Straight Magic

Rant on Christmas Past

2012-01-05T22:51:00.000-05:00

I quit quitting blogging, for today. I’ll most likely kill the dread pirate thing in the morning, but for now I'd like to puke out two thoughts on the holiday season I've just recovered from.
Soapbox in place. Here we go.

You may have seen this image circulating on facebook.

It stuck in my head, like it might be stuck in yours now, and at some point I wanted to comment on it (something about who is this child and how would it feel to have your kid became the literal poster child for global economic disparity?). I didn’t remember that it said “define necessity”. I thought it said “define need” or something, and couldn’t find it again, or figure out who took the picture, or where. I googled “picture of Christmas presents next to starving African child” or some such thing, and accidentally happened upon one of the most aggressively racist sites I’ve seen in a while. I won’t link you to it since (a) it deserves no further traffic; (b) it will make you want to dig your eyes out of your head with a spoon; and (c) I fear catching some disgusting cyber disease. The site multitasked as a porn hub/place to discuss which cities offer up the youngest whores/general pit of violence, humiliation and denigration.

So, I’m not linking you to it, but trust me when I tell you that there were dozens of comments about those "define necessity" photos and that little boy, somebody’s baby, getting up to clean up the mess the wrapping paper was going to make. About the size of his penis. About one less to spread AIDS. About lazy fuckers waiting for the Red Cross to deliver groceries to their houses. About killing them all.

There were dozens (hundreds? I stopped looking) of other images of African and African-American children, with thousands of different commenters, some anonymous, some pseudononymous, some not, spewing thousands of lines about fucking and/or killing these children. Lines that slithered off the screen and curled themselves around my head like venomous snakes.

I put this out there (a) because, weeks later, I still feel the selfish need to expel the fangs from my brain this way; and (b) for the “post-racial-society” club. You who think that there is a small, isolated, fringe group of Neo-nazis out there perpetuating all the hate. The group discussing the picture above boasts 50,000 + “members” with verified email addresses, (membership not required to comment) and claims to have 22,443,820 hits in a month.

You, mountain/molehill accuser, try clicking on any story prominently featuring a Black person, famous or not, that you come across on the Huffington Post, or any mass media online edition, for that matter. The more tabloidish the better to illustrate my point. Scroll down to the comments. Notice that Anonymous the common commenter is an incredibly prolific, rampant, unabashed racist. Everywhere.

I'm not talking about ignorance or priviledge or bias here. I'm talking straight hate.

Just notice.

Next.

"IF HANUKAH CAN BE CALLED HANUKAH AND KWANZAA CAN BE CALLED KWANZAA, WHY THEN CANT CHRISTMAS BE CALLED CHRISTMAS."

That’s another gem I came across on the holiday facebook circuit.

I read that and thought what the f’ing f are you talking about, f’ing girl I went to high school with? Where do you live now that you can't call Christmas Christmas? She went on to clarify.

IF A MENORAH CAN BE CALLED A MENORAH AND A KINARA BE CALLED A KINARA WHY THEN CAN'T A CHRISTMAS TREE BE CALLED A CHRISTMAS TREE BUT RATHER A HOLIDAY TREE.

Newsflash: this doesn’t even make sense. More important newsflash: You and your tree name are not under attack. You may communicate to all of your friends that you saw the sparkly conifer on the town common by saying “I saw the Christmas tree.” Nobody cares. You can say “Merry Christmas” to every last person you encounter on this earth. You are also free, by the way, to say “Happy Birthday” to anyone, anytime, regardless of their natal anniversary. I’m just trying to give you the heads’ up that it doesn’t always make sense.

Keep the Christ in Xmas. . . The vast majority of you who bitched about keeping the Christ in Christmas were not complaining that your holiest of days has been hijacked to inflate year end retail sales numbers, and consumed by commercialism (a gripe I can understand). The most vocal of you Facebook Christmas Crusaders in my peripheral view worship none above Santa, rail against what you percive to be "political correctness," and refuse to respect or even consider the culture, beliefs, or traditions of the recipient of your canned well wishes. And to me, well, that might make you, by definition, a jackass. If it really bothers you that your work has a “holiday party” or your kid’s school has a “winter concert” instead of a Christmas Pageant, you might want to lighten up. They’re just trying to share the celebration with people who have traditionally felt left out, or worse.

No one is trying to take anything away from you. Your places of employment, banks, schools, courts, post and doctor’s offices, will be open on other people's holidays and closed for your convenience.

But if you want to say “Merry Christmas” to followers of Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Judaism, the Baha’i Faith, and others who may or may not celebrate Christmas, have at it. Yup, you have a right to do so. And you think your free speech is at stake, I get it. Just remember that you also have the right to run around yelling “I am a weasel!” too, but the fact that you don’t, does not, in any way, diminish your right to do so.

Here is what links some of you, in my super-cali-f’ing-fragile head, and on this page, fairly or unfairly, to the Define Necessity dementers/commenters.

a. You seem threatened by the notion of equality. Insecure about your culture’s superiority status. Blowing out Menorahs and Kinaras around you, so your Christmas candle will burn brightest.

b. You lack the insight, empathy, ability, or willingness to imagine how it would feel to be the human being whose existence, feelings, experience, you disregard. Otherwise, I just don’t know how you could do it.

c. I just don’t know how I am ever going to explain you to my kids. Thanks in advance for the broken hearts.

Winter Concert Faces

2011-12-16T17:07:00.005-05:00

Little Miss Freshy-pants in the front row used to cry when strangers looked at her.

The discomfort is now dealt with, sometimes, this way.

Better, if you ask me, (which I know you did not, but your interest is implied by the fact that you are still reading), than covering her eyes with her forearm. Anything is better than a quivering, brave, silent, wet face. No more tears, but you can still see the tension and anxiety, right up to one second before the show starts.

Until the music comes and she begins performing.

Then showtime Aster comes out. And what a show it is.

Wordless Wednesday

2011-12-07T23:37:00.000-05:00

Calling all locals!

2011-12-02T09:13:00.016-05:00

Hinghamites! Hullonians! Cohassetarians! Scituateans! Norwellians! Weymoremos! Anyone in the Greater Boston area! I have returned to do you the giant favor of introducing you to the Urban Nutcracker, if you don't already know about/love it. It's the Nutcracker, a professional production with the Tchaikovsky score and dramatic ballet, and the tree that grows and all that, but it is ALSO Duke Ellington and hip hop and tap and step and swing and oh so much more. Backing up the pros is a "youth cast" of about 80 kids, which your kids, of course, will love.

The sets, the costumes, the choreography, the crazy hot dancer bodies - everything about it rocks. Balletrox. It opens tomorrow, Dec. 3rd, and runs through December 18th, at the Wheelock Family Theatre in Boston. So much cooler than the same old Wang. Tickets run $25 - $50 and no seats are bad. Mia choses it over the Boston Ballet every year. It's that good. Sneek peek, just for you, from a little bit of Act II of a (flash photographyless - sorry) dress rehersal:

Some of you may recognize a certain devilish little angel.

Mia is cast as a ballerina angel, and also as a child who comes out of Mother Ginger's skirt. Except Mother Ginger's skirt is a shoe, Mother Ginger is a tap dancing man, and the children who come out are ball cap and 'do rag wearing little stomper/stepper/tappers.

I think she's into it.

Here's a great 9 minute documentary about dance, diversity and the Urban Nutcracker.
Urban Nutcracker: Anatomy of a Ballet - Trailer from Curtis Poole on Vimeo.

Come see Me(uh). I have a starring role as an usher, security person, and concessions volunteer, (select shows only). See you there!

One Word Halloween Costume Wednesday

2011-10-26T07:49:00.000-04:00

BOOYAH!

Trouble sleeping?

2011-10-23T23:21:00.001-04:00

Reading this should make it easier.

Or not.

"Season of sweet decay"

2011-10-17T19:27:00.000-04:00

Fall. I falter to some extent every year around this time. All the pretty, simple pleasures outside die. Crunchy messy leaves lead to cold, dark, S.A.D. days. Wuah wuaahhh.

Again with my privileged, ridiculous, first world problems, I know. Weah weah.

The best I can do today to look outside myself is to give you these interesting links about the state of affairs in the Ethiopian government and our relationship therewith. And to encourage you to donate to this worthy cause close to my heart.

