we did before, I’m guessing we still provide entertainment for our fellow churchgoers. Recall that I play the piano for the children as they sing in Primary, the children’s meeting. This lasts two hours, with some breaks, but I tend to be sitting at the piano the entire time. I can play, but I’m not the really talented type who can carry on a conversation while I play without missing a note. Someone should tell this to my children. Some Sundays I have a constant stream of children coming up asking profound questions like, “Why were you smiling at her and not at me?”
Then, “What was she saying to you up here?”
And, “Why did her teacher give her a treat when I didn’t get a treat? Her teacher ALWAYS gives treats and mine NEVER does.”
Followed by, “Mom, Look!” with great concern, as Saffron shows me a slight crack in her lip.
And finally, “___” This is Willa, with no words, just trying to climb into my lap while I play.

I admit that I add to the distraction myself, as when I spot Jasper indulging in some nose picking and motion him up to the piano so I can tell him to go get a Kleenex.

Thankfully, they all have great teachers who try to keep them away from me. I know the Powers That Be were trying to help me out by putting me at the piano, so I could be near my kids in our newly changed family. I appreciate their concern, but I really don’t need any more time near my kids in our newly changed family. What I do need is some time with ADULTS, AWAY from said kids of newly changed family. Unfortunately, the babysitting offers have stopped coming. That’s OK, though. My bedroom door still locks. And the TV still works. Not that I ever lock my door, or use the television as a babysitter. Ever.

No. Right now I have instead shut myself delicately in my room without locking the door (I promise), and have given them another babysitter: boiling water and a hot stove in the kitchen. Yes, I told the girls to have at it—Make dinner themselves. I didn’t even add the usual “Don’t burn the house down.” Even as we speak Saffron is boiling sweet potatoes. She is holding the lid on the pot with all her might, and is very upset that every time I walk through I turn down the heat and vent the lid for a second. “No!” she says. What she wants to do is wrap the whole pot in tinfoil so not one breath of steam can escape. I nixed that idea. I assured her the potatoes will boil just fine, but I think she’s underestimating the temperature of that cute little round circle on that smooth surface of the stove top. Ruby, meanwhile, is in her usual competitive form. On the other side of the kitchen, she is busy with flour and yeast trying to make pizza dough. I don’t know if I’VE ever even made my own pizza dough. But she refused all cheats I offered, such as frozen bread dough. Nope. She’s doing it from scratch. Nevermind that she’s only 6. If her sister cooks from scratch (boiled sweet potatoes) so will she. I have a feeling it’s a matter of minutes before my blogging time is over.

Name That Blogging Insecurity:

2010-01-19T16:00:00.000-07:00

1. I figured out another reason I was down--I was experiencing CW: Comment Withdrawal. I was wondering why no one ever commented on my blog anymore . . . it was my own darn fault. After I got my first spam comment, I changed my settings so I could moderate comments. But I didn't realize I would receive no email notifications, and no comments would be published until I OK'd them. They were just languishing in my queue, waiting for me to check my blog, which I was not checking, because no one was commenting, because I wasn't allowing them to, and I was considering offing my blogself. Ahh, stupidity. I'm with you now, blogger.com. I get it!

2. I'm not going to name any names (E-m-i-l-y, again), but some people remind me from time to time how LLLLLOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGG my posts can get. It's true. I know! "Pithy" may not be the very first word one would choose to describe my blog. This is one of the main reasons I did not blog for years. My writing training consists mostly of the essay-style, analytical kind, which lent itself well to my masters thesis but does not lend itself to brevity. As brevity is the soul of wit, this is probably the reason I am not funny. So, I waffle between arguing to myself that not all blogs must fit the same mold, to thinking I should quit blogging all together, to arguing (to myself again) that if people don't have time they should just read in installments, or not read at all.

3. It's the photo thing again--need to post photos! Neeed tooo ppooosssttt ppphhhootttoosss! Emily, the same as above, still offers to post them for me, even though she still refuses my offer to install her ceiling fan. Can't imagine why.

Reasons to Feel Good About My Blog:

1. I have a follower in England! OK, so she may be related to me, but it still makes me feel quite the sophisticate. Thanks, S.
*correction: TWO followers in England! Who are both related to me, and who are both named 'S.' I forgot to count my sister, as I require her to follow my blog or risk losing her American supplier of Hot Tamales.

2. Everyone keeps thanking me for my "honesty" and "frankness." This is a bit alarming when I think I'm just being myself, and that I'm actually censoring plenty, but I'll take it!

A Christmas Postscript

2010-01-19T15:46:00.001-07:00

I know it's way past Christmas, but I just got around to trolling my favorite blogs. This post, found at my sister's blog, is by far my favorite Christmas image. I'm one of those people who can't get excited about anything Christmassy after Christmas--but this one got me.

If you've ever lived in a big city, then you should know that "The Big Issue" mentioned here in Sara's post is the small daily paper sold by homeless individuals to earn money. There is a paper like it in every big city. They must register, and wear ID, and receive about 1/2 of the cost of the paper (usually about $1, or £1). We used to buy at least one a day. So Sara is right: this is quite the Santa. He gave the wide-eyed Harriet a Christmas gift by being Santa when he didn't have to be. I imagine she gave him a gift by wanting her photo with him. And, as Sara says, I hope he found the gift of a place to sleep that night.

Growing Pains

2010-01-06T19:27:00.008-07:00

I've figured out two more reasons I'm struggling a bit this week.

1. I miss Ruby something awful.
I love watching Ruby and her new sisters bond, and have fun together, and be sisters. Ruby defends her new sisters to others and even pleads Saffron's case when she's in trouble with me. This is what I wanted for her--a life with sisters, like I have. I'm really happy for her. On the other hand, though, Ruby has been my little buddy for years. She was home while Jasper was at school, and with Charles' death there was no new baby to change the dynamic. Ruby was always the kind of kid who loved to be with her mom. I could take her anywhere, and did. Our relationship was very one-on-one, and very close. Now we can't have the same thing. It's what I wanted for her and it's a wonderful thing--it's just a hard adjustment for me. With four Kids it's simply impossible for me to have the one-on-one relationship with any child that I had with both Jasper and Ruby before. I purposely had Jasper, Ruby and Charles further apart because I wanted time to be close to each one individually. Now I've undone that. As I said, it's good. It's just different. This loss of individual closeness is definitely, for me anyway, the hardest part of going from two kids to four. Besides the laundry. Why do girls have to change their clothes so often?

