The relationship now:
The way we hope it will be:
The way we hope it will be:
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
One Week Home
All that stuff they say about the transition from one to two kids? It's true. It's a kick-in-the-pants. We've been in survival mode for the last week.
We've been home exactly 8 days.
Every day gets a little better. Except when the nights get progressively worse because one kid wakes up early and the other sleeps in, and then the early kid is waking up during the night and then going to wake her brother and hang out with Dad for a couple of hours.
It's like having a newborn at home.
I get to sleep through it because Ted is father-of-the-decade and knows that Mama doesn't handle sleep deprivation well.
On that note, after traveling 37 hours to get home after not having slept so well before the journey and then waking up at 6 am your first morning home, it's advisable not to drink a second cup of coffee because after a few hours, while doing laundry, you will get so sick, sick, sick, that you find yourself sitting beside the toilet begging God to please let you throw up, please, just throw up, to puke, to vomit, to rid your body of that coffee.
Then your blessed husband lets you go to sleep at 8:30 and sleep for 11 hours, and you don't drink coffee for the next 8 days.
Those were my first two days back. It wasn't fun. A flood of neighbors, family, and friends came through to say hello, bring gifts, meet our daughter. But I hardly remember. I sat on our front steps in a stupor for two days.
Our first day home, our daughter sat next to our son and went together through her photo album, naming as many names as she could. As she did this, our son whispered my direction, "Mom, I'm so glad I have a sister."
They napped together the second day home. They giggled and liked each other.
Then that stopped. Beti finds Abe to be funny when he's not intending to be funny, like when he's walking around with his thumb stuck in his mouth or when his face is pulled into a forced anguish about something nonsensical (i.e. whining). She would giggle and point at him. She started calling him the "baby." Well, that did it for Abe. The newness has worn off. Abe is done with having a sister. Done. He wants us to take her back.
This changing family dynamic has been...challenging.
I could spend the rest of this post gushing about our daughter. Really. She's that great. Her smile will make this rainy city much brighter this winter.
Watching the world through her eyes is a trip. The look on her face when she discovered the vacuum cleaner and what it does? Worth every bit of pain and angst of the adoption.
Then she discovered the ice maker. Holy moly.
She already teases Abe. And tattles. But she also feeds him injera and doro wot from her hand to his mouth, then gives him his cup of milk and napkin since it was pretty spicy.
This weekend, she said the sentence, "Mom, Abe is running and fall down" with a look of worry on her face.
She's a linguistic genius. She's already pretty much memorized Hop on Pop.
I can't wait to introduce Go Dog, Go! to her.
She giggles uncontrollably when I wash her feet in the bath.
She answers the video narrator of Tsehai Loves Learning as she watches.
"Do you want to sing along with me this next song?"
Then a loud "Oaw..." from Beti.
She always remembers her bike helmet and if she gets ahead of me by two houses, she looks back and asks, "Go, Mom?"
She made sure Abe remembered his cape that he wore to the park this weekend.
She played tennis with Ted's best friend for the first time and is a natural.
She already knows the names of all the kids on our block and just today has started to greet them when she sees them with a loud "Hi!"
Last night, she started saying "see you later!" and then giggling.
She eats everything we offer her except for certain raw vegetables, which she'll still chew up and swallow if she's been promised leftover injera from the night before.
She is much more athletic and rambunctious than we thought she'd be. She wrestles Dad with the best of the boys. Yet she still likes to color and wash her doll's hair and paint fingernails.
She makes excellent silly faces, even as good as Abe's (don't tell him).
Her eyelashes are the longest I've ever seen.
I should go to bed. Life is intense these days. Good, but intense.
We've been home exactly 8 days.
Every day gets a little better. Except when the nights get progressively worse because one kid wakes up early and the other sleeps in, and then the early kid is waking up during the night and then going to wake her brother and hang out with Dad for a couple of hours.
It's like having a newborn at home.
I get to sleep through it because Ted is father-of-the-decade and knows that Mama doesn't handle sleep deprivation well.
On that note, after traveling 37 hours to get home after not having slept so well before the journey and then waking up at 6 am your first morning home, it's advisable not to drink a second cup of coffee because after a few hours, while doing laundry, you will get so sick, sick, sick, that you find yourself sitting beside the toilet begging God to please let you throw up, please, just throw up, to puke, to vomit, to rid your body of that coffee.