But Fall. I’ve bitched annually about hating Halloween. I envy others’ cleverness and creativity and always end up loathing whatever my chosen costume says about me. This year, my kids’ fabulous progressive Montessori school sent home a notice inviting parents to join the Halloween parade/party in costume. “(homemade costumes encouraged)”. HOMEMADE COSTUMES ENCOURAGED. Nightmare.

Listen to me. Really? That's a big nightmare? Laugh at me with me, in a mean, scoffing way.

Here’s the deal. I can't hate Halloween anymore. I can't dread winter. Traditional diminished capacity while the Northern Hemisphere tilts away from the sun (or however that works) - any % decrease in functioning from where I’m at now, entering this season, would be wholly unacceptable. I cannot invite more negativity to flow into and out of me. I think the technical term for that would be certifiably bat-shit crazy.

I recently listened to somebody, probably on NPR, talking or singing or poetrying about how winter doesn’t actually kill the trees/plants. Living things sink all their energy into roots and hold still, underground, storing up strength for the next growth season. Obvi, duh. But it hit me like dawn rising over marble head. It keeps hitting me, or rather, I keep bashing it over my head, and it’s working. Slowly.

I have inspiring friends helping me embrace, or at least cling to, this idea.

"Gardens,whether wild woods or cultivated plots, inspire contemplation. In winter, that inspiration deepens, as this season is quieter, slower. In the relative emptiness, we see more of what is left, great and small."

This is the first year that my kids really “get” Halloween. Without my input, they've informed me that they’d like to be a fruit bat and a mermaid. They’re excited. And that’s always contagious.

I went to a Halloween store, resigned to buying a mermaid costume and a bat costume, but they all sucked. So we (crafty-like-ice-is-cold Halloween loving sister and I) went to Michael’s crafts. Where I, formerly the least likely person on earth to MAKE a costume, found enough attitude adjustment to proclaim it.

Halloween is going to be fun. Halloween is going to be fun. Halloween is going to be fun.

Homemade costumes. Encouraged.

2011-09-25T23:43:00.003-04:00

Dear Masons,
And anyone who unwaiveringly believes that anything worth doing is worth doing right, the first time -look away. Stop reading.

Dear anyone else,

I ~~made slight, cosmetic, temporary changes to~~ fixed my fake rock wall.

It was taunting me.

P.S. Dear perfectionists, I understand that bragging about such a sixteenth-assed job is grounds for the rejection of my membership application. I hereby voluntarily withdraw same. Some things just need to get done. Or crossed off the list all together and abandoned.

Learn how to make electricity,

and how to grow penicillin

for example, are officially displaced by less lofty entries from the keep it real and just do it lists.

Fairies

2011-09-19T01:31:00.000-04:00

I'm not into princesses. I'm not hard-core anti-princess, however, and have caved to some requests for Tiana merch. They don't know the stories, but have managed to absorb enough info from the omnipresent fairy-tale machine to point out Belle, Ariel, Cinderella, and Tiana when they see them. They love them. They waive wands at each other and then say "ooooohhhh, now you're a beautiful princess dress."

Fairies, I know nothing about. Nothing. I've seen some Disney stuff with a Black fairy on it but I don't know who she is or what her story is. My kids don't know the difference between a fairy and a princess and until I figure out what the deal is with fairies - I'm not bringing it up.

On Saturday, I took them to this. I must have seen a hundred little girls dressed up as fairies but not ONE other fairy with brown skin. Not one.

Ruth & Aster undoubtedly noticed but didn't mention it. And they loved it. We had a fantastic day. And it turns out, I think I like fairy houses. I think it would be fun to make them and make the trip back in future years.

But I kept thinking about walking into an Ethiopian church earlier this month, when Ruth said to me,

Mama you stay out here. No white skin allowed in church.

Ruthie, that's not true. People in church love all colors of skin.

Some people don't like white skin.

She didn't give me an answer as to why she thinks that. I am usually one of two ferenji there. I have been very warmly welcomed there, and have made some lovely friends. But I know that some others are not impressed with Ethiopian adoption, or with how un-Habesha my children are being raised. Or maybe just with me. It would not surprise me if she picked up on any of those sentiments.

Or maybe she just didn't want to be different from all the kids there with matching parents.

Or does she think that there are no white people because the people there simply don't like white-skin? If that's true, then does she assume that when we go some place where there are no other brown-skinned people, its because the people there don't like brown skin?

These were my thoughts as I looked and looked and couldn't find any other Black fairies in the sea of wings and wands.

Inspired by Bridget

2011-09-15T23:22:00.000-04:00

And Sue, by way of cousin Tim.

I burned my Christmas tree tonight.

Wordless Enkutatash!

2011-09-10T22:28:00.000-04:00

Not Ready for School

2011-09-09T17:15:00.000-04:00

Forging a new independent identity - facing the whole wide world alone, hand let go. Separated from this family unit that has been our entirety for 3 years. Apart 4 full days and 1 morning each week. Plus alternate weekends and other times.
Ready for school, for these big changes?

Nope.

I am talking about ME, by the way (as usual), not my daughters.

They're doing really well, considering.

But I'm a bit, como se dice. . . lost. Ready to be doing my work during normal people hours, in my office at normal business times, but I'm not in that place that I read about where moms are psyched for a break. There weren't enough minutes in the day with them as it was.

I understand that mothers go through this when their babies go to school. I am aware of how insanely fortunate I have been to have had these three years primarily at home with them. But, somehow, none of that matters. This is brutal.

When they're away from me, it's like time stops. Everything freezes, and waits for them to come back.

Guess it's time for me to re-integrate into society as an individual human with my own activities and interests. Blech.

First Day of School. Ever.

2011-09-08T06:36:00.000-04:00

Teach your children

2011-09-05T22:09:00.001-04:00

Do you want your school aged children to feel empowered, feel important, like they can make a difference, and help other children? Here's an idea - get them to use their $15, $25, whatever, to help a kid in Ethiopia go to school. This is not like telling your kids that they should eat thier food because there are starving children in Africa. Showing your kids this video (if they're old enough - the mention of the fatal car accident is the only potentially upsetting part) and letting them help is a win:win. You raise gobal citizens who understand that with their good fortune comes responsiblity, and you give kids 1/2 way around the world a chance to learn the same thing.

I know these people. I can tell you that they are the real deal. Your donation to the Fregenet Foundation will do profound, life changing, phenomenal good.

Re-novation

2011-09-03T00:19:00.000-04:00

My husband moved out in May. We are, apparently, getting divorced. That’s the last you’ll hear about that here. But. I will tell you that I thought I was dying of depression until I got diagnosed with Lyme disease, and that I’m all better now. My excuses for not blogging get better and better, no? I had decided that it was dead. It might be. I’m not sure. Want WWs? See facebook. Where to begin? This might be long. . . .

I feel tremendous guilt about writing not one word, one link, one solicitation, for “E. Africa” this summer. I had some issues. (See paragraph above). I wanted to talk about the Patriot Act keeping NGOs from proving “material support” to Somalia – to famine-denying, sharialawimposing, hadd punishment giving, aidgroup expelling, WFP workers killing, Al Shabaab. I like to talk about Obama’s exemption making and restriction waiving. I feel like nobody I know knows these things. Its just warlords and pirates.

I want to write a response to the “why should we keep sending money to Africa when they irresponsibly keep have babies that they can’t feed and we have people hungry right here in America” sentiment. But talking about education and reproduction (wherein I may digress into female genital mutilation) and land ownership and deforestation and climate change and 100+% inflation and all that the answer entails, is most likely completely wasted on the soulless fuck who asked the question in the first place. And I don’t feel like it. In fact, if I take the time to plug in the links for all the issues cited above, I'll never do it, and I'll never blog again.

So instead I just watch closely, for four years, while this insane humanitarian catastrophe unfolds so very slowly, and watch all the hungerporn images pop up as 29,000 children died of starvation in 90 days. Then watch it got buried by the budget on the floor and the ceiling of the debt, and Amy Winehouse, and people like me, all wrapped up, insulated, in their own shit.

