China and Russia were trying to take us down

When I think about last night I smile. Not when I think about bedtime. Not when I remember the tiny toddler angry in his crib, kicking the already broken side rail. Not when I try to figure out why he went from happy guy to angry baby in the blink of an eye. But before that, at dinner time, awesome.

I remember when my tiny toddler wouldn't even come to the dinner table. Then he would show up in his chair but refuse to participate in anything meal related. He would scream, on purpose, during the prayer. He would lunge across the table trying to grab things from his brother. He would throw his food on the floor. And, sometimes, he still does.

But last night, when I asked who wanted to say the prayer, fully expecting my little guy to remain silent and my super six year old to step up, his hand shot up in the air. My tiny toddler wanted to say the prayer? Alrighty then. He clasped his hands, fingers laced together. He brought them over his head and started singing. "God made rainbows, God made rainbows, sunshine too, sunshine too." He brought his still clasped hands down under his chin. "Now we say our blessing, now we say our blessing. Amen. Amen." Every word was clear. Every word was respectful. He wasn't shouting the words or purposefully being loud. He was praying. I turned from watching my young son and locked eyes with my sweet husband across the table. Both of us had tears in our eyes. A 20 second prayer. A moment of quiet in the loudness that is our lives. A glimpse at a calmer future.

After the super six year old was finished eating and the tiny toddler was done staring at his "oatmilk", (this is how he says "oatmeal" and it is his new go to food. He doesn't really eat it, but he wants it and he likes stirring the brown sugar into the bowl of steaming oatmeal.), the boys left the table. I asked them to please go upstairs and play, something they usually do not like to do without me. This time, off they went. A few moments later I heard footsteps on the stairs. Giggling. Whispers. I could tell that the super six year was in command. Orders were whispered in the dark of the dining room. I jumped as loud pops sounded behind my kitchen chair and then I heard clatters as the suction darts fell to the floor. We were being shot at!

Suddenly a dart flew through the air over my sweet husband's head and stuck to the red and brown checked wallpaper. Then a dart hit my husband in the head. He got up from the table and staggered over to the sofa in the living room, falling over, dead. Much to the delight of the boys. I sat at the table, laughing along with them. My sweet boys. They were using their imaginations. They were playing together. They were working as a team to take us down. They were on a spy mission and they played their spy game for a long time.  Together. China and Russia were trying to take us down.

When I am carrying the tiny toddler like a football under my arm out of daycare because he won't walk. When I am turning up the radio to drown out his screaming and when I am dodging projectiles being thrown at me from the backseat because I forgot to remove his shoes when we first got in the car. When I am angry and frustrated and think I can't do this a moment longer, I will remember last night. I will remember how I felt when I heard my tiny toddler singing the meal time prayer, his voice strong and clear. I will remember his smile when he got through the whole prayer. I will remember how happy everyone was when they boys were on their spy mission. Sometimes it seems as though the mountain is insurmountable, but last night the hope was strong.

Tell Me, Which is Better?

On Saturday my three year old son squealed with delight as he opened presents from Santa.  If he still lived in the orphanage there would be no presents, no holiday, no squeals of delight.

On Sunday my three year old visited his Aunt Debbie and his cousin Katie and played with their dogs. If he still lived in the orphanage he would have played with mismatched or broken toys, if he played at all.

On Monday my three year old went with his Grandparents to a party at his cousin's home, where he played with his little baby cousin and ate hot dogs. If he still lived in the orphanage he would have eaten thin potato puree that was too hot to swallow but that he would have gulped down anyways, to fill his always empty stomach.

On Tuesday my three year old visited his Aunt Becky's home where he played with his cousins and watched deer in their snowy backyard. If he still lived in the orphanage he wouldn't have been able to see the world outside from the small high windows that were smudged with mud and snow.

On Tuesday night my three year old rode home in the backseat of his family's car while watching a movie about Curious George, his favorite show, with his older brother. If he still lived in the orphanage he wouldn't have seen any educational shows on television, or had a brother to share them with.

