A few weeks ago we had an impromptu picnic. The days for picnicking are growing short here in northern New England, and one of my older daughters suggested we pack a lunch and head to the park. We pulled out the old wicker basket and filled it with our picnic standbys - good, crusty bread, a few cheeses, fruit and drinks. There was still a sandy blanket in the back of the van which had never been unpacked after the trip to the beach two weeks earlier, so we were all set. The evening was surprisingly warm; we'd had enough chilly nights so far that I had pulled all the fans out of the windows, though I had not carted them up to the attic yet since Indian Summer was still around the corner. A late crop of mosquitoes annoyed us and some suspicious-looking red ants swarmed one daughter's flip flops, but the picnic was still a success - much better than eating indoors while the light still lingered till 7 and the trees were just beginning to drop coy hints about the colors they would wear this fall.
Heading home from the "penguin" - Lily couldn't keep the word "picnic" in her mind - my smallest daughter began reciting a litany of all the things she was not going to do the next day. She still uses the Amharic structure for negatives, putting the "not" or "no" after the verb.
"In the morning I take Ivy's candy, no. I touch Ivy's things, no. I hide things from Mommy, no. I squeeze kittens, no." She was so earnest and adamant about her intentions. She repeated her vows several times, going to great lengths to explain when these things would take place, "Tonight brush teeth, go to bed, sleep, wake up, have breakfast, then." I was touched by her resolve, by her remembrance of all the sins she had committed today. I was also reminded of my own resolutions, of all the things I have promised myself and God, over and over, not to do again tomorrow, or ever.
I complain, no. I want what everyone else has, no. I judge other people, no. I worry, no. I get impatient with my children, no. I think I am usually right, no. I overeat, no. I forget the log in my own eye, no. I gossip, no. I feel too wise to have the faith of a child, no.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Saturday, September 17, 2011
What I remember most
Today is C's 21st birthday. She is on the other side of the world this birthday, like she was for the last, as well. Different country, but equally foreign and faraway. We tried to skype with her today, but she didn't pick up. I hope she is out with some new friends. I hope someone there knows it's her birthday. Her siblings decided to make some silly birthday videos for her and asked me to make one, as well. My first idea involved stuffing a pillow under my shirt, going for the pre-natal look. My eldest daughter laughed at me and said, "Oh Mom, that's what you always think of on any of your children's birthdays!"
Of course she's right. And why wouldn't I? Doesn't every mother? Don't we all wake on our children's birthdays remembering the morning they were born? Don't we all compare today's weather with the weather on that first day? Isn't every mother more conscious of the passing hours that day, remembering what was happening throughout the day? Doesn't every mother divide the day into the time before and after the child arrived? Maybe not; I don't think I've ever asked anyone else if they do.
But I do. I love celebrating my children's birthdays; I love decorating the cake and finding the gifts that will make them smile. But I always feel as if I am harboring a secret that day, conscious of the fact that I am the one who remembers the occasion we are commemorating, not them. Their actual birth days are immortalized in my memories, not theirs. On this day they are characters in my story as much as in their own. It's a funny thing.
So today I recalled the events of September 17, 1990. I remembered how I felt when I woke that morning in the hospital after the previous night's stalled labor. I remember my husband deciding it was OK to go in to the office, only to be called back a half hour later. I remember my closest friend, two months away from her own first delivery, sitting patiently with me after sleeping all night in a chair. I remember the doctor's tactless words, "by hook or by crook", before he left to do someone else's C-section, and the nurse's gentler manner. I remember my fears for this baby's condition and my determination to avoid any interventions. I remember how quickly she arrived and how quickly she was whisked away to be examined by the high risk pediatric specialist. I remember my relief when she was placed in my arms a short time later and how marvelous I felt after such a quick labor and delivery.
I remember, too, that one of the best parts of any sweet experience is recalling it later, taking the memories out and turning them over, looking at them again and trying to recapture the feelings that left me breathless at the moment. But I know, also, that memory is fragile in its malleability, that looking too closely or talking too often about an event can alter its shape. I call to mind Annie Dillard's caution to the memoirest - that if you really want to keep your memories, you should be wary of writing them down because they will become the words you have used to describe them.
So I only revive these memories occasionally, taking care to refresh them gently and somewhat cautiously. I handle them gingerly, trying not to look directly at them, to examine them too closely. I recount the story in its outline only, letting the details swirl about, coloring my recollection. But I don't try to pin everything down in black and white. I allow for some mistiness around the edges. I don't want to lose the wonder of that lovely, lovely day.
Of course she's right. And why wouldn't I? Doesn't every mother? Don't we all wake on our children's birthdays remembering the morning they were born? Don't we all compare today's weather with the weather on that first day? Isn't every mother more conscious of the passing hours that day, remembering what was happening throughout the day? Doesn't every mother divide the day into the time before and after the child arrived? Maybe not; I don't think I've ever asked anyone else if they do.
But I do. I love celebrating my children's birthdays; I love decorating the cake and finding the gifts that will make them smile. But I always feel as if I am harboring a secret that day, conscious of the fact that I am the one who remembers the occasion we are commemorating, not them. Their actual birth days are immortalized in my memories, not theirs. On this day they are characters in my story as much as in their own. It's a funny thing.
