Kembe is such a little parent to Karis. He likes to scold me if she isn't dressed by 8am. He begs to prepare her bottle and give it to her. He follows her around the house, making sure she doesn't put anything in her mouth or touch something she shouldn't. He tries to beat me to her crib when she wakes up, and loves to push her in the stroller. We've started calling him the "manny".
Jafta and Kembe have also taken it upon themselves to teach her how to walk. Fortunately, she is perfectly happy with their help. It takes a village, right?
the manny
how you know you're old
Exhibit A: You are watching the movie 17 Again (the reason that particular Netflix gem showed up just as all of the Oscar-nominated movies are finally available is a story for another time. Probably entitled "how you know you're lame").
Anyways, you are watching and realize the first scene is a flashback scene - and then you ask your husband, "Is this a flashback to when he was in high school? Why aren't they all dressed in 70's clothes?" And your husband laughs and reminds you that the main character - the washed-up middle-aged guy who goes back to his youth - is YOUR AGE. And therefore went to high school in the late 80's/early 90's just like you did. And that you are now the age of the PARENTS in teen-angst movies.
Exhibit B: You are discussing a recent injury your brother-in-law undisclosed friend sustained at a recent Bad Religion concert. Your husband chimes in with a story about how he got a black eye at a concert once. To which you reply, "What concert? When did you go to a concert? You don't go to concerts. Was this a real concert? That you actually paid for? Not just one that [concert promoter friend] got you into? I don't believe you."
And he replies, "Yes, I did. I totally used to go to concerts. And I got a black eye in the mosh pit. It was that band with three letters. What was it . . . ?"
REM?
"No. Harder than that"
ACDC?
"No. More mainstream. Three letters. I think they were called NPR?"
Oh dear.
[Upon further reflection, grandpa Mark was able to deduce that he sustained a black eye at a POD concert back in the glory days of 2001.]
Exhibit C: You hear the Supertones are making a comeback tour, so you go in search of a photo from the vault, back in the days when the band traveled in a little van and crashed on your floor in Cincinnati. You barely recognize the young people in that little studio apartment.
Exhibit D: Your nephew GOES TO PROM.
flashmob birthday
DEF flashmob(noun) - a group of people who assemble suddenly in a public place, perform an unusual and pointless act for a brief time, then quickly disperse.
I really had no plans for Karis's birthday yesterday. Life has been crazy, and I always think that first birthdays are more for the parents than for the clueless babies. I mean, let's be honest. Karis is just as happy playing with the pots and pans drawer as she would be at some elaborate fete in the backyard that would deplete my time, money, and sanity (three dangerously low resources right now).
My plan was to make cupcakes and just sing to her during dinner, snap a few obligatory cupcake shots, and call it a day. But when I picked the kids up from preschool, Jafta started drilling me about Karis's party. He knew it was her birthday, and he was very concerned about when her party would be. I tried explaining that she was little, and that she didn't need a party. But he was not having this explanation. (And if you've had the pleasure of meeting Jafta, you know how sensitive and dramatic he can be.) He took Karis's right to a birthday party up as an issue of social justice. There were words. Strong words. And I knew if I did not somehow produce some semblance of a party with other children in attendance, I would never hear the end of it.
My plan was to take the kids straight to the park after school, to meet up with some friends. But I quickly decided to make a detour, and ran into the house to grab the cupakes I had baked that morning. (I made them from a box - of course - so there were 24 of them. There is really no such thing as making 6 quick cupcakes if you are relying on Betty Crocker. It's 24 or none). I also grabbed a knife, and the container of frosting. I threw it in the car and headed to the park, explaining to the kids that Karis was having her birthday party at the park.
When we got to the park, there was a small group of children we knew. I sat down and got to frosting those cupcakes. Other children started hovering. There was interest. I rounded up every kid in the park, whether I knew them or not, and offered them a cupcake if they would sit still for a photo and sing happy birthday to my baby.
(That little girl with the darling hat? Yeah, I don't know her.)
Basically, it was a flashmob. Only with cupcakes. And Jafta totally bought it.
this one is one
Today, my little baby turns one year old.
Karis is truly a joy. She is such a happy baby. She seems to find delight in every situation, whether she is laughing at Kembe's dancing or trying to feed me her bottle. She is a bundle of cuteness.
I love this stage, for all the wide-eyed curiosity and unbridled enthusiasm for the world. At the same time, she's entering that precocious toddler stage, hallmarked by the dangerous combo of mobility + lack of reasoning. She is also becoming more ans more interested in seemingly destroying whatever you are working on. Are you building a tower with blocks? Here, let me knock it down. Are you folding laundry? Here, let me scatter it across the floor. Did you just finish putting India's clothes away? Here, let me empty that draw for you again.
She is also (gulp) walking now. She is walking earlier than any of her siblings did. I'm sure all the coaching she has received has had something to do with that.
We are so thankful for our little Karis and the brightness she brings to our family.
the blister underneath
Last week was a whirlwind. We started the week with an extra child (whose parents are now home from Ghana), and then we had Jodie and the cousins stay for a night. In between that, India and Kembe had a slumber party at grandma's house, and on Friday we had a night with the whole Howerton clan gathered at grandma's. It was all a lot of fun, and definitely a lot of activity outside of our normal routine.
I feel like we are still on such a learning curve with Kembe. It's been three months now since he came home. He is doing so well in so many ways that I often forget that he is still transitioning. I have to admit, he let me know in some very clear ways this week that it was too much, too soon. He has been begging to spend the night at grandma's since Jafta did last month - he wanted to be ready for that, and I wanted it for him. But when he came home the next day, he was so out of sorts, and really has been since. The last couple of days have been the hardest since he came home. Mark and I have been jokingly referring to last week as the week we "flew too close to the sun".