Then your blessed husband lets you go to sleep at 8:30 and sleep for 11 hours, and you don't drink coffee for the next 8 days.
Those were my first two days back. It wasn't fun. A flood of neighbors, family, and friends came through to say hello, bring gifts, meet our daughter. But I hardly remember. I sat on our front steps in a stupor for two days.
Our first day home, our daughter sat next to our son and went together through her photo album, naming as many names as she could. As she did this, our son whispered my direction, "Mom, I'm so glad I have a sister."
They napped together the second day home. They giggled and liked each other.
Then that stopped. Beti finds Abe to be funny when he's not intending to be funny, like when he's walking around with his thumb stuck in his mouth or when his face is pulled into a forced anguish about something nonsensical (i.e. whining). She would giggle and point at him. She started calling him the "baby." Well, that did it for Abe. The newness has worn off. Abe is done with having a sister. Done. He wants us to take her back.
This changing family dynamic has been...challenging.
I could spend the rest of this post gushing about our daughter. Really. She's that great. Her smile will make this rainy city much brighter this winter.
Watching the world through her eyes is a trip. The look on her face when she discovered the vacuum cleaner and what it does? Worth every bit of pain and angst of the adoption.
Then she discovered the ice maker. Holy moly.
She already teases Abe. And tattles. But she also feeds him injera and doro wot from her hand to his mouth, then gives him his cup of milk and napkin since it was pretty spicy.
This weekend, she said the sentence, "Mom, Abe is running and fall down" with a look of worry on her face.
She's a linguistic genius. She's already pretty much memorized Hop on Pop.
I can't wait to introduce Go Dog, Go! to her.
She giggles uncontrollably when I wash her feet in the bath.
She answers the video narrator of Tsehai Loves Learning as she watches.
"Do you want to sing along with me this next song?"
Then a loud "Oaw..." from Beti.
She always remembers her bike helmet and if she gets ahead of me by two houses, she looks back and asks, "Go, Mom?"
She made sure Abe remembered his cape that he wore to the park this weekend.
She played tennis with Ted's best friend for the first time and is a natural.
She already knows the names of all the kids on our block and just today has started to greet them when she sees them with a loud "Hi!"
Last night, she started saying "see you later!" and then giggling.
She eats everything we offer her except for certain raw vegetables, which she'll still chew up and swallow if she's been promised leftover injera from the night before.
She is much more athletic and rambunctious than we thought she'd be. She wrestles Dad with the best of the boys. Yet she still likes to color and wash her doll's hair and paint fingernails.
She makes excellent silly faces, even as good as Abe's (don't tell him).
Her eyelashes are the longest I've ever seen.
I should go to bed. Life is intense these days. Good, but intense.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Affection
I'm writing this down with little editing because I don't want to forget it.
We know a teenage girl who was taken from her family at the age of four. A relative took her secretly to another relative's house in a foreign country where she lived until she was ten, after being tracked down by a private investigator hired by family who agonizingly missed her.
This is a remarkable girl. We love her. She is only here part of the year, and we all feel lucky when we get to see her. Tonight was her going-away party. She has been very interested in our daughter, and tonight she pulled me aside to talk to me.
She said a lot of things. I wish I could remember them all. She has beautiful, huge, piercing blue eyes that stare straight into you when you talk to her. She is as intense and soulful as her eyes. So with this soulfulness staring into my eyes, she told me about what it was like for her to be in a brand-new place at the age of four, where no one understood her language and everyone was a stranger.
Her eyes filled with tears. She told me, "Give Beti a lot of hugs. Make sure you always hug and kiss her. Smile at her. If you smile at her, she will want to do anything for you." She said that the new people she was with gave her
affection but "it was never enough."
She remembers one relative harshly scolding her when she disobeyed. She told me that Beti will "do weird things" but to be patient with her because she'll get it eventually.
I teared up as I listened to her talk about her experience and told her about how this morning, as I was still groggy and waking up, Beti asked me to lift her. I did, and she wrapped her long legs around my waist and held on to me so tightly, her head laying on my shoulder. She squeezed. I could have done jumping jacks, and she wouldn't have fallen off. I squeezed back.
I must remember to always squeeze back. I must remember to smile always, no matter how I feel, to pick her up, to rub her back, to remember that she is brand-new and scared and needing affection. She needs the comfort of knowing she is someone's baby.
