Wanting Things that Don't Matter Not to Matter

Mr. Garvey is a wonderful person. I often hear many complimentary comments from other adults who come in contact with him. They usually tell me how polite he is, how well-mannered and well-behaved he is, how mature he is, how smart he is, how athletic he is, how he looks out for the younger kids and plays well with everyone. All of this is true.

Underneath all of this, though, is young boy who has known and seen suffering that I can't begin to imagine. He grieves daily for his Ethiopian family that he loves and misses more than he can say. Sometimes a sound or smell triggers a memory and you can see the sadness sweep over his face. He becomes very quiet and introverted, lost in his thoughts and memories. He use to cry, but he rarely does that anymore because he has realized how much it upsets his sisters. He remembers his Ethiopian father's mandate that he must take care of his sisters. So he soldiers on silently and stoically waiting for the melancholia to pass. He waits to feel more settled and then returns to being his usual upbeat and determined self.

His life in U.S. has been pretty uneventful in a good way. He has transitioned into a new family, country, culture, and language with very few bumps in the road. He has embraced the many opportunities he now has without losing his perspective. Mr. Garvey has opened his heart to us and accepted us without reserve. He has forgiven us for any of our missteps along the way and is always willing to let us try again.

I have been pleased and relieved that Mr. Garvey and his sisters have been so openly accepted by our families, neighbors, and community at large. Racism, at least anything overt, has been non-existent. However, I knew at some point living in a small southern town that one of my kids would be the recipient of a cruel and confusing comment about skin color. It happened to Mr. Garvey the other night at gymnastics.

A new boy joined his class last week and teased him that he has been eating too much chocolate and that is why his skin is so dark. He went on to suggest that Mr. Garvey start drinking white milk as a means to becoming white. Mr. Garvey told him that he liked his skin color and did not want to change it. New Boy replied, "I doubt that. Nobody would want to have skin that is your color."

I want to tell New Boy how presumptuous and cruel and disturbing his comments are. I want to tell him that it is who we are and what we do with our lives that is more important than what any of us look like. I want him to know what Mr. Garvey knows. I want him to know what is like to live without enough food. I want him to know what it is like to see your own father refuse to eat so that you and your siblings may eat. I want him to know what it feels like to know that escaping the grinding poverty depends on getting an education but that your family only has enough money to send the oldest son to school and that's not you. I want him to know how it feels to be alone herding goats when a lion shows up. I want him to know how your life depends on being able to climb high and fast into a tree. I want him to understand how it feels to lose everything sacred and familiar and to begin again with strangers in a strange land. I want him to know how it feels to be told you are less than others because of a way you look. Of course, I don't literally wish any of these trials and tribulations on anyone including New Boy, but I do wish for things that don't matter not to matter.

Mr. Garvey wants me to let the matter drop. He doesn't want to cause any trouble. He understands that what New Boy said is wrong and cruel. He tells me that it is New Boy's problem not his. He is prepared to just ignore New Boy. I feel ignoring this is not acceptable. We have agreed, for now, that I will speak privately to his coach so that he can keep an ear out for any inappropriate remarks in the future.

Anyone else have any wisdom they'd like to share?

They're Growing Like Weeds

Here is a picture taken in June of 2006. It had been about 2 weeks since Mr. Garvey, Mary, and Miss Almanzo arrived in the U.S. This is when they looked 3, 5, and 7. Mr. Edwards in this picture is 9 1/2.

Here is a picture taken yesterday afternoon, 15 months later.
Mr. Edwards is now 10 1/2 and Mr. Laura just about to turn 7. Mr. Garvey is now 1 inch taller than Mr. Edwards. Mary no longer looks like Mr. Laura's twin, however, Miss Almanzo is certainly poised to takeover that role. I'd say they look more like 5, 6, 8, 10, & 11.

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In other news, thanks to naturalmom for bestowing on me my very first ever blog award. I am often accused of being "too nice" by many of my firends, so it certainly seems to be a fitting award. I am however, completely uninitiated when it comes to how these awards work. Will there be a party in my honor? A cash prize? Will my name go down in the "Nice Matters" history books for all eternity? Will I have to give an acceptance speech? What happens if I have one of those "Not-so- nice" days? ;o)

An Interesting Thought to Consider

Mary: Can I tell you something?

