Holding Still

these are a few of my favorite...

I got this photo meme from Mrs. Figby, one of my FAVORITE bloggers. It's pictures of 11 everyday things for which you are grateful. She mentioned she found it a bit sappy, but hey, I'm all maple inside, so I'm a-gonna do it. NB -- it goes without saying that I am grateful for Al, so I'll give him a bow out.

The boys, of course. As insane a human being as I have become since our lives began together, I wouldn't have it any other way. Well, maybe I'd change a few things... no, no, I'm just kidding!

My podengo, Chauncey. He is my constant reminder that life is absurd, and I'd better get used to it. Oh, and he's so soft and squishable, too.

Trash, aka, "presents." Cardboard boxes, used tissue paper, shopping bags are all toys for our guys and keep them busy longer than t.v.

Product, as Kayan (sp?) on Queer Eye calls it. I don't use much product, being all natual-like, but I love my Dr. Hauschka.

My sewing machine. It makes me very happy.

My "room of one's own." Never had one before. I've had bedrooms where I've worked, and dining rooms, but never a room just for me, just for working. Virginia was so right.

Jasmine pearl green tea. Mmmm... When I regained my sense of smell after the first stage of my illness, it was the first thing I smelled and tasted. I almost cried. I cry easily, so I guess it's not such a big deal. Whenever I drink it, though, I think of this moment.

Buddha. Won't go into too much detail, but like Chauncey, he reminds me of the impermanence of everything and to lighten up, for buddha's sake!

Stole the view idea from Mrs. Figby, but it's true. I love the view off our porch, even in the dead of winter. Includes the knowledge that the beach is a walk away and Chauncey and the boys have a place to RUN.

Hands. Mine and everyone else's. So useful.

Feet. Same reason as above. Hate to sound goopy, but I had a lot of trouble walking during and immediately after my illness, so the fact that they are still sturdy, though a bit beany (they fall asleep a lot), means a lot. Thanks, feet. Please do not judge me for toe lint. I washed today, really. I just skimp on the feet in the winter months.

I'm sure I'm missing something. Like all my friends and family, rainbows and chickadees. But I think I've narrowed it down. Go ahead, do it yourself, and let me know so I can come see.

food and sex (gender, that is)

I know I have mentioned before about not being prepared despite preparing ourselves for our kids. I'm speaking specifically about "cultural differences" that are discussed in numerous books and by sw's regarding international adoption: "Your child(ren) will suddenly have to deal with brand new smells, sounds, faces, foods, homes, clothing, etc."

We prepared ourselves for rejection by the boys -- I know I would have rejected a "new mommy/daddy" if I were put in a similar situation. One thing I hadn't thought of was, well, sexism. I had met a few boys early in my teaching career who refused to play dress-up -- "that's for girls," or who claimed that boys were better than girls at various activities. But I wasn't prepared for some pretty unusual behaviors exhibited by our older son.

H would become noticeably displeased if I was served food first, or if I received what he perceived to be a larger portion than what he had. When we first met them in Ethiopia, one of the nannies told us that if H wasn't served first, he would leave the table and refuse to eat with the other children. Of course, with all of those kids, there was no way they could (or even wanted to!) indulge this desire. I filed this away with the other anecdotes they shared with us. How H held L's hand all the time when they first arrived, how he helped load all of the younger children into the vans for their numerous visits to court and doctors.

We are aware that the food issues the boys have had everything to do with their early malnourishment -- not knowing when they would eat again, or how much. We guessed (and spoke to other adoptive families) that when food was served at home, there was a hierarchy of who was served first and how much.

So we did serve H first when it was just us, in the beginning. We deviated now and then, either on purpose, to see how he would react, or unconsciously because, hey, we're human! Over time he seemed to feel more secure about being fed regularly and enough, and could wait while we served L first, or Daddy. And sometimes me. But that received scowls. When language came, we could explain that the person serving the food served him/herself last. He and L practiced serving us and themselves, and we took turns, making our gestures and words exaggerated -- "Thank you for the pasta, Mommy! Would you like some, too?"

However, language also brought expressions of discontent. When passing around the parmesan, if I received the bowl first, H might exclaim accusingly "Me no have cheese!" Taking turns was still tough when it came to food. We also realized that if I finished something -- for example, if I took the last meatball -- I would be roundly chided and given angry looks.

A lot of this also has to do with his resistance to me as a mother figure, of course. But his preference for all men, not just Alex, was obvious. We realized that women made him nervous -- he didn't seem to know how to act around them. He was brought up in a male-dominated environment, so that explains a bit. He continuously asked us for corroboration on his theories -- "Boys more smart girls? Boys more faster girls? Boys better cookers girls?"

