I am Published, and Hibiscus's Words

November is National Adoption Month, and our local adoption support group is hosting a conference this weekend.  They usually publish an op-ed in the newspaper to raise awareness about adoption in general and also the conference.  This year I was asked to write it, and I am honored to have my writing published with actual printing presses and things!  Today my writing was published in The Register Guard.

But before I share the link, I would like to broaden the discussion.  So much about adoption is written and talked about by one side of the adoption triad: the adoptive parents.  The voices of adoptees and birth parents are more difficult to hear.  When I think about adoption, and when I write, I try to imagine and share the perspectives of the less privileged parties in adoption.  My children are not yet able to think, write, or share with any broad perspective about what adoption means to them, but I can include a few words.

This morning, Daddy showed the paper with my article to the children and I.  They were excited to see Mama's name in print, and Hibiscus asked what the article was about.  She has sometimes been very upset to even hear the word "adoption," so I was a little cautious how to explain honestly without bringing up upsetting feelings.  "I wrote about going to Africa and bringing you into the family," I told her, "and how happy we were.  And about adoption, and that it is very happy, but it also has challenges."

She remained calm, and thought about that for a minute, and then gave me her perspective.  These are her thoughts about the challenges of adoption:
"It is challenging.  Because there are no mommies, and there are no daddies."

It took me a moment to follow her train of thought back to the orphanage.  "Oh, so that part is hard?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied, "and also there's no food.  That's really hard too."  And then she calmly finished up her breakfast and moved on with her day.




Now that I stop and contemplate her words, I am struck by how powerfully she summed up the experience in a few words.  Not adoption itself, which I had written about, but what leads to adoption.  The pain from which our families and our joy can be born.  As a mother, it is my job to think about how to heal her pain, and I do spend so much time and energy trying to do just that.  This conference will support my job to help support her grow through, beyond, and despite her pain.

But for this morning, here is the message from another side of the adoption triad.  It's not about the growing and the joy; it's the most salient words from a 7-year-old who sees and remembers both sides of life.  Many children are still living in the world she remembers:


It's really hard.

There are no mommies.

There are no daddies.

There is no food.


My perspective

January to January

It is the middle of January.  Exactly one year ago, I was in the throes of frustration, trying to pack for a trip to Uganda.  Today, I am in the throes of frustration, trying to pack to go back to America.  One entire year.  One way or another, Uganda has an entire year of my life.   There were a couple months there that weren't exactly in Uganda itself, when our match fell through the day we were supposed to leave, and we didn't leave yet.  But, the entire month of January I dedicated to Uganda, figuring out exactly what we would need, collecting portable toys and every kind of medicine.  At the end of the month I quit my job, closed up everything; closed that chapter of my life.  Even when we didn't get on the plane, the bags stayed packed, the job stayed quit, everything seemed foggy and temporary.  Now it is January, and I am packing again.

We have plane tickets for the 27th, which is next Monday.  Hold up your fingers: Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday; a whole hand, five more days, as Emerson counted this morning.  So after months of uncertainty, I am suddenly busy making the actual plans to go home.  I'm contacting our Ugandan friends and the people who have helped us, to say goodbye.  I'm emailing people at home and confirming doctor's appointments and plane seating arrangements.  I'm going through a list of people who were in some state of "we'll do X when I get home," to let them know that I actually have a date to get home and to plan a time for X.  I'm hoping to answer questions and complete connections for other adoptive parents who can't be in Uganda yet.  I'm trying to wrap up all the details that might not wait another two weeks, once the real chaos begins.  I'm probably forgetting some important ones.  I'm trying to sort things into "Take Home" and "Maybe" and "Leave Here."

I'm trying to arrange the house.  I once wrote about how overwhelming it was for me to arrange packing for this trip to Uganda; now it's equally overwhelming to try and un-arrange it.  I have realized the problem is that I'm good at big-picture dreaming, and I'm a perfectionist about all the little details, but the medium-sized problems overwhelm me with where to start.  I can either make lists all day, or I can sit and sort out one thing perfectly, but deciding how to deconstruct an entire house -- and entire life -- makes me feel like I'm staring at a huge brick wall.

And it's an entire life.  The power is out right now, and the candle burned down until the candle holder lit on fire (because all the candle holders are unfinished wood), and I went to get a new candle. The new one was the second-to-last one in the box, and there was a whole new box of candles sitting underneath it, so we wouldn't run out.  There's extras of everything we use in the big cupboards, from powdered sugar (not so frequently) to oatmeal (we go through it fast).  My mother grew up in a small town in Vermont, and they only went shopping once or twice a month, so she knew how to keep a well-stocked pantry, and that's still the way I live today.  It's pretty frustrating to run out of candles during a power outage, or some irreplaceable food when you have three kids and no car, so I keep extras.  Because this is our house, and our pantry.  And our life.

It was never meant to be forever, but as the months went by, it turned into good enough.  This is our days, our food, our routine.  We wake up in the morning, can grab the toothbrushes on the sink by feel, get our clothes from our wardrobes where they are every day.  I make eggs or toast on school mornings with Buttercup on my back, and Emerson staggers around slowly and Hibiscus darts around randomly, but between the three of us we get their backpacks filled with snack, juice, and homework.  They go to school, and bring home stories about new teachers and favorite games and funny things.  Buttercup and I eat our breakfast after they leave, perhaps on the patio.  She plays around me while I work or socialize on the ipad, and meanwhile we sing little songs and name colors and have laughs and snuggles in between our independent work.  When we go out, we shop at the Cinderella market in Bbunga when we're on our way home, which we used to walk to, and I can always remember exactly what I will find on the shelves.  Or we get bread and cash and go to Uchimi supermarket in Kabalagala, which is in the same mall with the shoe store (children need a lot of shoes), and there's a bunch of used clothing shops nearby, as well as most other little things that we might need.  When we go into town, we get our groceries at Garden City mall, which starts with a koi pond that the kids always run over to, and one time had trombonists playing Christmas carols on plastic instruments in the entryway.  That's also where the big bookstore is, and the food-court overlooking the golf course, and the colorful playground on an upper story balcony, which by definition doesn't have any grass and way too much sun on hot days, but is the only free playground in our regular routine.  Now that we usually do our errands by car, we stop there fairly often.  And I can visualize the streets curving around that area, the side heading into the suburbs with some nice restaurants on grassy compounds, or heading out to Ntinda where we see the dancing, or becoming angular in the other direction as it heads into downtown Kampala.  I know all those streets too.

In other words, this is normal.  This is just how we live.  

I never imagined that more than a year would pass between packing and the final unpacking, which is still ahead of me.  I never imagined eight entire months in Kampala.  I trusted that this was where God wanted me, and although I have often felt crazy, I have never felt any question that I was doing the right thing.  It just turned out to be a very large right thing!

Larger in terms of time and effort, but larger in terms of meaning in our lives, as well.  When we were talking about adoption, people warned us that it wouldn't be easy; when we mentioned older-child adoption, they said it really wouldn't be easy.  And I thought, the things that are easy aren't the ones that are most worthwhile. Not to mention, anyone making a choice to be a parent because they think it's going to be easy should think about their choices a little bit harder!  We went through all those thoughts about adoption itself, but I didn't know I would go through them with my children's country.  This year hasn't been easy -- it is probably the hardest thing I have ever done.  But in the end, we have gained so much from Uganda.

