We were outside enjoying the early evening breezes, the singing birds, and the lovely filtered sunlight on the usually scorching deck, when our tranquility was rudely interrupted by the screams and shouts of little children. Harry has taken to being Emma's boss lately, and being a strong willed little woman she just will not stand for it. Our Emma is decidedly NOT a follower. The yelling continued, and I realized that if I wanted to salvage any of the peace we had been enjoying I'd better intervene and give a gentle lesson on who is and who is not the boss.
I got down to Harry's eye level, asked him to look at me, and began:
Harry, you have to stop telling Emma what to do. You are not in charge of her. You are not her mother, and you are not her father. We are her parents and we will tell her what to do when she needs to do something. Do you understand?
As I was speaking his big brown eyes left mine, and wandered down to my mouth, where I thought he was watching my lips move in an effort to further absorb the lesson at hand. He looked back into my eyes to give his response:
I understand, Mom, but you have something in your teeth.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
Boots Goes Biking
This girl likes her boots. A LOT. She wears them inside, outside, and would gladly don them for both bathing and sleeping occasions if only we would let her. They are leftovers, Harry's boots that never really fit his wide, high in-stepped feet very well, but they fit Emmy just fine. She calls herself Mimi these days, which we think is her way of attempting to say Emmy. After she says Mimi she gives you the ASL sign for boots, so Mimi Boots it is. Boots for short, of course.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
It's All About Balance
I probably spend too much time on the Internet. In my defense, though, a lot of that time is spent in the adoption realm, reading the blogs of other adoptive parents (APs), of adult Korean Adoptees (KADs), of birth/first mothers and participating in a forum or two with a central focus of adoption. The Internet can be a wonderful tool for the adoptive parent. There just aren't hordes of adoptive families in my neighborhood or community; sure, there are others, but finding other families that we connect with on a personal level and can maintain a healthy, positive, constructive relationship with has proven a hard thing to do locally. We have met a few absolutely wonderful families, but we've also had our share of trainwrecks. On the Internet it is possible share insight, knowledge, ideas, and experiences without necessarily having to become best friends forever.
Through use of the Internet I try to stay abreast of the latest developments in the greater adoption community. I've learned an incredible amount from other bloggers, an education that our agency never mentioned might be important, nor tried to provide us with. I've become aware of a need for and lack of ethics in adoption and the struggle to figure out what exactly that means. Whose rights come first? First parents' rights? Adoptees' rights? The rights of the adoptive parents? I've learned that in the adoption triad the APs have the most power, and that misuse of that power is prevalent and often unconscious. I've learned about white privilege, racism (both subtle and outright), devastating losses that our children experienced on their way to our family. I've learned that as an AP, I cannot just raise my child like any child I might have given birth to, though that was something I had to swear to be willing to do when filling out our applications to adopt. As an adoptive parent I have to be more vigilant, more tuned in, more aware, more willing to go the extra mile when my kids are in trouble. I have to be willing to share the role of mother with other women, because my motherhood does not negate theirs. And I have had to step entirely out of my comfort zone in order to do some of these things and learn some of these things. I've learned that I can't ever stop learning about these topics, I can't ever turn my head away because the lessons are ever evolving, ever shifting with lives of their own. I've learned that due diligence as an adoptive parent means more than just writing letters to foster parents twice a year. Most importantly, I have learned that it is not about me, it is about the children I love beyond measure and what is best for them.
I try to keep abreast of the adoptions news, to learn and know and be proactive about all of these things while my children are young, before they ask the tough questions so that I will be more than prepared when the time comes; at the same time I am trying to potty train, teach good manners, and update lifebooks. I'm trying to figure out what I want to be when I no longer have preschoolers in the home; I am trying to be a socially and environmentally conscious citizen of the world, and I am trying to be a wife, daughter, sister, and friend. The realm of adoption is sometimes overwhelming, always humbling, and I am often blown away by what I learn to the point that I regularly question and examine my ethics, morals, spirituality, and basic beliefs. It can be easy to be swallowed by the enormity of it all, to become depressed, to feel nothing but guilt in the role of an AP.
