Happy Family Day to my super six year old!

meeting Daddy for the first time- June 2008

 

You were late to meet us, your new parents, because the orphanage van had a flat tire and was stuck on the side of the road for a while. Then you finally arrived! You were holding that little yellow truck- even back them you loved things with wheels! That has not changed. Your nanny gave me gifts- an orange juicer, because "babies like juice". A map of Dongguan City. A little photo book of you- with every picture taken on the same day. Probably the day before we met you.

 

We walked circles around Shamian Island. You, either in the stroller the Victory Hotel provided or snuggled against my body in the baby carrier. We drank ice tea at Starbucks. We dropped laundry off at the Ladybug and ate scrambled eggs at Lucy's. We walked and walked the waiting hours away. We watched the water and the boats and were reprimanded for letting our wet umbrella drip on the floor of the hotel lobby. It rained nearly every day, and it was so hot that sometimes we would just lay on the floor of our air conditioned hotel room, until boredom set in and we set out for the steamy sidewalks once again.

 

We changed diapers on the floors of airports and we pushed you, screaming in your stroller, through airport gate after airport gate. We left a trail of puffs on every plane and walked miles up and down the narrow airplane paths, rocking you as we walked. We made bottles in hotels, on planes, in airports and restaurants.

We were so happy to arrive at the Hong Kong airport after many delays. We replenished our empty stock of formula and ate Burger King that tasted like the Burger King we were used to. We drank drinks with ice and worked hard to keep you safe in a modern hotel room full of sharp angles and points.

 

I rode home from the Columbus airport in the backseat, holding your little screaming body down into your car seat- being strapped in for the first time did not sit well with you! We held, we rocked, we fed, we loved. We got to know each other.

 

Five years ago today you became ours and we became yours. I am blessed to be called mommy by you!

 

 



 

 



Happy Birthday to my son and Thank You to the "other woman"

Today my youngest son turns four years old. In the blink of an eye he grew from a tiny 24 month old into a strong and healthy four year old boy. In the blink of an eye he pushed away the bottles and pacifiers and grabbed onto trucks and games. While I was fending off chaos and blinking back the tears of exhaustion, frustration, and pain, my youngest son grew taller, sturdier. And today he turns another year older. Another year further away from the baby I never knew.

When a doctor or teacher asks me for my boys' birthdays I have to stop and think. I get odd looks when I do this. "How do you not know the birthday of your child?", I am sure they are thinking. But why would I? I wasn't there. I didn't wait for this day with anticipation and excitement. I didn't plan for this day of birth. So I have to think about it, when I am asked. Ask me their adoption dates, the dates they joined our families and I am quick to respond. Ask me a birthday and I pause.

So I don't think too much about the actual birthday. I don't look at my newly minted four year old and think back to his birth. I don't tell him the story of how long the labor was or what his daddy did while we waited for him to arrive. I do tell my boys these stories on their Family Days- how long we waited and prayed for them to come home, how Daddy paced around the room because the van you were riding in to meet us was late thanks to a flat tire, (the oldest), or how nervous and excited we were as we waited in the court house hallway, (the youngest). No, on the birthday of my boys, I don't think much about my actual boys. I think about the birth mothers I will never know.

Do they think about their lost little ones on this day? Is there a woman in Russia today thinking about the tiny baby she gave birth to four years ago? Does she think about this baby boy sometimes? Does the unknown Chinese birth mother think of the little boy with the cleft lip and cleft palate that she left on the steps of an old hotel? I have no answers. But I do know that if the tables were turned I wouldn't think about anything else.

On this day, on the fourth birthday of my youngest son, I send my thoughts to his birth mother. I want her to know that I am thankful to her. I wish she had found her way to better pre-natal care, yes. I wish she had been able to ignore the call of drugs and alcohol while carrying my son. But I am thankful he was born in a hospital. I am thankful that she knew she could not care for him. I am thankful that she carried the pregnancy to term. I am so very thankful to her, for my wonderful son.

She could have made so many other choices along the way. She could have ended the pregnancy. She could have refused to go to the hospital for the birth. She could have left her tiny, hours old baby in the street. She could have walked away from the hospital with that baby in her arms. She could have come back to claim him, dragging him down into her world. She could have said "no" when officials hunted her down and asked for her to sever her parental rights. She could have changed the course of my destiny.

If I could, I would tell her that my son is healthy. My son is funny. My son is smart. I would let her know that he is getting the help he needs. He is growing, both in body and in mind. He is learning about love, and family. He is learning about God. I would tell her about my son's amazing imagination and his love of Curious George. I would share with her his wit and how infectious his laughter can be. I would ask her if other members of my son's birth family cover their mouths when they get to laughing uncontrollably. I would ask her if his quick temper and "outie" belly button are birth family traits. I would ask her if she was aware of proper pre-natal care and simply chose not to care.

One thing I wouldn't ask her is "why". I would only say "thank you". On this, my youngest son's fourth birthday, to him I say "Happy Birthday!" And to the birth mother who gave me this great joy, I say "Thank You. To you I will always be grateful. I thank God for you."

From Birth Mothers to Bullying- the boy is doing just fine

"Daddy is not answering his phone.", I said to my super six year old, as we sat snuggled together in the restaurant booth, waiting for our dinners to arrive. "Keep calling, Mommy. You must persevere!" Persevere? My super six year knows the word "persevere"? After grilling him for the definition, it turns out, he does.

Learning that my oldest son has a vocabulary even larger than I thought was not the only thing I learned yesterday. Apparently my young man knows this word because it is one of the awards given out monthly in Chapel in his school. I just found out about these awards last week and am still a little sketchy on them. I hear there is an award for "Honesty", and now one for "Perseverance". What I do know is that my guy has not been awarded one of these yet, and he really, really, really wants one. At his age, and knowing his temperament, I doubt he wants one for the meaning behind it as much as for the idea of "winning". My super six year old loves to win. But what a great thing to win at, right? I learned about this at 7:00pm last night, after spending the entire day playing at COSI.

The morning started with a trip to the pediatrician for my son's six year old well check up. There I learned something I had been suspecting for quite a while. My young son can act calmly in that doctor's office. I was beginning to wonder. He questioned the nurse, "Am I going to get any shots today?" She wasn't sure. He questioned the doctor, who confirmed that, no, he would not be getting any shots. He had been questioning me for two days. He immediately stopped wiggling and grabbing for items in the drawers under the exam table. He let his strong body melt into the table, stretched out long, and began to play his DS while he sang to himself. (Smashmouth!) I could actually talk to the doctor! I could think about my answers! I could stop being that frazzled mother who has to keep one eye, and both hands, on her child at all times! Yesterday morning I learned that when my son has the information he needs he can be a calm little guy. And yes, I already knew this, but it was a great reminder.

I learned that my super six year is maturing in ways that make me proud. While we waited for nearly two hours to get into COSI - ALWAYS BUY YOUR TICKETS ONLINE DURING SPRING BREAK PEOPLE!- I allowed my boy to wander off to the nearby hands on exhibits. I could always see him, and he came back to me every time I called his name. "Such a patient boy you have there!", exclaimed a grandmother waiting in line behind me. "Not usually", I thought. But maybe, just maybe, he is learning this. Patient and a good listener. Who knew.