So today I recalled the events of September 17, 1990. I remembered how I felt when I woke that morning in the hospital after the previous night's stalled labor. I remember my husband deciding it was OK to go in to the office, only to be called back a half hour later. I remember my closest friend, two months away from her own first delivery, sitting patiently with me after sleeping all night in a chair. I remember the doctor's tactless words, "by hook or by crook", before he left to do someone else's C-section, and the nurse's gentler manner. I remember my fears for this baby's condition and my determination to avoid any interventions. I remember how quickly she arrived and how quickly she was whisked away to be examined by the high risk pediatric specialist. I remember my relief when she was placed in my arms a short time later and how marvelous I felt after such a quick labor and delivery.
I remember, too, that one of the best parts of any sweet experience is recalling it later, taking the memories out and turning them over, looking at them again and trying to recapture the feelings that left me breathless at the moment. But I know, also, that memory is fragile in its malleability, that looking too closely or talking too often about an event can alter its shape. I call to mind Annie Dillard's caution to the memoirest - that if you really want to keep your memories, you should be wary of writing them down because they will become the words you have used to describe them.
So I only revive these memories occasionally, taking care to refresh them gently and somewhat cautiously. I handle them gingerly, trying not to look directly at them, to examine them too closely. I recount the story in its outline only, letting the details swirl about, coloring my recollection. But I don't try to pin everything down in black and white. I allow for some mistiness around the edges. I don't want to lose the wonder of that lovely, lovely day.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Too Many Daves
Did I ever tell you that Mrs. McCave
Had twenty-three sons and she named them all Dave?
Well, she did. And that wasn't a smart thing to do.
You see, when she wants one and calls out, "Yoo-Hoo!
Come into the house, Dave!" she doesn't get one.
All twenty-three Daves of hers come on the run!
This makes things quite difficult at the McCaves'
As you can imagine, with so many Daves.
And often she wishes that, when they were born,
She had named one of them Bodkin Van Horn
And one of them Hoos-Foos. And one of them Snimm.
And one of them Hot-Shot. And one Sunny Jim.
And one of them Shadrack. And one of them Blinkey.
And one of them Stuffy. And one of them Stinkey.
Another one Putt-Putt. Another one Moon Face.
Another one Marvin O'Gravel Balloon Face.
And one of them Ziggy. And one Soggy Muff.
One Buffalo Bill. And one Biffalo Buff.
And one of them Sneepy. And one Weepy Weed.
And one Paris Garters. And one Harris Tweed.
And one of them Sir Michael Carmichael Zutt
And one of them Oliver Boliver Butt
And one of them Zanzibar Buck-Buck McFate ...
But she didn't do it. And now it's too late.
-Theodor Geisel
Had twenty-three sons and she named them all Dave?
Well, she did. And that wasn't a smart thing to do.
You see, when she wants one and calls out, "Yoo-Hoo!
Come into the house, Dave!" she doesn't get one.
All twenty-three Daves of hers come on the run!
This makes things quite difficult at the McCaves'
As you can imagine, with so many Daves.
And often she wishes that, when they were born,
She had named one of them Bodkin Van Horn
And one of them Hoos-Foos. And one of them Snimm.
And one of them Hot-Shot. And one Sunny Jim.
And one of them Shadrack. And one of them Blinkey.
And one of them Stuffy. And one of them Stinkey.
Another one Putt-Putt. Another one Moon Face.
Another one Marvin O'Gravel Balloon Face.
And one of them Ziggy. And one Soggy Muff.
One Buffalo Bill. And one Biffalo Buff.
And one of them Sneepy. And one Weepy Weed.
And one Paris Garters. And one Harris Tweed.
And one of them Sir Michael Carmichael Zutt
And one of them Oliver Boliver Butt
And one of them Zanzibar Buck-Buck McFate ...
But she didn't do it. And now it's too late.
-Theodor Geisel
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Two too many Kevins
Our two Ethiopian daughters came with indeterminate birthdates. Their birth mother did not even make a guess at their ages, leaving the choice of dates and ages up to the social worker who did the initial orphanage intake interview. The girls' birthdates were chosen with some thought, and then also some randomness. Unable to ask the mother if she remembered even what season they were born in - Ethiopia's tourist slogan is "Thirteen months of sunshine," and every day does seem like the one before - the social worker presumably picked a month and day out of a hat. Amazingly, he chose a date already on my calendar as my fourth daughter's birthday for G's big day. A just missed our third daughter's birthday by two days. With 365 days to choose from, does that seem a bit odd?
The girls also came home with us saddled with strange names - not their first, given Ethiopian names, but their middle names. The adoption process in Addis Ababa dictates that all adopted children are given their father's first name as their middle name. So we have two little girls named A and G Kevin Horner-Richardson. We had never planned on changing our daughters' first names: they were chosen by their Ethiopian mother and both have beautiful meanings, but we found ourselves forced into choosing new middle names (unless we wanted them to go through life with the middle name Kevin). We did not realize at first that we had to choose their new names within 30 days of arriving home. Fortunately I finally read the fine print in our Welcome Home Instructions 26 days after we arrived back.
