tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16972800628109107072024-03-13T12:46:57.375-07:00forever and ever and alwaysAlihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.comBlogger119125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-3954808024423130392012-07-24T11:17:00.000-07:002012-07-24T11:18:39.324-07:00Sunrise, sunset...<div style="text-align: center;">
I am feeling especially maudlin lately. I took L back-to-school shopping last week and barely made it through dry-eyed. Isn't it weird when suddenly you can't just zip into Target and pick out clothes simply based on their age and a rough estimate of their weight? For the first time she had to try everything on. Some size 5 things fit, some didn't. Her feet have gone up almost a whole size since the spring and she's grown a full inch taller since Memorial Day. Hard data aside, she just <i>looks</i> different. Her chubby cheeks are gone, replaced by a slimmer, more angular, less "cute" and more "stunningly beautiful" (I say with a complete lack of bias) face. Her body has stretched, revealing long, athletic legs. I've turned all of her jeans into cut-offs because they were all so ridiculously short. </div>
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Thank goodness not everything changes at once. My amazing L still has her same vibrant imagination and highly entertaining personality. She loves robots, and is currently saving her allowance up to purchase a robot who will do all her chores for her (clever girl). She went to Lego camp and was the only girl. She had a blast (building robots, of course). She still has a few words she regularly mispronounces ("callerpitter" is my favorite) and I'm desperately hoping she won't learn the correct pronunciation anytime soon because that will mean she is <i>really</i> growing up on me. She is full-on reading now, but would much rather be creating elaborate scenarios with her animal figures, often involving lots of Kung Fu. She equally thrills and exhausts me with her wit, stubbornness, and capacity for absolute joy. Not a day goes by that she doesn't, at least once, suddenly hug me tight and murmur, "I love you, Mom". It's as though, in that moment, she is so overcome with love she has to drop everything and EXPRESS it. I love that about her. How many of us DON'T say what we're feeling when we feel it and miss out on an opportunity to tell a family member or friend how much we love them? </div>
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Right now L is asleep next to me in my bed. Her face is peaceful and there are tiny shadows of the baby she was (not so long ago, if you ask me). Her arms are splayed out and she's secure and content. I can easily see the tiny 8-month, 12-pound baby that slept in my arms the entire way home from Ethiopia back in 2008. Soon she'll wake up and start chattering about becoming a rock & roll drummer/robotics engineer and my tiny baby girl will be gone until tomorrow's nap time. </div>
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When did she get to be a beauty?</div>
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<br />Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-1087235187161932382012-06-03T11:01:00.002-07:002012-06-03T11:01:39.848-07:00This Modern Mom is NOT ConflictedThis morning while working out I had the misfortune to stumble upon an interview with Elisabeth Badinter in Marie Claire magazine (don't judge me, I was just looking for some light reading). I rarely take part in these so-called "Mommy Wars," but this interview made me angry enough that I feel compelled to add my two cents. Let me start by saying that I am not upset that Ms. Badinter doesn't seem to care for SAHM's. That's cool with me. I'm totally fine with that. What I cannot abide is name calling. I cannot hold my tongue when someone calls me "infantile" for the choices I have made, at the same time insinuating that I have made said choices lightly or without considerable thought. <br />
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The funny thing is that I don't disagree with one of Ms. Badinter's main points: <br />
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"<i>Nature knows only one way to be a mother. This is not the case for women, who are endowed with consciousness, personal histories, desires and differing ambitions. What some do well and with pleasure, others do badly or out of duty. By failing to take account of women's diversity, by imposing a single ideal of motherhood, by pursuing the notion of a perfect mother -- one who has the exclusive responsibility of making or breaking her children -- we fall into a trap. We neglect the other business of modern women: the unfinished assault on the glass ceiling, the fight to close the salary gap, the struggle for equality at home</i>."<br />
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I do think that there are significant pressures out there to be this natural/mother earth kind of mother. That you are somehow failing if you are not an attachment parenting, breast feeding, cloth diapering, baby food making, co-sleeping, home schooling, organic eating, sign languaging, baby wearing mother. One needs only to look at the recent Time Magazine cover to find evidence of this pressure. I mean seriously, could the text on that magazine cover be more incendiary?? <br />
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Call me naive, but I think that despite these pressures, most mothers will ultimately do what is best for them and their families, current parenting trends be dammed. For a feminist, Ms. Badinter seems to have a rather low opinion of her gender. Yes, I have a college degree. I also went on to receive my Masters and Doctorate from one of the best music schools in the country. I made a thoughtful choice, however, to stay home with my kids. I was not, nor am I now, under any illusion that I will have an easy transition back into the workforce if/when I choose to go back to work. Nor did I choose to stay home because of some outside societal pressure. I chose to stay home because it was the best choice for me, my husband , and my children. Being a SAHM makes me happy and fulfilled. In the whole, I am happier doing this than I ever was working outside the home. Do I think this makes me a better mother than my sister, who is a working mother? Not at all. Are there days/moments when I am not 100% thrilled with my job as a SAHM? Hell, yes. I'm pretty sure everyone in the workforce feels that way about their chosen profession from time to time. I definitely have moments (like when I see my student loan balance, for example) when I feel as though I'm missing something by not pursuing my field of study. Yet I never became a SAHM assuming that I wouldn't miss working outside the home. I knew that I was giving up one thing to have another. And that was OK with me. I most certainly did not become a SAHM because I felt pressured or guilted into doing so. Give me and other SAHM's a little credit, Ms. Badinter. <br />
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When I first became a mom, I was very aware of this natural mom ideal and BEFORE I became a mom, I totally bought into it. I was going to cloth diaper, make my own organic baby food, co-sleep and do all the attachment parenting I read about in Dr. Sear's books. Let's face it, if time magazine thinks that biological parents feel pressured to attachment parent, the pressure on adoptive parents is insane. At this point I did what I believe most moms do: I made my own decisions in how to parent. I took what I liked (what worked for me) from attachment parenting and quickly ditched what I didn't like. Co-sleeping was the first to go. Hated it. Mama needs her space. Cloth diapering? Didn't work for me. I have friends who happily cloth diaper. Are they better stewards of our planet than me? Yep. Are they better mothers than me? No, and I don't believe that is why they chose to cloth diaper. I am sure they have well thought-out reasons, financial and environmental probably topping the list. <br />
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My beef with Ms. Badinter's words is this: although I will agree that there are considerable pressures out there to be this all-natural mother earth kind of mama, I absolutely do not agree that we SAHM's make important parenting choices because of said pressures. I do not agree that we are somehow "infantile" or naive because we chose, after finishing our degrees, to stay home with our kids. I can only speak for myself, but I would bet that all of my SAHM friends not only have differing and compelling reasons for staying home, but that we all made the choice with our eyes wide open. We KNOW it will be challenging to re-enter the workforce if and when we decide to do that. We KNOW what we gave up to stay home and not pursue our careers. We all made intelligent, thoughtful decisions taking into account our own, our spouse's, and our children's happiness. <br />
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If that makes me infantile, well...I'm rubber and you're glue. So, there!<br />
<br />Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-20682339294453614622012-05-23T11:37:00.000-07:002012-05-23T11:38:39.027-07:00Blogging for the technophobe<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<em>*Update: Ugh, celebrated too soon. Anyone know why the pictures look so wonky?</em><br />
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I am sitting here utterly amazed that this worked! Much of the reason for my blogging absence has been due to complete and total laziness. I cannot stand the multi-step process I am required to complete in order to publish a post with photos. Connecting camera to laptop, downloading photos to laptop, editing photos, and then finally uploading them to Blogger which takes FOR-FREAKIN-EVER on my tiny and slightly crappy computer. Sad, but true. I don't post because I am way too impatient to go through all of that sh*t which generally eats up an entire naptime and hey, I could have been doing many many many other things than sitting on the couch trying to mentally will my computer to upload pictures faster. Also, for those of you that know me and my family, you are aware that me in close proximity to a slowly moving piece of electronic device is a recipe for having said electronic device thrown.</div>
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So yay for figuring out the Blogger App on my phone!!! Here is my trial run: some pictures of the summer fun we've been having during this weirdly hot spring.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy Boy after getting some Rita's Italian Ice!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2KT2E2mUcFQ/T70pEwDEDrI/AAAAAAAAAtE/c0xkl7Zco3s/s1600/2012-05-15+16.06.37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" qba="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2KT2E2mUcFQ/T70pEwDEDrI/AAAAAAAAAtE/c0xkl7Zco3s/s400/2012-05-15+16.06.37.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My girl, frolicking in the sprinkler. Bathing suit courtesy of Mimi.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We took L to a Clippers game a few weeks ago and it was so hot I bought her this adorable hat. So sporty! I'm always jealous of girls who look cute in baseball hats because I DO NOT EVER look good in baseball hats. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was just so crazy. Look at how tiny my babies are compared to the bears. I knew polar bears were big but sheesh.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My girl is pretty darn picky, but watermelon is one thing she will eat without complaint. And being the thrifty gal that she is, she doesn't waste one drop of juice!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the gesture E uses every time he gets near the sprinkler. I think it looks like he's appealing to it for mercy. Not gonna happen, kid. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A use for our water table that I did not see coming. I finally gave up trying to tell them how gross it was and now just try and keep the water as clean & fresh as possible. </td></tr>
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And, done! I can't believe that entire post, pictures and all only took 30 minutes. I might actually be able to get some recreational reading in this naptime. Blogger App on my phone, so far so good!</div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-74333514957908469702012-05-16T11:07:00.001-07:002012-05-16T11:07:56.098-07:00Not-quite-so-new year resolutions<div align="center">
Obviously, my first resolution will be to blog more frequently. Jeez, I can't believe it's been so long. I think there are times when everyone else's blog seems so darn <em>relevant </em>that I totally freeze up, feeling like each and every blog post has to be poignant, meaningful, controversial, thought-provoking...etc. Not so. I am trying to remind myself that that point of this blog was to keep a diary of sorts about all those things that I want to remember: motherhood, my kids, my house, my marriage, my family. I want to be able to go back and show my son the blog posts I wrote during his adoption. I want him to see how much he was loved, even before we knew him. When my kids have kids and call me complaining about how tired they are, how messy their kids are (hee hee, makes me smile) I can serenely direct them to the many blog posts I wrote about the more, er, frustrating aspects of parenting. </div>
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So, first not-so-new year resolution: blog more. </div>
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Second resolution (very much related to first resolution): TAKE MORE PICTURES. I've seriously slacked on this one, y'all. I can't even really blame it on my phone, as there are <em>some </em>pictures on there, but not so many that it makes up for the complete and total lack of pictures on my camera. Oh, this leads to a sub-resolution to Resolution #2: learn how to use my camera. It's a pretty nice one, but what I don't know about my camera could fill a rather large "how to use this camera" manual. And finally sub-resolution 2 to Resolution #2: once pictures are taken, get them onto blogger so I can achieve Resolution #1. </div>
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Third resolution: SIMPLICITY IN ALL THINGS. I feel the need to simplify. To get rid of the amazing amount of (pardon my french) shit that has taken over our house and lives. I was going to take a picture of our basement to show you just how bad it is, but alas, I have no idea where my camera is at the moment (probably part of the problem re: second resolution). Seriously, the basement is bad, folks. When the cable guy had to go down there I wanted to crawl into a hole and die, such was my shame. My plan? I'm going to order and dumpster and throw out all that cannot be sold/donated/repurposed/saved & organized. Hopefully this will allow work towards another sub-resolution: start work towards turning the <strike>disaster area</strike> basement into a functioning room for the kids. I will also be going through the house and doing some serious thinning out of the kids' toys. I feel like we do a fairly decent job of rotating toys, keeping the bulk of what we have stored away. Yet I can't get past this basic fact: WE HAVE TOO MANY TOYS. Too many stuffed animals, too many plastic animals, too many random things for which I cannot find a place and so they get stuffed here and there, taking up precious room in my house and slowly killing my spirit.</div>
