I've got myself some new digs. If you want to follow, email me at:
dandiesinthesunshine@hotmail.com
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Sunday, November 27, 2011
... I want you to understand why she can't belong to you
Fictional letter written from an attorney of the Cherokee Nation (Annawake Fourkiller) regarding the welfare of a child (named Turtle) adopted to a white woman (Taylor, non-Cherokee):
"It's difficult, I know, for non-Native people to understand the value of belonging to a tribe, but I know you care about problems Turtle will face on her own. I appeal to you on these grounds. Adopted Native kids always have problems in adolescence when they're raised without an Indian identity. They've gone to school with white kids, sat down to dinner every night with white parents and white siblings, and created themselves in the image of the family mirror. If you ask them what they think about Indians, they'll recall Westerns on TV or doing Hiawatha as a school play. They think Indians are history.
If these kids could stay forever inside the protection of the adoptive family, they'd be fine. But when they reach high school there's enormous pressure against dating white peers. They hear ugly names connected with their racial identity. If you think this kind of prejudice amongst teenagers is a thing of the past, think again. What these kids find is that they have no sense of themselves as Native Americans, but live in a society that won't let them go on being white, either. Not past childhood.
My boss thinks I'm crazy to pursue this case, but I have to tell you something. I used to have a brother named Gabriel. We grew up wearing each other's jeans and keeping each other's secrets and taking turns when our uncle asked, "Who made this mischief?" Gabe was my ayehli, my other wing. When I was ten, our mother was hospitalized with alcoholism and other problems. Social workers disposed of our family: my older brothers went with Dad, who did construction in Adair County. I stayed with my Uncle Ledger. And Gabe was adopted by a family in Texas. No one has ever told me why it was done this way. I assume they thought my dad could handle grown, income-earning sons, but not Gabe and me. As for Gabe, probably the social workers knew a couple who wanted a little boy -something as simple as that. He wrote me letters on fringe-edged paper torn out of his ring-bound school notebooks. I still have them. Texas was hot and smelled like fish. His new parents told him not to say he was Indian at school, or they would treat him like a Mexican. He asked me, "Is it bad to be Mexican?"
They put him into the Mexican classrooms anyway; his parents were bigots of the most innocent kind, never realizing that skin color talks louder than any kid's words. He failed in school because the teachers spoke to him in Spanish, which he didn't understand. The Mexican kids beat him up because he didn't wear baggy black pants and walk with his hands in his pockets. When we were thirteen he wrote to tell me his new Mom had closed the bedroom door and sat on the foot of his bed and said quietly he was letting his new family down.
When he was fifteen, he was accessory to an armed robbery in Corpus Christi. Now I only know where he is when he's in prison.
You said, the night we met, that I was only capable of seeing one side of things. I've thought about that. I understand attachments between mothers and their children. But if you're right, if I have no choice here but to be a bird of prey, tearing flesh to keep my own alive, it's because I understand attachments. That's the kind of hawk I am -I've lost my other wing.
I wonder what you are giving Turtle now that she can keep. Soon she's going to hear from someone that she isn't white. Some boy will show her that third-grade joke, the Land O' Lakes Margarine squaw with a flap cut in her chest, the breasts drawn in behind the flap, and ask her, 'Where does butter come from?' On the night of the junior prom, Turtle will need to understand why no white boy's parents are happy to take her picture on their son's arm.
What does she have that will see her through this into peaceful womanhood? As a citizen of Turtle's nation, as the sister of Gabriel Fourkiller, I want you to understand why she can't belong to you."
Pigs in Heaven by Barbara Kingsolver
p.48-50
"It's difficult, I know, for non-Native people to understand the value of belonging to a tribe, but I know you care about problems Turtle will face on her own. I appeal to you on these grounds. Adopted Native kids always have problems in adolescence when they're raised without an Indian identity. They've gone to school with white kids, sat down to dinner every night with white parents and white siblings, and created themselves in the image of the family mirror. If you ask them what they think about Indians, they'll recall Westerns on TV or doing Hiawatha as a school play. They think Indians are history.
If these kids could stay forever inside the protection of the adoptive family, they'd be fine. But when they reach high school there's enormous pressure against dating white peers. They hear ugly names connected with their racial identity. If you think this kind of prejudice amongst teenagers is a thing of the past, think again. What these kids find is that they have no sense of themselves as Native Americans, but live in a society that won't let them go on being white, either. Not past childhood.
My boss thinks I'm crazy to pursue this case, but I have to tell you something. I used to have a brother named Gabriel. We grew up wearing each other's jeans and keeping each other's secrets and taking turns when our uncle asked, "Who made this mischief?" Gabe was my ayehli, my other wing. When I was ten, our mother was hospitalized with alcoholism and other problems. Social workers disposed of our family: my older brothers went with Dad, who did construction in Adair County. I stayed with my Uncle Ledger. And Gabe was adopted by a family in Texas. No one has ever told me why it was done this way. I assume they thought my dad could handle grown, income-earning sons, but not Gabe and me. As for Gabe, probably the social workers knew a couple who wanted a little boy -something as simple as that. He wrote me letters on fringe-edged paper torn out of his ring-bound school notebooks. I still have them. Texas was hot and smelled like fish. His new parents told him not to say he was Indian at school, or they would treat him like a Mexican. He asked me, "Is it bad to be Mexican?"
They put him into the Mexican classrooms anyway; his parents were bigots of the most innocent kind, never realizing that skin color talks louder than any kid's words. He failed in school because the teachers spoke to him in Spanish, which he didn't understand. The Mexican kids beat him up because he didn't wear baggy black pants and walk with his hands in his pockets. When we were thirteen he wrote to tell me his new Mom had closed the bedroom door and sat on the foot of his bed and said quietly he was letting his new family down.
When he was fifteen, he was accessory to an armed robbery in Corpus Christi. Now I only know where he is when he's in prison.
You said, the night we met, that I was only capable of seeing one side of things. I've thought about that. I understand attachments between mothers and their children. But if you're right, if I have no choice here but to be a bird of prey, tearing flesh to keep my own alive, it's because I understand attachments. That's the kind of hawk I am -I've lost my other wing.
