Pneumonyuck.

This blog has been silent for the past few weeks because I've been recovering from pneumonia. And let me tell you friends, pneumonia sucks. I am now three weeks out from my initial diagnosis and I still feel deeply, deeply exhausted.

The best way to recover from pneumonia is complete bedrest, for 1-3 weeks. HA! That's hilarious. My three extremely active children laugh at your "bedrest"! Bedrest is for LOSERS. The two year old especially gets irate if I try to lie down on the sofa--he says "Mommy! No mommy, no!" and tugs and pulls at my arms and legs until I sit up. He cares not for television, so there is no respite bought by a simpering Thomas the Tank Engine DVD (believe me, I tried. Oh how I tried.)

The funny thing about having a serious illness is that your house does not automatically clean itself when you are unable to do so! The dogs do not stop shedding; in fact, one of them (coincidentally the one with the biggest bladder!) may become so anxious about your new state of lethargy that she decides to pee on the hallway rug. Over and over. The dishes continue to be used, and as such continue to pile themselves in the sink. Little droplets of milk left in sippy cups quickly transform into reeking sludge. And you watch all of this from behind the shackles of your infected lungs, because you lack the strength to even push a freaking vaccuum cleaner.

All food tastes revolting. If you are lucky, you can force down half a can of soup once a day. Gone out the window are your lofty nutrition standards. No more baby kale and fresh berry smoothies for breakfast, no locally sourced roast chicken with sweet potato hash for dinner, no poached eggs quivering atop a bed of brown rice. Nope. The antibiotics you are forced to swallow once a day make the act of eating repulsive. But in order to protect your gut from the evil medicine you *have* to eat, so you try to do so quickly, with absolutely no joy.

At nighttime you crawl exhausted into your bed. You are freezing, so you pile on the blankets and lean against a towering mountain of pillows. You spend the first hour in bed coughing every two minutes. You try to cough into a pillow, so you don't wake the two year old slumbering nearby. Eventually your body gives up and you sleep fitfully until morning. You wake up sore from coughing--it feels like a metal band is wrapped across your ribs and upper back.  You can't ever get a deep enough breath.

You feel terrible for your poor spouse, who has to pick up your slack on the homefront. You haven't had a meaningful interaction with your kids for days. You expend all your energy just trying to stay conscious--nothing extra.

And while this all transpires, while you are at your weakest, the world around you slowly explodes. One of your children is profoundly bored at school and is not able to work to reach his/her full-potential. You try to make it work. You meet with the child's teacher, hacking and sweating your way through an hour long discussion about differentiated learners in a typical classroom. You come to the realization that your beloved neighborhood school is no longer the best fit for your child--your child who needs to work at his/her own pace, to go deeper. You scramble and hustle to find an alternative. You put a call out to the universe and the universe responds with an amazing opportunity--an amazingly *expensive* opportunity. You take a deep breath and push forward--you can make it work. You *have* to make it work. You feel relief at the solution for your brilliant child and deep regret at the loss of your neighborhood school.

Somebody close to you takes it upon him/herself to help you through the illness. You are unable to connect with this person to discuss what "help" means to both of you, and the person arrives on the scene unable to contribute in a way that would make a difference for your daily struggles. There is conflict. A lot of conflict. A lot of extra draining, extra not-helpful conflict. You are angry that this person can't just actually "help" in the ways you need him/her to help, but at the same time cognizant of his/her limitations. You won't ever have the help you need and you need to get over it. You are angry at the other people involved, the people who won't stand up for you in the conflict, who refuse to take sides. At this time more than any other in your whole life you really just need to feel like someone has your back. Your achy, tired, weakened back.

At the same time someone else close to you steps up to the plate in a most unexpected and delightful way. This person has his/her own struggles, yet he/she drops everything to come to your aid. This person does not accept your pitiful attempts to refuse his/her help; he/she shows up on your doorstep and takes all three kids to the park. Even the toddler goes happily with this person, cheerfully blowing you kisses from the backseat of the car as it pulls out of the driveway. Your gratitude to this person knows no bounds.

Most of all you are angry at yourself for still being sick. You hate feeling weakened by illness. You cry with frustration at the things you can't do, things that are necessary for your family's health and happiness. You feel betrayed by your body. What was the point of eating well, exercising 5 days a week, nurturing your mind/soul--what was the point of all that self-care if you were going to be felled by a secondary infection anyway? You might as well have been stuffing your face with peanut m&m's and watching "Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo" all day long.

You wait it out. You have to; there is no other option. Slowly you will regain your strength. Slowly you will pick up the pieces of the broken relationships around you, of the frightening transitions in schooling, of the neglected pets and dirty house.

You will get better. You have to.

Glasses!

At the end of our first meeting with YH our social worker expressed some concerns. She said she had been worried about him, about his tendency to fly from one activity to the next. He would pick up a toy and then drop it in favor of another one. He wasn't interested in books and hardly watched videos or television. He liked commercials, but mostly for the music.

She said she had hoped he would naturally grow out of his "busy-ness" but that she was very, very worried about him. She asked what we thought when we observed him--was his behavior what we expected?

To a large degree his behavior was exactly what we expected. YH's risk factors often result in a comorbid diagnosis of ADHD/ADD--we knew ahead of time this was a potential challenge for our son.

And certainly, the first few weeks with him were in keeping with what we had observed at that first meeting. His busy-ness knew no bounds. Each day every toy in the house would be taken out and dropped in pursuit of something new. By 9am our floors were carpeted with toys. YH was always good about helping to clean-up, but the sheer volume of playthings strewn about was overwhelming (I know: first-world problem).

His interest in books slowly increased. We read him the same five board books at bedtime and naptime and he grew to anticipate the rhythms of the words. We have books of trains and cars (his current obsessions) that he would flip through, occasionally glancing at the pages. The books he seemed to pay the most attention to were a series of small board books focusing on different vocabularies (food, around the house, toys, etc). Each page held a single image--BALL. APPLE. PANTS.

He would ask to watch Korean cartoons on the laptop but would wander off after one or two minutes of viewing.

Inattentive. Easily distracted. Hard to keep engaged.

And then.

Then his glasses came in.

And his world suddenly came into focus.

And *everything* changed.

It almost happened overnight. Once he started actually wearing the glasses (instead of taking them off every few minutes) his attention span quadrupled. He started really seeing the world around him, and paying attention to the things that interested him. I can only imagine that prior to glasses his visual world was a blur of indistinct colors and shapes--and now with glasses, he is able to completely rebuild his mental maps.

Now he really watches his Korean cartoons--more than one 10 minute episode at a time. He really studies his favorite books--pointing out things he sees on the pages. Look, a piano! Look, a dog! Look, Little Pookie is a pig!

He has started to put shape puzzles together--instead of just playing with individual pieces. Yesterday morning we did an art project together--something I never would have attempted in life pre-glasses. But he loved it! He concentrated on putting the stamps in the ink and then pressing them onto the paper, in just the patttern he wanted.

When you are parenting a child with irreversible brain damage the ability to positively change his environment--to augment his abilities--is so, so sweet. I know that the glasses were a relatively easy fix for a tiny piece of his larger challenges but oh! What a beautiful piece they are. 

Seemed like a good idea at the time.

We are less than 48 hours away from the big kids leaving town for three weeks. They are headed on vacation with my parents, to an idyllic island off the Atlantic coast, while the rest of us stay at home.

