something magical

i remember the day that i felt rose was part of me.  she was at the orphanage, eating a mango.  there was no magic in that day or that moment, but it was magical.  there was a knowing that this child and i were connected.  it's been almost four months since we brought her home- not knowing what that would mean, but feeling like it was somehow the right thing to do.

i remember when we brought her home, i spoke with my friend who was living here and a former adoption social worker.  she talked about some things we could expect- most of which made sense but one surprised me- she said i would go through a period of mourning the loss of her early years.  that i would feel a sadness around not being there for her birth, not nursing her, not having seen her first steps, not having been the first 'mama' that she meant when she said 'mama'.

she was right- i have had moments of wishing and longing for that with rose.  but because of all the 'complicated' and the lack of clarity, it's been muddled slightly- confusing. 

we have been planning to go home for the holidays this year.  our first trip back to the US.  i know we will all be ready to eat turkey and stuffing and watch american football and mostly to hug lots of friends and relatives and feel ourselves in an old and familiar way.  but.  rose needs a passport and a visa.  before that, she needs a birth certificate, before that we needed to know her exact name, and birth date and place of birth.  and.  we live in uganda, so everything takes ten times longer even when things like names and birthdays are known, every thing needs to be very formal and by the book (whatever book that is) which is especially complex when the things the book says you need- don't exist- like a hospital birth record (because you were born at home); like any record of anything at all- which is kind of hard when you were found on the street; and when your mom,when she's found, doesn't know the name of your dad; or her own birthday- when you're marginalized and live on the street and don't exactly keep track of things.

today i got in the car, drove to kampala and collected my posse to begin the process.  i picked michael the karamajong to translate, i picked peter our incredible helper for all things legal who knew what info was needed for which form etc; and i picked monica the lawyers assistant who knew where about the birth mom stays.

we drove through town and came to an area literally around the corner from the orphanage.  it was like a scene from little lord fauntleroy.  we walked for a while down some railroad tracks, crossed some garbage piles, jumped over a dirty stream, ducked under a broken wire fence and began to look for someone familiar.  people were picking through beans, children wore no shoes and had infected looking toes and noses, there were lots of flies and dirt and scraps of things.  there we found magdalene. the woman who birthed and nursed rosie, who first heard 'mama'.

suddenly my logistics only, fact finding mission, felt like a lot more.  this was the place where rose had stayed- with these people.  that baby on the breast was the one who kicked rose from inside the belly of the mother who left her.  the logistics were not there anyway- the facts were not so easy to find.  the birth card had been lost- the baptism was somewhere in kampala, not sure where exactly- she was maybe somewhere around 4ish years old- born sometime between april and may- her full birth name?  'it's her name', she said pointing at me- 'christen'.

i don't know why that was her name- but yes i do. 

somewhere that april,  3 and a half years ago, in some non-health center shelter, under the great sheltering sky- something magical happened. this woman birthed my little rosie, and called her my name. the stars spoke, the earth turned and God smiled.

her puzzle slowly takes shape.  i get one small piece at a time.
today- i remembered her name is my name- we are connected.

karamoja part 2

it began here.  and most of it happened here. in the car.  hours and hours in the car- for a short morning meeting, in a very far away place.  a place from another time- another world- a parallel universe.

notice not just the adorable child, but the car seat, the new dress (thanks katie!),  the car,  the automatic windows.  this is just the beginning of the differences - the time machine like differences we were all about to experience. 

it was a 10 hour trip, mostly on dirt roads. not your john denver-ish country dirt roads, but massively pot-holed, thick mud in active rain, stuck immobilized truck- get out and spend 20 minutes assessing which path off road to take, washed out bridges with naked men bathing in the overflowing river- type dirt roads.  i tried to capture it on film- but you can't really appreciate it.

there was much in these hours besides bumps.  the people were rich in color - the same dark black of the earth they worked- like they had emerged from it- like they were part of it- in a real and lasting way.  they were draped with large colorful robes.  they were barefoot, but they walked with their heads held up so tall and high and straight that they didn't need shoes.

my mind was full.  what is poverty?  is it shoelessness? is it carrying sticks on your head and going miles for water? or is it how you feel inside? is it growing up being stared at and asked over and over why you have a white mother?

and we were stared at. everywhere. by everyone.
at first i felt like a movie star.  i thought my hair must have looked great:). but then we were asked in native tongue, what we were doing carrying a karamojong child.

when we finally got to matany the closest town to the village, we gathered crowds.  everyone had  heard the story- that muzungus were coming to the village.

unfortunately there was no advanced booking, and the main inn in town was full, so we stayed in 'God's grace' guest house.

the courtyard

rosie checking out the couryard

"mom, go home now?" she asked.
not yet rosie.  we are off to the village- to find out.  to find out from a tribe you've never met- but who you share your genes with- where home will be- what home will be- what will become of you.
so we ate peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast with cold instant coffee and got back on the road.

this road/ path- our car filled with the village elders guiding us through the fields.  it all felt so biblical and ancient.  dusty roads, cattle with yokes, wells, washing down in the river- and then the meeting with rosies grandmother- was like the prodigal son coming home. she ran out to meet us, fell on her knees, raised up her hands and prayed loudly thanking God that she was seeing her grand daughter again. this child who was lost, thought to be dead, was now standing before her.

i wanted to cry as i knelt there, holding her elbow and her grandbaby and not understanding a word of her speech but feeling what was in it and behind it- thanks and love.
we followed her down the path to her encampment- rosie looking mildly terrified and clinging for reassurance as people tried to pluck her from my arms.