Feeling like we did when it was time to leave the hospital when we had not yet settled on a name, we tried our several in quick succession. We wondered if the girls had a preference - they certainly have strong opinions about most other aspects of life, we reasoned. "G," we said, "do you like Rachel or Rebekah?"
"What?" she asked, screwing up her face, twisting her neck and peering at us through the lower left corner of her eye like she sometimes does. I think she thought we were asking her about what she wanted for dinner, or which outfit she wanted to wear but she didn't recognize any of the choices.
"Names" we said brightly, wondering how to mime the concept, "Your American names." We ran through each of our own names, pouncing on the MIDDLE name each time, to try to make the point that in America we all have THREE names, but she thought we wanted to hear her Ethiopian last name, the one name we were not considering. We tried asking again what she thought of several possible names, but she just shook her head and began to look disinterested. At one point she laughed, and we wondered how we would know if a name we innocently chose might sound like something offensive in Amharic - which we never figured out.
So, we filled out the paperwork at the last minute with the names G Rachel and A Lily, followed by the ponderous Horner-Richardson. We don't know when, if ever, the girls will use those names. We wanted to give them the option of a name, should they ever want one, that does not make their softball coach ask what gender they are. (That happened this week.) They may never choose to be known by any name but the one they were christened with at the church in Woliso, Ethiopia, but this naming seems to be one more step in the adoption dance which we are clumsily trying to learn.
The girls also came home with us saddled with strange names - not their first, given Ethiopian names, but their middle names. The adoption process in Addis Ababa dictates that all adopted children are given their father's first name as their middle name. So we have two little girls named A and G Kevin Horner-Richardson. We had never planned on changing our daughters' first names: they were chosen by their Ethiopian mother and both have beautiful meanings, but we found ourselves forced into choosing new middle names (unless we wanted them to go through life with the middle name Kevin). We did not realize at first that we had to choose their new names within 30 days of arriving home. Fortunately I finally read the fine print in our Welcome Home Instructions 26 days after we arrived back.
Feeling like we did when it was time to leave the hospital when we had not yet settled on a name, we tried our several in quick succession. We wondered if the girls had a preference - they certainly have strong opinions about most other aspects of life, we reasoned. "G," we said, "do you like Rachel or Rebekah?"
"What?" she asked, screwing up her face, twisting her neck and peering at us through the lower left corner of her eye like she sometimes does. I think she thought we were asking her about what she wanted for dinner, or which outfit she wanted to wear but she didn't recognize any of the choices.
"Names" we said brightly, wondering how to mime the concept, "Your American names." We ran through each of our own names, pouncing on the MIDDLE name each time, to try to make the point that in America we all have THREE names, but she thought we wanted to hear her Ethiopian last name, the one name we were not considering. We tried asking again what she thought of several possible names, but she just shook her head and began to look disinterested. At one point she laughed, and we wondered how we would know if a name we innocently chose might sound like something offensive in Amharic - which we never figured out.
So, we filled out the paperwork at the last minute with the names G Rachel and A Lily, followed by the ponderous Horner-Richardson. We don't know when, if ever, the girls will use those names. We wanted to give them the option of a name, should they ever want one, that does not make their softball coach ask what gender they are. (That happened this week.) They may never choose to be known by any name but the one they were christened with at the church in Woliso, Ethiopia, but this naming seems to be one more step in the adoption dance which we are clumsily trying to learn.
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
Are we having fun yet?
I was a melancholy baby from day one, I bet. I've never asked my mom what my infant temperament was like, and I'm smiling in the old Olan Mills studio prints still hanging on some wall somewhere, but as far back as I can remember I've been looking at a half-empty glass and wishing it were half-full. I've always been singing the blues in my heart of hearts. And I know most of my writing reflects that.
So I'm happy to report that in spite of my perpetual angst, there is a lot of giggling going on in my house these days. Although my newest daughters are around 5 and 7 years old, they are babes in the woods - the New England woods - when it comes to American life. It's so much fun to see so many firsts again - the kind of events I remember from my older children's toddler days. So far I have witnessed the first bubble bath, the first king-sized bed (which is not, unfortunately, in my bedroom), the first escalator, the first plane ride, the first leotard, the first tights, the first snow and the first trampoline. Not to mention the first pizza, the first yogurt, the first Ritz crackers and the first cheerios. There have been so many first foods that the first question our youngest asks about anything she's never seen before is "Eating??" A rubber ball, a cupcake liner, a die from a game, a tube of face cream - "Eating, Mum? Eating?" she asks with an inquisitive look.
Another word we hear often is "mechina," car. These girls love nothing more than to ride in the car. Anytime anyone reaches for the car keys or mentions the word "car" they are rushing for their coats and shoes. I never thought anyone would love the car more than our poodle, but I was wrong. With their limited English, and my limited Amharic, (we both know food and potty words in each others' language), our conversations often consist of strings of single words. Bedtime conversation often runs like this: "Mum, sleep, good morning, eat, clothes, brush teeth, mechina, anh?" To which I reply, "Sleep, good morning, eat, clothes, brush teeth, play, lunch, THEN mechina." So we understand each other.
