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

Catch-up

I have many beautiful thoughts and ideas that have been mulling around in my head to share with you, but today, I'm going to write a very different post.  I have tried to write this blog envisioning that each post could stand as its own story or chapter in a book, but today I'm going to write some catch-up and descriptions of some changes, so the readers who have been keeping up with me can follow some things.



First of all, names and pictures.  When I started writing I used the names of our family members, and the day I went to the orphanage I knew I needed to protect the identity of the children, so I used what were obvious pseudonyms, as flower names.  However, as I continue to write, it seems odd that I am calling one of my children by his given name and the other children by a flower name.  I kind of like the image of my children as my garden of flowers, so I am switching all to flower names, and they also like the idea of having their own flower names.  So from here on out, I'm calling Emerson "Sunflower."

When the girls were partly or officially wards of the Ugandan state, sharing their pictures was prohibited.  Now that they are our daughters, I am not so worried about privacy and I do share pictures in some places on the internet.  However, I think that mostly stories in words fits the intended purpose of this blog, which is sharing ideas, stories and experiences of parenting, especially as it applies to adoption.  So there may be the occasional picture, but this will not turn into a picture-based blog.



There have been some significant logistical events this summer.  The biggest one: our paperwork has gone through the American courts, and my husband and I have officially adopted Hibiscus and Buttercup, granting us all the privileges of parenthood and the girls all the privileges of American citizenship.  This is both exciting and anti-climactic; we just got a letter in the mail with some judicial stamps on it.  After all the drama for every single little bit of official-ness we had to fight for in Uganda, it is either refreshing or astoundingly disappointing that it's so easy in this country!

The paperwork also confirms Buttercup's birthday: August 10th, 2010.  Her original Ugandan paperwork, which was filled out when we began the adoption process, had put a random birthday, and since clearly the parents had just filled out Hibiscus's paperwork, they just repeated the same date a few years later.  We felt strongly that she was older than that date, and after observing her progress and her development for a while, we asked for her birthday to be changed about six months earlier.  I feel this is the absolute youngest that she could be, and based on how several of her developmental categories are still above this age, it's quite likely that she is actually several months older.  However, we didn't want her to be bumped up a grade in school, so we aimed for summer.  We chose August 10th because that is the first day that the girls started to live with us.  I figured that if Buttercup would one day have to face the sad reality that no one had cared enough about her to even remember when she was born, and thus her "birth" day was in some ways meaningless, at least the memory could be paired with the date being a special and meaningful one, and a time when people did care about every aspect of her being.

So, Buttercup just turned four years old.  She will have three years of mixed-age kindergarten, and enter first grade right after she turns seven.  We are in the middle of switching stair steps in my two-years-apart stair-step children: Sunflower will be six in December, and is in his final and "real" kindergarten year,  and Hibiscus is still solidly seven, with her birthday in the middle of winter, and starting second grade.  They are each two years apart in school, and a little less than two years apart in birthdays.



In related news, do you want to know how big they are?  I don't know exactly how big they were when we got them, but Hibiscus was slightly taller and definitely lighter than Sunflower when we first met, which would have put her around 35 pounds.  Just over a year later, she weighs 58 pounds!  Buttercup gained a pound a month for a while, but just when I worried that at this rate she was going to be bigger than I was, she started eating like a toddler and is hanging out around 32 pounds.... almost double what I imagine was around 17 when we got her.  But that was a total guess; the local scales started at 10 kilos (22 pounds), so the doctors just wrote that on her cards, because it was the closest number to the barely-moving little red line.  I guess there are a lot of 10-kilo toddlers in Uganda!



Sadly, this spring the girls' biological mother passed away.  This was not unexpected, and she was so ill she was probably relieved to go.  She also had not been active or present in the girls' lives for several years, and I didn't see either of them choosing to interact with her during the times that we saw her.  I am very sad for the girls, insofar that one day when they might want to understand what happened that led to their adoption, or understand the complexities of their birth family, they will not be able to reconnect with their birth mother and learn her story.



Everything that I write about the girls, I did it with the consciousness of what they would be willing to share or have known about them.  One of the parts of their story that I carefully omitted is that they have an older sister, whom the parents did not place for adoption.  Her name is Patricia, she is only a little bit older than Hibiscus, and the father wanted to keep one child near him, although we believe that she lives most of the time with an auntie.  I chose to not write about her in the blog, because I knew this was precious information to Hibiscus (and Buttercup, although she was not so cognizant about it), and I wanted to follow her lead.  Well, by this point she has made very clear that she wants to talk about Patricia.  So I am choosing to put her name here, so that all of you can remember Patricia and pray for her if it moves your heart.

And I hope this also clarifies the tragedy that is adoption, which is part of which I want to help people understand.  It is so easy to see that our girls have gained so much when gaining a family by adoption, but we never forget they have also lost a family by adoption.  And the birth parents' difficult decision to send two of their children to "a better life," and keep one of them close, in the misery and squalor of their current existence, also highlights some of the pain and difficult decisions that the entire family suffered through.

On a practical note, we are still in touch with people in Kampala who are in touch with the birth family, but that's as far as it goes.  The birth family is too poor (and too sick) to have the links of communication that we take for granted, such as being able to receive a cell phone call or access email.  So at this point I have confidence that if anything major happens to the birth family, we will hear about it.  And we can send pictures or news bits through the people that we know.  But sadly, there is no practical way for Patricia to have any kind of back-and-forth with her sisters at this point.


And now, on to some interesting stories!

News Flash: Buttercup is Actually Black

On Saturday, I took Buttercup with me to catch up on all the errands I hadn't been able to get done with Daddy out of town -- or at least some of them!  We went to six or eight different places around town, which I guess is good practice for Being A Trans-racial Family In America.

We were looking for something specific in Toys R Us, so I went up to the main desk to ask if they had it.  She said they did, and could describe the general area but not right where it was, so she said she would call someone to help me within the Imaginarium area.  I didn't hear her on the radio, but when we were in that section someone came up to us, and hesitantly asked if I was looking for what I had mentioned, obviously somewhat confused about whom to help.  I said I was, and she helped us, and that was fine.