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Fourth Resolution: take advantage of the resources in my neighborhood. I am blessed to have amazing parks in my area, not to mention a kick-ass community pool. We have a nationally ranked zoo and waterpark, a minor league baseball team where you can spend an afternoon seriously on the cheap, bike trails, camping sites, splash parks, and my beloved Community Center. I challenge myself to take advantage of these things, most of which are free or crazy-cheap. I also want to do new things this summer: visit The Wilds (I hear it's amazing), hit the different farmer's markets around c-bus, take the kids to an outdoor concert, take the family to our neighborhood's fourth friday event each month (I'm ashamed to say we've never done this)...and, um, do more research so I can add more to this list. </div>
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Fifth Resolution: make time for friends. I've been bad about this. I have some pretty amazing friends in my town and I don't see them nearly as often as I'd like. I want more playdates! More girl's nights! I will not choose working out over a park playdates with my friends (totally embarrassed that I've done this...I'm kinda psycho about my runs). If I take pictures of said playdates and girl's nights, there's another check in the Resolution #2 box!<br />
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So, there ya have it. Out there for all to see so that I can be held accountable. There are so many other resolutions I want to add, but I'm going to stick with these top five and see how things go. Wish me luck!</div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-7785466096299042202012-02-16T17:53:00.000-08:002012-02-16T17:53:09.659-08:00Cabin Fever<div align="center">My goodness, do I have a horrid case of cabin fever. Two sick kids mean no going to the Community Center, play cafe, local science center, or even school. I even hesitate to take E to the grocery store, his nose is leaking mucus so profusely I can only imagine the looks of disgust I would get. It's a frustrating age when they are too big to use the suction thingy on their nose, but too young to fully understand how to blow one's nose. At any given moment E has two giant RIVERS of snot coming out of his nose...generally funneling into his mouth. Ick. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Being stuck in the house for days at a time has its benefits: all of the laundry is done, kitchen is spotless, toys organized and put away (for the moment), meals prepared, floors vacuumed, and beds made. But there are definitely a few downsides to this house arrest of sorts. Oh! Dear friends, how I wish I were one of those moms who dream up crafty and fun things to do, don't freak out over the messes created by said crafts, and manage to keep their sanity intact and children happy without turning on the TV. I will shamefully admit that A LOT of TV has been watched these past few days. I can honestly say that PBS Kids is probably the only reason why I'm not currently wandering the streets in my robe, walking an invisible dog, and muttering to myself all while clinging desperately to a very large glass of red wine. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">While my oldest is (and always has been) amazing at entertaining herself, my youngest is clearly working through something as his clinginess has recently launched into overdrive. I remember worrying about L for a good year after bringing her home. I so desperately wanted her to need me more than she did. Sure, she sought me out when amongst strangers, she came to me when hurt or scared, but she rarely needed me to be physically present with her at all times. She started imaginary play pretty early, which meant that I could get stuff done while she happily played solo. This is NOT the case with E. To say he is a "high-need" child is a massive understatement. His neediness has never gone away, but tends to increase and decrease in waves. Right now we are slogging through an intense increase. In addition to wanting to be held constantly (did I mention that he's HUGE??), he will now only eat if sitting on my lap. If I try to sit <em>near</em> him, he simply picks up his plate, plops it down next to mine and attempts to climb up onto my lap. He seems to crave physical contact with me. He only allows me to change his diaper and put him down for naps and bedtime. If he's standing near me at a moment when I simply can't pick him up, he puts his hand under the bottom of my shirt just to touch my skin. When I'm holding him, his hand is down my shirt. In the car ride to my parents' house last weekend, he became hysterical if I didn't reach back and have one hand on his knee. He just wants to be touched. By me. ALL THE FRIGGIN' TIME. What makes me feel like a shit is that I'm starting to resent it. I love him so much it boggles the mind but oh-my-God-just-give-me-some-personal-space-before-I-loose-my-mind (not to mention my sense of being an individual.) This afternoon after hubs got home I managed to slip upstairs for some alone time. After about 3 minutes E discovered I wasn't with him and spent the next 10 minutes SCREAMING at the bottom of the stairs (I caved and went back down. Turns out alone time isn't so relaxing when accompanied by someone hysterically screaming, "Mama!". No movies, games, treats, toys or candy would calm him down. Only me. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">While I feel secure in his attachment, I still hesitate to push E away during these high-cling phases. I know many think (and some have told me) that I'm just being too lenient, that E is manipulating me, that I need to put my foot down and just say no. But then I think about how he's <em>only</em> been home for 20 months. Not so long when you consider that he spent the first 9 months of his life with no one to hold him when he needed to be held. No one to comfort him and give him the physical contact he so clearly craves. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">I know that tomorrow will be better. Hopefully, E will be healthy enough so I can head back to the gym (which always does wonders for my mood). Hopefully, E will either be a little less demanding, or I will respond to his demands with a little more grace. Hopefully, I won't have to turn the TV on quite as much tomorrow (but if I do, I'll try not to make myself feel like a failure). </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">And tomorrow is Friday! And my birthday is next week! And I start a teaching gig soon! All good things. Ok, maybe getting older isn't so great, but at least I get some cake and presents out of it. I do love cake. </div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-23850416482225464432011-12-29T13:39:00.000-08:002011-12-29T13:39:02.936-08:00Lila Day!<div align="center">My sweet L, this post is for you in honor of Lila Day. On this day (December 29th) in 2007 we met you for the very first time. You were almost exactly 8 months old and just barely 12 pounds. You were tiny and gorgeous and alert and happy and did I mention TINY? </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--gDnIwEU9NA/TvzTpzZESmI/AAAAAAAAAq4/ow6vQIurUX0/s1600/Ali+%2526+Lila+122907_06.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--gDnIwEU9NA/TvzTpzZESmI/AAAAAAAAAq4/ow6vQIurUX0/s400/Ali+%2526+Lila+122907_06.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This was the exact moment we met. You were the size of a large newborn but had the alert eyes of a much older baby. We could tell right away that you noticed EVERYTHING (this, by the way, has not changed). You smiled almost the whole time and were fascinated with my necklace & glasses. I just remember being so stunned that this tiny little gorgeous amazing baby was mine. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tKw_B5HKci0/TvzUmQY2jXI/AAAAAAAAAsY/6IgV2xYTKUk/s1600/Kevin+%2526+Lila+122907_5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tKw_B5HKci0/TvzUmQY2jXI/AAAAAAAAAsY/6IgV2xYTKUk/s400/Kevin+%2526+Lila+122907_5.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">You, of course, became an instant Daddy's girl. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6W7CUVccXuY/TvzTgiCc5fI/AAAAAAAAAqw/SkHbO5JTlFI/s1600/A+Kiss+on+the+Forehead+123107_01.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6W7CUVccXuY/TvzTgiCc5fI/AAAAAAAAAqw/SkHbO5JTlFI/s400/A+Kiss+on+the+Forehead+123107_01.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This was taken on New Year's Eve, 2007. You can see how adorably crazy your hair was - long on the very top and at the nape of your neck with almost no hair at all around the sides and back of your head. What was most impressive was when the nannies would gather that top part into a very very small cornrow. Those are some serious braiding skills right there. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We soon realized at least part of the reason why you were so very tiny: you spit up almost all that we attempted to put in you. I remember each and every time I gave you a bottle you would gobble up all 7oz and then throw it all back up soon after. I remember crying and being overwhelmed with the helplessness any mother feels when they cannot nourish their child.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Finally home in Chicago, you didn't waste any time catching up. When we first came home you were not even able to sit up on your own. Within 2 months you were sitting up and crawling, and you took your first steps just 2 days after your first birthday. Some pictures from the early days...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vlwZPBj0n5o/TvzTwkX3F8I/AAAAAAAAArA/Pbpbv6_wv3E/s1600/IMG_0501.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vlwZPBj0n5o/TvzTwkX3F8I/AAAAAAAAArA/Pbpbv6_wv3E/s400/IMG_0501.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mAVb3isJl7Q/TvzT3-qfS6I/AAAAAAAAArI/tLKGwl-E-F8/s1600/IMG_0506.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mAVb3isJl7Q/TvzT3-qfS6I/AAAAAAAAArI/tLKGwl-E-F8/s400/IMG_0506.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ljn5xxCvx5I/TvzT-WJGFaI/AAAAAAAAArQ/--EdKuhK1us/s1600/IMG_0523.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ljn5xxCvx5I/TvzT-WJGFaI/AAAAAAAAArQ/--EdKuhK1us/s400/IMG_0523.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FC3sj9SqT8w/TvzUEVQsRbI/AAAAAAAAArY/kDIxw53a2ik/s1600/IMG_0551.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" rea="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FC3sj9SqT8w/TvzUEVQsRbI/AAAAAAAAArY/kDIxw53a2ik/s400/IMG_0551.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">All dolled up to meet your Great Grandpa! Oh, and your Daddy picked out that outfit. So girly! This is so funny to me, knowing you now as the-girl-who-will-only-wear-Superman-shirts-and-jeans.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_4e1WEOZCHw/TvzULbXn7OI/AAAAAAAAArg/Zjc7i1mmvqg/s1600/IMG_0650.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_4e1WEOZCHw/TvzULbXn7OI/AAAAAAAAArg/Zjc7i1mmvqg/s400/IMG_0650.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This has always been one of my most favorite photos of you. There was a stretch of time where you would make this face every time you saw a camera. This expression is 100% you.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We all learned that you may be small but your personality was (and still is) HUGE. There is a Shakespeare quote that has always reminded me of you: "Though she be but little, she is fierce." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">You knew your ABC's at 18 months and by the age of 2 you knew the names of every dinosaur imaginable. I remember you stomping around the house singing, "T-Rex (ROAR)! I'm a Tyrannosaurus. I'm the biggest carnivore in the Cretaceous forest." I wonder how many little girls have a dinosaur-themed party for their 3rd birthday. You continually astonish people (and me) with your vocabulary. Right now you like to incorporate "ominous" as much as possible into everyday conversation. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vcp_TwCy6gM/TvzUOoPDF_I/AAAAAAAAAro/KsczGKrYagI/s1600/IMG_4855.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vcp_TwCy6gM/TvzUOoPDF_I/AAAAAAAAAro/KsczGKrYagI/s400/IMG_4855.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aPiDqVbeluo/TvzUSpXBfQI/AAAAAAAAArw/6kANuUEn4oU/s1600/IMG_4966.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aPiDqVbeluo/TvzUSpXBfQI/AAAAAAAAArw/6kANuUEn4oU/s400/IMG_4966.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KgS3bcq6xSg/TvzUZuI2DxI/AAAAAAAAAsA/-6kTvx1D_0w/s1600/IMG_5161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KgS3bcq6xSg/TvzUZuI2DxI/AAAAAAAAAsA/-6kTvx1D_0w/s400/IMG_5161.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Your current preschool teacher put it best: "L sure knows how to hang with the boys." You are a tomboy, through and through. I bought you this cheap Superman t-shirt last summer and it is pretty much all you will wear. That and a silk outfit from China. Our family certainly doesn't blend into the crowd, but you make sure that we are <em>noticed </em>(in the best possible sense). Today we went to Build-a-Bear and you requested an orange cat (named Max) and picked out a Spiderman outfit for him. I love that about you. You like what you like and are not the least bit interested in the princess stuff. You think superheros are COOL. You want to learn Kung Fu. You want to be a drummer in a rock band. You want to play for the Pittsburgh Steelers (sorry, Uncle John). You are stubborn and opinionated and <em>very </em>sure of yourself. Always. While that can make for some rather frustrating parenting, it is truly what I love most about you. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1pMv95amwnY/TvzUdHEG-tI/AAAAAAAAAsI/pEyMacKEySI/s1600/IMG_5163.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1pMv95amwnY/TvzUdHEG-tI/AAAAAAAAAsI/pEyMacKEySI/s400/IMG_5163.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">You jumping for joy on your first day of school. Also most likely the last time I ever got you into a dress. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q970c0gl6s4/TvzUgCCHU3I/AAAAAAAAAsQ/s3BTpLrsb_w/s1600/IMG_6247.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q970c0gl6s4/TvzUgCCHU3I/AAAAAAAAAsQ/s3BTpLrsb_w/s400/IMG_6247.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Your very first race, the Flying Pig!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F9FVMuRUG1s/TSNswysYyKI/AAAAAAAAAlg/I6QQumxHtwQ/s1600/Lila+and+Elijah+Jan+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F9FVMuRUG1s/TSNswysYyKI/AAAAAAAAAlg/I6QQumxHtwQ/s400/Lila+and+Elijah+Jan+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">You love your brother. Sure, we have skirmishes here and there, but I often catch you giving E kisses and hugs while murmuring, "E, I love you so much." </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xYDwqRANCkY/Td_pxXYaPKI/AAAAAAAAAms/lDEEd1lo4y8/s1600/IMG_6503.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xYDwqRANCkY/Td_pxXYaPKI/AAAAAAAAAms/lDEEd1lo4y8/s400/IMG_6503.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My amazing girl. You are smart, beautiful, hilarious, and PRECOCIOUS. I love you more than I ever thought possible. I am positive that if any girl could hold their own with the Pittsburgh Steelers, it would be you. Happy Lila Day.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-58282172649204590362011-12-22T19:53:00.000-08:002011-12-22T19:53:33.455-08:00Rain, rain, GO AWAY<div align="center">Seriously, it seems as though it has been raining every day since the beginning of time. Perhaps that is a wee bit on the dramatic side (who, me?), but sheesh. For those of you out there who have to care for curly heads, this is NOT ideal weather. Several weeks ago the news reported that we were well on track to have the wettest year in recorded history. No wonder I feel as though I've been in a perpetual rotten mood. I need me some sunshine! Thank goodness for non-stop Christmas music, holiday lights, and Christmas nougats...it's keeping the holiday glow going. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">There is a reason I haven't been blogging so much lately: happily overwhelmed. Last year E was just shy of 18 months, and so while I'm sure he enjoyed the holidays, they had little meaning. Not so this year! I don't think he totally gets the Santa bit, but he loves the lights and we all say "hello, giant Santa" as we drive past this house that has a HUGE inflated Santa in their yard. Not to be critical, but what <em>is</em> it with gigantic, inflatable yard decor? I don't get it. Although, I do love our neighbors whose lawn sports a rather large inflatable Grinch riding on his sleigh complete with sack of presents and Max the dog. But both kiddos are soaking up all of the holiday cheer I can give them, usually leaving me fairly exhausted at the end of the day.</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">L is practically out of her mind excited. The Santa-threat is as useful as ever this year. She still firmly believes that we have the big guy on speed dial and when we threaten to call him yells, "Oh pleeeeeeeeaze don't call Santa, Mommy! He doesn't need to know what I did!" </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">I'm feeling thankful, at the moment. I didn't do the 30 days bit last month, but here is a short list of what is making me thankful this holiday season:</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">1. A new recipe for peppermint meringues (thank you, Paige)</div><div align="center">2. Having so much of my family close by. I love that they come over and there is no need to knock or ring the bell. They just come on in...that's how I like it. </div><div align="center">3. Every day when L and I snuggle in bed for our rest time, she with the iPad and me with a book, she takes frequent breaks to lean over and shower me with kisses and "I love you's." </div><div align="center">4. My little E still thinks I'm the bee's knees. Even though he is now over 30 pounds, I love that he still wants to be held much of the time. And my biceps look fabulous.</div><div align="center">5. My new Miele vacuum cleaner. Lordy, it is wrong how much I love that thing. </div><div align="center">6. The Tribe (no, not the baseball team). My refrigerator is covered with holiday cards with some of the most gorgeous children on the planet. </div><div align="center">7. My babies. Even at the end of a very stressful day of errand running where E seemed to think it his duty to throw a tantrum in EVERY FREAKING STORE, I still thank my lucky stars every day (hour, minute, and second) for these two little people. They are sound asleep right now and I can't wait to wake up and make pancakes with them in the morning. </div><div align="center">8. The Trans-Siberian Orchestra. No, I don't care for the music AT ALL. But my kids love it and every time it comes on the radio we have an instant dance party. </div><div align="center">9. Brach's Christmas nougat. I have eaten waaaay too much this week.</div><div align="center">10. Hubby, kids, and faithful pooch are upstairs snoozing away while I type and wait for my peppermint meringues to finish baking. I love this time to myself all the while knowing that my family is tucked in bed happy, safe & sound. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Happy Holidays.</div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-52675447900856771442011-12-05T10:50:00.000-08:002011-12-05T10:50:11.405-08:00Ethiopia Part I<div style="text-align: center;">Unlike my two previous trips to Ethiopia, on this journey I had no expectations. No preconceived notions on how I would react, what would happen, or how I'd feel when I returned home. Mainly because this time I didn't have the convenience of baby-blinders. I couldn't bury my head in the demands and responsibilities of sudden parenthood. I could look around and finally get to know the country that gave me the two most precious gifts I will ever receive. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">It may sound odd, but I was much more emotional on this trip. When things get heavy, I tend to clam up. No tears for this girl on her wedding day or even meeting L and E...who has time to cry when there is some overwhelming <em>shit</em> to do! But this time I sniffled with barely suppressed tears as we landed in Addis and especially during the drive to our guest house. It looked and smelled just as I'd remembered. It's still amazing to me that there is a place in Africa that is now <em>familiar </em>to me. Yet I felt this bizarre combination of familiarity coupled with seeing things for the first time. Without a baby to monopolize my attention, I could really see the traffic, the overwhelming amount of people (and children) everywhere, the goats in the road, the people sleeping on the sidewalks, the packs of dogs roaming about, and the streets FILLED with people sporting every different type of Ethiopian dress you can imagine: modern clothing, Orthodox Christian robes, and Muslim scarves. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">On our first full day we drove south to Busa to see the water project to which EOR had contributed. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tMEDY5lWO5U/Tt0Mcp17ogI/AAAAAAAAAps/QFP1eKO1rh4/s1600/IMG_7367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dda="true" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tMEDY5lWO5U/Tt0Mcp17ogI/AAAAAAAAAps/QFP1eKO1rh4/s400/IMG_7367.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Everything impressed me. Community involvement was mandatory thus making this a highly sustainable project. A committee of community members was established not only to maintain the infrastructure (reservoirs and pipelines and such) but also to educate the surrounding communities on matters of hygiene, sanitation and the benefits of clean water. </div> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2G_6p9nqvRM/Tt0M8nWzGGI/AAAAAAAAAp8/6OekL6hHlJM/s1600/IMG_7392.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dda="true" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2G_6p9nqvRM/Tt0M8nWzGGI/AAAAAAAAAp8/6OekL6hHlJM/s400/IMG_7392.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This is the reservoir that has brought clean water to over 4,000 people, and is projected to reach over 9,000 by the project's end. Amazing. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7HGsQBk0-lw/Tt0NF7f9FvI/AAAAAAAAAqE/C0EQ16BR6vE/s1600/IMG_7410.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dda="true" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7HGsQBk0-lw/Tt0NF7f9FvI/AAAAAAAAAqE/C0EQ16BR6vE/s400/IMG_7410.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Clean water. I will NEVER take it for granted again. Ever. Think of how having clean water to drink/bathe in/wash and cook with will make an impact on adorable girls like this one?</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-X33AB8P0n3w/Tt0NP4uS3jI/AAAAAAAAAqM/xRh6NvcsPYQ/s1600/IMG_7388.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dda="true" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-X33AB8P0n3w/Tt0NP4uS3jI/AAAAAAAAAqM/xRh6NvcsPYQ/s400/IMG_7388.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Below is the well the community was using before the reservoir and pipeline was built. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sjwG9OYubYs/Tt0NhQa7pGI/AAAAAAAAAqU/da8PdMEnoWA/s1600/IMG_7414.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dda="true" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sjwG9OYubYs/Tt0NhQa7pGI/AAAAAAAAAqU/da8PdMEnoWA/s400/IMG_7414.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">When we arrived at the reservoir I was overwhelmed to see the committee of community members there to greet us. These are the men and women that dug the ditches to put down the pipes, built the reservoir, and received the training that will keep the clean water flowing for years to come. They expressed their thanks to EOR for helping to fund the project but also were simply proud to show what they had done for their own community. There was a true sense of ownership and I thought again how wonderful it is to be a part of something that is more than just a band aid or handout...a program that will make lives better and <em>continue to do so</em> even after the project has officially ended. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sEmLjtcVj7U/Tt0NvdSVAxI/AAAAAAAAAqc/eHbG4WNVa-o/s1600/IMG_7397.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dda="true" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sEmLjtcVj7U/Tt0NvdSVAxI/AAAAAAAAAqc/eHbG4WNVa-o/s640/IMG_7397.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My heart is happy knowing that this serious little guy will have clean water to drink because of the wonderful work of EOR and its donors. How wonderful also knowing that he can see how the men and women in his community did the work and made it happen. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XCnOihp897s/Tt0N5zayz0I/AAAAAAAAAqk/KE06sUwv5is/s1600/IMG_7408.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dda="true" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XCnOihp897s/Tt0N5zayz0I/AAAAAAAAAqk/KE06sUwv5is/s400/IMG_7408.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-61664266745356157062011-11-22T09:35:00.000-08:002011-11-22T09:35:49.407-08:00One post, lots of thankful<div style="text-align: center;">Back from Ethiopia! The trip was everything I expected and so much more. "Life-changing" seems a tad cliche and inadequate, but it's all my jet-lagged brain can come up with at the moment. My first two trips to Ethiopia had such a specific purpose: to meet and take home a baby. I did see a lot of of the country during those two visits, but I was so focused on being a mother to a tiny little stranger there was much I didn't see, didn't feel, didn't dwell on...too preoccupied was I with loving on my precious babies. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">This trip gave me the opportunity to really get to know the country that gave me my children. Longer posts detailing the trip will come shortly, but today I wanted to write a post of thanks. I come away from this trip with an even keener awareness of all the blessings I have in my life and the fact that there are many who struggle for that which many of us easily take for granted. Here goes...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">1. I am thankful for the health of my family. </div><div style="text-align: left;">2. I am thankful that if illness should occur, we have access to incredible health care and medicine. </div><div style="text-align: left;">3. I am thankful for clean water. </div><div style="text-align: left;">4. I am thankful for easy access to water. My children and I do not have to walk for miles at a time to fetch dirty water for drinking, cleaning, washing & bathing.</div><div style="text-align: left;">5. I am thankful to be able to clothe my children and wash their clothes in clean water.</div><div style="text-align: left;">6. I am thankful for the education I received and the education my children will be able to receive. And that we do not have to choose between eating and education.</div><div style="text-align: left;">7. I am thankful we are able to provide clean and healthy food for our family. </div><div style="text-align: left;">8. I am thankful my children will never have to know true hunger or what it is like to have to sell your body or all of your possessions to avoid starvation. </div><div style="text-align: left;">9. I am thankful for our house with its clean water, indoor plumbing, kitchen full of food, closets full of clothes and car in the garage. </div><div style="text-align: left;">10. I am thankful for my time in Ethiopia, for seeing what I have seen and knowing what I now know I am forever thankful and determined to give of my heart, time and resources to help the orphans, vulnerable children and families in Ethiopia.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-awY_Wsa1oVg/TsvcQLhJC6I/AAAAAAAAApk/R5jEtI-y3Vs/s1600/IMG_7364.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-awY_Wsa1oVg/TsvcQLhJC6I/AAAAAAAAApk/R5jEtI-y3Vs/s640/IMG_7364.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">Happy Thanksgiving! </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Oh, and if you want more information on the work I did with Ethiopian Orphan Relief in Ethiopia and to donate or find ways you can help with specific partners and projects, go <a href="http://ethiopianorphanrelief.org/">here</a> and get inspired!</div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-86013048109414913812011-11-07T21:07:00.000-08:002011-11-07T21:07:09.629-08:00Back to Ethopia<div align="center">I am off to work in Ethiopia with Ethiopian Orphan Relief in less than 48 hours! I am nervous, excited, scared, thrilled, and sad all at once. My daughter has been telling me many times a day how much she loves me and how very much she is going to miss me. My son, while not as verbal as his sister, shows me in other ways that this separation will be tough. So why am I going on this trip? Why leave my children for 10 days and create such an upheaval? Why take on the expense of this trip at a time when the finances always seem to be a bit tight? For as many times as I've been asked these questions by family and friends, I've asked myself many times over. Here is my response. I've thought quite a bit about this post and I'm afraid I'll have to apologize in advance: this will definitely not be my most eloquent or well-written post, but it will be 100% unedited and from the heart. This topic is simply too important to me to edit. So please bear with me...</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">I choose to go back to Ethiopia for my children. I am going to give back to the country that gave me my beautiful babies. I imagine a time years from now when my kids will ask me about Le Toukoul (the orphanage where we met) and all of the children that call it home. I want L and E to know that I have not forgotten all of the babies and toddlers and older kids that will remain. I want L and E to know that I gave as much of my time and resources as I could to make sure those children had food, clothes, shoes, books, toys, bathrooms and buildings where they could sleep, play and be educated. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">My kids are now so thoroughly Americanized, it is easy to forget their tragic beginnings. It is convenient and safe to pretend that their lives began the day we took them away from Ethiopia and everything familiar. I refuse to do that. Some may argue that my kids are "better off" in our family. After all, we have a nice house, cars, pets, and income to buy clothes and the latest silly toy. Here is my question: do any of those things negate the fact that my daughter and son had to experience horrific loss and trauma to be where they are today? And what about the birth families? Did they deserve the loss and heartbreak that directly lead to the formation of my family? Of course not. For that reason, I go back to Ethiopia. So that I may have the blessings of two amazing children, people in Ethiopia suffered. I am going to give back to the country that gave me so very much. I absolutely cannot imagine my life without my children, but I still grieve for the circumstances that led them to our family. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">I've been to Ethiopia twice now and each time was overwhelmed by the pride Ethiopians have in their country and culture. Many of the employees at our local airport are Ethiopian and you should see their faces simply light up when my husband and I attempt a weak "ahmesugenalew." They love their country and are eager and thrilled to share it with us and our children. They appreciate the fact that we want our kids to know and be proud of where they were born. Bringing both of my kids home was bittersweet. The elation and happiness of new motherhood was always tempered with guilt and sadness at the fact that I was taking these children away from a country of people that loved them but had no choice but to let me take them away. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">I love Ethiopia. Not only because it gave me the two greatest blessings of my life, but also because it is a place that has touched my heart and soul. I am forever changed after traveling there. I am going to Ethiopia because I am forever in debt to the country that allowed me the privilege to be L and E's mommy. I am going because I love my children so much it practically breaks my heart. I am going because I love who they are and where they come from and for me, those two things could never be mutually exclusive. </div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-56428058148861897142011-09-27T19:14:00.000-07:002011-09-27T19:14:51.130-07:00Lost for words<div align="center"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I zipped over to my blog today to check on the blogs that I regularly follow and happened to catch a quick glance at the date of my last post. Lordy, it's been a while, hasn't it? I can't say that life has been particularly <em>uneventful </em>around here (staying home with two small children pretty much takes the word "uneventful" right out of your vocabulary), but there hasn't been a topic or event that has compelled me to share. I shamefully admit that laziness has something to do with it. Our laptop is definitely moving into "old timer" age and so loading and editing photos is most often a tedious and irritating chore. The free time I have before the kids awake and after they are asleep is precious to me, and I often find myself torn: do I blog? Watch Glee? Check out another episode of Mad Men on Netflix? Read? Clean the house? Catch up on email? Sadly, blogging rarely wins. </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">So, a brief update and a promise to finally download a bunch of pictures and post again soon. Meaning, less than 6 weeks from now. </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I was thrilled and honored (and more than a little freaked out) to sing at my brother's wedding earlier this month. It wasn't new rep, but it was the first time I'd performed in almost 4 years. I still can't believe it's been that long. Wow. I gave a recital in Chicago just 3 weeks after coming home with Lila in February of '08. Since then I've done lots of singing, but a lot more "Wheels on the Bus" and much less Schoenberg & Strauss. I will admit that I do miss it. I miss those years at Eastman where I could spend my time basking in the absolute loveliness that is German Lieder. Years where all I did was study and make music, where I could meet with my accompanist multiple times a week to sing through rep that I chose and loved, where I could witness the insane talent of the students and faculty around me. I definitely did not find balance in music and motherhood. I lost the musician part of me while I tried to become the best mom to my kids. But I think the balance is coming, thanks mostly to some very good friends who dragged me back into teaching (and thus, singing) despite my fear that perhaps the phrase "if you don't use it, you lose it" might actually be true. </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">But back to the wedding. Although practicing was tricky (as my son screams as though he is being tortured with hot fire pokers), everything went pretty darn well. I'm certainly not in the kind of singing shape I once maintained, but at least I know my voice is still in there. AND I landed a wee singing gig from the whole blessed event! Christmas Eve service, here I come. I'll mainly be serving as soprano section leader for the choir, but I also get to perform "Rejoice Greatly," one of my most favorite things to sing (next to melodramatic German art song, that is). How I will manage to practice for this, I'm not entirely sure. I think it's funny that back in grad school, I was so darn picky about practicing. I would only do it in my teacher's studio (I hated the practice rooms...the sound was so shitty and generally made one oversing) and I generally preferred to practice around 10am if at all possible. Afternoons were OK and I avoided evenings all together (the voce was tired, you see). Today? I'd just like to get 15 seconds of singing done anytime, anywhere without a very cute little Ethiopian screaming his head off and hanging on my leg begging to be held. I'll take morning, afternoon, evening, practice room, bathroom, kitchen...you name it, I'll sing there if my son would just please. stop. screaming. Until that happens, I see a couple of stolen practice sessions at my brother's house with a pitch pipe. </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">L started another year of preschool with very little fanfare. That kind of stuff just doesn't freak her out. She is truly a social being, happiest when she can share her energy with as many as possible. The biggest change is that she is now in the morning session, which means I have had to get my sh*t together three mornings each week. Her hair already takes some thought and planning, but this takes it to a whole new level. The best part, though, is that I now have almost 3 hours alone with E. When L was in the afternoon session, E was napping pretty much the entire time, so this is really the first time that I've had the opportunity to spend some serious QT with the boy. I've loving it...I hope he is as well. </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Less than 3 weeks until the marathon and all is not well. On September 10th I finished my very first 20-mile run. It went well and I felt great during the run. After? Not so much. Silly IT band, get on board! After seeing a sports med doc and PT, I'm still a go for the race on October 16th. I am terrified but determined. I am going to trust in my doc and PT who both assure me that I've done my training and even though I've not run much at all in the past two weeks and won't be able to run much leading up to the race, the 12 weeks of training I did put in will matter. It's weird to say, but I kind of feel lost not being able to run. I am certainly not one of those people who run because they <em>love </em>to run. But doing this training made me feel so strong, accomplished, proud, athletic...words I had never before used to describe myself. I really hope that I can get past this injury and not only run the marathon, but keep running in general. Fingers crossed. </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Update complete! Pictures coming. Promise.</span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-40910017675398868562011-08-12T04:01:00.000-07:002011-08-12T04:01:18.475-07:00Pictures that make me happy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XhuinOF-bEQ/TkUExjn_AxI/AAAAAAAAApM/lNTzZnNAum0/s1600/IMG_7033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" naa="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XhuinOF-bEQ/TkUExjn_AxI/AAAAAAAAApM/lNTzZnNAum0/s640/IMG_7033.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My two superheros. They both wear these t-shirts pretty much all the time. I find myself doing laundry simply to keep these shirts in circulation. They are playing together more and more these days...when I catch them both giggling and squealing with laughter my heart simply swells to bursting.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vsBpkHqPEYQ/TkUE6OOyi0I/AAAAAAAAApQ/HnTS7W4jM-I/s1600/IMG_7103.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" naa="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vsBpkHqPEYQ/TkUE6OOyi0I/AAAAAAAAApQ/HnTS7W4jM-I/s640/IMG_7103.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I found the above shirt waaaaay on sale at Nordstrom. It suits my boy perfectly. The front has Sesame Street characters in superhero outfits and says, "Keeping the Street Safe." But the back of the shirt is what sold me...</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mvk0N72dyb8/TkUFFzexOSI/AAAAAAAAApU/vYTV-Y5XxCc/s1600/IMG_7099.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" naa="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mvk0N72dyb8/TkUFFzexOSI/AAAAAAAAApU/vYTV-Y5XxCc/s640/IMG_7099.jpg" width="466" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">A detatchable cape! What the what! We are ALL about capes in this house. Elijah squeals with pure joy whenever I pull this shirt out of the closet.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vK823k0tcGU/TkUFQqHnEzI/AAAAAAAAApY/LtuA4YMOJrg/s1600/IMG_7061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" naa="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vK823k0tcGU/TkUFQqHnEzI/AAAAAAAAApY/LtuA4YMOJrg/s640/IMG_7061.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My boys.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WQpSPZqKx9c/TkUFsCuXhpI/AAAAAAAAApc/XVo4XeNgFQs/s1600/IMG_7041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="502" naa="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WQpSPZqKx9c/TkUFsCuXhpI/AAAAAAAAApc/XVo4XeNgFQs/s640/IMG_7041.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Court! </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C39gq_rAPiI/TkUF0-aM6NI/AAAAAAAAApg/jvABUwKEGkM/s1600/IMG_2232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="520" naa="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C39gq_rAPiI/TkUF0-aM6NI/AAAAAAAAApg/jvABUwKEGkM/s640/IMG_2232.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This morning felt like Fall. The windows were open all night and I woke up to a slightly chilly house and the promise of my favorite season on the horizon. I am reminded of moments like the picture above...enjoying the pumpkin patch with my two-and-a-half baby girl. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">These pictures make me start my day with a big smile on my face and an acute awareness of how incredibly lucky I am.</div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-78945826304988977702011-08-04T11:45:00.000-07:002011-08-05T09:54:29.344-07:00Hovering around: a helicopter mom dilemma<div align="center">Every once and a while one of the parenting magazines has an article on "the helicopter parent." Of course, what they <em>really </em>mean most of the time is the helicopter <em>mommy.</em> When I read those articles a part of me says, "well, I'm not like <em>that,</em> am I? No, I'm certainly not that bad." And then another wee voice in my head says, "Um, maybe I'm like that just a leetle bit?" I do my best, I really do. I work hard not to project all of my social insecurities (and there are many) onto my gregarious little L who is naturally outgoing and bold. So let me tell you why this morning was so damn hard for this recovered-helicopter-mommy:</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">This morning I had a serious mommy-fail. Some friends of mine and their tots meet at different playgrounds every Thursday morning. Today I went to the wrong one. Totally wrong and waaaaay to far away from the correct playground to make it there in time to get any playing done before the lunch/nap portion of our day. So, I decided that we'd just stay where we were and enjoy ourselves. Thankfully, this particular park has a small fenced-off area with toddler-sized equipment AND as we were getting ourselves settled two other moms both with kiddos ages 2 & 4 arrived. It seemed too good to be true: fenced in, age-appropriate playmates, shade, benches...I was in heaven. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">It started out well. The other two 4-year-olds were both boys, but L generally gets along better with boys anyway. They both commented on how cool her Superman shirt and cape were, she agreed that yes, they were indeed cool, and then they were off having a great time. E was relatively sedate, sucking down his diluted apple juice and enjoying the fact that I was actually letting him climb up the toddler slide (another mommy-fail, as he slipped and fell...my bad). Me? I sat there thinking how this hasn't turned out so badly after all! Sure, I really <strike>needed</strike> wanted to see my friends and their beautiful babies, but at least we were having a great morning enjoying the weather and getting some quality playground time. Then I heard it: "<em>Naa naa naa naa naa, you're a rotten eeeegggg!" </em>Sure, the content was relatively harmless, but I quickly realized it was 100% directed at my girl. Both of the older boys were running around a bewildered looking L, pointing at her and saying the above phrase in that annoying, sing-songy way that makes my hair curl and my fists clench. Poor L looked confused and on the verge of angry (she was starting to whip out some of her Kung Fu moves as if to block the hateful little song), so I called her over. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">L: "Mommy, those boys are calling me names!"</div><div align="center">Me: "I know sweetie, but doing Kung Fu is not how we deal with that. You need to tell those boys to please stop calling you a rotten egg. Tell them that it hurts your feelings and you'd like them to stop." </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Good for me, right ('cause it's all about me, y'all)? I didn't intervene. I attempted to give L the tools to deal with this herself. And she did. She marched back into the fray and each time the boys circled and pointed she loudly declared, "Please stop calling me that! I don't like that!" What did the boys do? They added new lyrics: "<em>Naa naa naa naa naa, you're a poopy on the potty.</em>" </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">What pissed me off the most? Both of the boys' mothers were SITTING RIGHT THERE, happily chatting away while their sons singled out and taunted my daughter. I may helicopter my own children from time to time, but it would take a lot for me to intervene with anyone else's child. But dammit was I close today. The thought of confrontation in any form gives me the dry heaves, but I was sitting there formulating what I was going to have to say to these to clueless women. I had a few options:</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Option 1 (polite but firm): "Excuse me, but your son is calling my daughter names and it's really hurting her feelings. Could you please ask him to stop?"</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Option 2: "Woman, quit texting on your freakin' phone and gabbing away with the woman next to you about how early your son started walking/talking/reading...and for the love of God PARENT YOUR BRATTY CHILD OR I WILL."</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Luckily it didn't come to that. One of the women finally stopped talking long enough to realize that her son was calling my daughter a poopy on the potty (oh, and he was now joined by his younger 2-year-old brother, isn't that <em>charming</em>) and called him over. I sat there, thrumming with excitement, expecting a very stern reprimand. What did she say? In that oh-I'm-so-amused-by-your-antics voice she said, "Oh honey, are you being the playground bully?" WTF??!!</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">I know, I know, we all have our own parenting styles. Call my old fashioned, but in my humble opinion, name calling, pointing, and taunting are NOT EVER OK. Especially when all of it is being directed at one poor, singled-out child. The above mom of the name-calling ring-leader seemed to take the "oh, boys will be boys" sort of attitude. I'm sorry, just because he has a penis does not make name calling and taunting somehow ok and even slightly amusing. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Has L ever been mean to another child? Sure. But I can assure you that if it was in my presence, L was pulled out of the situation, scolded, and then told to go back and apologize to whomever she had offended. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">In the end I didn't hover and L handled the whole situation very well. She simply chose not to play near them anymore and we left the playground not long after. She's been talking about the incident all morning and it's maddening to see how two little strangers have hurt my daughters feelings, leaving her so confused as to <em>why</em> they would be so mean. I have no profound response for L's questions and can only tell her over and over that sometimes kids can be mean, and the best thing we can do is first ask them to stop and if they refuse, don't play with them anymore. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">As for the mommies of the playground taunters? I'm disappointed. I'm frustrated. I'm <em>tired.</em> I spend 24/7 dealing with my own children, I wish I could go to a playground or any other public play space and not have to deal with the aftermath of other parents phoning it in (literally...if I see another mom texting away while her child wreaks havoc I will LOSE IT) because they seem too busy or too distracted to discipline their child. Again, I know this is coming out very judge-y, but right now I'm angry. I can't tell you how many times I've had to play with someone else's 4-5 year-old child at the pool while their mother/father/grandparent lounges on a beach chair and reads. Honestly, it happens almost every time. Not even addressing the safety issues of letting a 5-year-old swim totally unsupervised, I certainly did not schlep my two kids, towels, snacks, toys...etc. to be your kid's babysitter/playmate at the pool. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">After all of that venting, my dilemma is this: I can avoid helicoptering my own kids, but what to do when someone else's child is misbehaving? Not just misbehaving, but hurting your child (either physically or verbally) and the parent of said child isn't stepping up? Would you fly your helicopter into their airspace?</div><div align="center"><br />