I wonder what you are giving Turtle now that she can keep. Soon she's going to hear from someone that she isn't white. Some boy will show her that third-grade joke, the Land O' Lakes Margarine squaw with a flap cut in her chest, the breasts drawn in behind the flap, and ask her, 'Where does butter come from?' On the night of the junior prom, Turtle will need to understand why no white boy's parents are happy to take her picture on their son's arm.
What does she have that will see her through this into peaceful womanhood? As a citizen of Turtle's nation, as the sister of Gabriel Fourkiller, I want you to understand why she can't belong to you."
Pigs in Heaven by Barbara Kingsolver
p.48-50
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Now that I think about it, The Saturday Evening Post didn't seem to think racial diversity was that awesome
Tesoro and I built our house in this dreamy little mountain village a
few years back. It happened around the same time we were finding out
that we wouldn't be able to conceive a child without tons of infertility
treatment. What we thought was an incredible opportunity -moving to a
town we fell in love with when we first came out this direction- just
sort of jumped into our laps. Needless to say, it didn't take long
until we decided to run with it. I remember thinking how absolutely lucky we were- this was the place we wanted to raise our children. This was the Norman Rockwell town I had dreamed about for forever and ever. This was our little piece of Heaven. This was going to help make everything okay.
Without going into every little detail of our circumstances, we chose to buy a wee little plot and got busy designing and building. We both had jobs that were steady, that seemed promising, that we enjoyed. We had signed up with an adoption agency and were spending spare moments putting together paper work and fingerprints and this and that in order to become parents. We were tired and exhausted but damn, were we happy. Things were just clicking along. Dreams were coming true.
I'm not really sure how to transition here, but the thing is, I'm scared out of my mind that this little haven of ours could end up being just the opposite for our boy. I look out all of our windows and see mountain tops, snow, trees. If I were to open the front door I could hear the river from across the street. Depending on the day and hour we might see a band of elk or mountain sheep, some deer, the local fox, or a bear walking down the Boulevard. The horse-drawn sleigh will make a couple rounds each day carting around some tourists throughout the winter season and the smell of wood-burning stoves will permeate our nostrils for the next several months. We can grab a quarter and make our way down to the General Store whenever Leone needs a peppermint stick, and if the timing is right we'll be able to listen to the church bells ringing to signify a new hour. It's beautiful here. Absolutely beautiful.
But.
But.
Dreams have changed. What Tesoro and I want now has nothing to do with our wee little house. I mean yeah, we still want this. But what we want even more is for our son to grow up with compassion, kindness, awareness, smarts, and a healthy dose of confidence intermingled with humility.
When we built here, when we carried one piece of siding from this place to the other place, we were sure we were doing the right thing. We were sure that having two beautiful neighborhood children adopted from Cambodia would make this one-street town diverse enough. And when we looked at the extremely high number of Latino children at the school where I worked, we were even more sure that our son would not feel alone with his skin color. And when we searched within ourselves and thought about our ability to reflect and problem-solve and love, we were confident that everything, everything, would be okay.
I no longer feel that way. And now that my son has begun to talk about his skin color versus the skin color of his padres, I feel even less confident. And when he calls every brown-skinned child he sees in a book "Leone," I want to shrink into my shell.
I recently shared my concerns with an Ethiopian friend who lives upvalley. She and her brother said we have nothing to worry about. That all Leone needs is to know we love him and care about him and that everything, everything, will be okay. As I pushed her a bit more, she acknowledged that while she might notice stares directed at her brother around town, she also thinks that this valley is one of the most easy-going places she has ever lived. She tells me again, not to worry: "it's better for him to live here, around white people who aren't racist, than in the middle of some city where racism is a part of every day life."
The thing is, whether I agree with her or not, we can't just up and move to the middle of some city. Real estate. Jobs. Finances. Life. Reality.
No magic wand for this one. No easy answer. No quick answer. Just wishes that we would have had some foresight before settling down in the land of Rockwell. Some understanding. Someone to slap us around a bit and say, "look. Look around you in a way that you have never looked before. These glasses of yours? They're focused through the lens of white privilege. Things could get tricky so you damn well better reconsider before someone gets hurt."
Without going into every little detail of our circumstances, we chose to buy a wee little plot and got busy designing and building. We both had jobs that were steady, that seemed promising, that we enjoyed. We had signed up with an adoption agency and were spending spare moments putting together paper work and fingerprints and this and that in order to become parents. We were tired and exhausted but damn, were we happy. Things were just clicking along. Dreams were coming true.
I'm not really sure how to transition here, but the thing is, I'm scared out of my mind that this little haven of ours could end up being just the opposite for our boy. I look out all of our windows and see mountain tops, snow, trees. If I were to open the front door I could hear the river from across the street. Depending on the day and hour we might see a band of elk or mountain sheep, some deer, the local fox, or a bear walking down the Boulevard. The horse-drawn sleigh will make a couple rounds each day carting around some tourists throughout the winter season and the smell of wood-burning stoves will permeate our nostrils for the next several months. We can grab a quarter and make our way down to the General Store whenever Leone needs a peppermint stick, and if the timing is right we'll be able to listen to the church bells ringing to signify a new hour. It's beautiful here. Absolutely beautiful.
But.
But.
Dreams have changed. What Tesoro and I want now has nothing to do with our wee little house. I mean yeah, we still want this. But what we want even more is for our son to grow up with compassion, kindness, awareness, smarts, and a healthy dose of confidence intermingled with humility.
When we built here, when we carried one piece of siding from this place to the other place, we were sure we were doing the right thing. We were sure that having two beautiful neighborhood children adopted from Cambodia would make this one-street town diverse enough. And when we looked at the extremely high number of Latino children at the school where I worked, we were even more sure that our son would not feel alone with his skin color. And when we searched within ourselves and thought about our ability to reflect and problem-solve and love, we were confident that everything, everything, would be okay.
I no longer feel that way. And now that my son has begun to talk about his skin color versus the skin color of his padres, I feel even less confident. And when he calls every brown-skinned child he sees in a book "Leone," I want to shrink into my shell.