Of course, I hear the word "no" frequently - though probably not nearly as often as they hear it! Abonesh has a very serious little face and she usually accompanies her earnest "no" with a finger shaking back and forth. She will indicate the food, the toy, the activity I've proposed and very seriously shake her finger in my face saying "Abonesh, no." Gudinesh has more language at her disposal, and is likely to offer an animated diatribe in Amharic before she emphatically states, "This, Gudinesh, no."
They are as fierce as any revolutionary when it comes to equality. Everything must be measured and counted. If Abonesh has found a pair of socks in her drawer which have not yet been worn, Gudinesh calls them to my attention immediately, and demands a new pair, too. If Abonesh has had two hard-boiled eggs and Gudinesh is still eating her first I must NOT offer a third to Abonesh - no matter how many more eggs are left. I have to count out the Ritz crackers and measure the peanuts, tea mugs must be identical or there will be hell to pay. I'm getting the hang of the Bobbsey Twins routine, however, and don't make nearly as many faux pas as I did the first weeks.
They love to sing. The Ethiopian national anthem, the names of their sisters and brothers, Frere Jacques with unintelligible words, "America the Beautiful" which they've probably heard once, they sing them all. Any time they are happy or content they begin singing whatever comes to mind. One will start a repetitive little tune, and soon the other will join in. We drove two hours last weekend to visit their older brother and sister; for at least half the trip Abonesh was happily singing, "Ransom, Casey, Anna" to a little tune she'd made up. Gudinesh joined in as well. More music in the house (or the car) is definitely a good thing.
I even think it's a good sign that they now feel free to beg for things in the store. The first weeks home they never asked for anything, but now they beg for frozen pizza, chocolate milk, shoes, hair ornaments, books they cannot read, jewlery and balloons. Gudinesh shamelessly hugs me and says, "Mommy I love you," when she especially wants something. How gullible does she think I am?? The frozen food case makes them squeal when they open the door, they still get a kick out of the electric eye doors at the grocery store. Even though Gudinesh feels too old for many things, she loves riding in the grocery cart. Her legs are so long we couldn't figure out how to get her out the first time, but now we've got a method.
I still ask myself several times a day, "Am I glad we did this?" "Am I so tired because I'm just too old for this?" "Will this ever feel normal?" So I'm especially grateful for the moments when we all just laugh together and marvel at how amazing it is that we should be here together at all.
So I'm happy to report that in spite of my perpetual angst, there is a lot of giggling going on in my house these days. Although my newest daughters are around 5 and 7 years old, they are babes in the woods - the New England woods - when it comes to American life. It's so much fun to see so many firsts again - the kind of events I remember from my older children's toddler days. So far I have witnessed the first bubble bath, the first king-sized bed (which is not, unfortunately, in my bedroom), the first escalator, the first plane ride, the first leotard, the first tights, the first snow and the first trampoline. Not to mention the first pizza, the first yogurt, the first Ritz crackers and the first cheerios. There have been so many first foods that the first question our youngest asks about anything she's never seen before is "Eating??" A rubber ball, a cupcake liner, a die from a game, a tube of face cream - "Eating, Mum? Eating?" she asks with an inquisitive look.
Another word we hear often is "mechina," car. These girls love nothing more than to ride in the car. Anytime anyone reaches for the car keys or mentions the word "car" they are rushing for their coats and shoes. I never thought anyone would love the car more than our poodle, but I was wrong. With their limited English, and my limited Amharic, (we both know food and potty words in each others' language), our conversations often consist of strings of single words. Bedtime conversation often runs like this: "Mum, sleep, good morning, eat, clothes, brush teeth, mechina, anh?" To which I reply, "Sleep, good morning, eat, clothes, brush teeth, play, lunch, THEN mechina." So we understand each other.
Of course, I hear the word "no" frequently - though probably not nearly as often as they hear it! Abonesh has a very serious little face and she usually accompanies her earnest "no" with a finger shaking back and forth. She will indicate the food, the toy, the activity I've proposed and very seriously shake her finger in my face saying "Abonesh, no." Gudinesh has more language at her disposal, and is likely to offer an animated diatribe in Amharic before she emphatically states, "This, Gudinesh, no."
They are as fierce as any revolutionary when it comes to equality. Everything must be measured and counted. If Abonesh has found a pair of socks in her drawer which have not yet been worn, Gudinesh calls them to my attention immediately, and demands a new pair, too. If Abonesh has had two hard-boiled eggs and Gudinesh is still eating her first I must NOT offer a third to Abonesh - no matter how many more eggs are left. I have to count out the Ritz crackers and measure the peanuts, tea mugs must be identical or there will be hell to pay. I'm getting the hang of the Bobbsey Twins routine, however, and don't make nearly as many faux pas as I did the first weeks.
