Thankfulness

Thankfulness.

It has been popular among some of my Facebook friends, especially at my church, to do a post about something they are thankful for each day of November, as a spiritual practice.  I believe deeply in the spiritual practice of thankfulness, and it's something that I try to incorporate into our daily family life.  I meant to do the "30 Days of Thankfulness" challenge, but clearly I am mildly organizationally challenged, and have not gotten to posting on Facebook each day.  But every time I see the posts it reminds me to say my own little prayer of joy, and I wanted to write down some of the things I think about.  Writing in general is about working through our challenges, and I hope by writing this blog I can tell stories that encourage others to work through their challenges as well.  But it is also important to stop and write down the words of strength, blessing, and power.

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I am thankful to live in this place in the world.  I am thankful for the beauty that God creates around me each day.  God made beauty everywhere in the world, and I am thankful for that as well, but I am glad that fate set me down in this place.  I love watching the seasons change; I love that I don't know what the weather will be next; I love our long gardening season; I love the cool and rainy days as much as the sunny and inviting ones.  The differences make me more grateful for everything.  In this place in the world, I am thankful to be within a few hours' drive of the ocean, the mountains, and the high desert.  I love each of these places for their own reasons.  I am thankful that we can camp in the summer and explore more of our world.  I am thankful that there are so many places to explore and discover within driving distance of our home.  And this moment, I am thankful for the beauty of the leaves, and the yellow beech tree outside my bedroom window.  And the icicles that hung off each leaf, transforming the landscape, which we were blessed with yesterday.

I am thankful for the community where we live, as well.  I am thankful for my individual friends, and also our church home, where I feel involved and welcome.  I am thankful for all the ways and places that embrace my children and their needs: I feel incredibly blessed to have a school that fits their unique educational needs, and moreover is loving and supportive to them as human beings -- all of which, AND they are well organized!  I am thankful for our local support group for adoptive families.  I am thankful that we have options for classes and learning for our children: I am thankful that we can choose a dance studio based on positives, not just finding one that doesn't play skanky music for little girls; I am thankful that we have options to choose horse riding, gymnastics, and other opportunities for the children to exercise their bodies and minds.  I am also thankful for the professionals in our community.  I am thankful that we have a pediatrician who is respectful of my choices as a mother; I am thankful that we can find counseling and therapy solutions that are appropriate to help our children work through their challenges.

I am thankful for the nature all around us.  I am thankful that I can take the dogs out on the trails near our house, and that those trails are surrounded by trees, and mist, and the blooming and fading flowers of the different seasons.  I love the trilliums and trout lilies which appear for only a few weeks in the early spring; every year they are like a special treat from nowhere, and they remind me both that life is fleeting and precious, and also amaze me with how well they are adapted to live and thrive in such a specific environment.  I am thankful for the orchards and farms near our home, and that we can eat fresh produce grown from our own fertile land.  Nature truly is a place of calm that restores our souls.

I am thankful for the opportunity to have lived in different places in the world.  I have lived on different sides of America, and I have lived for at least some time on three different continents.  I have learned and grown with each new place, and the chance to live in other areas has given me a deeper appreciation and joy for being where I am now.

I especially am thankful for the chance to live in Uganda.  I never planned on it, and I might not have made the choice to spend so long there if I had known what it would entail.  But no amount of reading or spending time simply traveling or visiting can give you the same deep appreciation of a new place, than truly committing yourself to a new place.  It was difficult to be away from my own culture, but when my only associates were Ugandans, I learned a deeper level of friendship.  When I close my eyes, I can still feel the golden warmth on my skin, still taste the red dirt in the air, the constant smells and sounds that are so different from our polite and purifed life in America.  I am thankful to have made some part of Africa, into some part of me.

I am thankful for so many of the small things around my home, all the things of beauty and memory.  I am thankful for my bed which is both pleasant to look at and comfortable.  I am thankful for the antique *** in the dining room, which is useful, lovely, and gives a special feeling to our home.  I am thankful for the pictures of my family on the walls, and holding tight to each little memory.  I am thankful for the mementos of our travels and our special times together: a plate from Italy, boats and drums representing different cultures.  I am thankful for our painted walls, which are beautiful, and which I created in the time before I had children, when I was imagining a house full of children.

I am thankful for clothes to wear, which make me feel both pretty and confident.  I used to try to move beyond trying to be pretty, but as I have learned more honestly to assess myself, I have become a more complete person by accepting my face, my body, and my desire to feel good about myself.  I am thankful for friends and for systems that have helped me figure out what to wear to feel good about myself, and I am thankful for plenty of second-hand stores in town so I can have the fun of shopping without investing too much money in clothes!  I am also thankful for my children's clothes.  They are warm, comfortable, and help them feel attractive and joyful in their bodies -- also I am thankful for the big consignment sales in our community which allow me to do a season's worth of children's shopping at one time, and for a very reasonable price!  I hope that these tools, both the outer accoutrements and the inner wisdom that I am gaining, will help me to teach my children about loving and taking care of their bodies.  I hope to be able to teach my daughters to honor and respect their physical selves, and my son to be able to identify and be drawn to the way inner beauty reflects on the outside of a woman.  I am grateful for a community of women, both near and far, who are supporting my journey towards beauty; both those who advise me, and some wonderful women of color who have stepped up to offer special words of encouragement to my daughters.

I am thankful to be an American.  I spent many years disappointed in many things about my country, or envious of the history and culture of other countries.  I think much of that is youthful idealism, and that over-idealizing any country does not help to work to improve it.  But going through the process of adoption helped me to focus on what I really appreciate: our country is  made up of so many different kinds of people, from many backgrounds, many colors, many cultures, many thought processes.  Our country is still more welcoming than many to new immigrants who come to appreciate the opportunities we have to offer, and as they come they strengthen America and give so many opportunities to learn and grow to those of us who already live here.

I am thankful for our health.  Although each of us in our family has one or two weaknesses in our body, they do not interfere with our daily lives.  We are each strong enough to go hiking, to hug each other and run and create.  We have not been struck with any serious illness, and if one of us were, I am also deeply thankful for the medical care to which we have access.  There are serious problems and stressors with medical care (and the opportunity to access it) in America, but at least it is present.  And many doctors, nurses, and other people involved in medicine are truly helpful and doing their best to connect as human beings and help us be well.


And at this point, I could go on and on and on.... each time I think about something that I am thankful for, it reminds me of something else, and I look around and think of something else.  I am thankful the education and opportunities I have; I am thankful for the people who have raised me or who affected me in my youth; I am thankful for our warm home and running water; I am thankful for small things in life and ones so large I know I cannot fully comprehend them.  I don't think anyone will keep reading if I keep writing all night long!  But every single one of these items that I mentioned are things that I think about every day -- and I do mean every day.  Maybe on one day I won't think so hard about being an American and another day I might not think quite so hard about my furniture, but my daily litany of thankfulness is too long to write down.

