The End of Today

I can't say that ALL the little things went wrong.  There were some brilliant smiles from each kid in the pool, as they explored something they hadn't known they could do.  The usual carrots are kind of woody and bitter until cooked, but this last market batch is sweet and crisp and I enjoyed watching all three kids munch them down at dinner (I enjoyed eating them myself, for that matter).  It was really cute when I put cheese on my rice and offered it to the kids: Emerson said he would try some (cheese is one of the things he's suddenly picky about), so I cut him a tiny piece and he shook his head "no" that he didn't like it.  Then I offered some to Buttercup to see if she liked it (the girls don't quite know what to think about cheese) and she ate it and shook her head... and grabbed at the chunk of cheese. She just thought she was supposed to shake her head after eating, like Emerson did! I served her some, and she gobbled it right up.  

I enjoyed my snuggle time while I carried Buttercup in the wrap this afternoon; it was a nice combination of her being in a snuggly mood and the weather being enjoyably cool, when one was wearing clothes.  She's starting to ask (subtly) to go up, and that time with her is so precious to me every day.  And finally, Emerson kept his temper remarkably well, and he could have been much less helpful than he was.  Oh, and none of our giant meltdowns was in public or in the middle of a street.

BUT.... it was one of those days.  I had thought it would be nice to go for another swimming pool outing, and all kinds of little things kept going wrong.  The kids took forever to get ready.  The day was hot and muggy and depressing.  We walked 20 or 30 minutes to catch the minibus, and luckily I stopped to get the kids some yogurt, because I realized I'd left my purse at home.  So we walked back, the kids dilly dallies around for a long time more, and we walked out again.  In the yucky heat.  Which went away while we were en route, and the entire afternoon at the pool was cloudy and cool.  So the kids played in the water, but they quickly got very cold.  I brought plenty of towels, and kept warning them to not let the towels drop on the bricks, which were covered with water.  So the very first time out of the pool, with me repeating this at least three times, Hibiscus just casually drops her towel on the ground and it's sopping wet, and soon Buttercup drags and end on the ground too.  So now there is no way to warm up upon getting out of the pool for the rest of the long afternoon.... until at last Emerson went to get his clothes.  He managed okay but dropped his underwear in a puddle.  Hibiscus followed suit, but in overenthusiasm dropped her shirt in the puddle, and then leaned over to pick it up and dropped her skirt.  She had already tried to warm herself with my skirt (which I like to leave on if I'm not in the water) and gotten water over half of it as well.  Oh, and then finally we showered and I partially dried the clothes under the hand-dryer in the bathroom, and we went to collect our pool toys, and for some unexplained reason fully-dressed Hibiscus had to stick her foot in the water and promptly fell in.  Luckily she landed on her feet, so she was only half sopping wet.

And that's just the water story.  The kids ordered chicken sandwiches, but they brought us chicken salad sandwiches, and not even eat-everything Buttercup would touch that strange stuff all mixed together.  I had three waiters explain to me that it wasn't a chicken salad sandwich, it was the chicken sandwich, and I should have ordered it with no vegetables and mayonnaise.  Well, if the menu had implied that there were vegetables and mayonnaise involved, we might have done that!  It specified "tuna salad;" wouldn't you think a "chicken sandwich" would just involve a piece of chicken in some way?  They finally brought new sandwiches, but I was getting very annoyed, and the kids kept whining that they were hungry and trying to eat all of my lunch.  (They had eaten a great deal of french fries, so I didn't think they were going to expire before the new sandwiches arrived.)  And you can't have a proper going-wrong day without poop or vomit; we had the former today, in Buttercup's swimsuit --thankfully not in the water, but very messy.  

And today the kid-pool was full of Ugandan families, instead of the mix of different expats and blended families and Indians and hotel guests and Ugandans.  Which is fine in theory, but in practice the Ugandans (clarification: the wealthy Ugandans who come to the pool) bring children who are much older and don't supervise them very much, so the small pool was full of 12-year-olds doing belly flops all over the place, which made it harder for my little ones to play, and also our stuff (and me) on the side got more wet than it ever has.  Including ruining a book the kids have been enjoying and Hibiscus really wanted to bring along and promised she would keep away from the water -- and she actually did.

And most of all, Hibiscus was just grumpy today.  Too many of her interactions started out "leave me 'lone!" or "don' do dat!" or "me for first-y!" or "don' touch dat one!"  It often turned out that the other person was just looking or in the process of handing it to her anyway or something like that, so they didn't escalate into a lot of fighting.... but man, it is exhausting to hear and feel that defensiveness all day long.  And manners!  Manners are tiny gestures, but amazingly important.  Even when I know her lack of manners is because she doesn't have the English skills or know the American way, every single time it's grating and obnoxious to me.  "Gimme dat" just makes my jaw tense every time, even when she says it calmly and is receptive to repeating it a better way.  And a lot of times she isn't.  Ugandans are incredibly polite, although of course some things are different, such as they don't appear to ask for things in the subjunctive which is what makes things sound courteous to us; they say "I want" instead of "I would like," in English or Luganda.  So a great deal of her lack of manners is that no one has taught her manners at all, and it's even more obnoxious to all the local Ugandans than it is to me, so I am constantly apologizing or smoothing over her poor behavior, when actually it's driving me crazy inside.  So at her best, her manners are not very good, but she was far from her best today.  And of course, we had to end with a huge meltdown while getting ready for dinner and a big power struggle at dinner and then a gigantic enormous meltdown during bedtime.  Because that's the way days end around here.