They love to sing. The Ethiopian national anthem, the names of their sisters and brothers, Frere Jacques with unintelligible words, "America the Beautiful" which they've probably heard once, they sing them all. Any time they are happy or content they begin singing whatever comes to mind. One will start a repetitive little tune, and soon the other will join in. We drove two hours last weekend to visit their older brother and sister; for at least half the trip Abonesh was happily singing, "Ransom, Casey, Anna" to a little tune she'd made up. Gudinesh joined in as well. More music in the house (or the car) is definitely a good thing.
I even think it's a good sign that they now feel free to beg for things in the store. The first weeks home they never asked for anything, but now they beg for frozen pizza, chocolate milk, shoes, hair ornaments, books they cannot read, jewlery and balloons. Gudinesh shamelessly hugs me and says, "Mommy I love you," when she especially wants something. How gullible does she think I am?? The frozen food case makes them squeal when they open the door, they still get a kick out of the electric eye doors at the grocery store. Even though Gudinesh feels too old for many things, she loves riding in the grocery cart. Her legs are so long we couldn't figure out how to get her out the first time, but now we've got a method.
I still ask myself several times a day, "Am I glad we did this?" "Am I so tired because I'm just too old for this?" "Will this ever feel normal?" So I'm especially grateful for the moments when we all just laugh together and marvel at how amazing it is that we should be here together at all.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Things I don't want my social worker to see
One of the things one we have acquired through the adoption process, in addition to two new daughters, is a social worker. Case worker sounds nicer, but in my mind I always use the more ominous sounding term. Even though my eldest daughter is about to become one, the word still strikes fear in my freedom loving, homeschooling heart. This morning as I stumbled into the kitchen in search of morning coffee I began a mental list of things I would never want the SW to see.
1. Three empty wine bottles on the kitchen table at 7 AM.
2. What I was wearing when a child climbed into my bed at 4 AM.
3. The outfits my new daughters choose most every morning. I try to edit their clothing before we go out in public, butI don't always remember.
4. My kitchen floor, an hour after it has been swept for the fifth time today. I'm not kidding.
5. The pile of laundry in my bathroom.
6. The number of hard-boiled eggs, bananas and oranges we consume every day. The resulting compost pile on the kitchen counter.
7. How slowly our computer is running since our new daughters have pressed every button and flipped every switch in sight.
8. The way the girls shreiked when they saw their older brother with coconut halves taped under his shirt.
9.The four large lizards we are babysitting for the rest of the semeste
10. The candy I bribed the girls with at the hospital blood lab.
1. Three empty wine bottles on the kitchen table at 7 AM.
2. What I was wearing when a child climbed into my bed at 4 AM.
3. The outfits my new daughters choose most every morning. I try to edit their clothing before we go out in public, butI don't always remember.
4. My kitchen floor, an hour after it has been swept for the fifth time today. I'm not kidding.
5. The pile of laundry in my bathroom.
6. The number of hard-boiled eggs, bananas and oranges we consume every day. The resulting compost pile on the kitchen counter.
7. How slowly our computer is running since our new daughters have pressed every button and flipped every switch in sight.
8. The way the girls shreiked when they saw their older brother with coconut halves taped under his shirt.
9.The four large lizards we are babysitting for the rest of the semeste
10. The candy I bribed the girls with at the hospital blood lab.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
"Clothes, Mum!"
G got up the other morning with a grumpy face and a demeanor to match. As soon as I came out in the hallway she met me, frowning and muttering, "Clothes, Mum, clothes." She was still wearing her pajama shirt though she had changed her pants; She was clearly unhappy about something.
She led me into her room and opened her middle drawer - the one with the tiny little colored shirt taped on the front, and swept the back of her hand dismissively across the pile of clean shirts - there were probably at least a dozen. "No, Mum," she grumbled, then more insistently, "Clothes!"
At first I tried to interest her in one of the shirts, lifting off the top ones to see if there might be one hidden beneath that was more acceptable, but she continued frowning and whining and writhing about until her little sister entered the room, dressed in a summer outfit I'd picked up on a whim at Walmart yesterday. Then I realized she wanted to wear the matching outfit I'd bought for her.
I stifled a sigh, thinking of how many choices she had, she who just three weeks ago owned nothing. (A friend who adopted at the same time told me she'd acutally been asked by someone if her child came with clothes or was he naked!) G did not come home naked, but she did come wearing one of the many outfits I had brought to Ethiopia for her, since all the clothing in the orphanage was communally owned. Today she had a dresser full of clothing, most of it much more appropriate than the summery, sleeveless shirt she wanted on this 35 degree March morning.
It's hard to blame her - she's just a child. She even had the grace to thank me when I produced the outfit she was looking for from the corner where it had been dropped the night before. But I couldn't help thinking about my own frequent grunbling over the contents of the drawers God has filled for me. Like G, I have nothing outside His gifts to me, but I am so often discontent with the choices I have. I want someone else's talents, someone else's job, someone else's looks, someone else's life. Although I know that "godliness with contentment is great gain," I often don't choose to be content.
I have a restless heart. I don't know if I inherited it with my DNA - my dad changed jobs often and I have heard my mother described as restless - or if I inherited it from Adam, who also was not content with the choices he was given in Eden. Even as I hope to teach my daughters gratitude and contentment, I hope to train my own heart to be more content with what I have received from my good Father.