 













inside the hut, mike, rose and i sat on the guest of honor cowhide with a full audience of eager listeners outside the door.  the village elders and the translator sat on stools and the grand mother sat beside me on the floor.  they all began to speak.  it was surreal.

i had a moment. 
this is your life i thought, one of the good parts. soak it in. BE in it.  don't freak. don't cry.  live this national geographic moment. smell the cowhide you're sitting on, feel the rough walls of mud, look at the light coming from the edge of the thatching. hear the sounds of this slurry foreign language. don't let it go. remain open. choose this. this is what is being brought to you. 


in the hour we sat in that hut, that home that was so removed from cars seats and plumbing and nickelodeon and juice boxes and books, i felt the world grow small.  i thought of all the missionary films i'd seen, the national geographic pictures i'd studied, the things i'd read in college on culture- and it all seemed funny.  yes i could see the differences- more in how we think than how we live- but i could also see the similarities in how we feel, and love, and remember. and i wondered what was best? i wondered if i'd ever know.  

we came hoping for resolution and a plan for rose and for our family.  we came with our western ideas of time and planning and preparedness and 'what if's' and possible scenarios.  we were met with a desire for relationship, with a lack of concern about the future, with a sense of 'be here now' because that is how life is lived.

was there a conclusion?
i think this is it.

for now. 
we are their very pale, far away clan members to whom they've entrusted their child.  it's the openest of all open adoptions.  we will bring her to our village- the one in mukono and the one in america, and we will bring her back to their village too.  she will continue to become a part of our family- and we will become a part of their tribe.  and over time and visits, trust will grow. we will wait and they will wait and we will be patient and build relationships and have faith and try to become a little more african in our thinking as hopefully they become a bit more western in theirs.  rose might never be an african american- but she will always, in someway be a muzungu- karamajong.

'yes rosie, we can go home.'

extra complicated but still beautiful

the range of emotions i've felt today has been impressive, but i bet it doesn't compare with the range of emotions our little rosie felt.

today was the day to visit with her birth mom.  it was the day when we were supposed to get her 'birth card' and find out her full name and birthday so we can proceed with getting her passport.  it was the day to discuss our trip to the village where we will meet with the clan, to make decisions about who will be who in rose's life.

today her birth mom put down her infant and scooped rose up in her arms and rose complied.  she sat on her lap, mother and child.  they look alike, same beautiful mouth, same little nose, different eyes, very different eyes. eyes that have seen very different things even just in these weeks.  different feet, little painted toenails and feet that have walked bare for miles, feet worn by a life lived on them, feet aged by that life.

rose watched us with her searching brown eyes, as she sat engulfed in those arms that bore her. there was love there- we could see it.  confusion and bewilderment, but some love and connection too.

for a moment, i wanted to just walk away. to leave the scene.  to not interrupt the natural born order of things.  to let my heart break a little bit so that they can be together.

the translator began the meeting.
no one could find the birth card. 
when could we go to the village.

wait.

i looked over again at my little girl.  who is really not mine.  ownership didn't matter.  what does 'mine' mean anyway?

i had to ask, so i did.
does she want her child back?
because how could she not? because it looked like she might.  as she examined her childs teeth and felt her scars, the same scars she had, two dashes on the hands and arms and feet and chest.  i could feel my paleness- my lack of scar-ness- my blue eyes.  i could feel the difference.

but my question fell into the air and returned unanswered because we don't just speak with different tongues, we live different paradigms.

'what is in her heart?' i begged the translator to inquire, to tell me.  but how can she answer that if her heart is just one part of a heart that beats as a community, if her heart doesn't stand alone.  if her heart doesn't have a voice.

'she will be with you, and we need to go to the village.' was the answer. what part of this are they not understanding? she must have thought. we are a clan.  we work as a group.  rose is the child of my people, not me. why do they keep asking me what i want?

for a moment i had fear.  fear that was real and confusing- fear that this woman didn't have a voice and we were taking her child, and fear that we might lose rose who we love dearly too. fear that the village might want to keep her, take off her second hand H+M outfit, hand her a large yellow jerry can, and send her for water and firewood.  and my mind wandered to strange places with fears that were ridiculous. that we would be killed and cooked over that firewood and eaten with the rice and beans that we'd brought for the village. because it all felt so weird and surreal anyway.

the infant cried.  my mind returned. rose was handed to mike.  the birth mom nursed the baby.
rose was happy to be with him again. she watched that new baby suckle at her mom's breast. it was confusing.  it was a lot to take in.  she was so brave- so big on the inside as she sat with so many people who have loved her, betrayed her, returned to her,  and i think love her still, beside the people who feed her and hug her and tell her how much they love her and tuck her into a warm bed each night with a belly full of food.  there was trust and distrust and love and anger and guilt and fear swimming around in that room and in the hearts and minds of everyone.  but the greatest of these was love.

we come from other worlds really- their clan, our nuclear family. we speak legal language, about citizenship and health insurance and college education - they know tribal law, cattle raiding, witch doctors and maybe finding a primary school under a mango tree. we want the same thing- what is best for rose- to be loved, known, educated, fed well, cared for- but the 'hows' and 'where's' of this, the 'when's' and 'what's' of this- are sort of unknown- and spoken of differently-understood differently-with very different cultural meaning attached.

so i settled on hope.  that somehow this crazy, potential mess of a situation would be okay- would even be blessed- would be full of life and become life giving. because things that are exquisitely beautiful are complex- the inside of an orchid- the sounds of a symphony- the miracle of how the ear works.  complicated doesn't have to be bad.  complicated can be extraordinary. and God loves to clean up messes- to make pure gold with dirty bricks - to bring forth spectacular from disaster.  

rose looked scared as her birth mom took her from my arms and carried her up the stairs to our car.  we said good bye in swahili and buckled her into the seat.  relief washed over her face- her smile re-appeared.