2. Jasper's new sisters don't get him yet.
I don't blame them--they've only known him for 2 1/2 months, and he's done his best to irritate them, as would any big brother worth his salt. But they leave him out a lot. And they complain to me about him--a lot. Ruby still knows that Jasper makes up more creative games than anybody, and that he'll go through Hell or high water for you, and she still shows it. But now she walks home with Saffron instead of Jasper. And she's no longer his old pal on slow afternoons, because she's with her sisters. He's usually fine, but sometimes says he feels he lost out in this deal. And when Saffron comes running to me yelling about how mean he is, it's hard for me to be really sympathetic even though I know he's being a pain. Those of you who know Jasper know he has been through Hell and back with us--moves, job losses, a death, and now this big change--and he's the kind of kid who is too aware for his age. Jasper is my Reliance Wheeler. I hope the girls soon learn that they won't win points with me by making him the enemy. If they give him a chance, he won't let them down. He just needs someone to move over and make room for him. He's picking at the girls because he's trying to find his place among them.

He's also no dummy, and is taking me for all he can while I'm feeling bad for him. I know. I'm no dummy, either.

Emily Post, Meet Monster Mama

2010-01-05T23:10:00.001-07:00

The past couple of days I've been pretty mean. I'm not sure why I've lost patience, and I realize it's pretty juvenile. Perhaps Christmas break did me in. Though I think we're in a very good place for just two months on, we are far from a completely comfortable family.

Because a parent must reason why, and not just do or die, here's my best shot at one possible reason for my recent venom:

Sometimes I don't want to blog about difficult aspects of this adoption, because I can't shake the feeling that there are those--albeit a small minority--who are somehow looking for us to struggle. I think this is on a very subtle level and I hate to even say it out loud: one of my dad's virtues has always been to see the best in people, assume the best of intentions despite flawed behavior, and take their apologies at face value. Especially as an adult, I have tried really hard to do the same.

So, then, why might a few people be looking for the difficulties in our situation? Rather, why might I feel that they are? I don't believe any person actually wishes us ill. Instead I've decided that, for some, our choice to adopt, and to adopt older children, and to adopt interracially, is absolutely unfathomable. They can't imagine ever wanting to do it themselves, and therefore can't understand our wanting to do it. Because it's not something they would ever naturally want or enjoy, they can't get their minds around how we could be enjoying life, or even coping, in such a situation. They look for the difficulty in it, because that's the only angle from which they can approach it.

As I said, I think this is rare, and not even conscious, and certainly doesn't pertain to any of our family or close friends. In fact, they have all wildly exceeded our expectations of support. I think the only reason I am bothered by these interactions is because they are so rare. The vast majority of people I meet, though they might not choose this themselves, are thrilled for us. If I get too down, they are talking ME back up about it.

But once in a while I find myself in a conversation going all wrong. Each time I pause, my counterpart fills in the blank with something much more negative than I was thinking. My words, and my concerns, are clearly being read all wrong. I find myself inadvertently assenting to false assertions. I try to clarify, and things get worse. I feel that, rather than defend my family, I have slipped in the mud and thrown them under the bus. It makes me doubt myself. It makes me feel utterly miserable.

This feeling of an awkward conversation gone wrong is not new to me. When I was pregnant with Charles, and after he died, people said all sorts of odd things to me. Again, the vast majority of people have the best of intentions despite their awkwardness, and you feel that from them. You hear what they mean, and don't care at all what they actually say. But every so often something really stings. What's hardest is not the comment itself, but others' defense of it. If you can't get over the hurt by yourself, and so mention that stinging comment to anyone, they always have the same response. "Oh, but you know they meant well. People just don't know what to say in these situations." And there it is--you're shut down. You're the devastated one, but you're told you are also the one who has to take the high road and let it go. And of course people are right; you should. Eventually. And you will.

What people don't realize is those comments that sting sting for a reason. They hit on some point of vulnerability that undoes a lot of hard work on your part. It's some aspect of the story you've already struggled with, a hole which you've already dug till your fingernails bled just to get out of. And their comment makes you doubt yourself again, doubt your emotional progress, and you feel yourself sliding back into that hole. I wish people would realize that they really don't need to jump to the commenter's defense. You're not really mad at that person, anyway. You're afraid of the hole. You just need someone to let you get it out: let you say why that comment, in particular, hurt your ears. You need someone to listen, and nod, and then remind you how you already felt your way out of that hole. You need someone to throw you a rope. You don't need them to point out that the person probably meant well. If you're the one receiving sympathetic words all day, chances are pretty darn good you've had practice, and are already well aware of that fact.

I hardly ever express this to people, because their inevitable response is, "that's why I usually just don't say anything at all. I don't want to risk saying the wrong thing." Please, risk it. I beg you. I ask every person I can who has been through something publicly difficult, and I've never met one who said they would rather people say nothing than say the wrong thing. Say something. Ask something.

. . . . Well. Alright. Pardon Me. Apparently I have confused my journal with my blog. I guess that's been waiting in the margins for a couple of years. But how does Emily Post's Guide to Comforting the Stricken pertain to adoption? It's a stretch. It was a few of those awkward interactions that got me down recently, made me doubt myself, and contributed to my becoming Monster Mama. We always take it out on the wrong people.

Ala Commode, Ala Faux Pas

2010-01-05T00:26:00.003-07:00

Remember how I read my friend bigbahamamama's blog while sequestered in the bathroom at the diner? And then remember how I blogged about it? In cyber public?

Well I just happened to click on one of her old posts in which she details her utter distaste for toilet reading. Forgive me, Big Mama. I had no idea. If you nearly left your husband for taking your copy of Dorian Gray into the bathroom, then what will you do to me, a mere old friend, for taking your actual BLOG into that most private and distasteful of rooms? And telling about it?

Mea Culpa.

Ah Ha! Photos.