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</div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-41076905669782136742011-08-02T11:03:00.000-07:002011-08-02T11:03:54.638-07:00Hair Part II: Good Hair = Good Mommy?<div align="center"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I recently devoted an entire post to my daughter's hair. Even as I type that it seems mildly ridiculous. I mean, there are far more important parenting issues to be discussed, right? Well, maybe. I think I speak for many transracial adoptive mamas when I say that, to some degree, I measure my success as a mother of a brown curly girl by the current state (an length) of her hair. Before bringing L home I read a bit about the care of curly hair, checking out pictures, imagining the cute styles I would create. After L joined our family I realized I was <em>way </em>over my head. So, I followed blogs on haircare & styles, read articles, tried a million different products, and slowly started the hair styling ritual we have today. When her hair was shorter I learned how to do puffs, create ruler-straight parts, and attempt the occasional coil or twist style. Now that L is 4, I've advanced to cornrows, twists, braid and twist-outs, you name it, we've tried it. And products? I honestly don't even want to think about how much time and money I've spent on finding that <em>perfect </em>product (hint: it doesn't exist). When women of color compliment L's hair or even her hairstyle, I practically glow with pride, eager to run home and tell my husband of my recent hair triumph. When a woman at the grocery store started asking my what products I used, I pretty much skipped the entire way home. She, a woman of color, was asking little old <em>moi </em>for product advice!!</span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Throughout this hair journey, I've frequently questioned why I spend so much time not only doing, but <em>thinking about doing </em>L's hair (it's one of my favorite things to think about when I can't sleep). When did I start believing that my success as a mother was somehow related to L's hair? Whenever I thought about writing a blog post about the social issues that surround the care of my daughter's hair, I felt completely overwhelmed. The topic is so tricky and potentially polarizing I hesitated every time I went to sit down and write. Okay, I chickened out. But no longer! I will dip my tippy toes into the fray. I will start out by saying that, as a white woman, I absolutely do not pretend to understand the relationship a woman of color has with her own hair. I am speaking, rather, to the judgement passed on mothers based on the condition/health/style (or lack thereof)/length of their daughters' hair. </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">What got me all fired up? I read <a href="http://www.thedailybeast.com/newsweek/blogs/the-human-condition/2009/10/09/zahara-jolie-pitt-and-the-politics-of-uncombed-hair.html">this article</a> by Allison Samuels for Newsweek. In the article, Samuels slams Angelina Jolie for allowing her daughter, Zahara, to walk around "sporting hair that is wild and unstyled, uncombed and dry. Basically: a 'hot mess.'" She goes on to add that "to many, she'll be just a little black girl - and a black girl with bad hair at that." I can't even <em>begin </em>to articulate how this article made me feel. Sure, Samuels may be directing her comments to the mother, there is no denying the fact that she wrote cruel things about A FREAKIN' 4-YEAR-OLD GIRLS HAIR. Unacceptable. There is simply no excuse. Samuels frequently uses the words "neat," "in place," and "nice" to describe the ideal, and words like "wild" and "unruly" to describe Zahara's hair. I very much resist the idea that L's hair when in its natural curly state (meaning, not manipulated in any way past some leave-in conditioner) is somehow wrong. That is the texture God gave her and it's beautiful. Is it wild? Sure, in the most wonderful sense of the word. And let me say one other thing: I often put much more time, effort and love into L's loose hair than when it's in cornrows. Daily conditioning, finger detangling, styling...etc. "Wild" loose hair does NOT mean hair that has been ignored or is somehow unkempt. At least not in my experience. </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">And what of the accusations leveled at Angelina Jolie? Is she to be labeled as a bad mother because her daughter's hair is found to be socially unacceptable? Samuels makes her opinion clear in <a href="http://www.thedailybeast.com/newsweek/2009/10/27/we-are-all-team-zahara.html">this</a> follow-up article along with the insinuation that Madonna is a better adoptive mother for making sure that "Mercy all the attention she needs from head to toe and inside and out" because Mercy's hair is most often in tidy cornrows. Clearly Samuels does not take into consideration that many Ethiopians have a hair texture that does not take to cornrows very well at all. The times that I do L's hair in cornrows are few simply because her curls do not hold the style for more than a few days. </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Now, on one point I do agree with Samuels: all transracial adoptive parents need to put in the work to understand all aspects of their child's birth culture</span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">. That includes history, religion, and yes, grooming. Yet Samuels' idea of what constitutes "acceptable" hair just doesn't sit right with me. In this second article, she attempts to clarify that her definition of unacceptable hair was "uncombed, unconditioned, and unbrushed." Yet the language she used in both articles to describe both acceptable and unacceptable hair indicates (at least in my opinion) a major bias against curly hair in its natural state. My L loves to wear her hair (or as she likes to call it, her <em>mane</em>) big and free. There is nothing "neat" or "in place" about L's hair when we style it loose. </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I want my daughter to LOVE her hair and all that it can be: big and curly, twisted, braided, in puffs and piggy tails, up or down, intricately styled or wash-and-go. I do take considerable time to make sure L's hair is healthy and well-maintained. I do frequently worry what African American women think of L's hair and I <em>definitely </em>bask in the glow of their praise when she is complimented by women of color. But I worry that I'm inadvertantly feeding into this bad hair/bad mommy syndrome. I like what Latoya Peterson wrote in <a href="http://jezebel.com/5391817/an-open-appeal-to-the-jolie+pitt-hair-police">this article</a>: "We can help shap a world in which she [Zahara] doesn't feel pressured to relax her hair to conform, nor does she feel deficient if she decides to wear her hair the way the way it grows out of her head. We can shape a world where a decision to relax one's hair is inconsequential as a decision to dye or cut it." I really hope my L grows up in <em>that </em>world. </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-7406646270966702252011-07-25T12:06:00.000-07:002011-07-25T12:06:46.218-07:00Cornrows, twist-outs, free hair, oh my!<div align="center"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I've been thinking on L's hair quite a bit lately. I mean, I already think on it <em>a whole lot, </em>but her gorgeous curls have been taking up slightly more valuable real estate in my brain as of late. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">One, I am in a rut. Style-wise, that is. You would think that the most challenging times would be in the colder months: mixing it up for school, dealing with the dry and cold winter months...etc. I find summer to be much more of a challenge, especially as L grows into an ever-increasing ACTIVE child. She swims, she plays, she bikes, she pretends to be a Kung Fu master and <em>all </em>of these activities wreak havoc on her fragile curls. Cornrows? I did L's whole head in July and it was glorious: </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oilmwqkBT9g/Ti2147IZIOI/AAAAAAAAAow/kvTpSS1vkus/s1600/IMG_6709_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oilmwqkBT9g/Ti2147IZIOI/AAAAAAAAAow/kvTpSS1vkus/s640/IMG_6709_1.jpg" t$="true" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wHya2LXkFi4/Ti22AvsoxOI/AAAAAAAAAo0/MddoNznCwIU/s1600/IMG_6703_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wHya2LXkFi4/Ti22AvsoxOI/AAAAAAAAAo0/MddoNznCwIU/s640/IMG_6703_1.jpg" t$="true" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Loved that I didn't have to "do" her hair every day. True, her 3c curls don't hold cornrows for terribly long, requiring me to re-braid a row or two every couple of days, but it still gave L (and yours truly) so much more freedom and flexibility. The big BUT in this is that it takes some patience and time to get her whole head braided. Between washing, detangling, stretching and braiding, I think it took me three days to complete her head. Add to that the fact that my once easy-going-and-easy-to-style toddler has turned into little miss contrary, and you can start to understand while I'm not gagging to do a whole head of cornrows. She'll sit for me, but it's not pretty. There is LOTS of whining, fidgeting, yelling, bribing (who, me?), bargaining, begging, pleading (seriously, I stoop pretty low sometimes) and the occasional crocodile tear involved in a major style session. I'm thinking of doing some Ghana threading this week. It doesn't look terribly hard (if you can do twists, you can do this) and appears to be a great protective style (no rubber bands required!). I found it on this amazing Youtube channel, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/GirlsLoveYourCurls">Girls Love Your Curls</a>. Box braids is another option, but one that has never really wow'd me in L's hair. Her curls are too fine to have an unbanded braid (meaning, no band at the base of the braid), and thus the idea of a protective style is kinda lost, as there are tons of tiny rubber bands in her hair. One of my favorite styles on L is a braid- or twist-out. I wash/condition/detangle one night, banding her hair with cloth bands to stretch the hair. The next night I do small flat twists all over her head and take out in the morning. The result: a head of shiny, soft, BIG, beautiful curls:</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tEoJJtcXsk0/Ti24tmmMeEI/AAAAAAAAAo4/KM4imzQBIiI/s1600/IMG_7009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tEoJJtcXsk0/Ti24tmmMeEI/AAAAAAAAAo4/KM4imzQBIiI/s640/IMG_7009.JPG" t$="true" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oQOvobYVrK8/Ti24xUAzPII/AAAAAAAAAo8/b1Wc5wsUQvw/s1600/IMG_7016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oQOvobYVrK8/Ti24xUAzPII/AAAAAAAAAo8/b1Wc5wsUQvw/s640/IMG_7016.JPG" t$="true" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The only drawback of this style is that it not only takes some TLC to maintain those curls over the course of a couple of days, but one afternoon at the pool at you're back where you started: wet hair and no style.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">The option I've chose for the past week as I slowly <strike>gather my courage</strike> make up my mind about her next style is a semi-free style that requires only a medium amount of maintenance (about 30-45 minutes each morning). I did 4 cornrows which serve to protect her hairline but also function as a headband of sorts. The rest of her head is completely <em>au natural.</em> By that I don't mean there is no product in there (let's not get crazy, people), but her curls are not manipulated in any way at all. Each morning I simply spray some water on the curls that were smooshed at night and over the course of the previous day (generally the back of her head is the worst...thanks, car seats), add some diluted conditioner (currently using Deva Curl's One Condition) and detangle with my fingers. Lately I've been finishing with Ouidad's Climate Control Heat & Humidity Gel. Lordy, I love this stuff (they have it at my local Sephora). Her hair is a tiny bit crunchy at first, but is soft and bouncy all day long, and her curls stay defined even in this ridiculous humidity we've had. The result is pretty awesome and very much matches L's personality. This is how her hair IS: </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YQb3Do-JEWk/Ti26aREyVJI/AAAAAAAAApA/1WWE29QeOhw/s1600/IMG_7021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="585" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YQb3Do-JEWk/Ti26aREyVJI/AAAAAAAAApA/1WWE29QeOhw/s640/IMG_7021.jpg" t$="true" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Um, don't mind the cherry juice. My girl LOVES cherries. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_oQfBXoym0c/Ti26d71jt6I/AAAAAAAAApE/KYT66NiXXLg/s1600/IMG_7024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_oQfBXoym0c/Ti26d71jt6I/AAAAAAAAApE/KYT66NiXXLg/s640/IMG_7024.JPG" t$="true" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sulking because I'm making her stand still.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jqps0qG20pg/Ti26iDLPFpI/AAAAAAAAApI/opFp3fAJpzA/s1600/IMG_7025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jqps0qG20pg/Ti26iDLPFpI/AAAAAAAAApI/opFp3fAJpzA/s640/IMG_7025.jpg" t$="true" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love this picture. She is sooooo annoyed with me at this point.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Again, the only problem is that this style is not pool-friendly (and we're set to hit the pool today, darnit). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">So, we'll try the Ghana threading over the next couple of days and see how that goes. I love the idea of it, here's hoping the execution is as relatively straight-forward as it seems! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">If anyone has thoughts on other protective styles, let me know! My goal is to find a style that will last perhaps a week and doesn't require lots of banding (I am trying to keep her hairline as stress-free as possible). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Happy Hair, everyone!</span></div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-50874358501253135722011-07-07T11:22:00.000-07:002011-07-07T11:22:54.741-07:00The Fourth in Pictures (and just a few words...)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We had a glorious Fourth of July weekend at Chez Mimi & Papa. Here are some of my favorite photos from the weekend:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UeeiNXYKGkI/ThXxJRc4EgI/AAAAAAAAAno/1KMH5J6U5tQ/s1600/IMG_6735_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" m$="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UeeiNXYKGkI/ThXxJRc4EgI/AAAAAAAAAno/1KMH5J6U5tQ/s640/IMG_6735_1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't you love the Port-a-Pottys in the background. I do.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NGAoPLGCmV4/ThXxQeImf_I/AAAAAAAAAns/itvApgeeOvA/s1600/IMG_6737_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" m$="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NGAoPLGCmV4/ThXxQeImf_I/AAAAAAAAAns/itvApgeeOvA/s640/IMG_6737_1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Such a serious (but handsome) face!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t4pxSnWA3oc/ThXxjynrbxI/AAAAAAAAAn0/M0ouJ_HYHLM/s1600/IMG_6747_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" m$="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t4pxSnWA3oc/ThXxjynrbxI/AAAAAAAAAn0/M0ouJ_HYHLM/s640/IMG_6747_1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Water gun = happy boy.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TGMpG8pgA_8/ThXxtukkr8I/AAAAAAAAAn4/19fdYB2JSVk/s1600/IMG_6817_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" m$="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TGMpG8pgA_8/ThXxtukkr8I/AAAAAAAAAn4/19fdYB2JSVk/s640/IMG_6817_1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seersucker pants made by yours truly. He hated them, but I forced him to wear them for just one afternoon.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lA4YHJ7-pqY/ThXx1aMtxdI/AAAAAAAAAn8/CLnCZYaTq0k/s1600/IMG_6867_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" m$="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lA4YHJ7-pqY/ThXx1aMtxdI/AAAAAAAAAn8/CLnCZYaTq0k/s640/IMG_6867_1.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The three cousins<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4Lv-rd3pdxs/ThXx88IeDMI/AAAAAAAAAoA/EecPiU6hONE/s1600/IMG_6785_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" m$="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4Lv-rd3pdxs/ThXx88IeDMI/AAAAAAAAAoA/EecPiU6hONE/s640/IMG_6785_1.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">L learned how to throw a ball, thanks to Uncle Scott! I love that she's wearing my Dad's old mitt from when he was a kid. You can even see where my Grandma wrote his name.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1hHBFy7HbvQ/ThXyFaAgelI/AAAAAAAAAoE/E9eFfMRYqAE/s1600/IMG_6795_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" m$="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1hHBFy7HbvQ/ThXyFaAgelI/AAAAAAAAAoE/E9eFfMRYqAE/s640/IMG_6795_1.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even more amazing, she learned to catch! For those who know me best, we all knew she wasn't going to learn that particular skill from me. </td></tr>
</tbody></table> <div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T9cAxKa_W1A/ThXyJfJQ8ZI/AAAAAAAAAoI/KxzVICzZxA8/s1600/IMG_6910.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="482" m$="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T9cAxKa_W1A/ThXyJfJQ8ZI/AAAAAAAAAoI/KxzVICzZxA8/s640/IMG_6910.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-stII--P6I4E/ThXyQdOhKDI/AAAAAAAAAoM/c6OcUkGj0Uw/s1600/IMG_6805_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" m$="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-stII--P6I4E/ThXyQdOhKDI/AAAAAAAAAoM/c6OcUkGj0Uw/s640/IMG_6805_1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">E spent the vast majority of the weekend in the hammock. Seriously, the boy luuurves to swing. Sadly, every time I tried to take a picture, he'd start whining for me to continue pushing. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XVN0ii9mnio/ThXyX9t8mGI/AAAAAAAAAoQ/QH8iq6A3tFA/s1600/IMG_6860_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" m$="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XVN0ii9mnio/ThXyX9t8mGI/AAAAAAAAAoQ/QH8iq6A3tFA/s640/IMG_6860_1.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doesn't he look like he just heard a dirty joke? And yes, I will be modifying the pants pattern, as they are clearly not roomy enough for a full diaper. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cZYNKJBO9PA/ThXygx169hI/AAAAAAAAAoU/rMbj6Ul0AWA/s1600/IMG_6864_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" m$="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cZYNKJBO9PA/ThXygx169hI/AAAAAAAAAoU/rMbj6Ul0AWA/s640/IMG_6864_1.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">L and worms. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zQzLCXaFKYk/ThXysjaFaNI/AAAAAAAAAoY/tkIt16SvmZs/s1600/IMG_6870_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" m$="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zQzLCXaFKYk/ThXysjaFaNI/AAAAAAAAAoY/tkIt16SvmZs/s640/IMG_6870_1.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">D and worms.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IUmJayTLmyM/ThXyz1RtfdI/AAAAAAAAAoc/kRWx0MTL1Bw/s1600/IMG_6876_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" m$="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IUmJayTLmyM/ThXyz1RtfdI/AAAAAAAAAoc/kRWx0MTL1Bw/s640/IMG_6876_1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Worms.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dmQ3Z7SRSrQ/ThXy9C74buI/AAAAAAAAAog/SqWKSFubTgc/s1600/IMG_6845_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" m$="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dmQ3Z7SRSrQ/ThXy9C74buI/AAAAAAAAAog/SqWKSFubTgc/s640/IMG_6845_1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful girl. Those cornrows took a good while but boy were they <em>worth it</em>. They lasted at least two weeks and only required some minor touch-ups. Why mess with hair when there is fishing to be done!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IGTYQO4l1fw/ThXzFcqfnYI/AAAAAAAAAok/4d20W4M9R_w/s1600/IMG_6836_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" m$="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IGTYQO4l1fw/ThXzFcqfnYI/AAAAAAAAAok/4d20W4M9R_w/s640/IMG_6836_1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">D is the best cousin ever. L follows him around like a puppy dog and he is amazingly kind and patient with his little cousin. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_VIs9T_6OyA/ThXzI_VXE9I/AAAAAAAAAoo/Q6VGnvQ1I7U/s1600/IMG_6917.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" m$="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_VIs9T_6OyA/ThXzI_VXE9I/AAAAAAAAAoo/Q6VGnvQ1I7U/s640/IMG_6917.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GWfVlBr0M3w/ThXzMlJxnzI/AAAAAAAAAos/3IjFZEf3UdQ/s1600/IMG_6923.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" m$="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GWfVlBr0M3w/ThXzMlJxnzI/AAAAAAAAAos/3IjFZEf3UdQ/s640/IMG_6923.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My favorite of my Dad's t-shirts: "The trout, the whole trout, and nothing but the trout." <br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Thank you, Mimi & Papa, for a wonderful and unforgettable Fourth of July weekend!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-42802418448057629702011-07-04T11:16:00.000-07:002011-07-04T11:16:39.531-07:00My Food, My Body, My Daughter<div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;">I've had this blog post rolling around in my head for a few days now. Originally, I was going to write about how training for a marathon has significantly changed my intensely rocky relationship with food for the better. To think of food as fuel is a rather foreign concept to me. For much of my teenage and college years, food was either something I could viciously control, or a hateful reminder that I was a not perfect (a failure). </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;">I am a recovered anorexic and bulimic. It's something I talk freely about with anyone who asks, but not something I've addressed in this blog. Why? Not sure. I do find myself a wee bit uncomfortable right now, not because I'm embarrassed, but because thanks to television, movies & celebrity "news" coverage, eating disorders have become so cliche. I can still remember watching (the original, thank you very much) 90210 where Kelly had anorexia for like, 2 freaking episodes. Really??!! My eating disorder is certainly not as severe as it could have been, but 20 years later I may not be having active relapses, but I still grapple with food and body issues on a daily basis. I spent 2 years of high school in a daze, manically counting calories (usually about 250/day) and desperately searching for new ways to hide the fact that I either wasn't eating, or was spending the majority of the night and early morning purging. It still amazes me that there are rather large chunks of those years I simply don't remember. There's not much room for memories when every waking thought is devoted to food and how to triumph over it. I had a not-terribly-surprising relapse in college, and then one in grad school that completely caught me off guard. I was 25, married, at my dream grad school doing what I loved, and eating only the broth from chicken noodle soup. Thankfully, the last relapse was rather short-lived and 10 years later, I'm happy to say I've not had one since.</span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;">As with many things in life, motherhood included, I've discovered that my eating disorder is another one of those things that will probably be a "work in progress" forever. And now that it's bleeding into my relationship with my daughter, I'm on high alert. I quickly realized that I've got some work to do.</span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;">My little family just had a glorious weekend at the lake. We swam. We ate. We water skied. We ate. We drank. We ate. By yesterday afternoon, I was not only filled with food, but with absolute panic. I felt completely and totally out of control. The old inner dialogue, which has been present but quiet over the past decade, was loud and insistent once again. <em>It is NOT OK to eat cake after EVERY MEAL! What if I can't stop eating? The food is there and I can't seem to stop myself. What's wrong with me? What happened to my self-control? </em>All of these thought spinning around in my head as I tried to remain calm and ride it out. And then, to my absolute horror, my inner dialogue started in on my daughter. I am cringing with shame right now, but what's the point of writing about this if I'm not honest, no? </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;">This was a vacation weekend for all of us and we ate accordingly: French toast, bacon, muffins, bagels, chips, popsicles, cake, cake, and more cake, hot dogs...etc. If it is served at a county fair, we probably had it. When I realized that my daughter had been eating just like me all weekend, I felt a whole new kind of panic, followed immediately by incredible amounts of guilt and shame (did I for a moment worry about my son's eating? Nope, and I suspect that is a whole other post entirely). It was a brief and passing moment, thankfully, but it happened and I'm left trying to figure out how to deal with it. Let me say right now, I <em>know </em>that L is a happy, healthy little girl. Once a tiny and malnourished baby (only 8 lbs at 5mos), L is an incredibly active 4 year-old. I know this. I also recall, before parenthood, talking with my husband and stating firmly that I would <em>never </em>allow my eating issues to ever come close to my kids. They were <em>my</em> issues, after all. But it didn't work out that way, no siree. </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;">Once again, the universe has put me in my place. Here I was, thinking I had this thing licked. I was training for a marathon, reveling in the fact that I was actually having a happy and productive relationship with food. At 35, feeling pretty darn content with my body. Hell, even <em>liking</em> the way I looked more often than not. I may not have had a relapse, but I've had my eyes opened. As with almost everything related to motherhood, there is some serious work to be done. I know it's impossible to protect my girl from the barrage media images, all telling us that we aren't tall enough, thin enough, pretty enough, have clear enough skin, tight enough jeans, long enough hair, a flat enough tummy, perky enough tush...etc. My worst fear is that, however unconsciously, I'll be contributing to the barrage that's aimed right at my little girl. </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;">Heigh ho, it's back to work I go.</span></div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-27845812091261510482011-06-14T11:55:00.000-07:002011-06-14T11:56:05.733-07:00He loves me, he loves me not...<div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;">I've been thinking quite a bit about rejection lately. Specifically, the rejection of your adopted infant and/or toddler and the laundry list of emotions that follow. I had been safe in my he-prefers-me-to-all-others bubble for almost a year. E simply wanted me more than anyone else...I could do no wrong (of course, I still insist this is absolutely <em>true</em>). I have not stressed over his attachment the way I did with L. I'm sure much of this has to do with the fact that L was my first and thus I obsessed over EVERYTHING, but also L was just a different baby. She was friendly, warm, engaging, but it took a long time to really feel secure that she <em>knew </em>me. I remember frequently asking hubby, "Do you think she really <em>knows </em>I'm her mother?" To my darling better half, this became a "does my butt look big?" kind of question. No matter his answer, I wasn't satisfied. I read every possible book on attachment, found those dreadful checklists online and obsessed over every single bullet point. When did I stop fretting over L? I honestly cannot recall. Now she is a <em>very</em> verbal 4-year-old and tells me she loves me multiple times each day. </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;">Almost from the moment I met my sweet little E he sought me over all others. I will always remember how shocked, astonished and pleased I was when we asked a favorite nanny to take a picture with him before we checked him out of the orphanage for good. If you look at the picture, the whole time he is whining, reaching out and leaning towards me. E's first year home was wonderful in the sense that I didn't really stress too much about his attachment because he always <em>demanded </em>to be with me, but challenging as well because I had never mothered such a needy child. His need to be constantly touching me is most often a lovely thing, but there have been (and still are) moments when I could scream for the need for some personal space. </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;">But this past week, my dear friends, HE rejected ME. What the what??!! We're moving into a Daddy phase, I suspect, and I'm surprised at how I'm reacting - I'm uncomfortable, uneasy, hurt, <em>needy</em>. I find myself trying waaaaay too hard to make him laugh or smile, just so I can have some tangible proof that my boy still loves me ("He likes me, he <em>really</em> likes me!"). Poor thing, I can just see the inner dialogue on his face when I get this way: "Geez. Why won't she just give me some personal space? A man can only take so many kisses." </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;">What I cannot seem to explain to myself is that right now he has been like this with pretty much everyone as of late. E has some language delays and the frustration that he experienced just a month ago is now exponentially greater. He <em>wants</em> things, and I can't understand him. Lately the majority of our days go as follows: </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;">Elijah: "Mama, baba." (gesturing vaguely)</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;">Me: "What? Juice? Snack? Tree? Flower? Lion? I'm sorry honey, I don't know what 'baba' is."