"rosies seat!" she confirmed pointing to her carseat.

'yes rosie's seat. lets go home!'

"mama, tata- i yuve eww!"

'we love you too rosie! you are so so loved by so many!'

this beautiful story will continue. next month we will travel to a far away place and we will sit and listen and experience something that most people never will.  we will become joined in some way with this clan who shares the marks and skin of our little rosie.  and we will embark on this complicated, messy, shared journey together.

black is black and white is white

somethings about inter-racial adoption are unique and hard.  for example,  there is no denying that i didn't give birth to rose.  she is black and i am white.  when we go anywhere- our situation stands out.  it just does.  people look and wonder and assess. 

sometimes they ask. sometimes they comment. 
they say things like,
"she doesn't look like you." or
"you know she is black?"  to which i said, "she is?? how come no one told me!"
or "do you have an orphanage?" or
"is that your nannies child?" or
"where did you pick her from?"

then i get a lot of,
"thank you for caring for her." or
"how wonderful that you are helping her."

and i'm standing there looking into her soulful eyes and hating that she's hearing herself described as a need, or in need, or somehow lucky that she has me.  none of my other kids ever heard that. they never received random opinions from people in the market check out line praising me for doing my parenting job.

i know people are trying to being nice.  i know i signed up for another exposed underwear scenario.  i know these things.  they don't bother me for me, they bother me for her.  because i'm the lucky one.  i wanted another child, another daughter.  isn't it wonderful that she's helping me.  i'm actually fine with the stares and the curiosity and the remarks.  what is hard for me, is watching her in the moments when she feels the difference, when she misses the sameness that we lack, when she longs for a connection that i can't give her.  

tonight mike is with the guys in kampala.  my friend lydia stopped by and i invited her to stay for dinner.  it was the typical crazy of our house from 5:30-7:30, with the added crazy of one parent missing and the other one deciding to make gluten-free, dairy-free cinnamon rolls (from scratch, with yeast) for the first time during the crazy hours. things went fine, people were pajama-ed and brushed and read to- and i was fussing with the icing in the kitchen.  rosie walked over to lydia  and wanted her to read her ABC book.  she sat on her lap, listening to the familiar soft ugandan english accent.  she seemed to notice how their skin blended together.  there was something normal about it for her, natural, missed.  it seemed like it was what i call 'the safe feeling'. 

i thought about how i would have felt being plucked up out of an orphanage full of white kids and white caregivers who spoke english, and plopped down into an african family- where i stood out- glowed in the dark- and didn't match.  where i didn't speak their language- and if they spoke my language, it sounded different.  then a white woman comes for dinner- she is kind and something about how she talks and how she looks, makes me feel at home.  and i miss home- i miss what had been my normal.  i miss familiar.  i miss the safety of it.

when it was time for lydia to leave, and me to put everyone down for bed, rosie cried.  it was more than the cry of not wanting to go to bed- it was the cry of longing- of missing- of loss.  it is a cry that makes sense, and i would cry it too.  it's a cry that i get, that i'm thankful she allows herself to feel and voice, but this cry is hard for me, because i feel helpless.  i know i can't give her everything- i can't give her sameness- i can't look like her. 

this cry doesn't come very often- but when it does i hold her tight and say "i know. it's hard. i love you." 
because it is hard. this will always be hard in some way. mostly for her.  i know she loves us.  i know she feels safe and cared for and valued and i know she likes her life with us- she has fun- she is free.  but.  there is no denying that when we hold hands you can see the contrast.  next to each other, she is blacker and i am whiter. 

but contrast in life is also poignant and beautiful.  contrast is more interesting, it grows us and pushes us and makes us all think.  it makes things noticed, things are appreciated differently.  it can bring together.  it can balance.  it can make history look silly- when the insides aren't different- when what we focus on as different is irrelevant really. 

but history is there- it will be.  and so will peoples stares and shared observations.  and so will rosie's loss, her personal history will always be there, a void, a longing, a mild sense of displacement that is hanging out below the surface.  i'm no adoption expert, i'm not a social worker or a psychologist, but it seems that acknowledgement is essential.  letting her cry and long and know we aren't threatened by it- seems necessary.   that we share a longing to connect with her too.  that life has loss, for everyone.  that we all experience displacement.

earlier that evening bryn had been sent to his room for not eating his dinner and not staying in his chair.  when i went to talk to him, he started to cry.  i asked him what he was crying about and he said he didn't know.  but i did.  it's the same thing.  it's the displacement he feels being in africa- with out his cousins and his grandparents, because he's stared at for being white in a world of black people. it's constant.  today a kid in the supermarket petted him- she couldn't resist- she reached over and petted his hair. he didn't even notice. 

we live this displacement too.  our contrast we have in common.  she stands out- we stand out.  and these moments, like tonight, are important. they make sense.  she needs to cry it out.  to grieve.  she needs to miss the familiar.  we all do this.  we should.  so as we continue to grow as a family- a crazy, somewhat different family-  we will embrace and acknowledge our 'different'.  we will keep having the lydias over so rose can feel some home-ness, so she can be with her familar.

and we will hold each other, tightly, and say, "i know.  it is hard.  i love you."

1 month

one month ago we brought rosie home. number 4. bringing a lot of joy and a fast reminder that there is a big difference between 5 years old and 2 years old.

people have settled.  roles have changed. toys have been shared, and food and water bottles and bathtubs.  hands have been held and people have helped each other.  it works.

bryn has become a really great big brother- i knew it was in him.
this is bryn's drawing of 'art dog'

he's very proud- it's pretty fabulous. i love it. i love him.

jude has become an even older seven year old than he was last month.
he even learned to ride a bike this month.