And “29,000 children in 3 months” is so 2 months ago. "Worst humanitarian catastrophe" is just words. The images are strong, but we're so desensitized. Part of me wants to put up pictures of my healthy happy 3 year olds next to pictures of 3 year olds from the same country, in feed bags strung up to scales in emergency food distribution centers, weighing 10 +/- pounds. The technical term for that kind of malnutrition is “wasted”. Part of me thinks that there may be people who read this who have not actually looked at the faces of the graphic starving babies that flashed across the news in a blip, and it might be good to post some videos of moms making one, then two, then three, then four graves along the road they walk for months, carrying what children they can, burying them on the way to the feeding centers. People might not know about the straight magic that is Plumpy'nut. YOU should make a donation there. Or here. Or here.

So easy. How do you know for certain that the food that your donated dollars represents is not going to be absconded by a warlord, or lost in the bureaucracy that is this aid deliverance mess? You don’t. But you do it anyway, because you do your best to pick a path that is trustworthy and transparent, and you try.

I’m all jazzed up and inspired tonight in part because, in this post, I wrote about a boy I met in Ethiopia in October, and then left him for dead. I thought he would expire in my arms. Well, he didn’t. And apparently that little sick fighter is going to Israel to get heart surgery. Which I have no doubt he’ll survive, having survived this long with what he’s got. It’s inspiring.

The more you donate, the greater the chances of survival of real, live people. So do it. Do it. Picture Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller as Starsky and Hutch saying Do it. Do it.

Now, back to me. Me, me, me, scratching my way out of crazytown. Back to life. Back to reality. Cue En Vogue.

Went to NH for 4 days last week. No kids. Just Jen. Here’s what’s up, in mixed metaphors.

Hurricane Irene was extreme.

August, 2010:

August, 2011:

I watched cords of wood swept from somebody’s yard swoosh right by my house. I imagined farmers with crops swaying underwater like seagrass, just throwing up their hands, beat.

Our road was washed out and closed. We lost power just as we were about to turn the giant floor sander on again.

But lo and behold, the very next day - river recession. Buzzing chainsaws all around the valley. Cleaning up. Moving on.

Here’s what we did, in before (actually I forgot to take befores - so it's early during), during, and after photos:

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Recovering.

WW (cuz apparently, that's what I do now)

2011-07-13T23:03:00.000-04:00

Copycat Beachbums (almost WW)

2011-07-06T14:58:00.000-04:00

Ruth - beach yogi since 2009.

Aster - proving that proper fit is not, in fact, essential to looking cute in a bikini.

Cake + Puddles = Happy Day

2011-07-02T00:11:00.001-04:00

Last week was rainy and we had a whole day with no need to leave the house. This never happens. Ruth was mad when I said we'd just stay home because she likes to "go to some places." I cheered her up making a strawberry cake I'd seen on my favorite food blog. We had exactly the amount of sugar it called for (a ton), and no more. It was Aster's job to put the sugar in the mixer when the time came. She's very creative, that one, and decided that the cake needed olive oil. As soon as I wasn't looking she dumped about 1/2 o' cup of unnecesary oil into the last of the sugar.

We happen to live a short walking distance from a Cumberland Farms store ("Cumby's", to us locals). So we walked to the store to get sugar. It ended up taking over an hour.

Baking with 3 year olds: not so fun.
Puddles: so fun.

Then we ate cake and the sun came out.

Mia

2011-06-24T22:03:00.001-04:00

Remember her? Remember this or this? She's right next to me. She's humungous.

WW (+24h)

2011-06-23T21:53:00.000-04:00

Wordless Wednesday (late)

2011-06-16T14:55:00.000-04:00

Okay, it's Thursday. So let's call this post "Yard Photos from this Wednesday and some day last week that could've been Wednesday, I don't remember. I love summer so much. Amen."

Reset

2011-05-31T01:21:00.001-04:00

I've been unbloggably lame lately. I suffered sort of a metaphorical power failure and had to hard boot myself out of town for the weekend. Awwwwl buwy myyySEF, as my children never stop saying.

In 1936, my great aunt's family doctor told my great grandparents that the best they could do for their daughter's TB was to take her from Dorchester up to the White Mountains to breathe. My family ended up renting a cabin from May - October, every year, from 1936 to 1989. By then, my dad was the renter of his generation and I got to come for weekends every summer. Hiking, swimming, climbing, breathing.

1989 - the owners were knocking it down to build a "real" house on what is likely the most beautiful spot on the Saco river. My dad bought it and moved it less than a mile. Now, it's perched on poured basement, dug into a cliff, close to a busy road, and still the most beautiful place I know.

Now, I'm the designated caretaker. I ~~hibernated~~ lived here for a winter when I was 19, hung insulation and burned cord after cord of green wood when I didn't know enough to inspect the "seasoned" firewood. Restarting fires at 2 am after my waitress shifts ended. Heat taping pipes and plumbing. It's silly, but I think of it as one of my greatest achievements.

For a decade, I was the only one who could make hot water come, with a secret, elaborate, make-shift system of element and thermostat and blue, red, yellow and black wires in the basement.

I've slacked off in recent years. Not coming up as much as I used to. Not being proactive about landscaping or painting or cleaning. Primarily due to a singular and arguably blinding focus on two more important little things. Never coming without them.

No one had been here since I closed it up and drained the pipes in October, so I went to the basement to turn on the water. I kicked open the door and jumped to the side like I always do, (in case a bat or a murderer comes flying out) waited a second, and then walked in.

Loud scurrying in a dark corner.

Animals previously encountered at the house range from chipmunks and woodchucks to large bears and 50 lb. porcupines with 12" razor sharp quills. I bolted outside with the heebeegeebees, and tried to think. Think what? There's no grand plan to devise. There's no one to call, no choice but to deal. For one second, I felt like crying and not having water. One second. One deep breath. I reminded myself that there is no space big enough for a bear to squeeze in, and I called in the only available back-up.

(Yes. In the moment, I did think that I could chop a rabid racoon off my neck with an ax if necessary).

Another deep breath outside the door, pushed my shoulders back, tried to imagine myself all Linda Hamilton/T2, and in I went, chattering away. You leave me alone and I'm not going to hurt you. K? You do your thing, I'll do mine. We good? Good. No response. You stay over there, I'll stay over there, nobody gets hurt, blah, blah, blah. . . it takes a little while to set it up.

Water on. Water heating. Back outside. Deep lilac breaths. I planted them, knee high, in 1998. I have to reach above my head to pull down the few self-sufficient blooms and stick my face in them.

I spent a lot of time this weekend walking around looking at all things I've been avoiding looking at for years. There's a big, dying sumac tree that's got to go. It's a chainsaw job with a skinny little white birch tree entwined that I'd like to save. It was a good thing I didn't have a chainsaw at that moment, (since I don't know how to operate one), because I was all adrenaline high off the ~~squirrel~~ predator in the basement encounter.

Raked leaves.

Mowed the ~~sparse scraggly weed patches~~ lawn.

Actually, that lawnmower doesn't work at all. I probably cut 1 of every 10,000 blades of grass it touched. But I said I was going to mow the lawn, dammit, and seeing those paralell lines the wheels make on the ground made me feel better.

Finally got rid of the useless, hideous mailbox that only collects junk mail and put up a pretty sign instead.

About 10 years ago, I built a "rock wall" to hide the visible, bare, gray, cement foundation. Except I don't know how to build a rock wall and was already sick of it before I started, since collecting all the river rocks sucked. So, I stacked rocks on top of each other, about halfway up the foundation. then I mixed up some sacrete "mortar" and basically smeared it on the top half of the foundation and stuck smaller rocks to it. It actually looked nice. Until about 3 years ago. I sat there staring at it for a long time.

Thinking about how lucky I am to have this place and a solid foundation. Even when the facade is crumbling.

Then I went in to clean mouse shit off the mantle.

The bathtub here is the place where I historically attempt to drain away all my grown-up sorrows, fairly successfully. I was not psyched to clean it, but I was psyched to take a bath.

Except here's where I shifted from feeling like a Sarah Connor ass-kicker into more of a Sarah Jessica Parker infant-wussbag.

No f'ing way I was messing with that thing. Outdoor shower will do just fine, thank you.

Then came the last part of the sucessful rebooting sequence. I am very proud of the following: my friend Jen showed up, ridiculed me for not killing or removing the spider, and then threw it in the woods for me. How does this make me proud of myself?