On Wednesday my three year old played in the snow, all bundled up in his snow suit. If he still lived in the orphanage he might never be warm enough, and wouldn't have been able to play in the snow, as there was no yard, only a small concrete parking lot surrounded by gray buildings.

all smiles as he plays in the snow with his older brother

Tomorrow my three year old will go back to preschool, where he will learn his letters and colors. If he still lived in the orphanage tomorrow would be the same as every other day. No education. No love dedicated just to him. No choice in meals or toys. No clothes of his own, no family of his own, no mama of his own.

Tell me, which is better?

So many people tell my husband and I that our children are "lucky". "They are soooo lucky that you adopted them." "They are lucky lucky lucky!" And we have always said that we are the lucky ones, not them. I am lucky when I hear my boys laughing with each other. I am lucky when my three year old says "I wanna kiss you mama" and kisses my leg. I am lucky when one of my boys catches my eye and smiles at me. I am lucky lucky lucky. But now, with Russia on the verge of possibly banning adoption to Americans, I feel as though my little three year old is lucky too. Less than 1,000 children came home to their forever families from Russia in 2011, but he was one of them. He was one of the lucky ones.


There are an estimated 700,000 children living in Russian orphanages.  A number of those children have already been placed with waiting American families, and those adoptions are threatened to be disrupted, or, worse yet, not occur at all, if the ban on Americans adopting Russian orphans goes through. These American women and men are not "parents to be". They are already parents. They have visited their Russian child. They have held him, fed her, played. They have bonded. They have promised to return. And now their lives, and the lives of these innocent children, may never be the same. Contact President Obama. Sign a petition, like this one.
Pray.

I have done all of the above. And I will do one more thing. I will be ever joyful that my little boy made it out of a country that didn't want him, but who didn't want anyone else to have him either.

I will smile

This post was originally published on July 25, 2011. It is an essay on smiling through the feelings of always being on display as an transracial family. It is being re-posted in honor of National Adoption Month.




It has been three years since my oldest son joined our family. And these first three years have been filled with joy, laughter and the unwelcome stares of thousands of complete strangers. That's how I have been thinking of them - unwelcome. I ignore the looks, usually. But they bother me nonetheless. I just want to parent my child. I am going to have my bad parenting moments, just like everyone else. I am going to have tones of frustration in my voice sometimes. I am going to have to pick up a screaming child and stuff him under my arm as I practically run from the grocery store, or the library. There are going to be times when the floor under the restaurant table is covered in food thrown there by my two beautiful angels. Mama said there'd be days like this, right?

The problem is, before these moments pop up, while we are just that quiet family in the library or that happy family at the restaurant we are still gathering the stares of many of the people around us. So when the tide turns and the bad behavior rears it's ugly head we are already on display.

The other night I couldn't sleep, something that has been happening to me a lot lately. At first I couldn't sleep because I was just so content- suddenly I had all this energy, all from being just so gosh darned happy with my life. Then I couldn't sleep because my return to work date was looming and I knew I was going to walk right back into total craziness. But I found another more family friendly job and gave notice at the old job and so why I couldn't sleep the other night is beyond me. I decided to spend some quality alone time with myself and catch up on my magazine reading.

Skimming through the family and adoption magazines made me think about that day's trip to the grocery store with my boys. As usual, they were relatively well behaved albeit their normal level of boisterousness. And par for the course, we turned our share of heads. But that night I really thought about it. I can't stop staring at my boys. I find them beautiful and sweet and I make eye contact with them on a near constant basis. I truly stare at them. And it is not because they don't look like me. It's not because I am trying to figure out what nationality they are. It is simply because I love them and because they are so cute. So am I that different from everyone out there staring at my boys?