</span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;">Add in the fact that, with very few exceptions he calls <em>everything</em> "baba", no wonder he gets pissed. I try to consider also that I am the one with him the majority of the time. When Daddy is home, E still most frequently comes to me with requests & demands, thus Daddy isn't forced to engage in the "baba" dialogue of frustration.</span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;">But oh, the rejection! Why does it hurt so much? Why do I take the often arbitrary actions of a toddler to heart? When it happens, why do I get that pit-in-the-stomach feeling of insecurity in my mothering? In his attachment? I know this will pass...I know it for sure as I now have absolutely NO problems when L is angry with me (Lord knows that happens frequently enough). I know it's a good thing that he's lovin' on his Daddy so much, but golly, I wasn't ready. I wasn't prepared to let anyone into our exclusive little club. Hell, I didn't even <em>know</em> there was a club until E started inviting other people and jealousy reared its ugly head. My baby who really wasn't a baby for long is <em>definitely</em> not a baby now. He's starting to see more things, notice more people and the desire to interact with those things and people is growing. I realize now that as much as I've bitched about having to carry this gigantic boy everywhere, I'm now so very sad that he might be starting to give that up, and letting my insecurity dictate what it all means. </span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-8644933126370542472011-06-06T10:51:00.000-07:002011-06-06T10:53:46.374-07:00One year ago today...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">I met my beautiful son, E. As you can see, our relationship had a bit of a rocky start. Apparently we arrived during his afternoon nap and he was more than a little groggy when he was first placed in my arms. Poor baby, it hurts my heart to see these photos where he is so clearly terrified and confused. What you can't tell from this photo is how terrified I was as well. But I simply held him close and kept whispering to him that I was his mommy and he was so very loved and that he could cry as long as he wanted, I would wait.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-g2zLsO7ybeE/Te0I23oveQI/AAAAAAAAAnc/1mp8GOo5eg0/s1600/ali+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-g2zLsO7ybeE/Te0I23oveQI/AAAAAAAAAnc/1mp8GOo5eg0/s640/ali+1.jpg" t8="true" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2q2Mg_jnQdc/Te0JhUKKByI/AAAAAAAAAnk/UE0X7u8ujGI/s1600/ali+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2q2Mg_jnQdc/Te0JhUKKByI/AAAAAAAAAnk/UE0X7u8ujGI/s640/ali+3.jpg" t8="true" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Eventually he calmed down and snuggled into me...one of his very best traits. He is truly the snuggliest baby ever. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-icVX94YZKgA/Te0E5ocBgXI/AAAAAAAAAmw/eRpDdcMmdcg/s1600/IMG_4229.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-icVX94YZKgA/Te0E5ocBgXI/AAAAAAAAAmw/eRpDdcMmdcg/s640/IMG_4229.JPG" t8="true" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BnrdmSnd6Io/Te0FhSjxIkI/AAAAAAAAAm4/9J-UDjeRNXE/s1600/IMG_4262.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BnrdmSnd6Io/Te0FhSjxIkI/AAAAAAAAAm4/9J-UDjeRNXE/s640/IMG_4262.JPG" t8="true" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our first family photo. As you can see, he's still in shock, clinging to his new teething ring for dear life.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XuOueDqbOvM/Te0GHLWpL9I/AAAAAAAAAm8/5YRxlo9DPa4/s1600/IMG_4661.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XuOueDqbOvM/Te0GHLWpL9I/AAAAAAAAAm8/5YRxlo9DPa4/s640/IMG_4661.JPG" t8="true" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">E and Mommy asleep in the Frankfurt airport. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Se0UUI3ewyU/Te0Hi7Si-4I/AAAAAAAAAnA/-yEuY-CzWms/s1600/IMG_4721.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Se0UUI3ewyU/Te0Hi7Si-4I/AAAAAAAAAnA/-yEuY-CzWms/s640/IMG_4721.JPG" t8="true" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">E & L a few weeks after we arrived home. As you can see, L is not terribly pleased with her new <strike>competition</strike> little brother.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uqsvG9uUlTQ/Te0HtQzgfxI/AAAAAAAAAnE/JKFkwsuXNaE/s1600/IMG_5067.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uqsvG9uUlTQ/Te0HtQzgfxI/AAAAAAAAAnE/JKFkwsuXNaE/s640/IMG_5067.jpg" t8="true" width="624" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">E's first birthday. Already looking less like a baby and more like a toddler. Sniff sniff.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cMttJC3QQcE/Te0H6fmnU2I/AAAAAAAAAnI/H1vpgDTEB1w/s1600/IMG_5484.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="580" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cMttJC3QQcE/Te0H6fmnU2I/AAAAAAAAAnI/H1vpgDTEB1w/s640/IMG_5484.jpg" t8="true" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fun at Mimi & Papa's!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SKxGhfoPgBc/Te0IBug4HoI/AAAAAAAAAnM/ZZDe4tUEm3Y/s1600/IMG_6561.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="536" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SKxGhfoPgBc/Te0IBug4HoI/AAAAAAAAAnM/ZZDe4tUEm3Y/s640/IMG_6561.jpg" t8="true" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just took this yesterday. He was not afraid of the sprinkler for ONE MINUTE. And check out the pirate skull & crossbones on his trunks. How cute is that? I do love me some Target.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-heM32DflC_g/Te0IGnn-JiI/AAAAAAAAAnQ/lGUl2e64b5c/s1600/IMG_6659.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="546" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-heM32DflC_g/Te0IGnn-JiI/AAAAAAAAAnQ/lGUl2e64b5c/s640/IMG_6659.jpg" t8="true" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gorgeous boy. Those eyes.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2p73NM3knXc/Te0IKuaOKWI/AAAAAAAAAnU/B80CgzunPtE/s1600/IMG_6632.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="604" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2p73NM3knXc/Te0IKuaOKWI/AAAAAAAAAnU/B80CgzunPtE/s640/IMG_6632.jpg" t8="true" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't know why I love this photo so much. It's just so very him. He may walk away from me for a wee bit, but he's always always checking in, blessing me with his smile. </td></tr>
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: large;">My beautiful boy. One year ago today a nanny put you in my arms and my life changed forever. Here are some things I want to always remember about you: you love to be in your mama's arms (seriously, I'm getting some impressive guns as my boy just keeps getting bigger and bigger), and when you get sleepy, you pop your right thumb in your mouth and your left hand immediately goes down the front of my shirt. Your dance moves are hilarious: some random squats followed by a rather violent up & down movement of the arms. Your emotions are swift and dramatic...if you feel as though you've been wronged (perhaps by another cute little Ethiopian that <em>happens</em> to be your sister) you make sure we KNOW it. And if you are happy, it's huge smiles, laughter, and dancing (like when I gave you your first sucker today). You are fearless and your curiosity and desire to get into things is unparalleled. I had never heard of a 15-month toddler learning to open baby gates, or doors, or plastic water bottles until you, my little MacGyver. You give the best sloppy kisses (some day we'll have to talk about how you shouldn't go in for a kiss with your mouth wide open, but that can wait a few more years). You are a mama's boy, through and through, and I wouldn't have it any other way. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Happy "Gotcha Day," my amazing, beautiful boy. Every day I thank my lucky stars that God brought us together. </span></div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-12128134718810464252011-05-27T11:24:00.000-07:002011-05-27T11:25:04.702-07:00When I need something to smile about...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">I take a look at these gorgeous babies of mine. Our car was returned to us today after being stolen and missing for almost a month. I really haven't experienced much anger about our car being stolen until today. Today my car was returned without carseats and looking & smelling like an ashtray. They left cigarette ashes EVERYWHERE. They left food, hand sanitizer (don't even want to think about that) and an f'ing sweatshirt for me to clean up. I'm pissed. I simply don't understand how someone can steal a car with two carseats and have a joyride without realizing that they were stranding a family with two small children. It doesn't feel like my car anymore and I suspect it won't until after a very very thorough cleaning. So, I choose not to dwell on the shittiness of car thieves, but rather at my beautiful and lovely children. I know I'm hopelessly biased, but aren't they <em>gorgeous????</em> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vw-bv1f_52g/Td_oiw0cJ_I/AAAAAAAAAmU/dbFkcLwG0rw/s1600/IMG_6510.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vw-bv1f_52g/Td_oiw0cJ_I/AAAAAAAAAmU/dbFkcLwG0rw/s640/IMG_6510.JPG" t8="true" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cNKC3BcGo6E/Td_opCMO9eI/AAAAAAAAAmY/Af67rGlcFO0/s1600/IMG_6505.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cNKC3BcGo6E/Td_opCMO9eI/AAAAAAAAAmY/Af67rGlcFO0/s640/IMG_6505.JPG" t8="true" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wearing the adorable shirt I made her last week. A FREE Oliver & S pattern! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PzEFw3LeEDc/Td_o23uu7TI/AAAAAAAAAmc/uUFeNSxyjsE/s1600/IMG_6150.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PzEFw3LeEDc/Td_o23uu7TI/AAAAAAAAAmc/uUFeNSxyjsE/s640/IMG_6150.JPG" t8="true" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slightly blurry, I know, but this is E. Love his smile, even with the constant stream of drool.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vI3nZeAYp3U/Td_pI8RJxzI/AAAAAAAAAmg/a664s8EfbvI/s1600/IMG_6244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vI3nZeAYp3U/Td_pI8RJxzI/AAAAAAAAAmg/a664s8EfbvI/s640/IMG_6244.JPG" t8="true" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">L right before her Flying Pig race! Cute Adidas outfit from Costco, of all places.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_NjHiG-8AUI/Td_pSrFRi9I/AAAAAAAAAmk/pVifp1OvVKY/s1600/IMG_6227.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_NjHiG-8AUI/Td_pSrFRi9I/AAAAAAAAAmk/pVifp1OvVKY/s640/IMG_6227.JPG" t8="true" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">E sat there and played with pots & pans sorting jars of babyfood. Love his concentration face.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zGfVvkZTOr4/Td_pnpOchHI/AAAAAAAAAmo/Frd7r8MrTJo/s1600/IMG_6174.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zGfVvkZTOr4/Td_pnpOchHI/AAAAAAAAAmo/Frd7r8MrTJo/s640/IMG_6174.JPG" t8="true" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He loves that hat. I don't have the heart to tell him it doesn't fit.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xYDwqRANCkY/Td_pxXYaPKI/AAAAAAAAAms/lDEEd1lo4y8/s1600/IMG_6503.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xYDwqRANCkY/Td_pxXYaPKI/AAAAAAAAAms/lDEEd1lo4y8/s640/IMG_6503.JPG" t8="true" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beauty.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-55909747911577843732011-05-10T10:33:00.000-07:002011-05-10T10:35:25.375-07:00Tina Fey's Prayer for Her Daughter<div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;">Love this excerpt from Tina Fey's new book, <em>Bossypants:</em></span></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.</em></div><em><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></em><div style="text-align: center;"><em>When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with Beer.</em></div><em><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></em><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.</em></div><em><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></em><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.</em></div><em><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></em><div style="text-align: center;"><em>What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.</em></div><em><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></em><div style="text-align: center;"><em>May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.</em></div><em><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></em><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short - a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day - And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.</em></div><em><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></em><div style="text-align: center;"><em>O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.</em></div><em><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></em><div style="text-align: center;"><em>And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.</em></div><em><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></em><div style="text-align: center;"><em>And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.</em></div><em><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></em><div style="text-align: center;"><em>“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.</em></div><em><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></em><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Amen.</em></div><br />
