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.

Sick Day

Harrison takes his sick days seriously.  He has big plans, big ideas, none of which include actually acting (or even being) sick.  Last night at dinner he was 102.9, flushed and glazed over and completely listless, so we decided to keep him home today.  Bath and early to bed and then he slept in an extra two hours this morning.  He woke with a bounce in his step today, as though he had been handed a get-out-of-jail-free card.  When asked about his health he proclaimed that he felt great and wondered what fun we could make of the day.  He thought perhaps we’d go to camp, or see a movie, or go for a run on the track.  Just a few suggestions, Mom. 
Instead of such fun things we kept it calm: drop Emma at school, ride in the cart through the grocery store, read a few books, pick Emma up from school, eat a quiet lunch, and play a few games of Pac Man.  Throughout the day’s activities he kept on a smile and kept up a constant stream of chatter, giving me anecdotes about his school days, letting me know his new favorite super heroes and ideas for Halloween costumes, and reading me the advertisements from each and every grocery display.  it was the first time we had each other all to ourselves in such a long, long time.  I’ve been missing you, he said.
When Emma was home the two went upstairs to play Pac Man, and the house filled with their laughter and squeals of delight.  They played for an hour, giving each other tips and hints for the best mode of play, and then compared notes from their respective new classes and schools.  From my perch beneath the stairs I got to hear all about the key players in their new school lives: who causes trouble and means it, who is accidentally always in the wrong place at the wrong time, who can kick the ball the furthest, and who the emerging best friends might be.  It was the best playtime they have shared in months.  Harrison, you are the very best brother, she said.  I know, he said right back.
The truth is, we all needed his day off.  Real school, Kindergarten, is no joke.  It is busy and stressful (good and bad stress) and there is so much for him to take in that by the time we get him back each afternoon he has nothing of himself left to give or share.  He is often grumpy and we are more than likely overwhelming, eager to have him back, so that an atmosphere of off-ness consumes the rest of our afternoons.  I have missed him so much, the sunshiny, well-rested, happy to go along with whatever I have planned version of himself.  So much for being sick, but I am so grateful for this day, for this chance to reconnect.

Growing Pains

He lost his first tooth last week and he starts Kindergarten next week.

She turned four last week and begins Pre-K next week.
My heart is doing all sorts of weird things this summer…aching, swelling with joy and pride, and longing for a baby that I can’t have.  One minute I am entirely sad that their earliest childhood days are past us, that so soon they will be on to bigger adventures and huge chunks of their lives will be spent with people we really don’t know. Sometimes I am excited at the prospect of having ten hours per week that are really and truly my own, but then that excitement gets tempered by the thought of what I will do with that time.  Who the heck am I, without them?  I am eager to see my children learn and grow, so happy to know that they each have a keen appetite for new ideas and experiences.  And I’m not going to lie and say that it won’t be somewhat of a huge relief to have someone else be the entertainment committee for part of the day because for all of its inherent joys and benefits and greatness, stay-at-home parenthood is entirely exhausting.  But.   But I will miss them like crazy and the feeling of losing them, even for this little while, makes me feel dizzy.
And yes, I will say it out loud: I am having baby pangs, strong ones, pangs like I had when we were first trying to conceive.  My arms ache, baby showers stink again, and I know that if there was a baby available I could pull together a nursery, clothes, and everything else we need in a matter of hours.  I have a mental checklist of where everything is and in which order it should be put in place, according to importance and necessity.  Do I think that these pangs are part side-effect of my big kids going to school?  Yes, but only in part.  I have had an overwhelming feeling of someone being missing from our family for awhile now.  It’s a tough thing, this knowledge, especially when the other half of my marriage (my better half?) doesn’t agree.  So maybe we’re done, but my heart disagrees and I don’t know how to feel.
My mind is trying to get it all under control, trying to remember that this is the natural progression of events in a life, that babies grow up and go off to school and mothers go back to work.  And we don’t get everything we want.  Life carries on and on, whether we want to hold it still or not. 
But man, how I want to hold it still. 