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So I will end with the bedrocks of thankfulness.

I am thankful that we have enough money to make choices.  I recognize that so many of the other blessings come from the power that power.  Yes, there are many blessings that are free -- but the space and mental freedom to enjoy them is directly related to having enough money to first enjoy security.  We still have to worry about where we are going to spend our money, or how to plan for things in the future, but I know it is such an incredible blessing, that we know for sure that we have the basics in our lives: food, shelter, transportation.  And that because we are secure in those things, all of us -- children and adults -- can dedicate our energy to higher mental and emotional processes.
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I am thankful for my family.  Every single day, so many times a day, I look around at each of them and I am so thankful to have each of them around me.  I am thankful for my cat, KC, whose fur is so soft.  I am thankful for my dogs, their unwavering devotion and how they inspire me to be outside and active every day.  I would not take care of myself nearly so well if they weren't there to remind me, and I don't need to sigh about my babies growing up and away from me when my dogs are happy to fill that role for the rest of my life.

I am thankful for Sunflower, who made me into a mother.  I don't think I ever would have gone on the journey I have been through since, if it weren't for that love that has transformed me.

I am thankful for Buttercup, and her sweetness and gentle personality.  I am daily amazed how different she is from the other children, and she fills a unique role in our family.

I am thankful for Hibiscus.  Every day with her is full of challenges, but she shines with such a brilliant light.  It is my honor to be her mother, and have the chance to guide her through her life.

I am thankful for my husband.  We are similar and different enough to compliment and balance each other.  I am thankful for the times when he supports me and we work as a team to run our household and raise our family, and I am thankful for the times when we are able to sit down and talk, and we always have new things to say to each other.  And I look back and forward with thankfulness at the trips we have shared and the new experiences in our future!  As much as my children take my time, energy, and physical love, my marriage and my husband is the heart of my family.  I am thankful to have such a good life partner, and that our love keeps growing and deepening as the years pass.

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And I am thankful for God and the divine, and that every day and every year offers the chance to deepen my understanding and faith.  I would not have enough strength or courage to continue every day without knowing that some One much deeper is sustaining me.  When I am worn out and frustrated, and yet still find patience and love for my children, it is because He is pouring it through me.  I can manage to see this difficult journey of motherhood -- and personhood -- with fulfillment and joy, because through God I see it as a journey and not a destination.  I do not expect myself to be perfect already, because I know my entire life is a journey towards the "me" that God has dreamed for me.  I can take a deep breath and forgive myself at the end of the day, because I know that God has forgiven me first.

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While writing this, I keep thinking of more things for which I am thankful.  I remember them and am joyful in my life every single day.

A Season for Quiet

It's cool and has been raining all morning.  The children are in school -- all three of them.  The house is quiet, but I put on the classical radio and the tea kettle is starting to gurgle and boil.  Autumn is here.

When I lived in Africa, there was so much that I was able to learn about and take into my self-hood that I never would have experienced here.  I can still close my inner eyes and feel that certain heat of the equatorial sun; feel the air that is full of red dust, and always infused with scents and smells.  And while I lived in Africa, there was a pain inside from missing what I have always known, what has gone into the making of me for so many years.  The pain of missing my husband, my dogs, and my friends, was sharper and more towards the outside of my being.  The pain of missing the air, the green, the peacefulness of gray, was deep inside, in the places you don't even fully realize you are existing.  And the strongest of all those pains was that of missing seasons.  And as much as I wished I were home to appreciate the snowy pictures my local friends posted on Facebook, the worst seasonal pain was missing autumn.

So perhaps that means autumn is my favorite season, although I think actually my favorite part about seasons is how they change.  As someone who has been either a student, a teacher, or a mother of students, for all of my life, fall also feels like the beginning of the new year to me.  And fall means fresh apples, and I really like apples -- the entire experience of apples.  Living in Africa, I also learned that I have very deep feelings about apples.  At any rate, between all these different aspects, school has started, the weather is changing, and the apples are ripe on the trees.... and I feel like a new door has opened in my life and our family's lives.

Part of that new door is our new adventures in school.  Buttercup has started school for the first time, and is attending mixed-age kindergarten with Sunflower three mornings a week.  Sunflower has the same schedule at Waldorf school as he has had for (at least part of) the last three years, but we are also starting a more deliberate home-schooling pattern, and he is deeply invested in that work.  And part of that door is opening something within me.  I have determined to celebrate the autumn by preserving so much of its beautiful produce into something we can enjoy all year long; and I have made a schedule where I can preserve some time for the things that nurture me as a human being.  Part of which is that I will come back and write this blog on a regular basis, which allows me to create something, and also gives me time to reflect and contemplate on my daily thoughts and experiences as a mother.  Furthermore, I think that these writings have touched people in different ways.  I have heard that people feel closer to my family, that they have new understanding about adoption or emotional special needs, or new ideas for their own parenting, or a more realistic expectation about living abroad or in Uganda, or simply have the time and space to appreciate standing in someone else's shoes.  So perhaps these writings are part of "the work God has given (me) to do," as we pray every Sunday after communion.  Thank you for sharing if you have found this writing to be meaningful to you, and I will now work to continue it.

We have now been home almost exactly eight months, which coincidentally is the same amount of time that we lived in Uganda.  I feel like most of that time has been some kind of dream state, or transition period -- in my inner world, as well as the outer one.  There has been so much in this outer world to get "done," and yet it has seemed impossible to do it.  I have taken care of the children, and kept up with the necessary basics, but I have not been a "do-er" for the last eight months.  I know both my husband and my mother have been frustrated with me or worried about me at times.  Although I occasionally have been frustrated with myself, there has been a certain necessary depth to the feeling of floating through life.

Part of it, I know, is habit.  At home, I have always had projects and things I'm involved in, and like many people of my class and generation, I am usually over-committed.  But in Uganda, what I really learned to do was wait.  Ugandans are experts at waiting, and perhaps there is something in that particular, sultry equatorial air that lends itself to slowness of body and quietness of mind.  The simple chores of existence -- buying groceries, doing laundry, bathing -- took up so much mental and physical energy there was not enough left to think of larger projects.  And of course, the children themselves took up everything that was left, and more!  Yes, there were long periods when I was simply sitting... writing or reading or something else  But even then, I think my internal energy, something about my soul, was required to throw over our household, keep our fragile lives intertwined.  The children's chaotic energy required a balance of quiet and calm to hold them together.  If you could have seen into the room, it would have seemed like I was doing nothing or wasting time, and yet my internal energy was deeply engaged.