She led me into her room and opened her middle drawer - the one with the tiny little colored shirt taped on the front, and swept the back of her hand dismissively across the pile of clean shirts - there were probably at least a dozen. "No, Mum," she grumbled, then more insistently, "Clothes!"
At first I tried to interest her in one of the shirts, lifting off the top ones to see if there might be one hidden beneath that was more acceptable, but she continued frowning and whining and writhing about until her little sister entered the room, dressed in a summer outfit I'd picked up on a whim at Walmart yesterday. Then I realized she wanted to wear the matching outfit I'd bought for her.
I stifled a sigh, thinking of how many choices she had, she who just three weeks ago owned nothing. (A friend who adopted at the same time told me she'd acutally been asked by someone if her child came with clothes or was he naked!) G did not come home naked, but she did come wearing one of the many outfits I had brought to Ethiopia for her, since all the clothing in the orphanage was communally owned. Today she had a dresser full of clothing, most of it much more appropriate than the summery, sleeveless shirt she wanted on this 35 degree March morning.
It's hard to blame her - she's just a child. She even had the grace to thank me when I produced the outfit she was looking for from the corner where it had been dropped the night before. But I couldn't help thinking about my own frequent grunbling over the contents of the drawers God has filled for me. Like G, I have nothing outside His gifts to me, but I am so often discontent with the choices I have. I want someone else's talents, someone else's job, someone else's looks, someone else's life. Although I know that "godliness with contentment is great gain," I often don't choose to be content.
I have a restless heart. I don't know if I inherited it with my DNA - my dad changed jobs often and I have heard my mother described as restless - or if I inherited it from Adam, who also was not content with the choices he was given in Eden. Even as I hope to teach my daughters gratitude and contentment, I hope to train my own heart to be more content with what I have received from my good Father.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
A Moment in Time
I am sitting in the dark in a rocking chair next to a bunkbed. Across the room an old mantel still presides over a closed-up fireplace, one of five in our house that feed into a massive central chimney. Our home is built in a style called center-chimney colonial, common in 18th century northern New England. The blond wood bunkbed came from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, purchased from a missionary family who used it for their own children but decided not to move it home at the end of theirten year stay in Asia. They were moving back to the states while we were moving to Malaysia, so we bought some of their furniture and adopted their cat. We used the beds for two years there, and decided we would ship them home to the US when we returned. The children sleeping in the bunkbed were born in Woliso, Ethiopia. We brought them home with us just two weeks ago. The rocking chair belonged to my mother-in-law from Ohio.
I am amazed at how much diverse history and culture have come together in this one, small room. The builders of this house may have never heard of Ethiopia or Malaysia, the Malaysian craftsmen who made the bed and dressers have probably never seen a house that looks like this one. The Ethiopian mother of the children sleeping (actually not sleeping) in the bed has never lived in a house with running water or electricity, has never seen snow or imagined central heat. The children have no notion of the age of the house; they probably think every house in America has big, drafty windows with 24 panes of glass and splintery stairs that creak. The whole combination is bizarre.
But it is all part of a grand plan. The house was built to serve many purposes; one of them,unbeknownst to the craftsmen who built it,was to shelter our family 200 years after the foundation was laid in ancient granite. The used furniture ad on the internet served to provide us not only with bunkbeds, but with a friendship that now extends to the Middle East. When we brought the bunkbed home with us just three years ago we had no idea that we'd be putting two little African girls to sleep in it. My mother-in-law passed away less than two years ago, without ever knowing about the granddaughters who would be rocked to sleep in her lovely, caned chair. The pattern is a mystery to me, I who am merely a thread in a complex design that spans centuries and cultures, encompassing people and places and objects and time. Still, it comforts me as I sit here in the dark, to know an Intention greater and wiser than my own is at work in this room.
I am amazed at how much diverse history and culture have come together in this one, small room. The builders of this house may have never heard of Ethiopia or Malaysia, the Malaysian craftsmen who made the bed and dressers have probably never seen a house that looks like this one. The Ethiopian mother of the children sleeping (actually not sleeping) in the bed has never lived in a house with running water or electricity, has never seen snow or imagined central heat. The children have no notion of the age of the house; they probably think every house in America has big, drafty windows with 24 panes of glass and splintery stairs that creak. The whole combination is bizarre.