Needless to say, my American feminist little self was pretty irritated after a while! Our responses that boys and girls were as smart as one another, that girls could be faster than boys, were met with a grimace and a frustrated grunt. Most of this, thank goodness, is dissipating. If H is tired, or especially hungry, it can rear it's head. About a week ago, when there was a bit of food left, Alex asked if I wanted to eat it the next day. It was a tiny portion, not enough for a meal. So I said, "sure, I'll finish it up tomorrow." H had already cleared his plate and was leaving the room. He looked at me. He looked at the food. He asked Al if he could eat it. Of course, we said yes. Would he have done this if Alex had expressed an interest in eating it? Probably not.

I'm not really sure where this post is going. I think I just wanted to put out there something which I didn't expect from a 4 year old. I had read about food issues, but never as it relates to who gets fed how much when, and why.

H is beginning to see that women play a big part in his life, and are in positions of authority over him. His teachers are all women, as are his grandmas. A few of the farmers we see working around us are women. They drive tractors. That blew his mind! Little by little, we're understanding one another.

sinus, snow, etc.

I've been battling a sinus/ear thing, so haven't felt much like posting. As we speak the guys are out sledding somewhere in a neighboring town. We have no hills around here, unless you count the local snooty golf course.

I know those of you in other environs are SICK of snow by now, but this is our first real snowfall, the only one that has stuck. It is the boys' first chance to wear their snow pants and frolic about the yard with Chauncey, the carrot-nose thief. He LOVES snow and seemed even more gleeful than the boys about the snow. He ripped the carrot off Snow Person's face, running teasingly around the yard with it in his mouth. He would throw it into the snow, wait for one of us to try and get it, and then grab it and run some more. And then he ate it.

Snow Person looked like he had just visited Dr. 90210. I only have a picture from before the nose job, since Chauncey decided Snow Person must die. First his head went careening off his middle, then the rest was pounced upon and turned into -- snow.

We all laughed. Except Lire. He takes snow people seriously, and was quite angry with Chauncey for making Snow person "dead." "Chauncey NOT NICE!"

In other news, I am ready for winter break to be over. Even with MIL visiting and spending lots of time with the guys, I think we're all suffering from too much togetherness. Or maybe it's just me.

On the craft side, I'm getting lots done and am contemplating an Etsy shop. Right now I'm making pillows for the boys with cars on them. Lire's has a hotdog car (of course) and Habtam has a red sports car (double of course). They picked out the cars, and some of the fabric. However, I had to resort to agreeing with Lire in the first place -- "great fabric, Lire" -- and then making a switch with something more appropriate. He doesn't seem to mind and told me "It's ok, Mommy, Lire like." Phew!

I'll try to muster a deeper post in the future. I've been thinking deep thoughts, don't get me wrong! I'm just feeling exhausted by this ear/sinus thing and have been feeling awfully sorry for myself. I feel like the sick little kid whose friends can go out and play while she stays in and watches them from the window. Wah!!

*Note that Chauncey is "laughing."

Review

I tucked myself into bed, excited to read a new book, loving memoirs, yet -- terrified.

I needed to read and review a memoir for Mothertalk -- The Sky isn't Visible From Here, by Felicia Sullivan.

I have a way of absorbing books into my pores so that they occupy my mind for much of the day. Or night, if I read before bed. I began reading, and I had to put it down. Oh man, I wasn't ready for the pain, or the descriptions of drug use, the loneliness seeping out of the pages. I waited until the next day when I was feeling stronger. After my first read, I was sucked in and finished it in a few days.

I am definitely squeamish about drug use, maybe it's a past life thing, or maybe it's what I described above. The loneliness and pain that drive someone to use. Sullivan gives us an intimate look into her life growing up in Brooklyn and Long Island in the 1980's as her mother sank into cocaine addiction. She relays between this time (between the ages of 10 and 22) to her times as a successful working woman in the 2000's, who is also a heavy user of cocaine and alcohol. "I'm not my mother," is a phrase I know I've thought a number of times, and I assume I'm not alone here. Sullivan repeats this mantra to herself over the years. She totally transforms herself in college, disguising her history, creating a new persona that she feels will be more palatable to her more privileged classmates in college. "I am not my mother."

Well, she becomes more like her mother than she'd like, unfortunately, and we read as she tries to confront her true self, who her mother was, and who and what family is. Definitely a tough read, but an amazingly written memoir. It's also interesting because it addresses what one needs in a mother, and how sadly her mom was lacking in much of it. I lucked into hearing an interview with Felicia Sullivan on a local radio station, and was struck by how she admitted that yes, she was an addict like her mother. But she realized that the way she was living was a good way to die, not a good way to live. Her mom never did.

If you like memoirs and can stomach the intense pain and descriptions of drug use, most definitely give it a read. Even if you have never used, don't have as conflicted a relationship with your mom, anyone can recognize in oneself the need for love and the search for identity that Sullivan addresses.

I also recommend checking out her blog, and though I haven't read them yet, some interviews.

sweetest hangover

Aftermath of a birthday party with pony rides. Story at 11.