And then when one gets home from almost a year of learning to wait, and listen, and be quiet, one can't just jump back into being active all the time.  When every evening after the children are in bed, one restores their soul by enjoying the absolute quiet of the house, it's hard to switch to rejuvenating oneself by talking.  Maybe an extrovert would have relished it, but I have always been introverted, and spending almost eight entire months with never ever having an open and emotional conversation (except for a few brief visits), strengthened the introversion and self-sufficiency within me.  Once home, I appreciated so much being able to connect with the people I love, but the daily availability of connection seemed almost too much.  By the end of the day, it felt like I was out of spoken words and didn't know where to find them to chat with my husband.  When my mother visited, it was like I didn't remember how to be together and interact with an adult all day long.  I had to ease into it from the inside, which looked like quiet or passivity from the outside

I haven't been depressed, although all this quietness seems like depression.  I have never been more deeply and fully grateful for what my life is filled with, and never has it been easier to feel like my life itself is a prayer of thanksgiving and joy.  But on the surface, I have run out of energy quickly.  It has been easier to be calm and passive.  Unlike my husband and mother, this hasn't bothered me.  I have felt like this, too, was a season.  Perhaps a season of re-learning what energy and activity is, or perhaps a season where I knew that stillness was what my children needed the most.  When I have plenty of "quiet time" alongside them, instead of folding the sheets and mowing the lawn, I do have a lot more energy left for the giant and improbable meltdown that pops up later that afternoon.  They have needed my reserves of energy, and creating an actual balance has not looked balanced.

And now, the season has just seemed to pass away from me.  I have a schedule for the children and myself, and it feels good to get out and DO the next thing.  I've been doing homeschool with Sunflower, and deeply enjoying the chance to work intimately together with him.  It's been easy and enjoyable to get out for a walk with the dogs in the woods almost every day, even when I need to bring children along with us.  After I put the children in bed, instead of feeling completely depleted and unable to stand, I've enjoyed working on fruit or canning in the evening, and other nights I've gotten housecleaning done.  I've also given myself a rhythm for kitchen work and house work, and our house suddenly feels manageable now.  I have not girded my loins and forced myself to be different; it feels like the door has opened and we have simply passed into a new place.  As the seasons change and the apples ripen, so suddenly we are ripe for something new.

It feels to me like the children are ripe to their new phase of life, as well.  Well-meaning friends suggest how "the transition" of moving or new siblings might be so hard on them, but they have not been here for every day of the last eight months in Uganda and eight months in Eugene, as I have.  I am feeling like we are finally out of transitioning, that this is real life.  What is bubbling out of them isn't in response to all the transitioning, it's what has been bubbling all along below the transitions.  When they're tired or angry or whiney as they get used to their new school schedule, it isn't because it's a new language or their home routine isn't what they expect or everything is new.  It's because everything else no longer requires their extra energy, and they are simply responding to starting a new school year which is harder than they wish it would be.  When Sunflower and Hibiscus are so deeply involved in their play they don't notice the passage of time, their words and actions tumbling over each other as they create a world that only they see; and then minutes later they irritate each other so much that they both end up screaming until they turn red.... it's no longer because they're getting used to each other as siblings.  It's because they ARE siblings.  We are off and running, and this is the path we are on.


"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven."  When God made me, He made me capable of action and activity, but He did not make me an active person.  He made me a person capable of deep calm and quiet.  Which I admit freely can lead to a messy house, but I also believe that it's a powerful and meaningful gift, and as I have grown into myself I have learned to appreciate and value my own inner gifts.  And I believe that by giving this gift to me, He is also giving the gift of peace, of a quiet space of acceptance, of an aura of freedom from anxiety; into my home, for my husband and children.  The last few months apparently my energy has been needed for quiet.  Now it is time for a new purpose under heaven, and our season can change to more energy and activity on top of the quiet.

More on the Christmas Cantata

When we considered older child adoption, we discussed many potential challenges and difficulties, including many of the things that we have faced.  But one thing we forgot to consider: musical taste.  We are a household that has earned degrees in music, both classical and jazz; there are two grand pianos in our living room, and another piano living with a friend; and other instruments include traditional drums and flutes from different cultures, classical strings (violins in several different sizes and a viola), and more guitar-like instruments than I can count.  What are we going to do with a child who has spent six years listening to this combination of hip-hop and pop music, complete with three chords and an insistent drumbeat, turned up way too loud.  How many years do we have to balance out this influence before she's old enough to buy her own music, and turn up the stereo on the back bedroom??!!

So Hibiscus thought the concert was awesome and amazing, and wants to go back today.  It was ridiculously loud and ridiculously dramatic, which seem to be the main criteria around here.  It seemed to be a lot of skits with really corny messages, that morphed into a song, and then all the secondary characters around the stage broke into some kind of crazy breakdancing.

For instance, a woman walks by talking on a cell phone and blowing her nose, and then drops the tissue on the ground.  Another woman is sitting on a bench, and reminds her to put the tissue in the bin.  Cell-phone woman rolls her eyes and walks away.  Nice Woman puts the tissue in the trash, and has a long discussion with the man sweeping the sidewalk about how important it is to put trash in the bin and take care of our beautiful city.  (Ugandans attitude towards trash seems to be a lot like that about lying, that they preach a lot about it but  honesty and picking up after oneself doesn't really enter into everyday behavior.)  Then it turns out that the sweeper-man is expecting his sister-in-law to call and announce the birth of his first child any moment, and that he and his wife have been waiting for a child for six years.  Then Nice Woman goes into a little spiel about how that reminds her of Jesus, and how the people waited for their Savior for all this time, but he finally came, and that is about God because of something-or-other, and then the Wise Men brought gifts and did you know that is where gift-giving was started?  Meanwhile, a spotlight comes on a little area on top of the high-rises, and we see Mary and Joseph struggling along, and the spotlight goes off and instantly they are on the side stage in a different spotlight, while the Wise Men appear as Nice Woman discusses them in the story.  Then suddenly they all burst out in song, and Joseph holds the Baby Jesus bundle above his head and swings around while singing this crazy exuberant pop-gospel stuff, and I am very glad that the bundle does not look like the shape that might mean an actual child is inside.  And a dozen other people come along in some kind of random costume and start dancing too.  And the song is not "We Three Kings" or anything that seems kind of related to the story, because "We Three Kings" would not be loud and excited enough, and I think it would be very difficult to add in the required bass and drum section to allow for the necessary switch into break-dancing.  Because everything has to turn into a break-dancing sequence.  Although they added speed and drums to several traditional carols in such a way to totally ruin them as "carols," let alone "traditional," which is apparently what Ugandans are used to because they all hummed and clapped along.

The program started with the (white) preacher enthusiastically welcoming everyone, and then we all sang "Silent Night" together.  The dancers had not yet appeared, so we only needed to go at about 170% of normal speed.  I don't know if Ugandans have a genetic predisposition towards alto-ness, but they certainly have a learned habit of singing in a really throaty voice.  This was funny because there is one sustained, moderately-high note in "Silent Night," and suddenly you could hear my voice singing it, because apparently I was the only person among the couple thousand who knew how to sustain a high note!