This splitting of the family seemed like a brilliant idea--back before we traveled, back when I was so sure I knew the *right* things to do when became a family of five. You see we typically travel thousands of miles to this island every summer. It is a place where the kids can run through the woods for hours. A place where they spend entire mornings building fairy houses from moss and rocks and shells. We have a whole fairy village nestled at the trunks of trees near our house there, carefully constructed over the last two summers.

My parents go to the island for several months over the summer--it is the only way they can stomach living in Texas for the rest of the year. Sean's family has a home on the adjoining plot of land and it is all so ridiculously Robert McCloskey-esque that I can't read "A Time of Wonder" or "One Morning in Maine" without my eyes tearing up.

Over the past year we completely changed our professional lives, in part to maximize the amount of time we can spend on-island. Now that Sean is on a teacher's schedule we hope to spend at least a month there each year--every year.

Except not this year.

Before we traveled I thought that if the big kids got to go on-island with my parents for a few weeks it would give YH intensive time with Sean and I. I thought he would be resentful of having the big kids share the attention, and this way the kids would get their summer voyage and we would get to work on attachment.

It looks so perfect spelled out like that, doesn't it?

What I didn't account for was the utter joy that the three kids find in one another--even the middle child. What I didn't account for was the way YH runs out of our bedroom each morning yelling out his sister's name. When he find her he wraps her in a hug and they both tumble to the ground giggling. What I didn't account for was how intently YH listens to his siblings, and mimics their speech and patterns of play.

And now I'm feeling like his little heart will be broken AGAIN when he wakes up on Thursday and the big kids are nowhere to be found. Now I'm feeling like I really messed this up.

I know that in the grand scheme of things it could be traumatic to move to a new home base this early in our attachment dance. I know that routine, and keeping YH's world small, is SO important right now. But the idea of cocooning as a family on a small island--of spending every day outdoors and wrapping my youngest in cozy sweaters at night--is so appealing right now.

I can imagine the big kids introducing YH to all the island sights: swimming at the quarry, searching for shells at low-tide at the Carrying Place, tromping through the woods to get to Fine Sand Beach and splashing in the tide pools that dapple the rocks surrounding the beach.

I can see us spotting bald eagles from the deck as they swoop over Ghost Hollow. I can see early dinners and even earlier bedtimes. Somehow every night on the island ends with everyone in an exhausted heap--sometimes hours before sunset.

So I am spending this week mourning what could have been. Trying to take comfort in the "right on paper" aspects of the split, and preparing to say good-bye to my wonderful eldest children. I have never been away from either of them for this long--and it hurts my heart to think of the silence that they will leave behind.

We will get through it. They will have a WONDERFUL time. We will talk over skype each night, and we will be able to show YH that the big kids will come back.

People we love can leave and come back. We can love them while they're gone, and love them even more when they get back.

7/14

On one side of the gym stands 7.
Or should I say, on one side of the gym bounces 7.

7 leaps and flips and contorts her body in myriad ways.
Her coach makes a minor correction to her form; tells her to tighten a specific muscle, to remember how it feels.

7 knows instinctively how to do what her coach asks.
"When I do it that way I feel springier! I feel, like, lighter. Like I am actually flying."

7 tries something new and doesn't succeed. 7 laughs out-loud at her mis-step and gets up to do it right.

7 lands a back-tuck for the first-time and yells out "That was AWESOME! Let's do it AGAIN!"

7's coach nods his head and tells her to get a drink of water.

He turns to me and says, "In all my years coaching I have only known a handful of athletes who are so in tune with their bodies. She not only knows exactly what to do to correct her form but she can tell you about it. It sounds like she's telling you a poem!"

I nod my head, baffled by this wondrous creature who somehow is born of my blood.

7 is amazing.
7 works hard for her coaches and for herself.
She is proud of the results and finds joy in the process of getting stronger and faster and more precise.

7 is amazing and she knows it.
She's not ashamed of being amazing, it's just how she is.

****              ****

On the other side of the gym 14 is working through a private lesson with her coach.

14 is tall and lean; her legs are strong and tanned. She has clear skin and a perfectly swooshy blond ponytail. She is a gifted athlete--her front tuck is breathtaking.

14 is also amazing--but she doesn't want you to know it.

14 starts apologizing for her performance before she has even fully landed a round-off. She does so in that mumbly, self-effacing way that teenagers do so well. She almost flinches when her coach gives her feedback.

In between exercises, 14 stands slumped at the foot of the mat. Her shoulders are rounded inward, her belly hollowed. 14 is making herself small and unremarkable. (I know this trick well, sweet girl. I really really do.)

Oh 14, you hurt my heart.

****               ****

7 is watching 14 ---and I am watching 7 watch 14.

7 is lying on her stomach with her feet kicking in the air. Her chin rests in her hand and her head is slightly cocked. She is watching 14 with wide eyes, studying her every move.

7 could very well grow up to look a lot like 14. Their coloring is the same, they both are 70% leg.

Please let the resemblance end there.
Please let 7 remain so very *7* for a long, long time.

I've been 7, and I turned into 14 (long before I was *actually* 14)--and more than anything I want to spare my daughter that perilous slide from self-confidence into self-criticism.

I want her to always know that she is amazing and that that is ok.
It's better than ok--it's amazing.

And there's nothing wrong with that.

 

First meeting

I do finally stop worrying long enough to sleep--for a few fitful hours. None of us can sleep past 6am so we are up and bickering with each other for an hour or so before breakfast begins. We wrap the million gifts we have for the foster family and social worker and pack them carefully away in subway-proof backpacks.

I try to remember what each task feels like:

This is taking a shower on the day you meet your son.
This is putting on a dress on the day you meet your son.
This is trying to fill in your eyebrows with hands made shaky at the thought of meeting your son.

My mom comes up to hang with the big kids while Sean and I nervously stuff our pockets with "essential" items that we will forget about as soon as we leave the hotel.

Suddenly we are on the street. We are on the subway. We are at the right stop, searching for the appropriate exit. We are stricken.

We are early--about 40 minutes early for our assigned "check-in" time.

We sit in the cafe at ESWS, our placing agency. The cafe employs single mothers; thus helping to support women who choose to parent their children (women who are largely seen as "unemployable" due to their single-parent status). We are nervous and self-conscious as we order iced americanos. We are overly thankful to the barista and we sit and sweat in shamed silence as we sip our drinks.

Finally it is time to check in. Our assigned social worker is busy in appointments all day, so another woman guides us through paperwork. It is so busy at the agency that we are seated in a waiting area outside of a room where a family is meeting their child for the first time. My eyes water as the door to the playroom opens. A tall and beautiful woman steps shakily out--her eyes are damp too but she is laughing. I know who she is immediately--an Australian woman I "met" through the internet. We greet each other and laugh and cry together.

We are led on a tour of the agency.

We are taken up to the floor that houses that baby reception room. Currently there are 50 babies there, waiting for foster or forever homes. About 15 of the babies are sick and are in a separate room to receive extra care. The babies are SO small.

Next we (about 10 families in total) file into a room to listen to a presentation by Dr. Kim, president of ESWS. Dr. Kim tells us about the history of her country, the history of adoption in Korea and the many projects that ESWS runs to care for at-risk families/women/children.

I am trying to pay attention, but in my head I am only thinking about the fact that we will be meeting YH in two hours.

Now one hour.