I have to entertain the possibility that people stare because my boys are beautiful. I know a handful of them are trying to work out how they could be related, or what country they may be from. I know some of them are trying to figure out why I chose international adoption over domestic. Some of them are wondering about the situations that led to these beautiful boys needing forever families. But most of them are probably staring because they are sweet and loving children. Simple as that.

So I need to stop letting these stares get to me. But I need to stop ignoring them as well. Next time I will tear my eyes away from my boys and make eye contact with the person admiring my children. And I will smile.

yes, they are BOTH my sons, now do I get to ask you a stupid question in return?

Well it finally happened. We have been home from Russia with our twenty seven month old son for nearly three and a half months and some foolish person in the grocery store wins the title of "First Person to Say Something Stupid About the Fact That My Children Don't Look Alike." On one hand I am, again, surprised at the stupidity of some people. On the other hand, I am sort of amazed that it took this long to happen. At least I was prepared.

There I was in the grocery store check out line with my big four and a half year old Chinese son and my tiny Russian toddler. The two year old was sitting in the baby seat in the front of the cart, holding a can of frozen apple juice up to his older brother's cheek. His brother would jump back and they would both scream with laughter. This little game had been in play since the diaper aisle and it didn't appear to be getting old to either of them. As this game moved throughout the store, with my big four and a half year old hopping up and down next to the moving cart we gathered more than our share of looks. Most of them happy, smiling looks. And then we took our frozen juice show to the checkout line. Where the lady waiting in front of me smiled at my boys and said, "Are they both yours?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes, of course. Why?" (My boys need to see me acting surprised when someone questions the relationships in our family. So if you ask me an invasive and stupid question, you will be pressed to explain yourself. If you ask me a polite and appropriate question  you will receive kindness in return.)

"Uh, well, they don't look alike."

"They don't?" (Now she is thinking, is she crazy? Has she never noticed that her kids don't look alike?) I followed this up with "Oh no!". Later I thought I should have said "Don't tell my husband, he'll totally freak out!" But I just can't think that quickly on my feet.

Now you would think she would have just let the conversation drop at this point. I mean, I thought I had made it pretty clear that I wasn't going to sell out my children just to appease her curiosity. But she didn't. She said, and I quote, "Well, OK, they're both your children but he (pointing to the tiny toddler) is really yours, right?"

ohmygodmykidsarerighthereandtheycanhearyoucan'tyouseethemhowbigofafoolareyouwhyareyoustilltalkingtomeshutupshutupshutupshutup!

I looked down at my boys, wondering if they had heard her. It didn't seem as though they had. My big four and a half year old was standing on side of the cart trying to reach the box of fruit gummys while the two year old patted him, not so gently, on the back with his baseball hat. They were both giggling and the two year old was kicking his feet against the cart, making a repeated loud banging noise. (After some serious quizzing once we were in the car I was satisfied that my oldest son had not overheard the conversation.)

"They look like brothers to me.", I said. I then turned to the person standing behind me in line and offered to let her check out in my place. She took me up on it and we swapped places. Current crisis averted. But how long is it going to be before someone else says something stupid that my oldest son does hear?

Here is what I worry about: one day he will figure out that his little brother looks more like us than he does. He has already been asked by friends at day care about his little pushed in nose, a casualty of his cleft lip and palate. One day that beautiful little nose will be repaired, but right now, he knows that not everyone has a nose like his. I also worry that my younger son will one day grow tired of strangers asking about the ethnicity of his brother and not asking about his. People just assuming that he is my biological child and born in America takes his Russian heritage away from him and can be just as damaging as his brother's Chinese heritage always being publicized. And here's the part of the whole story that perhaps bothers me the most. Why would anyone even say anything to me in the first place? I would never even entertain these thoughts, let alone actually say them out loud and especially in front of the children!

I know that the next time these questions are asked, if my big four and a half year old hears them, I will simply ask him to answer. As far as he knows both he and his brother are real. They are really brothers. They are both my children. I mean, really. I barely tolerate taking my own children to the grocery store. Why would I be there with children that weren't mine?