I know how to pick 'em. I have awesome friends.

Waiting, learning, thinking, swirling on Ethiopian Adoption was the first time I really encountered a "support network" (outside my family) that I found I wanted/needed/loved. And lo and behold, I have since discovered that if you are doing something difficult or experiencing something hard, other people can be a total asset! Who knew? Oh, everybody? That's why all those girls from high-school still hang out together? Humans like friends. I am presently obsessed and blown away by how much my friends have helped me lately. Not blown away by how nice people are, I sincerely appreciate that - blown away by the difference it has made to me. Uplifted, understood, comforted. Saved from spiders.

Thanks.

Photos Day

2011-05-19T18:16:00.000-04:00

Late. Always. Sorry.

Again, this year, pretty boring. Here's 2009 and 2010.

6am-ish. Ruth, camera, and I wake up simultaneously. I look exactly like her at this hour.

7am. Aster slept all night in her own bed. Is there a treat in the Eastiopians inspired bag? Yes.

8 am. Watching the firefighters leave our house. Who knew that extreme dampness could make both of your antiquated hard wired smoke detectors go off, in the basement and on the first and only floor, at the same time? I called the HFD business line, just to rule out the possibility that my home was engulfed in odorless invisible plumes of something. Technology be damned.

9amish. En route to ballet. Fog shroud is getting old. This is right before I smashed into the telephone pole. Kidding, but it looks like that, right?

10 am. Ballet. They do "pase" (I don't know how to put an accent on that "e", so think "pahsseh"). But they call it "Beyonce".

11 am. Auntie Cara's house. Get super cute sock puppet kit belated birthday presents and play with cousins.

12 pm. Stars on Hingham Harbor. A.K.A. "The macaroni store".

1 pm. Complete nap fail. This is new. I made a great video of walking in on them playing when they're supposed to be napping, but the audio was apparently off. So so sad, because it was a classic moment to record. Excuses, rationalizations. Negotiations. Hysterical. I'll get you some video one of these days becuase they sure are funny. My negotiating with them is not so funny. That's just ridiculous. Here's the opening snapshot from the long, sadly soundless recording. Busted.

2pm. Fine. No nap. Will accomplish zero non-Ruth and Aster things today. As terrified as I am of losing this precedent setting battle (Monday was also a no-nap day. . . first in months) I am more unprepared to deal with a 3-6pm nap and 9-10 pm bedtime tonight. They win. Playdoh it is.

3 pm. Daddy comes home for an hour. Pulled the camera out just a moment too late for a wheelbarrow photo.

Laundry

4pm. Unsupervised for 5 minutes. Where are you going with your snowpants and mittens (which she insists are called "ribbons")? "Skiing."

5 pm. Still not understanding that my audio input is somehow shut off on my camera, I make the best video ever of dinner. I have 90,000 hours of video in which they do NOTHING. I always miss the greatest, cutest, funniest, most profound stuff. Until tonight, I thought. They were over-the-top-cute and speaking Amharic and flipping out over y'ater alicha. I was so excited to post it until I learned that the audio did not record. Ain't that the way. Here's a still clip. Technology be damned.

6 pm. Tub. Sessie. Detangle Aster's hair.

7 pm. Teeth. Bed.

8 pm.

Finally.

9 pm. Modern Family.

Food

Clean old coffee (?) stain off wall where Aldous kept his computer.

Untangle balls of cords from electronics and cords from blinds.

10 pm. Plug in laptop and fat, short, antique wires connecting my relatively new laptop to a very old monitor screen. Technology be danmed.

Why the hassle you ask? Or maybe you don't, but I'll tell you. Inspired by all you runners who talk about it so much, I fancied myself on an informal couch to 5K program. I discovered I could put my laptop on the magazine rack area of a treadmill and plug my headphones into all the Offices and Modern Families I've ever missed. I was totally enthralled for about 5 miles (not all at once). It was brilliant. Best time I've ever had acting like a hamster. Until Monday morning, that is, when I was consciously processing how awessome my treadmill tv system was and how much stronger I was already feeling. At the apex of my little self-congratulatory moment, Claire ran Manny and Luke off the go-cart race-track and it made me laugh out loud and throw my head back just enough for the earphones to pull the laptop just enough for it to crash down onto the treadmill and shoot off the belt like a 4" high missile into the back wall behind me. Here's a close up of my screen now, at 11 pm..

Hence, the external monitor

And on that note, lets just hope that next year's photo by the hour day is way more fun and/or interesting. Good night.

Inept Mothers' Day Expression

2011-05-08T09:05:00.001-04:00

I wish I could write a poem, or even a coherent post, that communicated how much I love my mom. And how lucky I am that she’s so young that I get to have her so strong and so long. I wish I could weave in words about another mother, with contrasts so vivid and shocking that it could convey the depth of the feelings and do justice to both. I wish I could explain how much my appreciation and gratitude for these women grows with my expanding understanding of a mother’s love for her children and a daughter’s love for her mother. But I can’t.

Drumming for Water

2011-05-07T23:12:00.000-04:00

Thank you so much to Liz & Mudula Water, and to Rhythm Kids, for so much fun today.

(blueish)

2011-05-05T12:06:00.001-04:00

I'd say I've been swamped, but apparently I live in a constant state of swamp. Some days I move through it like a laser and have fun slicing things off my lists. Not today. Today I'm a swamp creature, all slow motion and sloppy and dirty and dripping with heavy stuff I can't shake. Nice, huh? I am live behind these days and lack the energy/outlook/strength to bust some moves.

Overdue thank you notes. I used to buy (red) cards for everything. I've been to all the stores that might have them and they don't. So I went online to buy them and guess what? They don't do boxes of thank you or blank cards anymore. WTFingF? So stupid. Any suggestions for stationary/cards that donate proceeds to Ethiopian or other water or education projects? That would be ideal. Open to other suggestions too. I love Jimma Banana cards but I'm out and they take weeks/months to arrive.

I decided to delegate the task of making crafty ones. That made me feel better. Every thing they do makes me feel better. Almost everything. I just want to lie down and let them "rest on [me]" today and shut everything else off. And stop time.

Sorry for the delay.

Wordless Wednesday

2011-05-04T23:02:00.000-04:00

Attachment

2011-05-02T01:05:00.002-04:00

The summit of my idols in LA was a huge gift to me, and an affirmation of how much I need this community. People who were there, and people who weren't.

The generosity and kindness and hospitality of Julie cannot be overstated. This woman put together and pulled off a successful, fun, organized, flowing, moving, FUN fundraiser and opened her home to a flow of admirers that she fed and loved and chauffeured and cared for with tremendous grace and energy. Oh yeah, and she built a school and library too.

The Blogamigas were all exactly who I imagined they'd be, because they're great writers and honest and open. To be together in real life was beyond inspiring and encouraging. And I'm now (re)connected to people that I don't know how or why I'd been missing out on but it was my loss, bigtime.

I didn't bring my camera to the main event, so I'm taking the chance that Theresa would grant me formal permission to post her photo here:

Seriously attached to these women.

I love reading about their intersting lives - the profound and the routine. My plan to get back into the swing of things (other than carving out time to surf and read again) is just to post more often. I know, kind of a complicated plan, novel idea, but that's it. Expect gratuitous cute kid pics and flowers.

But first, I really wanted to be part of Claudia's call for attachment posts, and I blew it by never finishing my thoughts on it, and it bothers me. Part of the issue is privacy and part is procrastination, so here's as far as I got:

A lot of the responsive posts I read talk about mothers attaching to their new child. Whether they feel the same about them as they do bio babies. I can't talk about that. I spent a year and a half getting ready for a 5 (allegedly) year old. Hoping that the kid had someone who loved them, who they were attached to. Hoping that putting those shattered pieces back together again and trying to re-do that process would be my biggest challenge. I expected rejection, and food issues, and outrageous rage tantrums and imagined my main objective for the first year might be just to keep the child safe and getting used to us. I expected that the number of years that the kid spent outside a safe, loving family could be the number of years it could take on the other side before I even started to get to know the real kid.