Thank you, beautiful Miss S, for the heart-breaking and kind reminder.
Our very first moments together, she leaned into me and held my hand.
We know a teenage girl who was taken from her family at the age of four. A relative took her secretly to another relative's house in a foreign country where she lived until she was ten, after being tracked down by a private investigator hired by family who agonizingly missed her.
This is a remarkable girl. We love her. She is only here part of the year, and we all feel lucky when we get to see her. Tonight was her going-away party. She has been very interested in our daughter, and tonight she pulled me aside to talk to me.
She said a lot of things. I wish I could remember them all. She has beautiful, huge, piercing blue eyes that stare straight into you when you talk to her. She is as intense and soulful as her eyes. So with this soulfulness staring into my eyes, she told me about what it was like for her to be in a brand-new place at the age of four, where no one understood her language and everyone was a stranger.
Her eyes filled with tears. She told me, "Give Beti a lot of hugs. Make sure you always hug and kiss her. Smile at her. If you smile at her, she will want to do anything for you." She said that the new people she was with gave her
affection but "it was never enough."
She remembers one relative harshly scolding her when she disobeyed. She told me that Beti will "do weird things" but to be patient with her because she'll get it eventually.
I teared up as I listened to her talk about her experience and told her about how this morning, as I was still groggy and waking up, Beti asked me to lift her. I did, and she wrapped her long legs around my waist and held on to me so tightly, her head laying on my shoulder. She squeezed. I could have done jumping jacks, and she wouldn't have fallen off. I squeezed back.
I must remember to always squeeze back. I must remember to smile always, no matter how I feel, to pick her up, to rub her back, to remember that she is brand-new and scared and needing affection. She needs the comfort of knowing she is someone's baby.
Thank you, beautiful Miss S, for the heart-breaking and kind reminder.
Our very first moments together, she leaned into me and held my hand.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Long Pane of Glass
Abe has been in a camp this week with mostly new kids. Our social, outgoing son makes friends everywhere he goes, at least until this week. I don't know the full scoop on what these other kids were like, but here's what happened when I went to pick him up today.
I arrived about ten minutes early for pick-up and stood outside the door like I've done every day this week, watching through the glass the cuteness inside. The teachers usually have the kids singing songs with lots of motions right before the parents get there.
Today though, the kids were just sitting in a mass on the floor holding their lunchboxes. Well, this is what they were supposed to be doing. One huge blond kid was whacking another blond kid in the head with his lunchbox. The smaller kid getting whacked in the head didn't seem to mind too much (maybe because he'd been whacked in the head so many times that he wasn't really noticing anymore?). I didn't see Abe. I just saw these two boys using their lunchboxes as weapons.
Abe then came into the picture, holding his lunchbox and then sitting down near these boys. And wouldn't you know it, not only did my son get whacked with a lunchbox, he then was tackled by the evil whacking kid. The smaller boy then jumped on top of the pile, which my son was on the bottom of.
This was a soundproof door, so I ouldn't hear anything. But I' watched with growing alarm, wondering when the teachers were going to notice, wondering what Abe was going to do, wondering if I should go in the room. We very much want Abe to be independent, so I didn't want to be the helicopter-parent who comes running in to rescue her child. We try to teach him how to solve his own problems with other kids.
Well, eventually a teacher turned around and pulled the boys off Abe. At this point, our son ran several feet away to get away from these boys, turned and sdt down (still holding his lunchbox) and faced my direction. I could then see his face. He was not just crying; he was squalling. Again, I didn't go in. One of the teachers brought him over to her desk and sats him in a chair and I saw her pulling out a first-aid kit. Abe was still sobbing, and I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed the doorknob to go in, but the door was locked.
Abe spotted me looking in the window and the look on his face made me want to rip down the door, Incredible Hulk-style. We were separated by a wall of glass, and was killing me. I felt that deep pain in my chest, dying to get inside to pick up my boy and comfort him.
Finally, finally, finally, they opened the doors, and I rushed in. He walked to me with first a frown, then a smile, then another frown on his face still wet with tears. I picked him up, and he whimpered while laying on my shoulder. He never let go of his lunchbox.
He showed me his band-aid on his knee. When the big boy tackled him, it knocked a scab off, one he'd earned from the new bike-riding adventures going on at home. The teacher apologized and expressed frustration about the aggressive boy. She said he'd been like that all day, really all week.