2010-01-04T18:11:00.000-07:00

The Photo-less Snapshot

2010-01-04T18:00:00.004-07:00

In the days when I only squatted on this blog but hadn’t actually improved it with any posts, I was once party to a conversation about blogging.

(Just a quick note here: you may have noticed I did not say ‘on’ blogging, but ‘about’ blogging. Though you can never tell by this blog, I did once study writing in graduate school and it irritates me that people always say they are talking ‘on’ something. Please, people: talk ‘about’ it. Just for me. And while we’re at it, do you know how grateful I am for ‘each’ of you who read my blog? Wait—did I sound less grateful because I didn’t say ‘each and every?’ No! So why do so many people insist on saying ‘each-and-every?’ I ‘hate-loath-despise-and-abominate’ this expression. Btw, you should also always avoid long parentheticals. As I say, not as I do.)

Anywhich,

blah blah blah squatted, and blah blah blah blogging . . . participants in this conversation agreed that they much prefer viewing photos on peoples’ blogs to reading posts. Ugh. I was secretly chagrinned and took a vow against blogging for almost a year. I am a terrible picture-poster. Can you tell? I am good at taking them, plenty of them, but just not good at putting them anywhere. I was recently in another conversation where someone mentioned the appalling truth they had just heard that some people PAY OTHERS to put together their photo albums!! “Gee,” I thought. “Here I misfit again—especially in my local culture. I’d be first in line for that service if I had the money.” I’m still recovering from the time I recently spent several hours uploading a couple hundred photos to Picasa, only to have the upload fail at the last minute. My friend Emily, the Emily that is better friends with my blog than with me, has kindly offered to upload photos for me. That’s cool, because I have many talents I could use to trade her for this service. Like . . . installing ceiling fans. Yes—Emily, I’ll trade you one ceiling fan furniture tower for 500 photos.

So, for those of you who hate reading posts, you’re not reading anyway so never mind. I may not be good at photo albums, but I am a word person and I am pretty good at word albums. I’ve been keeping written journals for my kids since they were born. I’ve written down many things Saffron and Willa say, and thought it might be nice to paint a word picture for those of you who have never met them in person. I love their language these days. In just two months they have come to speak almost exclusively in English. This is truly amazing if you think about it. It’s also sad because, though we encourage Amharic, they have forgotten many Amharic words. We recently quizzed them and Saffron remembered about 80 percent of the words we asked her, but Willa only about 30 percent. Though their English is still far from complete, it seems to come more naturally for them now to speak incomplete English than complete Amharic, even to each other. We better call friends in Ethiopia again soon.

Here is a word snapshot of Saffron and Willa over the past couple of weeks:

Saffron

“Mom, help me you yes?” For, ‘Will you please help me pin on my scout pin?’

“Mrs. _____ I love it!” For, ‘I love my teacher.’

“And then Mom, and then phone, and then talk, and then Ruby Stop!, and then No!, and then me Yes!, and then Ruby bedroom, and then me—and then, I don’t know, Mom!”

-Trying to give an explanation as emphatic as her sister’s as to why they were fighting and not doing what I asked. She’s been determined to give her side from the very beginning, even if she didn’t have the words.

“Go, Daddy. Scoot Over.” For the backseat-driver version of ‘You can go now, Dad.’

-One of the most difficult things for Steve on the flight home from Ethiopia was that Saffron and Willa had no concept of waiting in line. They thought every line was a chance to cut through the crowd and fend for yourself, and Steve had to constantly run after them and pull them back. This translated into driving once they got here, and they were always looking at any open lane on the road, like the one for opposing traffic, and telling us to “Go!” Now that they understand the concept of red and green lights, they are keen to watch them for us. Their language has really opened my eyes to the many different ways we say the same thing, and how confusing that must be. Ie., If Ruby tells Saffron to ‘scoot over’ on the couch, then Saffron sees no reason why it wouldn’t sound right to tell Dad to ‘scoot over’ the car on the road. Boy, English is tough.

“Wooby! Swim after sook going pants! Mom said.”

For, ‘Ruby, Mom says we’re going to the store after we go swimming, so you need to bring a pair of pants.’ (Amharic is for "shop" is “sook”) The exclamation points are not unintentional. They yell almost everything these days. They’ve gone from quiet as mice to the opposite. I guess it takes time to learn the right volume, as well as the right words. Swimming is probably their all-time favorite activity. Saffron insists she knows how and doesn't need lessons even though swimming with her is like trying to rescue a drowning person. She's wants to brave, but flails around rather terrified. I had to teach her simple things like grabbing my shoulders in desperation, instead of my head or neck. It's actually good that she hasn't quite mastered this yet, because Ruby is a good swimmer and needs a few places to shine. She is constantly comparing herself to Saffron, who is built like a rubberband, in gymnastics.

“Mommy, no sleep finished today. Me.” For, ‘Mom, I don’t want to go to sleep because I don’t want today to be over.’ This was said on Christmas night. Speaking of Christmas, they loved it. The excitement was almost too much. After they opened pajamas with everyone at the Christmas Eve party, they thought Christmas was over. Then when they had to hurry to bed because Santa was coming, they were very scared. They wanted to know if he would come in their room. I told them to listen for his boots on the roof and the reindeers' bells. I then snuck out on the deck and stomped around and jingled sleigh bells. In the morning it was as if only a moment had passed--they jumped out of bed excited to tell me they heard the boots and were "squired." Of course, after the initial excitement of presents, they quickly adapted to American Christmas. Saffron whined that her beautiful new doll did not come with any clothes. After opening presents at our house, they whined that they only got two presents at Grandma's. I guess they thought every house would be like Santa all over again. Today Willa asked if he's coming again today.

Willa

“Whatcho Name?” For, ‘What is that? Who is that?’ or anything close.

“Mommy, me school yes?” Every morning, for, ‘When do I get to go to school?’

“Willa, Wah-gah-gwo-en?” For, ‘Where are we going?’ ‘Where did it go?’ Playing hide and seek or peekaboo, or anything related.