But it is all part of a grand plan. The house was built to serve many purposes; one of them,unbeknownst to the craftsmen who built it,was to shelter our family 200 years after the foundation was laid in ancient granite. The used furniture ad on the internet served to provide us not only with bunkbeds, but with a friendship that now extends to the Middle East. When we brought the bunkbed home with us just three years ago we had no idea that we'd be putting two little African girls to sleep in it. My mother-in-law passed away less than two years ago, without ever knowing about the granddaughters who would be rocked to sleep in her lovely, caned chair. The pattern is a mystery to me, I who am merely a thread in a complex design that spans centuries and cultures, encompassing people and places and objects and time. Still, it comforts me as I sit here in the dark, to know an Intention greater and wiser than my own is at work in this room.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Night and Day
Tomorrow marks two weeks home with G and A. This time two weeks ago we were somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. I can't remember much of anything about last week, but today was a really good day, in stark contrast to last evening. The girls were awake late last night - we had gone over to their cousins' house for dinner about 5:30. We didn't leave till 7:30 after two hours of horsing around with 14 year old J and then just racing around while the grownups drank coffee and attempted conversation. By the time we got into the driveway G was stormy and stubborn and refused to leave the car unless I carried her. Since I was already carrying her sister, this was not an entirely reasonable request. To top it off, the dog had pushed open the backdoor while we were gone and run away, so K had to head out immediately to hunt him down, while I tried to get the two little ones up to bed.
I probably should not admit to this online, but when I finally carried G into the house, moaning loudly like some kind of miserable ambulance, I smacked her bottom and told her she'd better cut it out. I have never been much of a spanker, and I signed a solemn vow that I would never use corporal punishment on my adopted children, but my ancient mommy instincts were just too strong. As soon as I did it, I felt like a criminal. My first thought was that she didn't speak enough English to report me, but I remembered how good she is at miming things, and how easy to mime "angry Mommy striking helpless child" would be. Then, too, as she howled in my ear, I just knew she'd learn how to say "child abuse" before the social worker's next visit.
I decided to skip the toothbrushng and carried her straight upstairs to bed, howling and writhing the whole way. She usually sleeps in the bottom bunk with A, and I put them in bed together at first. G's wails became louder and angrier as the minutes wore on, and her mouth was right next to her sister's ear, so I moved A to the top bunk. I sat in the rocking chair beside the bed, trying to look as if I couldn't hear anything, and she bellowed as loudly as she could. The only time I spoke was to warn her she'd better not throw up when she began interspersing her yelling with threatening gagging noises. I felt heartless, yet strangely calm - I guess that's how heartless feels. Finally I picked her up and rocked her until she slowly calmed down. The wails became a little softer, she actually stopped for breath in between. Eventually she stopped crying and I laid her back in the bottom bunk. A was still awake up above, watching the drama with big, round eyes. I asked her if she'd like to move back to bed with G, never thinking she might say no, but she did. The injustice of the elder child being made to sleep in the lower bunk was just too much for her sister, who turned on the sirens again while stiffening her back and sitting bolt upright on her pillow. "How long, Oh Lord," I silently prayed, trying not to invoke an imprecatory Psalm as well.
Finally I gave in. Pretending it was all my idea, I asked her if she would like to sleep on the top bunk, as well. She was all smiles and clambered up immediately. Almost two hours later the two of them were still awake, laughing and giggling, singing songs in Amharic as well as several choruses of "Are You Sleeping, Brother John." I have no idea where they learned that. Although the sounds wafting down through the ceiling grate were happy ones, I dreaded what the next day would be like when the effects of sleep-deprivation kicked in. So, today was a wonderful surprise.
I probably should not admit to this online, but when I finally carried G into the house, moaning loudly like some kind of miserable ambulance, I smacked her bottom and told her she'd better cut it out. I have never been much of a spanker, and I signed a solemn vow that I would never use corporal punishment on my adopted children, but my ancient mommy instincts were just too strong. As soon as I did it, I felt like a criminal. My first thought was that she didn't speak enough English to report me, but I remembered how good she is at miming things, and how easy to mime "angry Mommy striking helpless child" would be. Then, too, as she howled in my ear, I just knew she'd learn how to say "child abuse" before the social worker's next visit.
I decided to skip the toothbrushng and carried her straight upstairs to bed, howling and writhing the whole way. She usually sleeps in the bottom bunk with A, and I put them in bed together at first. G's wails became louder and angrier as the minutes wore on, and her mouth was right next to her sister's ear, so I moved A to the top bunk. I sat in the rocking chair beside the bed, trying to look as if I couldn't hear anything, and she bellowed as loudly as she could. The only time I spoke was to warn her she'd better not throw up when she began interspersing her yelling with threatening gagging noises. I felt heartless, yet strangely calm - I guess that's how heartless feels. Finally I picked her up and rocked her until she slowly calmed down. The wails became a little softer, she actually stopped for breath in between. Eventually she stopped crying and I laid her back in the bottom bunk. A was still awake up above, watching the drama with big, round eyes. I asked her if she'd like to move back to bed with G, never thinking she might say no, but she did. The injustice of the elder child being made to sleep in the lower bunk was just too much for her sister, who turned on the sirens again while stiffening her back and sitting bolt upright on her pillow. "How long, Oh Lord," I silently prayed, trying not to invoke an imprecatory Psalm as well.