I didn't think that much about the younger sibling - under 12 months. I didn't think too much about attachment in the scientific, biological sense. The foundation of the layered process. Disclaimer: I do not profess to really understand it now. This is just my too short summary of what I gather. It starts before birth. One voice, one heartbeat, one scent, one supplier of all needs. Then birth and cry: response. Hunger: food. wet: dry. Cold: warmth. Lonely: comfort. Basic infant care. Basic infant brain development. Sections of babies brains get built, cells start functioning, when response follows stimuli and the cycle repeats over and over. Babies who severely miss that part literally have sections of their brains that are like black holes of inactivity where stuff should be clicking away all the time. It's physical. Anatomical. The building blocks of logical thinking, relation of the self to others, empathy, trust. Sometimes, they're not there. Sometimes they're real shaky.

AYAP. (as young as possible). The demand. I can't tell you how many people tell me how great it is that our girls were so young (3 months) when they came to us, so we won't have any problems. I do not go into newborn brain development. And we ARE insanely lucky that our girls are who they are, but people unfamiliar with "attachment" issues have NO idea what they are talking about. I personally know people with children who were less than 6 months old at adoption who are suffering with pretty severe attachment disorder. Most of the Ethiopian children I've met suffer no attachment disorder. If you do voice concerns to the uninitiated, they inevitably tell you their biological baby never made eye contact, and arched back when held, and went berserk when hungry, or were indiscriminately friendly, or never had separation anxiety, or were totally insecurely velcro-ed to them. And it's true. And you can't argue with that, because maybe these behaviors have nothing to do with your kid's history. Maybe it's just who they are. You don't know. Maybe two babies with the exact same experiences have completely different attachment trajectories.

Babies are "resilient." I can't tell you how many kids I've seen come from Ethiopia "failing to thrive" who then undergo transformations that are beyond describable. So fast. And I have to say that one of the things that inspires me to write more, is the Sage and her "failure to provide" post. Back in the day, she helped me understand that not all of the things that my daughter does, which may or may not be attachment related, are attachment related. I really couldn't hear that from anybody else, but she has a way of sharing her insights and understanding, without discounting my concerns, that I could hear.

Babies who suffer the loss of their family are often super smart. They have to be. They believe that they have no choice but to rely on themselves for survival. They think they are in control of everything. When they start talking, they might go into new people's homes and say "Hi. I'm so hungry" not because they are, but because they want the new person to produce something upon request, to know that they can get it. For themselves. To know that they can keep themselves safe. Or maybe they just like to manipulate people because they can. You don't know.

They might have visceral responses to things like hunger, or loud noises. Adopted or not. They may or may not have conscious memories of things, but they have feelings. Familiar, deep seated feelings that trigger irrational, strong emotions when sparked. Or maybe lots of kids have van-a-phobia. You don't know.

You'll never know how much your little baby remembers or understands because chances are, by the time they can tell you about it, they've forgotten. Our children are amazing. What they've been through is trauma. Some kids need more time, more reassurance than others in the attachment department. No matter how old, to suffer loss like that and then trust and bond and love some more is another one of those simultaneously heartbreaking and beautiful things.

Random Truths

2011-02-15T10:57:00.001-05:00

Truth: I've failed at all my official goals/changes. I should change the tense and say "I am failing" as opposed to "I have failed," because I am not done trying. But right now I'm just procrastinating. Everything. Even going to bed.

I did great for 7 or 8 of the 28 days of alleged detox. I worked out, for real, five or six of those days. Evelyn lost six pounds in her first week. I gained two and found myself discouraged but still on board. Then, Aster got pneumonia. Bad. So I holed up with her for a few days and ate my feelings which, on day 9 or 10 of detox included: lots of sugary coffee, pancakes with butter and syrup, a huge cheeseburger loaded with stuff, sweet potato fries, cookies, ice-cream, salmon sashimi, yellowtail sashimi, tobiko sushi, wine, and I forget what else because I stopped keeping track but I know there was more. I went straight off the deep end where I am currently treading water. I'm waaaaayyy off track and feeling pretty gross. And yes, I did just blame my bad behavior on my daughter's illness. Weeeeeeeeeak.

In better news, Aster is all better now, and I found my camera battery charger which had been missing and rendering me cameraless for over a month. They're into princess dresses now. We have four, but everyone always wants the purple one.

Truth: Mother is a verb. There's a book at my gym that says so. Mothering is my favorite thing.

More truths on my mind:
The definition of "orphan" used by the USCIS and Ethiopia, like, as in, "there are x million orphans in Ethiopia," and you qualify for an "orphan" visa, is a child who has lost one or both parents. Both or. . . One. Like, as in, if my husband died, my children would qualify. Now, in the place where my children come from, the loss of either parent can be a death sentence in a way that doesn't happen here, but still. Such a basic, fundamental premise. Here are the PEAR recommendations, if you managed to miss them. And it's nice to hear of positive developments.

If you are looking at an agency that doesn't set up/facilitate/allow meetings with birth-family whenever possible, I say stop it. It's hard enough to know and understand the truths at play without that "unknown." Bigger picture though, it's hard to know that the whole thing is overseen by a government that just seems to get more an more tyrannical and unresponsive to the plight of its citizens. If Ethiopia were not our only friend in the horn, we would condemn its fake elections and repression and unaccountability to its people. But we need it, bad, as a place for our Mogadishu bombing planes to take off from, and and so we keep relatively quiet, and affirm our friendship and build a new embassy instead. Just sayin'. . .

And now back to me, me, me. Again. Me in Ethiopia.

I really don't want to go to bed. Which makes no sense at all, because I am the kind of tired that feels like I am made out of meat and cheese and butter and molasses.

I'll say it again: Aregash Lodge is amazing. It was a coffee plantation for generations, owned by a Greek/Ethiopian family. Walking in the forest of the compound, I met a Sidama man who originally identified Protestant Christian, but on further conversation (with my chance companion/translator - a brilliant assistant professor from Addis Abbaba University), revealed his true local religious beliefs and practices. The Sidama people's allegiance to the Protestant Christian missionaries was sort of a last ditch resistance effort against the dominant Orthodox coming from the north. This is an area where people fought with the Italians. Twice.

So, generations passed in Yirga Alem, and a bunch of siblings owned this coffee plantation that is basically destroyed by the government's mass introduction of inferior, invasive coffee plants. One Greek/Ethiopian brother, now in his 60s? 70s? married to an Italian/Ethiopian wife, made it a lodge. The dude is a character. Like a caricature of the stereotype of a cross between an ultra-dogmatic old Greek patriarch, and a smug Ethiopian one. Some of it is cultural and most is generational. I smiled and nodded and complimented and we got along very well. I was honored to have him join me for a meal in his place.

I was not completely truthful with everyone I met about why I was visiting the area. It was nice to be able to say I was there delivering books. On my last night at Aregash, I told Mr. AregashLodge that I had Sidama daughters. He asked me if I had any children of my own. I told him my two Habesha lidjotch were enough. He told me they were not, and that I would never know what it meant to really be a mother until I had children of my own. He was animated and insistent and urgent about this. He said that I would bring them there someday and they would turn on me. He said that he sees it all the time.

My other dinner companion at the time, the professor, a friend of Mr. AregashLodge, offered a sheepish "we all experience parenthood in different wa. . ." But he didn't get to finish before he was told to shut up since he had no children of any kind.

I told the Greek that I had lost a baby (true) and that I had been told I could never have any more (lie). To which he responded,

THAT IS A LIE!" Who tells you this? Doctors tell you this? They are wrong. You pray to God and you have children. You are young.

Actually, I am thirty eight.

This does not matter! Simultaneously looking disgusted and surprised. You ask God, he will give to you. I tell you. You have your own children. Then you know what it is to be a mother.

Ohhhkaaayyy then.

The professor was embarrassed and upset. I guess if I felt any desire to birth kids, it would be weird, but there's no internal drama to stir up at this point. And my job is to talk to people who disagree with me. I don't mind it. Plus, I'm really interested in what he's seen, in his story, and his opinions. So - heads up - don't get into adoption v. bio with Mr. AregashLodge if you don't want to hear it.

The only other bad thing is that they feed the hyenas. That's really the only bad thing. I heard that a big-fat-healthy-brave-not-afraid-of-people hyena killed a local girl. The beleif is that once a jib gets a taste for human blood it will keep coming after it.

Yeah. That's bad.

The fifth day of my trip I spent with Alemesged, Ethiopia Reads' man.