“No moot movie, Mom. Squiry!” For, ‘I don’t want to watch a movie with dead people in it, Mom. Too scary!’ This after going to see A Christmas Carol. (‘Moot’ is ‘dead’ in Amharic)

“No!” For, ‘no,’ ‘shouldn’t,’ ‘wouldn’t,’ ‘couldn’t,’ ‘won’t,’ ‘can’t,’ and just about every other negative. And be careful about asking her “Why?” If she’s just said No and you ask Why, you are then in trouble for something unknown, and caught in a never-ending loop of no’s and why’s.

“Shut da door.” For, ‘Button my pants,’ and everything else that relates to opening or closing, having or not having.

“Dad! Shut da door Christmas. Five!” For, ‘Dad look! There are five houses without Christmas lights.' The ‘what a cryin’ shame’ was clearly heard in her tone.

“Daddy, sleep is coming Wheela.” For, ‘Daddy, I’m tired.’

"Ay-a-lew! Aya!" For, 'Ayalew.' Their Ethiopian father. This is something they repeat a lot when they cry. This gives me pretty mixed feelings, knowing how he treated them, and everything I'm trying to be for them here. It makes me a little upset to hear them cry for him. But it's only when they're really mad at me because they're in trouble, or I'm doing their hair. And it's natural, of course. But I'm human, and I don't love hearing it.

"Mommy, Meki Toukoul one play? Today? Please?" For, 'Can we go and visit Ethiopia today, Mom? Just to play once? Please?' Willa just asked me this right now.

There. It may not be a photo, but it’s pretty cute nonetheless.

My Patience is Pickled

2010-01-04T15:35:00.000-07:00

If Steve were to extol my many virtues, patience would not be one of them. Let’s just say that when I get a bee in my bonnet I tend to run flailing off the path until I get it out. The upside of this flaw is that I tend to get a lot done in life (in spurts), and devise new strategies to do so, as necessity (desperation) becomes the mother of my invention (work-around). But then the downside of that upside is that I tend to measure my days too much by productivity and sometimes forget to enjoy more important things. Another downside (picture a 3-dimensional ski slope where you ride the lift up one side, but can ski down all the others. My impatience ratio is about 1:4 in upsides to downsides) is that I sometimes jump into the pot without careful planning and end up getting myself pickled. Steve then is surprised to come home from work to a wife in a pickle, and has to drop everything and get me out. Sometimes he’s saved by friends who find me first.

Some results of this tendency of mine:

1. Downside: When I was pregnant with Ruby, who was born at the end of August, we had just bought a house in Colorado. It was one of the hottest Denver summers in recent memory, and we had no air conditioning. Our bedroom, the only comfortable place to rest, was especially sweltering. Steve and I had bought a ceiling fan but had not yet installed it. One afternoon, in desperation and seven months pregnant, I decided to stand on the bed and install it myself. It was heavy. It was hard. I was not in a position to climb up into the ceiling and anchor it, yet I had it partially installed and so could not leave it hanging. I was dripping with sweat and exhausted by the time I was ready to give up. Only problem was, I couldn’t get it down and couldn’t stand and hold it in place all day. So, I lifted a small dresser and other various pieces of furniture onto the bed until I had a tower tall enough to reach the fan and support its weight. When Steve got home, he discovered a Dr Suess-esque tower of furniture with a fan on top that had to be installed before he could sleep in his bed that night. (You are probably reading this and wondering, ‘how does he put up with her?’ The answer? I don’t know, but I think it’s that I let him buy that old convertible.)

2. Upside: I have learned that if you buy houses with wood floors and suddenly want to move very heavy furniture while you’re home alone, all you have to do is lift each corner and put a soft towel under it. Then you can slide anything anywhere! (If you do accidentally scratch the floor, then you know right where to put that new rug.)

3. Downside: Just over a year ago, a few days before Halloween, I decided I could no longer stand my mustard-yellow kitchen. We were hosting a huge Halloween party, so I decided that would be my motivation to paint. I spent the next few days trying every different color and finding nothing that worked. I’ve painted every place we’ve ever lived in and never had a problem with color, but this one wasn't working. Orange seemed to be the only good option because of a pre-existing backsplash, but I wasn’t sure if even I was brave enough for an orange kitchen. By the day before Halloween, there were different colors of paint all over the wall. In desperation, I called a designer friend of my mom’s for help. She came down that evening and verified that, yes, orange was the only option besides white (boring), and chose the right shade of orange for us. Steve and I then painted into the night, and I did a second coat Halloween morning. My friend came over to help me take the tape off, and voila—we were ready for 100 people that night. I was sorry I let my lack of patience become a crisis which Steve, my friend, and the designer had to bail me out of. (But I really like my kitchen now.)

4. Definite Downside: In my impatience to leave for a party on Christmas Eve night, I was trying to hurry and catch up on stuff on my phone while I took a quick potty-break (you know, reading ‘ala commode’—thanks, bigbahamamama). But the kids yelled at me and surprised me and I dropped the iphone in the toilet. Can you believe it doesn’t work anymore?? Don’t they design it for such contingencies? I mean, my sister dropped hers in the toilet at the U2 concert. It seems to me this is a common problem for which Apple should have been prepared. Sure, there’s a moisture button inside, but what good does it do? The geniuses at the Genius Bar could only say, “Yep. Moisture button is red. It’s ruined.” Good thing I still had my old iphone to fall back on. It’s screen may be cracked from all those times I dropped it in my impatience, but at least it still works. By the way, I have told Steve and the kids that the blame for the murder of my new (4-month-old) iphone falls squarely on their shoulders. First, the Kids at the Bathroom Door with the Screaming. Don’t yell at people during their potty break! Second, the Husband in the Bathroom without the Magazine Rack. I asked him to install it weeks ago, so I could set my phone (and magazines) on it during said potty breaks! My dad, who is a lawyer (not a loiyer), says these arguments will likely not hold up in court.