I recently shared my concerns with an Ethiopian friend who lives upvalley. She and her brother said we have nothing to worry about. That all Leone needs is to know we love him and care about him and that everything, everything, will be okay. As I pushed her a bit more, she acknowledged that while she might notice stares directed at her brother around town, she also thinks that this valley is one of the most easy-going places she has ever lived. She tells me again, not to worry: "it's better for him to live here, around white people who aren't racist, than in the middle of some city where racism is a part of every day life."
The thing is, whether I agree with her or not, we can't just up and move to the middle of some city. Real estate. Jobs. Finances. Life. Reality.
No magic wand for this one. No easy answer. No quick answer. Just wishes that we would have had some foresight before settling down in the land of Rockwell. Some understanding. Someone to slap us around a bit and say, "look. Look around you in a way that you have never looked before. These glasses of yours? They're focused through the lens of white privilege. Things could get tricky so you damn well better reconsider before someone gets hurt."
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
The rivers dried up and fire fell from the skies
My mom was and is a sign watcher. For all my life I can remember her
mentioning "signs" before or after some event. Sometimes the devil was
involved. Other times our guardian angels. Either way, we needed to
keep our eyes open.
(I credit all of that to her Roman Catholic upbringings and years spent in the convent.)
A few years ago it started to officially drive me insane. It was good we were on the phone when she would mention this sign or the other one, because as sure as my name is "il pan" I was rolling my eyes towards the Heavens.
At any rate, a couple weeks ago we made a pretty big decision that will hopefully lead to some answers for our family. I was pretty excited by the whole concept of our decision, knowing that good things were sure to follow.
I think it was the day after we made the decision that the fear settled deep in my bones and I started noticing things.
All those years of watching for signs, all those glances around me to see if the devil was cheering or if my guardian angel was kicking some ass came back and now? Now I was looking around. And I was seeing stuff.
Bad things. Bad stories. Bad online films. Bad choices.
The clouds started to look foreboding. The cats were yowling more often than not. Mountain lions were roaming. My son developed a fever. The rivers dried up and fire fell from the skies.
Signs. All of them bad, ugly, awful signs.
Yes, indeed. It became very clear very quickly that the news we were going to receive would be bad, bad, bad and life was going to be dark, dark, dark for the remaining years. Yes siree. No doubt about it. Time to buckle down the hatches and move into the cellar.
Good news is, I'm on the path of noticing how full my cup is rather than merely halfway empty. And because I'm open to some good mojo, I found this:
Made me think that things might be okay after all. And if they aren't, well, damn. It's bound to get better.
(I credit all of that to her Roman Catholic upbringings and years spent in the convent.)
A few years ago it started to officially drive me insane. It was good we were on the phone when she would mention this sign or the other one, because as sure as my name is "il pan" I was rolling my eyes towards the Heavens.
At any rate, a couple weeks ago we made a pretty big decision that will hopefully lead to some answers for our family. I was pretty excited by the whole concept of our decision, knowing that good things were sure to follow.
I think it was the day after we made the decision that the fear settled deep in my bones and I started noticing things.
All those years of watching for signs, all those glances around me to see if the devil was cheering or if my guardian angel was kicking some ass came back and now? Now I was looking around. And I was seeing stuff.
Bad things. Bad stories. Bad online films. Bad choices.
The clouds started to look foreboding. The cats were yowling more often than not. Mountain lions were roaming. My son developed a fever. The rivers dried up and fire fell from the skies.
Signs. All of them bad, ugly, awful signs.
Yes, indeed. It became very clear very quickly that the news we were going to receive would be bad, bad, bad and life was going to be dark, dark, dark for the remaining years. Yes siree. No doubt about it. Time to buckle down the hatches and move into the cellar.
Good news is, I'm on the path of noticing how full my cup is rather than merely halfway empty. And because I'm open to some good mojo, I found this:
Made me think that things might be okay after all. And if they aren't, well, damn. It's bound to get better.
Monday, November 21, 2011
So I'm not a food photographer
But for realz. You've got to try this recipe out. Besides the joy I experienced when coring the pears with a tablespoon (it was so easy and the holes were so perfectly circle shaped!), I've got to say it felt damn good to mix this all up by hand. And the smell that came wafting out of the oven upon opening after approximately 50 minutes of baking? Hell ja. Ends up I might just be a crumble kind of gal....
Before
After
And yeah, it's worth your time to click on the pictures for the enlarged view. The business that oozed out the sides on that bottom picture was awesome....
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Cranes and beauty and hope and leukemia
One of my first graders has leukemia. I knew going into the school year he was diagnosed last April; truth is, I would be lying if I didn't admit right here and right now that my glass half-empty mentality didn't encourage me to promptly start building a wall. Thing is, I'm so damn busy that the thoughts (positive and negative alike) jump in for a moment and then get taken away by something else within minutes. Well, it's either that or the daily medication I'm on that ensures I'm on some sort of Cloud 9 for the majority of the day.
Either way....
So what I was saying was that a perk to running this way and that way is that I don't get totally hammered by my own sense of negativity on a constant basis. Works out pretty well, especially when we're talking about making the mental decision as to whether or not I could handle connecting with a student who I believed could possibly die sooner than later. I know that sounds shitty, but it's where I was at. I hear "leukemia", and I think back to the 10,564 books I immersed myself in during my middle school years regarding youth dying from leukemia- and well, let's just say it's not good. Oh- and Beaches. Yeah. Beaches. That movie ruined me.
Anyway. Ends up that I was too busy to worry about much. My student walks in that first day with a scarf wrapped around his lovely little head and charmed me. CHARMED ME. Then he started feeling all brave and confident and beautiful and threw that scarf to the side so we could all revel in his baldness. What a day that was.
A week or so ago he received two boxes full of paper cranes. It was a gift from someone else who has leukemia. My student, all full of smiles and silliness, stood in front of the class and declared his new-found love for cranes and humanity: "The people who made these cranes? They don't even know me! And they made these so I could feel hope and make wishes! 1,000 wishes!"