 

zoe, she has returned. 
she is so very excited about joining her brothers at ambrosoli international school.  she is so very done with home schooling.

and rosie- she's pretty fabulous too.  she's learned a lot of english.  she's learned to stop shrugging her shoulders when she's upset.  she's now eating green vegetables (in small doses) and she rocks out to 'sly and the family stone'.
we love her.

what a great month of blessing!  we are walking in thanks. we are appreciating the joys.  and we are praying daily for those who are in the darker places, because we've been there too.  the goodness is more vivid after having seasons of great challenge, even the colors of 'normal' are brighter, so hang in- it will come- really- it will come.

eat pray love

this is our first family picture with rose- note she is refusing to look at the camera.  but it kind of sums it all up. the randomness of it- some smiling, some squinting, some looking at the camera, others looking at each other- being at the pool- unprepared for a picture- but somehow i love it.

the other night mike and i watched the movie 'eat, pray, love' based on the book with the same name.   it's a memoir about a woman finding herself and her future husband- by up and leaving her life and her first husband.  she goes to italy to eat, and find passion in the food and language and friendship, she goes to india to pray and find her soul at an ashram, she goes to bali where she finds love. i read the book a few years ago, but i never finished it-  i never made it out of india. i got bored and thought she was self-absorbed. 

but when i watched the movie, there was something appealing about the indulgence.  because it is so far removed from where i am right now.  i'm kind of living the opposite (except for the title- because i'm doing a lot of eating, praying and loving- just right here at home).  i had a moment of imagining myself doing this.  taking a massive life time-out. using my 'get out of jail free' card (except i think i've already used it at some point) -up and moving to italy to eat napoleons and fresh pasta, to drink cappuccino and red wine, and listen to the sweet roll of the italian language.  to be alone and free and untethered.

which i might like for all of about, a day. 

i remember when we were young and first married (and i mean young- like 22)  i felt badly that i'd never traveled anywhere alone. i felt like i was missing out on something, i wondered if there was something wrong with me.  we were living in boston with no money- but had a family friend who had a house on nantucket.  so we decided i should go for the weekend-alone- to be alone- to "travel" for me- to experience this. so i took a train, to a bus, to a ferry boat, to nantucket.  i felt grown up and mature and independent and curious for about four hours- and half way through the ferry ride, i was bored and wanted someone to talk with.  i arrived and walked to the house, found the key, had some dinner and went to bed. the next day i walked to town, had coffee and cinnamon buns and looked at art galleries and walked the wharf. i had never gone so long without talking.  sometimes when no one next to me on the street i would say something out loud just to hear my voice and make sure it was still in there. 

by the afternoon i was on the ferry back home.  i came home early because i like sharing my life with the people i love.  i wanted to hear what mike thought about the paintings i was looking at- i wanted him to tell me stories of being on his boat as a kid- i wanted to dream with him about someday running away together to live as artists in a run down nantucket beach house where we'd wear wool sweaters that we'd made on our loom and eat food from our garden and dig for clams and ride in our dingy.

i know that when most people travel alone- they are doing it for the experience of knowing themselves better- knowing a place- meeting new people and connecting with people from that place- or other travelers, and that my nantucket trip was not about that.  but it reminded me that i liked my life.  i loved my guy.  and that i enjoy my life more with him.

so even though there is something enticing about wandering the streets of foreign cities alone with a gelato, especially when i've added another child who still occasionally forgets to go to the potty,  i couldn't, i really couldn't get up and leave my life.  because i like my messy life.  and i think we can find ourselves right where we are and with who we are already with- if we're looking.  because i like eating where ever i am- when i'm with people who i enjoy.  and because i find God in most places.  and because love, for love, i really don't need to go to bali.  just look at the picture.

what four means

here is what four means.  four rhymes with more for a reason.  there is a lot more of most thing- more mess- more noise- more opinions- more laundry- more fighting- more crumbs- more spills.  there is also more singing, more laughing, and more 'i love you's'- and those are worth much more.

i've come to realize that whenever there are more of somethings- there are less of others.  it's a bit of a closed system.  so now there is less quiet- less organization-less toilet paper- less alone time. actually maybe no alone time-for now.

we are all in equilibrium as we adjust to four.  i'm working on being okay with more mess- in whatever form that is- crumbs, forts, spills, toys, paper, clutter.  i'm remembering to dissect the noise- to listen to what is hidden- what is being said- or shouted- or sung- those little clues into my children and their process.  i'm trying to help with what is behind the fighting and yelling- because often it's someone hugging someone too hard- or giving an unrequested kiss- because learning to share is really important- and knowing that someone is there to hear you or defend your cause is important- because knowing that the rules don't change when you add another player, and that the rules are the same for everyone is essential.

and i'm learning to SAVOR the few quiet moments when lunch is over, rose has finally gone down for a nap- and the other three are off playing elsewhere and the dishes are done and the brownies are out of the oven- and i can just be still.  take a breath.  and be thankful for four and all their more.

the meeting

this is a story.

it's a story of God taking a mess and making art.
of broken being way more than fixed, but shiny.
that is where we are. 

last night though, i was so stressed out about today's meeting with rose's birth mother that i couldn't do anything.  we couldn't even talk about it, we couldn't even pray about it- all we could do was mutter, "you know the deal- it's complicated- HELP", and watch 30 rock to distract ourselves.

i woke up. all. night. long. and prayed. mostly for rose, that she wouldn't feel fear, or abandonment, but that she would know she is loved by many.  i prayed for her birth mom- that she would know what she wants, that she would feel safe and good- and know that rose is loved by us.