We have to joke because, really, it's been awful. It's been hard seeing his rage and insecurity manifest behaviorally, and a difficult reminder that we have a long way to go before we will just be a "typical" family without having to carefully thinking through every activity and how it might affect our newest member.
Mark and I went to a wedding on Saturday, and I realized just before the ceremony that I had forgotten to factor in some blisters I acquired last weekend on a walk around the neighborhood in bad shoes. I had my outfit planned out, down to some cute high-heeled pumps, but as I put them on I remembered that my heels were shredded. I went to put band-aids on my heels, and further realized that the only band-aids in the house were of the spiderman variety. So I ended up wearing knee-high boots, with thick socks underneath, with a spiderman band-aid on each heel. And as we were driving to the wedding, I thought about how that is such a metaphor for our family right now. Things may look normal on the outside. But underneath, there are some nasty wounds with the wrong dressing. Things are shiny on the outside - but painful under the surface.
But despite the blisters, we had a great time at the wedding, and were reminded of the beauty of finding love, the importance of family, and the joy of just putting your junk behind you and having fun. And I guess that's what we need to strive for right now.
that's what she said
Troy and Tara Livesay's daughter Paige is running a half-marathon to raise money for Haiti. Paige is 15 years old and has lived in Haiti for four years. I have never seen a teenager with so much compassion for others. The day after the earthquake, she was literally fighting with her parents to be able to go out to the street clinics and help the wounded. She is an amazing girl. Her goal is to get a few houses built for a few families who have lost their homes. You should help her.
My friend Heather wrote a great post describing mommy bloggers as the Mary Kay ladies of the internet. Heather and I have never met in person, but I am excited to be sharing a bed with her at an upcoming conference. Because I like meeting people online and then sleeping with them (Hi Jamie Ivey!). (Christine, you're next).
In a brutally honest post that I think will resonate with most moms, Catherine Conner write about the ten things she hates about motherhood. And pretty much describes my existence right now.
Have I mentioned that I think the whole "colorblind to race" theory may not serve us well? Brendesha Tynes has some new research that suggests people who identify as colorblind are less sensitive to racism.
social networking: sucking time, saving lives, and the gray in-between
I think it’s fair to say that many of us who write our own blogs also read a lot of blogs. We might also spend a fair amount of time on twitter. We might also waste a bit of time on facebook. And before we know it, we might find ourselves wondering how it got to be 1am and we still haven’t put the dinner dishes away.
And by we, I mean me.
I spend entirely too much time online. It's what a call a neutral addiction. It's not hurting anyone - I'm not flying into a drunk rage or throwing my life away or getting arrested. I'm just quietly wasting lots and lots of time.
I have a love-hate relationship with social media. It has certainly expanded my worldview and made me feel a part of a broader community of moms. I have never had that sense of isolation as a mom that I heard my mother’s generation talk about. Despite the fact that some days I don’t ever make it out of my pj’s, I still feel like I get to do a little socializing every night on facebook. When my kids go down for a nap, I can catch up on my reader to see what my friends are doing, or relate to an anecdote from someone else in a similar lifestage. I can blog about my struggles with choosing a minivan, or dealing with the school bully, or my inability to remember my assigned snack day in the classroom, and the comments often feel like my very own community of women, propping me up and guiding me along the journey. It's also provided me with an amazing community of adoptive moms, with families that look like mine. I may not see them every day, but I know they are out there, and I get to keep up with them on facebook and twitter.
And really, without twitter, how else can I let John Mayer know what a douchebag he is, or pretend like I'm friends with Michael Ian Black?
At the same time, I often think about how social media affects my priorities (and if I’m honest, my parenting). My tether to the online world is short and demanding. For something that was created for fun, I often feel an overwhelming compulsion throughout my day to get a post up, to think of something clever to say on twitter, and to make sure I’ve caught up on everyone’s updates on facebook as if it’s a pressing to-do list. I wonder how my life would be different if I didn’t have the distraction of social media. Would I be more present with my kids? (Yes). Would I be a better cook? (Probably). Would I be competing in a triathalon? (Well, let’s not get carried away). I have frequent checks with myself about my time spent online, and I’m aware that there is a fine line between recreation and addiction. I’m also aware that I am frequently on the wrong side of that line.
I confess that there are many times that I feel tempted to go “unplugged”. I fantasize about a kinder, simpler existence where I’m not worried about whether or not my sarcasm is coming across in my tweet about wearing a MILF shirt, or whether or not my father might be reading a post about my disdain for g-string underwear. I often wonder what level of self-actualization I could be at if I went to bed at a normal time, instead of furiously scribbling off a self-mocking account of my day each evening. At least a couple times a year, I become so disgusted with my social networking habit that I regret ever having discovered the world of social media.
And yet, I can recall times when we’ve been going to Haiti, and I posted a list of supplies we needed to take down, and within a few days I had a pile of donations from friends. I am cognizant of how my blog helped me in explaining the many stages of our journey through the fostercare system as we adopted our oldest, and how many painful conversations were spared by my ability to keep our circle of friends informed online. I am aware of how easy it is to update family on our big life events (contrasting giving birth pre- and post-twitter: the hours I spend making exhausted phone calls after having India, vs. the quick text that updated twitter and thus updated Facebook and thus updated my circle of friends that Karis had arrived).