This kid. Amazing. Courageous. Heavy. Thoughtful. He's taught me a thing or two about fear and life and trying my hardest to not mix them together.
Thanks for the lesson, kiddo. You're the best.
Either way....
So what I was saying was that a perk to running this way and that way is that I don't get totally hammered by my own sense of negativity on a constant basis. Works out pretty well, especially when we're talking about making the mental decision as to whether or not I could handle connecting with a student who I believed could possibly die sooner than later. I know that sounds shitty, but it's where I was at. I hear "leukemia", and I think back to the 10,564 books I immersed myself in during my middle school years regarding youth dying from leukemia- and well, let's just say it's not good. Oh- and Beaches. Yeah. Beaches. That movie ruined me.
Anyway. Ends up that I was too busy to worry about much. My student walks in that first day with a scarf wrapped around his lovely little head and charmed me. CHARMED ME. Then he started feeling all brave and confident and beautiful and threw that scarf to the side so we could all revel in his baldness. What a day that was.
A week or so ago he received two boxes full of paper cranes. It was a gift from someone else who has leukemia. My student, all full of smiles and silliness, stood in front of the class and declared his new-found love for cranes and humanity: "The people who made these cranes? They don't even know me! And they made these so I could feel hope and make wishes! 1,000 wishes!"
This kid. Amazing. Courageous. Heavy. Thoughtful. He's taught me a thing or two about fear and life and trying my hardest to not mix them together.
Thanks for the lesson, kiddo. You're the best.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Imposter
You know when you should really spend a great deal of time studying
up on a topic, finding great quotes to include, supporting your thoughts
with research, so on and so forth? I should be doing all of that. But
instead I'm thinking that I've got a moment or two so I need to just
get it out there. Hope that it makes some kind of sense. Hope someone
out there gets it and doesn't misread.
One of the reasons blogging has gone on the back burner has been the amount of reading I've been doing from the view point of the adult adoptee. Powerful stuff. Lots of thoughts, lots of truth, lots of, well, back to thoughts. Yeah, lots of thoughts.
It's important to realize that this post is not a whine. It's not a complaint. It's an opinion, and one that I have to get out there or I fear I will remain stuck.
Truth is, I started my blog at the beginning of our beginnings of making our family. We were a bit lost at the time, and I needed an outlet. We went from a focus on infertility to a focus on adoption to a focus on international adoption to a focus on Ethiopia to a focus on motherhood. My eyes went from being shut to being wide open to the point where I eventually froze. Afraid of saying the wrong thing. Afraid of offending someone. Afraid of everyone out there hating me. Afraid of ruining my son's life.
I have read so many books out there. Books on adoption. Attachment. Ethiopia. Children. Transracial adoption. Being Black in America. Being African in America. Obviously I'm a reader. It's one of the ways I gather information and make decisions in my life. With that in mind, and with my interest in blogging, I began searching the Land of Blog for viewpoints from the adult adoptee. Although I have my own history with adoption, I knew that I needed more. Information from people who were placed immediately after birth. As toddlers. Into families whose skin color and culture and history and background were different from their own.
It didn't take long to find that many, many people out there are unhappy. Abused. Lied to. Hidden. Angry. And while I was able to find some stories in which people had some joy to spread about their lives, those were minimal.
As a new mother who had started out on this journey with the plans of forming my family with love, love, and more love? All those questions, all those anxieties, all those wonderings I had as we waited to meet our son, as I walked the streets of Ethiopia, as I glanced at the stares in the airport, as I watched movies and television shows, as I watched my son glob onto my husband but push away from me.... I quickly became aware of the thought that had been settling deep within me: I was an imposter mother. This blog said it. That blog said it. The stares said it. The attachment struggle said it.
Imposter.
It can make you freeze. It doesn't diminish your love for your child, it doesn't necessarily mean you're lying in your bed with the sheets wrapped around you for days on end- it just meant, to me anyway, that I began to doubt myself in a way I had never doubted myself before. And I still couldn't write about it because I certainly didn't want to come off as someone complaining. As someone who couldn't know what it was like to be adopted as an infant, so who in the hell was I anyway.
I'm tired of apologizing to the Land of Blog for being an adoptive mother.
I am a mother. I am providing love, a home, warmth, comfort, security (the list can go on) for my son in the best ways I know how. No, I'm not perfect. I screw up a lot. But this continued thinking that I'm an imposter mother for my son is doing nothing but harm for him. For me. For my family. For our lives- both present and future.
I'm tired of hiding.
I am a mother. And I'm not sorry for it. Not in the least.
One of the reasons blogging has gone on the back burner has been the amount of reading I've been doing from the view point of the adult adoptee. Powerful stuff. Lots of thoughts, lots of truth, lots of, well, back to thoughts. Yeah, lots of thoughts.
It's important to realize that this post is not a whine. It's not a complaint. It's an opinion, and one that I have to get out there or I fear I will remain stuck.
Truth is, I started my blog at the beginning of our beginnings of making our family. We were a bit lost at the time, and I needed an outlet. We went from a focus on infertility to a focus on adoption to a focus on international adoption to a focus on Ethiopia to a focus on motherhood. My eyes went from being shut to being wide open to the point where I eventually froze. Afraid of saying the wrong thing. Afraid of offending someone. Afraid of everyone out there hating me. Afraid of ruining my son's life.
I have read so many books out there. Books on adoption. Attachment. Ethiopia. Children. Transracial adoption. Being Black in America. Being African in America. Obviously I'm a reader. It's one of the ways I gather information and make decisions in my life. With that in mind, and with my interest in blogging, I began searching the Land of Blog for viewpoints from the adult adoptee. Although I have my own history with adoption, I knew that I needed more. Information from people who were placed immediately after birth. As toddlers. Into families whose skin color and culture and history and background were different from their own.
It didn't take long to find that many, many people out there are unhappy. Abused. Lied to. Hidden. Angry. And while I was able to find some stories in which people had some joy to spread about their lives, those were minimal.