The main stage was this giant area in front, which when empty had a large waterfall surrounded by poinsettias and pine trees in the middle.  Then the couple-hundred voice choir filed in and filled most of the space in the middle in risers.  I think their purpose was mostly to look enthusiastic and sparkly, because they didn't do much more than hum in the background on a few songs.  There was a group song at the beginning and the end and they sang along with those ones, and the one at the end was some kind of enthusiastic praise-Jesus kind of thing, so some of them waved their hands around too.  There was a stage on a couple of levels in front of the choir, with a park bench and a few other props, and this is where most of the skits took place.  There was some kind of platform above the choir, which occasionally they used to dramatic effect, and a giant white screen all the way across the stage above that, which they used for different images.  Then there was another stage on either side of the main area, filled with pine trees.  The one towards our side had a manger, and Mary and Joseph appeared on it occasionally when someone sang about them.

I told a couple of the highlights of the cantata yesterday, so the story today is kind of out of order.  So I will go back to the beginning.  We were supposed to pick up our friends at 12:30, to arrive at 1 to wait for the 3:30 show.  But I knew we were on Africa time, so I didn't get everyone ready and over to their house until 1.  The children were all ready to jump in the car, but the mom wasn't, so we waited a while there.  Then we drove downtown.  Ggaba Road has been very slow lately, but it actually went smoothly, but then the traffic was just plain absolutely stopped once we got to town.  We could have walked it twice as fast, even with all seven children.  Finally, we got to the right place and found a parking spot.  Then it was time to wait.

First of all, we sat and waited under a series of giant tents set up outside, as the ushers gradually filled the tent sections in the order we would be allowed to leave them.  In another part of the parking lot there was a stand selling chapatis, popcorn, hot dogs, drinks, and other snacks, and behind the tents were a grand total of six porta-potties.  We arrived at 3 for the 3:00 performance, so we missed it, and waited the whole two hours for the next one -- but at least we were near the front of the line for that one.

About an hour after we started waiting, we were ushered out, through a church, and up to another room kind of to the side, which was also filled with plastic chairs.  It was the second room filled with people like that; I would estimate at least 300 people were in our room.  Luckily, we were up towards one corner, so the kids played with going back and forth out the edge.  I had a book in my backpack, so Emerson and I read that one together.  He was grumpy and tired and didn't really feel like reading, so he didn't want to read on his own.  We took turns reading the stories, switching at the paragraph for a while, until Emerson decided to switch every time we encountered the word "the."  That was interesting!  But inside my head, I was just amazed.  Back in September, he was still reading the Bob books and getting frustrated, and we were going very carefully over simple rules like what does "ea" say so he wouldn't be so frustrated.  Then something clicked, and he has been reading all kinds of children's books, like the paragraph-full Early Readers at school, and the Madeline books at home.  But this is a whole new level; this is totally text-dense read-aloud only, with unique vocabulary and small text.  He's gotten to the point where he wants to read something, and I say "okay, so read it," and he just starts, instead of worrying that it is too hard.  And really, most books in the world are mostly the same words over and over, so once you start in on it you can get a lot of the point, even if you have never yet encountered "vision" or "malicious."

I described sitting down to the concert, which was quite an adventure, so I will go back to some of the program.  The skits all started off corny, and ended with one of the characters delivering a little lesson about Jesus.  One of them was about difficulty, describing the basic story of the engagement, the census, and so forth, and that it was not actually simple or easy for them, and they probably kind of didn't feel happy all the time.  This was the LESSON.  There were definitely children in the audience, but it was not a children's show, and most of it seemed aimed towards the adults.  Is the assumption that adult Christians are not sure about when or why Joseph agreed to wed Mary, or that they had to travel for a census?   I have been shocked and frustrated with how confused Hibiscus is about basic Biblical characters, but I am beginning to understand why: it seems to me that most of the religion around here is totally based on homily and assumption, and very little on the actual Bible.  The children are told that if they are rude to their older brothers and sisters they will go to Hell, and given very specific definitions of Hell, and lists of other behavior that will land them there.  Which is The Divine Comedy, it is not the Bible.  Then they sing lots of songs with "praise God" and "Jesus loves me," and they turn around and tell me that they will beat all the people who are mean to them and to Jesus.  Hibiscus even described a helicopter with bombs she would drop on people who are mean to Jesus!  This is a nice sweet idea about loving Jesus, but when it is paired with no actual knowledge about anything Jesus ever did or said, it turns into a discussion about where he fits when he is inside you, under one's bellybutton or in the rib cage.

This is the child perspective, and it seems like many people do not really deepen their understanding as they get older.  The religious message that I have overheard again and again is how if you believe in God and really love him, LOVE LOVE LOVE, with lots of swinging your arms around and stamping your feet and singing really loudly... then you'll get rich.  Because God blesses the people who love him, especially when they sing really loudly.  I have actually had discussions with my friend the priest on how prevalent this view of loving God = getting rich and lucky, which he finds a big problem, so I am not naively imagining this.

And this bring us to why Hibiscus wants to have a helicopter to drop bombs on mean people, which was the part of the Cantata that made me absolutely livid.  If you are really into melodrama, I suppose Jesus' birth scores you lots of sequins, but the real drama is in the death.  So it couldn't be left out of a Christmas program.  (Unlike the entire life, ministry, and philosophy of Jesus, which was not alluded to in any way!)  I think it followed the young man's monologue about how he slowly descended into peer pressure, parties, alcohol and drugs, until he realized that his life was empty and the only thing that could fill it was Christ.  I realize that a lot of modern churches really like this "testimony," although personally, I would rather my kids don't hear so much about drugs and descending into "coolness."  But then there were some lighting changes, and another guy came out and sang some very dramatic and sad song.  At least I assume it was; I wasn't paying much attention to him.  Because behind him, they started playing a movie on the big screen of the crucifixion.  It might have been part of Mel Gibson's movie, or it might have been something else.  But it was gory, and it was detailed.  It started with Jesus carrying the cross and falling down, and we got close-ups of his arms and his back.  Later we saw nails positioned in the hands, and a hammer swinging.  It was several minutes long, and all fade-ins and fade-outs to different gruesome parts of the crucifixion.  I didn't see most of it, because I don't like to watch things like that, and then I was busy trying to convince the children not to watch.  Emerson was on one side of me, and all the children until Teacher Monica on the far side.  I started in on Emerson, because I know he has this fascination and deep terror of scary things.  He wouldn't look away, and I could cover his eyes but he yelled at me.  On the other side, Hibiscus was watching with her eyes literally bugging out.  Lately she has been especially terrified of bad things happening at night, and bad people coming into our house, and monsters nabbing her.  I know that images of someone being beaten bloody are exactly the kind of thing that pops into your mind when you are afraid of the dark and you want your mama to stay next to you, but she actually has to do your sister's bath at that moment.  So I tried to convince her not to watch, but she told me she liked it, as the tears started to fall.  Then I noticed Hosta on the other side of her, who had huddled up with her knees up to her forehead (she spent most of the program on her feet, jumping up and down), her face totally covered with tears, but she also could not tear her eyes off the video.  After that I was trying to distract Emerson again, and meanwhile thinking about how I could lean my body so Buttercup, in my wrap, wouldn't have an ideal view of the screen.  In the end, I'm not sure how much it helped, and all the children saw way more than was good for them.