Our social worker finds us and chides us for not bringing Nana and the kids to the meeting. She leads us to a playroom and we sit nervously on the floor.

The door opens and we see this.

Oh.
Oh.

Mrs. S pulls a package of crackers out of her purse and immediately starts feeding snacks to YH as a way to ease him into the room.

He looks around at us and then dives into the toys. He plays and plays, leaving each toy after a few seconds of attention. I try not to reach out to him, hoping that his ambulatory circuit will bring him naturally to my side. I try to ask Mrs. S the questions I formulated months ago, when none of this seemed like a real event.

Mrs. S answers in paragraphs with sweeping arm movements. I look at her while she speaks, waiting for our social worker to translate.

He is very busy. He gets bored with toys easily. He isn't interested in books. He waits for his Appa to come home each night, and then leads him through his evening routine. Appa, take off your shoes. Appa, wash your face. He loves smart phones and can use a touch screen readily. He drinks a few ounces of water or milk each night before bed and then goes to his room. He lies down and waits for Mrs. S to rub his back until he falls asleep. He is sensitive to the word no, and does better with redirection. When he doesn't get his way he screams. He climbs onto everything, opens every drawer, hides bits of paper int he corners of the apartment. He loves flowers, trees and big dogs. He is attuned to the moods of others and will comfort those he thinks to be in distress.

So many details about his life. And I haven't even touched him yet.

Finally, he wanders my way with a balloon in his hand.

 This is it. This is my son.

****

Later, Mrs. Shin will ask us questions about why we didn't pursue a "standard" referral (ie: one without identified medical needs). "You qualify, right?"
We explain what led us to the waiting child program.
She asks us why we want to parent this boy--she has another child with a similar background/profile who is almost three. This child will be transferred to a government orphanage soon, with no hope for being adopted, because no families have expressed interest in his file. (For the recond *YH* is almost three; this boy's fate could easily be his own).

We talk a bit about how we have prepared ourselves for his potential needs, and the personal connections we have to his "risk factors".

She asks us how he seems to us--developmentally.
I say he seems perfect, exactly the boy I was hoping to meet.

****

In the middle of our hour-long meeting, YH's foster brother calls his father (YH's "Appa") on the phone. YH talks animatedly to him in gibberish. He smiles at the phone and listens intently to his beloved Appa's responses. This is a routine for him; talking to the man he loves best, in a language noone can understand.

Mrs. S asks if we can come back the next day. Mr. S has the day off from work and wants to meet us.
Yes, we say, of course.

Big feelings.

Our household is boiling over with big feelings this week. It should come as no surprise that beneath the excitement of our trip, and finally meeting our son/baby brother, we are each struggling with some less-than-happy feelings. Complicated feelings. Miss A described them as "purple feelings".

For Sean and I, the big feelings are expressed through spurts of manic activity. For instance: on Monday I decided we absolutely could not go to Korea unless I cleaned and organized our hall closet. Obviously. We keep our hands moving so that we don't have to listen to the nagging worries in our heads. We act like we have it together because we *have* to have it together--for the kids.

The kids, blessed creatures, are free to wear their big feelings on their sleeves. And they have, in impressive ways.

Yesterday was supposed to be Field Day at school and Miss A had a very specific idea of what the required dress code should look like. The knee-length shorts that I picked out for her (to protect a healing patch of poison ivy rash) did not fit her definition. And we battled over it. And I saw her frustration mounting, and I saw anxiety taking her over. Instead of insisting "Put on the shorts--no argument. I am the adult here." (or some related directive) I put down the shorts and wrapped her in my arms. I asked if she was nervous that she would get into trouble if she didn't wear shorter shorts, and she nodded her head. I offered to write a note for her to give to her gym teacher, explaining the wardrobe choice; would that help her to feel less nervous? Yes it would. At that point her anxious little body softened in my arms and the angry tears turned into just straight up tears. I said "It's hard to be seven, isn't it?" and she said "It's hard to be seven when everything is changing!" She talked, I listened.

(It's hard to be 36 when everything is changing, too.)

Sweet Bubs is usually harder to read, but this week he has made it very clear that his feelings are muddled. During the day he is loud, clumsy, quick to argue with his sister. None of these traits are his norm. At bedtime he becomes softer and quieter; for the past several nights he has skipped reading Harry Potter with his dad and sister. Instead he walks up to me and says "Mom, can I invite you snuggle?" We cuddle up together and he tells me about his day and burrows his head into my neck.

Yesterday a friend generously offered to have Sweet Bubs over for a playdate after school. When I went to pick him up he was like a different child: angry, crossing boundaries, not following any directions I gave him. It was a struggle to get him out of the friends' house and I was pretty embarrassed. On our evening walk he brought a toy sword and furiously whacked at every signpost we passed. This morning he told me he had nightmares, but didn't want to talk about them.

I tell him I love him, he will always be my boy. I tell him I am a little nervous about our trip; is he nervous too? He doesn't answer.  I hug him and rub his back.

Big feelings can be scary feelings. Scary feelings can creep in when you least expect it. It can be surprising to feel sad, angry, or worried about something that everyone else tells you is a happy event. I get it son; I really, really do.

"I bet they'll be pretty awesome"

Yesterday was a bad day.

Nothing awful happened, per se, but an avalanche of tiny misfortunes had me pinned down by despair. Of course the giant tremor that let loose the avalanche was the fact that it has been 7 days since we were notified of EP approval--and still no travel call. The last batch of families got their call in three days. Not a single person on the many, many forums I troll has received a travel call. It is an ominous sign that something is different this go round--that maybe my expectations need to be reset.

Of course my program specialist told me that actually, it was a sign that I need to turn off the computer. She's wise, that one.

Instead I decided to poke the situational anxiety beast and call the National Visa Center (NVC). When you call the National Visa Center (post EP approval) your goal is to find out if your child has had his/her "visa interview/embassy appearance " (VI/EA) yet. The VI/EA are typically the last steps before travel call. If VI/EA have taken place, the person at the NVC will say "Oh, he/she is so cute"--because your child's photo will be uploaded into the system. This is code for "Buy your plane tickets! Your phone is about to ring."

The second best thing to hear is "Your child's VI appointment is scheduled for..." because that gives you an idea of when to expect travel call.

What you do not want to hear from the NVC operator is "The embassy is waiting for your packet." This means that your Korean placing agency has not yet returned your "P3", or "packet" to the US Embassy. Nothing can happen until the packet is received at the embassy.

Guess which phrase I heard yesterday??

Packet out. No picture. No VI/EA appointment scheduled.

Cue sad trombone.

I was pretty devastated by this news, and mad at myself for calling in the first place. I wish I could let it all go--just trust in the process. But I feel responsible for having to readjust not only my expectations, but the expectations of everyone around me.

So I was sad and grouchy for the rest of the day.

The big kids were driving me crazy. One was exceedingly whiny, and one has poison ivy that pushes his/her sensory issues to the limit. This child is "highly spirited" to being with, and when his/her stress cup is filled to the brim by sensory input (ie: itching like crazy) he/she is really no fun to deal with.

One dog was extra bouncy because she's been trapped inside by rain for two days, and one dog is recovering from a spinal injury that requires that he be carried up and down stairs.

My inbox is filled with messages from people who I love, but cannot muster the strength to reply to. I feel like an ass. 

I owe three people who I love dearly a phone call--but I can't bring myself to dial their numbers.