I have hated it here sometimes.  I have hated my situation, I have hated the culture, I have hated the entire country.  And I think that's fair; I think you don't truly make something yours when you idealize it or insist on focusing on the positive (or just the negative, for that matter).  But I have also found things that touch my heart and my mind.  I have made friendships that will change my life.  I have had conversations that never would have been possible if I weren't living this life.  I have seen beneath the surface and felt things in my heart.

But what is probably stronger than all that, is that I have hated it, and I have kept on.  I have come to define myself as living in Uganda.  My frustration has changed from something that is directed outward, towards an "other," to being at something that I know that I am part of.  Maybe I have a terrible day with some things that are so Ugandan going wrong -- miscommunication, being cheated, cars breaking down, coughing from the dusty roads.  But I go back in my own home, I make what I like for dinner, I gather my children around me in bed and smell their clean hair as I read bedtime stories, and we relax and think about the stories (and our Bedtime Reading Rules; we always need reminders about those), and our bodies melt into each other and I know that we love each other and that even though things are going wrong, I am filling their emotional cups with love and contentment.  And that's Uganda too.  We're not retreating from the Uganda-ness, we're going to our own special corner of it.

And we've become a Ugandan-American family.  My blond son says "even me" instead of "me too," and a hundred other phrases without thinking about them.  When he does think about it, he can slip entirely into African English, and asks me to "you pooot me he-ah" to refill his cup ("you put me here," like "put it here for me").  When he doesn't think at all, he can follow basic conversation in Luganda.  The girls speak English with an African accent, but Buttercup's is mild, and their vocabulary is filled with American words, and sometimes they forget the Luganda ones.  The phrases even slip off my tongue, and we all can say or understand "sorry for paining you" as easily as "I'm sorry I hurt you."  Everyone talks about whether we need to go sou-sou, and wanting the omunyo to sprinkle on our food.  We dress in clothes that are like what Africans wear, but what Americans would buy.  We eat mangoes and matoke, yogurt and honey, roasted maize and bananas, chocolate chip cookies and cheese.  The girls like nutritional yeast on their rice as much as "soup," and Emerson eats "food and soup" at school as long they cut the tomatoes into very small pieces.  I walk more slowly and my conversation has more pauses than it used to.  The kids are learning two sets of manners, which does not confuse them at all, although using any manners whatsoever can be difficult.  And most of all, we all share dozens and hundred of memories of our world.  Our mutual world, that we all know.  We describe this person that we talked to, or the store we mean is the one near where all the goats are, or the time when Cinderella market had a Santa Claus outside and Hibiscus thought it was real.  And the girls even remind us of American memories, like that Emerson rode a horse on Uncle Mike's farm, and tell again about the time that Mama thought Bubba was going to eat her food and she put it in her mouth all at once.  All of it is swirled up together in what is our own family story.  Our family, that is now and always will be both Ugandan and American.

I have said that I want to go back home, and I do, and now I actually have plans to do it.  I look around myself, and first of all I can't imagine that I'll be leaving this; my cozy living room and the rocky red dirt roads and the smell of fires.  I'll be glad to be getting back to my husband and my dogs and my normal life, but it's going to be hard to leave.  How hard, I don't even know yet; I think it usually hits about two weeks after it's gone!  But I think Uganda and I have turned a corner; have made peace with each other; have become something together.

As I wrote that it seemed self-indulgent to imply that in any way I have changed a country, but as I think about it, I have.  Miss B said that I was the most patient family she had ever worked with, in an admiring superlative.  I was introducing myself to some other adoptive parent the other day, and when I mentioned how long I've been here she replied, "oh, you're the one who's been here for eight months; you've become an urban legend around here!"  I'm sure in all my conversation and support and suggestions I have somehow influenced the course of my children's small school.  Some of the conversations I have sought to learn more about Uganda have probably given someone a different insight.  And then the tiny things: I've lived in an area where there aren't many white people, there aren't many transracial families, there aren't many women on their own.  All these hundred of people who have stared at me, or laughed at me, or bargained with me, or gotten to know what kind of fruit I like to buy, or complimented or scolded the way I wrap my child; all these people have changed their perspectives in some small way.

As for me, the transformation came in the last few weeks.  Around Christmas I was feeling worn down to the bone, and I didn't know if I could make it any farther.  But I did, and I kept going, and I found things to smile about.  And then finally, the children got on the school bus and waved and drove away.  Buttercup and I ate breakfast on the patio, and the sun was a nice gentle golden color and everything was green.  And life seemed so normal, and content, and manageable.  I realized in that instant that I didn't actually hate Uganda, I hated having to run errands with three bored children on an interminable break from school.  As soon as our routine was back in place, we all became ourselves again, and settled into our normal life.

And now it's time to pack the suitcases, give the pantry away.  Decide what we care about and what we leave behind.  Another January, another getting ready to fly away from another chapter in my life.

It hasn't been an easy year.  There has been suffering over administrative difficulties of adoption; there has been suffering over becoming a family through adoption; there has been suffering about doing all that as a solo parent.  There has also been struggling with Uganda itself, and I have gone through periods of excitement, and frustration, and appreciation, and anger, and acceptance, and weariness, and jadedness.  And not thinking about it, just living my life.

Because this is our life that we are leaving.  We haven't been on hold for the last year, we have been living.  And these three children and I, we have made a life, we have made a family here in the hills above Lake Victoria.

We have made ourselves a home here in Uganda.  We started out by leasing an apartment, and noticing all the smells, and being charmed by the outdoor markets, and struggling with understanding the accent.  But the months have gone by, and the tears and the anger and the friendships.  All those details have faded into something normal, something that is part of ourselves.

We have earned ourselves a home.

Buttercup's Happy Birthday

On Wednesday, we celebrated Buttercup's third birthday.  The entire reason being: why NOT celebrate Buttercup's third birthday?

We don't know when she was actually born.  In Uganda, birth certificates seem to be issued when they are needed for a particular purpose, instead of de facto after a child is born.  So when we started the adoption process, part of it was to go and get their birth certificates issued, and one line on the certificate states who is providing the information.  I suppose it could be a nurse in a hospital, like our American ones, but on the ones I've seen it's always been the mother.  And clearly these children's mother was too confused to remember when her younger daughter was born -- I think the lack of seasons contributes to local inability to remember time correctly -- so she just put the same date as the older child, four years later.  Both children were born at home (as is common), but someone took Hibiscus to the clinic for her infant vaccinations, and the clinic records and dates are in our files.  By the time Buttercup came along, the family seemed to beyond details like that -- along with a lot of basic infant attention -- and there are no dates anywhere near her birth at all.

The official birth date is mid-February, which would mean that she turned 2.5 almost exactly when she came to live with us.  I am pretty sure this is too late and that she was closer to 3 at that point.

From my research, every single physical indication of age, from size to eruption of teeth to puberty, can be changed by the kind of malnutrition and neglect that Buttercup obviously experienced, so there is no way to look at her development and be sure how old she is.  The younger the child is, the easier it is to guess their age, simply because the developmental markers come within smaller parameters.  For instance, babies usually roll over within a time frame of just a couple of months, whereas the normal time frame learn to say the [s] sound correctly is several years.  But generally, whatever age a developmental expert might guess, the child is probably older than that, because the stress of malnutrition makes learning every skill more challenging.