I was also truthful with him, and he asked me questions typical of the intelligent, educated, skeptic, young, proud Habesha people I met. How do I know that what I've been told is true? What about the people who adopt the kids and take them to America and then decide they don't want them? Alemseged seemed to like my answers and attitude and eventually gave me his blessing. But I had the feeling that he was making an exception.

The grown-ups we met that day at the library in Chuko wanted us to see the man in the tree.

This man moved into the tree about three months before, allegedly because he didn't like how things were going on the ground in Ethiopia. He started his own nation and refused to come down. Other people said he was up there because his wife is a nag. It was just a few miles, but we picked up a total entourage on the way.

Some got cut off at the gate.

Others came onto the property with us.

Truth: I wish I'd stayed in Yirga Alem and Chuko the whole time.

From there, I went to Lake Langano. Bishingari Lodge.

Unbelievably gorgeous.

Ancient fig tree forests and crazy widlife.

I looked for hipppos, but didn't find any. Tesho the expert told me we wouldn't because it was not the right day for hippos. Too much wind, too many people around.

Lovely tree-bar, run by a separate entity becuase the Yemeni man who owns the lodge and retires his polo ponies there, is a non-alcohol dealing Muslim.

It's two hours from a paved road, but it wasn't the geographic distance that bothered me. It was so far removed from what real Oromenian life in the area would be like. I don't mean to sound like I know what "real life" is like in Ethiopia, as if there is one "real life" experience, and I don't mean to sound like I wanted to be experiencing the hard life in Ethiopia. Life there is just way, way, way, too hard, every minute, for so many people. I was such a voyeur/cultural tourist. I like fancy hotels and hot water as much as the next girl, but at Bishingari, riding the polo ponies, trying not to stomp on the endangered shorebirds unmarked nests, I felt offensively ferengi with a capital F.

Aregash - the staff are treated like family and it shows. The compound blends in and, while there's a gate at the road, you can see, hear, and feel the community all around you.

Bishangari - the one and only manager speaks no Amharic and the whole lakefront property is chopped off from its surroundings by barbed wire and lookout towers.

Over dinner and a bottles of wine, I learned a lot from the Bishingari manager. Like what they do with the marked "recycling," at the much hyped "eco" lodge. If you're thinking to yourself where on earth would they take things to be recycled in Ethiopia? You're right. They don't. Yes, it's solar powered and spring fed, but it's not like that was an eco-choice. It is really out there.

I got to hear about what a problem they have with the locals begging. Like how they had to have the teenage ringleader of the problematic gang picked up by the police. They meet with the locals and try to solve the problems, but his parents can't do anything with him and WANTED him thrown in jail. Where he will be held for a week or so and get "the beatings of his lifetime". Ha ha ha. Yeah. Interesting things that people reveal when you don't volunteer your truth, present as a blank slate, and add wine.

They do not serve Ethiopian food at Bishingari. Bune offered to bring me injera from the staff house to my godji. Bune, who wanted to do my hair (like water) shuruba.

Bune, who was psyched to practice her fantastic local Oromoneya school taught english. Bune, who supports her parents and siblings, fourteen miles away. Bune, whose cell phone worked.

So I ate the European food, and started to feel sick for the first time.

Until then, I was eating strictly habesha migib - including raw beef as kitfo and gored gored, and anything else that was offered to me. After 24 hours at fancy Bishingari, I broke out the cipro. And then I was fine.

Better than Vera, anyway, who was the most fascinating ferengi I met in Ethiopia, and the biggest bad-ass ever.

Vera is a big game safari guide -slash- AK47 toting guard, anti-poaching campaigner, who's lived and worked in the Central African Republic, Angola, Namibia, Burundi, Zimbabwe, South Africa, Kenya, and now owns a hotel in Zanzibar. She drove Chris Rock and Arnold Schwarzenegger around. She got abandoned by the UN (who she says should add a C to the beginning and a T to the end) on a rooftop in a coup in the Congo. Vera fell ill vacationing at Bishingari when a mango fly happened to lay eggs in her neck one night.

On the polar opposite end of the badass spectrum at Bishingari were two Dutch venture capitalists who had been in Debre Zeit, studying the feasibility of growing potatoes in Ethiopia for export. Meles is big into 99 year leases to foreign nations and multinational corps. Roses are a good example. I told them what I knew about the chemical intensive rose growing, about the workers spraying in greenhouses without masks and having diseases and babies with birth defects. They hadn't heard about that. They were more interested in magazines, and asking me questions about pop culture references in the Big Lebowski that they didn't understand. Dorks.

This was the place where I missed my husband the most. It was my down time and I got pretty down. I wanted my witness - the one person who sees the world - the stuff that's happening, the significance of the stuff - just like I do. There was so much to process, and no one to turn to and say, "wow". We may not always see eye to eye on every issue, or see each other the way we want to be seen (Valentines Day, truth day, whatever) but when we are out in the world together, we feel it the same way. We hear things that only we think are funny, or only we notice as remarkable. We know when to look at each other to communicate that we understand what the other is thinking about the crazy shit that goes on around us. Bearing witness to each other's truths. I love that.

It's official

2011-01-26T00:51:00.002-05:00

Some things have to change. My children are the funniest, cutest, smartest people I know and I wouldn't change one thing about them. But I have to change some things that I do when dealing with them, in order to change some patterns we've fallen into. Here's the real deal:

My children no longer go to bed like good girls. Unless, of course, a babysitter puts them to bed. Then there is no problem at all. They are working me over. Bigtime. Somehow I am that parent that goes back in the room a million times. They run and jump back onto the beds, laughing, when they hear me coming. They demand things: water, lullaby, door open/closed. It's actually worse than that - I have to make specific faces and gestures while singing the lullabye or I have to start over. And they lie with straight faces. I was recently called in because "a bee bit my back."

My children say "noPe" to me, with big attitude emphasis on the p. They also say "no" and run away laughing hysterically. They tag team me like I'm playing whack-a-mole. I hear myself asking stupid questions, like, as a warning, "do you want to go in time-out?" forgetting that one of them will usually answer with a very mischievous "yes".

EVERYTHING is "I do it all by myself" and letting them struggle with the jacket/seatbet/sock/lid/faucet/door/clasp/whatever when I'm standing outside freezing, or late, is often faster than dealing with the hellish battle/fit that may ensue if I insist on doing it.

There are specific songs that must be played in the car in a specific order, and I am required to sing, sometimes loud, sometimes soft, in accordance with instructions.

Potty training? Not so much these days.

I don't even want to think about what no passies at bedtime would look like.

They eat too much sugar.

They watch too much TV.

Sometimes they do both at the same time.

They dominate this house and everyone in it.

These are relatively recent developments. I understand that it's developmental. "Terrible" stages. I just can't believe (1) what a sucker I have become and (2) how easy my life was before.

Before, naps were like clockwork. They took them at my office. No more. I spend two hours doing nothing but trying to get them to stay in their ~~cages~~ pack n plays. And I lose. Interestingly, they nap just fine for babysitters. They need it or they are trainwrecks by 5.

Somehow, while I wasn't paying attention, they completely turned the tables on me.

Well, game over, girls.

I've got a new bedtime/nap plan. It's not going to be pretty. It starts tomorrow.

I imagine that some of you (Hi Mom!) are laughing at me and my tough talk but seriously, this mama needs to get a grip. In general. A week ago, inspired by Evelyn, I tried to start this. It's not working exactly as planned, but I am reigning in some pretty outrageous eating habits. No more whole things of cheese fondue all by myself. Enough with the wine and juice and tons of sugary coffee. I carry around a full water bottle all the time and never drink any. I weigh more today than ever before. I'm going to try harder. I don't think I'm fat. I'm just kind of disgusting in my gluttony in lots of ways.

And I'm weak. Inspired by Laura and Corinne, I've started running on a treadmill. Which, by the way, I recently fell off of in a very crashing and dramatic way in front of people. People with eyes. I need to step it up.

And I have a lot of work work to do.

To those of you with blogs and jobs and children, I admire you. I admire your time management skills that I apparently lack. I can't keep meaning to write and feeling disappointed about not doing it. Fact is, I don't need to stop and reflect and record and hash things out here right now. Less talk (okay maybe I don't do that much "talk"). Less pondering/mulling/planning. More action. If we're going to swing a first family vacation on an airplane in April, (!!!!!!!!!!I am so freaking excited!!!!!!!!!!!!) then I need to do work at night. A lot.