So what happens today?  The children have mentioned half a dozen times how much they liked seeing Mary and Joseph, since they just did a little pageant of their own at school.  And then they've spent a significant portion of the day pretending to fall on the cross and discussion exactly where the nails were placed on the feet, and banging pretend nails into each other.  It really makes me mad.  Overall the cantata was not my cup of tea but it was a fun experience, but supposing I actually lived here, I would seriously consider not attending again next year just to avoid that disgusting video. (Or whatever they replace it with next time.)  It is NOT something that is appropriate to put into children's hearts and minds!  First of all, they have so many of their own difficulties to cope with, and this was just plain gory and unpleasant, and these images now live inside them.  Secondly, they are too young to get any actual meaning from it.  The first thing, that we have already discussed several times, is that this was a MOVIE, not the Bible.  In my own home and church life, I certainly expose my child(ren) to the story of the crucifixion, but I keep it simple and based on the actual Bible.  A young child will remember their first exposure to the story, and I want it to be the actual, literal story, not some film-maker's interpretation.  You never know if what will stay with a child will be the parts that he took from the text, or something random that was never important.  (Like Jesus being tall and blond, which he was.)  But the deeper issue is that if the children are too young to understand the meaning and the reason behind the crucifixion, they are way too young to be thinking about the details of death.  Never mind calling for bomb-dropping helicopters, Jesus actively refused even mild violence on his behalf, and refused to protest or defend himself.  Why?  THAT is what Christianity is about.  If you're not old enough to discuss that, you're not old enough to discuss what they used to whip Jesus, and how much he was bleeding.  Period.

So, that was my philosophical rant; let's get back to the cantata.  Shall we discuss breakdancing?  There was really quite a lot of it.  The theme seemed to be a city park, so we had streetcleaners breaking out in breakdancing several times.  However, there was some attempt at variety.  For one number, a ballerina (the one white woman in the entire thing, actually) was in a spotlight in the little stage that was above all the other stages, and she twirled a couple times, and then lights came on the main stage and a bunch of girls in ballerina-like outfits swooped out, twirled a couple times... and started breakdancing.  A later troupe of mostly male dancers were wearing black and white, leather jackets, and sunglasses.  It was a little hard to see how that fit in with the sequins-and-Christmas theme, but they certainly were matching costumes.  And the breakdancing was quite good, and they did a bunch of fancy tricks.  I probably would have been impressed if I weren't so amused by how everyone kept breakdancing!

Another part of the cantata for me was dealing with the children.  I decided to keep Buttercup on my back, where she could see (and incidentally not escape).  She figured out pretty fast that she had a good view and was perfectly content, although that involved lots of jumping up and down in place.  I had also gotten snacks before we went in, and gradually handed them out to the children. I started off with half a chapati each while we waited for the show to start, which went smoothly.  But I had tried to get something at the snack stand that wasn't JUST simple carbs, so I got little slurpy yogurts.  These are small plastic bags filled with sweet yogurt, and you cut off a corner and stick a straw in and drink it out.  This works pretty well if you do it properly, which half the children managed to do.  Unfortunately, half the children wanted to put their yogurt down for a while, and since they are just plastic bags, this is not very technically possible when you are sitting crammed in a pew jumping up and down.  So when Buttercup got full, I gave the rest to Hibiscus, and then I refused to get Hibiscus her own because she'd already eaten half of one and I didn't want her to put down the next one, but when Hosta got tired of drinking I gave that to Hibiscus too.  Needless to say, that made everyone mad at me.  The friends' children managed to drink their yogurts without incident, although the older girl was still carrying the bag when we were trying to walk to the car.  Her mother had to ask her to drop it, which shows how deeply the no-littering lessons sink in -- although she had to ask twice, so maybe the child noticed the discrepancy and the next generation will manage to do better.  But it was Emerson who won the yogurt award.  He asked me to hold his yogurt several times, or offered it to me to take a drink, so I took a drink and handed it back.  But at one point he got the straw stuck inside the bag, so he put it on my lap so I can fix it.  Imagine: it is dark, there are strobelights, you are trying to figure out which of the next six children wants a yogurt, and there is a bag with a hole in it somewhere plopped in your lap.  It ended up spilling yogurt all over my dress, the wrap, the camera case, the floor, and who-knows-what else.  And then Emerson took it back and sucked the rest of the yogurt directly out of the hole, which worked well, except he took forever to do it (like most things that he does), and I think yogurt bags were designed for speedy consumption.

As for the grand finale: Snow.  Snow is really spectacular here in equatorial Africa, and they had an amazing production of it.  We are not in rich Dubai, which apparently has an indoor ski mountain, so it wasn't the actual cold stuff, but it poured from the ceiling in huge quantities for several minutes.  (I think it was some kind of bubbles.)  The kids were very excited and impressed, and jumped around and squealed and tried to catch it.

And now I will conclude my story with what Hibiscus told me the next day.  First of all, she keeps repeating that she wants to go back, and I have not the slightest intention of reliving the rest of the exhausting day in order to attend the performance again!  But then she told me this morning that she was glad we went to this show, because Ugandan people don't go to shows, and no one in Uganda knows about shows like this.  This is pretty amazing information, given that probably between a thousand and two thousand people were happily watching the show, and I saw exactly one other group like ours, which had a couple Americans mixed in with the locals.  There have been two shows a day for the last ten days or so, and they will switch to four shows a day from tomorrow until Christmas -- just at this church, and I think the other churches do their own shows, and a few of the other mega-churches definitely have mega-shows.  A quick estimate gives about 40,000 Ugandans attending this particular show, along with a hundred or so muzungos, which is a slightly different number than "none."  I reminded Hibiscus about the Ugandans who had been all around her, and that our Ugandan friends had brought us, so it was pretty clear that some Ugandans knew about shows like this.  She calmly and didactically informed me that her daddy in Bbunga did not know about shows like this, and she had never been to a show like this while she lived in Bbunga, and no one else went to shows like this either.  Therefore no one in Uganda knows about big shows.  Obviously, mom.

In preparing for adoption, we talked about the significance of taking a child away from their culture, but I think this is the equally important side of the same coin: a naive six-year-old, starting a new life, comes to the assumption that she is the expert on her own culture.  In many ways she knows more about the Buganda than I do, but in other ways, her experience is so narrow and misunderstood, she really knows almost nothing about her own culture.  But since we take her away from it, she thinks she knows everything.  It makes me very glad that we are spending these months here, and hopefully we can combat a little bit of her own assumptions through the coming years, so that she does not believe that her miserable little life in the slums is the only option for Ugandans.  That some people are kind to their friends, and some children like to read, and some Ugandans go to concerts.