As a new mother who had started out on this journey with the plans of forming my family with love, love, and more love? All those questions, all those anxieties, all those wonderings I had as we waited to meet our son, as I walked the streets of Ethiopia, as I glanced at the stares in the airport, as I watched movies and television shows, as I watched my son glob onto my husband but push away from me.... I quickly became aware of the thought that had been settling deep within me: I was an imposter mother. This blog said it. That blog said it. The stares said it. The attachment struggle said it.
Imposter.
It can make you freeze. It doesn't diminish your love for your child, it doesn't necessarily mean you're lying in your bed with the sheets wrapped around you for days on end- it just meant, to me anyway, that I began to doubt myself in a way I had never doubted myself before. And I still couldn't write about it because I certainly didn't want to come off as someone complaining. As someone who couldn't know what it was like to be adopted as an infant, so who in the hell was I anyway.
I'm tired of apologizing to the Land of Blog for being an adoptive mother.
I am a mother. I am providing love, a home, warmth, comfort, security (the list can go on) for my son in the best ways I know how. No, I'm not perfect. I screw up a lot. But this continued thinking that I'm an imposter mother for my son is doing nothing but harm for him. For me. For my family. For our lives- both present and future.
I'm tired of hiding.
I am a mother. And I'm not sorry for it. Not in the least.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Speaking of virtues
"Why, Leone, a firefighter does all kinds of wonderful things. They help save kitties when they're stuck in trees! They help people in car accidents. They help put out fires, both in buildings and the woods. Also? They share their toys with people. And they say hello to their friends in Target. They always use good manners and take turns."
Leone, well... he looked at me for a moment, cocked his head a bit to the left and asked, "What do monsters do?"
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Afraid of what's right and what's not
Doesn't even make sense. None of this makes sense.
I'm working extra hard on not apologizing for who I am. For forever and ever I have sat back, maybe bleeped out a thought or two, then spent the night scared out of my mind that I had said the wrong thing. That I had thought the wrong thing. That I was, indeed, the wrong thing.
It's exhausting.
One of the things I get from people is how reflective I am. My friends, my family, my professors.
So reflective.
Right now I don't see reflection as a virtue, rather a vice. It can stop me cold. Stone cold. Well, that and a glass of wine (make that white because DAMN if red gives me migraines).
I've done found a community of folks that have made me feel normal. You know how you meet new people and start to worry almost immediately that once you really show your true colors, they might run off in the other direction? I'm trying to avoid that thought process. I'm trying to not reflect on it so much.
Damnit.
I miss writing. I miss blogging.
1,495 things have happened in the past month. Things that I deem pretty important. I miss sharing those things. But.
But I get all kinds of nervous. Nervous because every once in a while I partake of the Kool-Aid that makes you think that sharing bits of you and your life to the whole world of Internet is detrimental.
I don't want to invite detriment.
Also? I don't want to hide.
I'm working extra hard on not apologizing for who I am. For forever and ever I have sat back, maybe bleeped out a thought or two, then spent the night scared out of my mind that I had said the wrong thing. That I had thought the wrong thing. That I was, indeed, the wrong thing.
It's exhausting.
One of the things I get from people is how reflective I am. My friends, my family, my professors.
So reflective.
Right now I don't see reflection as a virtue, rather a vice. It can stop me cold. Stone cold. Well, that and a glass of wine (make that white because DAMN if red gives me migraines).
I've done found a community of folks that have made me feel normal. You know how you meet new people and start to worry almost immediately that once you really show your true colors, they might run off in the other direction? I'm trying to avoid that thought process. I'm trying to not reflect on it so much.
Damnit.
I miss writing. I miss blogging.
1,495 things have happened in the past month. Things that I deem pretty important. I miss sharing those things. But.
But I get all kinds of nervous. Nervous because every once in a while I partake of the Kool-Aid that makes you think that sharing bits of you and your life to the whole world of Internet is detrimental.
I don't want to invite detriment.
Also? I don't want to hide.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Balancing
In case you don't know, our boy can ride a balance bike. No kidding, it's all he wants to do. And no kidding as a secondary also, but he mostly prefers it on trails. With rocks. Trees. Shrubs. Wildflowers. Hills. Danger.
Yeah, we're proud. Even when I spend the majority of the time gasping, sighing, and rolling my eyes up the Heavens.
A thrill seeker.
Just perfect.
Yeah, we're proud. Even when I spend the majority of the time gasping, sighing, and rolling my eyes up the Heavens.
A thrill seeker.
Just perfect.
Friday, September 30, 2011
A quickie
I've taken to waking up at 5:30 in the morning to get a head start on my day. Truth be told, I never thought I would take that challenge on until I was in my mid-60s (don't most folks in their mid-60's wake up before 6am?). Thing is, it ends up that I really needed a few extra minutes to my day to get my thoughts together, so here I am. In my early- to mid-30's. With a toddler who loves sleeping in until 6:45/7. Making coffee at 5:30.
Pretty awesome.
I have approximately 6 more months until this Master's degree thing is officially over. I go between thinking there's no possible way I can complete it to moments of academic high in which I'm basically kicking the program's ass while making it plead for mercy.
This back and forth business can make a gal crazy.
Pretty awesome.
I have approximately 6 more months until this Master's degree thing is officially over. I go between thinking there's no possible way I can complete it to moments of academic high in which I'm basically kicking the program's ass while making it plead for mercy.
This back and forth business can make a gal crazy.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
lumbering up a slope
... I climbed toward the rock without resting, and when I finally got there I picked another landmark and started all over again.
I climbed that way for hours, focusing my attention completely on some target- a rock, a shadow, an unusual ruffle in the snow- until the distance to that target became all that mattered in the world. The only sounds were my own heavy breathing and the rhythmic crunch of my shoes in the snow. My pace would soon become automatic, and I slipped into a trance. Somewhere in my mind I still longed for my father, I still suffered from fatigue, I still worried that our mission was doomed, but now those thoughts seemed muted and secondary, like a voice on a radio playing in another room. Step-push, step-push. Nothing else mattered. Sometimes I promised myself I'd rest when the next goal was reached, but I never kept my promise. Time melted away, distanced dwindled, the snow seemed to glide beneath my feet. I was a locomotive lumbering up the slope. I was lunacy in slow motion....