I was feeling this dichotomy fiercely at the beginning of this year. I was excited about the fact that I had helped raise $30,000 for a birthing center in Haiti with a team of amazing women – a feat that was accomplished primarily through social networking. I also completed my first half-marathon with a group of other adoptive moms I’ve known for years, but had never met in person (our bonds being formed through the blogging world). But I was also feeling burnt out on blogging, and tired of the way I felt like my writing habit was a job from which there was no vacation (and very little pay). I was again in a stage of wanting to throw my computer into a body of water and free myself from the self-imposed obligations of my online world.
And then, I took a quick trip to Haiti to visit the little boy we’d been trying to adopt for two years. And then, an earthquake.
The days following the earthquake in Haiti were every bit as terrifying as the event itself. It was a different kind of terror . . . a dull, overwhelming sense of dread and fear that had a cloudy, disassociative feeling to it, in contrast to the sharp focus of the earthquake itself. The terror was diluted with a heady sense of relief and gratitude to have survived.
I would like to say that I found some sort of supernatural strength in the days following the earthquake, but in reality, I felt scared, weak, and alone. I was without my husband, and without two of my children, and I missed them terribly. I was also very worried about getting out of the country. My infant daughter who traveled with me was sick, and we were beginning to hear about issues with food and water. The phone lines were down, and we had a day where we really had no contact with the outside world.
But worse than all of that, I was convinced that this earthquake would halt the adoption process from Haiti, and that this little boy who I had visited and bonded with for two years would never be my son. We had been through so many hurdles in his adoption process, and I was certain that the mountains of paperwork now covered in concrete at the Haitian social services office marked the tragic end of our efforts.
And this is when something unexpected came from all of this seemingly frivolous social media I’ve engaged with for so long.
In the moments just after the earthquake, we had a brief interlude of internet access via satellite. My new friend Erin and I had been staying in a guest house that was now structurally compromised, so we walked with our children over to the house of Troy and Tara Livesay. Troy was able to update his twitter account that evening. He posted that there had been an earthquake, and that he and his family were okay. He posted that Erin and I were okay - which is how most of my friends learned that I was alright. As information came available, he posted about the people he knew who had survived, and about the stories he was hearing of the devastation reported by the friends who were stopping by. At this point, we really had no idea of the scope of this earthquake, though each visitor brought more and more troubling information. Troy continued to update via twitter, as we sat in their driveway weathering the terrifying aftershocks.
I can't remember how long, but shortly after that we lost internet signal, and it was off for what seemed like a long time. Erin and I were trying to get flights home. My baby was fevered and vomiting. The mosquitoes were fierce but we were also scared to be indoors. I desperately wanted to get Karis out of Haiti, and be back at home with my family. I couldn't reach my husband, and we had no way of contacting anyone.
When the internet finally came back on, we all quickly grabbed our laptops, hoping to send a few emails, find out when flights were resuming, and log into CNN to see if we could get a broader view of what was happening in Port-Au-Prince. I'll never forget Tara finding a picture of the crushed presidential palace, and the dread that came over the room when she showed us. And then hearing Troy realize that his tweets were being broadcast from every major news network. There were no reporters in Haiti yet, and no flights coming in or out. Troy was the news. He was not just updating our friends and family. He was updating the world.
Haiti was a trending topic on Twitter - and continued to be for weeks. Many people were talking about ways to give. People with friends in Haiti were asking for information. People in Haiti were tweeting their addresses and updates, but also pictures of people they were searching for. We also saw people tweeting their coordinates - "I hear a voice coming from a building at 31 Delmas - need help digging". Bresma orphanage tweeted their GPS coordinates for days, asking for someone to bring food and water to their dehydrated children. Twitter was becoming the coordination center for aid in Haiti.
And then I logged into facebook.
I thought I would quickly update my status. What I saw brought me to tears. All of my friends were posting messages for me - my wall was full of people asking about me, offering to help, and posting their prayer support. In those days of disconnect from my family and friends, facebook became a way to instantly feel connected again. It also became a communication tool. I couldn't call Mark, and we were separated by time zones. But when I had a rare moment online, I could ask a friend to call and wake him so he could get online to chat. The first day I posted about my canceled flights - and then I was offline for a day. When I got back online, I saw people moving into action on my behalf. Someone had an uncle in the military in the Domincan Republic - they were working on a helicopter. Someone knew a Haitian with a private plane - they were working on a seat. Someone knew a missionary outfitter who had a standby seat with my name on it. Friends continued to keep me updated on my commercial flight cancellations via facebook.
In the end, none of these options panned out, as the only way out of Haiti in that first month was via military jet from the embassy. But it was such a relief to know that my friends were pulling for me, and trying their best to get me home.
My husband had also updated my blog for me, which received hundreds of comments in those first few days. Even though internet was spotty, I could click on my blog comments and then read them after we lost connection - a way of feeling support in the glow of my laptop after our contact was cut off. I sat reading my facebook and blog comments long into the night - bawling and yet feeling bolstered by the prayers and support of friends and strangers. Those days after the earthquake were some of the lowest points in my life - but I also felt some of the most intense love from others. And beyond my own comfort, facebook was also a place where people were exchanging information on how to support Haiti.