Basically, I'm feeling like a failure on all fronts. And *everything* annoys me.

In the evening, after being exasperated with the kids' giggling and super-slow bedtime preparations, my son said "Hey Mom--instead of listening to stories with Dad and Miss A, do you want to snuggle?"

And it turns out that's exactly what I wanted to do. We went into his room and climbed up into his loft bed. He moved the stack of books he keeps next to his pillow and turned down his blanket. He patted the mattress and said "Mom, how do you think the snuggles will be? I bet they'll be pretty awesome."

We snuggled and talked and giggled for the next twenty minutes.

And it was indeed pretty awesome.

Red Flags and Culture Bumps

Tea in Istanbul

                                             
I have been very fortunate to travel to several countries around the world.  I have traveled for work throughout sub-Saharan Africa and Western Europe. I have attended university courses in Amsterdam, Cape Town, Madrid, Brussels, Kampala, and Arusha and I have lived with host families in France, Morocco, Madagascar, and Mongolia.

And in all my travels I have experienced many a "culture bump". A culture bump is what happens when your expectations of how an exchange/event will play out "bump up" against the reality of how the host culture reacts to the exchange/event. Many times a culture bump is signaled by a "red flag" thought, like the ones listed below.

Sometimes a culture bump can result in a negative response.
As in: "Why is everyone laughing at me?" (red flag thought)

Sometimes a culture bump can result in a positive response.
As in: "Wow! Everyone here is sooo friendly!" (red flag thought)

When you experience a sustained series of culture bumps the resultant confusion can contribute to the phenomenon of "culture shock"--which can very quickly lead to depression, the desire to withdraw, and the desire to return to your home culture as soon as possible.

But with a little extra effort you can transform the disorienting experience of a "culture bump" into a lens for deeper understanding of your host culture. The key is to move past the initial surprise of things not going the way you expected them to into a mode of identifying *why* you received a particular reaction. What cultural norms or values are expressed through the reaction? What cultural norms or values are expressed through your *expected* reaction?


Once you are able to identify the cultural values involved you can find common ground between the norms of your host culture and your home culture.

One culture isn't better or worse than another culture, they're just different.

In my home culture (the culture of my home country, my community, my socio-ecomonic class) it is common for parents to spend a lot of time on the floor playing with their infants and toddlers, reading books to them, and guiding them through games/flashcards/activities designed to maximize their developmental potential. Many parents expect that toddlers and babies will sit in a high chair to eat and will fall asleep in a crib by themselves. Parents fret over which method of discipline is best for their child, and often attempt to correct unwanted behaviors.

In my youngest son's home culture, and particularly in his foster-care environment, YH has a small amount of toys and books that he plays with/looks at during specific times of the day. When he was an infant he spent his day cozied in a carrier on Mrs. S's back, accompanying her on her errands. Now that he is mobile he is free to wander around the house and explore, even during mealtimes. If his circuit brings him close to the dining area Mrs. S will feed him bites of food. If his wanderings do not keep him close to the dining area, Mrs. S will follow him around and give him bites as he explores. At night he beds down on a mat in the main area of the apartment, near his foster parents. YH is rarely scolded or told "no"; if his safety is at risk his foster family will intervene but otherwise his behavior goes "uncorrected". If he feels like ripping up a book he can do so without consequence.

One culture isn't better or worse than another culture, they're just different.

As I read through the accounts of families returning from Korea with their newly adopted children I am finding lots of expressions of "culture bumps". Lots of families asking why their child exhibits a particular behavior or why their foster family chose to parent in a particular way. It is important for us to recognize that the children joining our families weren't just raised in another country where people speak another language, but in another culture where the shared values influence parenting practices. This is why your toddler will help clear the table, sweep the floor and fold up blankets. It is why he/she will bow to adults. It is also why he/she will react so strongly to being told "no". It is why sleeping in a room by him/herself, down the hall from your bedroom, can be hard for your new family member.

I know I can never replicate my son's home culture. But I will do my best to pay attention to my "red flag" thoughts. I will do my best to recognize when his expectations and mine "bump up" against one another. I will do my best to help us both achieve greater cultural understanding.







 

Urgh part II

So on the faceplace there were many kind comments about my last post. Lots of thoughtful compliments about how Miss A handled herself, and how our discussion about body image and bullying language played out. And I appreciated each and every piece of positive feedback.

And then my friend from high school said that Miss A's story took her back to a time in her life when she wasn't so strong. And that she's tried to *be* strong and do the right thing ever since that period in her life.

And I read her comment and thought "YES. This."

Because in fact: I was a mean girl. I absolutely said hurtful things about girls who were my friends, behind their backs. I did worse. I participated in the exclusion of members of our group. I participated in elaborate "jokes" that would end in the humiliation of a friend.

When I think back on some of the things my group of friends and I did it makes me sick.

I can vividly remember specific incidents, usually involving the same friend, where my group crossed the line. I wish I could tell you that there was a reason for our behavior. That each of us harbored some secret that would explain away our cruelty. That we saw this behavior being modeled for us by parents/older kids/the media.

Nope.

I can never take back what we did. It was wrong and hurtful and NOT how I want to be remembered. 

In the moment, when we were actively being mean to a friend, I remember feeling badly about what we were doing. But it always seemed that things were too far gone to stop it--that surely if what we were doing was actually mean someone else in the group would say something. If it was really really mean surely the friend being targeted would stop hanging out with us. Right? I kept waiting for someone else to speak up and put an end to it.

I was a coward. A giant coward.

And I am so sorry. If you knew me then, and I was mean, I am so very sorry. I own that behavior and I sit with it and all the discomfort it causes me. I hope you can forgive me, forgive all of us.

I want you to know that I am doing everything I can to make the playground a safe place for your kids and my kids. I am remembering how easy it is to slip into an unhealthy pattern of "friendship" and I am arming my children, and their friends, with the knowledge of how to speak up when they see similar behaviors. I am extending a listening ear to the bullied and the bullies--compassion for both.

Both sides hurt--I know this.

Urgh.

Tonight after dinner Miss A came over to me and whispered in my ear "Am I overweight?" She was clearly nervous and was wringing her little hands as she waited for my response.

I hugged her and said "Does your body do what you want it to do? Can you do a cartwheel when you want to? Can you run as far as you want to? Do you have enough energy to swim when you want to?"

She nodded slowly.

I told her that that is all that matters. If her body is strong, and does what she wants it to do, then she is fine.

Then I asked her "What would happen if you *were* overweight?"

And she said "I would be embarassed."

And I (dying a little on the inside) said "Why? Would the size of your body change who you are on the inside? Would it make you less smart or kind or funny?"

And she told me a story.

It seems that earlier this week Miss A was having difficulties with a friend. The friend had suddenly ditched her for another girl, and the two were now whispering behind their hands and giving Miss A sideways glances. It hurt her feelings. She tried to talk to her friend, but the friend would walk away and pretend she hadn't heard Miss A.

It made Miss A feel so sad. She wrote poems about the situation and cried. A lot.

Then! Miraculously the friend came back. She gave Miss A a cootie-catcher in morning assembly and wanted to sit next to her at lunch. They giggled together and all was right with the world.

At recess the friend wanted to walk around the playground and talk. Miss A was thrilled. As they walked they saw another girl running on the track.

Miss A's friend said "Ewww. Look at her running so slowly. I bet she's so slow because she's fat and she's fat because she eats so much and that means she isn't very smart. I don't like her, do you?"