When we were done with our shopping, we happened to go back to the same register where I had asked for help.  The clerk cheerily asked if I had found the item, talked about what I was buying, and then started talking about our request for help.

"When you went back to Imaginarium area, I didn't know how to describe you so the associate could find you," she chatted.  "The only thing I could think of, was to say 'look for the lady with a REALLY BEAUTIFUL baby,' but then I realized that could describe just about anyone in the store!  Haha!"  And then she went on in the same vein.


I was absolutely stunned.  Point A: you have GOT to be kidding me; that doesn't even make any sense.  Point B: why on earth are you even telling me this?

Regarding Point A, we had to be the absolutely most distinctive pair in the store.  I had been wandering around for a while; I knew this.  Buttercup was the only Black person in the entire place, and I am one of the few White women with a Black baby in the entire state.  Race is something we humans instinctively recognize, so there is not the slightest chance that describing this characteristic would be misunderstood by any listener.

But even if one felt too squeamish about talking about race to use these words, we are still pretty easy.  One could just say "look for the woman carrying her toddler on her back," and you would have ruled out every single other person in Toys R Us, and probably everyone else to come into Toys R Us that week.  Everyone else had their toddler in the cart, from which they leaned out and grabbed things, or running around, which gave the toddler the opportunity to grab things and the parent the opportunity to say "no, leave that alone! come on!" seven million times in a row.  (I love toddler-wearing!)

Frankly, I think this second characteristic would have occurred immediately to anyone, unless their brain was completely spazzing from trying so hard to ignore what colors we were.

Or, you know, one could say something like "look for the mom in a blue shirt," which would not be as distinctive, but would have clearly been more information than the associate actually received.


Regarding Point B, if for some reason you have a brain freeze and couldn't think of how to perform your basic job of communicating to your co-workers, why would you explain that in great detail to your customer?

One possibility is that she was one of those people who does not have an "edit" function for her mouth, and just talked about whatever came to her mind.  Working with us had made her slightly uncomfortable, so it was on her mind, so she nattered on and on about it.

Another possibility was that she thought she was giving us a compliment, and didn't have the sense to remove the complimentary part from the rest of the nonsense she was saying.

But it was also likely that she was trying to prove how un-racist she was, by going out of her way to bring up an incident to prove that she didn't even SEE race, so she couldn't care less if I didn't match my baby.  As long as the baby is beautiful, I guess.




My friends, I have a public service announcement.  Black people know that they are Black.

Even Black 2-year-olds know that they are Black, and they know that other people are not Black.  And in this case, they know that their mother is not Black.  Toddlers may still be in the developmental stage when they think that if you put lots of white lotion on, your skin color will change color, but they do understand the current situation perfectly well.

Furthermore, mothers know when their children are Black.  I am 100% Northern European in descent, with blond hair and sunburns to prove it.  There are only two ways for me to end up with a Black child.  I could have adopted her, which is an involved enough process that I probably noticed that it happened.  Or her biological father could be very Black, and the child ended up a kind of middling color, favoring that side of her family.  In which case, I would have had sex with the fellow, and I would have noticed THAT at some point too.


What is more, everyone else notices what color everyone else is, too.  (There are a few people who are mixed enough in race, or have unusual characteristics, that it might actually be confusing, but in this case we are all pretty distinct.)  Science has proven that race is one of the things that we notice within milliseconds of seeing someone, and in milliseconds more we have made assumptions about the person as we insert them into a category.  Just like gender, or generation.

And friends, this is NOT a bad thing!  If we had to figure out everything about every person every time we met them, we would be paralyzed with trying to decipher why everyone was acting the way they were, and how to treat them.  One of the reasons that humans are able to have such complex societies is that we are really good at figuring out basic information about other people really quickly, before our conscious brain even starts working.  This gives us the ability to relate to people appropriately: we might use simpler language with a young child; wait to go through a doorway when we see an older person or some struggling to move pass through; speak respectfully to someone in an official uniform; or use business language to someone in a business setting and more informal language to a laughing barista in a coffee shop.  It means that I, as a mother of young children, might make a wry smile to another mother and comment on what a difficult time one of us is having, and we'd both share a laugh; that would come off as inappropriate if I were speaking to an older man in a suit, or be completely insulting to her if *I* were an older man in a suit.  It means that when we are in a familiar environment, we can recognize someone who doesn't "fit" into that environment and offer them extra welcome.  It means that most of us, by adulthood, can move seamlessly from one kind of human interaction to another: with friends, with people of different social status, in a business setting, ordering food, with children, solving a problem, being at work or being at the swimming pool.  This is the exact same part of the brain that tells us whether what race someone is -- except that the "race" identification happens even earlier in our mental process.

So when a human sees another human, they identify their basic characteristics -- including gender, race, and age -- and then the brain puts that information in a box, and spits out the analysis of how to treat the new human in front of oneself.  And THAT is where the danger can come in; not in identifying the race by itself.  The assumptions we make can help us relate to new people appropriately, or they can get in the way of appropriate interaction.

For instance, if a cashier sees that her customer is a child, she might automatically switch into simpler language or praise the child for saving her money.  But if she sees that her customer is a Black person and switches to the same kind of phrasing, that is not going to help their relationship.


In our own personal case, here is an example of an inappropriate mental thought process:
1. This lady has a Black child, but she's not Black ---> I wonder if the child is adopted ----> maybe she couldn't have her own babies ----> I wonder what fertility treatments she went through ----> she probably feels really bad that she ended up with a baby who doesn't look anything like her ---> I'll say how pretty the baby is, to make her feel better.

Here is an example of an appropriate mental thought process:
2. This lady has a Black child, but she's not Black ----> I wonder if the child is adopted ----> people who go through all the trouble of adopting usually really enjoy children ---> I'll ask her something about what the child enjoys doing, because she probably likes to talk about her kid.

Or here's an alternate appropriate example:
3. This lady has a Black child, but she's not Black ----> I wonder if the child is adopted ----> I don't really know anything about their situation, so I'm going to make a conscious effort to treat them just like every other customer, even though I'm kind of curious.

Here is an example of an imaginary mental thought process that is actually impossible:
4. I cannot tell any difference between the mother and child in front of me, compared to other mother-child pairs.