But I also want to say this, because although it ought to be obvious maybe it is not to some:
Adoptive parenthood is not just about acknowledging loss. It is not just about honoring first families, or keeping in touch with previous caretakers of our children, or even fighting for the rights of adoptees and first parents. It is not just about the aspects that are hard or heartbreaking. It is also about the heartswelling moments of parenthood, the regular kind of parenthood that involves sleepless nights and skinned knees, diapers and first words. It is about the moments that take your breath away with their beauty. It is about living in the moment, each and every day, and acknowledging the amazing child who stands before you in all his/her glory, waiting for your face to light up. It is about being a mother or a father, and all of the different things those titles imply, putting questions and grief and doubt on a shelf for another, quieter time, and simply being there. It is flawed, yes, but it is also beautiful, worthy of being treasured, worthy of letting go of some of the pain to let the joy shine in.
I say all of this because one of my aforementioned trainwrecks has a blog, and up until now I have read it. Today I deleted the bookmark, and I am going to try like heck to forget the URL. Some APs have a knack for pulling in the pain, grief, and loss that others endure, claiming it, twisting it around, and regurgitating it to make it all about them, as if it was their very own pain to begin with. As if they invented pain itself. They feather their nests with tokens of all of the things they think their children have lost and wallpaper it with their own guilt, causing their children to endure not only the inherent pains of adoption, but also the loss of the parents they now know to the remorse, regret, and guilt those parents feel. It makes me sad to think of these very young children seeing their parent do nothing but cry on occasions that are meant to be celebratory. It makes me incredibly sad that this person feels the need to constantly stand on a soapbox, screaming diatribes about what the rest of us APs should be doing, when they themselves seem to be overlooking some of the fundamental aspects of adoptive parenting: the parenting part, which includes joy and living in the moment. That is not to say that we should not acknowledge loss and grief, but that it should be in balance with the amount of time we spend being present and joyful. The greatest lesson I have learned in all of my time spent on the Internet in the realm of adoption is this: In the face of the struggle, don't lose sight of the joy.
And so I will no longer expose myself to threatening, doomsday diatribes, or endless lamentations of loss and pain, but I will continue to open my eyes wider to those who have insight to share, stories to learn from, and constructive criticism or advice to offer.
(I'll stop ranting now, I promise.)
Through use of the Internet I try to stay abreast of the latest developments in the greater adoption community. I've learned an incredible amount from other bloggers, an education that our agency never mentioned might be important, nor tried to provide us with. I've become aware of a need for and lack of ethics in adoption and the struggle to figure out what exactly that means. Whose rights come first? First parents' rights? Adoptees' rights? The rights of the adoptive parents? I've learned that in the adoption triad the APs have the most power, and that misuse of that power is prevalent and often unconscious. I've learned about white privilege, racism (both subtle and outright), devastating losses that our children experienced on their way to our family. I've learned that as an AP, I cannot just raise my child like any child I might have given birth to, though that was something I had to swear to be willing to do when filling out our applications to adopt. As an adoptive parent I have to be more vigilant, more tuned in, more aware, more willing to go the extra mile when my kids are in trouble. I have to be willing to share the role of mother with other women, because my motherhood does not negate theirs. And I have had to step entirely out of my comfort zone in order to do some of these things and learn some of these things. I've learned that I can't ever stop learning about these topics, I can't ever turn my head away because the lessons are ever evolving, ever shifting with lives of their own. I've learned that due diligence as an adoptive parent means more than just writing letters to foster parents twice a year. Most importantly, I have learned that it is not about me, it is about the children I love beyond measure and what is best for them.
I try to keep abreast of the adoptions news, to learn and know and be proactive about all of these things while my children are young, before they ask the tough questions so that I will be more than prepared when the time comes; at the same time I am trying to potty train, teach good manners, and update lifebooks. I'm trying to figure out what I want to be when I no longer have preschoolers in the home; I am trying to be a socially and environmentally conscious citizen of the world, and I am trying to be a wife, daughter, sister, and friend. The realm of adoption is sometimes overwhelming, always humbling, and I am often blown away by what I learn to the point that I regularly question and examine my ethics, morals, spirituality, and basic beliefs. It can be easy to be swallowed by the enormity of it all, to become depressed, to feel nothing but guilt in the role of an AP.
