Kate is hosting a blog carnival called The Madhouse each Wednesday and I am playing along. On the internet, as in real life, I am late to the party…because if you are paying attention today is Saturday, not Wednesday. What can I say? Life often gets in the way of my best intentions, but I don’t think it is ever too late to show up.
If I were to create a bulleted list of all the things I am thankful for in my life, the length of it would surely stretch all the way around the world and then some. Because really: living here, in this town that I love, with these people that fill my life with goodness, with a warm house and plenty of food and no war directly outside of my door – there is nothing to not be thankful for in my life. There are things I pine for, there are things that would make my days easier and my life more fulfilled, but I have enough. There are surely many things that I worry about, but all of my needs are met daily, and that is enough. And I am thankful. Oh, so thankful.
But this week in particular there are a few things for which I feel I ought to say an extra special thanks:
1. It started with my cough, then my ears filled with fluid, then my throat hurt like hell. Then Emma didn’t seem to hear anything we said. Then Brendan had a high fever for many, many days…his rattling chest and whole body shivers were scary, to say the least. We cancelled Thanksgiving plans, we hunkered down. We all visited the doctor: three ear infections, possible strep throat, and pneumonia. Today, the three of us (sans Harry, a.k.a. The Last Man Standing, who has been shipped to Pie’s house for a grandma date/wearing out session) are snuggled together in the family room, sipping tea, enjoying the restful, quiet house, and taking our various doses of healing meds. And so today, I am grateful and thankful for the invention of antibiotics. I am thankful for easy breathing, in and out, in and out. I am thankful for ears that can (almost) hear clearly and throats that can swallow without making us cringe.
2. We’ve all heard that tensions in Asia are rising. The country where my children were born has come under attack and we all sit on pins and needles waiting to see what will happen next. We pray for peace, for a solution between North and South that does not include war. Whatever political feelings we have over the situation at hand, our kids have family in South Korea and we hope, more than anything, that they will be safe. As selfish as this may sound, today I am thankful that my children are home, that I am not waiting for a travel call. I am thankful for their laughter across the room, for the fact that they are safe within these walls, here. And my heart goes out to all of those people who are not yet so lucky.
3. And lastly, as we head into the school-age years with our children, I am thankful for community. I have come to realize that we cannot do this alone. We need the lessons of those who came before us and the camaraderie of those who are walking beside us now to make this work. Parenting is hard enough, but when you add the additional elements of transracial-international adoption into the mix there are many more things to consider, many more ways to fail. So thank you to those who guide us, who share their stories so that we may learn. This community, both online and in “real life”, gives me strength and hope and real working knowledge, all of which are necessary and priceless.
And so there it is: my personal shout out to antibiotics, having my children home, and the adoptive community at large. Perhaps a little disjointed and random, but those are the things that make the top of my list today.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
I Wish…
Sometimes I forget. I forget that we are not just any other family going through our days and years, taking pictures and marking milestones and watching our babies grow into small boys and girls. Although to an outsider it may seem impossible, I sometimes forget that they were not always a part of us, that they came from somewhere else, that they look like someone else.
And maybe this is a good thing. We are, after all, entwined just as any other parent and child would be. They steal food off my plate and drink my drinks and wind my hair around their fingers and fall asleep with their cheeks on mine and run to us when they are hurt and complain when I cook things they don’t like and make the silly faces that we make and they have even learned to love Weezer. We know each other’s ticklish spots; we know how to make each other laugh. I am yours, you are mine; we belong to each other just like any other family.
But maybe this is a bad thing, because although it has been said that love is blind, that love does not see color or race, the world at large does see those things. And our love, no matter how blind, is not enough to protect our children, to keep them from feeling different in a world in which matched sets of parents and children are the norm. We cannot afford to forget.
In our family, normal afternoon conversations with our children often leads to talk about all different kinds of people, skin tones, religious beliefs, ways of life, and types of families. We talk about racism. We talk about the fact, daily, that they were born in Korea, that we adopted them, that they did not grow in my womb. We talk about birth parents and foster parents and waiting children and orphans and poverty and stigma…all at age appropriate levels, of course (and intermixed with heavy discussion on the merits and downfalls of Annakin, Luke, and Leia Skywalker for good balance). Our family library is full of multicultural reading material; when we play in our toy kitchen we serve enchiladas and kimchi. We chose a private school for our children’s education in large part because of the diversity we find there and because there is a high percentage of other children with similar backgrounds of adoption. We have a large group of friends comprised of blended families, interracial families, adoptive families. Most days I think, I hope, that we are getting it right.
Tonight I was getting Harrison out of the bath tub. I had just cut his hair short and he looked so much younger, with traces of his babyhood still visible at the formerly-hidden-by-too-long-hair edges of his face. I wrapped him in his towel, he shivered and he leaned in close, so that our foreheads and noses were just touching, our eyes locked together, and he whispered in his bravest way: “I wish I looked like you.”
And my heart stopped.
My world tilted.
“I wish my skin was lighter, like yours. Mine is darker. I wish my eyes looked like yours.”
In that moment I did what anyone would do: I told him that I loved his skin, that he has the most beautiful brown eyes that I have ever had occasion to gaze into. I told him I loved him just the way he is. I told him that I don't look anything like some of our family, but that we are still a family. And then I got him dressed and brushed his teeth.
