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.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
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.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Sidewalk Anger
"So you expect me to make my son who just learned to ride a bike ride in the street because you think it's okay to park this thing in the middle of the sidewalk? You expect my friend who is pushing her sleeping infant in a stroller to walk in the street because you can't be bothered to use a wheelbarrow and a shovel to do your work?"
None of the workers looked up from their work as I yelled their direction. The home-owner was standing in the driveway talking to someone, maybe the idiot contractor who lets his workers park their trailers in the sidewalk, completely blocking the way for pedestrians and small (tiny!) children on bicycles. Because I thought maybe they hadn't heard me, I yelled it louder as I walked slowly past.
"It seems you'd rather a tiny child ride his bike in the street than carry your work stuff 12 feet!"
After guarding my tiny bike rider as he went around the construction trailer blocking our way and into the street, we got to the end of the block and crossed. My friend I was walking with said, "Let's stop just a second." I asked Abe to slow down and stop. With deeply furrowed eyebrows, I turned and looked at her after making sure Abe had stopped fully and not careening gleefully into traffic.
She said, "I need to give you a hug." She stepped forward and hugged me. I sighed. I said, "Should I go back and tell the homeowner to her face?...I'm going back..." I took one step and then turned back around, saying, "Nah, it would only make me more mad."
As we continued down the street, I realized that I have a considerable amount of pent-up anger. Lately, it has felt like the workings of this world are orchestrated only to put my children in imminent danger, from bureaucrats who won't give one child a visa to gardeners who park their shit in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing the little one to ride his bike in the street. You know, the place where cars go speeding by. That street. The one where people get run over.
I've been living with a knot in my belly, burdened by sad news at every turn, not just about our lack of embassy clearance but about drought and famine in the Horn of Africa, about the light of hope suddenly going dark for a close friend, about reduced or completely cut funding for the seniors at my job, about one of my seniors who has had fifteen children in his lifetime but lost eight, and about the creeping darkness that human beings are capable of.
So I go for a long walk on a chilly summer day with a friend and end up yelling at the one thing I have some control over: people who force my son to ride his bike in the street. Later, as we're almost to our house, I discover ahead of us a gardening truck blocking the sidewalk. I wonder if my friend was cringing as she saw the look on my face. This time, the worker (probably the home-owner) was right close to the truck so I was able to look him in the eye and tell him how unacceptable this is, that maybe he's not aware that his laziness is forcing small children into harm's way. He apologizes. Abe, squeezing by the truck, gets scratched by stray limbs and poky plants. He complains to me. I yell, "Well, that's because sometimes people don't realize that sidewalks are for walking, not parking!" Or something like that. I don't remember. I think I needed another hug.
My children in harm's way. One so far away that I can't even wrap my mind around what to do for her.
One of her best friends, the boy she traveled with from Gondar to Addis, is going home to Washington next week. His mom and I have become friends and talk or text every other day or so. They will only be a few hours away from each other. We had hopes of the two of them actually flying from Addis to the Pacific Northwest together too. But it's not happening. I suddenly got overwhelmed with sadness this afternoon thinking about how B will feel when her friend leaves. I stood at my kitchen sink scrubbing the dinner dishes while country music blared, crying (I listen to country music only during two instances: when I'm sad and when I'm driving in Los Angeles-- I have no idea the reason for this compulsion).
Then the thought occurred to me that maybe seeing her friend leave will give her hope that we will eventually be coming for her too.
I don't know how to end this post. I've lost the will/inspiration to write anything cohesive. From now on, I know that I can quote Municipal Code, title 16 Parking Violations to offenders before calling the parking police if they don't bust their ass to move their vehicles out of my child's way.
And if you want to do something to help the suffering in East Africa, go here and donate something so some children can have access to Plumpy-nut. I met a charming and precocious little boy in New York earlier this month whose life was saved thanks to this wonder-food.
None of the workers looked up from their work as I yelled their direction. The home-owner was standing in the driveway talking to someone, maybe the idiot contractor who lets his workers park their trailers in the sidewalk, completely blocking the way for pedestrians and small (tiny!) children on bicycles. Because I thought maybe they hadn't heard me, I yelled it louder as I walked slowly past.
"It seems you'd rather a tiny child ride his bike in the street than carry your work stuff 12 feet!"
After guarding my tiny bike rider as he went around the construction trailer blocking our way and into the street, we got to the end of the block and crossed. My friend I was walking with said, "Let's stop just a second." I asked Abe to slow down and stop. With deeply furrowed eyebrows, I turned and looked at her after making sure Abe had stopped fully and not careening gleefully into traffic.
She said, "I need to give you a hug." She stepped forward and hugged me. I sighed. I said, "Should I go back and tell the homeowner to her face?...I'm going back..." I took one step and then turned back around, saying, "Nah, it would only make me more mad."
As we continued down the street, I realized that I have a considerable amount of pent-up anger. Lately, it has felt like the workings of this world are orchestrated only to put my children in imminent danger, from bureaucrats who won't give one child a visa to gardeners who park their shit in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing the little one to ride his bike in the street. You know, the place where cars go speeding by. That street. The one where people get run over.