So today is finished.  More or less, because Buttercup has been fussy and I've gotten up twice to soothe her while writing this, and she's back in the wrap on my chest, sleeping peacefully but not separately, as I write.

How do I do it?  Why do I do it?  I've gotten compliments that I must be an angel, and so many implications that the speaker coudln't handle it and I must be so amazing.  I'm not.  I'm not magic, and I'm not altruistic.  This trip has been complicated in so many ways, but in some emotional ones quite simple: I thought this was the right thing to do, and that my skill set matched this job, and our family's needs matched these children's needs. And here I am.  

And I don't have any magical powers or internal perfect mothering to make it through the days.  I hear myself using a tense and frustrated voice way too often.  I expect my six-year-old to act like a six-year-old (and sometimes my four-year-old to act like a six-year-old) even though I know perfectly well that she is not actually capable of it.  It drives me absolutely crazy to repeat myself over and over and have them do the opposite, and to be constantly putting things back where they belong, even though I know they're just acting like kids.  And then I tell them they should have known better.

I haven't been doing much playing with them or reading to them.  When they're playing calmly, I cross my fingers and leave them alone, and when they're not we're all in crisis mode.  If I were this wonderful adopted-kids mother-angel, I would sit on the floor and play farm animals with Buttercup while the older ones were outside, but instead I let her wander around vaguely, not really knowing how to play, feeling relieved that at least no one is grabbing and whining at me, and I try to get something else done.

I don't have all the answers -- instead, my days feel full of things that I don't know how to fix.  I'm not sure letting Hibiscus scream her head off while I ignore her is the best approach, but I don't know a better one, and the other kids need me.  I don't know how to deal with so many of the crisis they present me with.  I don't feel like banning the girls from sleeping in my bed was the right thing to do, but the alternatives seemed worse at that moment.  A million times a day, I feel guilty for each child because my hands are full of the other two and I don't take care of something.

My heart isn't this perfect angel heart, either.  Sometimes I am really truly mad at my children, even though I know it's not fair to them.  Sometimes, the thought flits through my head that this is crazy and I should just bring Hibiscus back.  I don't like to admit it, and it's not something that I consider with any seriousness, but it does come up.  Sometimes I feel really grumpy about being stuck here so far away from everyone and everything, waiting on this stupid system, and I wish I'd just flown home with Mark.  Sometimes I zone out and ignore them, even though it's a moment that I would be perfectly capable of doing something meaningful with them.  Sometimes I want Emerson to be "fixed" already so I can deal with these new kids, and I feel really resentful that after all this time and energy he is behaving so badly.  

Meanwhile, I really ought to get to bed earlier and start Wilburger brushing with the older kids and call my Luganda teacher back.

I feel worn down and too aware of all the negatives, especially about my own self.  So I'll try and notice the positives, just like I try to notice the positive moments in an awful day.

I don't have the answers, but at least I think about the problems and don't ignore them.  I speak too often in an irritated voice, but I very rarely yell.  I have made it this far without punishing in anger.  Much of the time, I manage rules and consequences with outward calm.  I think I am an incredibly consistent and boring disciplinarian.  When I don't feel like a loving parent, I just act like I think a loving parent would be acting and make it through the evening.  That fills the child's needs.

And Buttercup is back in her own bed, and we're one day closer to being farther along.

In Praise of Daddy

In Praise of Daddy

When my husband and I were courting, ten (!!!) years ago, children were one of the things he was kind of vague about.  Yes, he wanted them, some time in the future, probably -- but he was a little concerned about how non-abstract the children in my local life were, and how realistic my imagination was about our own potential children.  He ended up proposing to me after all, but I'm sure if he could have seen a week in our household recently, he would have run for the hills!

I was kind of worried about his vagueness at the time too, but the test of time shows that God could not have possibly hand-picked out a better father for our three extremely high-needs children.  I have been so amazingly proud of and grateful for him every moment of his two-week trip with us.  He has been looking forward to the "adventure" of traveling to Uganda for a long time now, and it turns out that he spent most of his trip dealing with tantrums and poop and sibling rivalry and bedtimes and cuddles and choosing stories and taking baths and cleaning up paint..... and he told me he loved it.

His very first moment was a test of fatherhood.  He was working his way through the airport after a 30 or 40 hour trip, and he was trying to find out where he was when two little bullets came crashing into his side, laughing and screaming and pulling at him.  One was his son, and one was a little girl whom he had never seen before in his life and he didn't know would be there at all.  Right away, he was down on his knees with his arms around both children, making them feel safe and secure with him.  From that moment forward, he acted like just as much of a daddy -- with love and affection as well as clarity and discipline -- towards both children.  That seems really obvious about adopted children not being treated differently, but the real challenge was that there was no time to build a relationship.  Hibiscus entered it fully expecting a complete daddy, and so before he even had a chance to look at her or ask her about her favorite color or watch her with me, he stepped into the full relationship.