Once I was home and reunited with my family, my blog and social networking sites became instrumental in the attempt to get our son Kembe out of Haiti and into our home. I left Haiti assuming that his adoption was stalled at best - but with very little hope. When I got home, someone I didn't even know had send me a message through facebook. She asked me to get involved in petitioning the government to allow already approved families who were matched with orphans to bring them into the states and finalize the adoption from here. I immediately started campaigning to get our government to grant humanitarian parole for orphans who had approved families. I penned a frantic blog post my first morning home - asking people to call our state reps. I asked my facebook friends to do the same. They posted my blog as their own status update. I watched the word get out quickly. That was a Sunday.
On Monday morning, I woke up to messages on my cell phone from Barbara Boxer and Dana Rhorbacher's office. Before I had even had a chance to call them, people had called on my behalf. I had my government leaders aware of our story and working behind the scenes - all from a blog post pleading for help. I think you know how this story ends . . . but just in case, five days later the US Secretary of State and the Haitian government agreed to give humanitarian parole to already in-process orphans. Our son came home January 23rd.
Now, I don't presume that my little blog and my facebook page is responsible for this decision. But I do believe that it was a tiny little ripple in that movement, and I'm extremely humbled by the way my friends and readers (yes, you) moved into action. And if I haven't said it clearly yet, THANK YOU. From the bottom of my heart.
So, I continue with my ambivalence towards this social networking thing . . . aware of the way I'm choosing to waste my time, but with a fondness for the friends it has brought me, and for that little moment in time when I was in a pit of despair, and a virtual mob of people put their hands together and collectively pulled me out.
Thank you for that.
RIP, mouse in the house
Last night we went to bed with a mouse precariously hanging from the shelf in the shower.
We drifted off to peaceful sleep with the crack under the bathroom door barricaded by our two largest books (The Complete Works of Shakespeare, Unabridged, and The Holy Qur'an, With Translation and Commentary.)
In the bathroom, we left behind the hanging mouse, a strategically placed piece of brie, and an electrical trap from Home Deport.
This morning, a small, slightly crispy tail protruded from the fated shock box, and another small mouse joined the angel chorus in heaven. (And what happened after that I asked Mark not to tell me. Because . . . ewwww.)
We will miss your droppings in the corner of the dollhouse. We will miss your incessant nightly scratching while we tried to watch The Daily Show. We will miss your creative ways of chewing through our dry goods. We will miss your elusive scurries across the room that we catch out of the corner of our eyes. But we both know, this relationship had to end.
Farewell, foul rodent. May you rest in peace.
some things I like/don't
Things that do not make me smile:
Writhing, headless lizard tails in the backyard (don't ask)
The mouse in the bathroom (still there, in this position)
Earthquakes centered under my house
Insomnia (fueled by above)
Things that make me smile:
My kids thinking that THEY are babysitting Adalee
The victory of getting five children down for a simultaneous nap today, however brief
Being invited to a media event at a local spa (you had me at hello)
This cute moment:
The way Karis belly-laughs when I tickle her neck
Glee flashmobs (about 1.30 minutes in for pure awesomeness)
FYI, if Jafta made his own list of things he likes, writhing headless lizard tails would be #1 on the list.
adalee!
We have a 19-month-old houseguest for a couple days. Our friends Brandi and Jessie are in the process of adopting from Ghana, and they traveled there to meet their new son and attend his adoption hearing. We offered to watch their daughter for a few days towards the end of their trip, because I wanted to support them and know how hard the process can be. My kids were SO PUMPED for her to come. They might have smothered her when she got here. Just a smidge.
While having a 5th child is pushing our already crazy house into the insane territory, it is also fun and oddly relaxing about having a houseguest. I think there is something to just surrendering to the fact that nothing will get done. (I mean, generally, nothing does get done. But at least while Adalee is here, I am more willing to accept that fact). (Perhaps this is a strategy I should employ when I don't have a guest). (Somehow I doubt that will happen). We had a blast today, playing in the backyard and letting the kids run through the sprinkler.
Adalee's parents were scheduled to come home on Tuesday, but they are stuck in African indefinitely due to the volcanic ash, since their flights home go through Europe. The good news is that their adoption is final in Ghana, and they should be able to bring their son home this summer after they get US approval. But I know they are anxious to come home right now. If you are of the praying persuasion, say one for them. And Brandi, if you get to read this from Africa, Adalee is having a blast!
she's a little runaway
This afternoon I experienced the worst fifteen minutes of my life.
I knew India was mad at me. She often is. Today's rage was over the fact that I refused to buy her a dollhouse at a nearby garage sale (since she already has one), and the fact that I added a few kernels of rice to her black beans, when she specifically ordered "beans only". She was giving me the stinkeye after lunch, and threatened to run away several times. She threatens to run away quite frequently. When pressed about her plan, she usually doesn't seem to have a clear method or means. It's usually something she just says in anger.
I was giving Karis a bottle, and India went outside to go play in the playroom (our garage, the side door of which is set off from the street and behind a latched gate). After a couple minutes, I went to lay Karis down for a nap. Just then, Mark and the boys came home from the barbershop. Mark had a new baseball glove for her, and asked where she was. Didn't you see her in the playroom on your way in?
No. He hadn't.
We both got a little serious, and started searching the house for her. She wasn't in any of the bedrooms. She wasn't in the playroom. She wasn't in the backyard. At first, I thought maybe she was hiding - something she does when she's mad. We started calling her name. And then yelling her name. We tore through the house several times.
We realized: she was not home.
This is when I completely panicked. Mark sent Jafta to check at a neighbor's house. She wasn't there. I picked up the phone to call the police, trying to think of any suspicious activity if they asked. Our neighborhood had a community garage sale today. Our street normally gets little through-traffic, but today our loop had countless cards driving by slowly and staring out the windows. By noon, there were many trucks and vans coming through, looking to scavenge the stuff that didn't sell. I couldn't even remember all the cars that passed by today.