My best estimation of her age was based on her language and comprehension skills, because that seemed less dramatically delayed than everything physical.  There are certain steps linguistically that are based on brain development, such as using irregular verbs.  Babies start out imitating them correctly, then go through a phase where they regularize everything in mid-toddlerhood, and gradually start working in the correct irregular tenses, with their verbs being completely correct again somewhere between four and five.  Obviously, Buttercup had not been hearing English throughout her babyhood and toddlerhood, so her spoken English is not going to sound just like that of an American child.  I noticed that at first she imitated pronouns like a young toddler, but within a month started using pronouns correctly and within two months was completely accurate in using the correct person.  By now, almost four months into her English immersion, she is not only using the person correctly, she is starting to naturally correct more subtle differences such as between "I" and "me."  (I will add that from what I can tell, Luganda does not use pronouns at all, it uses changes to the verbs and even nouns, more like Latin, so she has been learning this skill and not translating it.)

Example:
Mother says "Do you want a cookie?"  The child agrees:
Stage 1: "You want cookie!" (repeats mother's words)
Stage 2: "Buttercup want cookie!" (takes out incorrect pronoun)
Stage 3: "Me want cookie!" (correct person)
Stage 4: "I want cookie!" (fully correct)

Going through these stages is part of brain development and part of language development.  So no matter how intelligent, you are not going to find a 16-month-old that has completed the stages, and a 20-year-old learning English for the first time is not going to start at the first stage.  From my research and from asking friends, it seemed like children moved from the first two stages to somewhere in the second two stages, between 2.5 years and 3 years old, and they saw a big difference right around 2.5  It seemed to me to be highly unlikely that Buttercup would have the exact same language development right at 2.5 (plus one month), when the other children had three years of full-time English exposure and Buttercup had one month's worth!  So my guess is that she was somewhere near the 3-year-old side in September, when she started using pronouns correctly.

So that puts her birthday some time in the summer or fall.  I picked November because it seemed like just about the latest possible reasonable time, and she is otherwise so incredibly delayed and small for her age that it will be an advantage to her to be a little "older" than her peers.  It is also safely past ever being able to be thought to be able to go to the next grade up.  Furthermore, early November is nicely before the craziness of the holiday season starts, and neither sibling has a birthday in that month.  Important mom-considerations!

I figured we would pick a date that has a special significance, so there is at least a special story about her birthday, even if it's not the usual story about being the day she was born.  But when early November came around this year, I didn't much feel like having a party, and then it turned into The Month Of Horrors, and I still didn't feel like throwing a party.  The benefit of little kids is that they don't know when you pass over their anticipated birthday because they don't know what the date is anyways, and the benefit of little kids who have never celebrated a birthday before is that they don't even really think they are missing anything!  I was thinking maybe we would manage to have a celebration when we got home, and there was someone around to celebrate with anyway.

Then our coming-home date got pushed back, and then Daddy showed up and we felt more like a family.  And one day the kids were at school, and I got to take a shower by myself and think a little bit, and I realized that we had a free afternoon and there wouldn't be any more of them, and we might as well have "a happy birthday," as the African-English phrase goes.

There wasn't any time to order a cake or shop for real presents, but my parents had brought enough supplies that baking a cake was technically possible, and even a few decorations.  And there were still some things in the suitcases that I had been saving, that I could pull out for presents, and I figured I could get something little in the local trading center, and possibly even some "icing sugar" to make frosting with.  So I got Daddy's agreement for the project, and set off making a "happy birthday."

You will note that this is a pretty slap-dash affair, and it would be hard to make something very spectacular between afternoon and dinner-time.  But I have a confession: I am not much of a birthday-party-mom anyways.  For Emerson's first birthday, I came up with an excellent and age-appropriate idea, which all the moms and babies enjoyed immensely, and that appeared to use up pretty much all of my birthday-party creativity for all future children, let alone future birthdays.  I could also tell you about Emerson's fourth birthday, which is the most recent, but the others have become kind of vague in my mind.  I think I missed at least one.  And I have not yet one single idea in mind for the upcoming child-birthday season, other than "my, they are getting old!"

I have friends who do these amazing celebrations, with crafts and sewing special outfits for the birthday child and snacks that match the theme and gift bags and everything.  As I was scribbling on typing paper to make something to wrap the presents in, I decided on my strategy to protect my children from disappointment.  In the future, when they are invited to birthday parties, I will ask the mom something off-hand and enthusiastic, like "oh, do you have a theme?"  If they answer yes and start waxing rhapsodic about the story books they have found and the elaborate cake construction, I will have to be very sad and apologize about our prior commitments.  If they kind of cough and look sideways and say they think their child might like strawberry cake, I'll know it will be fully safe for us to attend.  My children will think that the glory of birthdays is getting to sit at the front of the table and have everyone sing to you, and will never know how much more spectacular a birthday could be.

I made Buttercup's cake while she napped on my back, which I found kind of amusing.  I did chocolate, because although I didn't know if she liked chocolate cake, I did have chocolate powder in the cupboard.  (Thanks, Gramma!)  I found the recipe on-line, called "One-Bowl Chocolate Cake," selected because I have exactly one mixing bowl.  However, the recipe actually called for mixing dry ingredients separately and adding them alternating with a milk mixture, which kind of sounds like THREE bowls to me, which I also found amusing.  (I used a tupperware.)  Then Buttercup kept napping, and I found a game in one of the suitcases, that I hadn't gotten out yet because actually Hibiscus is too chaotic and Buttercup is too young to actually PLAY games.  .  But it has all these little fruits, which I thought Buttercup would enjoy.  And I found a counting-bears pattern card set.  And we had just gotten a care package, which had a Berenstein Bears book in it.  So that would be some presents.

I also found a felt sewing project in the care package, and I thought the older kids would enjoy the sewing and could make a present for their sister with that.  So when they got home from school, I set them up with that project and went to do errands to finish up our party.  Except they were acting kind of wild, so I thought Daddy would be able to manage two than three, so I wrapped up Buttercup and took her with me.  Which is even funnier than making her birthday cake with her on my back; doing her birthday shopping with her on my back!

The good news is that we found a very good little supermarket at the bottom of the hill, and I can tell that there must be a higher percentage of ex-pats or generally wealthy people in this area than there were in Ggaba.  We would never have found powdered sugar in a store that small near our old place!  I also let her pick out really terribly junky plastic construction trucks made in China for a present, and picked up a little plastic bowl with a decoration on the bottom.  We are always in need of plastic bowls, mostly because Hibiscus tries to carry them on her head and then she drops them.  Alas, no wrapping paper though.

It turned out the sewing project was a disaster, and Daddy got very nervous with the sharp needles.  So when I got back they had changed clothes are were busy doing Ndere dances for Daddy, which involved a lot of bottom wiggling and carrying around books on the head.  Which are better than clay pots when you are under the age of seven.  They had forgotten all about making a present for Buttercup, but as I finished dinner Emerson got dedicated and wrote out a long card for her very nicely.  Although he is more into text than color. Hibiscus wanted to do one too, but she wanted to do the kind where you don't actually sit still or do any work, and without knowing what she wanted to write or how to spell it, and the sitting-still part kind of got in the way of writing anything even when someone told you how to spell it.  So hers was not so spectacular.