In adoption, there is something called a "honeymoon period," when the child (and parents) are both excited and idealistic about being together, and the child is eager to please the helpful new people in her life, and the parents are full of idealistic thoughts about raising children, and everyone is kind of on their best behavior.  Maybe older children have been warned to be good for their new parents, or threatened that they will be brought back to the orphanage if they're not good.  Maybe they're still shy.  At any rate, many relationships start off with this pleasant period before everything else rises to the surface.  In our case, because I was spending so much time with the girls in the orphanage, I think we entered and left our "honeymoon" before they even started living with us!  In fact, the time when they moved in coincided with Hibiscus starting to test boundaries, and also feeling secure enough that she was going out of "emergency mode" and started to feel repressed feelings, and Daddy arriving as well.  The poor child was an absolute walking disaster.

And Daddy walked right into it.  He comforted her when she cried, and he held her down when she became so hysterical she became dangerous.  At the beginning, this was several times a day.  (NB: Apparently holding children down while they tantrum is a hot-button issue in adoption bonding.  We did it not because of any philosophy one way or the other, but because she became so destructive she would hurt or destroy anything she could touch, the other children, or herself, and holding her seemed like our only option.)  We've had to read books and watch movies and hear speakers and learn sooooo much about bonding and attachment, and I'm sure Mark didn't think his first job would be to full-body hold his brand-new daughter while she screamed and writhed and raged, for 10 or 20 or 40 minutes, until she finally wore herself down, and then they would read books and cuddle together.  But that was what happened, and it did seem to mean that she began to trust that our boundaries could hold her, and to learn some techniques to self-soothe.  By the end of his trip, she was only raging that badly about every other day, instead of four or five times a day.

I'm sure Mark has been wondering about what the streets look like and how safe it is and how we'll get around; even the mundane things are exciting in Africa.  He did not expect to learn exactly how crowded and how few rules there are, while standing in the dark in the busiest section of Gabba Road, while we alternated holding Hibiscus up by her elbows while she screamed at the top of her lungs and tried to throw herself on the ground, or into traffic, or perhaps the casino on the other side, or anywhere but where she was.  We were holding her by her elbows because she was doing that writhing-spaghetti-thing, but with 6-year-old strength and size, and there was literally no extra room on the ground to be laying that a motorcycle wouldn't drive onto at any minute.  We alternated because the other one had to hold up Emerson, who also spent a while tantruming.  We stood there waiting for a minibus to pick us up, but they were pretty full and also avoiding us like we had the bubonic plaugue.  She eventually calmed down, and we eventually got home, but it was quite the introduction to the streets of Kampala.

But this is making it sound like Hibiscus is the only challenge!  Oh no.  Apparently introducing a 6-year-old who acts like a 2-year-old into our household, also turns the 4-year-old into a 2-year-old, leaving us with three 2-year-olds, only one of whom is small enough to carry around and hold like the ordinary kind.  If you wondering where Buttercup is in any of these dramas, the answer is pretty much always that she was on my back.  The benefit to a 2-year-old sized 2-year-old is that you can carry her everywhere, and she can't get into any trouble while wrapped tightly onto Mama.  Actually, I think the older children would have preferred that arrangement as well, if Mama had three backs.

Everything Emerson ever knew about manners, common sense, or family rules, went straight out the window when Hibiscus was in the room.  Every night at the beginning, Mark and I would look at each other with our pallid gray faces, and say something like "he has been under the almost complete supervision of a loving and firm mother, who has a masters in early childhood education for heavens sakes, for his ENTIRE LIFE, except for a few hours a week at an extremely inter-relational focused school with very wise teachers.  She has been neglected, had to fend for herself, lived in several families and spent the last few months at an orphanage reinacting The Lord of the Flies, and is now expected to live with brand-new people who don't even speak her language.  Can't we expect a LITTLE better behavior from him?!  Isn't there ANY possibility he can act better than her?!"  

(Okay, my friends reading this in the calm of the day, I know there isn't really any chance.  I know that regression and competition is completely normal at this stage.  I know this is a huge challenge for him, and he's only four years old, and he has his own difficulties anyways.  I know that in my head.  But once he's in bed, you just have to say it sometimes!)

She's been at an orphanage where the older kids constantly slap the younger ones to keep them in line; Emerson learned at play dates when he was one and two years old never to hit other children, and he doesn't.  Well, it would be one thing if Emerson fought back after being hit, but in the first few days he initiated just as many fistfights as she did.  (Luckily, they both are total wimps and generally come screaming to a parent at the first opportunity, instead of actually getting into a knock-down-drag-out fight.  I'll write that down now, because I wouldn't be surprised if those are in our future!)  