And just because I only manage monthly posts, at most, doesn't mean I'm not reading the blogs of my beloved support network. I can't live without you but I have to step back and schedule specific times when I am allowed to take a break and look at the roll. And facebook.

So, times will come, dear diary, when I have to tell you about things. Like pre-school applications. Like my concerns when one little girl says "Selam" to all people with brown skin. Real things.

But for now, I'm out.

Ish. Out-ish.

To the waiters

2010-12-26T23:28:00.007-05:00

This year I have trismus for Christmas. Despite that, I have somehow managed to gain about ten pounds in December. I added four of them in one week. I know this because the endodontist weighs me each time I go. I have to go again next week. I don't have dental insurance. Dishwasher broke. Ideal daycare located under my office folded on the 22nd - same day I had to hold a weeping Aster down while the anesthesiologist knocked her out (ear tubes - she's fine). Gave away my beloved, loyal dog.

This is one of the best holiday seasons ever. Seriously - no sarcasm intended. 2 1/2 year olds with new, easy to sing songs (jingle bells jingle bells)? Intro to magic Santa? Presents? Family? Lights? Snow?
So much fun. Nothing can diminish the holiday spirit around here. No face-infection-lockjaw. No financial crisis. No surgery. No dog loss. Nothing.

Before I had kids, during the wait, the holidays were miserable. I fully understand how ungrateful and wasteful and obnoxious that sounds. I had a phenomenal, supportive, loving family. Great health. Safety, comfort, job, love. . . I had it all. Which, of course, made me feel much worse because I felt so guilty all the time about feeling so bad. Halloween straight through to the superbowl just sucked.

I hope that you are not like me. I hope that you are training for marathons and knitting a wardrobe while you wait. But if you are like I was, then you are not being crazy productive and this is a hard time of year. People say that once you have kids, you forget all about the wait. In large part, that's true. But, as much as I'd rather not, I remember how I felt three years ago. I remember when my family forced me, like forcefully, go to a Christmas party. I drank too much and danced (in their words) like "a slutty Elaine Benice". That was not a happy time.

The point of my story is that if you are finding it impossible to put out holiday cheer this season, don't discount the weight of the wait. It is so heavy. And I really think that the heavier it weighs on you, the lighter you will feel when it is lifted. I'm still floating. Over the moon. Shocked and amazed by how lucky I am. How much comfort and joy I find all around me. I wish this for you and it will come.

2nd two days

2010-12-19T01:39:00.038-05:00

The third day was the hardest. That was the day I met with the surviving members of the family. I sent photos and letters for two years and heard nothing back. WHFC could never confirm that things were actually delivered. They would tell me that it got to Awassa, but that they couldn't control or track what happened from there. It turns out that some, not all, of the stuff made it.

So. Day 3. WHFC set up the visit and told me that a driver and translator for one day would cost $250.00. Fine. I then asked Mulat if he happened to have, or know, a driver that could pick me up in Langano (about 1/2 way between Addis and Awassa) a few days later. He said yes, and then told me that the total would be $750.00. Hmmmmm. He explained that the driver would need to stay over night in Awassa on day 3, because driving back at night is too dangerous. That's legit. Driving back at night is insanely stupid. I know this to be true because I ended up doing it, by accident, a few days later. Anyway, Mulat and I had a bit of a disagreement about the fairness of the Langano-Addis price. We resolved our disagreement very amicably. I like him very much. I just can't afford him.

Mulat is starting his own travel and tourism business. If you are facebook friends with Mulat, you may have seen him next to a giant, colorful bus. I have no idea if this is his or not. It's just a new picture. The other day, I got a survey request from WHFC. They are "looking into the possibility of planning homeland travel for our families who have adopted from Ethiopia," and wanted to know if I would be interested in going back, in traveling with other families, in doing some sightseeing while in country. I don't know if this will be through Mulat, but I suspect so. I wish him great success. ANYWAY. . .

I told Mulat there was no freaking way I was going to pay $250 for a 4 hour ride from Langano to Addis that would cost about $0.90 on a minibus, and I got my own ride back. The driver on the way down was, as I described before, a member of the B team. He works for Mulat in Addis, but not in Mulat's capacity as a WHFC employee. I would say that the driver straight up sucked, but he changed a flat tire on his minibus so fast that he gets some suckpoints deducted. He got lost on his way to pick me up. In Addis. He had never been to WHFC's Awassa office and had trouble finding it. I remembered how to get there and directed him. I have a terrible sense of direction. It is not hard to find. ANEEEEWAYZZZZ...

We picked up Hagirso Desta in Awassa and continued south. When we met the family two years ago, Hagirso was the translator and the meeting was videotaped. I later brought the video to Habesha friends to ensure the accuracy of the translations. It was all accurate and complete. He is a WHFC employee who handles all their stuff in Awassa. He's the new Girmay, if you are an old school WHFC family. Except he's much much better. He administers all the Sidama stuff - adoption, sponsorship, clinic building, water projects, etc. He's a good man. I was so happy to have him with me again. But I was thrown into complete panic when he got in the car looking for Ruth and Aster. He was expecting them. He is the link to the family and if he was expecting them, then the family would be expecting them.

In my highly emotional pre-meeting state, I was suddenly vibrating with anger about this because I sent more than one email to Dr. Tsegay and Shewit saying sorry to be pesty but "I want to make sure that it is understood that I will not be bringing our daughters. I am coming alone. I hope that this is communicated to [the family] in advance so that they are not expecting them. I can't imagine how disappointing it would be."

The fact that this was not communicated was ~~total bullshit~~ disappointing. Hagirso got the memo that I was coming, and that memo should have said that Ruth and Aster were not. I am assured that they're working on a protocol/policy/plan for better facilitation of contact. Luckily, three or four months before I went, I sent a letter to the family saying that if I didn't hear back from them that they don't want to see me, I was coming. Alone. Without the girls. I now know that they got that one.

I asked Hagirso WHY nobody could tell me if my letters and photos were getting there. He explained that they get a lot of packages into the office in Awassa now, and that when a social worker is heading out that way, he will take whatever is there and deliver it. Hagirso said that they can't remember everything that comes in and goes out. I suggested writing it down. He said they have started to do that now, as of about a month before my arrival.

So, we went. Afterward, the driver took Hagirso back to Awassa and dropped me off in Yirga Alem (aka Irgalem), at Aregash Lodge, on the way. At $45/night, Aregash Lodge is super high-end Sidama accommodation. It is crazy beeeeautiful.

The food (habesha and Italian) is amazing. I invited Hagirso, the driver, and the drivers alleged brother to eat with me before going on to Awassa. The driver and his fake wendim had eaten while Hagirso and I were with the family and they now seem interested in checking out wendim's newly acquired khat. I was psyched they declined. Hagirso said yes. I was psyched. We had bozena shiro, tibs, strawberry-banana juice, and great adoptionethics conversation. They left and I walked around in a daze until I found a place to sit and watch a monkey eat guavas.

Then I had coffee.

Other international travellers joined us. Other staff came too. The guards were bad-ass and nice.

None of the other ferengi guests showed any interest in these people serving them or the people on the other side of the compound's fences. I was, to quote K'Naan and Chali 2na, "conflicted with the rich cuz I kick it with the poor." My conflict, not wanting to seem rude to the Dutch, Irish, and South Africans present at coffee time, evaporated after a minute because the English language conversation was one I could hear any day of the week, anywhere. I wasn't here to learn about them. My time was short. I wanted to know about the families these employees were supporting. I met fascinating people. I learned and saw things that I never would have known or seen if I weren't alone.

I spent the next day walking around, eating, reading, writing, struggling with Amharic, checking out caves where Haile Selassie's daughter hid while her husband, Ras Desta, battled nepalm dropping Italians,

and taking pictures.

At breakfast, it occurred to me that everything I was eating and drinking came from the property. Except maybe bread. Not sure. But I had the following:

eggs

coffee

with milk and sugar

and fruit

This is the richness of Ethiopia. T.I.A.

The geographic proximity of this garden-of-eden-coffee-plantation-turned-resort to the place my daughters come from is remarkable, since it is a whole 'nother world.