- Nando Parrado
I climbed that way for hours, focusing my attention completely on some target- a rock, a shadow, an unusual ruffle in the snow- until the distance to that target became all that mattered in the world. The only sounds were my own heavy breathing and the rhythmic crunch of my shoes in the snow. My pace would soon become automatic, and I slipped into a trance. Somewhere in my mind I still longed for my father, I still suffered from fatigue, I still worried that our mission was doomed, but now those thoughts seemed muted and secondary, like a voice on a radio playing in another room. Step-push, step-push. Nothing else mattered. Sometimes I promised myself I'd rest when the next goal was reached, but I never kept my promise. Time melted away, distanced dwindled, the snow seemed to glide beneath my feet. I was a locomotive lumbering up the slope. I was lunacy in slow motion....
- Nando Parrado
Monday, August 22, 2011
Birthday stuff
Our kid.
Sigh.
Today was his first day back to school/daycare. I was so dang proud of him. He was a bright and shiny super star who happened to do an awesome job of being himself while I began to attempt to reconfigure my day without his constant companionship. Pretty sure I missed him more than he missed me, but I'm pretty sure that's the way I want it (at least that's what I'm telling myself).
Today also happened to be my birthday. I just so happen to hate my birthday, so my beloved figured out that it might just work out to celebrate it the day before. As it so happens, that worked out just wonderfully. Less pressure, less memories, less whatever that makes the specific day so dang intense.
We did lots of fun things, including some rock throwing. Some stage performing. Some desserts. Some food. Some wine. Some laughing.
Sigh.
Today also happened to be my birthday. I just so happen to hate my birthday, so my beloved figured out that it might just work out to celebrate it the day before. As it so happens, that worked out just wonderfully. Less pressure, less memories, less whatever that makes the specific day so dang intense.
We did lots of fun things, including some rock throwing. Some stage performing. Some desserts. Some food. Some wine. Some laughing.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
Presently stuck
I am currently stuck with the really valid concern that someone, somewhere, is going to take what I have said about parenting and post it on some random blog who's entire point is to show how shitty adoptive parents are. And today, after having read some of those blogs, I have to agree... there's a bunch of shitty stuff happening out there. Shitty stuff being said by adoptive parents. Shitty stuff being done by adoptive parents. Shitty this, shitty that, shitty, shitty, shitty.
I am caught up in a web of not knowing what to say. Very recently Claudia asked who wanted to write a post regarding the topic of conspicuousness... I quickly raised my hand and couldn't wait to be involved. I could immediately think about five different occasions to focus on, and had finally started to narrow it down to one when I thought- wait. WAIT. My crap, my discomfort, means nothing right now. Not when I have this incredible boy napping upstairs who is counting on me to make his world safe and secure.
I never, ever, ever would have thought the details in the world of adoption could actually end up being so huge (I'm not giving myself enough credit here, I know... but that's not the point). Although tesoro and I didn't go into it all thinking we were going to "save a child," we did go into it thinking that we were going to become parents and that although it might be tricky at times, the skittly moments would by far outweigh the rest.
I generally feel like there is some kind of cloud hanging out over us. Not necessarily a foreboding cloud, but a cloud all the same. Don't get me wrong, it's not as though we go walking around over in these here parts with an umbrella constantly in hand, but when I take the moment to think... to really just think... well, that's when the cloud makes itself know. I especially sense it when I read blogs like this. Or this. Or this. And I end up thinking, how could I have ever thought it was going to be easy? How could I have ever thought that our son would grow up knowing that because he was all kinds of loved by us, all that other really shitty, hard, intense, real stuff would heal up? How can we do absolutely right by him? By his (our) family? How?
I think about things I have said online. Personal stuff. Not so personal stuff. And those things I have said out loud. To friends. To acquaintances. And I wonder, what was their perception of what I said? Why did I say what I said? Did it benefit anyone? Did it benefit my son? My marriage? Myself? Which is the most important (rhetorical)? And did I pay attention to that who is most important?
Yesterday I sent out some emails regarding the incredible "Ask 5 for 5." I made a personal plea, and I spoke about our son. About fifteen minutes later I sent out a follow-up email, asking everyone to disregard what I had said about leone. About leone's family. I felt like it was possible that I could be seen as using my son... using his story, his history, his future. And although that really wasn't my intent, because it is his story, it is his history, it is his future that has us pushing forward to fight this drought in any way we can, there is no doubt in my mind that HE should never be used (especially by me) in a way that gets others to pay up. To act. To make decisions.
Does that even make sense?
I see leone. I see him for who he is. His beauty. His strength. His agony. His wonder. The things that make him tick, and the things that make him tock. I am beginning to understand things in ways I have never understood them before (perhaps it should be stated that this understanding has come by way of blogs, books, discussions, and time spent deep in thought). And although his papa and I made the choice to adopt him, he had absolutely no say in it. And he most certainly has never asked us to use his story to try to make a difference in the world. And he MOST certainly never asked to be in a place where he would be viewed differently because he is black and we are white. And the idea of him wanting me to vent about the struggles we encounter with the world? With our life? To just everyone and anyone? I don't see it.
I no longer know what to say. How to say it. Where to say it. I know that I am human. I know that I make mistakes. But I have this fear, this brain-altering thought, that the mistakes made by being thoughtlessly vocal about our lives could (and do) have huge, huge, HUGE implications. And the fact is, those implications might just not be so damn great.
I am caught up in a web of not knowing what to say. Very recently Claudia asked who wanted to write a post regarding the topic of conspicuousness... I quickly raised my hand and couldn't wait to be involved. I could immediately think about five different occasions to focus on, and had finally started to narrow it down to one when I thought- wait. WAIT. My crap, my discomfort, means nothing right now. Not when I have this incredible boy napping upstairs who is counting on me to make his world safe and secure.
I never, ever, ever would have thought the details in the world of adoption could actually end up being so huge (I'm not giving myself enough credit here, I know... but that's not the point). Although tesoro and I didn't go into it all thinking we were going to "save a child," we did go into it thinking that we were going to become parents and that although it might be tricky at times, the skittly moments would by far outweigh the rest.