I watched my son share the small rubber balls in one of the Space exhibits with a little girl. He had watched her be denied a ball by the boy on the other side of the exhibit and when she showed up at his side he didn't need me to remind him to be a gentleman. He willingly gave her a ball. And when the little boy on the other side tried to take it back, my young man grabbed it first, saying, "This ball is hers", and handed it to the girl. He shared, and more importantly,  he stood up for what he knew to be right. He did not let that little boy do what stands for bullying in the kindergarten set. And I learned that my super six year old is on his way to becoming a man.

I learned that my guy knows A LOT about space. He had his facts right and was able to hold a conversation with a much older boy about planets while waiting in line to see the space capsule. He taught a younger girl about how the earth moves around the sun, using his hands and a ball to further explain. He is an educator, this boy.

I watched my super six year old take command of a group of children, both older and younger than he, to run the mini land rover and cranes. He gave direction to everyone, making sure every child knew their instructions before starting the mission. He is a leader, this boy.

We played together in the Ocean exhibit, my son showing me how to place the water stream just right so that it would intersect with his. His little engineering mind figured out where to place all of the water streams so that all five of them intersected. It was late in the day and we had the exhibit all to ourselves, so he had the time to really figure this out. I learned how single minded my son can be. He wasn't leaving the exhibit until he had those streams of water precisely where he wanted them.

I watched my boy play a game of checkers in the outside play area, with checker pieces bigger than his head. He bounced around the giant sized playing board, pondering his choices and making his moves. I had warned the older girl he was playing with that he may not know how to play; turns out I didn't need to do that. Sometime between the last time I played with him and yesterday he learned the rules of the game. I learned that my son frequently plays checkers with his friends at his after school program. Once again I was reminded that my super six year old has a whole life I know very little about. Again I was reminded of the importance of cementing this relationship early on in life so he will be sure to include me in his life as he grows. Just imagining what parts of his life I may not know about when he is a teenager makes me shudder!

I learned that my son is outgoing. Which, of course, I already knew. But this boy is confident. I watched as he realized he didn't have a partner for a game he wanted to play and with just a tiny nudge from me he asked the girl next to him if she would like to be his partner. There was no fear that this older girl would deny him his request. He was confident that he would not be shot down. I also learned where his head is about his birth country. He is currently in a phase where he is very proud to be Chinese. The girl he asked to play this game was also Chinese. While the girl won the game, the two of them had a very high score- higher than the other kids who had gone before them. When I pointed this out to my son he exclaimed, loudly, that it was because both he and his partner were Chinese. The girl's Chinese father hid a smile when this was pronounced. OK, still doing good with the birth country thing.

I learned that my super six year old is still not ready to discuss his birth mother. He was very interested in the display of fetus', looking at each month of pregnancy with great care. He was amazed when he realized how very small he started out. I was cautious to use the correct terms and to make sure he understood that when he was a fetus he was in his birth mother's tummy, not mine. We spent a lot of time in this exhibit but it wasn't his time to ask these questions, not yet.

I learned that my boy is all boy. He spent quite some time playing the "bodily function" organ, where each key he pressed gave us a loud sneeze, hungry rumblings, or a cough. The "vomit" key was his favorite. So much, in fact, that he continued to make the disgusting sound long after we left the exhibit.

As we finally left the museum, eight hours after arriving, we walked slowly to the car. We had parked in the farthest lot from the door, and on the way in my boy had bounced along and run ahead numerous times. Now, on the way out, he was lagging behind, his little legs tired. Despite my equally tired legs I picked up my 45 pound six year old and carried him to the car. He rested his head on my shoulder and ran his fingers up and down my back, enjoying the feel of the fabric of my coat. "I think my legs are broken.", he mumbled in my ear. I hugged him as we slowly made our way to the car. I learned that my  big six year old, the one who acted as a leader, a teacher, a protector, was still also a little boy. My little boy.

I don't often have the chance to spend an entire day, uninterrupted, with just one of my boys. We went to the museum because my son asked to go, and because it is such a great educational opportunity for him. But all those hours, alone with my oldest son, were educational for me as well. A reminder to sometimes pause and take a moment. A moment to appreciate the growth. A moment to ponder the amazing creature before you. A moment to play like a child, with your child. And a moment to carry your child in your arms again.

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.

we are all lucky

This post was originally published on September 17, 2010. It is an essay on show Hope and the great work that the Chapman family is doing for orphans all over the world. It is being re-posted in honor of National Adoption Month.




When people find out that our son joined our family through adoption I am often told how "lucky" Matthew is. Now that we are working on our second international adoption the platitudes continue. "What a great thing you are doing for these children. They are so lucky!" And I always respond the same way. "No, we are the lucky ones." And we are. We truly are. Matthew's grandparents, cousins, friends- they are all lucky. I have always held true to my belief that while my son certainly has been afforded opportunities he would never have seen had he stayed in China, including the love of a forever family, we cannot say for sure that ripping him from the country of his birth makes him "lucky". His life in China would have been different, yes. But our American ideals and my son's ability to attain them aren't necessarily better. We, as Americans, think they are- the nice house, the home cooked meals, the toys, video games, educational opportunities - these are hard to say no to. That is how we think, but that is is not how our whole world thinks. Tradition, culture, simple pleasures, honesty, hard work- these ideals, while not tangible- are important to the people of my son's birth country. So I really don't want to say that he is "lucky".

Last night my husband and I attended A Night With The Chapmans. It was a great night of music with Steven Curtis Chapman and his family. His wife, Mary Beth, spoke and read from her new book, Choosing to SEE. The tour is basically a fundraiser for show HOPE, an organization started by the Chapman family to help orphans around the world. As we settled into our seats the big screens began to display a video about this amazing organization. Images of babies and children from all over this world filled the screen. Many of the pictures were of Chinese babies with cleft lips and cleft palates. It was a very emotional moment for both my husband and I.

Later in the show a fellow musician and close friend of the Chapman family took the stage to talk about show HOPE. He talked about Maria's Big House of Hope, an orphanage recently opened by the show HOPE foundation in the Henan province of China. Not too long ago a medical team came to Maria's Big House of Hope to complete cleft lip and palate surgeries on the babies and children living there. The speaker then explained that the Chinese officials were so impressed with this project that they are talking to show HOPE about running a floor of already established orphanages for special needs babies. Special needs babies, like our little guy. We toured the orphanage Matthew lived in when we traveled to China and we saw the special needs "room". Crib after crib of forgotten and discarded children. Our son's crib was in that eerily quiet room.

As I sat there vacillating between hope and tears brought on by the inspirational music and powerful words it suddenly hit me. I can't believe I never figured this out before. I guess I always knew but didn't want to think about it. We are a family first, and a family brought together by international adoption second. The daily ins and outs of being a family always come first- the baths and bedtimes, sippy cups and games of tag- that is what I am all about these days. It may not always seem that way because so much of my writing is about the adoption side of our life, but it's true. So maybe life just got in the way. Or maybe I needed to be a little further removed from the adoption journey to fully understand the positive implications of what we have done by bringing Matthew into his forever family.