Table manners were a similar casualty.  I've read things like expecting older adopted children to have very poor table manners, but that you'll probably want to save that battle (um, I mean "lesson") for later -- which I agree with in theory, until BOTH older children start stuffing so much food into their mouths so they can blow it at each other, or smearing yogurt all over their entire faces and then starting in on smearing each other.  So we've started fighting about (um, I mean "teaching") table manners from the beginning as well.

And it was Emerson, not Hibiscus, who created the Fruit Fiasco, which actually is a precurser to several other related fiascos.  Apparently, his idea of having a younger sibling, is that she can do toddler-like things and no one will be to blame for it.  It's true that we don't hold Buttercup to the same standard of behavior, such as expecting her to clean up her own messes or use prediction to figure out that leaning on the chair will cause it to tip over backwards.  However, Emerson has yet to learn that if he tells Buttercup to do something naughty, and she does it, he bears some amount of responsibility for the situation.  Possibly ALL the responsibility.  For the Fruit Fiasco, they were finishing dessert while I cleaned up and Daddy tried to get Hibiscus ready for bed.  He was doing a great deal of laughing and clapping and whispering, and I turned around and found that Buttercup had thrown ALL of the fruit from her plate and ALL of the fruit from Emerson's plate ALL over the entire living room.  A very large amount of screaming followed.  Not mine, actually, but that's more because I'm just not a screaming type of person, and not because I'm particularly proud of my parenting that night.

And Buttercup.  At least her bonding process involves ordinary things like smiling and cuddling and playing "I Had a Little Pony" knee-bouncing games instead of merely proving that a parent won't let one commit suicide in traffic.  She has her own special contribution to the local chaos, however.  Pretty much, whenever her older brother and sister are at the height of their emotional deluge, except in opposite directions, a parent will turn around to find that Buttercup is "helping" out by pouring water all over the table, or has turned over an entire large container of something that was clean a moment ago, or has observed the packing process well enough to have removed everything from the backpack in question.  Her coup d'etat is a well-timed potty accident. Last night while I made a quick run to the grocery store and both of the older ones were mid-tantrum, Buttercup apparently surpassed herself by both pooping on the floor, and once cleaned up, promptly stubbed her toe bloody as well.  

I don't mean to imply that all of Mark's trip has been taking care of one disaster or another.  He has gotten to meet many people, some of whom were interesting and some decidedly the opposite, and we've gone to some interesting places.  Kind of like real tourists, except kind of not.  Most real tourists don't need to worry about being back at their hotels by approximately 5:34 in the evening, lest their crowd turn into a bunch of pumpkins -- that is, hysterically screaming pumpkins who punch all their neighbors.  (That was a lesson we learned somewhat after the tantrum-in-the-middle-of-the-street incident.)  Also, when real tourists book tickets to a cultural dance, they merely count the heads of their party and request that number of seats.  They don't have to qualify that half of their party has to nap and not throw any tantrums or run away in public for the rest of the day and try and guess how many of them will succeed.  And when they leave for the dance, they might simply walk out the gate.  Our Daddy was trying to get out the gate fast enough while prying off not one but two screaming and clutching children.  Actually, one of them was clinging to me, but I have more experience and a harder heart when it comes to leaving crying children, and I made it out the gate first.  

This is then followed by very ordinary Ugandan drama like the driver and car not showing up and his phone number turning into random music, and then finding a special hire cab in the village, who says he knows where he is going but he doesn't, and meanwhile he tries to cheat you, except mid-way back his car breaks down and you are stuck in the middle of the suburbs with a bunch of children as midnight approaches for an endless time, and he decides not to argue about doubling the agreed-upon price.  And if you are wondering who all the children are, they were not our drama prince and princess.  They stayed with the neighbors, and the neighbor boys came with us.  

And day in and day out, Daddy dealt with everything.  The joy and the frustration, the tantrums and the laughter.  And through it all the kids felt loved and confident and protected, and they created positive memories of what a family means.  

And now Daddy is on the airplane, and I have two children who are either sobbing or drawing pictures of our whole family together, in hopes (mine) that it might be a coping mechanism.  That; or fiddling with my phone, throwing bits of rice cake at their sister, demanding ice cream forty-seven times in a row, or climbing on top of my clean laundry.  And where is the third child?

She's on my back.

Another day

It would be possible for parents to have a worse day than ours yesterday.  Hearing that your child were gravely injured but not knowing exactly how or where, and getting stuck in a traffic jam while you are trying to get to them in a hospital -- that comes to mind.  

Ours merely involved three business-y appointments with three over-excited children; being stuck in a broken-down car; going to pick the essential paper we had been told would certainly be ready "tomorrow," and finding out that "tomorrow" actually meant "some vague time in the future, unless it isn't"; and copious amounts of vomit.  This is in addition to the current daily norms of violent sibling rivalry, continuous inability to communicate in the same language as our children, and about fifty tear-storms a day.  Most of the tears come from one particular child, but the reasons are varied.  