The first example results in an action that is nice on the surface, but other human beings -- equally adept at making instant judgements on very little information -- can sense that there's something "off" or condescending about the comment.  The second example results in an action that would be appropriate for almost everyone.  The last example is going to result in something awkward.

The third example really cannot go wrong.  That is the really great part about being human -- instead of, say, dogs, who often also can gain a lot of information about someone new almost instantly.  We have the mental capability to OVER-RIDE our instinctual information.  We can decide whether the information we have received is actually germane to the situation.  In our case, what was germane to the situation was that I had money to pay for my purchase, and I was acting appropriately for the context.  Usually, in modern America, especially within a business context, what race the person is should have nothing to do with the way we treat them.

Some of us may have so many positive or neutral impressions of a particular race (or people with tattoos, or in wheelchairs, or Down's syndrome, or wearing cowboy hats, or whatever jumps out at us), that their natural thought process will lead them to acting calmly and appropriately.  For instance, after living in a fully Black society as a young child, Emerson will probably have a more neutral impression of Black people than most of us can manage.

But when we do not have enough neutral impressions to create a neutral space for interaction, we each need to find the "over-ride" button until we are able to gather more information.  Denial does not work, and it doesn't fool anyone.

Trying to cut off the information our brain already has given us results in:
5. This lady has a Black child, but she is not Black ---> AGH!! EMERGENCY!!  I just thought about race ---> I must unthink this thought ---> black child! black child!! ---> but the harder I try to unthink it, that now becomes all I can see! ---> maybe I'll do something COMPLETELY RANDOM to fool everyone into thinking I'm not thinking what I'm thinking about ----> black black black black black!!!

There are a lot of possibilities for action after that thought process, but there really is no graceful way out!

I will see what I think after I have had more chance to gather information as a Surprising Person, and I would be interested to hear from other minorities as well.  However, my impression so far, is that if you can't manage the ideal #3 (over-ride), that #4 (ignorance) is impossible and we all know it, it is best to veer in another direction than aim for #5 (pretend I'm not thinking what I'm thinking).  For instance, it will be more graceful to acknowledge the internal debate and say, "oh, is she adopted?" than suddenly start chattering about how we look exactly the same, or stare at a corner of the ceiling and mention how beautiful she is.  Make sure you can manage to stop talking before you come out with something like "how much did she cost?", but a simple acknowledgement of the situation that everyone knows exists is unlikely to offend.

Unless you really aren't sure, and think she might be my biological child with a Black father.

In which case, "is that cash or credit?" and "would you like a bag today?" is a really appropriate conversation for the check-out lane.

Melatonin and Other Thoughts

I usually give small doses of melatonin to my kids at bedtime.  Yeah, yeah, I know there might be all kinds of mysterious side-effects, and it might not be safe to give every night, or even every week.  But anyone who wants to criticize or worry about this decision is welcome to come along and put my kids to bed, and is especially invited to show up on one of the nights that Hibiscus kneels on the floor and screams at the top of her lungs for ten minutes straight.... or thirty, or forty, and then throws up.  (Which, thank you God, has not happened in several months.)  I can practically guarantee that you will feel much more dismissive about the negative possibilities of melatonin, when faced with the daily realities of my kids at bedtime.

Besides, in the article about how dangerous it is for to use melatonin daily, always ends with some parent saying something about "I know I should have a routine and put the kids to bed at the same time every night, but it's just too hard for me, and that's just not our parenting strength, so we just give them melatonin instead."  Which makes it easy to feel superior to those weak parents who depend on chemical sleep aids.  But I have a routine that is as crystallized as knowing in which order we brush teeth, and who hangs up the towels, and it happens within fifteen minutes of the exact same time every day.  You can't get more precise than that when you have three chaotic children.  And I still start it off with melatonin.

But these poor kids have not yet been farther than a few weeks from changing families, changing houses, changing countries, changing schools, or changing available family members.  Life is rough.  It helps to be able to wake up in the morning well-rested, because you didn't spend two hours traipsing back out to the living room to ask mama if there are any monsters coming in the windows.  And I know that because I've forgotten once or twice.  No more.



Both of the older two children have serious regulatory and sensory issues, and I think that it is very likely that they would be the kind of children for whom doctors would actually prescribe melatonin -- in fact, my son's doctor actually did just that last year.  So I don't have much guilt about giving them a small dose every night, but Buttercup has a fairly balanced system, and I would like to get her out of the habit of needing it.

Today she didn't nap, and she did play outside a lot, so she was plenty tired, so I decided to give it a try.  Although Daddy left for Europe a week ago, so maybe "not in the middle of transitions" doesn't actually apply!

We got ready for bed on time.  We did our routine the usual way.  I turned off the light and started on blessings.  Buttercup was wiggly waiting for her turn, so after her blessing I reminded her to tell her hands to go to sleep, and no more banging and no more talking now.  Then I moved on.

While I was doing Hibiscus's blessing, despite reminders, I heard increasingly more thumping of pillows, chitter-chatter, and eventually the bed started shaking with some sort of gymnastics.  Maybe singing and wiggling oneself to sleep would be acceptable in some households, but all three of my children sleep in the same room, and Buttercup sleeps in the same bed with Emerson, who was already starting to fall asleep.  One singing child is going to set the whole place on fire with energy very quickly.

I tried to not interrupt Hibiscus's prayer time, but as soon as I was done, I snatched up the little firebrand and put her in the guest bedroom.  I plopped her on the bed and told her calmly and firmly it was time to go to sleep.  And I shut the door and left.

A few months ago, she was having sleep trouble, and she would wait quietly, and come out of the bedroom sadly after a while, and I would wrap her to sleep.  But that was when she was going through her "infant regression" sleep phase -- as I thought of it myself; it was also coupled with waking up four to six times a night and needing to be soothed back to sleep.  I didn't want to get into that habit again, as I felt like she was not doing any particular newborn regressing at this moment, she just wanted to stay up and play.  Besides, she will only nap when she is wrapped, which is okay, but she does need to fall asleep sometimes when she is not being worn.

Tonight I was surprised to hear nothing further after shutting the door.  But all parents know that silence can mean "trouble" as easily as it can mean "sleep," and I wanted to kiss her goodnight anyways.  So after five minutes or so I peeked in.