i woke up to the alarm and no electricity.  i cooked porridge on the stove and made toast in the oven.  we ate by candle light and got dressed with headlamps and i had that sick feeling like i did before jude had his mri's- like the rug might be pulled out from under me.

the meeting was crazy weird cool.  nine people from different corners of the world with a shared purpose- doing the best we could for rose. four people from a remote tribe way up north- with patterned scarring on their faces- two highly educated muzungus holding the small girl birthed by one of the four- and the social workers and lawyer. the languages blurred around us- lunganda, karamajong and some english.

we introduced ourselves.
"i am kristen reid", i said.
her birth mom laughed as she nursed her new baby.
that is roses birth name- "kristen" the translator said.

she knew what she wanted. she wants us to raise rose, to educate her, but to still know her- to be able to see her.  she wants us to journey north together with rose- to the village- to the grandparents- to the clan elders.  we are literally going to a tribal council.  that is how things happen - it's not just a birth mom's decision, it's a clan decision.  we are now connected- is what she said- we are now friends.

this story is beginning- it's early on- chapter one. a story from abandoned sick on the street, to growing up loved by two families.  and somewhere in this other things will grow and bloom because that is the way God works.  He loves complicated.  He loves confusion and not easy and especially hopeless and what seems doomed.

those hours before the meeting i kept thinking how i wished i would feel in my heart what i knew in my head.  that i should be really excited for what was about to take place- that when God is running the show- really amazing things happen- things we can't even fathom sometimes. 

it's all pretty amazing. that rose will know her birth mom- her grandparents- her people, in an ongoing way.  that we have been invited to raise her- we've been trusted with her- we've been asked to come to their village- to meet the family- to see and feel and taste and smell the place that she comes from- a place so far from what she will know most of the time.  a place that we want to know, to share with her- to be a part of us, as she is.

i think maybe the world just got a little bit smaller.

lowering the expectations- pays off again

i need to give a shout out to zoe, jude and bryn for how well they have handled the transition of having a little sister.  especially a little sister who begins at age two and doesn't speak english and never has had to experience other children having ownership rights over their toys.

thanks to my new years resolution of lowering the expectation, i had been prepared for the worst.  i'd assumed that everyone would wet their beds on the first night; that zoe would return to talking in the wobbly voice, that jude would have school anxiety as a manifestation of home anxiety, and that bryn would start sucking his thumb to remind us that really he's the baby.

but no.  not.  nada.  dry beds- even rosies diaper was dry.  no wobbly voice, school's been great, and bryn acts more mature- getting up, dressed and teeth brushed with out being asked.  i mean the three of them argue over who gets to help rose to the bathroom, to brush her teeth, or to take off her shoes.  they disagree over which one of them rose likes best- or has received more of her hugs.  i mean- they have way exceeded my expectations.

and rose? well she's done pretty well herself.  aside from having to spend the past three days mostly with me- when i know she'd much rather be with the her siblings- she's done great. she wants to learn, she wants to please, to help, to know what is expected of her.  if it's at all not clear, she pushes the boundary to see if we stand our ground. am i really going to take away her giant bag of peanuts so she doesn't eat herself sick even if she throws a tantrum? yup. am i going to follow through and take away zoe's littlest petshop pet poster if she tries to draw on it? yup. 

i secretly love these moments.  because while i hate to hear her cry, and it gets the other kids all riled up, it helps her to feel safe when she knows that we are actually in control and love her even if she messes up and spits the peanuts out on her lap to show me how mad she is that took them away.  she needs to know that we've got it- we've got her. that home is safe.  that rules are consistent. that consequences are consistent.  that things are pretty fair.  because knowing this will help put her at ease, will help her relax- will help her trust.

it was a much better day :)

the other side of the coin

what a day.  a humbling day.  a day when i know i am so not superwoman. a day when i forgot to ask God to walk with me.

today i had to drive back to kampala, back to the doctor, after being there all day yesterday with rose because they couldn't do all the tests they needed.  so i had rose and jude- both needed blood work and rose needed 3 immunizations.  of course yesterday they irrigated her ear, which she loved, so she knew there was trouble when we drove up. 

now i was supposed to arrive with a stool sample in hand- however as much as i tried to get her go this morning in the little potty- i failed. 
"rosie can you caca?"
"ahn ahn!"
"please?"
"ahn ahn!!"

"thankfully" at the doctors office, while jude and i are with her in the bathroom, she needs to go.  so i say,
"oh quick!! grab me that envelope out of my purse" and i'm fumbling around trying to catch it, but end up having to fish it out of the toilet, at which point jude starts to gag and runs for the door.

"this is true love kid!" i said as i washed my hands.

we dropped the sample and headed to the nurses station.  they got ready to draw her blood and she began to scream. she screamed so much that jude didn't even notice getting his blood drawn. she screamed so much that when it was over, she turned around and clung to me and then vomited all over me.  all over my shirt, and my pants, it was even in my underwear. and we still had three shots to get through- and the rest of the  day of errands.