Tears are good.  They mean that there is emotional processing going on, instead of just bottling everything up.  Currently, we have violent tears and wails for every teeny tiny hurt and pain, violent tears and wails whenever a sibling accidentally or purposefully does anything that could be construed as negative, violent tears and wails any time there is any disappointment, violent tears and wails if she thinks about eating and is does not have food in her mouth, and most of all, extremely violent tears and wails any time her parents don't do what she wants.  Since she is concurrently engaged in scientifically proving exactly how she can or cannot make her parents do what she wants or stop doing what she wants at any given moment, this last cause of tears is pretty much constant.

For instance, her scientific observation has produced the hypothesis that her mother wants her to eat her food at the table.  This hypothesis is supported by understanding most of the English words that her mother uses to talk about food and table, as well as the fact that her mother can also explain the concept in her own native language.  So, this obviously begs the following questions: can she eat her bread while wandering around the room? No.  Can she eat her pancake on the couch? No.  Can she eat her carrot in bed? No.  The results are inconclusive, and currently the theory needs to be tested approximately twelve times a day in order to be able to reach any dependable results.

Actually, there are a great many things in daily life which do not go exactly the way that might suit Hibiscus the very best at that particular moment.  To determine exactly how she can make everyone, especially the all-important parents, do exactly what she wants, she is trying every variation of noise, collapsing, pathos, hitting, assorted other violence, and anything else that might come to mind at that moment.  Of course, violence of action and emotion just breeds greater violence of emotion, and this usually leads to extended writhing and crying with no particular object in mind.

Combine all this with a long day of appointments, and just imagine the result.  I had thought that we would have the chance to see some cultural sites, which would involve looking around and running around, but we kept having just enough time between having to be in the next place, to have to much time to do nothing but not nearly enough time to do anything at all.  Once we actually drove to the potential fun location, and left without entering so we wouldn't be late.  Of course, this is also way too much stimulation for children who have possibly not gone beyond a few buildings and a few blocks in their lives, and no one has ever entered into any kind of study of manners with these kids.

So, on the positive side, no one ended up in the hospital.  Evidence is growing every day for Buttercup's increasing attachment.  And Mark met the people he had to meet, and he has excellent grace and social skills while his children are busy hitting each other with leather elephants.  And we had a pleasant lunch, for the portion of the experience that there was food on the table and headed into the children's mouths.  There was a significant downturn once the food was consumed.  Also luckily, only two of the three children are fast enough to actually escape the building when a parent is actively running after them.  On a definite positive note, we arrived home with the same number of family members that left home in the morning.  And sometimes the sibling rivalry takes the positive turn of informing parents of dangerous and forbidden activities, although the sibling usually sees this as reason to follow with the crying and hitting and then more crying part.

When I am not trying to focus on the positive..... wow, the vomit part was pretty overpowering.....

10 minutes (just 10)

10 minutes...

... in the life of the 3-child circus.

Trying to get dinner on the table.  Older children have some respect for the written and illustrated Getting Ready for Dinner Routine, and are proven capable of doing it.  I ask them to clear the table, in English and Luganda.  Hibiscus and Emerson are sliding around dramatically on the just-mopped floor (or was it when Buttercup had just peed but it hadn't been mopped yet?) and pretending to fall and landing on all fours with their bums in the air, and shrieking with the most hysterical laughter of which children are capable.  Which is quite very much hysterical.  Somewhere around a potential broken nose, I look over at Buttercup.  She is perched on a chair, moving things around on the table because that's what I said to do.  Her main effect is knocking over several glasses of water.  The floor is now even more wet and slippery.

Somehow we have gotten to the point of the bigger kids noticing the table, I forget exactly how.  Hibiscus starts getting the egico (spoons) and then Emerson has to get the egico and is ready to dive-bomb her midway to the table because he actually was planning all along to set out spoons.  I suggest he put out napkins.  Instead of finding it in the drawer, the silverware is on the drying rack and Daddy dries it to hand to Hibiscus.  One spoon lands in the mop bucket full of dirty water, which is standing at the ready because there is cause to mop the floor for about every ten minutes of child activity.  This is hysterical.  Hibiscus puts spoons on the table, because Emerson is distracted by piling up all the cushions on the couch and jumping on top of them.  Hibiscus realizes that she had laid a baby teddy bear for his nap on exactly the bottom cushion that he is piled on, and screams bloody murder and tries to pull him off the top of his precarious pile, and he starts to fight back desperately without understanding the slightest bit about the "baby" in question.  Meanwhile, Buttercup remembers that I've asked to put the napkins on the table, and goes over to get the napkin-and-important-stuff basket, which is large enough (and full enough) that all she manages is to upend the entire thing on the floor.

Hibiscus remembers the spoon in the mop bucket, which Daddy has just taken out and washed while she was involved in the Squashed Baby Drama.  She screams with laughter and dives over and starts flapping around in the dirty water, while Daddy tries to first of all convince her that the spoon is already removed, and secondly that she needs to wash her hands before returning to set the table.  She starts to cry because "me I have finished wash hands!"  Hibiscus crying usually means falling on anything available, such as people or the floor, and flopping around like a very large fish with skinny arms, which her parents know all about because they end up dragging her around by said skinny arms so she is not in the mop bucket or the middle of the street or falling off the stairs or bruising her brother.  Emerson has forgotten about the squashed baby, but still somehow it is Mama who fixes the napkin basket and puts them on the table.  Oh yes, because Emerson is busy being hysterical that there aren't enough of the pink cloth napkins for everyone, and he can't possibly use a paper napkin, like we used every day until I cut up a towel last week, if there are pink napkins extant.  Although of course, if he actually set the napkins out he could put them wherever he wanted.  Instead, he puts lego boxes on his feet, and Hibiscus attacks him because one of the lego boxes had originally had her legos in it.