Our little man talks from the moment he wakes up until his eyes close at night. He sings and hums to himself constantly. He loves to snack on cheese curls and apples. He would not be able to do any of those things had we not brought him into our family. He wouldn't be able to hear the music as well without the tubes in his ears. he wouldn't be able to eat crunchy food without the repaired palate. He wouldn't be able to form understandable words to talk and sing. He was malnourished when we first met him and the fact is that babies with unrepaired cleft palates grow into children who are sickly and weak, if they grow into children at all. An unrepaired palate means difficulty in school and in forming relationships. And in China, where there are already considerably fewer girls than boys, an unrepaired cleft palate means no bride. No significant other as best friend and confidant. No intimacy.

I sat in my seat while everyone around me was standing up and clapping to the upbeat music, letting the truth just wash over me. We did save him. He would not be the boy he is today. He would not have the potential he has today. He would not light up a room with his smile or be the life of the party. In fact, he might not be.

Next time someone tells me how "lucky" Matthew and his future sibling are that we adopted them, I will still respond by saying "no, we are the lucky ones." And that will be true, we certainly are lucky. But in my heart, I know that my kids, the one here today and any future wilkisons, are lucky also. When you can suddenly see a part of the big plan God has for our lives, it's awesome. Last night, a small part of that plan became a little more clear.

if only he had his DS in China...

Because the tiny toddler is sometimes so hard to put down at night, once he is happy and quiet in his room we all take great pains to not disturb him. Even if I am the one to complete his night time routine and he is sleepy eyed and calm when I turn out his light and leave his room, he will wake up and start screaming for me if he hears me upstairs. To prevent this I sometimes read books to the big five year old downstairs, and then have Daddy run him up to bed, nice and quiet like. And everyone is happy. And everyone gets enough sleep.  Well, almost everyone is happy. Sometimes the big five year old would prefer to play his DS than read books with Mommy. But DS time is saved for long car trips and waiting rooms, so books won again last night.

Last night I sent the big five year old up to his room to get a few books. He brought down one of my favorite books- the story of his adoption from China. I made this book for him the summer he came home, and even four years later he still loves to read it. And I love the conversations this book starts for me and my little man.

Every time we read this book we talk about adoption, on his terms. For a long time we just looked at the pictures, and then we added in the basic story. And now we have grown to answering thoughtful questions, like why did we wait to paint his room blue? Didn't we know we were having a boy all along? My sweet husband explained the reason why more girls than boys come home from China. He talked about how we almost decorated the room for a girl and at the last minute something stopped us. Some little voice in my husband's head whispered to him to wait, and so we did. We talked about the day we got "the call"- a Tuesday. Suddenly, we had a boy!

After the boy/girl discussion last night we turned the page and saw the picture of Daddy pacing the floors of the Adoption Registry Center, waiting for our little boy to arrive. "You were late", we explained, "Because your van had a flat tire." Whenever my sweet husband and I picture this moment we see a scene from the book "Shaoey and Dot", where the little baby is sitting on the nanny's lap in the back of a van, drinking from a bottle and all bundled up. (Even though it was May and oh.my.god. hot in Guangzhou I still picture that at that moment he is all bundled up. )

 So that is what we picture. Last night we got a glimpse into what the big five year old pictures when he thinks of that moment in the van, sitting by the side of the road, waiting for the driver to change the tire. "Mommy, I wish I had my DS with me that day in the van, then I could have been playing it while we waited!" We have come so far in making sure he understands his story, but obviously we still have a ways to go!

the man he will one day become

I saw my little boy grow up a little last weekend. It seems as though right before my eyes he went from my baby to a grown up five year old.  We spent the weekend being very busy, shuttling the kids from one place to another, every moment planned out. Well, to be truthful, we spent most of the weekend shuttling the big five year old around while the tiny toddler came along for the ride. By the time Sunday afternoon rolled around I truly was seeing a different boy when I looked at my oldest son.

This happens to mothers every so often. It has only happened to me once before, although I know it will again as my boys grow. I walked away from my then four year old last May to spend a month in Russia finalizing the adoption of his new little brother. I cannot put into words how my heart ached for my oldest son while I was away from him. I couldn't wait to hold him, to touch his hair, to feel his  little body in my lap. My body and mind were tired from the long trip home with the tiny toddler strapped to my hip. My steps had slowed and my sleep deprived brain was getting a little fuzzy. But when we finally landed in Columbus Ohio my strength was renewed and my steps were a little lighter as I walked off the plane and into the arms of my oldest son. I remember sitting on a bench, crying, holding my four year old, with the poor tiny toddler smashed between us. And then I really looked at my boy.

His hair was more course. His head was bigger. His body was sturdier. He had changed dramatically in those four weeks I had missed. And last weekend it happened again.

We are hoping that our big five year old is accepted into the private christian school to which we have applied. Last Saturday we had to rush him straight from China school, where he had already spent two hours completing Mandarin and Martial Arts classes, to an hour and a half of kindergarten testing. While we waited for the test to be completed we chased the tiny toddler around the school and attended a parent orientation meeting. As I sat in that classroom listening to one of the kindergarten teachers talk about the first few weeks of school and expectations, it hit me. My baby was going to be in kindergarten next year. In just three short months he will get on a school bus, by himself, and go to school. He will have to remember his backpack and lunch box. He will not be able to take one of the "baby animals" he carries in to preschool every day. He will be buying milk, for God's sake!

Sunday we rushed straight from church to my big five year old's first flag football game of the season. He played last Fall for the first time and loved it. Football is definitely my little man's game. 

my little football star!

Despite the lack of direction from the coach, my little football player let his talent shine through. He ran for 2 touchdowns and pulled 11 flags. He zigged and zagged and by the end of the game every parent on the sidelines was cheering for him. He was the standout MVP of the game. And I was so proud.

But what made my heart sing even more than the smile on his face when he ran the ball into the end zone was what I saw happening in between his turns to run the ball. My big five year old was doing more than scoring points for his team. He ran next to every other kid when it was their turn to run the ball. He attempted to block for them, even though the team had not yet been taught about blocking. He cheered them on, encouraging his new team mates to run that ball. He jumped up and down and clapped at the end of each play, touch down or not. He not only showed his amazing athletic skills but, perhaps more importantly, he showed his amazing compassion and sportsman like conduct. Watching my son run next to a team mate, cheering them on, brought tears to my eyes. He is growing up so fast.

Later, when I had a moment to sit still and really look at the photo I snapped before the game, (above), I was taken by how small my big five year old looks. Because out on that field I didn't see this little boy- I saw a glimpse of the man he will one day become.

my two hearts

I love Pinterest! I know that everybody uses this bulletin board site differently - some use it as a dream board of sorts, some as an electronic list. I use it as a little of both. I am currently capturing ideas for our upcoming master bedroom redecoration, which is a mix of dream and reality. I also use it to store recipes, all of which I will eventually try. I use it to keep lists of books I want to read, adoption related books and items I might wish to purchase, and fun holiday themed treats and crafts for the kids. As a person who loves lists and all things organization, this website seems to have been made for me.

So I saw this on Pinterest a few months ago:

I think this is just beautiful. It shows a couples'  timeline- where they met, where they married, where they live, and love, now. I thought this could be changed up to reflect the birth countries of my boys. I chose a dark wood frame to match the decor in the dining room, which is where I decided to hang this craft project. Our dining room walls are covered with black and white photos of the boys, along with a hand painted picture of a panda that my young niece painted for my big five year old when he first came home from China. Eventually there will also be a picture or two representing Russia. And now there is this:

It still needs some work. I may replace the background paper and add a title- maybe "family" or "love". But it looks great on my dining room wall and the boys love it. The heart on the left shows Vladivostok Russia and the right reflects the  Guangdong Province of  China. Below I have written the Russian and Chinese names of my boys. I think it is beautiful!