"this is really true love kid!" i said as i went to find the bathroom.

to make it slightly more stressful, while covered in vomit, i was waiting for her HIV test results- as in- i was watching it like you watch a pregnancy test. 

thankfully, it was negative. phew.

on the way to the car, we were chased down and told we needed to wait because her stool "was positive" aka- infected. 

this wasn't even the bad part.

we had to go to the orphanage to give them a copy of our foster care order.  i really didn't want to bring her- but i really had no options.  well she got upset as we drove in, and then even more upset as we drove away (after being hugged by one of her favorite caretakers there).  who can blame her? the poor kid- three vaccines, a blood draw, an ear infection, infectious diarrhea, a confusing trip back to where she just lived for 8 months, and no nap. 

it was kind of awful for everyone; as i'm driving away, she's bawling, jude is asking if she likes the orphanage better than us, i smell of vomit, still need to go buy the chemo and bring it to the hospital for this boy who we are helping, no one has had lunch or slept in the car and it's 1:30. and i'm thinking, as i reach across the car to hold her hand and tell her that i love her- i chose this.  i chose this.  this is hard. but i chose this. 

when we got home, rose refused her antibiotic- or spit it out all over both of us.  (thankfully i still was wearing dried vomit shirt). then she decided to test the boundaries in any possible way-  refused her lunch, spit her milk, and took everyone's toys. perhaps she was punishing me for the day i put her through, or for the last 9 months of her life that she didn't sign up for.

but i did.  i signed up for all of it. all of this. all the crazy.  that is the thing about adoption- you do it on purpose.  it's not like you have some crazy sex and 9 months later something comes out that kind of looks like you and you're hormonally ready to feed it and love it. what i mean is you really sign up for it- literally.  you sign a million forms, you  pay various fees, you have a ton of opportunities to convince people that you want to do this- that you should do this- that this is your dream.  and sometimes you are fortunate enough to be able to choose the child.  of course then you really did it on purpose- specifically and on purpose.  

we chose rose.  we chose her and her messy complicated situation.  in many ways i think of adopted children as extra wanted- extra chosen- and extra special in that way, but it's also a lot easier to question our choices more than we question the things that 'just happened'.  in some ways we 'trust fate' more than we trust ourselves. 

so as i'm cooking rice and beans for her dinner (knowing she wouldn't eat the take out pizza i'd brought home), and thinking about the day, and what i signed on for,  i get a text from the social worker saying her birth mother wants us to bring her to the orphanage tomorrow morning so she can see her.  and even though i'd taken a bath and changed in to clean clothes, even though rose had too, and people were playing nicely- the thought of bringing her back there tomorrow- adding to it a visit with her birth mom- and mike is going out of town, so i'd be doing it alone- well, it made me slightly overwhelmed. 

i stirred beans and thought about what to do.  what is best for rose? what is best for us? what is best for her birth mom? and i was just befuddled.  thankfully,  mike came home and reminded me that this is not an emergency (which is really what it felt like to me- as in i frantically texted my poor social worker neighbor that i was in fact, having the social work equivalent of a 'myocardial infarction').  mike reminded me that we can not and do not need to rush over and bring her back there tomorrow.  that we will happily set up a meeting for next week, when we both can go, when we can give rose a bit more time to settle.  it seemed so simple- maybe because it was.  he told me it was going to be okay, that rose would be okay, that we would be okay.   and maybe if i hadn't had so much bodily fluid exposure today, i would have come up with that myself.

then the lawyer called and said the same things mike did- she'd set up the meeting, with everyone, next week, and that it would be okay.

we had a good dinner.  rosie took her antibiotics and her ear drops. everyone was bathed, brushed, in bed, sung to, and told they were loved by 7:30.

this is the other side of the coin.  the hard stuff- there will be more coming.  but she is a little ball of love and we want to help her navigate this complicated world- this complicated situation that she didn't ask for- but we did. 

and tomorrow i won't forget to ask God to walk with me (even though i know He's always around, there is something in the asking).  maybe tomorrow, i'll just skip ahead and ask him to carry me. 

good night :)

 

the day before- in real time

have i mentioned that i'm really bad at waiting?
like really bad. like obsessively bad.  like- check my phone a million times an hour to see if i've missed any calls even though the phone is in my pocket- bad.

so today, while waiting, i've tried really hard to just be in my day, to play and to have fun, and it's been much better.

i walked the boys up monkey hill for an hour.  i played soccer with jude for a while. florence taught me how to make red beans for rosie.  i took the kids down to the canteen and met mike for lunch. 
that is when i was called by the lawyer who told me the court order should be approved today. that i'd be called later - today.  and i could see my anti-waiting mode jump to the surface.

"definitely today right? he'll bring me the paper today?"

see- obsessive.

but then she told me that the social worker at the babies home is away until monday.

to which i responded:

"but we can call her right? i can reach her and she can tell them it's okay for us to pick her up tomorrow-right? we're still on for tomorrow?"

trying to keep the panicky sound down and the calm self controlled sounds up.

so i reached the social worker, who said yes. she'll have rose ready for tomorrow. 

phew! great!

now if i can just get that court order in my hot little hands......

then i thought about tomorrow.  about all of us driving into town with our empty car seat and a little bag of clothes to pick her up, and all my anxiety and panic about not being able to get her, turned into anxiety and panic about being able to pick her up. 

what if she cries and screams and holds tightly to her caregivers?  what if she hides or runs away? what if she says she doesn't want to come with us?  what if they force her into our car and she cries the whole way home? should i bring her a toy? a stuffed animal, a comfort item? should i put her in a diaper just in case? should we drive straight home? or stop to get ice cream?

so i did what i always do when i'm grappling for some control- i went to the internet and googled "how to bring home your foster child" and "day one of international adoption". and i found some good things like- "yes" to the transitional object, and "no" to the ice cream. "probably" to the diaper.  i got, expect tears, or hiding or anything else you might see or hear from any of your children- because anything goes.  because transitions are hard.  because she's leaving 'home' for her and that is big and scary and unknown.  because they speak her language and we don't. because they look like her, and we don't.  because emotionally, familiar is almost always better than new. 

and then when i didn't feel much better on the inside- i texted my friend here who is also an adoption social worker, begging her to talk with me today.  attempting to gather information- to know what to do- to do the right things- to not mess it up.