However, she had just-so-happened to bring home from school a little plastic doo-dad that was on someone's school birthday cake that said "happy birthday" and had balloons on it.  She was very excited about this when she heard it was Buttercup's happy birthday, and she wanted to give her the cake topper, except without actually handing it to anyone, more like carrying it around because she was so excited, and then leaving it places.  She lost it at least four times before the cake was actually produced, with great anger and hysteria each time.  I think someone finally hid it from her during the "lost" state, so she wouldn't have to have an apoplexy if it didn't make it onto the actual cake.

We had dinner.  With a tablecloth.  (When we were looking at pictures today, Buttercup said "look dat color red" to point it out, since she didn't remember the word "tablecloth!")  Then I got out the presents in their made-up wrapping paper and Buttercup got on Daddy's lap.  Then I lit the candles and we all sung the song.  Then Buttercup blew out the candles.  (We had practiced blowing out candles all the way up the hill from the supermarket!)  Then she was very proud of herself.

What a day for Buttercup!  She didn't care that it was slap-dash or that she hadn't known it was her birthday that morning or that no one knew when she had actually been born.  For a little while, she was important.  She was the center of attention.  The whole cake and celebration was for HER.  It was amazing.

I have been taught to not be self-centered and taken that lesson to heart, so little kids' self-centeredness is kind of grating to me, even though I understand it.  But for Buttercup, it is different.  All she has ever learned is to be last and least and to get out of the way, and watch and wait.  Remember what I wrote in July... that she was finally getting to the point that she thought I had some particular interest in her?  Yet even still she would not walk towards me or ask for hugs or attention, she would just look kind of hopeful that I might possibly notice her.  She has come a very long way emotionally that she is even able to enjoy or accept being the center of attention at a birthday party.  She still looks quietly gratified and amazed whenever we talk about it, like she can't believe it actually happened to HER.

So it was such a joy to give her a celebration that was all about her.  And fortunately, from school the older children know a little bit more about birthdays, and they are at the age where they love observing all the special little birthday-party rules.  So when I said that the birthday girl has to take a bite of cake before anyone else can have any, they conscientiously monitored everyone in the room and kept all attention on Buttercup and exactly whether she had eaten any cake.  They even self-limited that they couldn't have the edge-frosting bites until Buttercup had had hers.  Even though Buttercup likes to think and take things slowly, and both her siblings love to dive into everything quickly, they slowed down and followed her lead.  After only a couple of warnings, they managed to let her open her presents on her own, too.  Although that got difficult, because she wanted to play with each thing -- and I let her -- and the big kids wanted to SEE them all.  (In fact, we haven't finished opening presents yet!)


It is several days later, and Buttercup still glows whenever we talk about her "happy birthday" or eat some cake or see anything about birthdays at all.  "Like Bu-cup, has ha-bir-day!  Is like Bu-cup!" she announced several times, when there was a birthday cake in our goodnight book.

So happy birthday to my littlest one.  May this be a wonderful, wonderful year.

Some Good News

Just a short update with some positive news....

First of all: Look who's here!  

With a second court date and all the delays, Mark decided to cancel some meetings and fly out of his trade show straight to us.  I couldn't believe it until I had my arms around him again!  He arrived late Saturday night and leaves next Saturday night.  I have never been one for ruining time together with worrying about time apart, but this time it is really bothering me.  It feels so natural to have him here and be able to talk with him and do things together, and yet I know our time together is just a brief blip and soon I will be back to all-by-my-lonesome.  So I'm trying hard not to worry about it, but failing!  And I wish I felt livelier and we were doing wonderful things for his time here, but I'm still absolutely exhausted, and there still is not much of anything to do.  Or rather, there's not much to do that fits between the school schedule and the nap schedule and the darn Kampala traffic.  

Yesterday, which was Sunday, we had a mild day and took a walk around our new neighborhood in the afternoon.  Buttercup fell asleep just before we got back, and I laid her down on her bed.  The older kids were supposed to rest, too, but Hibiscus was getting whinier and wilder and stubborn-er.  Before she went totally nuts, Daddy offered to read her books in the other bedroom, and they went in and snuggled under the covers with a big pile of books, and were asleep the next time I checked on them.  Meanwhile, Emerson and I played a little game in the living room.  What an amazing concept -- handling difficult behavior by giving the kids extra positive attention, instead of just helplessly demanding that they do things!  What a difference and extra pair of loving arms makes!

Next the bit of bad news: our second court date, which was scheduled a week from the first on (on Tuesday) has been rescheduled.  For Friday.  So we have to wait longer to have things with the crazy aunties resolved, AND it means all the rest of the paperwork is also pushed back... now almost two full weeks from the original hope.  Now (if everything goes well) it really is a race of hoping that everything will get done before the Christmas holidays start and our visas run out at the end of December.  But worst of all, it's a Friday afternoon date, and if there is any more tiny delay, we will run out of Mark's visit... and the whole point was that he cancelled things and raced over here for the court date.  So that makes me frustrated.

But the family had their meeting that the judge ordered yesterday, and apparently it went..... "well" seems like an awfully positive word to use.  The LC1 Chairman came to mediate.  (The Local Councils are the most immediate form of government in Uganda, and are very important in cases like these.  We have had officials from three different Local Councils involved in this case, and this LC1 gave very important and illuminating testimony at the first hearing.)  I spoke with the lawyer on the phone today and we will meet with her tomorrow.  Phone conversations are always so difficult here -- I can manage to understand one or two words out of three!  But the gist of it seemed to be that the father said he would commit suicide if the aunties did not stop objecting to the adoption, until finally someone or other (aunties themselves? other family members? not sure yet) thought that it was pretty unreasonable that someone would have to commit suicide in order to make his own decision about his own children, so the aunties had no choice but to back down.  Um, well, that's one way to reach family consensus!  

So hopefully we can get to understand what happened a little better tomorrow, speaking with the lawyer directly.  There is also paperwork that the LC1 made up from the meeting, which will be signed (or something like that).  So I think this means that the worst probability of the aunties' case being successful is over, although who knows what will actually happen in court.

Further Thoughts on Courtroom Drama

I meant to unpack the house this morning and write this post in the afternoon, but it's so difficult to do, that somehow I have been writing other things all afternoon instead.  I hope that my readers aren't trying to learn a lot about the process of adoption in Uganda, because although I think about the things that are going wrong all day long, I find it hard to face them front-on enough to write about them.  This time around, every time I lay down to sleep or am waiting for something or do mindless chores, my mind goes straight back to what I want to say to the judges and the disapproving aunties.  I get no rest from it, yet it's strangely hard to actually stop and talk about it.

I wrote about what happened at court on that evening, but here are some more thoughts that have developed with time, both from myself and other people's perspectives.

People keep telling me not to worry, and that the aunties were too late and too insincere and too obviously lying, and that they won't get their way.  Miss B, the orphanage director, says she thinks the judge already has her mind made up.  (She also says she has never yet seen relatives come in to block a case at the eleventh hour like this!)  Diane tells me that anyone in their right mind knows what is best for the girls, and obviously the judge is sensible, so we're going to be okay.  The lawyer, Rebecca, keeps telling me that everything will be all right and not to be worried.  She said it on her own behalf, and said she talked with the jiajia and the auntie who have been supportive all along, and says that they say not to worry as well.

But I can't help but worry.  I see the logic in what they say, and agree that the crazy aunties have a slim chance.  But even a slim chance is too much for my babies.  They came from a house of pain -- of neglect and abuse and fear and hunger and selfishness and uncertainty.  I have held them as the walls of pain start to crack and shudder, and seen the eyes of two little children looking out of their two little prisons, fearful but hopeful of joining the real world.  What if the crazy aunties convince some of the supportive relatives?  What if they manage to come up with a plan that sounds reasonable on the outside?  What if the judge decides that the family's right to the children is stronger than their own childish choice?  What if the judge decides to let them try it out?  What if.... and I can't even write what would happen next.  I can't do it.