And Miss A said that yes, actually she *does* like this other girl--very much. The friend rolled her eyes and walked away from Miss A.

And at this point in the conversation with Miss A, when she is recounting this for me with tears in her eyes, I can barely hear her over the rush of angry thoughts screaming in my brain.

I work SO HARD to help my daughter be proud of her body, be proud of all her friends, see how strength and smarts can come in bodies of all sizes...and the words of one seven year old start to undermine those efforts.

So I took a deep breath.

And we talked about how we have friends and family members of all sizes. And they are all smart, kind, funny, and worthy of our love--whether they are small like person X or larger like person Y. We talked our our friends--person N and person S--both of whom are exceptional athletes. One is big and one is small but their size has no bearing on their accomplishments in their sports of choice. We talked about how Miss A is smaller than many of her friends but that doesn't mean that she is bad or stupid.

We talked about how it is ok (great even!) to acknowledge that people come in all sizes, just like they come in all colors, but that the way a person looks on the outside has little to do with what they are like on the inside.

We talked about our dogs: our three-legged beagle looks cute and harmless, and our big pitbull-mix looks strong and scary to some people--but at home it is the beagle who steals food, chases the cat and barks and lunges at other dogs. The pitbull-mix rolls on her back for dogs of all sizes, and almost never barks.

Most of all we talked about how today Miss A is one size, but that over time her body shape and size may change. We talked about how that is a normal part of growing up. We talked about how her body and mind will tell her when they need food for fuel, and they will also tell her when they have had enough food/fuel. We talked about how her dad and I believe in taking care of our bodies, and her body, by making healthy meals and by moving our bodies every day.

Then we wrapped things up by discussing whether we thought her "friend" was being kind to her OR the other girl by making those comments at recess. And she decided that in fact her friend's words were mean--they made Miss A feel uncomfortable, and they were intentionally unkind towards the other girl. 

I told her how proud I was of her for sticking up for the other girl and not just agreeing with her friend's mean words. It is hard to be rejected by someone for days and then have them come back into your life, only to reject you once again.

It would have been easy for Miss A to agree with her friend (after all, no one else heard the mean comments) just for the sake of avoiding more conflict--but she didn't.

Second grade is hard. Friendships are hard. Maintaining positive body image is hard.

And I hate that my sweet girl has to deal with any of this.
But I am so proud of the person she is becoming.
So proud.

Have passport, will travel

Now that our trip to meet YH is imminent (pleasepleaseplease), many of our friends and neighbors have been asking what our travel plans will look like.

Since we don't know *when* our travel call will come it is difficult to book plane tickets and hotel rooms. It is kind of scary to sit and watch flight prices sky rocket with each day that creeps by. I thought I was being smart and managed to reserve a 3 bedroom hotel suite for a couple of weeks (intending to cancel without penalty as needed), but just found out last night that the 3 bedroom suites are booked for the foreseeable future. So much for smart. We anticipate traveling in the first two weeks of May but can't say for certain that that will come to pass.

What we do know for certain is that our older kids will be traveling with us.
No question.

It would be SO MUCH CHEAPER to have them stay at home and make this just a Nora-and-Sean trip. They wouldn't have to miss school, or have their routines disrupted, or deal with the 14-hour-plus flight to Seoul and the ensuing jet-lag.

They also wouldn't get to experience the sights and smells of their little brother's home country. They wouldn't get to practice their burgeoning Korean language skills, to ride a subway, to try new foods, to visit ancient palaces and ultra-modern shopping malls.


They wouldn't get to experience what it feels like to be a visible minority in another country, to develop the empathy that can come from being constantly visible and remarked upon. To experience being in an unfamiliar city, where signs are written in an unfamiliar script, and where everyone around you speaks a different language.

I cannot think of a greater opportunity for learning and personal growth. I cannot think of a better investment in my children's education than to foster frequent and meaningful international/intercultural experiences for them.

The truth is that the extra money we are spending to have the children accompany us on this trip is money that we would have spent on international travel anyway. We live in a modest house. We drive modest cars. I have a thing for shoes and Sean is a music collector--but overall we are not big spenders on "things". In our family the biggest rewards come from investing in experiences, and as long as our heads are sheltered and our bellies are full at the end of the day, we have no qualms spending any extra resources on exploring the world with our children.

When I taught a course to undergraduates that focused on "Integrating the International Experience" I had my students complete a self-audit that listed the skills and characteristics they had gained from studying abroad. The intent was to help prepare the students for future job interviews--but the content of the audit beautifully articulated some of the goals I have for my children:

"I have a greater capacity to accept differences in others and to tolerate other people’s actions and ideas that may be vastly different from my own.

I am more knowledgeable about another culture and lifestyle.

I have improved my ability to communicate with people in a second language

I have a greater ability to empathize (i.e. to sense how an event appears and feels to others).

 I understand that there are many ways to accomplish the same task and that those approaches are only “different,” not necessarily better or worse.

  I have learned to improve interpersonal communication through increased abilities in listening well, speaking clearly, and paying attention to nonverbal cues.

 I have more curiosity about, and respect for, new ideas.

I am more flexible and able to adjust to changes in others.

  I am more tolerant of ambiguous situations, that is, of situations that are confusing and open to differing interpretations.

 I realize why stereotypes can be so harmful and hurtful, both to others and myself.

 I have learned how to recognize when I have made a cross-cultural mistake and can use culturally appropriate language and measures to repair any damage.

  I understand and appreciate how much educational systems can differ across cultures.

I have a greater willingness to take on roles and tasks to which I am unaccustomed.

I understand more fully my own strengths and weaknesses.

I feel more confident in undertaking new travels or projects. 

I can accept failures and shortcomings in myself more easily.

I am more confident and assertive when facing new situations.

I have become a more patient person.

I am more willing to share my thoughts and feelings with others, and to be open when others wish to share theirs with me.

I am less afraid of making mistakes or being laughed at than I used to be. "

(Adapted and expanded from: The AFS Student Study Guide published by the AFS International/Intercultural Programs (Washington, D. D., 1979), reprinted in: Clyde N. Austin, ed., Cross-Cultural Reentry: A Book of Readings (Abilene: Abilene Christian University Press, 1986), pgs. 273-27.)


Yes. Yes please to all of the above.
I am so excited to see my children discover another part of the world and to recognize the commonalities that unite all of us. I want them to meet Mrs. S and to show her what YH's life will look like as the "baby" of the family. I want them to play with other kids at Lotte World and learn that the same things make them all laugh out loud.

I want this to be our first, but decidedly not last, trip to Seoul as a family.

Whooooshh.

See that picture? That picture proves that our friends are the greatest friends on the face of the earth. Our friends know us well enough to know that along with the mountain of tiny socks, board books and adorable outfits we will also need a good stiff gin and tonic every now and then to help us through the upcoming weeks. As we say in Texas, bless their hearts.


The toddler shower that our friends put together for us was incredible.


Friends who have cheered us on over the last year, friends who are parents, friends who don't ever want to be parents, friends who are just starting their parenting journey, friends who just like a good party--all gathered to help celebrate YH. The gifts were so thoughtful--in pretty much every picture (except the one above) I am making a crying face. Because they ALL made me cry!