Ma: Sure. What?

Mary: In Ethiopia we did not have mirrors. I never knew what I looked like.

Ma: Do you remember the first time you saw yourself in a mirror?

Mary: Yes

Ma: What did you think when you saw yourself?

Mary: It was fun. I thought I looked nice.

As I pondered this, I found it odd to think about living my life without ever knowing what I looked like. On the other hand, I find it to be a very liberating notion.

Two Conversations on Looking Your Age

A few weeks ago, as Mr. Garvey and I were walking together, we passed a man who did a double take. In the last year I have grown quite accustomed to stares, double takes, and puzzled looks. Folks are usually trying to "figure out" my family. Mr. Garvey, Mary, and Miss Almanzo are quite dark skinned. I, on the other hand, am of Scotch-Irish heritage. The question I am most asked about them when Pa is not with us is "are they mixed?" Based on their choice of question, it is apparent that their first assumption is that they are biracial only they can't seem to make sense of our two vastly different colorings. It is as if they are wondering how dark their father must be to have produced biracial children of such a dark color. So the question is usually asked in such a way as to let me know that they are a bit embarrassed and surprised that they are asking the question at all. When they find out that Mr. Garvey, Mary, and Miss Almanzo are from Ethiopia, I am usually met with sighs of relief and nodding heads. Yes, the world (at least as far as genetics is concerned) does still make sense after all. Now they can continue on with life as they thought it to be. Order is restored.

Anyways, I was all set to ignore this man who spun around to look at us again. I was stopped in my tracks when he called me by my name. After a few exchanges of pleasantries and no doubt a puzzled look on my face, he said, "You don't know who I am do you?" I replied, "I think we went to high school together, but I am still trying to figure out how you recognized me. It's been 23 years." He graciously replied, "You still look the same as you did in high school." To which I thanked him and told him he had just made my day. After a bit more catching up, we wished each other well and said goodbye.

A few days later I am running an errand for my mother. She has requested a certain type of lotion for her face. It reminds me of sending Pa out to buy coffee for me. I tell him that perfection for me would be "shade-grown, fair trade, organic, certified bird-sanctuary, swiss-process decaf and Ethiopian" but to please try and find one that matches at least three of those requirements. I now understand how he feels. I was completely overwhelmed with the choices for lotion. As Mary, Mr. Edwards, and I are standing there reading the different combinations of day/night, anti-wrinkle, beta-hydroxy, spf lotions, we are approached by a man who is obviously well-versed in the lotions. He soon has it narrowed down to two for us to choose from. I start to thank him, when the following exchange occurs.

Man: I bet you think that I look younger than you.

My thoughts go something like this: He looks about 55. No I am not thinking that he looks younger than me. I am actually thinking about how much I hate crowded big box stores and that I just want to get this lotion and get out of here. Before I can think of a way to end the exchange right here and now I hear myself talking.....

Ma: How old do you think I am?

Man: 38.

Ma: Close enough.

Man: Well how old do you think I am?

Ma:(being generous, I think) 48.

Man: (becoming very loud and hysterical and definitely making a scene) 48? Do I really look 48? That is 10 years older than I actually am. I'm 38! I'm 38! I'm 38! Everyone tells me I look 38.

Ma:(really wanting to extricate myself from this situation) I am so sorry. I am really terrible at guessing ages. I really should not have even attempted. I am sorry. I did not mean to upset you. Really I'm so sorry.

Man: (calming down) It's OK. I am not good at guessing ages either. Everyone really does tell me I look 38 though. The funny thing is that I am really 55 but everyone says that I look 20 years younger.

We finally go our separate ways, but I still keep thinking about how upset he got. He really did look to be in his 50's. Maybe in a different situation, he wearing something other than a t-shirt and shorts and far removed from the unforgiving fluorescent lights of a big box store, he would have indeed looked much younger. Obviously someone has told him that he looks very young for his age. He obviously treasures this revelation. In fact he treasures this news so much, that he actually believes that he is the younger age. He is insulted that I only shave 7 years off of his actual age. While I admit I was flattered by the long, lost high school friend of mine whose statement made my day, heck maybe even my whole year, I don't of course take it literally. He was being kind. He was making small talk.