I just sighed and thought again about how mothering means your heart breaking a little bit every day. That moment when my son was wailing and looking my direction, and I was stuck behind a locked door? Excruciating.
This weekend my dad and grandmother are coming out here to stay with Abe while we're out of the country. I trust them with every inch of my being, but even this trust doesn't erase the pain and worry that enters the picture when I'm away from my son. I want to always be the one who comforts him when he's hurt.
My son, these next few days, I'm probably going to smother you. I'm going to lay next to you in your tiny bed and hold you tight. I'm going to give you special things you normally don't get, like squeezable packaged food products in your lunchbox and cereal bars for breakfast. I'm going to ask for extra kisses. I'm going to pick you up more often just so I can smell your head. You might wonder why I keep staring at you, why I keep touching your nose with my nose, why I run my fingers along your hairline and then kiss your forehead.
It's because we're about to have a lot more than a locked door and pane of glass separating us. It's because your mom and dad are going to meet your sister and bring her to you. It's because I'm overwhelmed by the depth of my love for you, a love that breaks my heart just a little bit every day.
I arrived about ten minutes early for pick-up and stood outside the door like I've done every day this week, watching through the glass the cuteness inside. The teachers usually have the kids singing songs with lots of motions right before the parents get there.
Today though, the kids were just sitting in a mass on the floor holding their lunchboxes. Well, this is what they were supposed to be doing. One huge blond kid was whacking another blond kid in the head with his lunchbox. The smaller kid getting whacked in the head didn't seem to mind too much (maybe because he'd been whacked in the head so many times that he wasn't really noticing anymore?). I didn't see Abe. I just saw these two boys using their lunchboxes as weapons.
Abe then came into the picture, holding his lunchbox and then sitting down near these boys. And wouldn't you know it, not only did my son get whacked with a lunchbox, he then was tackled by the evil whacking kid. The smaller boy then jumped on top of the pile, which my son was on the bottom of.
This was a soundproof door, so I ouldn't hear anything. But I' watched with growing alarm, wondering when the teachers were going to notice, wondering what Abe was going to do, wondering if I should go in the room. We very much want Abe to be independent, so I didn't want to be the helicopter-parent who comes running in to rescue her child. We try to teach him how to solve his own problems with other kids.
Well, eventually a teacher turned around and pulled the boys off Abe. At this point, our son ran several feet away to get away from these boys, turned and sdt down (still holding his lunchbox) and faced my direction. I could then see his face. He was not just crying; he was squalling. Again, I didn't go in. One of the teachers brought him over to her desk and sats him in a chair and I saw her pulling out a first-aid kit. Abe was still sobbing, and I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed the doorknob to go in, but the door was locked.
Abe spotted me looking in the window and the look on his face made me want to rip down the door, Incredible Hulk-style. We were separated by a wall of glass, and was killing me. I felt that deep pain in my chest, dying to get inside to pick up my boy and comfort him.
Finally, finally, finally, they opened the doors, and I rushed in. He walked to me with first a frown, then a smile, then another frown on his face still wet with tears. I picked him up, and he whimpered while laying on my shoulder. He never let go of his lunchbox.
He showed me his band-aid on his knee. When the big boy tackled him, it knocked a scab off, one he'd earned from the new bike-riding adventures going on at home. The teacher apologized and expressed frustration about the aggressive boy. She said he'd been like that all day, really all week.
I just sighed and thought again about how mothering means your heart breaking a little bit every day. That moment when my son was wailing and looking my direction, and I was stuck behind a locked door? Excruciating.
This weekend my dad and grandmother are coming out here to stay with Abe while we're out of the country. I trust them with every inch of my being, but even this trust doesn't erase the pain and worry that enters the picture when I'm away from my son. I want to always be the one who comforts him when he's hurt.
My son, these next few days, I'm probably going to smother you. I'm going to lay next to you in your tiny bed and hold you tight. I'm going to give you special things you normally don't get, like squeezable packaged food products in your lunchbox and cereal bars for breakfast. I'm going to ask for extra kisses. I'm going to pick you up more often just so I can smell your head. You might wonder why I keep staring at you, why I keep touching your nose with my nose, why I run my fingers along your hairline and then kiss your forehead.