If the judge knows what is right for the children and assesses that the aunties are crazy, why would she even give them a week's chance to work out a solution?  Rebecca's theory is that they will make even more trouble another way, which is why she didn't prevent them from coming into court.  I suppose the reasoning, is that if the judge granted the adoption and then the aunties took their version of events to the street or to the press, it could look really bad: "We live in the village, so far away!  We love our nieces so much!  We never knew they were in an orphanage!  We heard they had a sponsor, but we never dreamed they would leave Uganda!  We rushed to the courtroom to save them, and bloodied our poor hands beating down the door, but they wouldn't hear us!  Now the poor girls will never know their culture or their family!  Adoption is evil!"  So instead, the theory goes, the judge gave them enough rope to hang themselves.  She asked the pointed questions -- "how much money did you give the family? how often? would you let them live in your house? then where would they live? would you pay for the school fees?" -- and then told them to go make peace in their family and find a solution.  The theory is that they won't be able to find a solution, and in fact they have very little interest in actually finding a solution, and their argument will deflate.

(Other notes: It seems like they are lying in other ways as well.  In the pre-court hallway-arguments, the aunties told Diane and I that they lived so far away they had no idea what was happening, but they told the judge they lived nearby.  They said they are the girls' father's sisters (i.e. biological aunts), but it seems likely that they are actually more distantly related.  They said they visit their brother every week, which doesn't jive with either the part about being so far away nor the part about having no idea what is going on with the children.  One of them also makes a big deal about being a pastor's wife and thus also a good Christian, which is perhaps more a matter of opinion than an absolute lie...)

African families have never-ending amounts of relatives, but in this case, very few of them have actually been involved in the girls' lives.  Even some of the relatives who have taken an interest in the family and done something on their behalf, the girls don't actually know in person.  All of the relatives whom they have managed to find in three family searches have been very positive about the girls being adopted, and several of them have just-so-happened to bump into us on the streets of Bbunga and thank me passionately.  The relatives have said over and over, in many different ways, in their comments when we meet, in the affidavits the lawyers helped them prepare, in their testimony in court: "we have tried and we have failed.  We have failed the girls utterly.  But we want them to have a good life!"

But what if their resolve is worn down from a week of arguing?  What if the aunties find more uninvolved relatives and dribble poisonous untruths in their ears?  What if they come up with a new plan that sounds reasonable on the surface?

I want to clarify that I absolutely support the rights of the birth family to their children.  The relatives also wanted the child back with our previous match with Rehema, and although we worried that the mother was being pressured, we wouldn't have dreamed of trying to convince her to change her mind.  What is so galling in this case is that the aunties have never taken any interest in the children and don't seem to be planning on taking much interest in them.  Even their logic sounds so selfish!  They say "they will be taken away from Uganda for eighteen years and they won't remember their culture or me."  Remember you?  Seriously?  First of all, they don't have any idea who you are right now, because you have never paid any attention or visited them.  Secondly, how can you possibly imagine that not being remembered is worth taking away everything that they are being offered in a new family?

And what are we offering?  Obviously, on the surface it is a much better life, with plenty of toys and clothes and space in a big van.  In fact, that's kind of ridiculously better, and I kind of cringe at how children are taken so far out of the world they know when they are adopted.  But we offer something much, much more: we have a loving and stable home for them.  Because the way they are now, the girls will never be able to succeed at any type of life -- even just living in the slums of Kampala -- without someone who is willing to spend a lot of time and energy to help them out of the emotional prisons they are in.


The best case scenario would be that the aunties just slink away with their tails between their legs and don't even show up to court next week.  The next best case might be that they are still raving, but everyone else is calm and firm.  But what if there is no "best" at all?  What if they have a plan that sounds reasonable?  I guess I will just have to be ready to argue that the family is in such bad shape there is no way to salvage it, at least in time for these childhoods.  I need to argue it until the judge can't ignore it any longer.  I need to write down all the stories that Hibiscus has told me about the abuse and accidents and pain.  I need to write down all the ways the children were socially incompetent when they arrived here, and how much work is left to do.  Because social incompetence closes all the doors, absolutely all of the last ones that might have had a crack left after the limited education and general poverty have done their share.  So I need to write it all out, because after what I have seen and heard and held in my arms in these last months, I honestly believe to the bottom of my soul there is no way these children can be in this family and be safe or healthy.  So far, people in the courtroom have alluded to the problems, but I have to be ready to face it head-on, and define exactly how ugly it is.  And hopefully not in front of the children themselves, but there might be no choice.

I can't stop planning it in my mind.  I keep running through the horrors Hibiscus has narrated, both dramatically and off-hand, so I don't forget to include anything.  I keep running through what I might need to say, and having to imagine talking about the abuse in front of the abuser and the abused -- and all the people who ignored it.

But so far, I can't bring myself to write it.  But I tell those girls I love them every day.  And for their part, when they see me in pictures or the mirror, they say calmly and confidently "dis one, dis my Mama."

A Week of Unwritten Stories

It is Friday.  Last Tuesday, I figured out that my cleaning lady was the one robbing me blind.  On Wednesday and Thursday, I tried to search for advice, considered moving, and tried to trick Miss S into thinking that I still didn't know her sneakiness.  On Friday, I decided to move, but the one place I looked at wasn't really sure if they would be ready to move into, so I spent the whole day looking at more apartments.  On Saturday morning, I packed up everything and dumped it into the new place, and the stealing drama got even more dramatic, but I am too much of a storyteller to let you know the punchline without telling the whole story!  On Saturday afternoon, we picked up our friend Diane from the airport -- the kind of magical friend whom we had never met in person.  We connected because she is hoping to adopt Hosta, whom I have been helping out at the orphanage, and I decided to go out on a limb and invite her to stay with us and she decided to go out on a limb and say yes.  We ended up being the kind of mutual blessing to each other and our children, that we felt like was ordained to happen.  Then on Saturday evening (yes, still Saturday!) we met with the orphanage director here, picked up Hosta for the rest of the weekend (!!!), and met with the program director from the U.S. hours before we had to catch a plane home.  On Sunday.... it's hard to even remember what happened on Sunday!  We had four kids in various stages of excitement and wildness, and we managed to put a few things in the cupboards from my very hasty move.  On Monday, the older three all went back to their schools, and Diane and Buttercup and I ran errands downtown, including meeting with the lawyer and picking up a month's worth of packages that Miss B had somehow forgotten to tell me about.  The post office was not quite as dramatic as last time, but it was still not a simple trip!  On Tuesday was the court date, which I have written about, and an incredibly long day.  On Wednesday, Diane and Buttercup and Hosta and I went to Hosta's village to meet with some officials there, which is also a whole story in its own right, and I will simply say that poor Emerson and Hibiscus ended up spending fourteen hours at school because we were stuck there, but we got some incredibly important things done.  Fourteen hours later.  So on Thursday we let the kids stay home from school and tried to do something a little bit fun before dropping Diane off at the airport, and then the kids came home and played in the yard.  With their new shiny plastic junk, because what is a better way to thank kids for surviving fourteen hour days than letting them pick out shiny plastic junk from the toy aisle? Then we had to bring Hosta back to the orphanage.  There were a lot of tears that day.