And what is wrong with looking your age? I am determined not to waste any energy worrying about every new wrinkle, grey hair, or slowly but steadily southward bound body parts. I really don't want to miss out on what this stage of my life has to offer by hopelessly and desperately trying to recapture a bygone youth. Anyone else out there for aging gracefully?

Handstands, Perspective, and Daughters

The kids have been working on handstands in gymnastics. As I have already written about, Mary absolutely loves gymnastics. It continues to be a great source of joy for her. She spent all of last week at a gymnastics camp and thoroughly enjoyed herself. Recently she asked me if I would help her with her handstand. I was more than happy to oblige.

Handstands happen to be one of my most favorite things to do in yoga class. Handstands are inversions in "yoga speak". Inversions are important because they facilitate a different perspective not just physically but mentally as well. From a physical point of view, turning your body upside down reverses the effects of gravity, nourishes your brain, and activates certain glands. Yoga for me, however, is more than physical. Yoga helps me challenge and change my mental habits as well. Inversions give me not only a new perspective physically while I am in the pose but emotionally and spiritually long after the class is over.

Doing handstands together with Mary was fun and got me thinking about this past year. It has been almost one year since Mr. Garvey, Mary, and Miss Almanzo joined our family. It has been a year of big transitions for everyone. Overall I would say that everything is just about where I hoped it would be at the one year mark. Life feels settled and normal again, albeit much more busy. Many of my perspectives on life, mothering, and gender have been challenged. I still struggle with how to be as good of a mom to 5 kids as I was to 2. I have learned and am still learning what it means to be a mother to daughters. There is definitely a different dynamic between mothers and daughters than mothers and sons. On that front, I am still a work in progress.

I recall when Pa and I first began considering the adoption of a child, we were going to adopt one baby girl. We had two sons and although I love those two boys more than I can say, with each pregnancy I secretly hoped for a girl. Once Pa and I decided on Ethiopia, one girl quickly became two sisters. We felt that with the transracial and transcultural issues this adoption would present, it would be nice for our new child to have someone else in the family who would completely understand the experience of being adopted, of losing your culture, of looking different than the rest of your family. Long story short one baby girl became three older children.

Once we knew Mr. Garvey, Mary, and Miss Almanzo would be joining our family, my biggest fear was how I would bond with Mr. Garvey. I was afraid that I might find out that I could not love him like I love my bio sons. I was so relieved to find that these worries were just worries. I liked Mr. Garvey instantly and I felt that he fit right into our family as if he had always been here. I never had these concerns about Mary and Miss Almanzo. After all they are girls and I use to be a girl. This should be a piece of cake right? Well having daughters is a lot different than having sons. For those of you with children of both genders feel free to laugh. I know. I know. Boys and girls are different. On an intellectual level I get it. I just didn't know what it would mean in a real world situation.

Here is an example:

Ma: It's time for bed.

Boys all run up give me a kiss, hug, and the customary "Sweet Cheese. I love you. See you tomorrow. Night. Night." The boys head up the stairs to their room not to be seen again until morning.

Ma: Girls, it is time for bed. The boys are all ready upstairs. Let's go.

Girls saunter in. I get the kiss, the hug, the customary "Sweet Cheese. I love you. See you tomorrow. Night. Night." They however do not proceed up the stairs to their room. Suddenly they have 5 million tidbits of information they need to tell you right this minute. They double team Pa and I talking at a breakneck pace without even a pause to catch their breath. I'm not sure how they keep from passing out. Their volume increases with each new statement as they try to be heard over the other. Now I am one of those annoyingly chipper morning people. When I wake up I am ready to go. Evenings are a different story. I have less patience, less ability to go with the flow. I try to listen for a few minutes, but then my head is spinning. I'm tired. I just want quiet. I finally convince them that some of this information can wait until morning. The kissing and the hugging commence again. They finally head upstairs. On good nights we won't see them again until morning. Other nights there are some topics that really, in their opinion, can't wait until morning, thus forcing them to come back downstairs and share.

On one night in particular, when it finally appears that the girls are in bed for the night, I turn to Pa and ask, "Why do you think that they must tell us every detail of every move they make or even think about making? Why do they tell us every thought they have?"

Pa laughs. He also looks at me as if I just asked the proverbial "Does this make me look fat?" question. He seems uncomfortable and isn't sure he should say what he is thinking. I finally insist. He begrudgingly answers, "They're little women."