then the probation officer called and told me he had the court order.  i could come get it.  it was ready.  it was official.

then i did what i always finally remember to do when i'm sort of scared or anxious or grappling- i fell on my knees. and said, 'thank you!' and 'help!'

and then we had a conversation.
i said, 'i feel like i don't know what i'm doing- but i love her.'
he said, 'good, 'cause that's enough.'

i said, 'it's quite possible that all four kids could fall apart tomorrow night'
he said, 'yup. and that's okay.'

i said, 'what if this is a bad plan? what if she's better off there? what if we're not ready?'
he said, 'what if it is the right plan? what if i want her with you? what if you are ready but you're just a little scared?' i'm pretty sure i heard him mutter 'as usual' under his breath.

and i remembered what my oldest friend said about our fostering/ adopting of rose, "i guess that is how you are meant to come by your children; blood, sweat and tears." 

it's true- they have all come with hard stuff- so number four will have her own story of tough things.
but they have all come with such love, and with such a deep desire for their being. 

that is how we will pick her up tomorrow- nothing that happens will change that love or desire.  we will be patient with each other and gentle and withhold expectations and have faith.
and that will be enough.
so. excited.

it's extra complicated

she was eating a mango, that was all, two little hands with juice running down them, trying to get those last bits off the pit. she looked up at me,  it's in those seconds sometimes that life happens.  for some reason, that is when she switched from being some little girl in an orphanage, to my little girl, at least in my heart.

this has been a bumpy ride, but expectedly bumpy.  there have been a lot of highs and lows and there still will be. and there are many details and weird parts- but a lot of those things are not my story to tell- they are part of her story, even if she doesn't know it yet.

on tuesday i got an email saying that we probably can't adopt her- for various complex reasons.  it was really hot outside but i knew what i needed to do.  i put on my hiking shoes and i headed up monkey prayer hill.  i wore sunglasses so no one would see me cry, because i knew i'd cry, because i was really sad. i walked fast because i was mad, and confused and because i had a bone to pick with God, or several. 

i hiked to the top quickly, dry eyed, and asked a million questions on the way.  like, why God are you seeming to say no? why can't you just let me have another daughter?  and by the way, why did i have that miscarriage with #4? are you telling me that three is the magic number?  is this a door shutting on having more kids?  why do you place desires in our heart that don't happen? 

when i reached the top i sat on the stone bench looking out over the towns all the way out to lake victoria and i kept right on talking to God.
'okay, i trust you- and i love you, and i know you have a purpose in all this.  i know you love this child more than i do.  so i can be with this- i will trust you.  but will you please just give me a word?'

and i listened really carefully and attentively, even eagerly.  i watched the wind in the palm trees, but i heard nothing.  i got nothing.  i waited a little and again i said, 'will you please give me a word? something to hold onto? something to help me get some peace in this?'

again, nothing.

so i started down the mountain, alone and confused and i cried hard.  i walked and i thought and my questions to God changed from why poor me?  to what will happen to her?  to how can i help take care of her, even it i can't adopt her?  what can we do for this child who we love?  who can we be for her?

suddenly i realized that it didn't really matter if she were 'mine', it really only matters that we love her.  and like that moment with the mango, i knew up on that mountain, that it wasn't about #4, it wasn't about zoe having a sister, it wasn't about finishing my family; it was about this little girl. 

i wrote a little about this experience, about my thoughts on adoption, on adopting here, last month.  an old dear friend commented and she wrote some very wise words that spoke to me on that day when i was waiting for God to show up.

"So he will lead you toward how to be what you are supposed to be to this little one that you love."

there is so much in those words.
that we will be led.  implying a path, a process, the need of a guide.
not 'toward what you are supposed to be' but toward  how to be what you are supposed to be. because so many times i don't know how- i get lost in the how- i get overwhelmed by the how.
and what i'm supposed to be- because it might not be so obvious, it might not be so clear- it might not be her mama, or it might be, or it might be many things at different times. 

but i will be guided and shown how to be what i'm to be to this little one that i love.

sometimes when i ask things of God, the answer is silence.  sometimes the answer is that i will walk around that mountain for a while and have a good cry.  sometimes the answer is being allowed to go to places of darkness and confusion and loneliness.  and sometimes later the answer comes in the soft words of another- words written a month ago- words from someone who listened to the stirrings, and who took the time to write them, wise fortune-esque words, prophetic words.

led toward how to be.
what i'm to be
to this little one
that i love

it's complicated

i've done it- i've found a spot outside where the wireless works.  because i just need to be outside as much as possible- so i can breath. especially on days that look and feel like today- which is, perfection.
a hot sun, cool wind, some quiet birds (not those loud mocky ones around my house) the perfect temperature and hundreds of white butterflies.  sometimes i feel like maria in 'the sound of music' running to the hills and missing the abbey call- i get that.

so, i have a secret.

i'm in love.  again.  but it's complicated.  it's complicated for many reasons- outside ones and inside ones.

about 8 months ago i wrote about the snip snip. about being done making babies, about the procedural permanence of this and the process of arriving here after years of living to be pregnant again.
but i also wrote that we weren't 'done' having kids- that i'm still stuck on four or five- i wrote that i can't wait to meet them.

and i think now, i might have met one of them.

she is little and brown and has stolen my heart slowly over the last 6 months.  but it's complicated.
the process of adoption is long, confusing, layered and wrought with opportunities for injustice.  some people want control, some people want money, some people want what's best for the child.  and there are legitimate issues around her history, whether she is truly an orphan, whether she even needs to be adopted, and most importantly- what's best for her- who should adopt her.  which gets to the most complicated part of it all.