I generally feel like there is some kind of cloud hanging out over us. Not necessarily a foreboding cloud, but a cloud all the same. Don't get me wrong, it's not as though we go walking around over in these here parts with an umbrella constantly in hand, but when I take the moment to think... to really just think... well, that's when the cloud makes itself know. I especially sense it when I read blogs like this. Or this. Or this. And I end up thinking, how could I have ever thought it was going to be easy? How could I have ever thought that our son would grow up knowing that because he was all kinds of loved by us, all that other really shitty, hard, intense, real stuff would heal up? How can we do absolutely right by him? By his (our) family? How?
I think about things I have said online. Personal stuff. Not so personal stuff. And those things I have said out loud. To friends. To acquaintances. And I wonder, what was their perception of what I said? Why did I say what I said? Did it benefit anyone? Did it benefit my son? My marriage? Myself? Which is the most important (rhetorical)? And did I pay attention to that who is most important?
Yesterday I sent out some emails regarding the incredible "Ask 5 for 5." I made a personal plea, and I spoke about our son. About fifteen minutes later I sent out a follow-up email, asking everyone to disregard what I had said about leone. About leone's family. I felt like it was possible that I could be seen as using my son... using his story, his history, his future. And although that really wasn't my intent, because it is his story, it is his history, it is his future that has us pushing forward to fight this drought in any way we can, there is no doubt in my mind that HE should never be used (especially by me) in a way that gets others to pay up. To act. To make decisions.
Does that even make sense?
I see leone. I see him for who he is. His beauty. His strength. His agony. His wonder. The things that make him tick, and the things that make him tock. I am beginning to understand things in ways I have never understood them before (perhaps it should be stated that this understanding has come by way of blogs, books, discussions, and time spent deep in thought). And although his papa and I made the choice to adopt him, he had absolutely no say in it. And he most certainly has never asked us to use his story to try to make a difference in the world. And he MOST certainly never asked to be in a place where he would be viewed differently because he is black and we are white. And the idea of him wanting me to vent about the struggles we encounter with the world? With our life? To just everyone and anyone? I don't see it.
I no longer know what to say. How to say it. Where to say it. I know that I am human. I know that I make mistakes. But I have this fear, this brain-altering thought, that the mistakes made by being thoughtlessly vocal about our lives could (and do) have huge, huge, HUGE implications. And the fact is, those implications might just not be so damn great.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Ask 5 for 5
Today I'm featuring a guestblogger- someone who has figured out a way to do more than just speak about "doing something." This woman is incredible- I met her very recently and was drawn to her sincerity and compassion. Please read her message and consider making a contribution....
I began pursuing a BIG dream two weeks ago. After deciding I could no longer avoid the news about the famine in the horn of Africa, I had that gut feeling that I couldn't sit this one out. I HAD to do something because I could. Something bigger than I could do alone. That's when #Ask5for5 was born.
Two of my children, Ashen and Bereket, were adopted and are from the region affected by the drought in Ethiopia. They would be two of the statistics if they still lived there. I see my son’s and daughter’s faces in the photos of those suffering in the refugee camps. It could have been him. It could have been her. The thought haunts me.
And moms just like us are watching their children go hungry day after day. I can't imagine what it's like, but I have to –I have to be there to help them, because it could have been my children. These families have lost their livestock, their crops, food prices are inflated at the market if there any food there, and don’t have any more lifelines to tap into. Many are traveling hundreds of miles through parched land in hope of finding help. Many are dying along the way. It is estimated that 29,000 children have died in the last 90 days in the famine in Somalia alone.
But I KNOW we can do something about it. Instead of feeling overwhelmed and paralyzed, we can rally ourselves and our friends to respond! I set up a fundraiser through See Your Impact. 100% of your gift will go to the relief and development organization World Vision, where it will be combined with government grants to multiply up to 5 times in impact!
You’ll receive updates on just how your funding is being used to help save lives affected by famine in East Africa. I'm amazed at how much we've raised already -- over $7,000 in just four days! We blew through our first 3 goals in just 3 days and are well on our way to $10,000 and beyond!
I need you to help me save lives. It's so so simple; here's what you need to do:
Thanks! Please donate and email your friends right now--don't wait for a calmer moment, because if you're like me, other demands inevitably crop up and you won't get to it. A child's life hangs in the balance, but you can help save her!
guest blogger: Sarah Lenssen from Ask5for5
photos courtesy of Cate Turton / Dept. for International Development
First, thanks to il panettiere for allowing me to post on her blog today! Today, more than 25 bloggers, including this one, are standing with me to Ask 5 for 5 for Africa. Here's why....
photos courtesy of Cate Turton / Dept. for International Development
First, thanks to il panettiere for allowing me to post on her blog today! Today, more than 25 bloggers, including this one, are standing with me to Ask 5 for 5 for Africa. Here's why....
I began pursuing a BIG dream two weeks ago. After deciding I could no longer avoid the news about the famine in the horn of Africa, I had that gut feeling that I couldn't sit this one out. I HAD to do something because I could. Something bigger than I could do alone. That's when #Ask5for5 was born.
Two of my children, Ashen and Bereket, were adopted and are from the region affected by the drought in Ethiopia. They would be two of the statistics if they still lived there. I see my son’s and daughter’s faces in the photos of those suffering in the refugee camps. It could have been him. It could have been her. The thought haunts me.
And moms just like us are watching their children go hungry day after day. I can't imagine what it's like, but I have to –I have to be there to help them, because it could have been my children. These families have lost their livestock, their crops, food prices are inflated at the market if there any food there, and don’t have any more lifelines to tap into. Many are traveling hundreds of miles through parched land in hope of finding help. Many are dying along the way. It is estimated that 29,000 children have died in the last 90 days in the famine in Somalia alone.
But I KNOW we can do something about it. Instead of feeling overwhelmed and paralyzed, we can rally ourselves and our friends to respond! I set up a fundraiser through See Your Impact. 100% of your gift will go to the relief and development organization World Vision, where it will be combined with government grants to multiply up to 5 times in impact!