I respond, "You mean this is a woman thing? Is this something I do also?"

Rather than answer the direct question, he replies that women like to talk and in general talk more than men. Turns out he's right. According to a show I heard recently on NPR, women speak an average of 22,000 words per day and men only 7,000 words per day. I would say Pa is on the low end for men and me for women. Mary and Miss Almanzo are definitely on the other side of the curve making up for all us quieter women. Mary must hit a good 35,000 words per day and Miss Almanzo is completely off the charts. Guess I am going to have to start encouraging them to talk more in the morning, if I am going to have quieter evenings.

It's A Sweet Baby Girl!

Some fellow homeschoolers who live fairly close to us just bought two goats. They were told that they had not been exposed to the billy. Three days before they left for a trip to Sweden, one of the goats surprised them with a baby. They called and wanted to know if Mr. Garvey would be interested in feeding and watering the goats as well as helping out with the second female goat should she deliver while they were gone. Mr. Garvey has had a lot of experience with goats and was excited to get to be around goats again. He is amazing to watch. He is so confident and capable. He knows just what to do to get them to go where he wants them to go. On Friday we arrived to find momma #2 giving birth. Mr. Garvey jumped right in. He wiped off the new baby and declared it's a girl. We stayed until we were sure the baby was up on its legs and nursing. Here are some pictures we took today of the 2-day old baby goat. So sweet!

The Twins

On paper Mr. Laura is 1.5 months older than Mary. When we received the referral for Mr. Garvey, Mary, and Miss Almanzo, Mr. Laura was very excited about having a "twin". He would show everyone their picture and say, "This is my twin sister."

Reality turned out to be much different than Mr. Laura expected. Instead of a twin he got a much bigger, stronger and no doubt older sister. Both Mary and Mr. Laura have strong personalities. They took an instant dislike to one another.

What they have eventually learned is that they each have something to offer the other. Mary left behind a younger brother whom she cared for almost exclusively for a period of time. Mr. Laura has always loved to "play" the baby. Their relationship changed for the better once Mr. Laura realized he had another willing and capable "mama" and Mary realized she had a "baby" brother again.

Tiny Butterfly Girl and Other Lies We Tell Our Children

Mary lost three teeth sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas. That is when the "lies" began. Mr. Edwards began filling her in on the details of the Tooth Fairy. He gave her all of the step-by-step instructions on how she could turn the teeth into money. However, "Tooth Fairy" was really a meaningless term for the Ethiopians so a different description was needed. Mr. Edwards explained that the Tooth Fairy was kind of like a tiny butterfly girl. This was an image they could understand. Of course right then and there Mr. Garvey had questions: "How does this tiny butterfly girl get into our house?", "How does she get the money under your pillow without waking you up?" and "How can such a tiny person carry so many heavy coins?"

I have waited 9 long years for these kind of questions from Mr. Edwards. Never once has he doubted the people with "magical" abilities that visit our house during certain times of the year. Mr. Edwards is an incredibly smart kid. He loves science. So I have always been baffled why at 9 1/2 he still believed so completely.

I had decided not to make a big deal out of Santa Claus this past year because of our new children. I didn't want to ruin it for Mr. Edwards and Mr Laura, but I also knew with the kind of questions Mr. Garvey asked about tiny butterfly girl that he would have some big questions about Santa Claus. I was afraid beyond just questioning the logistics of such an operation, that Mr. Garvey would also want to know things like, "Why didn't Santa Claus bring us food and toys while we were in Ethiopia?"

The inevitable happened sometime in early December. Mr. Garvey walked into the kitchen and said, "Mr. Edwards just told me that an old man with a very big abdomen is going to fly in the sky, come down our fire spot, and bring us toys and candy. Is this true?" I couldn't lie to him. I could not look this probably 10 year old in the eye and lie. I also didn't want Mr. Edwards to find out about the "lies" from Mr. Garvey. I managed a pretty vague answer and left him with "What do you think?"