It's because we're about to have a lot more than a locked door and pane of glass separating us. It's because your mom and dad are going to meet your sister and bring her to you. It's because I'm overwhelmed by the depth of my love for you, a love that breaks my heart just a little bit every day.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
One Last Raffle For the Road
As you may already know, Ted is an actor. Once upon a time, he had a recurring role that mostly consisted of him mumbling every so often while walking a couple paces behind Sally Struthers, his wife on the show. It's not a role he's particularly proud of, but like any actor, he was grateful for the steady work. After we got married, it was always nice when I'd hear him say, "Gilmore Girls called again."
Interesting factoid: with our first adoption, we had to get a coworker to write a letter of reference for us. I wasn't working at the time, so that left Ted. As a character-actor who rarely worked for longer than a few days at a time on one set, finding this coworker was a challenge. So. We called up Sally to see if she could do it. She did, with the caveat that we promised that she'd get to be Abe's "fairy godmother" once he got home. She and Ted are also from the same hometown in Oregon, and my father-in-law was her teacher in high school. She is a lovely and hilarious person.
Because tickets are, ahem, outrageously expensive right now and because Ted is taking a side-trip up to the north of Ethiopia where Beti is from, we decided to hawk some of Ted's old yearly cast gifts to help lift some of the financial burden of this trip.
We have honestly been "blown away" by the support our friends, family, and cyber-friends have offered us on this road to our daughter so far. Another amazing factoid: the raffle of Autumn's doll several months ago plus the epic yard sale raised enough to pay for all expenses to Addis and back for court. Incredible. That was you, you did that, and we are grateful.
Are you or do you know a Gilmore Girls fan (and come on, everyone does)? These items are not the sort of thing you can find on ebay; each year, cast and crew were given these items as gifts by the writers and producers of the show (Dan Palladino and Amy Sherman-Palladino). The yearly gifts were as unique as the show itself. Just so you know what we're offering here :)
For every $10, your name will be entered once into the drawing to win all three items. Click on the "donate" icon to the right to put your name in the hat.
The Luke's Diner plaid flannel shirt.
Back of the Luke's Diner shirt.
Item #2
The Gilmore Girls bowling team shirt
Back of the bowling shirt
Item #3
The Gilmore Girls coffee mug. This is one of those solid, heavy mugs you find in diners, like Luke's.
Interesting factoid: with our first adoption, we had to get a coworker to write a letter of reference for us. I wasn't working at the time, so that left Ted. As a character-actor who rarely worked for longer than a few days at a time on one set, finding this coworker was a challenge. So. We called up Sally to see if she could do it. She did, with the caveat that we promised that she'd get to be Abe's "fairy godmother" once he got home. She and Ted are also from the same hometown in Oregon, and my father-in-law was her teacher in high school. She is a lovely and hilarious person.
Because tickets are, ahem, outrageously expensive right now and because Ted is taking a side-trip up to the north of Ethiopia where Beti is from, we decided to hawk some of Ted's old yearly cast gifts to help lift some of the financial burden of this trip.
We have honestly been "blown away" by the support our friends, family, and cyber-friends have offered us on this road to our daughter so far. Another amazing factoid: the raffle of Autumn's doll several months ago plus the epic yard sale raised enough to pay for all expenses to Addis and back for court. Incredible. That was you, you did that, and we are grateful.
Are you or do you know a Gilmore Girls fan (and come on, everyone does)? These items are not the sort of thing you can find on ebay; each year, cast and crew were given these items as gifts by the writers and producers of the show (Dan Palladino and Amy Sherman-Palladino). The yearly gifts were as unique as the show itself. Just so you know what we're offering here :)
For every $10, your name will be entered once into the drawing to win all three items. Click on the "donate" icon to the right to put your name in the hat.
Item #1
The Luke's Diner plaid flannel shirt.
Back of the Luke's Diner shirt.Item #2
The Gilmore Girls bowling team shirt
Back of the bowling shirtItem #3
The Gilmore Girls coffee mug. This is one of those solid, heavy mugs you find in diners, like Luke's.Saturday, July 23, 2011
Two Little Whos
2 little whos
(he and she)
under are this
wonderful tree
smiling stand
(all realms of where
and when beyond)
now and here
(far from a grown
-up i&you-
ful world of known)
who and who
(2 little ams
and over them this
aflame with dreams
incredible is)
-- e. e. cummings
Yesterday morning, we found out that we had embassy clearance. Beti is coming to stand under our tree. The beginning of August. She is coming home. This morning, I hung Meazi's picture up in our house.
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