You’ll receive updates on just how your funding is being used to help save lives affected by famine in East Africa. I'm amazed at how much we've raised already -- over $7,000 in just four days! We blew through our first 3 goals in just 3 days and are well on our way to $10,000 and beyond!
I need you to help me save lives. It's so so simple; here's what you need to do:
- Donate $5 or more on this page (http://seeyourimpact.org/members/ask5for5)
- Send an email to your friends and ask them to join us.
- Share Ask5for5 on Facebook and Twitter, and join our page to stay updated too!
Thanks! Please donate and email your friends right now--don't wait for a calmer moment, because if you're like me, other demands inevitably crop up and you won't get to it. A child's life hangs in the balance, but you can help save her!
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
I love
I did this whole big post, then ended up deleting it. I hope no one read it, because it was out there for a few minutes this morning. If you did, forgive me for filling your head with bad writing.
Forgive me for doing it again.
I love my kid so much. So incredibly much. Like, so, so, so, so much.
I love the friendships that had been planted at miscellaneous times and truly began to bloom this summer.
I love that I want to write a book with very specific bits and pieces for leone's caretaker, because that means I know him better than I have ever known him. It also means that I am finally trusting myself as a mother. As his mother.
I love that I found, implemented, and continue to work on perfecting, a pie crust that I now consider my own. It will be the one I use for all pies for the rest of my life. It will also win me prizes, and for that I am appreciative (perhaps presumptuous of me, but all the same).
I love that I have been able to spend so many moments with my boy. Understanding his faces, his voices, the tilt of his hips, the moments that take him to the edge, the times that make him fly. Truly an honor. I can't even allow myself to wonder for so many seconds about him not being right beside me during the day next week, or the week after, or the five million weeks after that... it hurts to much. I am so grateful for your presence... for your person, my darling little one.
I love tesoro.
I love finding out that I am okay, just the way I am.
I have grown. I am thankful.
Forgive me for doing it again.
I love my kid so much. So incredibly much. Like, so, so, so, so much.
I love the friendships that had been planted at miscellaneous times and truly began to bloom this summer.
I love that I want to write a book with very specific bits and pieces for leone's caretaker, because that means I know him better than I have ever known him. It also means that I am finally trusting myself as a mother. As his mother.
I love that I found, implemented, and continue to work on perfecting, a pie crust that I now consider my own. It will be the one I use for all pies for the rest of my life. It will also win me prizes, and for that I am appreciative (perhaps presumptuous of me, but all the same).
I love that I have been able to spend so many moments with my boy. Understanding his faces, his voices, the tilt of his hips, the moments that take him to the edge, the times that make him fly. Truly an honor. I can't even allow myself to wonder for so many seconds about him not being right beside me during the day next week, or the week after, or the five million weeks after that... it hurts to much. I am so grateful for your presence... for your person, my darling little one.
I love tesoro.
I love finding out that I am okay, just the way I am.
I have grown. I am thankful.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Carbs.
Here's some stuff I've recently made. Both were, according to my husband, pretty dang good. (which makes me, the baker, pretty dang happy)
Interested in trying them on for size? The banana chocolate chip muffins can be found here, and the peach-a-berry pie is righhhhhht here.
Just in case you're wondering, that pie is made with butter on the bottom. Butter on the top. And butter in the middle. Also? There's some sugar. But mostly? Butter. Lots and lots of butter.
Interested in trying them on for size? The banana chocolate chip muffins can be found here, and the peach-a-berry pie is righhhhhht here.
Just in case you're wondering, that pie is made with butter on the bottom. Butter on the top. And butter in the middle. Also? There's some sugar. But mostly? Butter. Lots and lots of butter.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Daycare prep.
No matter how much I would like to avoid it, the truth of the matter is, it's about time for Leone to head back to daycare. I know he'll like to be around his friends again, but I worry.
About his food stuff.
His struggle to share stuff.
His need to throw approximately 9,254 rocks into the river every morning stuff.
His sleeping in and then taking his time to eat an egg and toast for breakfast stuff.
And what about the way we cuddle up every day at nap, read three books, sing our song, then part ways with love and well wishes for delightful rest stuff?
And the amount of time we have to play with blocks, the backyard hose, his cars, markers, play-doh, crayons- each other- stuff?
This summer has been delightful, and boy-oh-boy will I miss our days. I've managed to work into a pretty sweet schedule of working on my papers when he naps, so evenings don't feel nearly as intense as they used to. And even though Leone prefers his papa as soon as he comes home from work, I get all the time before... and that feels dang good.
Stuff.
Hey, check him out....
This was taken after we bought his new backpack. He could hardly wait to wear the dang thing.
Oh my boy. I love you. Dirty pants and all.
About his food stuff.
His struggle to share stuff.
His need to throw approximately 9,254 rocks into the river every morning stuff.
His sleeping in and then taking his time to eat an egg and toast for breakfast stuff.
And what about the way we cuddle up every day at nap, read three books, sing our song, then part ways with love and well wishes for delightful rest stuff?
And the amount of time we have to play with blocks, the backyard hose, his cars, markers, play-doh, crayons- each other- stuff?
This summer has been delightful, and boy-oh-boy will I miss our days. I've managed to work into a pretty sweet schedule of working on my papers when he naps, so evenings don't feel nearly as intense as they used to. And even though Leone prefers his papa as soon as he comes home from work, I get all the time before... and that feels dang good.
Stuff.
Hey, check him out....
Oh my boy. I love you. Dirty pants and all.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Some bragging....
If you look real careful like you'll see a beautifully shaped shape made in pink crayon, directly under the music note. Do you see it? It's right... up... there.
When Leone was in the UrgentCare room a week or so ago, the receptionist ended up bringing in some crayons and paper (along with the 500 gallons of apple juice for him to consume). I was busy balancing the paper, the clipboard, and the crayons while trying to jam the cup in his mouth when all of a sudden Leone glances down at his paper and declares: "I made a triangle!" Needless to say I did about six double-takes, asked him to repeat and point, and just about lost it when he pointed at the shape and repeated: "I made a triangle!"
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
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