Mark started running up the block. I felt completely paralyzed. All I could think of were the news stories I've seen of mothers pleading with the camera for their children to be returned. I thought of my beautiful 3-year-old daughter, being driven in the car of a stranger, headed God-knows-where for God-knows-what. I thought of the novel The Shack. I pleaded with God to not let the loss of a child be a part of our life story.
At that point, I started making a gutteral cry that I've only heard come out of my throat on one other occasion - the day I found Mark after he'd been hit by a car. I was screaming from some kind of primal place. I was scared to death. It had been about fifteen minutes now. We had asked several neighbors. No one had seen her. My body was starting to go into shock. My teeth were chattering - another physical experience I've only had under a few other circumstances.
I had to run. I started running up the block where I'd seen Mark. Several neighbors were now out and looking. They seemed panicked, too.
Suddenly we saw India being carried down the street by a friend.
Apparently, India had walked out of our house, crossed the street, and walked to a friend's house, where she quietly entered their house and snuck into their backyard. The father discovered her jumping on their trampoline alone. When she saw us, she started crying.
We took her back to our house and she knew she was in trouble. We calmly sat her down and told her how scared we were. And then we did something I've never done (and never thought I would do). We spanked her. I think it was warranted.
Then I squeezed her tight and told her how much I loved her.
When I asked her later why she had done it, she answered simply. I was mad. I wanted to run away from home.
I supposed some day we may look back on this episode and laugh - the day that she ran away from home because I added some rice to her meal. Maybe someday this will be an anecdote of her strong will and fierce independence. But today . . . I'm not laughing.
that's what she said (adoption edition)
The news media has been buzzing this week with the story about the adoptive mother who sent her seven-year-old newly adopted son back to Russia. I've been wanting to sit and write out my thoughts about this story, but haven't had the time. I can say, in a nutshell, two things:
1) I think what she did was every kind of awful.
2) I think that the impact of institutionalization on the psyche of children is something that we all need to take more seriously.
More on that later. For now, some links that got me thinking this week:
I did not love my adopted child - this article from Slate in which an adoptive mom talks about her ambivalence towards her own child in the first few months of adoption, and the hardships of parenting hurting children, was an interesting read. I also appreciated the reaction to this articule from a adult adoptee (Harlow's Monkey: I'm tired of adoptive parent confessionals).
This post from Christine made me bawl. A lot.
Courtney's article called Choosing Love was the most impactful thing I've read in a very long time. It was a very relevant reminder for me this week.
My Friend-I've-Never-Met, Debra, writes a touching letter to her son, Dear Ronel.
And, and honorary "that's what he said" gos to Nate's Pop, who writes a Dinner Invitation to Mike Huckabee after Huckabee compared children being adopted by gay parents to incest. (A random note, most media references to this story use the phrase "gay adoption" - and while I see how this is an easy descriptor, it makes me cringe. Parents can be gay, but adopted children are just adopted - not gay adopted).
name that easter sermon
"We are awed by the grace He showed even to those who would have killed Him. We are thankful for the sacrifice He gave for the sins of humanity. And we glory in the promise of redemption in the resurrection.
And such a promise is one of life’s great blessings, because, as I am continually learning, we are, each of us, imperfect. Each of us errs -- by accident or by design. Each of us falls short of how we ought to live. And selfishness and pride are vices that afflict us all.
It’s not easy to purge these afflictions, to achieve redemption. But as Christians, we believe that redemption can be delivered -- by faith in Jesus Christ. And the possibility of redemption can make straight the crookedness of a character; make whole the incompleteness of a soul. Redemption makes life, however fleeting here on Earth, resound with eternal hope.
Of all the stories passed down through the gospels, this one in particular speaks to me during this season. And I think of hanging -- watching Christ hang from the cross, enduring the final seconds of His passion. He summoned what remained of His strength to utter a few last words before He breathed His last breath.
“Father,” He said, “into your hands I commit my spirit.” Father, into your hands I commit my spirit. These words were spoken by our Lord and Savior, but they can just as truly be spoken by every one of us here today. Their meaning can just as truly be lived out by all of God’s children.
So, on this day, let us commit our spirit to the pursuit of a life that is true, to act justly and to love mercy and walk humbly with the Lord. And when we falter, as we will, let redemption -- through commitment and through perseverance and through faith -- be our abiding hope and fervent prayer. "
Nice message, right?
Wanna guess who gave it?
my goodie sample
Kembe is a keen observer of our family dynamics. Apparently, I have a habit of using the affirmation "good example" when one of the kids is following directions. I didn't really notice how much I said it, until Kembe started to point out when he was being a good example, too. Only he thinks I'm saying "goodie sample". So now, when he straps his own carseat, or sits quietly in wait for dinner, or puts his pj's away, he points to himself and says "I'm a goodie sample".
I think that Costco somehow plays a part in this.
the happiest place in haiti
Over the last few months, I've been devastated by the pain of the Haitian people. But I've also been amazed by the joy that remains in the survivors. One of my greatest pleasures since the earthquake has been looking at the photos of the work going on at Heartline's Hospital. A part of this is personal - their field hospital is the place where our son Kembe spent the first three years of his life. In every shot, I am reminded of Kembe and his friends filling those rooms with squeals of laughter. Since the kids came home after the earthquake to be with their families, Heartline quickly went to work converting this boy's home into a field hospital for the injured. And one would think that the laughing and dancing that once inhabited this place would be replaced with pain and mourning. That is partly true. But in every photo I see, I am amazed by the joy in their faces. I was blown away a few weeks ago by a video of the patients - who lay on cots in the driveway because they are too fearful to go inside - spontaneously breaking into worship. I'm hearing this happens most nights.