"Look, I do-ed it!" she greeted me cheerfully.  I think she meant getting the entire comforter off the bed, which seemed to be the change.  It's kind of a boring room.  I laid her back down and told her it was time to go to sleep.

"Now do bessings," she chirped.  I said goodnight.  "Now do bessings for me-eee!" she insisted.
"I've already done blessings for you," I reminded her.
"Is okay, do more bessings!' she suggested.
I declined, and continued to leave the room.
"Bad mama!" she yelled at my back, which is her go-to criticism lately.

As I left, she was starting to scream in the familiar toddler-not-getting-her-way sulky tone.  I shut the door.  There is no useful response to "bad mama!"


I did a few more things around the house, but the crying continued.  I was hoping that she would get tired of fussing, which happens sometimes, and either go to sleep, or I would go back in again at that point.  Then I figured that maybe we were trying cry-it-out, toddler version.  I would never, ever use cry-it-out with a baby, but I figure maybe the situation changes when the opening gambit is "bad mama!"

It wasn't more than a minute or two after the screams changed into real, upset cries, and no more than three of four minutes of crying total.  I had taken note before I left, and the room was boring but there was light coming in from outside, so it wasn't dark.  I didn't hear any bumps or sudden increases in volume that would indicate an accident, and no banging on the door.  It was basically long enough for me to gather what I needed to do, sigh, and gird myself for returning to the bedtime fray.

Adopted children can often have abandonment issues, and experts warn that forced isolation isn't the best parenting method for them, because it can awaken their deepest fears -- which does not help improve one's manners.  Just like any, ordinary, special child can have all kinds of fears or thoughts or lonelinesses, and I personally don't think that forced isolation is a good parenting method for any children, who can't explain themselves either.  So we didn't make it long enough to even kind of be a cry-it-out.

I went to check on her.  I could hear the door handle rattling, and I opened it up and found my little girl, totally hysterical.  I picked her up and she clung to my neck.

Then she threw up.  Then there was a giant explosion in her diaper region.  Then she had an asthma attack.

She was doing that sad and adorable little thing where she was trying to hold her vomit in her cupped hands; also while gasping for breath, and burping more vomit up.  I set her on the bathroom counter and cleaned her up and gave her her inhalers, and then I picked her up again.  More toots came cascading out.  I held her and rocked her and patted her back for a while, and she finally said something to me in her tiny little squeaky voice.

"What's that?" I asked.  "What do you want?"
"Me want to go sleepy... your back," she offered, and patted my shoulder suggestively.

After all that, I couldn't resist.  She went "my back," which means getting wrapped up.  She spent a long time snuggling and looking sadly over my shoulder, but finally I peeked up and the big eyes were closed.



So "left alone" is not an option.  I have ruled out "playing enthusiastically on sibling's bed.".  "Crying by self" is definitely a really, really bad choice.

Melatonin is looking better all the time.

Happy Birthday, to Hibiscus

Happy seventh birthday to my wonderful, beautiful daughter.

The sun is fading.  My birthday girl and her busy brother and outside, and the littlest one is in the most snug and cozy nap on my back (in Pavo Hearts, for those who are curious!).  It has been a full and wonderful day.  Hibiscus has the last of the kids' birthdays-in-a-row, and we only made it to America in time for this one.  It's the first birthday in her little life that she's actually gotten to celebrate, or that anyone has cared about at all.  Maybe she's an unusual child who will get to remember her first birthday party!

I hope it was a special day for her.  She and I went out to breakfast this morning, which was actually her very first chance at alone time with mama.  In Uganda, Buttercup had time with me while the big kids were in school, and Emerson got some occasional alone time when the girls had to be somewhere, but there was no logistical way to have Hibiscus with me when the other children were somewhere else.  Today, we selected a cake together, had waffles, and went to the grocery store to get ice cream and juice for the party.  We played Jenga while we waited for our food, and she quickly figured out how to test the blocks to see if they were loose, and control her extra movements to not knock the tower over, as well as waiting for her turn patiently, and discerning the pattern to which blocks could be safely moved.  After two rounds, she said "let's try something else" as she started to make shapes with the blocks.  She said she was making a fence for a horse, and I built a horse out of Jenga blocks inside her fence, which impressed her.  Then we built other kinds of towers.

We ate our waffles and ended up talking about school.  She described how one of the staff at her Ugandan school had pinched her and called her a "villager" because she was eating her eggs in the car, and we talked about how that made her feel.  Well, I talked about that, because she still doesn't really have feelings words yet.  Then I asked what happens at Waldorf school in America, and she described -- her tone is still reverent and shocked -- how when she can't do something at Waldorf school, the teachers HELP her figure it out.  I asked her which way works better, being made fun of or being helped, and she said it works much better when the teachers help her out.  I told her that it made me feel really good that I could send her to school at a place where I knew she was safe from being made fun of, and the teachers help her out, and I'm sorry that that happened to her before, but that was the best that anyone was able to do.


And that pretty much sums up my feelings about Hibiscus's birthday.  I am so intensely joyful for her presence in our family and in my life, and so intensely sorrowful about what I haven't been able to shield her from.  About the things that meant she was on the road to become part of our family.

Last night I went into a Hallmark store to pick out a card for her.  I wanted something sappy and sweet and beautiful, and I thought about the things I wanted to write inside.  I thought about some words that I would say to her, to give her some little message to hold onto about how precious she is to me.  So much of our relationship, so much of our lives, is full of frustration and trying to guide her into place, into control.  Self-control, hopefully; eventually.  I know this time is hard on her, but I have deep faith that eventually she will settle into something much stronger and more positive than if I just let her be crazy and do whatever she wanted to.  But these months have been so hard on me, too, and I have sometimes lost my own self-control.  If I can't model patience and fortitude, at least I try to model handling my anger in a non-destructive manner, and owning my mistakes and apologizing.  But I'm not a very demonstrative person, so I fear that the occasional outburst of anger overpowers my gentle demonstrations of love.  In her birthday card, I didn't want to bring up the difficult parts, but I wanted to tell her about how much I love her despite them.