5. TBD: In the past two months I have re-arranged the kids’ bedrooms three times—twice in the last 10 days, including just now. Jasper had been complaining about having girls in his room all the time and we’d decided to move him into his own room after Christmas. But then his bed broke. I couldn’t stand it! So, amidst a million other things I should have been doing on the day before Christmas Eve, I decided to move the bedrooms around. I took apart all the beds, and moved Jasper into Saffron and Willa’s room, and moved their beds into the other room with Ruby. Luckily, I got this one all done before Steve got home without getting into any pickles. But a week later, Patient Steve was able to work his way through the furniture store’s hoops so we could return Jasper’s new-but-broken bed, and instead buy a bed with a trundle for the girls’ room so we don’t have to have three beds in there. The bed is coming Saturday, so that would be the logical day to prepare the room. I KNOW. BUT, I didn’t like the idea that I was cleaning it up today only to have to move everything Saturday. So, I just took apart the third bed and re-arranged the room again. Steve, good thing you’re not reading this.

Hmm. . . . When I began this post, I had a point in mind to which these thoughts on impatience and its perils were only the preamble. Alas, it’s gone from my mind. Maybe it was just that Willa says her new bed on the floor that I just created after dismantling her old bed is “yucky.” A year ago she’d never slept on anything but the floor. But now, so American, she looks at me with disdain each time I re-arrange her “algabet” (bedroom). But hey, she fell asleep anyway so I could write this profound preamble to a post.

This post is dedicated to my good neighbor, J, who died suddenly yesterday. She had a great sense of humor and, though in her 70's, enough 'impatience' and pizzazz to call us right at midnight on New Year's Eve. J, we'll miss you, your Christmas village, and your tomatoes.

A Feeling of Christmas

2009-12-24T17:37:00.001-07:00

City sidewalks, busy sidewalks, dressed in holiday style. In the air there's a feeling of Christmas.

But

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire? No--children climbing on the mother, tired.

In the air there's that feeling of Christmas.

Will you have a merry little Christmas? Let your heart be light? Though this day your troubles aren't out of sight, still--

In the air’s a feeling of Christmas.

You heard the bells, pre-Christmas day, their old familiar carols play.

In the air twas a feeling of Christmas.

Hark! How the bells, sweet silver bells, all seem to say, “throw cares away.”

In the air there’s a feeling of Christmas.

And though yesterday you bowed your head, "there is no peace for me," you said, still

In the air there's a feeling of Christmas.

"Joy to the world!" the bells peel deep. "God is not dead nor doth he sleep.'

For in you there's a courage at Christmas.

O come, O come, Emmanuel, and rescue me--He did. He will.

In Him there's a feeling of Christmas.

“Let there be peace on earth,” you say, “at least inside of me, today.

In me there's a feeling of Christmas.”

“Yes, angels I HAVE heard on high, and Bethlehem so still DID lie, and

in the air was a feeling of Christmas.”

Have your merry little Christmas now. Decide to muddle through somehow.

In the air there’s a feeling of Christmas.

And Christmas Eve will find you where the love lights glow, you will be home for Christmas, if only you and He know.

In you there's a feeling of Christmas.

Much A-blog About Nothing

2009-12-21T00:55:00.000-07:00

You know your version of Word is old if it highlights the word “blog” as misspelled every time you write it. That’s SO last version.

Last night I was chatting away with friends at a party (actually it was Mii #3, the one in charge of social obligations) when one of my many friends names Emily (I haven’t actually counted them, but let’s just say there are enough Emily’s in my life to leave Saffron totally confused every time I introduce another of my friends as “Emily”) interrupted me and said, (I feel I should add another parenthetical reference here to keep up the rhythm even though I have nothing parenthetical to say) “This is so funny! I feel like I’m talking to your blog come to life!” What?? Weird. I thought my blog was supposed to remind people of me—but now I remind people of my blog?? As Saffron would say, “Whaddizzat?!” It’s like a B movie where I create my own clone, and then my clone destroys me. (Just a sec . . . I have to go write that down on my list of screenplay ideas).

Anywhichemily, this got me thinking: since one of my Emilys has now forgotten who is real, me or my blog, this begs a couple of questions:

1) when I get a wee bit more whelmed than is comfortable, bordering on over, and don’t blog for two weeks, what happens to the real me? Do I start to fade away, sort of like when Marty McFly fades out of his family photo in Back to the Future?

2) Since Steve, my husband, hasn’t read my blog FOR WEEKS (even though I purposely gave him the silent treatment over it in bed, until I realized he was giving me the snoring treatment back), who IS he married to? From whom is he getting his news about the family? He still doesn’t even know about Mission: Impossible “Ample Sample.” He just overhears bits and pieces, like ‘Wendys’ and ‘Poop.’*

*Steve’s name is not changed to protect the innocent, because he has given full license to be blogged about, and admits full responsibility for not reading. He has now pledged to be an actual “follower” of my blog—AWESOME. I’ve been languishing at nine followers forever and that will take me into double digits.

You know, maybe the reason Steve isn’t reading my blog, and is giving me the snoring treatment, is because I’ve been making him man bedtime so much lately. About three weeks ago, it was as if I suddenly stuck my head out of the window of an old VW bus on a month-long road trip with four brand new kids. We’d finally stopped fighting and I'd gotten them settled down to play the license plate game, and I remembered there was life outside my window. Well, it’s a good thing I did! We started December with a vengeance. I had, in this order, and I’m not kidding:

Sat: Steve and I were in charge of a Christmas party at our church

Mon: Family outing with my parents to see A Christmas Carol (you know, the movie with all the “moot” (dead) people where Willa learned the word “squirry.” (“scary”))

Tues: Annual Neighborhood Ladies Christmas Cookie exchange, byo homemade cookies

Wed: Christmas party for Saffron which required Moms to stay and chat

Thurs: Church Ladies' Christmas dinner

Fri: Annual amazing Tabernacle Choir Christmas concert

Sun: Family dinner

Tues: Tend neighbor’s kids for their Christmas work party

Wed: Ladies Watch party

Sat: Ladies Annual Christmas Appetizer Party

As you can see, we ladies in my neighborhood keep an active social calendar—in December, at least. And though I’ve vowed to give some things up, how can you give up outings that only come up once a year? Plus, Steve has been working a MULTITUDE of hours, including Saturdays, and so is rather eager to push me out the door and assuage his guilt.

Some days I’ve had to leave before he even drove up, and at least once we passed in the driveway, where I barked marching orders for the evening. I always say I’ll be home early, but then my blog gets chatting with people and keeps me out late. Actually, I think it’s turned out to be a really good thing. If Steve hadn’t had enough time to bond fully before, now he has. All four kids have put him through his paces with bedtime, and baths, and hair, and food, and squabbles, and he hasn’t complained once. I can tell he feels more comfortable than ever—he now feels ‘at home’ at home again. And that’s a wonderful thing.