see, i can deal with the mess of the legal stuff, and the bureaucracy, and the waiting- because i really believe that God is all over that- He's got it, and if she is meant to be with us- then she will be- whenever that may be.

the messy part is that i have issues with the whole adoption scene in uganda.  it's a group that i don't want to belong to.  and at the risk of stepping on toes or offending ears- it kind of makes me sick. 
now that i've opened a can of worms, let me explain, or try to. basically i think the idea of wealthy white american christians 'saving' little black african babies is wrong. because they don't need to be saved- because they have a rich culture and a heritage and sometimes families.  because every time i'm in kampala and see a couple of american parents toting around a little ugandan child they just look 'smug'.  like they've both won a prize and deserve a prize.  and i can't help but think how many people are saying how wonderful they are because they've done their part and now  there is one less child running shoeless around the world.

now i realize that i'm a complete jerk.  that this is horrible of me.  that in saying and thinking that, i'm being horribly judgmental, and not loving and perhaps i am the worse of the evils.

but.

i have to ask the question- is american adoption of african children really the answer? which begs, what is the question?  i think the only time it's the answer, is when it's for the american person/ family doing the adoption- that it should be a 'selfish' endeavor- that it is only the answer to that pure deep desire to have and love a child.  i firmly believe it's not the answer to the african orphan epidemic. i just don't think the answer to poverty is to pick one child out of it at a time.  that the answer to wanting to help the world, is to remove a child from their culture.   i mean there has got to be a better way.  are we sure there is something wrong with shoeless? 

if we really care about the plight of africa and african children, why are we not rallying together to help stabilize families in african countries? to not exploit a continent with big business? why are we not supporting entire communities? striving to keep them together, to assist with resources, education, financial stability? 

some american christians have written books and blogs about the great need in africa and that if every american christian adopted one african orphan we'd 'solve' the problem.  really?  and what problems would come from that?  what if every american christian, adopted one older child out of the overwhelmed US foster system?  what if every church rallied around those families to support them raising a child who hasn't known a stable home for 15 years?  why isn't that our 'call'?


this is why it's complicated for me. 

because i selfishly, love this girl.  i'm in love with her like i was with my other three kids when i got to know them. because i know if we lived in the US we'd be adopting there - but we don't we live here.  and i wonder how it would feel to be her in our family- deeply loved but always standing out.  i wonder if her desire would be to not have muzungu parents?  i wonder if any of it really matters as we're all different anyway.  i wonder if color might matter to her? even if it doesn't matter to me.  we spend lifetimes understanding our identity- it is essential to us- even when our identity is in our faith.

so what do i do with all this?  i pray.  i pray to be more gentle and less judgmental and more forgiving, and less assuming and more loving.  i pray for the orphans of uganda and the US and for those that care for them. i pray for those who desperately want a child no matter where they are from, and for those parents raising children from another country or culture- that as their african child becomes more american, they will in turn, become more african. i pray for honesty and openness and the allowance of expression and the acknowledgement and acceptance of the challenges that will come.

this is where i am- forgive me.

gift

i am in ethiopia because i was given a gift.

the gift was to come to ethiopia with one of my oldest and bestest friends and be with her as she meets her son for the first time.

her little, adorable, coy, smiley-eyed almost 3 year old son- Yoyo- (short for Yohannes). not only do i get to share in the joy of seeing lisa love on this little one, but i see him slowly start to realize that now, he has a mama. it's truly indescribable.

she is one of 11 amazing families- who are all meeting their kids for the first time. and they are all first time parents. and they have all been waiting, for a long time. what a gift to see this amount of love. to see the giving of people to each other- from worlds apart. the unity. the joy. the wholeness. the completion. the life bonds of family forming. i feel somewhere between a quiet observer and a doula. i do not share their stories- although i get the loss some have had, and i get the joy of seeing your child for the first time. i get the fear we all share for our children's future. the insecurities that come with having someone ultimately depend on you. the awe in that change, of one minute being just you- and then being someones mommy. what a gift- all around.

the one sightseeing thing we've done while here is to fly north to lalibela- a musical word- and a place of religious pilgrimage- home of the beautiful churches of the 12th century- carved down into the red volcanic rock of the ground- carved from the top down. the countryside is amazing- tall mountains and canyons- like the american southwest but green and covered in vegetation, grasses and acacia trees and flowering aloe plants. and there are shepherds draped in white cloth scarves with staffs surrounded by goats and skinny cows. there are no cars in lalibela- everyone walks on hilly cobblestone streets- lined with tin-roofed huts and purple bougainvillea and yellow flowering trees- the poverty of mans earth and the natural beauty of how it was before. the contrast i find humbling.

at night it is so dark- the poverty is covered under the blanket of the most amazing starry sky- with only the few scattered lights on the hillside joining it. things seem fairer at night. lalibela feels ancient and biblical- but for me- not in the churches themselves. they are impressive in their history- their architectural structure and religious symbolism- but my feeling of spiritual connection came not in those thick walls with their worn grottos and old priests- it came from the dirty houses and the flowers and the night sky- it came in the universality of a smile- when you can't speak the language. it came with the gift from adom of a goatskin cross for our gift of 2 dollars so he could eat breakfast. "something to remember me by." he said. and in this same way addis ababa has been a spiritual experience. the sharing of souls- the joining of peoples. the connection found in common experience and the connection formed despite uncommon experience. it elevates- there is hope-there is joy- there is grace.

so we left lalibela with her flowers and stars and histories. and soon we will leave addis ababa too. and lisa will kiss yoyo 1000 times to hold him over until her return when she will bring him home for good. the gift will be complete and two worlds will begin again, now together.