Personalized t-shirts for the whole family with our roller derby names on them to wear in the airport (MamaKaze, PapaKaze and MiniKazes 1-3), personalized rash guards for YH to wear to the pool (with matching swim trunks), a book of recipes handwritten by one of the hostess' Korean mother, a library of board books curated by a true friend, Robeez with yoda ears, bunny slippers, a stuffed fox that perfectly matches the bedding I sewed for YH, on and on. A parade of items picked with love for our sweet boy.

And as I looked around the party at all our supporters I finally exhaled.
I have been holding my breath for the last 10 months or so.
Job stress, adoption uncertainty, family crisis--with each challenge I held my breath a little tighter, closed myself off a little more.

Until last week. When finally it felt safe enough to let it all out in one big "whoooosssshhh".

I know that the "thank you" cards I spent all week writing will never be enough to accurately express my gratitude to our people. How do you say "The fact that you showed up to celebrate our growing family gave me the strength to finally let go and be happy" without sounding like a loon? And yet, it's true. The collective love and energy of that party was exactly what I needed to buoy my spirit.

After I started to breath again, I crashed. I slept SO much over the last week--which is really out of character for me.

And each time I woke up I felt lighter. I am excited and nervous and anxious to start our life as a family of five. I can't wait to meet my son. My SON!

I'm ready. I'm taking deep breaths and letting them out. I'm ready.

Exclusive ownership.

One week ago, before any of the recent crisis with my loved one kicked into high gear, Sean and I had a huge fight.

Over the course of our ensuing "discussion" I complained that he didn't acknowledge how stressful and physically painful our adoption process has become for me. I ranted for minutes at a time about all that *I* have done to prepare (y'all knew that would come up again, right?), all the stress that *I* experience each morning as I fret over whether or not our EP will be submitted, all the fears *I* have about YH's future if he doesn't receive intervention/therapies during this critical age window...

And when the rant was done I sat seething waiting for him to apologize, to bend over backwards to soothe me.

And instead he said "You can't even acknowledge that this is painful for ME TOO."

Ouch.

He's right. I was so wrapped up in my own pain that his pain didn't even register with me. I felt like I had exclusive ownership of the pain associated with YH and our adoption. I felt I had earned this ownership through the copious amount of worrying and energy I've devoted to the adoption over the last 14 months. I desperately wanted someone else (ie: Sean) to help me carry the burden of this pain and worry yet I was unwilling to give him the emotional space to do so.

It was a good reminder and much needed BEFORE my loved one's relapse set off a storm of dysfunctional behavior amongst those of us who love him/her.

When you carry shame or guilt about your loved one's addiction it is easy to succumb to a victim mentality. It is easy to let the feelings of guilt overwhelm you to the point where you can't let anyone else in. The pain is yours and yours only. No one else could possibly understand HOW MUCH this hurts you and so you nurture your pain and cradle it and bury it underground with you. And you definitely don't let anyone else near you to share the burden.

And when somebody else tries to lay claim to the pain, this pain that you have EARNED with your tears and worries, you get MAD. And you fight it--you try to assert your ownership claim with snaps and snarls until everyone else just LEAVES YOU ALONE.

And they will leave you alone. A lack of empathy or understanding, a practice of hoarding pain, is a surefire way to drive people from you. It will be just you and your pain, feeding off of one another in your fortress of despair.

I'm not going to let that happen to me. I'm not going to let the pain win. It needs to be brought into the sunlight. It needs to be talked about and passed around so that my friends and family can say "Let me help you with that". And as it gets passed around it will lose its power. And it may still be there, but it won't control me.

I want my kids, especially my daughter, to see that you can be sad and angry and that is ok. But you work through it, and you find a way to live in spite of the pain. You do not let the pain stand between you and LOVE.

Questions.

In our household we make an effort to talk about the hard stuff openly and honestly with our kids. Death, sex, money, race, prejudice, social justice, illness, war--all of it. That's not to say that we let our children listen to adult conversations; rather we discuss these issues in an age-appropriate way. Sometimes the grown-ups start the dialogue, sometimes the kids do.

I don't want my kids to grow up with feelings of shame around any of these subjects. I want them to know we can talk about anything, together, as a family.

Yesterday Miss A learned of my loved one's recent relapse. At first she asked a few clarifying questions of my mom and I, and then suggested that my loved one seek out a hypnotist (for reals) and ran outside to play.

But then, at bedtime, the tears began to flow and the questions came.

Here are some questions that keep a 7 year-old awake at night worrying about her loved one and his/her addiction:

What does my Important Person feel like right now?
What does my Important Person's partner feel like?
Will we still see my Important Person's partner at Sunday dinners?

Why would my Important Person feel guilty about being sick?
How does my Important Person's sickness hurt others?
Will this sickness hurt my Important Person's brain?

How does addiction start?
Will my Important Person ever be fully healed of this sickness?

Can I make a get well card for my Important Person?

Does Sweet Bubs know what is happening?
Can I talk to my school counselor about this?


It's heartbreaking to see the strain on her little face as she tries to process all this information. It's heartbreaking to see her worry about her Important Person. It's even more heartbreaking to not be able to tell her "It will all be ok. Your Important Person will be fine."

And so we talk to her about her Important Person and addiction, and how we can love and support her Important Person but we cannot control another person's decisions or actions. We talk about how some grown-ups like the way alcohol makes them feel, and so they have one or two beers while watching "Friday Night Lights" on Netflix.

But some grown-ups can't stop at just one or two beers and sometimes drinking alcohol is the only way they can feel anything (or avoid feeling altogether) and so they drink and drink until they become dependent on it.

We tell her she can talk to us at anytime about this--she can ask as many questions as she wants.

Wait...what?

(exciting news people!)

(i'm still going to whisper this part so that i don't jinx it actually happening: yesterday our agency confirmed that the Korean government will start processing emigration permits on monday, march 5 2012. the first few batches of permits are expected to be processed more quickly than normal; families in the first batch to be processed may be traveling to take custody by the end of march.)

Y'all.

This is happening. After over a year of waiting, waiting, waiting we can finally say with some certainty that we are in the home stretch.

It is unlikely we will be in the first batch of families to travel--we're hoping for the second. That would probably mean travel in April.

And in case you are wondering what my mental state is like in light of this wonderful news, allow me to give you a glimpse:

YES! I can't wait! Let us be in the first batch please oh please!

OhmygodIamsonotreadyforthisyet. We still have so much to prepare!

I can't wait to be home with YH and to start caring for him. I can't wait to hold him and smell his hair and tell him how much we love him.

Ack! The new dog starts obedience training in mid-March. We can't travel before April or she won't get to finish her class and she'll be untrained and then what will we doooooo....

The new dog will be so great with YH. She's so chill and even tempered. She loves kids and senses when to be extra gentle with them.

I have to finish raking the leaves out of the yard! I have to set up a water table and sand box! I have to spend one on one time with my oldest kids! I have no time!

I'm going to make a dog cart just like  Sweet Juniper did.

 I am so bummed that Davy Jones died.

*********
And so on.

Happy one minute, freaked the eff out the next minute.

Tomorrow I'm attending a parenting workshop ("Beyond Consequences" with Heather Forbes) at the invitation of my friend and fellow adoptive parent. I think it will be good to spend the day focusing on building parenting skills.

If you can--send out some extra positive energy on Monday.  Our agency will be calling families on that day to let them know whether or not their child's permit has been submitted. I have many friends who have been waiting for 15+ months to travel, whose children are about to turn 5 years old, who are READY to meet their child. I want their phones to ring with good news.