In fact, today we shut the door for a nice Sunday nap and we were both saying (you know how you ‘both say’ in a marriage--I did a lot of saying, and Steve’s ‘Um hum’s’ were really sincere) that things are starting to feel really good. This is feeling like a comfortable and happy new normal. All in all, that seems pretty good for less than two months home as a family.

We still have our hard moments, and hard days where one of us or one of the kids is grieving the life we once knew. But it’s OK to grieve what you leave behind for such a major change. That doesn’t mean it’s not a good change. The kids seem genuinely happier, and more comfortable. They are no longer just abiding each other—they are beginning to love each other. And though I’m not too serious too often when I blog, I hope it comes through that I really love my children. We really love our children. Desperately. And we have no regrets. On the contrary—we feel extremely lucky. Right, Steve?

“Um hum.”

This blog is brought to you by the number 12, and the letters B and H.

12, as in how old I feel every time my dad surprises me by telling me he’s been reading my blog.

B, as in spelling bee, which Steve should enter. He flawlessly spells words for me as I blog, and the only disagreement we’ve had is when he switched my ‘onry’ to ‘ornery’ without asking me. I’m on a mission to erase that ‘ornery’ from common usage because I HATE it when people actually pronounce the first ‘r’. See, if you would spend time with the real me and not just my blog, you would know that.

H as in hip, which my mom is having replaced tomorrow. Everything will go smoothly, Mom. It has to, because I’m actually really terrified at the thought of taking down all your Christmas decorations by myself. J I love you.

You Might Be a Redneck If . . .

2009-12-19T15:07:00.001-07:00

Your Christmas tree is stored in your neighbor’s garage, fully decorated and wrapped in Saran Wrap.

I’m not necessarily a Jeff Foxworthy fan, but as we carried our Christmas tree out of our neighbor’s garage, down the rickety wooden stairs, fully assembled and decorated and wrapped in plastic, all I could think of was his famous line.

I’ve always been a “real” tree snob. My mom has always gone way out on Christmas, with trees in more than one room. And until the last year or two, they were usually real trees. I loved Christmas as a kid. In fact, even now I still like Christmas at her house better than at mine.

I’ve tried to carry on the tradition, by having a real tree no matter how poor we were or how small our apartment. We’ve had a few of the countertop-height trees, and lots of trees that would make Charlie Brown proud. But it’s gotten harder the past few years, as my husband has worked later and I couldn’t wait, and have had to get it home and in the house alone with only Jasper to help.

So, last year when Steve and I had to go to a festival of trees to support his client, we eyed a really great, sort of Whoville looking tree going for very cheap. We figured we couldn’t normally buy an undecorated fake tree for that price, and this one came with fun decorations, and the money went to a good cause. (Even though we’ve always been the eclectic-homemade and souvenir ornament type, I thought this might add a bit of class to our Christmas.) Also, this tree was decorated by the kids from a special needs school. Ever since Charles was born, we’ve been softies for any of the services that we know would have been critical to us had he lived. So, we bought it. It was a breeze! It was delivered right to our living room, and we had instant Christmas.

Problem was, when I went to clean up after Christmas, I discovered that all the ornaments were meticulously wired to the tree. Well. I was way too tired from Christmas to un-wire all those ornaments. Seemed like a cinch to me to ask the neighbors to store the tree as-is in their oversized barn garage. It wasn’t until we went to retrieve it this year that I felt pretty ridiculous.

So, a couple weeks ago I decided we better go buy a real tree, at least a small one, to go with it. It was under 20 degrees that night, but Saffron wouldn’t put on her coat. “Me no cold,” she insisted. Whatever, I thought. I don’t feel like arguing. When we got to the tree lot and hopped out of the car, it was frigid. Saffron was horrified by the cold—in tears. I kept telling her to wait in the car, but she was determined not to miss her first Christmas-tree shopping—whatever that was. Needless to say, we VERY QUICKLY picked out the most bent, Charlie Brown-looking, waist-high tree we could find. Perfect for us! We then ran across the street to the local greasy spoon for some good ol’ footlong hot dogs. As soon as the food was ordered, I left Steve with the kids and hid in the bathroom to read BigBahamaMama—my favorite wacky friend’s blog.

Steve then left to go back to work, and the kids and I went home to decorate. The tree was so light I carried it in and set it up all by myself, in front of Whoville. Let Christmas begin!

Slick. Now that’s my kind of tree shopping. Merry Christmas from Cindy Lou Who.

You Might Be a Real Parent If . . .

2009-12-19T12:56:00.000-07:00

The day after Mission: Impossible “Ample Sample,” you watch TV and nap most of the day.

You Might Be a Nut If . . .

2009-12-18T13:30:00.003-07:00

You drive around with a stool sample in the front seat with you, and end up taking it to Wendy’s.

A few nights ago, Steve was out of town, and Jasper, our in-house social coordinator, decided he couldn’t live without organizing an impromptu sledding excursion after school. Truthfully, I groaned a bit inside, but said Yes, I would take the boys and sleds to the park.

I love Jasper, and his extraverted personality, and decided long ago that I wanted to be the kind of mom who supported that—who would drop things when possible to support the kids’ ideas. That’s why I have spent more than a one afternoon manning the hot cocoa for an impromptu “hot cocoa stand” in the driveway. (I say impromptu again, because Jasper is a true believer in the JIT/Just In Time approach to life.) I regret that though I often say Yes, it’s commonly with a tone of annoyance. Does saying yes with a guilt trip about respecting Mom’s time cancel out the saying yes all together? Probably. Anyway, this tone doesn’t phase Jasper at all—as my mom always says, his life philosophy seems to be “it never hurts to ask!” Since he was little I’ve been sending him to ask by himself for things he wanted that I didn’t want to ask for, thinking it would discourage him. It doesn’t. “Can I trade this Happy Meal toy for that one?” Was only the beginning. When he was about 4, Steve’s parents took him to get ice cream. They ran into friends and began to chat right inside the doorway of the creamery. They didn’t notice Jasper for a minute, and when they did, he was standing next to them licking his ice cream. No biggy—he’d just gone up and ordered for himself.