And today is Friday again!  What an incredibly long week!  There are at least two or three long stories I need to write, but today I am being dedicated and working at actually unpacking our house.  Or rather, the kids have been great at the unpacking and distributing, and I have been working at putting things away!  If today were Monday and I had a week of Buttercup-only days ahead of me, I would have felt like I made good progress,

but as it is, I'm kind of discouraged because today is actually the end of the week.  At least I got three loads of laundry washed while the power was on, and my washing machine has a child lock so I don't have to worry about buttons getting pushed all the time, and it plays a song when I start it and to tell me it's done.  A singing washing machine.  It's time to be grateful for the small things!

It Did Not Go As Planned

Random aunties.  That was the problem, and it's a big problem, although hopefully not an unsurmountable one.

We waited for our court time in the morning.  After a long wait, the judge said she was going to attend a funeral and to come back in the afternoon, but then she agreed to take the testimony of a couple of people who couldn't wait until afternoon.  She was blunt and asked hard questions, but she seemed to be fair and want what was best for the children.

We took the kids to a mall for lunch and some play time, and finally had to drag them away to return to court, which wasn't anybody's idea of a good time.  But it turned out to be worse.  When we got back to the waiting-hallway (not even really a waiting room), a couple of extra aunties had arrived.  And they "did not feel good about" the children going to America.  They were arguing with the two jiajias (grandmother-ish people; I think these were technically great-aunts) and the aunties; they were practically fighting with the father, they were fussing at the lawyer, and then they came over and lectured at Diane and I.  The other jiajias and aunties have actually been working to support the children, first of all when they were with their birth family, then they took them into their own homes, and when they couldn't care for them they found a babies' home to take over their care; and now they are delighted that the children will be cared for properly in a new family.  These aunties just showed up and declared how much they loved the children and they would miss them too much if they went to America.

So when we went back into court, the judge wanted to hear about the new people.  She took testimony from various relatives, starting with the father, who despite his illness and weakness stood up strong and tall to explain that he was here in court to allow his children to have a better life, and he absolutely stood by his decision to support having them adopted into our family.

In the end, the judge didn't seem to buy into their story, but she did give them some extra time.  The first set of aunties and jiajias continued to support the adoption, and this new set didn't, and there are a few more that continue to be missing in action, so she gave them a week to get together and work it out.  Court will reconvene in a week.

She asked the aunties questions like whether they were willing to take the girls into their home (no) or whether they would keep paying their school fees at their current school (no) or what exactly specifically they would do.  They said they were not rich, but they would do what they could.  She asked Hibiscus to identify all the people in the room she knew, which made her feel scared, but finally she managed to walk around the room and touch them if I followed and held her hand.  She identified her father accurately and without hesitation.  She found one jiajia and one auntie, when pressed, very hesitantly.  And then the judge asked where her teacher was, and she dived right over to him, with almost a smile.  Finally, when it seemed like we were leaving, I specifically asked to speak to the judge, as she had not spoken to me at all.

I said that from my perspective, it wasn't about money.  I would not have come to Uganda to adopt a child from a happy, loving family that just didn't have enough money; I would have worked to find them social services instead.  I said what I observed was that the children had not been taken care of.  They were uneducated and unmanageable and behind.  It was about taking care of the children.

The children's teacher had come as a witness for our family, to talk about how well Hibiscus was doing in school or something like that, but in the new situation he changed tacks.  He talked about the importance of education, that Hibiscus had been far behind, and that what the children needed wasn't a few thousand shillings for school fees and someone to pay for a maid, they needed love and they needed attention and they needed someone to care for them one-on-one.  And they needed love.  He spoke very clearly and strongly and eloquently.

Miss B, the orphanage director, surprised me by also speaking passionately and clearly, since she is often quiet and passive.  Not only did she describe investigating the girls' home situation (twice) and not hearing from these aunties, she gave voice to silent concerns about their current veracity.  She pointed out that they had to ask the girls' names when they came over to talk to them earlier, and that they said they visited their brother (the father) every week, and yet they didn't know how sick his partner was or that the girls were in an orphanage or under foster care, so she doubted that their story was true.

The judge reiterated several times that we needed to find the best solution for the children, and that they need to be given proper care.  She didn't want the family fighting, so she told them to speak amongst themselves, have a family meeting, and they had a week to work out a solution, or she would make a decision on behalf of the children.



And as for me, and as for now.... I haven't yet stepped into my "parent coming to adopt" shoes, or maybe I walked past them months ago now.  I suppose I should be freaking out about logistics or what is going to happen next, or sad that we didn't just have the court case finished in the morning at the proper time before these troublemakers showed up, or upset about our coming-home time frame being all ruined.

But the shoes I'm in are just my plain old "mom" shoes.  Because I'm the only mom these girls know right now.  (At another moment this morning during the birth mother's testimony, the judge asked Hibiscus to point to her mother.  She leaned on my lap a long time, confused about what to do, while the judge encouraged her to point to whoever she called "mama" and I finally whispered it was okay to point to me, and she did.  Then the judge asked if she had another mama, and she was overcome by shyness but pointed to the birth mother, whom she recognizes.  The judge asked her name.  She didn't know and couldn't remember.  The judge asked her my name, and she said it right away.)  They came home with me tonight, and they snuggle their faces into my arm for comfort after a long and difficult day, and they ask me questions and they trust the answers.  And as a mom, I'm just affronted that these ladies came along to express all this concern and "love" for these girls, that gets in the way of us being a family and actually loving each other.

So where were you when Hibiscus screamed every night until she threw up?

So where were you when Buttercup developed her terror of anyone holding a stick?

So where were you when Hibiscus threw a fit in the middle of downtown and was laying in the street... or the other time she did that, or the next one?

So where were you when Buttercup was waking up several times a night, every night, just needing to be held and comforted... because she had never had a chance to be comforted as a baby?

So where were you when Hibiscus was supposedly learning her manners and cultural mores, so that as a child of six she managed to insult and affront every single Ugandan adult within moments of meeting them?

So where were you when Buttercup was dramatically underweight and showing all the obvious signs of malnutrition?

So whereare you when Hibiscus is sobbing her guts out with sadness and fear, or when Buttercup's eyes go bleary and blank with the memories she can't bear to face?


Because I can tell you where I was.  I was right there with my girls.

Court date tomorrow!

Our court hearing for guardianship is tomorrow morning.  We've been waiting so very long for this moment, I am kind of stunned that it is finally here!

Another prospective adoptive parent and friend is here for a few days.  Her presence has been such a blessing!  We did errands all day today.  I am exhausted.  The kids are still off-kilter from the move, and Hibiscus can't stop talking.  Ever.

Grilled cheese and yogurt for dinner.  It still took an hour or so to prepare with all the other interruptions, and by "prepare" I mean the kids were able to eat, but I was still standing in the kitchen.  Thank God for another adult in the house!  She is now dipping three little monkeys in the bath with a great deal more patience than I could manage.

I need to assemble paperwork, and outfits, and snacks and toys, and somehow make myself look clean and presentable too.  And put captions in our photo book.  First thing in the morning we will pile in our car and go to pick up several other people who know our family and can testify on our behalf, while Miss B from the orphanage gathers all the various birth family members who will testify that they haven't and couldn't take care of the girls.  This being Uganda, I have a great deal of doubt about everyone being in the right place at the right time!