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Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-936465307546488602011-04-26T16:50:00.000-07:002011-04-26T16:50:00.876-07:00Happy Birthday, doodlebug!<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Tomorrow my girl turns 4. Lately, I look at her with complete amazement. She's a bonafide little girl. No chubby baby parts to her at all, she's all lanky limbs and a big 'ol head of hair. She includes phrases such as "that freaks me out" or "I just can't take it" into her daily speech. She does, however, call an umbrella a "hambrella." It tickles me and so I haven't corrected her just yet. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">I remember the day I got "the call." It was a Monday afternoon and I had just arrived at work. I remember spending the next couple of weeks completely freaked out at how insanely tiny she was. At 5 months old she was only 8 pounds - not even close to making it onto the WHO growth chart. When we met L she was 8 months old and a whopping 12 pounds. Still so tiny, but already full of the personality for which she is now notorious. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">My darling L is bright, hilarious, scary smart, energetic, dramatic, and incredibly loving (she just turned to me and said, "Mommy, I am so very glad you are home from the store. I missed you so much." Oy). </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DBSE5TMMdFM/TbdYXTm_pmI/AAAAAAAAAl8/qoETSdQwnUg/s1600/Ali+%2526+Lila+122907_06.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" i8="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DBSE5TMMdFM/TbdYXTm_pmI/AAAAAAAAAl8/qoETSdQwnUg/s400/Ali+%2526+Lila+122907_06.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-feg98FTLulg/TbdYzIMI5YI/AAAAAAAAAmA/Ru41SNTKbl0/s1600/IMG_0650.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" i8="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-feg98FTLulg/TbdYzIMI5YI/AAAAAAAAAmA/Ru41SNTKbl0/s400/IMG_0650.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Happy Birthday, Doodlebug. The day I met you was one of the best days of my life. I love you so much there are simply no words. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-68125391667976195932011-04-08T11:59:00.000-07:002011-04-08T11:59:49.920-07:00Guilty Pleasure<div align="center">Has anyone else seen the show <em>Parenthood</em> lately? Lordy, I do love that show. I rarely watch it in the evenings, but rather I enjoy catching it on Hulu on rainy afternoons when the babes are napping. My brain knows that the show is beyond corny, but I just can't stop! I can honestly say that I have never watched an episode and NOT cried and cried. It's that cheesy and wonderful. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">And despite the heightened drama that is the cornerstone of any show like this, there are frequently episodes that hit rather close to home. For example, in the past two shows one of the characters is dealing with infertility. I am always amazed at how quick my eyes are to well up whenever I watch a show that has infertility as a part of the storyline. Why does this happen? I am the incredibly joyful and blessed mother of two of the most wonderful little human beings on the planet. I love them so much it astounds me. So why the tears? </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">I can truthfully say that I have no regrets from our journey of becoming the family that we are today. Each and every experience has shaped me as a person, shaped my marriage, and shape<em></em>d how I am a mother to my kids. But I think those years of infertility treatments (and subsequent failures) have left scars deep down where I don't see them every day or even every month... but they are there. And perhaps they will always be there, just like a physical scar. Because really, how can one endure the endless shots, nurses, pills, getting blood drawn every other day for weeks, procedures, more shots, hormones, the indignity of those damn stirrups... and all to see the empty bubble that was my uterus on the ultrasound screen every. single. time (10, to be exact). </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">The thing that struck me the most about the episode I just watched (mascara lines down my cheeks to prove it!) was the husband. He was perhaps not quite as emotional about it as the wife, but pretty darn close. I thought of my darling hubby and how he was the opposite. He gave me those horrible shots in the ass with a steady hand. He may have cried on his own, but I never knew it. All I knew was that he was there for every meltdown, every hormone-induced freak-out, every run to KFC when I was on bed rest, and he was steady. Calm. I knew without having to ask that he was going to take care of me for both my physical pain and my grief each time a cycle failed. I remember our final IVF so vividly, even though it was 5 years ago. We had actually received the news that the cycle had worked! Of course, things happened over the course of the next week that gave me cause for concern and definitely kept my hopes at the "cautiously optimistic" level, but I still was not truly prepared for that moment on the table when the doctor, nurse and I looked expectantly at the ultrasound screen, hoping to see a little blob with a heartbeat and instead saw nothing at all. I had a 30-mile drive home where I knew hubs was at home having lunch. I remember calling him pretty much hysterical yelling, "There was nothing there!" And when I arrived home he comforted me, now a complete sobbing mess, took me up to bed and handled all of the phone calls we would soon get from family members wanting to know how the scan went. I still can't believe he did that. Had to repeat over and over on the phone that no, the scan did not go well and yes, I was ok but didn't want to talk to anyone. I can honestly say I don't know anyone stronger than my husband. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">So honey, here it is, <strike>perhaps</strike> definitely not said enough: you are my hero. My knight in shining armor, making my heart go pitty pat. We may lead rather mundane lives here in the 'burbs and your acts of heroism may not be as dramatic as in the TV shows, but know that they are noticed and appreciated. Like when we were at someone's house and something broke leading L to say, "My Daddy could fix that. He can fix anything."</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Married at 22 looking like babies, we got through college, grad school, a year apart, transfers to the middle of nowhere and then Chicago, infertility through all of that, baby #1 and baby #2, and now we're slogging through the land of mortgages, preschools, tantrums, diapers, yard work... scary stuff, man. But I have no fear. I've got my knight with me. </div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-70870361884760739202011-03-29T11:21:00.000-07:002011-03-29T11:22:11.232-07:00Of two minds...<div align="center">It's been all over the internets as of late: Ethiopian adoptions will be severely cut back, by as much as 90%. Here is the skinny (taken from the State Department's Intercountry Adoption website)...</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">On March 9th, MOWCYA announced a plan to implement a reduction in case processing from approximately 50 per day to only 5 per day. MOWCYA has stated that this reduction is to improve screening of adoption cases while also devoting existing resources to other priorities on vulnerable children.</span></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">I've read so many differing reactions to the announcement: disbelief, anger, fear and sadness on one side, and relief that the Ethiopian goverment is doing something to combat the ever growing problem of corruption and fraud in the adoption process on the other. Me? I feel it all. I am truly of two minds on all of this. </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;">When we started the adoption process to bring home L back in the spring of 2006, there were only 5 agencies licensed in Ethiopia. It was still a small program and was only just beginning to change because of the slowing or cancelled programs in China, Guatemala, Nepal & Korea. When I first joined the online groups as we submitted the first of our paperwork, families were getting referrals in a matter of weeks. By the time we had our dossier submitted in February of 2007, the wait for a referral had increased from 3-4 weeks to 5-7 months. One can only imagine how ill-prepared the government agencies of Ethiopia were to deal with such a massive increase in cases. As Ethiopian adoption became increasingly popular, more and more agencies jumped on the bandwagon. Some good, some bad. When we started the adoption process for E in the winter of 2009, the amount of agencies with an active Ethiopian program was overwhelming, and the rumors and stories of fraud and corruption were disheartening, to put it mildly. </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;">I think what MOWA is doing is a positive step. In my heart I simply cannot justify 100 "good" adoptions if there is even one case where a child was taken from his/her birth family through manipulation or fraud. The Ethiopian government needs to take the time to build their infastructure so that they can review each and every case, making sure the agencies working in Ethiopia have provided <em>full disclosure</em> as to how each and every child has come to be declared an orphan. </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;">Yet it wasn't too long ago when I was submitting paperwork, going through homestudies, and living in that horrible limbo where all waiting families reside. Wanting a child so desperately and having almost every aspect of the process out of your control is a horrible feeling. I remember the fear I felt when I heard Ethiopia had decided that parents would have to be present for court, thus requiring two trips and countless delays. We were lucky to squeak through before that was implemented but I have plenty of friends who had their lives turned upside down during that time. Sadly, that now seems like small potatoes compared to what is happening now. I think of all the families who are now glued to their e-mail, waiting for news from their agencies, trying in vain to get a grasp on the new timeline these changes will create. When they get a referral now, how long until court? After court, how long until an embassy date? 3 months? Six? Twelve? No one knows, but it doesn't look good when we're talking a 90% reduction of a process that has already slowed so much over the past couple of years. Add to that the backlog created each year during the rainy season closings...it's grim. </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;">What hurts my heart the most? The thought that so many children will now live in institutionalized care for even longer periods of time. I can barely bring myself to think of my kids' life before they came "home" to me. It's painful to think that they cried and no one was available to soothe them. That they were hungry and no one was there to feed them. That they didn't always have someone there to read them stories, "ooh" & "aah" over each little smile and triumph, and hold them close when they were lonely or scared. Don't get me wrong, the nannies and nurses at L & E's orphanage were all <em>wonderful</em>. There certainly didn't seem to be any willful neglect, only the neglect that occurs when there are a handful of nannies taking care of dozens of infants and toddlers. They did the best they could, of that I'm sure. But even the "best" of institutionalized care is never as good as having a loving parent/family. </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;">On a purely selfish level, I'm sad that the door to adopting again from Ethiopia seems to be closing. The choice made for me. Although my two amazing babies keep my life VERY full right now, I had always thought that, just maybe, we might head back for #3. Now that possibility seems so slim and I'm grieving for the child that might have been a part of our family. </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;">So, lots of talk, but what can we do? Donate to non-profits like <a href="http://www.ethiopianorphanrelief.org/">Ethiopian Orphan Relief</a> and help make life better for those children that will be affected by these changes the most. Click <a href="https://npo.networkforgood.org/Donate/Donate.aspx?npoSubscriptionId=1000430">here</a> and donate now. </div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697280062810910707.post-45620090556710824582011-03-11T12:02:00.000-08:002011-03-11T12:02:21.188-08:00Complacency<div align="center">Not too long ago (but long enough ago that I'm a wee bit ashamed this post was not written sooner) I attended a panel discussion on transracial adoption. Here is my big admission: I didn't want to go. I mean, I <em>did, </em>but it was a Saturday afternoon, the Buckeyes were playing in a really big game, kids were restless, hubs didn't want me to go either...etc. Thankfully the collective pull of my tribe forced me to change out of my stay-at-home-mom uniform, slap on some make-up, and head out the door to hear what two authors (themselves transracial adoptees) had to say. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">I think a big part of my reluctance to attend was that I didn't want to hear that I wasn't doing enough as a transracial adoptive parent (and a part of me knew that's exactly what I would hear). <em></em>L had been home for 3 years, B for 9 months and I was feeling happy and content with my kids and my mothering. I was right: a big part of the message I took home was that I was <em>definitely </em>not doing enough as a white parent to children of color. Yet I was also wrong: I expected to feel somehow shamed or scolded by the authors' message and I didn't AT ALL. Instead I left feeling inspired, motivated, and proud of the successes I have had in parenting my children of color.</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Both Kevin Hoffman of <u>Growing up In Black and White</u>, and Rhonda Roorda of <u>In Their Own Voices: Transracial Adoptees Tell Their Stories</u> spoke candidly and with surprising humor of their experience as children of color in a white family. The good, the bad, the ugly, and the I-can't-believe-that-actually-happened moments. I haven't the time to write about specifics (alas, naptime is fleeting), but will just speak to the thoughts that ran through my head in the hours/days following the event. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">I had become complacent. I had convinced myself that I was not only doing all the right things, but that there was little left to do. L's hair always looked great, we talk frequently of Ethiopia, she has lots of "brown" friends (L's word for people of color), and so forth. When did I become so focused on her hair? Not sure, but somewhere along the line it became the way I made myself feel like I was doing it "right." Sure I was white, but have you seen my daughter's hair??? What I realized is that while her hair may in fact help her to not stick out from other brown girls as a transracial adoptee, I had completely neglected to provide her with the tools to <em>relate</em> to other brown kids. What happens after the kids look each other oven and decide they all look the same. When the kids start talking about their family life and L can't relate. Doesn't understand because her family is white. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">What became crystal clear to me is that surrounding L and B with other transracially adopted kids (mainly Ethiopian) is great in the sense of them having their own special community where they have friends "just like them," but it is certainly not a substitution for finding friends (their age and mine) that can help them to navigate through life as an <em>African American</em>. I simply cannot provide that for them. In the same way I can never help my son understand what it is to be a man, I can never give my children anecdotal advice on what it is to grow up as a person of color. I can empathize, but I cannot relate. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">It sucks to realize that, as a parent, you can't provide everything your child needs. I hate the fact that I have to go outside our family to parent my kids. But this isn't about me. I came away from that weekend determined to work harder. Reevaluate often the needs of my kids as they grow older. And to never become complacent. </div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08709339836781785046noreply@blogger.com6