We can have those discussions while not engaged in our full-immersion program of symphonies, jazz quartets, and choirs with actual sopranos in them.  And Christmas performances of The Nutcracker, but only if it has been pre-screened for not switching to breakdancing part way through!

b

Christmas Cantata

It is after 10:30 at night, and I am just sitting down to my second meal of oatmeal of the day.  That might be an ambiguous sentence, but it is true either way: it is the second time I've eaten oatmeal for a meal today, and it is the second time I have sat down and eaten a meal.

We have spent the last eleven hours or so attending a "Christmas Cantata," with our friends, the family who runs the American Montessori School (including Hosta).  It was quite something, to say the least.  Also, I am coming to the conclusion that I should take my children and lock all of us in the bedroom, perhaps with some individuals under the bed, and stay there until we have all the proper paperwork to get on the plane. Disasters large and small seem to dog us wherever we go and whatever we do!  Perhaps this entire trip is cursed.  Or Satan is trying to get at us, as Teacher Monica suggested.

I should eat my oatmeal and go to bed, so I will just write a few things and tell the rest of the stories in the morning.  The Cantata was a very Ugandan extravaganza, including the part about waiting for more than two hours in order to get in.  After all, what Christmas would be complete without breakdancing angels?

As for the venue, visualize an American mega-church, with a balcony and stage and everything, and then squash it down Ugandan style.  So the grandeur remains, but take out all the pretty details like carpets and mood lighting, and make it about a half or a third of the size but maintain the same number of people.  There were three different staging areas in order to get the audience into the church!  First of all we all crammed into the space you might ordinarily expect about the average American family with its 2.2 children to sit, as long as neither adult was particularly overweight.  After a while, the ushers came by and asked us to put the children on our laps so we would take up less room.  Since we were two mothers with seven children, we both already had full laps but there were still a lot of small bums leftover.  The usher moved on and was settling people in the aisles, but they had to stand on the side so the performers could go by.  A couple of enterprising ladies came over and announced that they could carry the children on their laps, thus allowing their own bums to be on a pew and the children to spend the entire two plus hours on the lap of a stranger.  Request denied, although it was not so much a request at all.

Then: LIGHTS!!!!  FOG MACHINES!!!!  GIANT CHOIR ON HIGHRISES!!!!  SKITS!!!!  MARY AND JOSEPH!!!!  SINGING VERY DRAMATICALLY!!!!  AMPS TURNED WAY UP!!!!  And so forth.

Oh, and a revival call, or whatever they are called when sinners are invited to stand up and take Jesus into their lives at that very moment.  I personally feel strongly that one's relationship with Jesus is a lifetime of growth, almost all of which happens inside one's own heart and mind and not by standing up when you are told to by a guy with a microphone, but whatever floats your boat.  Who wouldn't want to listen to a nice Christmas music session without being invited to stand up and declare one's sinner-ness?  Well, I'm obliging enough to watch, until you get MY children involved. First of all, Emerson was so exhausted by that point, that when he kept hearing "stand up, stand up," he just kind of automatically stood up.  And since the church floor was flat, it was hard for the children to see and they had kept sitting on the top of the pew, especially Hibiscus (the other kids had been standing more), and the lady behind her had been hissing at her every few minutes "sit down, sit down."  And now she started hissing "stand up, stand up," which got Hibiscus totally confused, and thought maybe she ought to do it.  Maybe it might be a deeply moving religious experience for some people to stand up at a revival call, but I feel strongly that it is not an appropriate time to manipulate 5-ish-year-olds into confessing something that they don't understand in the least.  Actually, I deeply believe (and have witnessed) that children have a deep, intrinsic connection to the Divine, if we give them the space and trust to find it on their own.  Which this could not be more opposite!


And as for the conclusion of the day, unfortunately my bowl of oatmeal is almost finished so I cannot do the story justice.  I will just say, that we gathered up our seven very amped-up, tired, hungry, and wiggly children, navigated the sea of people, then the giant holes in the sidewalk with cars blocking either side in the gradually fading afternoon light, and walked to where we had left the car.  And we said "isn't this where the car was?"  And it had been, and it was not any more.

My Children Are Butterflies

On Sunday, the children spent all afternoon outside, playing on their own.  This was how their day wound up.  I was told to come look, and I took some pictures.  They went around and around and around the courtyard, sometimes together and sometimes veering away on their own.  Sometiwmes Buttercup followed, and sometimes she got stuck and came back to me.  When their wings got tangled, Hibiscus carefully and lovingly re-arranged them, so they could all fly together again.

  When I posted them for some friends, I was amazed at the strength of the response, and how this touched so many people, including many who said they had tears in their eyes.  The picture is captioned by someone who was able to sum up the beauty and the majesty of the moment.  The butterflies are their own description.

"That they are flying away from you with the very fabric you used to hold them close, give them love, and make them strong makes me cry. Sometimes children at play perfectly reflect the face of God if we have eyes to see..."

The Next Day: Drawing Deeper

This has been on my mind for months now, but I started writing about it somewhere else and realized that this is the flip side of what I wrote last night.  I was feeling so discouraged about losing myself, but I need to continue to have faith and strength in the self that is within me.  Personality is intrinsically connected to what is going on outside of us, and our past experiences, but we are also more than that.  

Desmond Tutu, who has written some wonderful religious books for children, talks about "God's dream" for each of us.  I haven't read Tutu's adult explanations of what he means, but the idea has taken root for me.  To me, it is about being the fulfillment of what each of us COULD be.  Not that there is a perfect person or an ideal we are striving for, but that each person has a unique place, a unique direction, and more than that, inside ourselves we are something worth dreaming about.  God is hoping that we take the steps to get ourselves there, and helping and guiding us as much as we allow Him to.

Perhaps because I am a strongly analytical person, using personality systems has helped me to think more fully about this, both about myself and the people around me.  I have used a number of them, but the Enneagram is my favorite, because it is more focused on our inner selves (our desires and fears) than our outward behavior.  It took me years of playing with the Enneagram off and on to realize what type I actually was.

I think most of us wish we were something other than what we are, and especially in youth we like to play with different personalities.  Whether from my own insecurity or because of the outside pressures and assumptions around me, I formed a very strong idea of the kind of person who was "best" and who I wanted to be.  I nurtured all those qualities in myself, tried to push away what didn't fit my self-selected image, and was frustrated or guilty about what I couldn't change.  I wanted to be competent, energetic, productive, respected, elegant, and friendly.  (Those don't even all go together!)