Date with a big thinker

                                                Tending our watermelon crop in the drought


My eldest child thrives on scheduled activity. Never one to spend a day lazing about without an agenda, she gets up at dawn and flits from school to robotics club to running club to cheer class to girl scouts. On her "off" days she fits in a playdate or two, works on projects, adds to her list of inventions-yet-to-build, writes to her penpals, and reads her college algebra textbook.


She is a force. And she is at her best when her mind and body are actively engaged.


She is like me in that she says exactly what she feels as she is thinking it. Not much of a filter on that girl. She feels things intensely and shares that intensity with whomever is near.


My oldest son is his sister's biggest fan and her best friend. But he does not share her temperment. Sweet Bubs is overwhelmingly sweet and silly. He loves to make people laugh and will find subtle twists of expected words or actions that leave us all giggling. He loves to sleep in and on school-days Sean and I fight over who gets to go scoop him out of his bed; he wraps his warm and heavy limbs around you so tight and snuggles his flushed cheeks deep into your neck. He slowly pats your back as you carry him into the dining room for breakfast. It is heaven.


Sweet Bubs is remarkable in that he plays with every child, no exceptions. He has a gift for making other children feel welcome and in preschool he often acted as the "bridge" for socially awkward children who needed some help being introduced to group play. Now in kindergarten he continues to be everyone's pal; one of his classmates recently drew a picture that said "I wish I had a hundred Sweet Bubs".


Sweet Bubs struggles with expressing his feelings--especially the hard feelings. Emotional storms come on him suddenly. I can see the clouds swoop over his brow and down to his quivering chin, followed by a flood of tears. We work on using words to describe what is bothering him, but more often than not he needs to wail while wrapped in my arms. I give in.

Miss A is all about the mind and body, and Sweet Bubs is all about the heart and soul.

He takes time to think things through before he speaks them aloud. In the wake of our Sheila's death he has had many questions about what happened to her. He asks these questions as we drive to pick-up/drop-off his sister.

"Mom, what happened to Sheila's body? Where is it now?"
"Did it hurt Sheila to die?"

He listens to my answers and nods his head thoughtfully. I tell him I will always answer his questions.

Last weekend Sweet Bubs and I went on a date. Sean was working, Miss A was at Girl Scouts. I asked him what he wanted to do and he said he wanted to go to a coffee shop. He said I should surprise him and take him to one he had never been to before, one that was "quiet and cozy" so that we could talk.

We held hands as we crossed a busy downtown street and ducked into our chosen destination. We stood in line behind dozens of hung-over hipsters and Sweet Bubs joked about wanting a cappuccino, no wait a beer, no wait a soda. I got black coffee, he got hot milk and a lemon bar.

As we sat down at our table he stopped to pick up a baby's jacket from the floor and hand it to the child's mother.

We looked at a dinosaur book together and talked about whether T-Rex would like brisket or bacon better. Then Sweet Bubs said "Mom, will YH be sad when we come to get him?"

This was on YH's birthday. My heart was bruised already.

"Yes baby, he will. He will probably be very sad and scared."

"I thought so."

We talked more about how even though we will be so excited and happy to have our YH with us it will be a very different experience for him. He won't know us, he won't ever have been on an airplane before, our house will smell different, our words will sound different, our food will taste different. He might be angry and push us away. He might shut down and sleep all the time. He might be happy one minute and cry the next.

It is our job to love him and show him we are his family no matter what. Do you think you can help me do that Sweet Bubs?

"Of course mama. He's my brother even if he's mad or scared."

My love.

State of the Union Address

Oh hi there. So, yeah. Things were a little heavy around the ol'blog last week, no? Jeez. Apparently I had some thoughts and some feelings and I needed to spew them all over the interwebs.

Thank you all for your positive feedback and contributions to the conversation. This is hard stuff, and it can be uncomfortable stuff. In many ways I am grateful that our wait to take custody of YH has been longer than expected because it has given me time to learn more and grow more confident in my knowledge of issues and politics surrounding inter-country adoption.

It has also given me time to progress from the stage of feeling like I know it all. Remember when you first learned about orientalism or feminism and you suddenly felt compelled to tell everyone you knew about how they were appropriating another culture or how they needed to subvert the male gaze? NO? Just me? Ok, well I had a similar overwhelming need to unburden myself as I learned about inter-country adoption.

I remember being absolutely certain that we had found the right program pretty early on in our process. In this program we would sign on with a smaller agency, wait 6-9 months to be matched with a mother who had just given birth and then travel to the country of origin. We would spend 6 weeks in country. The birth mother would physically hand her child over to us early in the trip and maybe come by the hotel once or twice a day to nurse the baby. We would get to know her and her family and hopefully have an open adoption (albeit one where we were separated by thousands of miles). It seemed so perfect! We wanted an open adoption! It is so much better for everyone!

And then. Then it began to sink in that if the money we were paying for an adoption were invested in family preservation efforts this child, this nursing infant, might get to grow up in his/her home culture. With his/her cousins and aunties and uncles and birthparents.

In this scenario the concept of an "open adoption" is pretty misleading. The adoption would be "open" in the sense that the adoptive family could agree to sending updates and coming back for visits but because of the huge imbalance in adoptive parent and birth parent resources, it is unlikely that the birth family would have as much access to the child as the term "open" would imply. The adoptive family would always hold the upper hand.

I am not bashing this particular program (although the agency was investigated by the central adoption authority of the placing country last year and it did suspend its program--but good news! The agency just opened up a new program in another impoverished part of the world! hooray!). I am just illustrating how easy it is for us to see what we want to see when we start researching the options for growing our families.

After this particularly enlightening moment I felt the need to cry "corruption!" at every adoptive parent story/blog post. It was not pretty. It was a reflex driven by fear and panic that despite our good intentions we were actually making the world a not-so-great place. I'm over that now. I will proudly shout from the rooftops that I am ignorant, that I am a work-in-progress. That circumstances are rarely GOOD or BAD and that in fact they are almost always BOTH.

As it currently stands I think there is room for awareness, joy, and anger in the adoption process. All at once. I think these heavy thoughts all the time. But I am also eagerly awaiting the GOOD STUFF. The chubby fingers, the belly laughs, the first trip to the beach...all of it.

              ********

My situational anxiety is at an all-time high. The latest rumor is that the Korean government will start processing Emigration Permits on February 1st. We don't know if YH's permit will be in the first batch or the second batch of permits to be processed. Chronologically it should be the second, but because of his age and medical status he may be moved to an earlier batch. Each batch takes about 4--6 weeks to process and then adoptive families get their travel calls.

Of course that's the way it usually works. So far this year nothing has gone "as anticipated" so I am wincing in the corner, awaiting the next devastating blow that will further delay travel for us.

Additionally, we received confirmation last week that YH does indeed need surgery. Due to schedule issues with the surgeon in Korea it is recommended that he have his surgery here in the US. We are gathering specialist names and researching recovery times and other things that as a parent you hope you never have to do. I am exploring websites with information about his medical need with my fingers splayed across my eyes--peeking through at pictures of other children who have walked this road.

It's not fair to be this consumed with worry so I'm trying to find some time each day to allow myself to be excited. To let myself organize his "room" (really a nursery/office space that is attached to our master bedroom). To look at his pictures over and over. He turns two this weekend. Two years old. He was 11 months old when we accepted his referral.

That's just the way it is.