I love you in three languages

Father Frost- the Russian Santa

My tiny toddler just celebrated the most wonderful Christmas! He seemed to love everything about the holiday, once he got over his totally understandable fear of Santa. They call him Father Frost in Russia and I have no idea if my little guy had even seen him during his 24 months in his birth country.

He squealed over Christmas cookies shaped liked trees and candy canes. He giggled and clapped at stuffed puppies with heads that moved and voices that barked Jingle Bells. He tore into wrapping paper and cheered when he saw the gifts inside. He pointed and yelled from his car seat at the houses blazing with holiday lights as we drove around town. He pulled on Santa's beard and yelled "BUS!" at the top of his lungs whenever he was asked what he wanted Santa to bring him.

Just seven months ago his world was gray. One hallway. Peeling paint, old toys, caregivers coming and going. Did he even know it was Christmas last year? Did he eat the same thin mashed potato and vegetable stock puree for dinner? Did he play with the same toys he had to share with all of the other children? Did he hear Christmas music? Did a loving caregiver sing to him as she quickly settled him in his crib? I will never know. But I do know what he experienced this year.

He sang "la la la" to the Christmas music on the car radio. He didn't know the words but he knew his older brother was singing his little heart out to "Frosty the Snowman" and he la la'd right along. He didn't wear the same clothes he saw on another child the day before. He had his own Christmas sweater and footy pajamas. He was given gifts with his name on them, selected just for him. He sat in Santa's lap. He asked for a special toy, and he got it.  I am pretty sure that my little guy had a truly wonderful Christmas.

But I can also say that I am pretty sure that I had an even better Christmas than he did. Watching my big four and a half year old lead his new little brother through the holiday maze of presents, cookies, day care parties and dress up sweater vests made my heart sing. Hearing the glee in my youngest son's giggles, watching his face light up, seeing him play with his cousins- I spent the entire Holiday season smiling through happy tears.

Last year he had a tiny crib squeezed in between other tiny cribs. He wore clothes from the scuffed shared dresser in the tiny bedroom with the concrete walls. He did not sit on Santa's lap or see the tall decorated tree in the center of town.

Central Square- Vladivostok

This year he has cousins! Warm clothes! Enough food! A big brother! A pet cat! A Home! A bedroom all to himself! And a mommy and daddy.

And I have the family I always dreamed of but never imagined.

My happy family spent the day after Christmas at my sister's home. Our aunt and uncle joined us, meeting my tiny toddler for the first time. As my boys opened gifts and played with my sister's dogs my older aunt and uncle asked me many questions about our trip to Russia and my youngest son's rocky start to life. I shared with them lots of details about the trip and the city of Vladivostok. I shared fewer details of the baby hospital and none of the tidbits of information I know about my son's birth family. Those nuggets of truth belong to my son. It is his story to tell, not mine, and at the very least I owe it to him to tell him the little I know before telling anyone else. I realized, as I sat at my sister's kitchen table retelling the story of our trips to Russia, of meeting my son for the first time, of getting to know him in a small room at a motor inn- I realized that it's not new anymore. I don't look at my son and see the long nights alone in a hotel room with a screaming baby. I don't kiss his head and see him holding his winter hat out to me, demanding to go outside even though rain was sluicing down the hotel room windows. I don't wear him in the hip carrier and instinctively place my hand between my chest and his face in order to prevent him from biting me.  I don't seem to be carrying the battle scars of our bumpy journey any longer. I found that I didn't want to recount my story to my aunt and uncle, even though this was the first time I had seen them since returning home with my new son. Instead I wanted to share my son's triumphs. How his words are coming every day. How he never stops asking "dat?" and seems to want to know what everything is and how it works. How he already has a favorite musician, (Laurie Berkner), and a favorite toy, (buses). How he no longer needs to carry a cup of cereal around with him- I think he is finally full! How he says his favorite color is blue and how he loves to sing and is starting to carry the tune of whatever song he is listening to. How he knows when it is his turn to pick the TV show and always, always picks Blues Clues. How he lovingly pretends to feed his stuffed animals before putting them sweetly to bed, yelling "nite nite!" at them. How he calls his brother "Dao", his attempt at his older brother's middle name, Zhao. How he runs to the door every night when Daddy comes home from work, jumping up and down and hugging his legs.

And how his face lit up over and over again this Christmas as he experienced the sights, sounds, and tastes of the holidays. Ask me about that. Ask me about how I felt as I sat in my mother in law's living room watching my older son share his new racetrack toy with his baby brother. Watching him gently take the little car from his younger brother and teach him how to race it down the track. Ask me how I felt as I snuck away from my in laws home to take in a movie with my husband, leaving my sleeping boys in their grandparents' capable hands. I had to split my life open for all the world to see, I had to
sign my name a thousand times, I had to travel around the world, twice. I had to shed thousands of tears, both out of frustration and happiness. I had to witness poverty and lonliness. I had to learn to make congee and sweet fruit tea. I have worn babies through China, Hong Kong, Russia, South Korea, Japan and America. All to get to this moment, when I tucked in my two sleepy but excited boys and reminded them that Santa would be coming that night.

One last thing I had to learn. How to say "I Love you" in three languages.

I love you in Russian

Best. Christmas. Ever.

I think of her often and I thank God for her daily. I just can't say the words, yet

With Thanksgiving right around the corner I have been having a lot of conversations lately with my big four and a half year old about what we are all thankful for. He has been pretty much right on with his thankfulness - his preschool mind has him thankful for monster trucks and Halloween candy. The other day though, out of the blue, he said this to me : "Mommy, today I am thankful that you and Daddy went all the way to China to adopt me when I was a baby." Totally unprompted and totally sweet.

Tuesday night I was sitting in the cafe at church with both my boys waiting for Daddy to pick them up so I could attend a meeting. I asked my daily "what are you thankful for?" question. His reply: "Mommy, I am thankful for that other woman who carried me in her tummy and then took me to that place where I got in the van and drove to you and Daddy." OK, so he has a few of the details wrong, but oh. my. god. Total heart stopping moment. "I'm very thankful to her as well, Doodlebug.", I answered. And I am. I am so thankful to her. This woman who I will never meet, who has given me a piece of her- I owe her everything.

Which is why I feel guilty sometimes, when I think of this woman. I am thankful to her for so much. I am thankful that she went against years of violence against newborns to let a disfigured baby boy live. I am thankful that she placed this baby somewhere he would be found. I truly owe her my life. The connection I have to my oldest son is unexplainable. Sometimes my love for him is so strong it feels as though I am suffocating. I know what he is thinking. I know that he is a very sensitive soul wrapped up in an all boy package. He is in every breath I take. He is mine. All mine. And I know that. Both my boys are my boys.