Our official time is 10 am, but because of various other things the judge might decide to hear our case early.  I have very little idea about what will actually happen!  Here I go with my preparations!

Administrative Update, 1 Nov.

I just looked and realized my last update was in September.  A lot of nothing has happened since then.  We got some very important news just before leaving on our safari trip that I didn't manage to update on here, and then while my parents were here we figured out some more.  (PS. The best part of this post is the end.  Make sure to keep reading!)

I wrote this on 2nd October:

"The next update in the Legal volume of You Can't Make This Stuff Up:

I was wrong, our case is apparently not being held up by looking for the mother's 79th signature. They filed the case in court anyways, planning on getting the signatures. The case is held up.... 

.....because there are no judges hearing cases. How many? None. The judge left over from the previous session is not hearing these cases any more. A new judge is stepping up but is not set up yet. And the judge who has been hearing cases, and asked for all this additional paperwork, is not accepting new cases because she is GOING ON LEAVE. Because she's been on the job a month already. All of the other new Family Court judges have not yet actually started working in Family Court.

So, we wait."

And we waited and waited and waited.  Everything was ready but we pretty much waited all of September and October for the Ugandan court system to do anything at all.  For families who apply for a court date in more auspicious times, they can be assigned a judge within days and might get a date only a few days after that.  I know someone in this program who got her court date within two days of filing!  But we have waited.

The good news: we have been assigned a judge and a court date!  The bad news... it was still a month out.  But days pass, and it is getting closer.  I begged and begged my lawyer to expidite our case for all kinds of reasons, and she says she begged the judge, who still refused to hear our case before she left on leave, but assigned us a hearing the day after she got back.  As far as I know, no one else (in our program) who has been waiting for a court date has gotten one, so it is a lot waiting but it is better progress than we would get sitting home with our fingers crossed.

The date is November 19th.  The judge is fair and interested in the best welfare of the children and knowing that the prospective parents are dedicated to caring for them, which means that our fostering them should count highly in our favor.  Which one might think would be automatic, but apparently not with some judges.  She also apparently is prompt, and holds court on the day she assigns instead of deciding to go to a conference or something else instead, and writes her reports promptly.  One doesn't actually get a guardianship order on the court date; one has to wait for the judge to write out her decision and the order.  And apparently "promptly" means only a week or so of waiting!  Waiting, waiting, waiting!

We had a moment of hopefulness amongst all our waiting, when we found out we could apply for the girls' passports as foster parents.  They need Ugandan passports, and then US visas.  Apparently people high-up in the Ugandan passport office don't like foreigners being able to take Ugandan children out of the country, and sometimes passive-agressively just don't bother to process the legally ordered passports.  Our lawyer has apparently found ways to get around this and get her clients' passports produced, but it will take a week of waiting at best and potentially could cause more delays.  So being able to wait for the passports while we wait for the court date would be a really good thing.

But we took Hibiscus out of school to go in for our passport interview on Monday morning, and when we met at the lawyer's office she sadly informed us that we couldn't apply for passports after all.  They had given us an appointment as FOSTER parents, but then found out that we were WHITE foster parents and changed their minds.  We have to have the guardianship order in order to apply for passports.

After we have the Ugandan passports, we can apply for the US visas, which can also be a difficult step.  Again, they can delay in assigning an appointment, or they can just be difficult about details of the case.  If they don't find it "clearly approvable" then they send it to Nairobi for an investigation, which would take months.

At least now there is something to do to get ready for the upcoming appointments.  We should bring in anyone who can testify to our relationship and support of the girls, so I have been asking Hibiscus's teacher and our family friends to accompany us.  I can collect letters from some other people, like our doctor and the administrator at the school where I have supported the orphanage children.  We should also bring the local council officials and hopefully the Probation Officer, so we went back to cultivating our friendship with him, hoping that he will see we have good reasons to not stay for another three years (um, 2.75) and apply directly for adoption.

We are trying to get our senators to write to the Embassy so we get our US visa appointment directly instead of waiting forever.  We have personal connections to a senator or two in our home state, and my father has more connections to senators in his home state.  He worried about how many letters we need and "overdoing" it, but I am coming to the conclusion that there is no overdoing it when it comes to this country!  They like official letters.  Especially in triplicate, with nice shiny stamps.

We had letters of recommendation written for us for the Probation Officer this summer, which would work, but I figure we might as well get them re-written with a new date and to the proper person.  In communication with our priest (which also sounds nice and shiny and authoritative in this country), she asked whether to include the girls' legal names, and for that matter, what they were, since she assumed they weren't Buttercup and Hibiscus.  My flower family, and our flower-child-style hometown inspired the following glowing letter of recommendation:

"Dear Madam Registrar of the High Court of XYZ:

This is, like, totally the perfect OurTown recommendation letter to whatever mamby pamby in charge is going to finalize things and make it legal and stuff.  The Flowers totally rock the house.  Buttercup and Hibiscus are going to be the coolest kids in the whole town.  They’ll fit right in with Momma Flower and Papa Appleseed.  My name from the government is the Rev. Mrs. Abagail Doni, but you can call me by my inner spirit name which is Petunia.  At St. Catherine's, I follow the spirit path with the children so their souls remain open to the essence of the Great Above.  

Mrs. Flower has been an excellent caregiver here at St. Catherine's and in her community of OurTown.  They are regular attenders at Saturday Market and own their own chickens.  They walk dogs in all sorts of weather and go into the forest multiple times a week.  They can identify mushrooms and eight different types of snail and probably own walking sticks.  She is an excellent mother to her son Emerson Chysthansemum and is way into the babywearing movement which means she pretty much rules the mom roost.  

Both Mrs. Flower and her husband, Mark Flower, are well respected members of our community.    They own multiple items in fleece and always dress their child in the requisite number of appropriate layers.  They even wear rainboots on rainy days.  I’m pretty sure they don’t smoke pot.  

In short, The Flower Family is going to be awesome, so stop hassling them, Man, and just sign your I’s and t’s where you need them, and we’ll all say Adios.  Ya good?  I’m good.   

Sincerely,

The Rev. and Most Elegant Mrs. Abigail Dandelion Cumulonimbus Cloud Doni"

Actually, I'm not sure the Ugandans would be so impressed by priests if they knew they could act like that!  Although a nice shiny seal would probably solve all their doubts... if rendered in triplicate....

Our Weird Family

Kids & Travel: Weird

Apparently we are even weirder when we travel to the countryside than when we are in Kampala!  My dad says that people actually stop and do a 180 as we pass by, in order to get in maximum staring time.  However strange it will be to be a multi-racial family in America, it will be less dramatic than being a multi-racial family in Africa!

All of our drivers and tour guides tried to figure out politely why we had these black children with us.  As well-educated and used to westerners as they were, I don't think any of them understood when we mentioned foster children or adoption; the only explanation that seems to work is that their parents have abandoned them and I have the paperwork that means I am their new parent now.  Some of them nod and commiserate about how parents could possibly do that and thank me, and some of them look even more confused, like "why would a rich muzungo lady be spending all this time with these poor African children?"  

So, this is why we were as much of an attraction for the locals, as the local attractions were for us!