I stood in front of the rack of "daughter" cards and actually started to cry, although it probably wasn't visible to an outside observer.  (I mentioned that I'm not demonstrative!)  I was so proud and happy to have a daughter, and have a daughter whom I could give a card to and was old enough to understand and care.  It was one of those moments when you can stop and think about your life, and I remembered that it wasn't very long ago that I didn't have any daughter at all, and now I have this amazing and lively girl who is turning seven, and that I'm the one who can teach her about love, and safety, and faith, and beauty, and being a woman.  That whole display of sweet pictures couldn't sum up how proud and happy I am to be a mother of a daughter, of my own daughter, my very special girl.

Then I opened up cards and started to read them, to pick one out.  First of all, it seemed like most of them were written to be given to an adult daughter, so some of them I had to put down because they described "now you've grown into," as though growing into being yourself is a process that is ever finished.  I kept skimming and reading.

They were all filled with phrases like "through the years," and "on the day of your birth," and "your birth made me a mother," and "I remember all your birthdays," and "every year since your birth," and so on and so forth.

And I still felt teary, but now they were suddenly angry tears, and I left the store without buying anything, and I didn't manage to give Hibiscus any kind of card at all.  Writing about love is probably more my way of showing affection than her way of receiving it anyways.


I wasn't there when she was born.  I didn't know I was a mother then, and in fact, I wasn't, because it wasn't my job to protect her and teach her about love, and safety, and everything else.  But then no one else did it either, and I wasn't there to step in and protect her, and make her world better.  I was far away and I didn't know anything about her, while she was learning about loneliness, and hunger, and that when the getting gets tough, no one is going to help you out.  And I haven't been with her through the years, and I haven't seen her change and grow through her birthdays.  A few days ago she was telling us about some scary things that happened in her old life, and then contemplating how she never had "a happy birthday" before, and she wonders why I didn't stop the bad stuff and help the happy stuff along.  And I say "I wish I could have been there, and I would have made the bad boys stop teasing you," and "I wish I could have been there, and I would have baked you a cake."  Solving the problems in fantasy helps her a little bit, and her sad face turns into a little smile, as she imagines me chasing those bad boys away.

My own heart pains with the desperation of that wish.  I know that it makes no logical sense, but how deeply and passionately I wish that I had been able to be there from the beginning.  That I could have put myself between her little baby self and the cruel world that assaulted her without cease.  That I could have picked her up every time she cried so she learned that trust is real.  That I could have fed her, and made silly faces with her, and taught her feelings words when she was a toddler.  I have some misty vision of myself, perhaps time-travelling, in her parents' shack when she was a newborn.  I would say something like, "she's going to be my daughter anyways, so why don't we just start right now," as I picked her up, and they already knew things were bad and had been in the middle of an argument about how they were going to take care of an extra person, a helpless girl, so they would have been just as relieved as they were almost seven years later in real life.  And it wouldn't have saved her all the pain of losing the family you are born to, but it would have saved her six and half years of pain.

But I can't give her that.  I can't give her all those cakes that she missed, getting to take the first bite, the chance to be the most important person of the day six more times.


So we did what we could for number seven.  She picked out a chocolate cake in the shape of a heart from the bakery, which also makes me a little sad, because I always make birthday cakes but I wasn't able to manage it in time for the party.  She did not get a balloon or a box of chocolate or a carton of orange juice in the store, because of course she suddenly wanted everything, but I was determined to keep the excitement of this day within the realm of what she could handle.  But she had some time when a mother paid attention just to her, and acted like she was valuable and reasonable.  And she had a party filled with people who love her, which was ourselves and two other families.  When we sang our blessing and I added a prayer of thanks, for her seventh year, and being finally back in America so we could celebrate it all together, the whole table resonated with agreement and thanks for being together.

And new clothes.  And a dollhouse.  I could give her all those things.

Some times all that seems so joyful.  And other times, it seems so paltry.


So today, very happy birthday to my daughter, my special daughter, the daughter who fills my house with laughter and with energy, my very own daughter.  This year, I will try and teach you about love, about safety, about faith, about beauty, about being a woman.  I will try and do the best I can, and I'm sorry that it's not enough; that I'm six years too late.  We will start with this day, and do what we can with tomorrow.  I love you so much.

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."

Missed Posts

I've been writing these out on iPad Notes, and some of them have disappeared into the lost internet world lately.  The first time I thought the kids were playing with the ipad and accidentally deleted some, but then an entire month's worth of Notes disappeared and I don't think the kids could have done it.  Fortunately, most of them were already published or emailed to me, but there were some that were just gone.  So I feel like I have shared these stories but you haven't actually had a chance to read them. I don't think I have the energy to entirely re-create them, but I'll try and sum up my thoughts.

**There was one that matched "Buttercup English" about "Hibiscus English," which is really REALLY too bad it was lost because it was things that she was saying and doing at that time that were funny, and I won't be able to remember.  The most noticeable part about Hibiscus English is that she substitutes "for" for every single preposition as well as every conjugation of "to be," as well as a couple other assorted words and her "um" kind of substitute.  (What was the linguistic title for an "um" word?)  This results in remarkable sentences which has "for" as almost every word.  When she first arrived, there were things like "mama, for Buttercup for come for crying for Emerson for Buttercup for hitting for come for no-ow."  This meant something along the lines of: "Mama, come, because Buttercup is crying because Emerson was hitting her, so please come now."

Except "with."  She says "and" instead of "with."  

And at the beginning she said "beating" instead of "hitting."  And whichever way it is, there is a lot of it.  She doesn't appear to believe in accidental bumps, and since wherever she goes a tornado of rough play surrounds her, everyone is always getting "beaten" in her world.  Sigh.

**There was one about why Hibiscus is so out of control and so angry.  That one was quite emotional to write, and I am quite sure that Hibiscus deleted it as soon as I left the room to help Buttercup go poop. 

I think that it is a combination of several things.  First of all, I think that she has been in "emergency mode" for so long, and repressed all her feelings that didn't help her get through the day.  When we came, I began giving her a safe emotional space and taking care of some of her troubles, and letting her feel sad or weak or little around me.  I think our relationship had progressed to the point where she could let down that emotional firewall, for the first time in a very long time, right about the point where she came to live with me.  Feeling all these huge feelings is probably even more surprising and awful for her, than it is for me.