Buttercup, valiantly following the example presented, is quietly diving head first into the mop bucket.

Weekend with Three Kids

Church Adventure - Three Kids!

So, we were invited to a church by someone in Rotary, and we have been kind of discussing going some time for the last month.  I brought the girls over to our house for the whole weekend.  This morning, I got a call from our friend ("friend" meaning someone who knows someone who has met you once, and is therefore fully prepared to go out of their way to host you) offering to pick us up at a convenient taxi stop if we met them at 10:30.  I thought we could get out of the house before 10:30 and, with that excellent and complete logic as well as general complaisance, I agreed.

A couple hours later, I was contemplating a recent email exchange with a friend, where she was discussing not taking her excitable daughter into high-intensity situations unless she was well prepared to deal with wildness or running away.  It was a little hard to remember the details, as the music from the worship band was blasting out of the speakers, the a/v was swirling colors around, and the couple hundred or people around were dancing and clapping and swaying as they sang.  I was impaired from chasing my highly excitable children by the fact that I was holding the very mild-tempered one in my arms.  I comforted myself with the idea that at least this was a church, and at least the people around here don't seem intimidated by interfering with someone else's children, and moreover the whole complex was gated, so probably no one would be able to get into any trouble that had a life-long effect.  

Besides, we might as well be here, because:

A) We have to leave the house as a group at some point, and an outing that is half by private car has a great deal of advantage; and

B) It had to be better than staying at home, or at least different.  The drama that Hibiscus and Emerson had been producing for all of Saturday had to be at least equal to several hundred people in a rousing worship service!  Each day that we spend together, they seem to be focused on figuring out the exact limits of a different boundary.  Yesterday, the theme was Hibiscus hearing the word "no."  Every time this happened, whether something as simple as it was Emerson's turn to unlock the door to something more premeditated like when she drew on her skirt and I took away her pen, she cried and wailed for minutes and minutes and minutes, writhing like she were in her death throes.  This might have been a difficult conundrum for me, because I knew part of her tears were experimenting with the new concept that someone cares about her if she cries, and I might have tried to figure out how to help her feel supported in her sadness without supporting her doing what I had told her not to.  However, since there were three children involved, it was pretty much guaranteed that someone had a clearer need than comforting crocodile tears, so she pretty much got ignored until she decided to stop.  It did not increase the general feeling of household peacefulness, however.  Meanwhile, she and Emerson were either grabbing and yelling at each other, or bonding by being incredibly rude, which is about the funniest thing in the world at that age.  So I apologize to all our apartment-building neighbors, that it took me several minutes to go out into the stairwell and put a stop to the three children screaming at the top of their lungs to hear the echo; it really seemed like a better option than anything else they might be doing. 

 My parenting abilities for Hibiscus are so severely limited by what we are able to say to each other.  Some amount can be communicated through touch and expression and a few words in each other's languages, and this seems to work pretty well for two-year-old parenting, but falls way short of the logic and explanation that a six-year-old desperately needs.  So not only does she have to learn all my new rules, she has to learn them without the benefit of being told what they are, and without being able to understand why I have created them, and furthermore she is not allowed any learning-curve transgressions without the local four-year-old police saying "but MAMA! we're not allowed to talk like that in our family!"  So something like "food must be eaten at the table" is comprehensible, but it involves me physically taking her bowl away as she wanders outside, which creates the obvious interpretation that I am trying to starve her to death, and probably furthermore I plan turn around and give her bowl to Emerson.  After adding ice cream and chapatis.  We eventually arrived at the correct interpretation, which was her returning to the table to finish and me being pleased with her, but there was some serious distress in the middle.  A time or two or three or four.  (The last couple times were mostly to make sure that I would actually go to the trouble of chasing her and her bowl down every single time, and what manner of growling or wailing would make me decide to not bother.  Hopefully she will arrive at a conclusion soon.)

So we had an outing to a new church which was a great deal more overwhelming than I had expected, but my over-excitable kids were so busy staring at all the drama around them, and deciding whether to make friends or run away from the other small children, that they didn't make it any farther than up and down the aisle.  So I had significantly more trips up and down the aisle than any other adult, but kept them pretty much always in sight.  And I was rewarded with each child giving me a huge grin as he or she clapped along to the rousing music.

At least in the first 10 or 15 minutes.  After an hour of loud music interspersed with occasional praise, the kids were more than ready for Children's Church, even patient little Buttercup.  So they headed out with the general exodus, until it was time to sit down, at which point they each decided they didn't want to be sitting in Children's Church.  Buttercup just plain didn't want to be sitting, but was pretty happy to drag her little plastic chair back and forth.  Emerson got the idea that I might leave and go back to the service, and he didn't like that.  Hibiscus, I think, was just plain grumpy.  I think my little clan's attitude towards Children's Church would have improved greatly if they had served the snack at the beginning instead of the end of the hour!  