1.  Emerson.  He deserved a whole heading to himself.  It doesn't seem to have occurred to most people that muzungos start out as children; they must think that they emerge, fully-formed with faux African haridos, low-slung pants, and cell phones in one hand with a cigarette in the other.  Emerson is not only amusingly small, he is shockingly obvious, with his bright hair turning almost white in the constant sunlight, and his constant chatter and confidence.  Confident children are not the norm here.

2. A white woman is wearing a baby!  People stop and stare for this reason alone, even before they see the baby.  The women often do several double-takes and then smile approvingly and nudge all their friends.

3. The white woman is wearing her baby in the WRONG WAY!  What is all that fabric doing?  One can see that some women are evaluating "hmm, would I like to try that?" while others are thinking "she is obviously crazy and stupid."

4.  The baby that she is wearing DOES NOT MATCH THE WOMAN.  You can see that this is its own special biggest double-take, as I pass the observer and they get their first view of Buttercup from the rear (especially when she's sleeping).  This is when the talking and pointing gets more animated, and I hear the words "white woman" and "baby" and "African" in their excited chatter.  

5.  Well-dressed, well-groomed black children.  In Kampala there are plenty of middle-class children, but out in the villages our children stood out -- WAAY out -- among the other local children.  We saw plenty of Ugandan or African tourists, but I think they all leave their children at home.

6.  Tall man with white beard.  Again, aren't all muzungos between the ages of 19 and 35 and total hipsters?

And of course, the 64 million dollar question....

7.  Why does this white family have these black children trailing around with them anyways?

We are leaving behind plenty of gossip and conversation for the next month or so!

Going Places Together

(I wrote this on Monday, but didn't quite finish the story.  It gets the idea across, at least, so I am just going to publish it now instead of having it sit around longer!)

On Sunday, we went to church in the morning and a dance performance in the evening.  The church service was over two hours and the dance was four hours and started at 6!  That's a lot of adventure for a family who has just been walking the dusty road back and forth to school for the last month!  

It also proved my instinct of not taking them anywhere was right!  I could handle the random insanity from any two kids at a time, but not all three.  I don't think that's because there are three of them per se, but because all three are in an unsettled phase of their lives, and everything is WAY too exciting, all the time.  Even driving home in the car sent Buttercup into High Manic mode, because she's never been in a car at night and all the lights were super-stimulating.

I also noticed that Hibiscus is doing SO MUCH better than she was six weeks ago, when Daddy left.  She was still much more intense and needy than the average child (especially in Uganda), but she didn't immediately stand out to everyone in the vicinity.  She's made it into the high end of normal, instead of totally insane!

Hibiscus has attached herself right onto Gramma, and Gramma took care of most of her little needs while we were out.  Extra hands make all the logistics easier, but it makes the emotional relationships easier, too!  At one point Hibiscus got sweaty, which made her itchy, and then she was scratching and whining and scratching more and getting really upset and frustrated.  Gramma washed her neck and arms gently in the sink and kept talking to her to keep her distracted, and after a few minutes she managed to stop scratching long enough to stop itching.  If I had been alone, I would have tried to help her, but while I washed her neck and arms the other kids would have started running around the bathroom.  Maybe I could have gotten Emerson to distract or hold Buttercup for a moment, but I would have had to wash quickly and be done.  Meanwhile, I also have to put Buttercup on and off the potty and wipe her, and hold both of the younger ones up to the sink so they can wash their hands, and  hand Emerson the soap and help him rinse it all off, and do all of Buttercup's hand-washing while I did my own.  Since Hibiscus's current ability-to-wait level stands at .03 seconds, she would have started jumping and whining and grabbing at my arm if I wasn't paying attention to her, and I would have gotten frustrated that she couldn't see that her brother and sister needed their share of attention, and then I would have gotten internally more frustrated that she wanted attention for something kind of foolish and superficial, while I was trying to manage basic care for the others.  But she would have felt neglected and un-cared-for, and because she was itchy she probably would have started into big-gross-motor actions and run out the door or careened around the bathroom, which would have either made me genuinely mad, or she would have hurt herself.  I should be an attentive mother for injuries, but I get really, really sick of self-inflicted injuries doing something incredibly stupid, especially when I've told her over and over not to do it.  

(Speaking of which, I don't think I've share my very favorite "is this for real?" injury.  It was a couple days after her head wound, when it was still sore.  She was getting ready for bed, and getting manic, and went diving (literally) into her bed.  She popped up, kneeling by her pillows, and started slamming her head on the mattress.  Then, without pause, she lifted up the pillow and slammed her head on that part of the bed.  There was a book or a toy or something under the pillow, so she slammed her barely-healing forehead right into some hard object at full forward velocity.  REALLY??!!  Banging your wound into unseen objects is a good idea why....??!!)

So anyways, having loving Gramma hands is helpful with not only the hands part, but with the ability to maintain loving patience between family members.

And then, there is the dance troupe.  My husband and I went to the show when he was here, but we decided to leave the older kids behind, because we didn't know if they could handle it.  We thought they would have enjoyed it, but it was really a relief to enjoy the show without worrying about them!  

Six weeks later, they are two totally different children.  Emerson has regained his normal equilibrium after struggling with what it meant to have siblings for the first month or so, and in fact, he has come to a better place than where he had been before they joined our family.  He often deflects Hibiscus's grumpy (and probably unconscious) efforts to pick fights, and focuses on something more interesting.  He apparently remembers or realizes that it is a really bad idea, with really immediate consequences, to throw a giant fit in public or run away.  He still throws fits at home, but he has suddenly developed the vocabulary to say -- well, yell -- something like "I want to just take that plate and smash it all up so it's broken!" which is actually a very healthy release, and we usually can work things from there so he doesn't feel like he needs to do it any more.  It usually feels like he kind of WANTS to calm down, and is TRYING to calm down, and if I help meet him with some calm attention like wrapping him up or reading him a book, he usually makes a big effort to do that with me.  So I knew the show would be way too late for Emerson, but I didn't have any real fears that he would run away  or throw a a screaming fit that would disturb the other people.

I don't have a similar confidence in Hibiscus's ability to control herself, but if we give her attention and something to be interested in, she will stay with that and not tumble off into crazy-land.  She does know the facts about staying close to us in public, and although she occasionally forgets, the immediate and constant hand-holds are strikingly boring and she comes right back with those reminders.  I wouldn't vouch for her good behavior on a long day of errands, but I thought she would probably be interested enough in the dance that she probably wouldn't bother to throw a fit.  Also, her English has improved so much, which makes working together in public a lot more smooth.

Buttercup, on the other hand, is getting to be a lot more of a handful!  But at least she's small enough to contain!

The dance was amazing.  The dance troupe is made up of people from different tribes, and they perform dances from all over Uganda, interspersed with amusing monologues about the different cultures, and short, funny bits of language.  For instance, we heard the greeting rituals from several different cultures.  There are 52 indiginous languages in this country, so understanding the idea of difference but similarity is important.  They are promoting peace and cross-cultural understanding through dance and music.  This is a pleasant idea by American standards, but here in Africa, ethnic warfare, opression, fear, and genocide are real for almost everyone.  Everyone my age and above remembers the reign of Idi Amin and Obote, and has stories about how it affected their lives.  Violence in the north has only just ended, and many refugees eke out their livings in Kampala.  The woman who cleans our house -- despite multiple college degrees, she is grateful for the work -- had her sisters burned alive in their family home.  "Peace" is not just a pleasant idea when you really truly know what the opposite means.

The dancing was beautiful, energizing, and athletic.  The children were deeply fascinated!