So why is it so hard for me to say these two simple words: birth mom. I have yet to use these words with my oldest son. I feel as though there is no going back, once those words are out there. I tell myself that my little man is too young to understand, which is probably partially true. But I know the real reason I have yet to utter those words. I don't want to share him. He is mine. And I know that how we handle this will set the tone for how we handle it the next time around, when our tiny toddler is old enough to begin to understand his adoption story. We have danced around the subject. We read Motherbridge of Love by Xinran. We talk about the two women, the one who gave him life and the one who is teaching him to live it. He knows that some mommies have babies in their tummies and some grow their love for their baby in their hearts. He knows he wasn't in my tummy and neither was his little brother.  And I know I am probably over thinking it. It will come in it's own time. But still, I feel guilty. I owe this woman. I feel connected to her through this beautiful boy. I wonder all the same things my son will most likely wonder one day. Did he get his beautiful features from her? His sense of playfulness? His love of music? Does she have long fingers just perfect for playing the piano? Is she sensitive and caring? I owe her. And I want my son to know as much of his sketchy story as possible. She deserves to be remembered. And he deserves to have the keys to his start in this world. So I sometimes feel guilty that I haven't uttered those two little words yet. Birth Mom. I think of her often and thank God for her daily. And one day I will give her the title she deserves. Birth Mom.

again I am a winner

Last night we had our first post placement visit for our new little guy. I cannot believe that it has been five months since he joined our family and four months since we have been home from Russia! Some days it seems like we have been home forever and other times it feels as though I just stepped off that plane with my life changing youngest son sitting in his hip carrier, with his thumb in his mouth and his hand absentmindedly rubbing my hair. So this post placement appointment kind of caught me by surprise. On the one hand, how have we been home long enough to already be needing to do this? And on the other hand, we're just a typical family, so being reminded that we are being "watched", so to speak, was a tad startling.

I love my children and the family we have created. I firmly believe that these are not only my children; they are also the children I am meant to have. My boys are God given. So I don't usually think about the whole fertility thing, not anymore. I don't mourn the first months/years of my boys' lives that I missed. I am happy and content, yes. But that doesn't mean that I don't sometimes feel frustration over the hoops we adoptive parents must jump through. Before the child comes home there's the personal questions, the walk through of the home, the fire marshall. (for some reason the fire marshall visit really annoyed me this second time around and I am having a hard time letting it go...) After the child comes home there are more personal questions, this time centered around the parenting skills of the adoptive parents. Every so often it all just gets under my skin. After all, parents bring their biologically born babies home from the hospital every day in car seats not properly installed, to houses full of second hand smoke - you get the point.

So these past few days I have been mildly annoyed at constantly being singled out. But then the other day a friend of mine, a mother from my oldest son's china friends playgroup, posted a poem, of sorts, on facebook.

I love Sark.  Her book, Glad No Matter What, really spoke to me. And my friend's post really spoke to me as well, for two reasons. The first reason is my tiny toddler is a handful. He is sweet and loving and has a playful sense of humor beginning to peep through the chaos. But he is also short tempered, easily frustrated, and, occasionally, uses brute force to get his way. Parenting him these past months has not been easy. It has gotten so much easier and will continue to do so, but the journey has been a tough one. This quote reminded me to stop yelling, so to speak, and just love.

But perhaps even more important is the second reason. The person who posted this is more than just another mom from my son's play group. She is a friend. As are so many of the other mom's now. They are friends, confidants, giver's of great advice. They understand adoption guilt. They have their own battlefield stories. They have quietly become a huge and very important part of my life. And without the adoption journeys, with all their injustices, their personal questions, without the fire marshall, (oh my god, the fire marshall!), I would not know them. So again I am a winner. I won the biggest prize of all with my two beautiful boys, and the prizes keep coming.

When I remember all that I have gained- my family, this amazing community of mothers, a multicultural life- I know that I am truly blessed. And I am no longer annoyed.

another year, another moon cake

My sweet little trans cultural family will be heading to an Autumn Moon Festival party tomorrow evening. This is one of my family's favorite events. Last year the night included a dance party sandwiched in between the eating of moon pies and the lantern parade. In honor of this important Chinese holiday I wanted to re post an essay I wrote two years ago about my last minute search for moon pies. While you enjoy reading this I will be off at the party, enjoying keeping track of my big four and a half year old while trying to keep the tiny toddler from climbing too high on the playground equipment and convincing them both to eat dinner as opposed to only eating the grapes while jumping up and down. I don't know why, but my boys spend a lot of their day jumping up and down...



Originally posted in October 2009.

The things we do for our kids. Two months ago I emailed the president of the Columbus chapter of Families With Children From China to voice frustration over our membership dues from last year never being cashed. It is time to pay the dues for this year, and we never officially became members last year. And believe me, we tried. I have never had such a hard time trying to join a group- it was worse than a high school clique! So I say this to the new president, nicely, of course, and the next thing I know I am being invited to attend the next board meeting. Apparently, I was not the only one unhappy. As it turns out, though, I was the only one unhappy who accepted the offer to attend the meeting. Really, people. Don't speak up if you aren't willing to help facilitate the change. Otherwise, you are just complaining. And no one likes a complainer.



















So I attend the board meeting, and I speak up, and before I knew it I was heading up a play group for 2 year olds and offering to purchase moon pies and jasmine tea for an upcoming event. That was a month ago.


















Wednesday I went to Sam's club to buy the moon pies. 100 moon pies. Our membership had expired, so I went straight to the customer service desk to renew it. I waited in line for 15 minutes behind a very tired looking mother of two who were running around the grocery cart in wide circles. So wide, in fact, that I had to repeatedly pull my cart back and out of their way. Oh, and they were screaming at each other as they raced around.


















Finally it is my turn. I whip out my expired card and hand it over to the cashier. Who politely tells me that I don't pay at his desk, instead I simply pay when I check out. "Great", I say, pulling the word out of my mouth slowly. OK, that's 15 minutes of my life I will never get back. I turn my cart around and head into the store, straight for the snack food aisle. I push the cart up and down aisle after aisle, full of nuts and candy and gum and good lord, enough toilet paper for a small army, but I cannot find the moon pies. And I cannot find the jasmine tea. I toy with the idea of waiting in the check out lines anyway so I can renew the membership, but then I come to my senses and head out the door.


















Turns out, the guy standing at the door checking receipts just in case someone decides to stuff 52 rolls of toilet paper under their sweater is unaccustomed to customers leaving the store without making a purchase.


















"I need to see your receipt." (I am not even holding a bag or carrying anything in my arms. Where does he think I stashed my purchase?)


















"I don't have a receipt. I didn't buy anything." I keep walking. He takes a step backwards to keep up with me and stops me.


















"You didn't buy anything? You don't have a receipt?" (They hire the best and brightest, right?)


















"Yes, I did not buy anything."


















I won't bore you with the rest of this conversation, all of which took place with me walking out the door. He actually followed me for a few steps. Are we paying more than we need to for our Sam's Club and Walmart purchases because they have to support this position on their payroll? But that is for another day.


















So that was Wednesday. I got in the car, and I drove home. OK, here is where the story gets weird. I leave my house the next day, Thursday, to go to work, run errands, have dinner with Matthew and Brad, take Matthew to his music class.... not once does the thought of moon pies and jasmine tea enter my brain. Friday arrives. Did I mention that I need these pies by Saturday?


















So I remember halfway through the morning that I need these moon pies. I wonder where I am going to get them. I am picturing myself hitting up every gas station mart in the county, buying 3 moon pies at a time. Oh, and it is pouring down rain. I lament my situation on Facebook and my awesome friends come to rescue. The Wonder Bread outlet store. I would never have thought of that in a million years. Instead, I would have driven to every grocery store in town. I swear there are days when I barely remember those amazing SAT scores....


