People are receiving much-needed medical care at Heartline. There is rehabilitation for amputees, respite for general illness, and continuing midwifery care for women giving birth. But there is also the love poured out on these people from some of the most compassionate people I've ever known. I've stolen these photos from Beth McHoul, fearless Heartline leader. She's lived in Haiti for 20 years. She trains for marathons there. She's who I want to be when I grow up. I hope she doesn't mind me stealing her photos. (Lucky for me she is really, really nice).
Yesterday, I read this story, and couldn't stop smiling all day. It's from a woman named Barbie (from her blog) who is working with Heartline:
"Go online and search out Destiny's Child "I'm a Survivor". Hook up your speakers, turn the volume on high, with a whole lot of base, and with apologies to your next door neighbors, rock the house. Then close your eyes and listen to the chorus. And imagine what we saw today...
We were discouraged. We'd lost our physical therapist to a family emergency, and our patients appeared amotivated without his constant encouraging presence. Moods were low. Apathy was setting in. Oppressive heat overwhelmed our tarp covered courtyard hospital. Little six year old Dina, now in a walking cast from her open tib-fib fracture, refused to put down her crutches and bear weight on it. Afraid. Lillian, 10 year old with an externally fixated femur fracture...crying with each episode of physical therapy, more and more fearful of the pain. 59 year old Leeann, lying stoically in bed 23 hours a day, not exercising her healing leg -- going backwards in progress. Our 76 year old below-the-knee amputee Genine, needing to learn how to walk again, having a difficult time even standing up. 20 year old Amanda, with her paralyzed left arm and shattered left leg, lying sadly and disinterested in her cot, staring blankly off into the distance.
We'd hit a wall.
"We just need to get them MOVING..." one nurse said.
"Maybe we could get them to do physical therapy together..." someone else said.
"It needs to be fun," someone else said.
And so the idea spiraled. It was born from the knowledge of a perhaps little-known fact, outside of our hospital, that our Haitian patients have innate and amazing rhythm. And soul. Every night, they sing and clap and stomp together in song in impromptu mass that goes on sometimes for hours. Rocking the house. Rocking the neighborhood, over the cinderblock walls, beyond the plastic tarp that is our roof.
It was evidenced when we watched the film "Madagascar," projected one night on a white cotton sheet tied up to the cinderblock wall. In this Disney film, dubbed in French, shipwrecked zoo animals land in the wilds of Madagascar with a bunch of lemmings who break out into fabulous song, singing a hip deep base beat, "You got to move it, move it. You got to move it, move it. You got to move it, move it...MOVE IT!!" There was nothing cooler than to watch heads start to bob and hands start to sway to the rhythm as all of the patients started to sing along to the beat.
It became obvious that our patients have rhythm.
"Let's make them exercise to "Move it!"" recommended someone else. We all laughed.
Then someone said, "No, really!"
No.
Really.
So, somehow it happened that we pulled out the electric sound system used to project movies on the wall at night. And plugged it into Dr. Jen's computer. A quick search of her ITunes files revealed a great assortment of deep beat, hip, rhythmic dance tunes. Including the song, "You all ready for this???!!" -- normally danced to at NFL halftime shows by cheerleaders in skimpy tops and pompoms.
We walked around to each patient and said, "In a minute, we're going to turn on the music, and you will do your PT."
Some patients were assigned a helper. Amputees were given the task -- stand and balance on your strong leg, and try to squat up and down. Bilateral casted patients -- stand up with your walker and balance, then sit back down. Young Dina, who refuses to walk without her crutches...when the music starts, you will walk on your cast...with one crutch, not two. Young Lilian, who starts to cry at the idea of physical therapy -- you will stand with your crutches and just walk around. Each patient assigned a task. They all looked at us curiously, a little dubiously. A little apathetically. A generalized look that shouted...ok, perhaps whispered, disinterestedly, "Ok, whatever..."
But then, the magic happened. . .
. . . "YOU ALL READY FOR THIS????" the song called, followed by the deep rhythmic beat of sound. Sound which suddenly dragged patients' eyes open, pulled giant smiles from their lips. Heads began to bob. Feet began to tap. Eyes came afire with life as the sound system blared its rhythm across the courtyard. I helped our 76 year old amputee onto her one leg. Her shoulders started to sway in rhythm. A smile crinkled her aged, wrinkled cheeks. Ten-year-old Lillian, afraid to stand, threw down her crutches and danced with her hips swaying and arms undulating rhythmically, balancing crutchless for the first time. Dina marched to the beat on her casted foot, then began to spin and dance. Amanda lay in her cot, brilliant smile, rhythmically rolling her shoulder to the beat. Song after song, shining smile after smile. Little Emmanuel, three year old boy with the crushed face, stood in the center of the courtyard and danced the freespirited dance of a child. Smiles and rhythm of joy. Old and young. Nurses and patients and translators and visitors. Rocked the house."
(video shot by Troy Livesay)
Haiti is still in great need, but amidst the stories of help not getting to people (YOU NEED TO READ THIS), it's nice to see a place where it's happening.
