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.

Oh My Hair

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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

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.

Standing, Squatting, and Giggling with your Siblings

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:

Female Circumcision

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.

Musical Chairs

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.

Lest I Let My Emotional Guard Down . . .

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

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.

Willa: A Day in the Life

"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.'

"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

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.

Walking to Ethiopia

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

Traditional Remedies: Mom and Saffron Square Off

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.)

Adoption in Haiti and Little Brother

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.

Little Brother and His Cows

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. 

Ah Ha! Photos.

The Photo-less Snapshot

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.

Much A-blog About Nothing

 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.

Blogging: It's Not Taxes

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.

When Two Vowels Go Walking The First One Does The Talking

I've been feeling rather guilty that I didn't have the heart to post for the last two weeks. But, in retrospect, it's probably better that I didn't. I had some ugly feelings. There are things better left unsaid, and even more better left unblogged. Suffice it to say, especially for those of you going through a difficult change in your life, that time really does improve every situation, even when you think there’s no way you could see things differently. A week ago I was really discouraged and I feared my very best hope was to “get used to” a difficult new status quo. I was progressively feeling worse about things, rather than better. But something changed around Thanksgiving and, rather abruptly, I actually began to enjoy the new status quo.

Our visit with Rundassa definitely made a difference, but we continued to struggle for the next 10 days. I don't know that Saffron's behavior got any worse. Rather, the drop was in the rest of our ability to cope--especially mine and Ruby's.

I don't want to bore you with two weeks of chronological details (nor can I remember most of them), but here's what stuck with me:

--Ruby:  Ruby was getting more and more whiny about her sisters and was constantly singing the "it's not fair" tune. I was indulging it more than I would with anyone else, partly because I was worn down and needed the familiar cuddle as much as she did. I had to buck up and quit it because I was underestimating her, and wasn't doing either of us a favor. One good tip I received from a children’s counselor was to tell a child that fair is not about equal, but about whether each person is getting what they need. And they all need something different. Fast forward a week, and I am really proud of Ruby.  She is a sweetie and a trooper.  (Though she's crying as I write this.)  She’s enjoying her sisters—really playing with them, and learning to let things slide. The other day she was having anxiety about school, so I said I would come and take her to lunch. I got a babysitter for Willa and when I picked Ruby up, she asked where Willa was. “It would be OK for you to bring her next time,” she said. I couldn’t believe it. A week earlier she’d been telling me how she felt like a bee in a rainstorm. (Ruby is pretty skilled at expressing her feelings these days.) She said she was the bee, and everywhere she turned there were raindrops coming at her, and she couldn’t get away from them. The raindrops were her sisters, she said. Now, here she was actually missing one!

--Apologies:  I'm sure all you parents already know this, but I have learned quickly that with four kids it's twice as hard to tell who did what to whom, whose fault it was, and whether they did it on purpose. I've stuck to my policy of making everyone apologize for everything, just in case, and they're finally getting it. After many attempts, I figured out how to explain it so they get the idea: I tell them it's not about whether YOU think you owe an apology, but whether the OTHER PERSON thinks you do. If THEY do, YOU do. Period. Full Stop. I've finally learned that lesson as an adult, and it takes a lot less energy to apologize and let it go than to justify yourself to others. Whether I meant it at the moment or not, I can't think of a single apology I've regretted giving. (And especially in my marriage I always apologize and admit all my mistakes and never hold grudges, right Steve? I’m pretty much a piece of cake to be married to, as far as I can tell.)

--English:  Understanding is coming along fast, and it’s really fun and enlightening to hear the efforts at speaking English. For instance, I never realized how similar the words “hair,” “ear,” and “where” are (and “are,” for that matter). Saffron has a dickens of a time trying to pronounce them differently. She’s a smart girl, and she’s trying new words all the time. It’s also fun to listen to Willa experiment in the backseat. She doesn’t try as many English words, though she understands a lot. I think she doesn’t bother because she thinks I understand her in Amharic, and I do now understand most of the basics. But she likes to practice some in the backseat of the car. One day it was “Excoos Me! I’m sorry.” With that lovely rolled R, of course. Another day it was “How You? Ahm fine.” My favorite is “wa-ga-gyo-en?” (Where are we going?) Clearly, we’ve been on too many errands.