Privilege

Before we started our adoption process I had no idea how much privilege was involved. We started out with idealistic notions of giving a home to a child in need. We thought, "We don't have much, but we can share." We looked around at our not-so-big house and thought "We can make room."

We wrote detailed autobiographies and filled out parenting questionnaires. We made lists of friends and peers who we could ask to write references. We checked to make sure each room had a fire alarm, that the back deck had a safety rail, that the kitchen fire extinguisher was accessible.

We had our doctors fill out medical forms. Employers wrote letters verifying salaries. We were fingerprinted and had our criminal backgrounds checked. We gathered copies of birth and marriage certificates. Our social worker came to our home and looked in each room. She liked our bookshelves and our pets.

Our rain gutter bookshelves

Our homestudy (a document written by our social worker meant to prove our readiness to parent a child) reads like a love letter. When it landed in my inbox I had to read through it several times to make sure it was really talking about us. And then I had the wind knocked out of me as the full weight of my privilege scrolled before my eyes.


Because I am: white, able-bodied, cis-gender, married to a man, raised by my birth parents, employed, fiscally solvent and college educated. Of course I know I am all of these things --but never before has one process so thoroughly documented the extent of my privilege.


In order to be approved to parent YH I had to show that I was healthy (mentally and physically), appropriately aged (under 43), legally married, met the minimum income requirements, had adequate life insurance, had no criminal background, was within 30% of of "normal" BMI and could cover the costs of the adoption. I also had to navigate several bureaucratic processes and have a level of job security that allowed me to take time off to accomplish these tasks.


The great irony of it all is that this staggering level of privilege is likely to extend to two of my children--but not necessarily to YH.

YH is not white, he may not be able-bodied. It would be easy to forget that he will not always live within the protective shadow of my white privilege; to forget that one day he will be a man of color. That I will not always be there to shelter him from racial insults. To delude myself into thinking that just because "I get it" I could ever actually know what it is like to navigate life as a person of color. 

The great irony is that my impressive amount of privilege may actually be a burden to my sweet boy. I cannot allow my privilege to blind me to the realities of his experience. I cannot allow him to live only within the confines of my privilege. It is my duty to make sure he has access to people who share his culture, his adoptee status, his race, and his special needs. It is not enough to have colorfully diverse books lining our shelves. It is not enough to gather once or twice a year with other white adoptive parents of Asian children.

We need to do better. We need to do more.

We will do better. We will do more.

                           

Part VI: His name

Wee tiny YH

Here's one thing I've learned during my seven year tenure as a mother--one crappy thing: Mothers love to judge other mothers. Mothers are constantly comparing their parenting choices to one another and passing judgement on what is best. There are certain topics that come up over and over for mothers--especially first-time mothers--that are sure to be divisive. Breastfeed or bottlefeed? Circumcise or not? Co-sleep or cry-it-out? Cloth diaper or disposable?

These choices we make we make out of love. I have never heard a mother say "I want my baby to have second best so I'm choosing to bottle feed/breast feed him." No. It doesn't happen. Yes, there is all kinds of research out there to support one view over another. Yes, it is good to educate yourself.

But also: it is really really good to give one another the benefit of the doubt.

An example: my very very good friend who I love like crazy-pants has a beautiful son just a few months older than Miss A. Miss A is going to marry this boy; they have both decided. Both children are out-of-this-wold physically attractive. Both are designated "gifted" by the school district. Both love to run and play and draw and read and be silly together. And as mothers my friend and I made pretty much opposite decisions on all of the hot-button topics. And you know what? You would never be able to tell who did what. Both kids are the picture of health and achievement. Because both were so so loved.

When I began reading blogs of adoptive families/adult adoptees/firstmothers (commonly known as the "triad") I learned a whole new cadre of "hot button topics". Open adoption or closed? Domestic or international? Foster-to-adopt or private domestic? Infant or older child? Artificial twinning?

You see, in adoption too there is a hierarchy of "rightness". There is a scale by which we judge ourselves against one another. Within the international adoption community one such issue is "naming".

Many of the children referred for international adoption have names. Names given to them by first parents, relatives, intake officers at social welfare offices, orphanage names or names bestowed by missionary workers. It would be cruel to not "name" a child under your care, so even the children with unknown origins are given a name.

In YH's case he was given a name at birth by his first mother. A beautiful name. It is a name that means "deep charity" and it ties in directly with her hopes for his future. She also gave him her family name. The two names (three syllables total) flow together so well, both in the traditional Korean order of Family Name, First Name and in the more American First Name, Family Name order.

When we saw YH's name written in Hangul on the referral papers, and then written phonetically in English, we knew we could not take this gift away from him. Yes, his name is unusual by "traditional" American standards. But in our community and in our local school the number of "traditional" American names is few. My children play with Toussaint, Jenevie, Valentina, Sol, Flora, Ladea, LaMaria, Professor, Otter...a host of melodious names. YH's name is two syllables. Two syllables that sound pretty much the way they look.

His full name will be YH, Korean Family Name, Samuel, American Family Name. Samuel is a name from my side of the family and the American Family Name is my husband's surname, which all the children share. It is our hope that this name will give him flexibility as he grows and explores his identity. We want him to know that we love him and support him--even if he decides to be known only as YH Korean Family Name. Or as Samuel American Family Name. Or keep all four.

It's his name, and it was given with love.

The aftermath.

The veterinarian and the vet tech knocked on our door in the early evening. They had been delayed due to an emergency case that came in just before the vet office closed. They were subdued and gentle with our fragile hearts.

We led them into the family room where Sheila lay curled on the new hot pink shag carpet. She looked confused and tentatively wagged her tail at the visitors. Archie (our three legged beagle) was outside on the deck, pushing his paws into the windows and baroo-ing to be let in.

The doctor explained to us what would happen as the vet tech rubbed Sheila's ears. I left the room to get handfuls of tissues. The vet tech told us they would probably cry too and we all laughed at our impending sorrow. The doctor got out her syringe and began to unwind the neon green bandages that secured the IV catheter to Sheila's leg.

It happened just like the doctor told us it would. The first shot made her sleepy. I held her head and whispered to her what a good dog she was. What a beautiful girl, what a gentle girl, good girl, sweet baby...

She looked at us and YAWNED mightily, then put her head down. The second shot worked quickly; we stroked her fur as her heart slowed, then stopped altogether. The doctor and the vet tech left us alone with her for a few minutes after it was over. As soon as the door to the family room closed we sobbed and sobbed over her tiny body, still warm to touch.

The vet tech let Archie inside and he came to sniff his friend. He figured out pretty quickly what happened and moved on to getting elaborate pets from everyone in the room. We told a few stories from Sheila's life, thanked the doctor and the vet tech profusely and ushered them out the door. They took Sheila with them and promised to call us when her ashes were ready to be picked up.

We left to get the kids from my parents' house a few minutes later. They were giggly and happy. Miss A asked "How is Sheila?" and we told her Sheila had died.

We let the kids stay up late watching "Project Runway All Stars" hopeful that Mondo and Austin Scarlett might ease their sadness. It didn't work; Miss A cried for hours past her bedtime until she was too drained to stay awake any longer.

The next day we moved slowly through our routine. Sweet Bubs told Miss A that he thinks that when a dog gets to heaven God looks at it really closely and then makes a cloud that looks exactly like that dog.

The kids searched the skies all weekend long, trying to find the Sheila cloud.