So what does all this have to do with stools? Well, Jasper spent quite a while calling boys, and only found one (thanks for being a willing participant, J.G.!). He and this friend sledded in the yard for about an hour waiting for other boys to be available. I checked on them and figured they’d forgotten about the park and I was safe to jump in the shower. Not. Pretty soon I hear Jasper, “Mom! We’ve got to hurry to the park. It’s getting dark!” I really wanted to say no at this point, but when you have a video-game-loving child, you never want to discourage any physical activity. So, I jumped out of the shower, grabbed a comb, and took them to the park. One thing Jasper and I have not adjusted to is the fact that you can’t be as spontaneous with four kids as you can with two. You can’t drag three girls on a quick trip with you. So, I left the girls home with the usual admonishment not to answer the door or phone. By the time we got to the park at 5:00 it was dark (I hate these short, winter days, but they’re not as bad as London, where it was dark when we walked home from school in the winter.), and I felt I needed to stay and watch the boys. I stood out in the cold combing my wet hair until my ears were freezing and I couldn’t resist the car. I sat thinking to myself, “What good can I really do from this distance if one of the boys gets snatched into the woods, or cracks his head open?” (I’m a chronic worst-case-scenario imaginer. That TV habit, again.)

After only about 10 minutes my phone rang. It was Ruby. “Mom! Mom! Saffron pooped! Come home quick!” Then Saffron got on the phone, beaming with pride. “Mama, bathroom! Poop!” She was thrilled because she’d “given a sample” big enough this time, after too many pea-sized offerings. Oh no. It was almost 6:00. I doubted the lab would be open, but didn’t want to disappoint Saffron by not even trying. I told the boys I was leaving, then called J.G.’s parents to come pick them up. I hated to leave them in the dark, but checked my mother’s intuition, which seemed to indicate no feelings of disaster. I knew I had little time to get the sample in in time. Boy! This is just like Mission: Impossible, isn’t it? Except Saffron’s sample would be in danger of destroying any governments if it didn’t make it on time. Ha! Try telling that to the girls! When I got to the house, they were racing around in a panic, ready to jump in the car and get this top-secret sample where it needed to go!

Saffron told Willa not to speak to me while I was driving, because I had to race like a mad woman to the lab and could abide no distraction. First lab: left the girls in the car and ran in the building and to the office—no luck. Closed at 5:30. Second lab: raced around to the other side of same building and up a flight of stairs: closed at 4:00 (who gets to close at 4 PM these days?!)—no luck. Ah ha. Wait—the hospital. They’ll be open! Drove to the hospital and raced in with the girls. A kind doctor in full surgery scrubs saw the apparent importance of our mission and escorted us to the lab through a back door. STOP. Sit. Wait. “We don’t take your insurance,” they tell me. Well, maybe I’ll just pay, after all this effort! How much? Sit. Wait. After 10 minutes, they came back with a price list well over $500. To test poop? Nevermind. “Wait,” the tech reminded me—there’s one more play you could try. So, with three hyper girls I trudged back out through the parking lot to the car, and drove to one last lab. By this point it was about 10 after 6:00. As I screeched around a corner and pulled into the last lab, I saw it: they closed at 6:00. Oh! We could have made it if we’d gone there first! But by this point it was about 10 after 6:00. Saffron’s disappointment was palpable. “Poop again? Oh no.” “Yes,” I said. “And now what do I do with the sample?” I thought. The girls were starving, but I didn’t want to be a bad citizen and drop it in the clinic’s little garbage, as it was labeled with that ‘bio waste’ symbol. So, I tucked it in next to me on the seat, and drove to Wendy’s to get the girls a nice, home-cooked meal. “I did wash my hands when I got this sample, right?” I wondered.

Update: Now that I knew what time all the local labs closed, I was happy when Saffron “sampled” again two days ago. It was not large, but apparently was an ample sample, as we did get our diagnosis: Giardia. Of course—we knew she must, right? Willa has it, and they lived right next to a river where they washed and drank and watered the cows. They’ve probably had giardia since birth! Well, now it’s official and we get our meds.

Update Again: We got a call for a dermatology cancellation, too. So I took both girls in yesterday, and we’re getting both Willa’s scalp and Saffron’s warts treated. HURRAY! All is now well and their third-world health will soon be first-world health. All that’s left is for them to adopt junk food and childhood obesity, and they’ll be true American kids.

Blogging: It's Not Taxes

2009-12-16T23:32:00.002-07:00

That's what I realized tonight--I get all stressed out when I don't blog for a while because I think I have to catch everything up. But I don't owe any "back blogging," right?! So I'm just going to start from here.

(At least that's what I tell myself, to get at it again. It's hard to live life all day, and then lie awake at night feeling guilty that you're not recording it well enough--not taking enough video, or writing a detailed enough record. Whew! If ONE MORE person says, "I hope you're taking a lot of video," or "writing this all down," or scrapbooking . . . would you like to volunteer?? I need two full-time me's to do this right, I guess. One to live it, and one to record the Director's Commentary for the DVD. Oh, and a third part-time me to keep up my social life, of course. The girl at the Lab and I have struck up a nice friendship over stool samples since I've been there so many times discussing them.)

Willa has three parasites. The nurse delivered the results to me over the phone with sympathy, but I was thrilled to hear the news. After living for two months with the most disgusting poop

smell I've ever experienced, and then having to work up the courage to harvest samples of said smelly poop and get it to the lab within an hour, I'm so glad to have a diagnosis! You know, no biggy--she just has giardiasis, Entamoeba Coli, and Iodamoeba Butschlii. The doctor's ordered some stiff antibiotics to kill it all off. Yippee!