--Go!  They like to go, go, go! If I don’t have somewhere for us to go in the car every morning and every afternoon, to the store or some other errand, the disappointment from the girls is palpable. “Let’s go somewhere!” Seems to be their motto in America. The other love of their lives is the trampoline. Rain or shine, cold, snow and leaves on the tramp—no matter. They beg me to “jump, jump!” all the time.

--The Cold: Their reaction to this cracks me up a bit. Clearly they don’t see the beauty in big, puffy coats. But it’s only 17 degrees here today! Saffron and I have had many a battle over wearing a coat and gloves. She’s even tried to wear two jackets—a hoodie over a jean jacket—in an effort to appease me. It’s very clear that their Ethiopian exposure to style draws them to form-fitting things. I think their pink coats are adorable, but they don’t. Some days I do let it go, and then they come home literally crying because they’re so cold. The first snowfall, when they went outside in bathrobes and umbrellas, they came home bawling and holding their hands like they were on fire. It had never occurred to me that they may never have felt that my-hands-are-so-cold they’re burning feeling. They looked absolutely shocked.

--Clothes:  And speaking of style, about a week ago I decided to let the clothes thing go. Boy—what a relief. I’m holding firm about choosing what they wear to church and special events, but I’m letting them have the rest. I admit it was pride that made me want to control this issue—people are looking at us everywhere we go, and I figured we might as well look cute. After all, they were given lots of cute clothes at the shower! Also, when Ruby was wearing something matching and they were wearing odds and ends, I feared people would think I wasn’t treating them equally. But who cares what people think! I have enough other battles to fight. So, I took all the kids to the DI (Deseret Industries, a great second-hand store), and let them each pick out some new things. I figured this would solve the clothes-sharing problem. Well, after Saffron’s 1.5 hour tantrum in the boys’ dressing room, it did. (As I was carrying her out to the parking lot screaming, some kind woman stopped me to make sure I was Saffron’s mother. Ha! I’m sure she was worried she was witnessing either a kidnapping or abuse in action, but I assure you I was calm, cool, and collected. I didn’t REALLY throw her shows in the garbage can after she sat on the cold concrete outside the store and threw them. I only ALMOST did.) Anyway, what I hadn’t bargained for was what the girls would choose. Saffron was drawn to the flowy, polyester floral sheath dresses that were in in the late ‘90’s. Yesterday she wore one to school with a long-sleeved shirt and sweats under it. But I can understand—women in Ethiopia who can afford a dress often wear long, floral ones.

--Jasper Scores: Jasper has played his cards right. Most of the time he is calm, patient and helpful. He know s I notice and am grateful, and he fully expects me to be. The money spent on clothing was not lost on him. I could only get him to pick out one shirt (orange Hawaiian-style shirt with surfboards?! Really?), so he casually pointed out that I probably owed him about a $30 toy to make up for what I spent on the girls. If you know Jasper, you know he’s definitely going to take note of the advantages to his new situation.

--Saffron’s Personality: Now that Saffron is getting bored of pouting and has decided it’s a lot more fun to—well—have fun, she doesn’t seem shy at all. In fact, she seems almost giddy. She’s giggly and hyper much of the time. I doubt this is her completely real personality either, as she’s probably so thrilled to be relieved of her limit-testing duties that she’s bouncing high and really enjoying America for the first time.

--Photos:  Been thinking a blog about children should be packed with them?  You're right.  I spent several hours uploading two albums totaling 500 photos for this blog.  The upload failed at the very end.  I was so mad I deleted them all.  YOU DID NOT!  You're right--I didn't.  But I am holding a grudge and haven't tried again.  