But I also want to say this, because although it ought to be obvious maybe it is not to some:
Adoptive parenthood is not just about acknowledging loss. It is not just about honoring first families, or keeping in touch with previous caretakers of our children, or even fighting for the rights of adoptees and first parents. It is not just about the aspects that are hard or heartbreaking. It is also about the heartswelling moments of parenthood, the regular kind of parenthood that involves sleepless nights and skinned knees, diapers and first words. It is about the moments that take your breath away with their beauty. It is about living in the moment, each and every day, and acknowledging the amazing child who stands before you in all his/her glory, waiting for your face to light up. It is about being a mother or a father, and all of the different things those titles imply, putting questions and grief and doubt on a shelf for another, quieter time, and simply being there. It is flawed, yes, but it is also beautiful, worthy of being treasured, worthy of letting go of some of the pain to let the joy shine in.
I say all of this because one of my aforementioned trainwrecks has a blog, and up until now I have read it. Today I deleted the bookmark, and I am going to try like heck to forget the URL. Some APs have a knack for pulling in the pain, grief, and loss that others endure, claiming it, twisting it around, and regurgitating it to make it all about them, as if it was their very own pain to begin with. As if they invented pain itself. They feather their nests with tokens of all of the things they think their children have lost and wallpaper it with their own guilt, causing their children to endure not only the inherent pains of adoption, but also the loss of the parents they now know to the remorse, regret, and guilt those parents feel. It makes me sad to think of these very young children seeing their parent do nothing but cry on occasions that are meant to be celebratory. It makes me incredibly sad that this person feels the need to constantly stand on a soapbox, screaming diatribes about what the rest of us APs should be doing, when they themselves seem to be overlooking some of the fundamental aspects of adoptive parenting: the parenting part, which includes joy and living in the moment. That is not to say that we should not acknowledge loss and grief, but that it should be in balance with the amount of time we spend being present and joyful. The greatest lesson I have learned in all of my time spent on the Internet in the realm of adoption is this: In the face of the struggle, don't lose sight of the joy.
And so I will no longer expose myself to threatening, doomsday diatribes, or endless lamentations of loss and pain, but I will continue to open my eyes wider to those who have insight to share, stories to learn from, and constructive criticism or advice to offer.
(I'll stop ranting now, I promise.)
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Goodbye, Max
Our first "baby", our pet bunny Max, passed away yesterday.
We found Max at a mall pet store (something I swear I'll never do again) the day before Easter. He was the biggest of the bunch of Easter bunnies that most likely wouldn't go home for Easter, meaning he had probably been there the longest; he panted and hopped around the small glass enclosure with his 40 or so bunny friends who all looked slightly desperate. He also had the unfortunate circumstance of having a messy bowel movement stuck on is back, a detail which was sure to keep him from being purchased. We felt terrible for him, and I begged Brendan all the way home to bring me back to the store to get him. When we went back to the mall the next day, Easter Sunday, it was of course closed. We went back again on Monday night, and the deal was that if he was still there, and still sporting the unfortunate poop, we would bring him home. And he was still there, and the poop was still there. No one had bothered to clean up the poor little guy, so we bought him and brought him home, against the rules, to our little apartment. And then we gave him a good bath.
Did I mention we thought he was a girl? We named him Max because we weren't 100% sure of his sex; we later found out because he developed a very close personal relationship with a blue bouncy ball from the grocery store. He sure loved that ball!
Rabbits are incredibly social creatures, and when Max was our only little friend he often enjoyed free range of the house. He loved to run, to hop up on our furniture and sit with us while we watched television. His fur was quite possibly the softest thing I have ever felt in my life. He was a cuddler, and would tuck his head beneath my chin when I held him, snuggling in close for as much love as he could get. He was very affectionate; he would lick our fingers and rub his face on our hands when we petted him, and he'd make happy little purring noises when we played.
With the onset of noisy dogs and rambunctious children, our quiet friend Max's freedom became more restricted. But while he no longer got to run and play in the house, he began to be practically smothered with love by Harry and Emma. They adored him in a way that only children can adore something. They would sit by his hutch and "read" him books, they would show him their new toys, and they begged all day long to give him treats, pet him, or refresh his water. If he was sleeping, Harry would say "Excuse me, Max. I want to talk to you." One of Emma's first words was "Maaaax". They giggled when he cleaned his ears, and cheered when he hopped around wildly in a fit of happiness, as only bunnies do.
And so, our Max, you will be missed. Thank you for 7 1/2 years of silly antics, soft ears, and bunny kisses. We love you.