And just when she came to live with me was another blow.  She had been imagining that for a long time, and then it turned out that she spent so much of her time being angry and sad.  That had to have been a huge disappointment.

In fact, I think she has been imagining a "new family" for a very long time, probably long before her actual birth family imploded.  It sounds like they never behaved the way families "should" behave, by the standards of her class and culture and situation in life.  I've heard of many children, struggling with abuse or neglect or pain, create a whole new family for themselves to dream about.  Hibiscus is highly imaginative, so she might have done that.  Whatever she dreamed of, I think it involved a very loving, tender mama, and no rules or work whatsoever. 

Then there are probably some subconscious things coming to the front.  Again, there was time for this to surface in the couple of months that we spent visiting and forming a relationship.  By the time she moved in with me, she had lost the impetus to try and impress me and try to be a "good girl" and fit in, because I had already proven that I was interested in her even when she was not feeling or being "good."

First of all, I think she felt the need to test the limits of this love, and the rules that I set out.  What would it take for me to send her back to the orphanage?  Is this really a mama through thick and thin, no matter what?  And I promised her that there is no hitting or beating in our family, and I will stop the children from hitting each other and I will never hit them.  There are times when she is so actively and obviously just TRYING to make me mad, and madder, and madder, that I think to myself "is she TRYING to make me decide to spank her?"  And then I realize that she probably is, and that the way I "win" is to hold to my promise of never hitting.  It calms me right down.  

(Although she's ended up getting badly hurt a few times when she attacks me, which makes me feel absolutely terrible.  She's large enough that her attack makes me have to actively defend myself, but enough smaller than me that just by weight alone, she ends up the worse off from her own force. And if you're thinking "what kind of parent gets in fights with their child?" just imagine a two-year-old throwing a fit because he wants to hold a knife or have another cookie or run in the street, and when Mama says no he tries running away and becoming a limp spaghetti and trying to climb the counter to grab the knife and cookie and when mom tries to take him down he hits and kicks and bites and spits and screams bloody murder  and whaps her with the knife and throws the cookie.  Now imagine that spirited toddler is almost 50 pounds and has long, strong arms and legs, and is fully coordinated, but has absolutely the same amount of self-control and awareness of consequences.)

And then secondly, perhaps she thinks of herself as a "bad child" and is working to prove it.  Her natural exuberance is not appreciated in Ugandan culture, and since it goes without saying that naughty children need a beating to keep them in line, she probably would have gotten in some trouble no matter how she was growing up.  But coupled with clearly not having anyone to teach her what she is SUPPOSED to do, she just has no chance at being culturally successful.  I don't know if there is a point where she felt loved and worthwhile in spite of her behavior, or if she always felt like love was conditional.

Furthermore, given the age she was when she lived with her birth family, she probably felt like a great deal of their problems were her fault.  Since there were a very large number of problems and disasters, if they were all the fault of one little girls she would certainly have to be very "bad."

So she might be trying to prove her "badness" in this new situation.  It's easier to be what you know how to be instead of starting something new (although I'm quite sure most of this behavior has never existed in her life before, because it simply wouldn't have been tolerated, at all).

Similarly, she might be trying to get into habits of behavior she had with her birth parents or other adults.  She might be actively trying to drive me crazy because that was a reaction she could get, driving someone crazy.  I'm naturally pretty unflappable, so she has to try really hard!

**And then naturally I had to lose a post about Buttercup.  I wrote that one just this week, about bonding.  Now that she has learned to trust me and that I will take care of her, I am a little worried that she is willing to extend that trust to the entire rest of the world.  The rest of Uganda is very happy to oblige.  It seems like every time I turn around someone has picked her up or she's in someone's lap or walking away from me holding someone's hand.  They are just trying to be helpful (okay, if you really want to be helpful, could you do something about one of the children who is actively being a pest, instead of "helping" me with the one who is totally calm?) and they can't imagine, culturally, what is wrong with touching or snuggling or holding a sweet baby.  But it's exactly the wrong thing for Buttercup at this point in her bonding development.  She needs to learn that the mother/parent/family relationship is unique and stronger than any other relationship.   So I think I need to keep her wrapped up more, instead of letting her down in public where people feel free to touch and hold her.

Names and ages

We just got a very basic list from the agency, of children who might be entering the orphanage soon, who might be available for a match eventually.  The agency director just got back from Uganda, and they are trying to make a lot of changes to help the program run more smoothly, and things are in flux right now.

So, right now, we do not have a beautiful list of waiting children, with cute pictures and descriptions of their personalities and favorite foods and whether or not they like to sing or dig in the sandbox.  We have a list of names, ages, and what parents are deceased.  Just a black and white list.  Six entries.

 And one was a soldier, and one was a priest,
and one was slain by a fierce wild beast; 
And one was a doctor, and one was a queen,
and one was a shepherdess on the green;  
they were all of them saints of God, and I mean,
God helping, to be one too.

 I've found myself humming tonight, and these words are in my head.  I can imagine Sunday School children jumping around, in their imaginations turning swiftly from soldier to priest to queen and wild beast, trying on all the ideas.  Which one are we?  What about our friend over there?  It is a dramatic list, with all these things that sound so different, and yet they all fit smoothly into the same song.  And moreover they are all saints, and we could be like any of them.


These six entries are all children, and if one were in our family, she would be our child.  This simple list does not have enough information to tell the story of how she child would fit in; the age listed doesn't tell us how she would get along with Emerson.  .....But how could we tell what our story would be like?  What information could we possibly get that would tell us that one child would be a better choice or fit more smoothly into our lifestyle or win a science contest or play piano duets with Emerson or never need to go to the hospital?  What can we look for that would tell us that this match would be fun, or manageable, or overwhelming?

There is nothing that will tell us the future.  (Except that at times, it will be fun, manageable, and overwhelming!)  A name in black and white is probably as meaningful as a long description or a charming or dreary picture.  Everything about the child will change, over and over and over again, as she adjusts and leaves and gets angry and feels scared and becomes secure and then gets older and changes again.