______________________
Mark and I have made the decision to give to Heartline every month. Haiti is going to need help rebuilding. These are some of the people we trust will do that. The mainstays of their ministry - a sewing school and a birthing center - will continue to help make a brighter future for the next generation in Haiti. If you are looking for a place to give, I highly recommend Heartline. They have been in Haiti for a long time, and your money will go to helping people directly on the ground. It will not be going to fancy escalades, or expensive clothes or haircuts for the staff (exhibit A: see the amazing John McHoul above. Love that Boston hippie). If you are a Heartline fan, or just like what they are doing, consider sharing this on facebook or twitter, too. Haiti is not at the forefront of our news anymore, but the people still need our help. Let's keeping talking.
For more check out:
Beth's Flickr
John & Beth's Blog
Barbie's Blog
The Livesay's Blog
that's what she said
Some things I've enjoyed reading this week:
Catherine thinks that babies are people too, and I have to agree.
Sue describes, with perfect accuracy, how expectations suck the joy out of life.
Los Angelista talks about the public obsession over Obama's racial identification on the census form
Rachel talks about her desire to exit the rat race, and the ensuing guilt.
And Metalia made me pee myself from laughing with this post about how gross raising toddlers can be.
we almost puked. but we didn't.
I went to the mall with the kids yesterday. ALL FOUR KIDS. I'm sure that this is an indication of a very small and sheltered life, but achieving this? The feelings it inspired were similar to the feelings I had after running my first half-marathon. If I can do this, I can do anything!
I didn't intend to take them to the mall. I had a small window with a babysitter. But let me explain small windows with babysitters. There is a LOST-style time-warp issue when I have a sitter. Suddenly, time moves very quickly, and in the three hours of freedom, I typically manage to acheive what could be completed in about 10 minutes of normal time. It's a similar phenomenon to what happens when I take small, crying babies on a plane. Only with that situation, it's the converse, and time moves very, very slowly.
Anyways, my plan for my morning of freedom was to get fitted for some new running shoes, take a quick run, and then swing by the mall for a quick errand. I got fitted for the running shoes and then my time-warp clock let me know that it was suddenly, inexplicably, time to pick up the kids from preschool.
But I really need to run to the mall. I've been needing to get some new underwear for weeks. I left most of mine in Haiti, and I've been getting by on a small rotation of the pairs I left behind. And yes, I should probably be boycotting Victoria's Secret for some reason or another. They are an awful company that promotes the sexualization of women in consistently submissive poses. But darn it if their cotton collection hasn't cornered the market on wedgie-free, non-hideous undies. I've tried others. Really, I tried.
VS, I can't quit you.
Now I know some of you may be reading this and thinking, "Non-wedgie underwear? You should just wear a g-string! They are soooo comfy! I love g-strings!" And to you people, I feel compelled to say this: I look at you like I look at the women on that show I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant. There are only two plausible options:
- You are lying
- You are missing some nerve endings in your lady parts.
And how can someone not know they are pregnant? And why do I still keep watching this show? Why?
Okay, this started as a post about the mall, and quickly deteriorated. Back to Victoria's Secret. I did feel a little bad about taking my young, impressionable kids in there, what with the godzilla-sized posters of half-nekkid, airbrushed women. But they seemed more interested in dousing themselves with sample perfume than looking at the giant sexy ladies, so hopefully their gender expectations have not been too marred. I was able to grab a few pairs of sensible cotton bikinis and get out of the store with my sanity intact, and with only a few annoyed glares from the clerk as my kids knocked over a display of glittery body lotion.
I have a little routine when we go to the mall, on the rare occasion that I really need to go there with the kids. Basically, I bribe them. A mommy store, then a cupcake. A mommy store, then the carousel. All the while, I warn them that their ability to partake in the cupcake/carousel is dependent on their behavior in the "mommy store". It's pretty effective leverage.
Kembe has finally gotten over his fear of carousels and really enjoys them. Only, he calls them playgrounds. As soon as he spots it he starts yelling, "A playground! A playground!" A fact that India likes to correct in her "There is no Dana, only Zuul" demon-voiced teacher impersonation. "It's NOT a playground. It's a CARA-SELL!!" (If you would like a better visual on what her face looks like and how her tone sounds when she screams at Kembe, take a look at this video.)
Ayways, the kids were good enough to ride the carousel AND get a cupcake. For some reason, the carousel attendants were giddy on power and made me ride the carousel with them. Unlike my children, I do not enjoy carousels. I get carsick from the slightest motion. I almost puked. But I didn't.
Then we wen to the cupcake store. They sell mini-cupcakes for a dollar, so it's a very easy reward for the kids. Jafta and I have done this routine numerous times, and I can't tell you how many times he has inhaled a mini-cupcake and then upchucked it right in front of Bloomingdales. He just eats it soooo fast, and then it comes right back up - always on a certain spot of tile just in front of the makeup counter. I think that the Clarins lady shudders a little every time she sees us come through, since she knows he'll be puking on the way back out. This time, Jafta tried to eat his cupcake in his typical caveman fashion, but I slowed him down. He almost puked. But he didn't.
And that, folks, is how we define success around here.
adoption on the census form
I'm posting over at Grown in My Heart today, talking about the controversy over the adoption box on the census form. People have strong feelings one way or the other, and many adoptive parents have expressed outrage over being asked to delineate how their children joined the family.