I've been living with a knot in my belly, burdened by sad news at every turn, not just about our lack of embassy clearance but about drought and famine in the Horn of Africa, about the light of hope suddenly going dark for a close friend, about reduced or completely cut funding for the seniors at my job, about one of my seniors who has had fifteen children in his lifetime but lost eight, and about the creeping darkness that human beings are capable of.
So I go for a long walk on a chilly summer day with a friend and end up yelling at the one thing I have some control over: people who force my son to ride his bike in the street. Later, as we're almost to our house, I discover ahead of us a gardening truck blocking the sidewalk. I wonder if my friend was cringing as she saw the look on my face. This time, the worker (probably the home-owner) was right close to the truck so I was able to look him in the eye and tell him how unacceptable this is, that maybe he's not aware that his laziness is forcing small children into harm's way. He apologizes. Abe, squeezing by the truck, gets scratched by stray limbs and poky plants. He complains to me. I yell, "Well, that's because sometimes people don't realize that sidewalks are for walking, not parking!" Or something like that. I don't remember. I think I needed another hug.
My children in harm's way. One so far away that I can't even wrap my mind around what to do for her.
One of her best friends, the boy she traveled with from Gondar to Addis, is going home to Washington next week. His mom and I have become friends and talk or text every other day or so. They will only be a few hours away from each other. We had hopes of the two of them actually flying from Addis to the Pacific Northwest together too. But it's not happening. I suddenly got overwhelmed with sadness this afternoon thinking about how B will feel when her friend leaves. I stood at my kitchen sink scrubbing the dinner dishes while country music blared, crying (I listen to country music only during two instances: when I'm sad and when I'm driving in Los Angeles-- I have no idea the reason for this compulsion).
Then the thought occurred to me that maybe seeing her friend leave will give her hope that we will eventually be coming for her too.
I don't know how to end this post. I've lost the will/inspiration to write anything cohesive. From now on, I know that I can quote Municipal Code, title 16 Parking Violations to offenders before calling the parking police if they don't bust their ass to move their vehicles out of my child's way.
And if you want to do something to help the suffering in East Africa, go here and donate something so some children can have access to Plumpy-nut. I met a charming and precocious little boy in New York earlier this month whose life was saved thanks to this wonder-food.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
Nesting
Yesterday I started at the top of the house and made my way down. The boys were gone, so it was easy to do that quarterly purge of Abe's room of clothes he's too big for and toys he never plays with. A neighbor with an 18-month old boy came over and took about half of the stuff.
I cleaned everything I saw, including corners sometimes overlooked. I moved things around, cleared closet space, did laundry. I pulled out all the boxes and bags of clothes we have for our daughter. I sorted them into piles: things she can wear now and things she can grow into. I made piles of shirts, shorts, skirts, jeans, and shoes. I hung the dresses up. Oh, the beautiful dresses. I hope she likes dresses. I went through some of the books and toys we may take to Ethiopia for her.
This nesting stuff is tricky. I remember doing the same thing after our referral for our first and then having the rug pulled out from under me a week later with bad news. I put all the baby things into an empty room and shut the door for two months.
So I can't help feeling a little superstitious about nesting for our second. We're hoping for some good news later this week. It's been a daily change in status for our embassy clearance, but the latest is that once one document with one name moved from the wrong column into the correct column gets delivered to Addis (happening today we hope) and submitted to the embassy, we might maybe hopefully God-willing perhaps get clearance to travel.
When we get the green-light to buy some plane tickets, thanks to all that nesting yesterday, I'll go into the attic and pull out the purple "now" bin of things for our daughter. I think it's all ready.
Maybe perhaps perchance hopefully and God-willing.
I cleaned everything I saw, including corners sometimes overlooked. I moved things around, cleared closet space, did laundry. I pulled out all the boxes and bags of clothes we have for our daughter. I sorted them into piles: things she can wear now and things she can grow into. I made piles of shirts, shorts, skirts, jeans, and shoes. I hung the dresses up. Oh, the beautiful dresses. I hope she likes dresses. I went through some of the books and toys we may take to Ethiopia for her.
This nesting stuff is tricky. I remember doing the same thing after our referral for our first and then having the rug pulled out from under me a week later with bad news. I put all the baby things into an empty room and shut the door for two months.
So I can't help feeling a little superstitious about nesting for our second. We're hoping for some good news later this week. It's been a daily change in status for our embassy clearance, but the latest is that once one document with one name moved from the wrong column into the correct column gets delivered to Addis (happening today we hope) and submitted to the embassy, we might maybe hopefully God-willing perhaps get clearance to travel.
When we get the green-light to buy some plane tickets, thanks to all that nesting yesterday, I'll go into the attic and pull out the purple "now" bin of things for our daughter. I think it's all ready.
Maybe perhaps perchance hopefully and God-willing.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Drought
In the class I teach on Wednesdays, the question was about how many children the seniors had. The next question was about how many grandchildren. A Somali elder told me that he had five grandchildren. Three live here in our city. The other two...he paused a couple of seconds, folded his hands and put them next to his face like he was going to sleep, then said, "...in Somalia." In Somalia, they died. He looked down. I cleared my throat.
"I'm so sorry."
He nodded while staring at the table.
And now, this continues.
"I'm so sorry."
He nodded while staring at the table.
And now, this continues.
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