I call the store and they do have moon pies. I say I need 100. The voice on the other end of the phone says, and I quote, "Well good lord, ma'am. That can't be good for you." Well no, I would expect not.


















I wrap up my morning of work and leave the house. At the last minute I grab the GPS. I let it lead me through major construction, 1 mosque so busy that there is someone in the middle of the street directing traffic. Mind you, this person was not dressed as a traffic cop. or as any kind of cop. I think it may have been a member of the mosque. I then pass a catholic church with a real cop out front, stopping me once again. I pass a bar in a house. Really. The hand painted sign out front tells me that this bar just opened, and there are curtains in the window acting as a backdrop to the flashing neon "Bud" sign. The upstairs windows are open and I see a headboard. It looks as though either people still live in this bar-house or they recently vacated. I have never seen anything like it.


















I pass the Wonder Bread store because I was still thinking about the bar-house. I turn around, and there it is, like a shining star in front of me. I walk up to the door, feeling quite pleased with myself for averting a moon pies crisis. Then I see it. A sign on the door stating that food stamps are welcome but credit cards are not. Oh, so close. I'm not sure how I feel about this. Should someone paying with food stamps even be buying moon pies?


















Sighing, I head back to the car. I think I was muttering to myself a little.... I program "bank" into the GPS and head back the way I came. I pass the spot where the GPS is saying "You have arrived at your destination", and I look around. No bank. I see a grocery store, but no bank. I turn around and pass it again. No Bank. Seriously, I JUST NEED MOON PIES. Why is this so hard?


















Finally I figure out that the bank is INSIDE the grocery store. (You already figured that out, right?) I get the cash and head back to store, where I find the moon pies and start loading my cart with boxes. At the checkout the cashier screams- yes, screams, for her co-worker. "The moon pie lady is here!" Wow, now I am the "moon pie lady". Cool. The co-worker comes rushing out of the back of the store and practically runs to the counter. Everyone in the store stops and looks at me. Everyone.


















"We have to know why you needed 100 moon pies." Really? If I refuse to tell you will I have to leave empty handed? You HAVE to know?


















I explained the Autumn Moon Festival my family would be attending the next day.


















"So Chinese people celebrate by eating moon pies?" Yes, we ship them over to China by the hundreds. Dear God. I back pedal and explain that no, Chinese people do not celebrate with moon pies. That they, in fact, celebrate with moon cakes, but that our Chinese children, growing up in America, don't often eat moon cakes so they don't always like them. Which is where the moon pies come in. I am not sure they understood, but suddenly I did.


















The trip to Sam's Club, the waiting in line, the road construction, the bank, the questions from the cashiers. A lot to go through for a few moon pies. I probably won't even eat one tomorrow as we hand them out to our children. Our kids will eat these moon pies as they sit and listen to the story of the Autumn Moon Festival and it's meaning in their native country. They will finish them just as the sun goes down and the moon shines brightly in the sky. Those moon pies will just be a memory as our children light their lanterns and walk through the grassy field in the lantern parade that will bring the celebration to a close. It was a lot to go through for 5 minutes of enjoyment sandwiched between story time and a lantern parade. But for those 5 minutes, our children will be so happy. And maybe they will have a better understanding of how their two worlds come together, bumping up against each other every day.

God doesn't have a Plan B- what I wish everyone knew about adoption

A few weeks ago I was at a friend's home attending a home sales party when my friend asked me how life was going since our return from Russia with our new son. This was a good friend and so of course she knew about our adoption adventures. And everyone who knows us knows that we wear our adoption badge proudly - in our trans racial family it is certainly no secret that our boys are not American by birth. I don't mind a friend asking an innocent question about my family. What I do mind is what happened next. Another guest at this party, someone I had not met until that evening, made the following comment: "Why didn't you just have your own children? Can't you have children of your own?" While I was processing these questions another guest followed up with the statement nearly every adoptive mother has heard a million times: "You know, now that you have adopted you will surely get pregnant." I then did something I don't normally do at these types of events. I accepted the glass of wine the host was pushing into my hands and I smiled as I responded through clenched teeth: "Oh, well, with two little ones at home I am not interested in getting pregnant!" (cue awkward laughter.)

Adoption touches so many lives that nearly everyone knows someone who has joyously grown their family in this way. It's time to set the record straight. I am sure that most of these comments are meant with no harm intended. After all, people are naturally curious. But it's not just the thoughtless comments that burn into the memories of adoptive mothers everywhere. It is also conversations we are not included in and assumptions that are made about our decisions and our families.

I don't enjoy being left out of conversations about pregnancy and birth. Just because I didn't carry my child for nine months doesn't mean I didn't do all of the things an expectant mother does. I planned the nursery. I worried about the health of my new child. I dreamed about counting fingers and toes. I wondered what my baby would look like and if he or she would be more like me or my husband. I shopped for clothes and would sit in the chair in my baby's room, looking at the empty crib, full of anticipation. I didn't wait for labor pains to hit; I waited for the phone call and the travel letter to arrive. And once it did, my labor wasn't over in hours or days. The time between notification of travel to meet my sons and the day I held them in my arms took months. So don't think I don't have anything to offer to your conversations about pregnancy or labor.

And your stories about caring for newborns? Don't leave me out of those discussions either. While both my sons were older when they joined our family we still had our share of "newborn" type concerns. My oldest son was fifteen months old when he came home but his sleeping habits mirrored those of a much younger baby. He was difficult to put down and then once asleep he would wake frequently throughout the night, screaming. His night terrors lasted for over a year. I may not have cared for an infant but I understand sleep deprivation. I understand feeding difficulties and worrying over how much, or how little, formula the baby is taking. I have thoughts to add to your conversations, but so often I am not asked.

I had someone comment once to me about how adoption must have been "easier" than a traditional pregnancy. Just because I may not have talked about every part of our adoption process doesn't mean it was "easy". If your obstetrician chose to meet with you in the waiting room of his office, ask you very personal questions about your finances, your marriage, your extended family, your health, your home, your career, your fertility, or lack of fertility, while everyone in the room listened in, how would you feel? If you had to welcome the fire marshal into your home and allow him to poke into every closet and check your fire extinguishers, just to have him tell you that they weren't placed exactly in the right spot, or have him wait, impatiently, while you ran around placing outlet covers in the outlets on your counters, because "babies climb, you know", as if you were completely ignorant of how children behave, how would you feel? How about having to take off your clothes in front of doctors (note the plural there) that you have never met, in a room in a foreign country while other total strangers milled about just outside the not completely closed door, and everyone in the room talked about you in a language you didn't understand? Or having to meet with a psychologist to prove that you are appropriate parent material? What if you went to the hospital to deliver your baby but was not guaranteed to bring that baby home with you? What if a judge held the fate of your family in his or her hands? After undergoing two rounds of invitrovertilization I know how invasive the pregnancy medical appointments and delivery must be. I am not saying that adoption is more difficult than traditional pregnancy and birth. But I am saying that just because I didn't receive an epidural doesn't mean that somehow adoption is the easier choice.