For me personally, I didn't mind the question, but I understand how some find it offensive. I believe it can be good information to have, and because it is collected in a way that is confidential and not shaming towards the child, I don’t see how it would cause them harm. I am sympathetic to feeling like adopted kids are “othered”, and I do feel that in some settings so I can relate to the cringe. But at the same time, I don’t feel there should be shame in a child’s adoption status, either, and a piece of anonymous paper seems benign enough to me (and maybe even useful, but then again I’m a research geek). Perhaps I am influenced by being a trans
If you were affected by the question, how did you feel about it?
a confederacy of dunces
People. There is a reason that we celebrate good things in our history, like birthdays or anniversaries. As opposed to drudging up awful days from our past. Sure, the day I made out with my best friend's boyfriend, the day I broke my grandmother's antique vase, the day I cheated on a test in undergrad : these are a part of my history. But probably not days I need to commemorate at regular intervals. Know what I'm saying?
I'M TALKING TO YOU, VIRGINIA.
a ban on plastic nudity
I'm afraid I had a slight "mommy dearest" moment the other day. It was a typical scene that plays out pretty much every day in our house: India brings me a handfull of High School Musical dolls that she has undressed, and asks me to put their clothes back on. Now, I am not so prudish that a bunch of naked dolls prompt me to fury. But I cannot tell you how sick I am of spending a good portion of my day trying to slide a half-inch cylinder of fabric up a tiny plastic leg, because India lacks the fine motor skills to do it herself. (Okay, it's not really a good portion of my day. But it's really, really annoying. Especially Troy and Chad's HSM3 prom-edition one piece tuxedos. Ten minutes and some serious focus and dexterity to get those suckers back on. Like I have time for this . . . So the last time she brought me all of her naked toys, I called all of the kids over and, in my best Joan Crawford imitation, forbade them from undressing their toys because MOMMY IS SICK OF PUTTING THEIR CLOTHES BACK ON.
NO MORE NAKED TOYS! OR WIRE HANGERS! RAWRRRRR!!!!
I'm sure they are traumatized.
And sure, one solution would be that I stop helping and we just have naked toys. But India refuses to play with them once they are naked. And also, when they are undressed those High School Musical and Tiana dolls look pretty much identical to the Barbies that I pretend to be morally opposed to as a pseudo-feminist. And really, how am I supposed to maintain my self-righteous stance against Barbie and the materialism/body image/stereotypes she represents, when these dolls aren't clearly dressed to show that they are, indeed, not Barbies? Sheesh. Don't these kids realize that I am one HSM "Night To Remember" costume away from being a hypocrite?
This level of moral superiority takes work.
Speaking of nudity (and because I like to stir the pot), what do you think of Eryka Badu's new video and the ensuing controversy? I just heard about it - from an article that said, "unless you have been living under a rock for the past week, you've heard about the new Eryka Badu video and subsequent charges". Apparently, I am living under a rock, but I'm crawling out long enough to tell you other rock-dwellers about it, too. Because it's a big, big deal since OMG PIXELATED NUDITY! IN PUBLIC! ACK!
Anyways, what do you think? Artful? Tasteless? Meaningful? Shocking? Beautiful? It certainly seems to provoke a response.
an easter earthquake
We had a minor earthquake here on Sunday. Well - minor in my book. It was a 7.2 in Baja, California and we certainly had some shaking going on. But I don't think that thousands of Southern California residents who had to recover from swinging chandeliers and tilted artwork really warrants calling it major, in light of recent events. Nevertheless, we felt it, and I am glad it's over.
So many sweet friends emailed or texted to make sure I was okay. And I do realize most people were worried about my mental state more than my physical safety - and many were worried about Kembe. The good news is that all three of the bigger kids slept through it - aided by the sugar-induced diabetic coma they had slipped into after grazing off of their Easter baskets all morning.
Something weird happened to me right before this earthquake. About 15 minutes before it happened, I got vertigo so bad that I could barely stand up. My in-laws left and we put the kids down for a nap, and suddenly I could barely stand up straight. I told Mark I had to go lay down - which is very weird for me since a)I never nap, and b) I rarely sit down during naptime without cleaning first. I just felt so unbalanced and dizzy, and also anxious. I was drifting off when I felt the shaking and woke up, and suddenly Mark came into our room and I bolted outside. I was still half-asleep, and I saw Karis sitting in her high chair laughing, with the lamp swinging above her head as I ran for the back door.
Later, I yelled at Mark for coming to get me instead of grabbing Karis and running outside. Mark gently reminded me that he knew the worst risk of this earthquake was me having a freak-out moment, rather than the house falling on the kids. He's probably right.
I have no clue what was up with my pre-quake sensory experience. Have I developed some sort of earthquake sixth-sense after experiencing several days of shifting earth in Haiti? I tried googling it but I only came up with some articles about toads who predict earthquakes. Flattering.
Anyways, I'm okay.
easter
I went looking for a photo of our family from last Easter, because I was thinking about what a contrast it was between this year and last. Last year we only had TWO KIDS. We had a few more kids hunting for Easter eggs this year. When I looked on my blog for a photo, I couldn't find one. Why hadn't I posted our family shot? I finally found it deep within the folders of my laptop.
Hmm? Why didn't I make this public? Perhaps because my 10-months pregnant face was bloated beyond recognition? Or was there another reason I'm missing?
(Look! More kids this year! And none of them picking their nose!)
Last year I skipped out on all things Easter because I was in that awful end-of-pregnancy stage where I couldn't go anywhere without waddling, having my belly touched, or having people gasp at how "ready to pop" I looked. Man, am I glad that is over. This year, I was able to enjoy the holiday with my family - and with our newest additions. The kids woke up to easter baskets and hidden eggs, and then we went to church. We came home and had the family over for brunch, and had another egg hunt in the back yard. The kids had a blast and ate way too much sugar. It was a great day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