After a little while, Hibiscus actually settled in pretty well, because the format is pretty similar to the way school works here, so she knew what to do and became attentive.  Emerson went through mixed feelings, from interest in the story to whineyness, that I think would have basically been happy if he weren't so hungry and the whole process weren't so very long.  Buttercup was totally happy, and I pulled her out of the outdoor room where all the other children were trying to concentrate (more or less) and she wandered around nearby and climbed up and down and banged on tables and pulled and trees and basically acted like a little toddler -- which is actually quite a notable accomplishment for this extraordinarily reserved child -- while I followed her around and kept her from falling off of things.  

The final biscuits were immediately followed by our host bringing us to lunch.  (See, I told you they should have come at the beginning!)  The church and everything else took place in a complex centered around a restaurant and a garden, so a group just kind of moved from the meeting hall/sanctuary to a large private dining room, where we had an Indian buffet.  A Canadian group was visiting and had provided the music and and some other leadership, so there was a large group gathered on their behalf.  It was a pleasant break for me to get to speak and hear ordinary American-style English, and be able to assume that the assumptions behind the words were what I would expect.  

It was also a treat to be able to assume that the people around me had a reasonably accurate guess to why a white woman was shepherding around two little African girls.  The idea of adoption outside your own family or clan basically does not exist in Ugandan culture, so some people get very confused about what I am doing.  It will be a cinch to deal with stares in America from people who are amazed to see a mixed race family, compared to strangers on the street cheerfully asking "why are you carrying our child?" or, upon being given an answer, replying "why would you want to do that?"  (To give credit where it is due, a pair of young women also stopped me to shyly say "thank you for taking care of our children, you are doing a very good thing.")  

At this gathering, I was introduced to a woman who had adopted and fostered kids of her own.  Although unfortunately she was sitting at the other end of the table, so I didn't really get to talk with her, we were introduced in the food line.  She stopped and really made a point to connect with each of the three children, and then since everyone was hungry she helped me through the food line.  She started with "what can I do" but then she answered herself, "I'll fill these plates for you, because the children NEED to stay with you, and not anyone else."  It was amazingly rejuvinating to hear that validation for these relationships that are very much under construction at this point.

Buttercup sat on my lap and shared my food, wielding her fork with amazing determination.  (She absolutely refuses to eat with her fingers when anyone else has silverware, despite having surely spending most of her life eating with her fingers and being at the age where most children of silverware-cultures don't actually use their silverware.)  Hibiscus plowed through what I am pretty sure was four entire plates of food, and "plow" is a pretty accurate representation of her eating style!  Emerson, I believe, spent an equal amount of time rearranging the food on his plate and eating three pieces of potato.

I won't describe the complication of taking all three children to the bathroom.  And it was a fairly clean, spacious bathroom where I felt like it was even safe to be in separate stalls.  I do not yet have a game plan for dealing with ordinary Ugandan bathrooms, and, respective of my one-day-at-a-time philosophy, please do not ask me to develop one.  

There were other children around too, and so after a while they did a little playing together on the other side of the room.  

Our hosts drove us all the way back home, which was a great relief.  The minibus ride had gone well in the morning, but with all three children so very tired, it was nice to be able to avoid mid-afternoon.  Buttercup fell asleep in the car, and I got to learn that, although she is incredibly amenable to taking naps and can tolerate a great deal of noise while she is sleeping, she has the ordinary toddler problem of the 10-minute nap in the car, waking on transfer, and feeling like she's completely lively again.  Hibiscus wanted to nap, but Buttercup wouldn't stop singing and jumping on her, so all three children were out and about within minutes of getting home.

I was very pleasantly surprised that the rest of the afternoon went much more smoothly than the day before.  Either they had gotten enough of their crazies out at the church-marathon that they didn't feel so inspired to pick fights with each other, or the act of being in a large group of strangers made them feel more solidarity with each other.  Quiet and peace, we did not have; but it was happy kind of wildness.

They had to go back to the orphanage tonight.  I felt that one overnight qualified under "spending plenty of time with them without completely taking over their care," as the Probation Officer encouraged me to do.  Hopefully the paper will be signed and sealed tomorrow!

I noticed several steps that we took towards a bonded family relationship this weekend.  When the children were at Children's Church, Hibiscus wanted me to stay and called out to me once or twice when I followed Buttercup out of her immediate sight, she didn't just assume that I had left her behind.  Buttercup was happy and attentive in a new place among strangers, as long as she was sitting on my lap or in my arms.  When Emerson wanted her to come and play with him, she was a little hesitant but happy to go with him, but she LOOKED BACK AT ME three times as they walked across the room, and then settled in to play when she saw that I was stationery and content with her.  Visually checking in with parents is something that attached children do constantly and naturally, and unattached children don't do at all; I've felt as well as observed this difference at the orphanage, that the children lose their entire engagement with me as soon as I am not directly interacting with them.  

