Connections

It has been an up-and-down week. Mostly up, fortunately. We've been filling the tubby with bubbles and hopping in together in the evenings. It's becoming a new little homing ritual for us. I can't get enough of looking at your mini naked profile with your toddler tummy so taunt and round. It makes me smile every time. And you get a kick out of my belly button, pressing it with hopes that I will break into sing-songy giggles. I've been looking at your belly button a lot lately, noticing its shape and the little crevice. Tonight I thought about how that very part of you connected you to your first mother. I rubbed it with my forefinger, feeling its ridges and wondering how and under what circumstances it became disconnected from her. For most newborns, the moment of the umbilical cord being severed is celebrated. For you, your body being severed from hers was an eerie sign of things to come. I wonder if she knew, in that moment, that she would be separated from her daughter.

Your birthday approaches and I can't help but to think of the woman who carried you and gave birth to you. I was not a part of your birth and I shamefully admit that I constantly have to remind myself of your birthday. To me, your birthday is arbitrary--a day estimated by a judge based on information provided by a doctor and a social worker. The judge was a fan of the number "28" that month, so many babies, like you, have a 28th birthday. This is a disappointment that I had not expected as a mother; but it feels awful to not feel connected to that date--to know that the great possibility exists that you are not connected to that date--and what that may feel for you as you grow.

Many of the unknowns are big, so the details of your birth may seem small by comparison. But our identity is formed by such small things like knowing our birthday and birth story. I know that I was born on a Sunday at 12:48 PM. I am an Aquarius. I was sunny-side up and apparently caused my mother a lot of grief. I think of my mother every year on my birthday just as my mother thinks of me. How can this not be so for my daughter?

That little belly button stares back at me as I think of the unknowns. Like who gave you those pouty lips or who/what gave you that mystery scar on your right arm. It's difficult to articulate what it feels like to not know where your child's scars came from. It's a heartbreaking thing to have so many holes in one's story. Sometimes having information can be painful. Sometimes not having information can be painful. I look at you and rub your scar, rub your navel, rub the freckle on your thigh and think of who made you. Who knew your first--who knows that part of your story. And how much those details may or may not matter to you when you are old enough to question.

She's a Natural

Just putting in a plug for the awesomeness that is the African dance class that Noemi started taking last month through Imani Dance Company at Mulberry Art Studio here in Lancaster, PA. Monday evening is officially now her favorite time of the week. The class is actually geared toward school-age children, but the instructor's daughter is Noemi's age and invited us along for the exposure. Noemi lights up as she and the other mini dancers run around the periphery, imitating the older girls getting their groove on to the live drummers. Noemi brings along her drum from Ethiopia to get in on the action and wears her lapa (african wrap skirt) each week. Seriously. This gig is a ton-o- fun.

Coming Back

You disappeared for just about a week. I saw you slipping away after a solid month of smiles, affection, closeness, regulation, playfulness, calm and sillies. It was the longest period we have had with your at-home self and I began wondering if it was here to stay. But then last week the eye contact disappeared, you allowing me to touch or hold you became terrifying and my smile threatened you. The mere sight of me made you yell and retreat. You clung to anyone in an attempt to avoid me. I know this child--the one terrified to be in her own skin--the one who rejects me with every-other-breath. I also know that she is gradually fading away. You came back to me tonight, like a flip of a switch, the way it usually happens. We took a bath together. You let me put lotion on your slippery skin. You allowed me to rock you while you rested your head on my chest. You silently traced my fingers and rubbed my earlobe. To me, nothing is closer to heaven. We've had to work really hard with each other for these simple nighttime lovies--I'll never take them for granted.

Surely everyone is weary of me telling this part of our story--people don't like hard things. Perhaps it seems redundant. Perhaps it seems negative. I share the pattern of our struggles because there is hope beneath it all. There is hope that emerges from the repetition of losing her and her returning. The lady in Target may not have seen our entwined meltdown as hopeful, but that's because she doesn't know that we have been through this confusing, exhausting dance before. I am learning through all of this that it is the climbing out of the mirk and mire that is so redeeming. There's a wacky balance to this life, and without feeling at the bottom I'm not sure one can truly rejoice in the ascension. Tonight I felt redeemed. You came back to me, my child. You came back to yourself. And I know, if and when you slip away again, God will lovingly restore you. His promises are great. His faithfulness is bright. This is our security.

I Love My Hair

Yet another reason to love Sesame Street...

The back story is that the show's head writer has an Ethiopian-born daughter and saw a need for her to love her hair without comparing it against the standards of White America...

Read the story here.