We found Max at a mall pet store (something I swear I'll never do again) the day before Easter. He was the biggest of the bunch of Easter bunnies that most likely wouldn't go home for Easter, meaning he had probably been there the longest; he panted and hopped around the small glass enclosure with his 40 or so bunny friends who all looked slightly desperate. He also had the unfortunate circumstance of having a messy bowel movement stuck on is back, a detail which was sure to keep him from being purchased. We felt terrible for him, and I begged Brendan all the way home to bring me back to the store to get him. When we went back to the mall the next day, Easter Sunday, it was of course closed. We went back again on Monday night, and the deal was that if he was still there, and still sporting the unfortunate poop, we would bring him home. And he was still there, and the poop was still there. No one had bothered to clean up the poor little guy, so we bought him and brought him home, against the rules, to our little apartment. And then we gave him a good bath.
Did I mention we thought he was a girl? We named him Max because we weren't 100% sure of his sex; we later found out because he developed a very close personal relationship with a blue bouncy ball from the grocery store. He sure loved that ball!
Rabbits are incredibly social creatures, and when Max was our only little friend he often enjoyed free range of the house. He loved to run, to hop up on our furniture and sit with us while we watched television. His fur was quite possibly the softest thing I have ever felt in my life. He was a cuddler, and would tuck his head beneath my chin when I held him, snuggling in close for as much love as he could get. He was very affectionate; he would lick our fingers and rub his face on our hands when we petted him, and he'd make happy little purring noises when we played.
With the onset of noisy dogs and rambunctious children, our quiet friend Max's freedom became more restricted. But while he no longer got to run and play in the house, he began to be practically smothered with love by Harry and Emma. They adored him in a way that only children can adore something. They would sit by his hutch and "read" him books, they would show him their new toys, and they begged all day long to give him treats, pet him, or refresh his water. If he was sleeping, Harry would say "Excuse me, Max. I want to talk to you." One of Emma's first words was "Maaaax". They giggled when he cleaned his ears, and cheered when he hopped around wildly in a fit of happiness, as only bunnies do.
And so, our Max, you will be missed. Thank you for 7 1/2 years of silly antics, soft ears, and bunny kisses. We love you.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Sundress
I managed to squeeze in some sewing time this week, and made a new sundress for Emma. I copied the shape from an H&M dress that we already had, and cut it from two fat quarters of really fun fabric. I added some edging embroidery in orange quilting thread along the top, and the buttons on the back of the straps are to shorten them until she grows into it a little more. She seems to like it! The photo of the brown dress is to show the original that I copied.
I am hoping to make Harry some linen "Pirate Pants" this week. He is really into pirates these days, and can be found running around the yard with a bandana on his head yelling "Argh!" in a menacing tone. It is very cute.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Back to the Grind
The Monday after a week of vacation is always a little weird for me. I flounder through the morning without Brendan here to bounce ideas off of. Do you think she needs a nap now? Can I really give them dry cereal for breakfast for the third day in a row? Do you want coffee, or would tea be better for late morning? We so easily fall into a rhythm when we have non-working days together that I find it odd to be on my own again. It's not that I am not capable, for surely I do the same things day in and day out all week long by myself under normal circumstances, but the sudden loss of adult companionship during the daylight hours is startling on the first day back to "normal". I miss his presence, and so do the kids. Harry took an extra long time to get over his normal Monday I-want-my-Daddy-and-he's-not-here blues and Emma is just grumpy, put out, and miffed that he dared not be present at her breakfast table, entertaining her with silly faces and offering her bits of his own cereal. So we stumble about today, but tomorrow will be better.
Our vacation was simple and lovely. We didn't go much further than our own, literal, backyard, but we found countless things to do with our time. We barely turned on the t.v. I laid in the hammock and watched the clouds float by, peered at countless caterpillars at the request of eager and excited children, and sat beneath the stars with Brendan, listening to the tree frogs' serenade and the whippoorwills' love calls. I remembered how well Brendan and I work together when we're building a project (we worked on our deck), something we haven't really been able to do in a couple of years. We rediscovered the smooth joy of vodka and tonic, went to the movies for the first time in perhaps 2 1/2 years, and had a beer at a bar. A real bar, downtown, even. I got in some sewing time, and Brendan got to play with his band a couple of times.