When we got home, Hibiscus actively sought me out after she fell and hurt herself, twice.  When we first got her, Hibiscus would not only pretend to ignore obvious pain, but if she couldn't hide the pain she would hide herself.  Emerson told me several times when he had seen her upset or in pain, but she didn't want me or any of the other adults to see.  Since she didn't expect any comfort, it must have just felt like weakness.  So that she is willing to cry out, wail dramatically, come towards me (I very actively seek out both children if they have any sign of distress, to demonstrate that I take care of them, so she didn't have to come all the way), and then sob in my arms for several minutes, all over a small scrape on her ankle, shows an amazing level developing emotional openness and trust.

Meanwhile, Buttercup was gallivanting around, actually screaming as she played.  This is a much more physical type of openness developing, that she is simply confident enough to express herself.  I fed the kids a snack, asking if they wanted each ingredient (she still doesn't know how to answer questions like this, but I keep asking), and after hearing the question and getting her bowl, she started chanting "ba-NAAAA-na, er-i-EEEV-u" (which is the same word in both languages), and the older kids were amused and laughed and then chanted along with her.  She was so amazed and proud of herself.  I think that is the first time that she has initiated anything obvious enough for other children to join in.  

Hibiscus-isms

Hibiscus-isms

Because I need to start writing these down!

*Yesterday we were walking back to the orphanage towards evening, and we passed the place where Emerson often sees rabbits out near the road; apparently they get braver as it gets cooler or something.  Emerson pointed out the adorable little fluffy bunnies, as he always does, and Hibiscus took a moment to see it, but then got very excited.

"Is -- is RABBIT.  Is bunny rabbit," she said, working to find the words in her vocabulary.  Then she went on gleefully, "Is for Hibiscus.  Rabbit is for Hibiscus.  Is for EEEAT-TING!!!"

So much for adorable bunnies!

* We met her on the road coming home from school one day, and Emerson started explaining, with his usual verbosity, about his own school.  He can't wait until they both go to his school together.  I have gotten the impression that school is a luxury here and she is very proud of being a schoolgirl, so I have revised my original home-coming plan.  I was going to keep her home with me for at least a few weeks, to give her a chance to settle in, and Emerson some time in his own space, but from both of their feelings I think they will both go straight into school.  So Hibiscus was listening to this discussion, and from the words she understood, she formed an impression that surprised me.  "Hibiscus no go school!" she exclaimed.  But then she continued with her real motive -- "Hibiscus go America!"

We have since managed to persuade her that there is also school in America,  and shown her pictures, and she now is convinced.  In fact, she tells Miss B that she doesn't want to go to M--- Christian School here any more, because she is going to school in America.  As amusing as this all is (and she tends to say things with the air of exaggeration, knowing she is being amusing), I think it shows a genuine fear, that we might be leaving for America at any moment, and if she happens to be busy at school then she might get left behind.

* Speaking of things she says to Miss B, she has a great deal to report about her current and future situation.  She found a photo we had sent months ago with our house in it, and she gleefully pointed to the rooms where she would sleep, and where Buttercup would sleep, and also her friend Hosta, and maybe another friend....  It was amusing how quickly she was moving everyone in, but what was even more amusing was that the picture of the house was taken from the back, and all that showed was an attached shed, the garage, and one window of the kitchen. Just imagine, bringing back a whole host of African children, and then stowing them in the garage!!

After seeing a variety of pictures, which included various family members, she became much more relieved and excited about joining our family.  (If that's possible, which I'm not sure it is.  I think her primary focus is finding a mother who will actually mother her.)  She told Miss B "I'm getting a family with grannies and aunties and everything!"  (The Luganda word "jiajia," pronounced jya-jya, means grandmother or grandfather or in fact any relative the age of a grandparent.)  She always is particularly excited to see these photos of relatives.  I think maybe she thinks we're really a real family, if we can produce extended relatives!  

She especially likes pictures of my mother, although she has a hard time telling whether the picture is of Mama or of Jiajia, and of Emerson's great-grandmother.  She wanted to look at those pictures for a long time.  Again, I think our family increased in value to have someone of a truly honorable age involved!

Downtown

After I took pictures around our neighborhood, I thought I would try and get some pictures of the city part of the city too.  I came to the conclusion that I think city-scape pictures would be better taken from a helicopter or high-rise or something like that!  But here is a little bit of downtown, so you can see that it is actually a bustling and busy city.  There aren't many of them or a lot of variety, because it's hard to navigate a busy city with a four-year-old and actually do something with a camera.  Also, this was a Sunday afternoon, and much less traffic than there ordinarily is.

 A taxi stage.  There might be a dozen or two lined up, literally bumper to bumper, and here are some drivers arguing with each other as a bonus.

 Emerson likes the building under construction in the background.  You can also observe the highly organized-type intersection.

A roundabout that is remarkably peaceful on a Sunday afternoon.

A view down an ordinary street.  I am standing on the walking area of the main square, which is why there is space in the foreground of the pictures.