Now I can recognize that these are many of my secondary characteristics, but not the crux of who I am.  I was pretty good at acting that way because I was putting all my emphasis on something that I could do... but the thing is, we don't get to decide who we are.  We are Created by something beyond ourselves, and we can't re-build ourselves like a basket of legos.  It was exhausting constantly trying to be something specific, and even when I got compliments on how well I did ("you're amazing; I don't know how you get so much done!") I felt kind of guilty, like I hadn't really earned it.

Thinking about the Enneagram helped me accept my natural strengths instead of trying to create them, but I hadn't realized that something was missing.  We human beings doing exist simply on the inside.  We have to be true to ourselves on the outside, too.

I scoffed at "beauty profiling" for a long time, but in the fog when we lost Rehema and all our plans, I starting looking into Dress Your Truth, just as something fun to distract myself, because a lot of my friends on-line did it and it was easy for me to access.  In the last few months, I have stumbled into seasonal analysis for the same reason, because people on my wrapping site are talking about it, and it's something to think about other than my worries.

But it turns out that it's much more than that.  Perhaps I'll find something more in the future, but right now it feels like I've finally admitted the completion of the circle of acknowledging who I am.  (Not understanding it fully; that is a life-long journey.)  I wanted to think that the way I dressed wasn't that important and I would just let it fade into the background, but we ARE what we look like.  And furthermore, thinking about what I look like and how I dress has helped me to face inconsistencies in the way I was thinking about myself.  And finally, honestly, I'm a woman, and an American woman.  How I look is important to how I feel about myself.

So that's my journey from the outside, and here is the journey from the inside.  I am an Enneagram Type 9: the Peacemaker (with an 8 wing); Dress Your Truth Type 3: Soft and Subtle (with a secondary 1); and my season is Soft Summer.  I am the opposite of energetic and elegant!  Drawing descriptions from the different systems, I am peaceful, detail-oriented, supportive, able to get along with anyone, natural/Nature-like, able to be thinking or feeling, calm, subtle, comforting, slow, prone to laziness, introverted, have a rich inner life, peaceful, comforting, gentle, easily mistaken or misidentified, chameleon-like and blends in easily, conflict-avoidant, relaxed, stable, agreeable, accepting, creative, optimistic, and "devoted to the internal and external quest for peace."

(I kind of cringe writing all that, sure that people who know me will read and think "what is she talking about? I think she's really xyz, she's fooling herself!"  But first of all, any system's definition has a lot of subtleties that obviously I'm not trying to address, and second of all, remember that chameleon part?  In every system, it says this type is the hardest to identify because they're so good at acting like something different!)

Type 9Soft Summer

These last few months have been so hard in so many ways.  I have been reduced to emotional mush multiple times in my life, for crisis that were real but probably not as overpowering as these.  Part of being able to withstand this trial is growing up and making it through other hard times.  Part of it is gaining a deeper trust in God.  And part of it is gaining a deeper trust in myself and my own powers, which is actually part of trusting in God, since He made me.

Or put another way, I could not get through these months if I was spending even one iota of energy on trying to be someone who I am not.  Accepting who I am has given me the power to get through it.  I could get frantic about all the things I haven't done, but I've been able to say "I don't work fast, but I'm really good at being patient.  I can wait for this to come through."  I might feel guilty about all the things I'm not doing for my children, but I can say "I don't naturally have that child-like energy and enthusiasm, but I know that I'm naturally peaceful and calm; they will come back to me and be refreshed when they need it."  When I'm feeling so angry and overwhelmed, I know where to find my foggy, distant place and not let it take over, and I take comfort that those intense emotions come through gently and softly and my children don't have to take the worst of it.... but on the other side of the coin, I don't raise my voice and shout for joy, either.  

Yes, I'm spending more time sitting around the house and not really getting anything done.  But I don't need to feel any guilt about it.  Some people (3's in both systems, actually) really are do-ers, and their feelings of self-worth are based on their accomplishments, which also just seem to happen naturally in a whirlwind around their bodies.  I'm not like that.  It doesn't matter to me if I get anything done, other than technically needing it done.  I like to do things for the sake of the journey and that feels good, but I also have the capability to wait quietly.

Waiting.  You might have noticed that there has been a lot of waiting in the last few months.  I thank God that actually, inside, I'm a very patient person.  When a type 9 goes to their negative side, they can lose their natural balance and become a worrier.  So I remember that, and in this whole time I have not succumbed to bouts of worry and frustration.  Instead, I read a book or start thinking about what wrap I'm going to buy next and totally ignore the whole situation.  Thinking about personality systems has helped me realize that this is actually a good coping mechanism for me and I don't need to feel guilty about tuning out; it's what I'm good at!  It's not always the best direction, but when you honestly can't do anything about a situation, ignoring it completely is actually a pretty good option.  And it IS an option for me, unlike a more action-oriented or idealistic personality.

Tuning out is something I try not to do to my children, but when I acknowledge my inner self it's also something I can forgive myself for.  I am always amazed by moms who plan these amazing projects for their children or talk about how happy they were to get down on the floor and play together.  Did you see "playful" or "full of energy" on the list above?  Not so much.  I don't need to feel bad about not playing with my children, and furthermore, they would probably instinctually sense that I wasn't happy about playing with them.  Instead, I can acknowledge that I'm really good at making people feel peaceful and comfortable and accepted.  I can read my book while they act like wild monkeys together, and when they gather round or settle into bed, I create a place of peace and love.  I'm the home base, not the adventure.  

And as a result, they probably feel more truly loved because I am acting in a way that is true to myself instead of being somewhat dissatisfied doing something I don't care about.  And I reserve my energy for when we really need it, instead of constantly spending myself trying to be "playful" or "productive" or planning activities.

I can also acknowledge why some things are particularly hard on me.  I hate conflict and disapproval, so Hibiscus's loud and strident tone really wears me down, because I am so sensitive to negativity.  That's my problem, not hers, and it helps (a little) to remind myself.  (It's also the natural way that people in this culture speak; I'm really looking forward to her being surrounded by Waldorf teachers who speak REALLY GENTLY!)

But if the kids' roughness is hard on me, I can be grateful that it doesn't go the other direction.  At this point in their lives, all three children are distinctly un-9-ish, which doesn't mean that they're not sensitive to me and my emotions, but it does mean that my threshold for conflict is lower than theirs.  So on the days when I've felt particularly upset and angry, I'm probably not acting particularly angry by others' standards.  And then with my "gift of peace," I'm probably better at restoring harmony than I might otherwise be.  I hope so.

My personality type might be calm, but it is not passive.  What looks soft on the outside actually has a lot of inner strength.  In the seasons, it is described that Soft Summer is closest to Autumn, which is a season of strength.  The gentle and floating 9 takes a wing from the 8, which is the Enneagram representing the power of Mars.  I've called on those sides of myself in the last few months as well.  But I haven't needed to BE them.  I don't need to dress in a "power suit" and go into meetings with the strong personality of an 8, because I know that I have my own, different power as a 9.  When I was in college and starting my professional life, I tried to dress in strong colors and smooth lines so that people would take me seriously.  It turns out that I was probably just sending mixed messages, and perhaps even accentuating my own softness and youth by setting up such a dramatic contrast.  Softness is not silliness.  