--Food: Who knew this would be the bloodiest battle ground? We’ve continued to have some epic standoffs over food. The Sunday morning before last, I told Saffron she couldn’t go to church unless she ate breakfast (I chose this battle instead of objecting to the floral sheath dress with the long-sleeved pink and white t-shirt under it). The last Sunday had been miserable largely because she was hungry. She refused breakfast, and we again had to leave her home while we got everyone else to church. When Steve went back for her, she still refused to eat. He relented and brought her to church anyway, where she promptly began sulking. Mightily. By the third hour when we went to our last, big meeting in the chapel, she was weeping on the bench next to me. I realized she wanted me to take her out just like I did the week before, so I did the opposite. I sat there and let her cry, quietly but publicly. Though I tried to look non-plussed, I was secretly rather concerned about my strategy. Then, when she stopped weeping on cue for the prayer and started up again right after, I knew she really was just pouting. I put my arm around her but still didn’t leave, and pretty soon she stopped abruptly. She then stood up in the isle in protest to me. I tried to keep a hand on her dress, but it was hard, what with Willa crawling all over me. Much to my chagrin, another family invited Saffron to sit with them, and proceeded to dote on her. (I know they were just trying to help.) This sent Ruby into tears for the rest of the meeting, saying “You don’t allow us to sit with friends at church! Why are you letting her break the rule?! It’s not fair!” I had been looking for a re-charge at church that week, and instead it had been miserable. That Sunday is when I started my emotional downward spiral. It was probably mostly exhaustion, and I’m really grateful that level of discouragement only lasted a few days. Right around then I also talked to another family in our city who just adopted 12- and 10-year-old girls from Ethiopia. Much of the conversation was comforting, like hearing they were also really struggling with the food issue. But other parts of it really discouraged me because they appeared to be doing so well in ways that we were not. That probably added to my gloom-and-doom attitude.

Oops—this was supposed to be the ‘Food’ paragraph and I’ve digressed. We did have another major battle about food one morning when I decided not to let Saffron go to school if she refused to eat breakfast. She stormed around and bawled for an hour and a half. At one point she was repeating something in Amharic I couldn’t understand. I asked Willa what she was saying, and she very guiltily informed me it was “you’re not my mom.” Actually, that didn’t bother me a bit. I’m sure all this change and will-battling with me makes her miss her “Meki Mom,” as we call her (her mother in the town of Meki, where she’s from). I said, “I know, you’re right. I’m not your first mom. I’m sure you miss her.” Then I said something about Ethiopia, which she must have interpreted to be going back there. She suddenly stopped crying and said, “No Ethiopia! No Ethiopia! America!” I promised her we were never going to send her back. It’s sad to me that she even still fears that, but I know it’s not unusual. At this point she realized she was about to miss first recess, so promptly ate the offending oatmeal. I took her to school.

--Giving Myself A Big Timeout: On the day before Thanksgiving, Saffron was really upset. For the life of me, I can’t remember why. It had been a really hard day, and was at the end of my three most discouraging days. I took Ruby to the grocery store to have a break, but when I got back I still felt upset. I knew I was getting irrationally bothered. I tried to call Rundassa’s wife, but couldn’t reach her. I couldn’t calm myself down enough to be nice, and Saffron continued to scream. I realized what I really needed was a nap. But I couldn’t take one, because Saffron kept going out the front door. She didn’t go far, but I obviously couldn’t go to sleep and let her wander around outside. Jasper was fed up trying to keep her inside, and they were about to come to blows. So I called my dear friend Emily, and asked her the Biggest Favor Ever. “If I don’t get a nap I will do something I regret,” I said. “Would you mind if I bring you a screaming 8-year-old? All you have to do is keep her in your house while I try to sleep.” Emily agreed right away, and was immediately granted sainthood. I drove Saffron up to her house, and had to peel her screaming from the car. I kept telling her I would be back soon. She bawled at Emily’s house for almost an hour before Steve picked her up. We both had our worst day, and ever since then it’s been better. Saffron has been the gem we always knew she was inside. I’ve been the non-descript-element-of-some-sort we always knew I was.


Life hasn’t and won’t be totally smooth from here on out, but we are really getting the hang of it—all six of us. I think we’re starting to be a family. And a happy one.