It's What's For Dinner

Some weeks are just like this. I am well aware that not all of Noemi's challenging behaviors are related to the difficulties previously discussed. Sometimes she's just plain tired or wants to be pushed one last time on the swing before leaving the park. Sometimes she wants to come down the stairs all by herself when we are running late and I have to carry her. Sometimes she's just my sweet, dismayed toddler gorilla. But sometimes you mix the cocktail of Tiredness with Toddlerness and then throw in a hefty garnish of Attachment and Trauma and *BABOOM* you've got yourself one bomb of a cocktail.

These are the days when Donovan and I bicker over the kitchen sink, splicing and dicing the variables in a meager attempt to figure out which end is up and how to better parent our daughter.

These are the days we eventually feel defeated and head straight for the snack shelf.
You know exactly what I'm talking about. I know I'm not the only one who has that special shelf in the pantry or freezer dedicated to the adult time-out. Oh Ben and Jerry's Mud Pie, you're like a Hallmark card for the gut. Oh Trader Joes Baked Jalapeno Cheese Crunchies, you wake me up from a sleep deprivation-induced coma and give me zing. Oh dark chocolate covered almonds chased by Pennywise Petite Sirah, you are disco to my soul. So thank you, faithful comfort foods, for playing your part in this past year. I love you.

The Day of Eyelid Woes

Can you guess which one was bitten by a buggie while sleeping and which one had a show down with the weed whacker? Geesh--it's a Bad News Bears day around here.

Shout Out

Who wants to play with Noemi? You do!

Sending a shout out to all folks in the south central Pennsylvania area...or for those of you who want to travel. A group of us Ethiopian adoptive families (find us at PAEthiopianAdopition@yahoogroups.com) will be gathering on Saturday, October 30th from 3-7 at Community Mennonite Church of Lancaster for an afternoon of romping and eating in their multi-purpose room. We will be having a potluck dinner around 5 pm.

If interested, please send me a note as we are looking for RSVPs.

For what it's worth, Donovan and I were part of CMCL's congregation for many moons and were married in this lovely church over 12 years ago.

The address:
328 W. Orange St.
Lancaster, PA 17604
(Parking should be available on street, or directly across the street in church parking lot of the Methodist church)

Noemi, Donovan and I would love to see you there!

Maximizing My Way

I used to consider myself what author Barry Schwartz of "The Paradox of Choice" would call a maximizer. I was the person who would set out to buy the "perfect" sweater (for example) for the ultimate price and spend all winter doing so. I'd end up putting more time and resources into the dang sweater than necessary and, ultimately, not end up any happier with the eventual purchase than if I had simply settled for the so-so sweater found in October. I gleaned a lot from Schwartz's message of simplification of choices, and so I have tried to generalize this knowledge to toy purchases for Noemi.

But our plight to find a babydoll for Noemi? Bloody ridiculous. I wanted a small babydoll who is Black, has a soft body but a plastic face and has eyes that open and close. What I didn't want? The complete commercialization or cheese-factor of most hot-pink and purple packaged girls' toys. No biggie, right? meh.

I set off for local establishments, frustrated to find that in a city comprised of over 80% racial minorities, I could not find one non-White baby doll. Next up: Etsy. Not so much. I found countless adorable rag dollies that I loved, but Noemi already has her lovely ragdoll, Yenet, named after a beloved nanny at her former orphanage. If you want your own Yenet, check out her Etsy site of a+dorable racially diverse dollies.

I considered giving up and just buying one of the spray-tan colored, polyester-clad dolls on the shelf at Toys R Us, but I decided to fight the good fight. And so I continued...

As I kicked my on-line search into high gear I was shocked to discover that many dolls of minority races are significantly higher in price. Go take a look on Amazon.com yourself. Same doll, same manufacturer, different color on that plastic skin=$20 more. Easily. I also found it interesting that most of the Black dolls had lighter skin than me, a direct descendant of the flippin' Mayflower itself. Half of those Anglo dollies looked like they had lost too much blood. Creepy. Sure the Black dolls had brown eyes and hair, but that was about it.

So this is where my post could turn into a discussion in the subtleties of racism meets supply and demand, but I won't go there. I'm sure that sermon has been preached before.

I just wanted a babydoll.

Sure, I found a number of websites that were helpful, but it just didn't seem like the number of tasteful options were out there for anyone seeking a non-Anglo doll. Eventually I found myself on the site of the well-known French company, Corolle. Hadn't thought to look them up at first because, well, um, they're French. But shame on me for making such assumptions, eh? It was here that I found Naima. The perfect little 12-inch, soft bodied, vanilla smelling, eye closing Naima. Not surprising that she was the only brown dollie in the collection, but at least the advertisement photo was of a cutie-pie brown baby. So I ordered her. We had her home in a few days; and though my intention was to hide her away for Noemi's soon-coming 2nd birthday I just couldn't do it. Noemi is in luv with her little Naima.
I am still a maximizer, apparently. But this time I am quite content with my purchase and happy that I did not settle. God speed, tasteful minority doll seekers--it's a rough ride out there for us maximizers.