I need you to know how frustrating it is when I am told about women who adopted and then found themselves pregnant. First of all, no one knows the story of our fertility except us. When these types of comments are made so are a lot of assumptions. I may be able to have biological children. I may not be able to have biological children. Either way, our choice to adopt was not some convoluted way to conceive. It was not "plan B". And I never want my children to ever think that it was. It was God's plan for me to have my tender hearted, smart, music and football loving Chinese boy and my sweet, tough, dancing Russian boy. And we all know that God doesn't have a backup plan. There is no "plan B" where my boys are concerned.

I wish as my boys grow older they will be seen for the wonderful individuals they are. I hope that they will not be introduced as my "adopted" boys but simply as my boys. I have never once introduced my niece by saying, "This is my niece. She was born prematurely but is doing great now!" Sounds crazy, right? But that is how my boys are referred to every day. Every day. And while I write about adoption and adoption related issues frequently I do not push that onto my boys. I want the history my boys have from the months they lived before they joined our family to be cherished and remembered, but I also want it to be placed appropriately in the overall scheme of their lives. I want people to look at them and see just them.

I want the questions about my reproductive system to stop. I am not going to tell you how much it costs to adopt internationally. If someone is seriously interested in adoption I am the first person to share the joys and the low points of the process. I love love love to talk about growing families through adoption. But I will not answer a question that makes it sound as though I somehow purchased my children. Please stop reducing my family to dollars and cents.

So many people assume that our children arrived to our family just the way they are now. With a biological child you learn to parent as the child grows. The child learns the language you speak. The child learns to love you and bonds with you, never for a moment thinking that you might one day be gone. My children learned to sooth themselves because maternal figures came and went. They learned to speak, or at least to understand, in a language different from my own. And my husband and I learned to parent in hotel rooms and airports. When our son needed medical attention we didn't have the luxury of calling our pediatrician or running down to the corner drugstore for antibiotics. My tiny, underweight fifteen month old was treated at a hospital in a foreign country. He screamed as I handed him through a window, a window, to have blood taken. I could hear him screaming but could not hold him or comfort him. I tried to keep him clean as I watched parents wring out not just wet, but soiled diapers onto the concrete floor of the hospital waiting room, which was outside, so that the diaper could be used again. I struggled with the question of whether to give my new son the mystery powder with the unreadable label or just hope the bronchitis worked itself out on it's own. We didn't have the luxury of making our parenting mistakes in the privacy of our own home. We made our slip ups in public, in airports, hotels, and flights full of witnesses. Talk about feeling judged.

I don't think about these issues very often. It is important to me that you understand that. I don't dislike the way we are viewed as a family. I don't think that every kind smile or comment is a reflection of our adoption story. My kids are adorable and high energy; it's hard not to look. I get lots of great comments as well. One of my favorites came after I returned home with my youngest son. The entire month long trip had been difficult and the three day journey home, alone with a toddler, was difficult as well. My sweet friend Karen probably had no idea how much her words meant to me when she said "I have no doubt that your labor was much harder than mine." Harder, I don't know. But at least just as difficult, in it's own way. So there are great comments made. But there are also  times when I just wish the world out there knew what I knew. So now, a few more of you do.

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?

no one tell matthew that russia is the largest country in the world

When we planned to add a second child to our family I knew that there would be some jealousy. Our happy little four year old had been the high prince of this castle for three years, reigning over us, his lowly parents. I expected the jealousy over sharing toys and bedtimes. I expected my older son to want to hang off me every moment I was holding our new little guy. I read up on how to introduce the new child to the family. I was prepared to have special "mommy and matthew time" so our older son would be assured to still get one on one quality time with me. I helped Matthew sort his toys and encouraged him to set aside a few special toys that he wouldn't have to share with his new little brother. We explained to Matthew that he would be getting a new, later bedtime when his brother came home, so that he could stay up a little longer than "the baby". I really thought I had it all under control. And everything I expected happened, right on schedule. Normal sibling rivalry. A thousand times a day in my world my son can be heard stating "I can do _________(fill in the blank with some sort of childhood activity, such as eating Popsicles or riding bikes.), because I am the big brother. Alex can't do it because he is a baby." Literally, a thousand, times. a. day.

Some jealousy is tolerated, some is nipped in the bud. It is all understood. And it was all expected.

But recently a type of jealousy I did not expect has started popping up. A type of jealousy that could only occur in a family brought together by international adoption. And it all starts with a geography question.

"Mommy, are there more people living in China than in Russia?"

"Mommy, are the toys better in China than in Russia?"

"Mommy, were my nannies better than Alex's?"

"Mommy, I bet the subway in Russia is not as good as the one we rode in China." (He cannot possibly remember riding the subway in China but he loves subways and so has heard the story of his very first subway ride numerous times.)

"Mommy, is the candy in China better than in Russia?"

"Mommy, is the food better in China than in Russia?"

And the questions go on and on and on. And on. And they get more in depth the deeper we go into the conversation. I actually had to hop on the computer the other day to look up the population of the birth countries of my sons. I would imagine that other mothers of four year olds do not need to memorize the population of large foreign countries just to appease their child.

Because of my little doodlebug I have learned so much. I know all about dragon boat races and the Autumn Moon Festival. I know why it is so important to clean the entire house before the Chinese New Year. I know how to say a fair number of words in Mandarin. I can eat with chopsticks, albeit not always gracefully. I can cook a mean stir fry and I know what spices make up the amazing Chinese five spice combo. Because of my oldest son I can say I have ridden a subway in Guangzhou, (very clean!) I know how the hamburgers taste in the Hong Kong airport (like American hamburgers!),  and I know the joys of squeaky baby shoes, (so cute but somewhat noisy!). And now I am starting to learn facts and geography about my oldest son's birth country.

As my younger sons grows I am sure I will be looking up facts about his birth country as well. And I know that I will be gathering tidbits of knowledge about Russia as we grow as a family. I also know that I will be answering questions about China and Russia for years to come and, quite possibly, breaking up fights between my boys as to whose heritage is better. Other moms get to referee tussles over toys and girls. I get to memorize demographics and geography. sigh.... OK, so no one tell Matthew that Russia is the largest country in the world. Shhhhhhh......

is there ever a time when everything just stands still?

I know I am not alone when I say that time is moving too fast. And it's more than just the fact that son recently turned four years old, although that is a big part of it, I suspect. Maybe it's because I missed the first 15 months of his young life, or maybe every mother feels this way when her little ones start to grow up and test their independence. I don't know. I walked into the gym at church last week to pick up my son and he was playing catch with a small football. He was actually throwing the ball to a friend, who was throwing it back. Another afternoon I arrived at daycare just as he was heading to the bathroom. "You wait outside, Mommy", he said. "I can do this by myself." What? I don't know why I was so shocked. After all, he uses the bathroom by himself at home all the time. But sometimes he still needs help. Sometimes he still needs me. And usually, when he does, I am slightly annoyed as I head to the bathroom to meet his current demand. Because I know he can do this on his own. But watching him take charge of this at school, with his teacher waiting outside the bathroom- not even outside the stall, but outside the bathroom, I was suddenly smacked in the face by his growing independence. Sometimes I look at him and wonder, "who is this kid?"