Saffron's actually the one who complains constantly about stomach aches, and I'm sure she probably has the same thing, but we can't get a diagnosis because she only poops on nights and weekends--I can't get a fresh sample in during business hours! But I guess it's only fair, because she's the only one who's getting the hair treatment. Both girls have always had something major on their scalps, and the cure has been elusive. In Ethiopia the women told me it was a fungus, and took me out to a pharmacy to buy a tiny, eight-dollar bottle of what turned out to be dandruff shampoo. We used it, but it did no good. Schquetta, the African American hairstylist who did their braids, said these were just really bad cases of dry scalp and if I conditioned their scalps and oiled them three times a week,

everything would clear up. I have, but it hasn't. In fact, Willa's symptoms have gotten worse. (Symptoms being, btw, white scaley covering all over S's scalp, and big, errupting pustules of yellow puss all over W's head.)

I took them to a dermatologist the first week they were here and he took samples, but said to wait three weeks to call for results. After that wait, it was a couple weeks of trading messages with the secretary before the doctor finally called me. He said Saffron has a particular fungus that can be cleared up after a month of twice-daily oral medication. He said W's head turned up nothing, though--disconcerting, since her pustules just keep getting worse, and now appear to be causing hairloss right around them! I called three other dermatologists yesterday, but can't get in anywhere until mid-January. Ugh.

It's amazing how long it can take to get something treated, even in a FIRST-world country. You might wonder why I haven't pushed steps through more quickly, but when each doctor's visit or bloodtest results in an hour of screaming from both girls, as if I've utterly betrayed them, I tend to wait a bit between visits.

The Family Bounce-Back Pass

2009-12-04T20:46:00.000-07:00

When I knew our baby boy, Charles, was going to be born to die, there was one song I knew for sure must be sung at his funeral. “Love Abides,” by Cori Connors, had comforted me through my pregnancy, and expressed how I felt:

Mother Earth may quack, but cannot shake where love abides. In spite of all the world, the spirit will survive. Through it all, I know that love abides.

Tonight as I took a minute to wipe the counters, I popped in one of Cori’s CDs. (It’s not the shower, but kitchen cleaning is a good second-best venue for thinking. Especially if you’re careful not to do it too often—the cleaning, I mean.) I thought it was her Christmas album, but then I heard “Love Abides” begin to play. This song will always be a bit mournful for me to listen to, as will “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” from Charles’ funeral. But mournful is not a bad thing.

As I listened to the song, I found myself remembering a thought I had while driving through my neighborhood one day when I was pregnant with Charles. I remember exactly where I was on the road. It’s funny how you can remember one of your own thoughts, one never spoken aloud, and even remember where you thunk it. I remember thinking about what I was going to name this unlucky baby, and whether I wanted to give him a ‘virtue’ middle name (as Ruby and I have, and Jasper sort of has). My middle name, Faith, has been important to me and has given me courage throughout my life. Ruby’s middle name, Thankful, illuminates how I felt when she was born, and has definitely been a point of strength for her. Jasper’s middle name is Maxwell, but his nickname is “Reliance Wheeler,” after a favorite book character of mine who was a mother’s first born son, and upon whom she relied heavily. Jasper has earned this name.

That day I remember thinking, “If I were to assign this boy a virtue, it would have to be ‘Resilience.’” This baby was beset with a rare developmental defect, Campomelic Dysplasia. Virtually every part of his body had formed incorrectly. Yet his heart was sound. It beat strongly, and he swam around vigorously at every ultrasound. (I say swam, because he was extra small and I had extra fluid.) “He’s resilient,” I thought. At the time we didn’t know if he would live or die, but we knew that if he lived his life would be extremely difficult. I figured if he did live, he would need a whole lot more of that resilience to bounce back from each difficulty and keep on living.

We didn’t end up naming him “Charles Resilient,” (you all breathe a sigh of relief) but I thought a lot during those months about what it meant to be resilient—to bounce back after life beats you down. I decided that resilience was probably the single most important trait I wanted to try to instill in my living children. I figured that if I could somehow teach them to bounce back from anything life threw their way, they would always be OK.

I haven’t thought about this much for a long time, until tonight. I was mulling over talents. Because we have two new children in our family, from a whole new gene pool, we are discovering lots of new talents. I know this is hard for Ruby. She sometimes feels that her new sisters can do everything she can’t. Saffron is a flexible, budding gymnast and dancer, and she learned to ride a bike in a day. She can knit, and braid, and even little Willa can braid. Ruby is brimming with her own talents, in my opinion, but she’s feeling inferior. Jasper has gone through the same fears with friends over the past couple of years, as he starts different sports thinking he’s really good, and then discovers that other kids are better. In the past few days I’ve started to worry: what if we have some kids with all the visible talents, and others who are perpetual spectators? That sounds like a minefield for a parent, especially when two of the kids were adopted.

This all reminded me of The Middle, a new TV show with Patricia Heaton that has Steve and me really chuckling. The “Heck” family has three odd children, including a middle daughter named Sue. Poor Sue is a perpetual tryer-outer. Every episode she is trying out for something new, from the showy stuff like cheerleader to the low hanging fruit like stage crew. This poor, awkward girl never makes anything. As her mother says, she may be the only child ever born without a talent. As her parents supportively cringe at her every attempt, I find myself thinking “Go, Sue!” Persevere! Between chuckles, I want to remind Sue’s parents that their daughter has the most important talent in the entire world—she is resilient!!

So then it hit me—Sure Ruby is feeling beaten down a bit, but she is also learning to bounce back. She is learning to persevere. She is learning resilience! (These life lessons are how I justify all my TV watching. I sometimes want to quote an episode in church, but I stop short of that.) In fact, so is Jasper. This whole experience has been an exercise in resilience. So was Charles’ death. You’d be surprised how much a sister and brother can be disappointed by the loss of a baby brother, and the re-adjustment it takes to decide to want kid-sized sisters instead. The last six weeks have been all about getting beaten down and then deciding to bounce back for another blow—for all of us. And Saffron and Willa? Well, let’s just say that if their middle names weren’t “perseverant” and “resilient” they wouldn’t even be here. (Figuratively speaking guys—no, those aren’t their real middle names. Do I have to spell e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g out?) They survived everything from birth in a shack to life without a mother and they’re not just still alive, they’re still smiling.

So, the counters are clean for one second, and I discovered all four of my kids have the SAME talent--resilience! OK, so it’s due to the school of hard knocks and not to my award-winning parenting. But at least I can try not to screw them all up—too badly.