Rehema was our third match in this program, although our first "official" one.  When the first expectation fell through, I felt like we had to find something that felt even "better" to make up for the loss (although it wasn't really clear what "better" would mean).  We spent ages looking at pictures and waiting for one to speak to our hearts.  At this point, I feel exactly the opposite.  It feels like the idea of setting criteria and making choices is irrelevant.  I have made so many choices, and then to my surprise the road has turned, so I figure out an alternative plan, but then the road turns before I get there either.  I've planned and re-figured and planned and re-figured over and over, and not a single one of my plans has ever made it close enough to touch.

But do you know what has happened?  Through these same years, each day I wake up, and then today Emerson is scared, or into mischief, or in the middle of a tantrum that is breaking his little body apart, and I figure out what is wrong or at least how to help a little bit.  I am running my regular errands, and I am in pain, and before I know it I am figuring out how to take care of my family while recovering from the hospital.  Reeling from a crisis at his work, I learn new things about my husband and try to adjust our relationship so we are a stronger partnership.  I am confused by my son's desperation, or his constant colds, and we get a diagnosis which seems to make things better until it just raises more questions again, which I strive to answer.  And meanwhile, today he is scared or violent or playful or lonely, and I try to look into his heart and make it better.  I put my faith in God and my hands and my mind and my heart to work, and we make it through.  And that I have done.  Day after day after day.

Apparently, I can't plan a happy ending (or merely a happy beginning!) for my family.  But I can wake up and figure out how to take care of my family today.

And that's what I can keep doing, for any of these black-and-white names.  Any of them.  All of whom are real children, who have just as many possibilities inside of them as the saints in the song.  And whether Nakello or Ruth or Moses is being a shepherdess or a soldier or a queen or a wild beast this morning, I can wake up, and look into that little heart, and try and make it better.  Today.

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.

Good Friday contemplation

I just got home from the Good Friday service, where we read from the Gospel of John, the story from going into the garden to pray up until Jesus was laid in the tomb.  Some things in the readings and the sermon fit in with what I have been thinking about today.  Sometimes I think and think and think too much, and in this case I think that it is important to open my heart and share what I can.  In this post I will discuss my first thought, and I will plan to continue with another example and contemplation from this story.

The priest discussed in her homily the difference between being a bystander and being a witness.  We all know that in the crucifixion stories, like many of the most tragic stories in our collective and personal histories, too many people stood by and said nothing.  John's gospel mentions three women (all Marys) who stayed near Jesus until the very end; who could not change his fate nor take away his physical pain, but who could and did stay with him.  Their silent presence changed from the indifference of the crowds, who by not objecting allowed the death sentence to be lain upon him, into silence that supported and strengthened Jesus in his last hour.  This scene always makes me think of Nazi Germany, where again the silence of the majority allowed great injustice... but again, a different kind of silence -- that of secret shielding -- allowed some hope to the persecuted.

The sermon shared this quotation from Elie Wiesel: "Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented."

This is hard for me to write, because I don't have the answers, the conclusions, figured out yet.  But tonight, I will not be silent about what this means in my life right now.  I will have faith that discussion, as well as prayer, has some unseen power.


I have entered into international adoption not because I believe that this is the solution, because I believe that I am fixing something, but because I am willing to enter into the problem.  That people are so poor, in food or money or human rights or health, that they are sending their children -- their hearts, their futures -- away from them, to uncertainty and to possibly be raised and spend the rest of their lives halfway around the world, is a problem so deep it is hard to even contemplate.  Literally, physically, hard to think about because it is so painful.  Adoption is not the solution, certainly not adoption by strangers in another country; adoption is a band-aid for the children who would be lost while we find a solution.  And to me, by agreeing to take on a child who would have been lost, I am agreeing to search and work for a solution to her deeper problem.

I don't yet know exactly what my role will be in this.  I am in the Lent of this part of my life; waiting and learning and praying.  And more waiting.  I imagine that my role will become more clear when I am in Uganda, or that perhaps I will gain some answers to learn where to look when I get home.  Or perhaps, little children being needy (and I'm getting even more little children!), this waiting part will last a while yet.

But perhaps, by bearing witness to the little I have seen so far, I can be a Mary instead of a bystander in the crowd, wishing I were somewhere else.  

So, when I examine the problem in Uganda of children being lost (to international adoption, disease, the streets, or death), I see the deeper problem as being support for women.  I believe that women need education, training, and physical resources, because it is women who hold the families together and train the children. 

*Some villages do not have access to clean water, or it is very distant.  When children drink tainted water, their mothers spend too much of their time and energy nursing sick children, and community members who could assist are themselves sick or dead.  When clean water is too far distant, the mothers (and the children who are old enough to provide material help) spend a large proportion of their day hauling water, having that much less energy to help themselves and their children with all their other genuine needs.

*Food is a similar problem, although slightly more complex.  If you spend all your time trying to grow, process, or earn the food to feed your family, you are unable to attend to any other needs.  (Food is still all the way at the bottom of Maslow's hierarchy.)  The complexity comes in because it is possible to spend all your time procuring food, and it is still not enough or not the right kind actually keep your family alive or healthy.  Sometimes the parents leave their children while they look for a job to earn food, and never come back -- and their elderly parents have too many small children and still not enough food.  Enough food is a huge, huge problem in Uganda.

*Education and training for girls and women would also save lives and save families.  If this research is true, almost as many girls complete primary school (about half) and enter secondary school as boys, which is positive -- but the more education a girl has, the more likely as a woman she is to be able to support her family.  It seems to me that training is equally as important: training in nutrition (e.g., recognizing that a bloated belly is a sign of malnutrition, not health, and what foods are necessary to help the child), training in sex ed (so women at least have some choice in family size, and how to protect themselves), training in how to save and use money (so they can make the best of the little they have).

*Women having ownership in a physical way to take care of their families -- nutritionally, financially -- could solve several of those problems and save many families.  Programs that provide women with goats or gardening tools and skills address this in one way; programs which offer a market for crafts or micro-loans address it in another.