Aches and Pains

Things are bit sore around here today: backs, arms, and legs all ache from lifting and heaving boxes into our PODS container.  I am afraid to sit for too long lest my muscles seize up and stick me in this chair for good.  I don't even like this chair that much.  Ibuprofen has become a part of our regular nutrition schedule; without it, like the Tin Man himself, we would simply cease to move.

Harrison and Emma are out of sorts.  They understand at a basic level that we are moving.  They get mildly excited and wound up when we pack boxes, seeming almost too enthusiastic to throw in their favorite stuffed bunny (Silly Bob has been rescued from the doom of storage several times), but Emma cried when we took the spare twin bed out of her room.  Elation melts into a puddle, giggles sometimes end in tears, and then the tears float back up into wide smiles and eager anticipation.  This is hard on all of us, but the little ones who have no control feel it in waves.  We have no way of explaining to them, in terms they will understand, that we are making this move for their benefit.  Yes, we'll get the thrill of living in a house we find fantastic, but the real reasons for making the move lie with the futures of our children.  But you can't tell that to a four year old, nor a two year old.

Stepping Milestones

I have decided that for me the first steps of a child are not the most significant.  Sure, they are exciting and well worth clapping for.  They are certainly a refreshing milestone attained after a long stretch of my child's constant neediness.  But for me they're just not the best. 
For me the best steps come later, when walking has been nearly mastered.  They come when my child has been teetering around all day long, busy with her newfound freedom, busy without me.  After hours of exploration, climbing, and stretching for things I don't want her to reach, Emma turns on her heel and looks at me.  I am, finally, back in her line of attention rather than on the sidelines where I have waited all day.  Her face stretches into a tired smile, she reaches her hands out toward me and she walks, no, runs into my outstretched arms.  When she reaches me her smile dissolves into a giggle, her tiny little arms lock around my neck, and I swoop her into the air.  In this moment the baby I have lost to walking toddlerhood returns to me for a moment, and I am once again needed. 
And that is the best.

Harry Houdini, reincarnated

As witnessed earlier this week, Harry is pushing his boundaries around the house. He climbed the stairs, he's scrambling over our chairs, crawling into our cupboards, and he's trying like mad to get onto the couch. He wants to be up, uP, UP!!!

And yesterday he decided to be ouT, oUT, OUT! That's right, he climbed out of his pack'n'play, fell headfirst toward the floor, and broke his fall by hitting his head on the wheel on hthe way down. He's sporting some very red road rash on his forehead, but is otherwise fine. Brendan and I were much more traumatized by this than Harry was...our dear boy was actually a little pleased with himself, especially when we proceeded to read his favorite book to him repeatedly all day long (to soothe him, er, ourselves).

Our big question now is: How do we contain an avid climber? What if he climbs out of his crib? We're not ready for a toddler bed, as he's only ten months old. How will Mom shower and get dressed each day if she can't put him in something for a minute or two? Ladies and gentlemen, it's the end of an era, the Era of the Contained Baby. It was nice while it lasted, but things are going to have to change around here now...

A runny nose and a fat lip

After a few days of swapping germs with his cousins and our extended famillies, and almost a week of no naps and random bedtimes, Harrison is sick with a bad head cold. And, unlike most adults I know, he's smiling through it like it's no bother at all, except when we swoop in with a tissue to mop up his drippy face. When we must clean him up he screams at the top of his lungs and makes us feel like the worst parents in the world. But the alternative is...yuck. We've been giving him Benadryl to clear up his nose, but it makes him very sleepy and dopey. Poor little guy. I hate seeing him like this; even if he seems cheery I know it's no fun to lose the ability to breathe through your nose.

To top it all off Harrison pulled a chair over on himself just before bedtime and split his lip open...blood all over, screaming, tears, etc. It was awful. And I was two feet away but couldn't get there in time to stop it from happening. Brendan, who was working on the basement at the time of The Accident, rushed to our aid, cleaned up our boy, and hugged the poor mom who felt awful that she let this happen to her already ill child. We let him suck on an icecube, which helped stop the bleeding, made him smile with our endless games of peek-a-boo (his puffed out bottom lip still touched his top lip when he smiled...my poor baby), and promptly sent him to bed. We're hoping for a less dramatic, and less drippy, day tomorrow.

Coming soon....pictures of our basement project! Stay tuned...