Yes, time is moving too quickly for me. At a time in my life when my career should be somewhat stable- I'm 40 years old, have a pre-schooler and another toddler on the way - my work life is absolutely crazy. For two years I have held this position and assumed that once I was truly entrenched in my work it would calm down. I now know that it will never calm down. In fact, I can't even assume that this is the busiest I will ever be. Which is terrifying. There are weeks that I find myself lying in bed on Friday night wondering what happened that week. How did a week with such a promising start spiral down so quickly? Did I really spend half of my work week on the telephone? (Think about that. That is 20 hours, at least...) Did I really work every evening after my little guy was tucked into bed, thinking it would propel me forward, helping me to keep my head above water? Then why do I feel like I am drowning all the time?

Time that used to stand still has also picked up speed lately. As a younger person I assumed my parents would be around forever. When I lost my father in my late twenties, I revised that assumption, but only slightly. After all, my mother was still very young. Even when she was living with Alzheimer's Disease and I was fielding her many daily calls and traipsing around Grove City doing her shopping- a slave to her endless shopping lists- I still felt as though time was standing still. Then she suddenly died. And before I could even blink time had rocketed forwarded and I was standing in that same funeral home, in that same room, saying goodbye to another parent.

Now there are phone calls to make for her estate, a home to clean out and sell, a missing bed to find at her assisted living. There are bills to pay and organizations to notify. There are doctor appointments and documents to dig up for our second adoption. There is shopping to do and room to get ready. Good Lord, there are suitcases from our recent trip overseas to begin the adoption process that still need unpacked. I think we might even still have a suitcase from China to unpack. We came home and hit the ground running as a newly formed family. In between bottles and surgeries and doctor appointments and day care and bonding there simply wasn't time to unpack. That suitcase belongs to us "pre matthew", and I barely remember who I was "pre matthew".

And there is life. Careers and family obligations and baths and bedtime and whole foods cooking and weekly planning and getting to the gym and writing thank you notes and keeping up with older aunts and facebook....

Is there ever a time when everything just stands still? Is there ever a time when a person can just breath and get her bearings about her?

I don't know about you, but I am thinking that my time to breath may just be when we bring our second son home. Having stepped away from work at that point for a few months, I might just be able to relax, breath, and ignore the entire world. The death certificate demands, the endless work phone calls, the suitcases that will need unpacked... I will be able to push aside all the noise, and focus on what is really important. My new little guy, my older son, and my husband. And I can't wait.

the headstone will read "they took the time for tea"

The other day my husband and I were talking about what type of headstone we would want when the time comes. For the past week our life has been peppered with talk like this, as we traveled back to Northeast Ohio for my mother's funeral. At one point my husband suggested that our headstone read "took the time for tea". Now at first this sounds a little like "they drank the kool-aid", but he has a point.

Ever since we first started dating we have made a point to take time out to sit quietly and enjoy each other's company over iced tea. OK, sometimes I am drinking coffee and my husband has the tea, but you get the idea. Got to the movie early? Go to the Panera next door for tea. Hitting up the shops on the old fashioned main street in pretty much any suburb? Stop at the local coffee shop for tea. When on vacation we make a point not to run from one tourist attraction to another. We always stop for a beverage break. One of my favorite stops  may have been the little coffee/sandwich shop at the corner of Haight and Ashbury in San Francisco. I remember the loving older couple at the table by the window, just sitting there sipping their coffee quietly, obviously comfortable with the warm silence after all these years.

I'll admit that once Matthew joined our family it became a little more difficult to stop and drink the tea. I remember one visit to Panera our first Christmas as a family  that was anything but peaceful. We had been at the book store next door shopping for family presents when we headed in for tea. Our little guy has never been the "sit quietly in the stroller and play with toys" kind of boy. I remember at one point he had new books, a half eaten sticky candy cane, a sippy cup of milk and a handful of straws in his stroller with him. And it was still anything but peaceful. But it got better. Just last summer we were able to stop more than once while on vacation in Kentucky. Sure, the tradition has changed slightly. Sometimes we stop for ice cream now, instead of tea. But we still stop. And we always will.

My all time favorite stop for tea has got to be the Starbucks on Shamian Island in Guangzhou, China. We spent those days in China wandering around this little island day after day, waiting for all the appointments to be over and the paperwork to be finalized so we could return home, the two of us magically shifted into a family of three. There was no iced tea on that island; there was no iced drinks of any kind, really. but I remember sitting in the little garden area in front of the world famous coffee shop, drinking coffee and staring at this beautiful little boy sitting between us. That memory will always be with me. Thank God we took the time for tea that day!

I hope to pass this tradition on to my kids. I want them to understand the importance of just "being". Not being in a hurry, rushing from one activity or event to another. Not being in the same room with another person while not truly being present. I want my children to appreciate the down time. I want them to realize the importance of being still and being present with people you love. Friends, spouses, siblings, just taking the time for each other, quietly, away from the world.

My husband and I love our "time for tea". Just the other day we took a few minutes in between Chinese school and grocery shopping. We sat in the dining area of Giant Eagle sipping our drinks and enjoying each other's company while our little guy took the opportunity to climb under his car shaped shopping cart and "fix" his car.

So we will always stop and take the time for tea. And I agree with my husband. maybe we should put that on our headstone. It is a great life philosophy.

waiting for his mommy to come get him

Yesterday when I picked up my little guy from day care his teacher mentioned to me that my sweetie pie had had a tough day, spending most of it upset with a little friend because of teasing about his mommy. Me. My son was upset because his friend kept saying "Your mommy is my mommy." Seemingly innocent teasing. This is a good friend that my son looks forward to playing with every day, the same kid who my little guy constantly asks to have over for play dates. I didn't think much of it at the time. After all, kids are always looking for ways to annoy each other, right?

We get in the car and on the road and we discuss his day and the "Christmas junk: we see out the windows. We talk about dinner and the Wii football game he wants to play when we get home. Then he asks me if he is in trouble for getting mad at his friend. "Of course not", I say. "But he was just teasing you like you tease Daddy when you say you like college football. He was only teasing."

My son is quiet in his car seat for a few moments and then he says, "I don't like it when he teases me about that. You are my mommy, not his. I waited for you to come to get me in China and that is where babies are who need mommies. You are mine." Talk about a heart stopping moment. I nearly had to pull the car over to the side of the road. My son is a few months away from his fourth birthday. He knows he was born in China. He has read "Shaoey and Dot, Bug Meets Bundle". he has seen the photos of our life changing trip to China and he has heard the abbreviated toddler version of his story. He has listened quietly as I have answered nosy questions from strangers regarding his lineage. He is proud to be from China. Yes, he knows all of that. And yesterday I learned that he understands more than we thought. He gets it.

It's funny, really. There are so many moments in the course of daily life when an adoptive parent questions "Is this adoption or is this life?" Is the fact that my son has followed me from room to room of our home since the day he came home linked to a fear of abandonment he cannot yet express or is it typical young child behavior? As he gets older we will face more and more of these questioning moments. I rarely think of his odd quirks and occasionally poor behavior as being related to adoption. Adoption was the furthest thing from my mind yesterday when his teacher relayed the story of his spat with his little friend.

So I learned yesterday that my little guy does sometimes think about the rocky start to his life. I wonder what he will feel and think when he learns, when he is much older, just how rocky that start truly was. But I learned something even more important yesterday on that ride home from church. I learned just how very important I am to my little guy. He won't share me with anyone who didn't join his family the same way he did, "waiting for his mommy to come get him."