A few minutes later I knew that I needed to revisit that conversation with a clear head and a heart that was not breaking, but strong. Because we are strong, we are prepared; these are the conversations we have been spent our parenthood preparing for. As I tucked him in I laid down next to him as I did when he was a toddler: foreheads together, noses just touching, eyes locked. I asked him why he wanted to look like me. We had a frank discussion about what makes a family and what the outside world sees. We talked about how everyone is the same inside, that only our skin and hair and eyes are different. I told him I was proud of him for telling me how he was feeling. I asked if he had any questions, and he said: “Why do people all look different, anyway? Why can’t we all just be the same?” We spoke of continents and evolution, and how people from different parts of the world look like other people from the same part of the world. I reminded him how boring the world would be if everyone looked exactly the same. We talked for a long, long time. Eventually it all dissolved into giggles because he is, after all, a five year old.
In some moments my heart may forget that we are not just any other family going through our days and years, taking pictures and marking milestones and watching our babies grow into small boys and girls. My mind, however, is always aware of our differences; despite the fact that the road is not simple, that the conversations are more direct than most people probably have with their young children, I am so very grateful that this is my life, my family, my reality.
Our differences have made all of the difference.
And maybe this is a good thing. We are, after all, entwined just as any other parent and child would be. They steal food off my plate and drink my drinks and wind my hair around their fingers and fall asleep with their cheeks on mine and run to us when they are hurt and complain when I cook things they don’t like and make the silly faces that we make and they have even learned to love Weezer. We know each other’s ticklish spots; we know how to make each other laugh. I am yours, you are mine; we belong to each other just like any other family.
But maybe this is a bad thing, because although it has been said that love is blind, that love does not see color or race, the world at large does see those things. And our love, no matter how blind, is not enough to protect our children, to keep them from feeling different in a world in which matched sets of parents and children are the norm. We cannot afford to forget.
In our family, normal afternoon conversations with our children often leads to talk about all different kinds of people, skin tones, religious beliefs, ways of life, and types of families. We talk about racism. We talk about the fact, daily, that they were born in Korea, that we adopted them, that they did not grow in my womb. We talk about birth parents and foster parents and waiting children and orphans and poverty and stigma…all at age appropriate levels, of course (and intermixed with heavy discussion on the merits and downfalls of Annakin, Luke, and Leia Skywalker for good balance). Our family library is full of multicultural reading material; when we play in our toy kitchen we serve enchiladas and kimchi. We chose a private school for our children’s education in large part because of the diversity we find there and because there is a high percentage of other children with similar backgrounds of adoption. We have a large group of friends comprised of blended families, interracial families, adoptive families. Most days I think, I hope, that we are getting it right.
Tonight I was getting Harrison out of the bath tub. I had just cut his hair short and he looked so much younger, with traces of his babyhood still visible at the formerly-hidden-by-too-long-hair edges of his face. I wrapped him in his towel, he shivered and he leaned in close, so that our foreheads and noses were just touching, our eyes locked together, and he whispered in his bravest way: “I wish I looked like you.”
And my heart stopped.
My world tilted.
“I wish my skin was lighter, like yours. Mine is darker. I wish my eyes looked like yours.”
In that moment I did what anyone would do: I told him that I loved his skin, that he has the most beautiful brown eyes that I have ever had occasion to gaze into. I told him I loved him just the way he is. I told him that I don't look anything like some of our family, but that we are still a family. And then I got him dressed and brushed his teeth.
A few minutes later I knew that I needed to revisit that conversation with a clear head and a heart that was not breaking, but strong. Because we are strong, we are prepared; these are the conversations we have been spent our parenthood preparing for. As I tucked him in I laid down next to him as I did when he was a toddler: foreheads together, noses just touching, eyes locked. I asked him why he wanted to look like me. We had a frank discussion about what makes a family and what the outside world sees. We talked about how everyone is the same inside, that only our skin and hair and eyes are different. I told him I was proud of him for telling me how he was feeling. I asked if he had any questions, and he said: “Why do people all look different, anyway? Why can’t we all just be the same?” We spoke of continents and evolution, and how people from different parts of the world look like other people from the same part of the world. I reminded him how boring the world would be if everyone looked exactly the same. We talked for a long, long time. Eventually it all dissolved into giggles because he is, after all, a five year old.
In some moments my heart may forget that we are not just any other family going through our days and years, taking pictures and marking milestones and watching our babies grow into small boys and girls. My mind, however, is always aware of our differences; despite the fact that the road is not simple, that the conversations are more direct than most people probably have with their young children, I am so very grateful that this is my life, my family, my reality.
Our differences have made all of the difference.
Elopement!
There is something so romantic about an elopement, isn’t there? Two people in love who just don’t care about the big wedding, finding it more important to just make it official and to begin their life together in commitment. Because when you are in love, and you are planning to spend your life together, why wait to get started? Rather than repeat their vows in front of the masses, they hold hands quietly in their very own yard and make their promises to each other with the trees and the water, the wind and the rain as their witnesses. Beautiful!
Congratulations, my big brother, and welcome the the family, my new sister (in-law). We love you very, very, very much!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Sneak Peek: Living Room
64 yards of fabric, lots of time spent with iron, pins, and thread, and the living room curtains are nearly complete!
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