Finally I gave in. Pretending it was all my idea, I asked her if she would like to sleep on the top bunk, as well. She was all smiles and clambered up immediately. Almost two hours later the two of them were still awake, laughing and giggling, singing songs in Amharic as well as several choruses of "Are You Sleeping, Brother John." I have no idea where they learned that. Although the sounds wafting down through the ceiling grate were happy ones, I dreaded what the next day would be like when the effects of sleep-deprivation kicked in. So, today was a wonderful surprise.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
You Are Here
My niece sent us a sweet homemade card congratulating us on the adoption of our two youngest daughters. The cover of the card was a collage of paper cutouts, one of which was a circle with the words "You Are Here," like the ones you find on maps at rest stops along the highway. It was probably appropriate for a significant moment in our lives - a moment which changes everything, but it made me long for something more.
Whenever I have consulted one of those all-knowing maps which mysteriously seem to intuit where I am standing at the very moment I look at the map, whether it be at a late night rest stop on an all night trip, or in a multi-level mall in a huge Asian city, it has been able to tell me what I needed to know. On a trip, the map has told me both how far I have come, and how far I have yet to go. At the mall it has enabled me get my bearings and to figure out what direction I should turn to get to my destination, be it the taxi stop, the washroom or a particular store.
This time the circle told me only that I am indeed here, wherever that is. There was no map attached to the smart circle, no labels to suggest where "here" is in relation to anything else. Nothing to orient me in time or space or experience. I'm just here.
So, here I am, surrounded by my contemporaries whose children are mostly grown and on their own. Many have grandchildren, most have college students or graduates, a few have high schoolers, almost none have children who have not yet learned to read. Here I am, trying to divide my time and attention between young adults who still need my love and interest and time, and teenagers who need rides to sports and social events and a mother who has time to arrange for drivers' ed and SAT prep. Between a ten year old who has been displaced from her position as cherished baby of the family and two little foreigners who chatter away in a language I don't understand, and cling to me like their lives depend on it. Here I am, in a very strange place with no road map and no directions.
Here I am at 6 o'clock in the morning when a little dark person in a sleeper with the feet cut off wanders sleepily into my bedroom and climbs into bed beside me, smiling into my puffy, tired eyes. Here I am at six-thirty putting off making my precious coffee so I can serve chai and dabo and muz and betacan to two hungry, insistent children who must eat before they can do anything else. Here I am, slipping away for an hour with my last-born child so we can actually exchange five uninterrupted words, we two who have always had time for each other and finished each others sentences. Here I am, feeling guilty about asking my older daughter to start dinner yet again, because I have to referee the cranky, late-afternoon interactions of two little girls who cannot be reasoned with because they don't understand the words "gentle" and "later" and "tomorrow" and "exhausted." I am definitely Here.
Though the orange circle on the card was not attached to a map, I do have an old, familiar map which I have not pulled out as often lately as I wish to, but I've consulted it enough over the years to remember much of what it says. I hope that I am somewhere near Isaiah 58:10 these days, the place which reads, "if you spend ourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday." That's the place I was aiming for when I began this trip. If I'm not there yet, I hope I'm getting closer. For now, all I know is that I'm here.
Whenever I have consulted one of those all-knowing maps which mysteriously seem to intuit where I am standing at the very moment I look at the map, whether it be at a late night rest stop on an all night trip, or in a multi-level mall in a huge Asian city, it has been able to tell me what I needed to know. On a trip, the map has told me both how far I have come, and how far I have yet to go. At the mall it has enabled me get my bearings and to figure out what direction I should turn to get to my destination, be it the taxi stop, the washroom or a particular store.
This time the circle told me only that I am indeed here, wherever that is. There was no map attached to the smart circle, no labels to suggest where "here" is in relation to anything else. Nothing to orient me in time or space or experience. I'm just here.
So, here I am, surrounded by my contemporaries whose children are mostly grown and on their own. Many have grandchildren, most have college students or graduates, a few have high schoolers, almost none have children who have not yet learned to read. Here I am, trying to divide my time and attention between young adults who still need my love and interest and time, and teenagers who need rides to sports and social events and a mother who has time to arrange for drivers' ed and SAT prep. Between a ten year old who has been displaced from her position as cherished baby of the family and two little foreigners who chatter away in a language I don't understand, and cling to me like their lives depend on it. Here I am, in a very strange place with no road map and no directions.
Here I am at 6 o'clock in the morning when a little dark person in a sleeper with the feet cut off wanders sleepily into my bedroom and climbs into bed beside me, smiling into my puffy, tired eyes. Here I am at six-thirty putting off making my precious coffee so I can serve chai and dabo and muz and betacan to two hungry, insistent children who must eat before they can do anything else. Here I am, slipping away for an hour with my last-born child so we can actually exchange five uninterrupted words, we two who have always had time for each other and finished each others sentences. Here I am, feeling guilty about asking my older daughter to start dinner yet again, because I have to referee the cranky, late-afternoon interactions of two little girls who cannot be reasoned with because they don't understand the words "gentle" and "later" and "tomorrow" and "exhausted." I am definitely Here.
Though the orange circle on the card was not attached to a map, I do have an old, familiar map which I have not pulled out as often lately as I wish to, but I've consulted it enough over the years to remember much of what it says. I hope that I am somewhere near Isaiah 58:10 these days, the place which reads, "if you spend ourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday." That's the place I was aiming for when I began this trip. If I'm not there yet, I hope I'm getting closer. For now, all I know is that I'm here.
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