BE MY VALENTINE -- or else

Happy V-Day, everyone. We're not big celebrators here, though I do always try to pick up some sweets for my sweetie and make a card. This morning when presented with his sponge-painted card he bewailed, "I've only got love to give!" That's enough for me, baby!

I brought the boys to school today, realizing Alex had no idea of what this entailed. Upon entering H's classroom, we were inundated with classmates singing "Happy Valentine's Day!" Small hands grasped tiny cards, thrust enthusiastically into Habtamu's face. He was totally bewildered.

Thankfully, his teacher helped H to distribute his glittery cards to everyone's mailbox. Even if I had wanted to stay I couldn't, since I was being pulled across the hall by Musso-Lire to the beat of "Lire room, Lire room!" In Lire's class each student had his/her own Valentine Bag in which to receive cards and goodies (why, why so much cheap candy?). I helped L to i.d. the names and deliver the corresponding Valentines. This is totally up Lire's alley. To the Max, as I used to say when I wore shoulder pads and a lavendar Members Only jacket. Lire LOVES putting things into boxes and bags. Every. Day. I remember reading on Dooce about her daughter's love of trash, and when I met Lire, I realized of what she spoke. Lire collects magazine and newspaper inserts, "fragile" tape from cardboard boxes, rubber bands, twist-ties, magic marker caps...

He very carefully inserts these treasures into small plastic bags, ties them with the ties and rubber bands and then encloses them into small boxes. These are put into slightly larger boxes, which are put into bigger boxes... you get the picture. These are all "presents" for various members of the family, and are placed strategically around the house, ripe for tripping distracted parents and overexcited podengos.

The seriousness with which he completed this task -- delivering Valentines -- was something to behold. Lips pursed, standing on tip-toes, eyes roving the colorfully-decorated bags. He almost took out the mother of one of his classmates in his zeal.

When he was finished he sat RIGHT next to his teacher (as is his custom), clasped his little hands before him and awaited further instruction.

This was a day for the books.

quilts and hearts

Craft-wise, I've been really busy with quilting. After finishing the two heart quilts for a friend, I started a crazy-quilt and got the top done, and am almost finished with a small quilt for another friend who had a little girl.

Today the boys and I started on their Valentine's cards for their friends at school. I cut heart shapes out of regular sponges and showed the boys how to dip them into the paint (red, of course), and use them like stamps. They practiced a bit on scraps of paper, and when they showed their heart-making proficiency, we moved on to the real deal. I cut bristol board (white) into 4 x 4 inch pieces and they stamped their hearts out (sorry for the pun).

Tomorrow we're planning on outlining the hearts with black marker, which I think will give it all a nice effect. Pictures posted below of hearts, heart-makers, and almost finished quilts.

filler

While I wait for some ideas to gel, more festival pics:

Coming soon: Some new books we discovered at the library, first family musings, and MORE CRAFT!

face painters

rainbow day 2

I've been calling days "Mostly Good" when there are steps backwards in our attachment as a family, but more than just a couple limps forward. Generally those are good days with one or two blow-ups from one of us. Mostly Good. The days which are wonderful and happy and make us recognize that we LOVE our family better than anything. Well, those have been named Rainbow Days by wee Lire.

Nothing spectacular happened yesterday. Lire was still napping (he is a powerful napper -- we think that's why he's so happy) and Habtam and I were hanging out and having tea and milk. We were also sharing crusty bread with peanut butter and jelly. I can't remember how it came up, but he wanted to know all about how Alex and I came to Ethiopia -- did we come more than once, where were he and Lire, etc. So I went over the story of how we first got a photograph of them and were asked if we would be their parents -- "Yes!" squealed Habtamu. How we traveled for a long time to get to Ethiopia. How we met them at Horizon House and played with balls and bubbles. How they cried when we would leave for the day and then how they cried when they spent the night with us. How we all took a big airplane to the US and a long car ride to their new house.

Then I started telling him about the types of things he and Lire got into when they first arrived. EVERYTHING! Gas was turned off and on, child-proof cabinet latches were laughed at and household cleaners were sprayed, lights were turned on and off and on and off and on and off and ...

Toilets were filled to the brim with toilet paper and flushed. And backed up. And flushed again so that they would overflow. Mmmm...

A dryer was broken, a lightbulb exploded, pillows and blankets were cut by children's scissors -- we never knew how well those scissors could cut!

As I told the stories, gesticulating and exaggerating my and Alex's reactions, Habtamu laughed and laughed.

"Oh, Mommy! Too funny!"

It actually IS funny now. But at the time, OY! Keeping up with Habtamu and Lire the Destroyers was not an easy task.

H and I spent the next hour tracing letters and coloring them in with markers.

H: Mommy?

Me: Mmm?

H: Makes the sign for "beautiful" and points to me.

It was a Rainbow Day.