*Many children are lost to simple, treatable diseases; some children could have been saved if their mother had known where to go for medical care or how to prevent disease.  Children are placed for adoption because their medical conditions are simple and treatable here (with health insurance!) and a death sentence at home.  Mothers die in unsafe childbirth, leaving other children unsupported. 

*Many parents are lost to AIDS, war, and untreatable diseases.  When the father is lost, the mother has a much more difficult time taking care of her family by herself.  When the mother or both parents are lost, usually other relatives step in to help, but there are limits to how many relatives an elderly grandparent can support.

*If women had a little more power in society it could save their families.  There are children who are lost because a widowed mother must remarry, because she does not have the power to take care of herself or her children without the support of a man, but it turns out that her new husband will not take care of her children.  There are women who are abused and cannot escape, victims of rape who are shunned because of their victimization.


Sadly, I am not doing anything physical to help these women and these families right now.

But I bear witness to children dying because of lack of access to safe water.

I bear witness to families broken apart because there is not enough for everyone to eat.

I bear witness to families who could have been saved if the parents had been able to qualify for a job.

I bear witness to children lost because their mothers did not have basic skills and knowledge, like when or how to go to a doctor, or how to use the resources they do have access to.

I bear witness to families who could have gained so much from a garden or a goat, but who had no chance to have one.

I bear witness to children who die of treatable diseases and children forever relinquished because of treatable diseases.

I bear witness to children who would not have been abused or abandoned if their mothers had had the power to protect them.

I bear witness to children left without parents because of AIDS, disease, and childbirth mortality.


I have been thinking about these things daily for months, from long before we decided to adopt.  Every day, something reminds me of these women, these families, and they weigh on my heart.  Tonight, I am not keeping my silent thoughts to myself.

Moving on

Rehema has returned to living with her mother.  We are still at home in Eugene.  Our journey to bring our family together is back to the stages of mystery and waiting, which has been emotional, but things could have been much worse.

When I last wrote, we were not sure what would happen to Rehema.  The following day in Uganda, both birth parents rescinded their support for the adoption, and the same day the orphanage workers returned Rehema to her mother in her village.  The social worker in charge of the village was alerted to the situation and would keep an eye out for the child, and we were to be told if anything new developed.  At this point, we have heard nothing, and no news is fairly good news, meaning that Rehema's mother is now taking care of her and she has not needed to relinquish her again.  I am choosing to assume that something changed in the family situation -- perhaps the extended family became willing to help the mother care for the child, or simply that the disabled mother was able to care for a healthy, walking toddler in a way she was not able to do for an infant.

The best place for a child is with her own family, in her own culture.  Rehema is blessed that she is able to return to the place where she was born and first loved.  I continue to pray for her and her mother every day, that she has love and enough to eat.  For her, the year away from her family in the orphanage must be a confusing change, but perhaps that time gave her physical strength or her extended family a different perspective in a way that will improve the rest of her life. Or perhaps we became connected in this distant way, and Rehema is held up by prayers in a way she wouldn't have been otherwise.

We want to adopt a child who has no other options for life and growth.  At this point, Rehema clearly has other options -- living with her mother, or possibly even her father's relatives who took an interest in her.  Her place is not in our family, and we still have room in our home and our hearts for a child who is all out of options.

*Could the situation have turned out differently?  Is there something the agency did wrong or could have done better?*

Of course, we will never know the answer to the first question.  It is a mystery to us why the family was supportive of her being in the orphanage for an entire year and then changed their minds; it could be that some outside event that we will never know about changed the situation.  Could the agency have been more proactive about staying in touch with the family or doing some of the paperwork earlier, and would that have made a difference?  We won't ever really know that, either; in fact, they might have been in contact with the family on a regular basis (we do know workers were in the village several times).  However, if something did change that now the mother wants to and can take care of her daughter, I'm glad that she had the chance to make that decision and she wasn't locked into a relinquishment that she later regretted.  Perhaps it could have gone a little more smoothly for all of us -- including Rehema -- if they had been working on the case and found out a few weeks earlier, but again, we don't know exactly what happened and if there were extenuating circumstances at exactly that time.  At any rate, it would have only been a few weeks' difference, since they couldn't start until they had our paperwork in hand.

I think that it is positive that the orphanage returned the girl to her home as soon as they heard that she was wanted there, and did not put pressure on the mother to place her child for adoption after all.  That should be the parents' decision, and it is not our business or the agency's business why they change their minds; there is a local social worker, who presumably is looking out for the needs of the mother and children.  Bigger questions of whether the mother was receiving negative pressure from her relatives or the rest of the village, need to be addressed in a grander format.... such as making sure that girls and women have access to education, and the ability to earn and save money to take care of themselves. 

I also think that it is positive that the agency contacted us immediately to let us know what was going on, and continued to be open and honest about the difficulties as well as the successes that they are having.  The good news is that there are children from the orphanage coming home to American families -- and far more cases are proceeding smoothly than having upsets like ours.  From what I can tell, they are taking the difficulties seriously and being proactive about addressing them.  The director of the agency here in Oregon is in Uganda right now, trying to figure out exactly what the situation is and what the next steps should be.  It seems like many of the problems stem from the difficulty in communication and cultural expectations, and hopefully he will be able to clarify some of those issues in person.

*Is this situation unfair or unreasonable for us?*

It has been emotionally harrowing, but I don't think it is out of the range of normal.  We knew going into this that Uganda's adoption program has a lot of variation in it, and that the placement is not guaranteed until the court date.  This is not a long-established Hague country with a specific procedure that always happens.  We also knew that this agency had a brand-new program, that the director in-country was well-meaning but not experienced with international adoption.  These are the risks that we took and that we knew about going into the program, and the reasons that we chose this country and the program are still valid, and worthwhile despite the risks.  It is sad for us that we became emotionally attached to a placement that fell through, but we knew that it was a possibility.


And now we all keep going.  Our family is waiting for a new match -- with a child who truly has no other options for life and growth.  Rehema and her mother and getting to know each other again and moving forward with their lives.  The agency and orphanage workers are still trying to help children who have no safety net in a way that is honest and ethical.  There are still many women and children in Uganda who don't have clean drinking water or access to education or medical care, and hopefully through the years we will be able to do some small part to support other families, so that other children will have more options in their own beautiful country.