 Last night I was looking at Soft Summer definitions on the web, and I found an image that really struck me: looking out at a field, with an oak in the foreground and dark trees in the background, through some mist or light rain.  They're right.  That's me.  I don't HAVE to try and be sunshine, I don't have to try and be a cheerful beach scene, I don't have to be vibrant fall colors and apple-picking.  Accepting myself as a Type 9 Soft Summer allows me to let go of that.  Who doesn't want to be sunshine?  We all like sunshine, and we all want to be sunny sometimes.  And I've been good at being things I'm not, and that has worked some times.  But I'm at a time in life when I don't want to do that any more.  I could exhaust myself trying to spread sunshine around, or we could sit down together with a cup of tea and look out at the mist over the grass and take deep breaths.  And I can go on a long time like that.

So, I'll draw from the wells within me, and keep on keeping on.  Hopefully taking baby steps toward the ME that God dreams for me.

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.

Good Friday thoughts Part II

"Meanwhile, standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother's sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene.  When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved stnading beside her, he said to his mother, "Woman, here is your son."  Then he said to the disciple, "here is your mother."  And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home."
John 31:25-27

On Friday, the priest brought special attention to this part of the long Gospel story.  She pointed out how, suffering and almost at the point of death, Jesus thought about the well-being of his loved ones.  From that hour until the writer's present, the beloved disciple and Mary are together and a new support to each other.  The priest continued that this is an example of making something wonderful out of dark and difficult times, and challenged us to create something meaningful of the Good Fridays of our lives.  She gave a number of potential examples, including "bringing someone who has no family into your family."

Now, from the context, I think she was thinking more along the lines of inviting an elderly neighbor to Sunday dinner, but from my perspective it looks like a perfect description of our goal right now!  For the first time, I felt kind of lifted up and energized by a Good Friday eulogy (because I don't think they're trying to be uplifting!).  Had you ever thought of the Passion Gospels to include support for adoption?!

This description of adoption, probably because it is about adults, makes me think about the web of community.  About how when we will take a child into our home, we are also taking into our hearts her mother, her family, her tribe, her community, her people, her race.  To me, this feels like a beautiful and exciting thing.  It is, perhaps, a little bit like a marriage or a deep friendship: how you care for someone, and by caring for them you meet more and more people who also care about them, and therefore gain a chance to learn about them and how those other people think, and some of these connections develop into relationships of their own, and gradually you change and adapt to each other in those places where your lives overlap.  And all the while you love your spouse or your friend so much.

The widowed and heartbroken Mary needed the protection that her eldest son would have provided, as well as emotional support in her loss; I imagine that perhaps John had no mother or wife and Mary cooked his meals and listened to his stories, which gave him strength and inspiration in his new work.  Our bonds and our love for each other are constantly growing and changing.  Adoption does not feel like putting a blank child in a hole labeled "second child," but reaching out and connecting our web of love and relationships to a whole new web of love and relationships, swirling and centering on one little child. 

Those thoughts make me feel all tingly and excited about our potential future as a family -- who knows what kind of future or how far distant or what it will look like, but that's part of the magic.  But it also makes me start thinking about something darker.

It seems like a lot of concern in the world of prospective adoptive parents is about ownership.  I hear that there are families who chose international adoption over domestic, because they don't want to have to have a relationship with the birth families and feel like they can avoid it by adopting internationally.  Or who go ahead with an open adoption, but immediately try to close all the doors that they can, because they want to be the only parents and the only family.  I admit that I haven't talked with any families like this, just read about it, but to me this seems like fear, and it seems like wanting full ownership of the child and her love.

I can't understand this at all.  I mean, I can hear about it and try and figure it out and empathize, but I can't find it within my own heart anywhere.  I think the part of the reason for that is that I don't feel like parents, myself included, ever own a child or the child's feelings or the child's love, even when they are tiny babies, whether or not they are biological children.  By my proximity, I make myself the focal point in Emerson's life, and by my actions, I form our relationship and his attachment to me.  What other love and relationships he forms are up to his own personality and needs and actions, and (obviously if they are not causing him actual harm or putting him in danger) are a blessing and support to him.

And even more importantly, no matter what other relationships he forms, none of those other loves affects or diminishes our relationship and love!  Adoptive parents who fear that feelings about birth parents will take away from their own love are viewing love as a finite resource; from a perspective of scarcity.  Love is not a pie.  Children do not have a bucket of "love for parents" that is divvied up to all the different kinds of parents who are standing in line!  Every single relationship forms its own whole, new, limitless wellspring of love and growth.

I can speak passionately about this even though I am not yet an adoptive parent, because I have been in this situation from many angles already.  First of all, I'm a teacher who has loved many, many children.  Was I somehow using up my child-love for not-yet-born Emerson when I cared for my students?  The question seems ridiculous.  As a teacher, I also knew students who learned deeper lessons from me, confided in me, received emotional comfort and support from me.  Was I taking anything away from their love for their parents?  Few parents would fear the love and support of teachers, but I do hear parents talking about wanting to fulfill all the roles in their child's life, believing the children don't need any other teachers or anyone outside the family.

I've also been on the other side.  For instance, when my son was about a year and a half old, he suddenly fell in love with one of the other mothers in our playgroup.  He had his own name for her, he wanted her to be the one to feed him snack -- when we were at parent/child swimclass, she always ended up with two toddlers in her arms while I stood there by myself!  I could have been jealous that his exclusive love for me was ending, or try to make a big deal about being really fun so he'd splash back over to me.  But did his love for her in any way take away from his love for me, even when his enthusiasm and his body were away from me?  They did not.  I was so happy that he had found the confidence to smile up at someone new, and that he had found such a kind person with whom to experiment with beyond-mama relationships. 

When I was growing up, I had more parents than traditional; my love had to be "stretched out" three ways.  When I remember back to my very littlest, I could not even understand why this was a problem.  Two men called themselves my "daddy," but that didn't mean that I mixed them up in my heart.  I could not have loved either father more if the other one hadn't been there, and each man himself created the relationship I had with him. I had three wellsprings of unconditional love and support, and too often the question seemed to be how I would divide them into two.  We can only divide the finite; to contemplate how to apportion out the infinite is absurd.

I hope my children's lives will be full of people who love them: parents of all different kinds, and godparents and grandparents, and aunties and cousins of all descriptions, and teachers and friends passing by.

I embrace Jesus and John and Mary's view of love being ever-changing and growing, adoption as multi-faceted.  I embrace Jesus' teaching that love is infinite, all-encompassing, and surpasses all our understanding.  I open my heart and step forward.