There were times when we got frustrated with the kids, or with each other, as a week's worth of togetherness can do to the most easygoing of families, but we seem to have regained a sense of equilibrium after the long adjustment that goes hand-in-hand with adding to a family. It helped immensely that our kids are now old enough to play in the yard without us being two feet from them at all times (thank goodness for our fence), and it helped that we each took some time away from the family, house, children, and dogs to pursue our own interests. I dare say we are getting better at this vacation thing, even if we didn't travel anywhere.
Conversation as I am writing:
Mom to H: Did you have a good vacation?
H: Yes, I did.
M: What did you do?
H: I did something. I like caterpillars. Mommy, you don't like caterpillars when they are big and fat?
M: They're ok.
H: You don't like caterpillars?
M: I like to look at them but not to touch them.
H: But I do.
M: What's your favorite thing about caterpillars?
H: To play with them.
M: What else did you do on vacation?
H: I planted flowers with Na Na. I want an apple. No, I don't want an apple, or water.
M: What do you want?
H: I want something to...hmmm. Let's see. I know. You know what I want? I want, um, peanut butter and jelly for breakfast.
M: We already ate breakfast.
H: No wait, I don't want peanut butter, just jelly. And no bread. Maybe bread to make a sandwich. Yes, that's it. A jelly sandwich. I want a peanut butter and jelly for breakfast, but not the peanut butter, just the jelly. Ok? Please? Not the peanut butter, just the jelly. Are you going to make me one or what?
M: We're going to have lunch soon, do you want that for lunch?
H: No, I want it now because my belly is staaaarviiiiing. (very dramatic now)
M: Ok, let me shut this thing off and we'll see what we can do (I say as I realize that we are out of both peanut butter and jelly - not good)
Yes, we'll stumble through today but tomorrow will be better. Time to go put my game face on and try to "sell" a chicken salad sandwich to my three year old. Except I don't think we have any bread, either. Oh, crud. I think we have crackers?
Our vacation was simple and lovely. We didn't go much further than our own, literal, backyard, but we found countless things to do with our time. We barely turned on the t.v. I laid in the hammock and watched the clouds float by, peered at countless caterpillars at the request of eager and excited children, and sat beneath the stars with Brendan, listening to the tree frogs' serenade and the whippoorwills' love calls. I remembered how well Brendan and I work together when we're building a project (we worked on our deck), something we haven't really been able to do in a couple of years. We rediscovered the smooth joy of vodka and tonic, went to the movies for the first time in perhaps 2 1/2 years, and had a beer at a bar. A real bar, downtown, even. I got in some sewing time, and Brendan got to play with his band a couple of times.
There were times when we got frustrated with the kids, or with each other, as a week's worth of togetherness can do to the most easygoing of families, but we seem to have regained a sense of equilibrium after the long adjustment that goes hand-in-hand with adding to a family. It helped immensely that our kids are now old enough to play in the yard without us being two feet from them at all times (thank goodness for our fence), and it helped that we each took some time away from the family, house, children, and dogs to pursue our own interests. I dare say we are getting better at this vacation thing, even if we didn't travel anywhere.
Conversation as I am writing:
Mom to H: Did you have a good vacation?
H: Yes, I did.
M: What did you do?
H: I did something. I like caterpillars. Mommy, you don't like caterpillars when they are big and fat?
M: They're ok.
H: You don't like caterpillars?
M: I like to look at them but not to touch them.
H: But I do.
M: What's your favorite thing about caterpillars?
H: To play with them.
M: What else did you do on vacation?
H: I planted flowers with Na Na. I want an apple. No, I don't want an apple, or water.
M: What do you want?
H: I want something to...hmmm. Let's see. I know. You know what I want? I want, um, peanut butter and jelly for breakfast.
M: We already ate breakfast.
H: No wait, I don't want peanut butter, just jelly. And no bread. Maybe bread to make a sandwich. Yes, that's it. A jelly sandwich. I want a peanut butter and jelly for breakfast, but not the peanut butter, just the jelly. Ok? Please? Not the peanut butter, just the jelly. Are you going to make me one or what?
M: We're going to have lunch soon, do you want that for lunch?
H: No, I want it now because my belly is staaaarviiiiing. (very dramatic now)
M: Ok, let me shut this thing off and we'll see what we can do (I say as I realize that we are out of both peanut butter and jelly - not good)
Yes, we'll stumble through today but tomorrow will be better. Time to go put my game face on and try to "sell" a chicken salad sandwich to my three year old. Except I don't think we have any bread, either. Oh, crud. I think we have crackers?
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