On the next Saturday I took Mr. Edwards out to lunch. On the way to the restaurant, I broke the news to him. I told him that Pa and I were Santa Claus. He sat there a few silent moments and then let out a big sigh and said, "Well that explains why I never got anything I ever wanted for Christmas." Evidently he had been writing secret letters to Santa and asking for things that Pa and I were not aware of. We continued on to the restaurant and had a nice lunch peppered with a few more questions like, "What about the Easter Bunny?", "What about the Winter fairy and the Halloween fairy (don't ask)?" and finally with the tiniest bit of hope left in his voice he asked, "Tiny butterfly girl?" "Sorry, not real either," I replied. Overall he took it pretty well and now seems to relish the idea that he is "in" on the secrets. I have also let Mr. Garvey in on the truth about tiny butterfly girl and the old man with the very big abdomen.

The younger three still "believe". Tiny butterfly girl will be paying Mr. Laura a visit any day now for his first tooth. Mary is getting excited about the "big white mouse that lays chocolate eggs" coming to our house soon. Mr. Garvey, not being a fan of chocolate, is really disappointed by the upcoming holiday. He has approached me privately to work out a trade - his chocolate for some of my money. After we came to agreement on the terms, he said with a knowing smile on his face, "make sure that the 'big white mouse' brings some really good chocolate, you know the kind you like." Oh I will!

"I'm so Happy!"

The flight from Addis Ababa, Ethiopia to Charlotte, NC via D.C. took about 24 hours to complete. As we de-planed in Charlotte, I remember how relieved I felt that I had actually managed to get three children who spoke no English, had never been on a plane, and who were scared and confused back home safe and sound to meet Pa, Mr. Laura, and Mr. Edwards for the first time. That is when she bolted. Mary left me standing there with Mr. Garvey and a sleeping Miss Almanzo in my arms, three back packs and two carry on suitcases. Where she was going I'm not sure, but she was wasting no time getting there. I began screaming her name. Fortunately a woman figured out the situation and stepped in front of Mary long enough for us to catch her. From there we managed pretty uneventfully to make it to baggage claim to meet Pa, Mr. Edwards, and Mr. Laura and so began our new family.

To say that Mary and I have had a rough adjustment to each other would be an understatement. Mary pretty much disliked me from the moment we met. It was obvious that she did not want to leave Ethiopia and she needed to blame somebody. She understandably chose me. She had not asked to give up everything that was familiar to her and start again with strangers. Her Ethiopian family had made an adoption plan for her and her brother and sister that they felt was in their best interests, but that did not mean that she would be a willing participant. Mary possesses a lot of qualities that will make her a survivor, but these qualities are not often easy ones for the parent. She is independent, determined, strong-willed, brutally honest, opinionated, and questions everything. At the same time she is funny and playful, generous and compassionate. It is these latter qualities that I had difficulty seeing initially.

The first two months were very trying. She told me in no uncertain terms that she did not want to be here, that she did not like me, and that she wished I was dead. I'd like to say that as the adult I didn't take any of this personally, that it did not affect my feelings towards her, and that I was always patient with her while she worked this out. Of course I'd be lying if I did. I took a lot of deep breaths, apologized a lot, and kept telling myself that "this too shall pass".

Fortunately for the entire family Mary and Pa hit it off. It gave both of us some much needed space from each other. I remember the turning point for me. One day Pa remarked that Mary is really so sweet and it would have been a real tragedy if she had been left behind in Ethiopia. Sweet? Mary? Sweet? My brain locked up. It was as if Pa were telling me the earth was flat after all. I could think of a lot of other adjectives but I could not put Mary and "sweet" together. I couldn't believe we could both live in the same house with Mary and each see her so differently. I wanted to see what he saw. I began watching their interactions and trying to see Mary through his eyes. That is when I felt my heart soften. It hasn't been easy but day by day I feel the love and trust building between the two us.

One of my remaining concerns is that she never seems happy in the way that Mr. Garvey and Miss Almanzo do. She has understandably hesitated to embrace her new life fully. It is as if she has made a bargain with herself that she will accept her life such as it is, but that joy and happiness will not be part of it. She is never satisfied. Nothing is ever good enough. She is always sure that one of her siblings got something better than she did. She screams, "I hate this," as she opens the birthday gift you bought her. The birthday gift she explicitly told you she wanted. She is so determined to be unhappy.

So last night as we drove her to her second gymnastic practice of the week and of her lifetime, I heard the sweetest words I never thought I would hear from Mary. The car was quiet and completely out of the blue, as she bounced excitedly up and down in her seat, she giggled and said, "I'm so happy."