Mudula Dream Team

2010-12-18T11:10:00.001-05:00

Because I stick to the four main food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corns, and syrup - excuses this time include an emergency root canal for me. Before that, for only about 36 hours, I had pain in my ear, head, jaw, mouth, neck, so bad that I couldn't sit still, see straight, talk, sleep, etc. . . It was unreal. On a Sunday night, I gave some thought to trying to yank the offending molar out with pliers. Sounds crazy, right? Well, that's what people with no access to medical care do. And people with untreated abscess/infections like mine can die for lack of antibiotics. Gross.

In Ethiopia, there are almost 80 Million people and 76 dentists. Wait. 76? Really? I'll google it and check. Yup. Well, at least it's up from 48 in 2006. There are over 5,000 in Massachusetts, by the way.

There are fewer than 2 Thousand doctors for those 80 Million. So, that's a doctor for every 35,000 people. And it's not like they are evenly disbursed around the country.

You know how you become a doctor or a dentist? You go to school. This is also how you learn about the conditions in your country that cause a hemorrhage-like brain-drain. And, despite your governments best efforts, you might learn about your government, and try to make some changes in your country when you grow up.

Good news: school enrollment is up something like 500% over the past 20 years. Bad news: Ethiopia ranks 56 out of 60 poorest countries included in a "Worst Place to be a School Child" report.

I repeat: if you don't have to walk all day to get water, you have a better chance of getting to school. Also, if you don't have to walk all day to get to school, you have a better chance of getting to school.

So while I was home crying about my hurt tooth, Liz and Julie were doing something about schools and water. When I see what they're doing, I want to scream "OH MY GOD! I KNOW THEM! I KNOW THEM!" Just like Buddy the Elf when he hears that Santa is coming to Gimbels Department Store.
Julie is doing this. Liz is doing this. Help them. It will make you smile. "I just like smiling. Smiling's my favorite."

No Excuse

2010-12-02T00:39:00.002-05:00

But let me offer some explanations for not delivering trip deets as promised. First: In order to type this, I have to physically hold the broken power cord in to the back of the batteryless laptop. And my touch/mouse pad heats up so hot that it burns my fingers, so I use an external mouse. But all the USB ports are broken so I have to hold that cord in too. So I have no hands to use to move the mouse or to type. Everything is very delicately balanced at the moment.

Second, Day 3 of my trip was spent with Ruth and Aster's remaining family in Ethiopia and I have written and erased it several times. There is no way for me to share the most important and moving part of my trip without violating my children/family's privacy in a major way. Speaking about it in general terms is neither informative nor interesting. I'll try again later.

Additionally, I have been distracted by ~~excuses~~ events that include things like:

Several days without a working toilet in my house.

Locking my children in my car along with my keys and cellphone, today. Not to worry, AAA had them out in 20 of the world's longest minutes.

Being sick despite a renewed (and subsequently lapsed) commitment to multivitamins and exercise.

Three f'ing ear infections (not mine) after 5 ear infection free months.

Looking (unsuccessfully so far) for a new home for my other-dog-aggressive Boxer, Lucy, due to unfortunate circumstances and a particularly horrible event. Please don't tell me how heartless I am for getting rid of her because I already know. Please don't suggest positive training or dog whisperers because we've done it. Including a dog psychiatrist/behavioral specialist at Tufts. We've done it all. It's a nightmare.

Aster loves Lucy very much. She is not too young to notice that she will be gone. If you're not a dog lover, then I am a whiner. If you are, then you know that it's so so bad.

November was pretty scrambly. That's the best I can do to describe it. Triage-y. Fire-putting-out-y. Corner cutting-y. I know that these things are just life and everybody has them. I'm just having some time-management problems.

On Halloween, my children became addicted to candy and since then, for speed and convenience, I have succumbed to yet another thing I said I'd never do. That is: using candy as an incentive/treat. Example:

See Ruth's 'do? The washing/detangling, parting, and twisting are normally done in this house in 3 separate and distinct sessions to minimize boredom and discomfort. But I recently discovered that Ruth will sit still for all three phases at once if I strap her into a seat with a giant blue ring pop.

Other distractions are not so bad. Like, I've been constantly craving Ethiopian food so I have been experimenting, with the guidance of this blog and this one, in an attempt to make injera. Here's a representative from batch #1:

Batch #2

Batch #3

#3 doesn't look so bad, right? Well, it tasted horrifically foul. Extremely disgusting.
The next bunch of batches also sucked. But the one after that was kinda beautiful.

The taste is still not quite right and the little injeradevourers let me know. No mama, not dis one. I wan injeera. Not dis. Dis yuck.

But it sure is pretty. We're getting there.

On a happier note, to round out this freestylin' blah blah blah procrastination/post, I'll tell you that I recently went to a great party at Lucy Ethiopian Cafe where I got to hang out with these people and these people and these people and lots of other extremely cool people. I really am very lucky.

So, now that the time has passed and your interest has waned, and my husband has got himself a fancy new laptop, I'll get back to the business of processing and posting about Ethiopia this weekend.

Cokie Roberts

2010-12-01T23:44:00.000-05:00

I like her. And Save the Children. I never knew (and still don't know) that much about Save the Children. I think the name turned me off because I think of that old S.N.L. skit where Dan Akroyd impersonates Julia Childs yelling "Save the Liver!" I don't know, it's just so Sally Struthers heartstrings sounding. So direct and to the point, really, and makes me feel like ugh. I can't in response. But that was before. Before I went to Ethiopia and actually saw their emblem in a whole bunch of places. Before I saw this video. Before I knew Cokie was a Trustee.

1st 2 days

2010-11-08T22:47:00.000-05:00

This may be a really long, boring blow by blow, but if I spend anymore time thinking about what things I want to write about, trying to come up with some clever way to do it, I will continue to write nothing. As Staci says, I write for therapy, community, and so I don't forget, so please excuse me while I stream of consciously blurt out recording and reflection for awhile. If you are going to attempt to bear with me, you should get coffee or tea or water or wine or whatever now. Caffine may be necessary.

My trip there was smooth and easy. It is really easy, by the way, to get airlines to waive their excess baggage fees for charitable donations. Jet Blue wanted the tax ID #s of WHFC and Ethiopia Reads. Ethiopian Air just took my word for it. Breezed through security. My bags were first off the baggage claim in DC. My lovely cousin/life-long friend picked me up, took me to dinner, hung out late-night, and swooshed me back in the morning when, again, I breezed onto my airplane. This all made me feel really good about deciding to go now. Like signs telling me I was doing the right thing at the right time.

Barely remarkable ride to Rome/Addis. Karate Kid, Grown Ups, X-Men, and no less than 10 hours studying Amharic. Drilling numbers 30 - 100, 1000, etc. into my head. (I suck at money - making change - math - counting. Period.) I stand like a deer in headlights for what feels like hours after they tell me how much something costs in a foreign currency. I made little conversion charts to memorize so that if someone asked me for 300 Birr for a cup of coffee, I would know better. I studied vocab. It helped.

I have said this before, but my only advice to APs, PAPs, or anyone planning to go to Ethiopia, is to learn some Amharic. Even if it's three words Hello, please, thank you, it will make a difference. Because a lot of people do speak English there - which you might think is a reason NOT to learn any Amharic. But just because people can speak English doesn't mean they will. Unless, of course, you greet them with Tenayistallin, dehna neh/nesh/newot? Then, if they do speak English, they are likely to want to know where you learned this, and what you are doing here, and if you need any help, or if you want some coffee, or if you've heard this music, or if you have any questions. I know I'm a gross overgeneralizer, but hospitality and generosity are a huge part of the Habesha identity and demonstrating interest in the language/culture/people will get you invited right in. Even just a friendly Selam will do. And if you learn more than a little (but still not a lot) you can have very basic, infused-with-pantomime conversations with people who may speak no English, like nannies who cared for your child(ren). Or members of your child(ren)'s family.

So I got there at 8 a.m., and . . .wow, I just wrote the LONGEST most boring story about my Verizon serviced global smartphone and how useless and frustrating it was was. Point of the erased story is - get a cell phone there. And I hate Verizon.

WHFC sent Yonas to pick me up. He's a good man. In the parking lot, I was over-prepared for people to try to grab and carry my bags and/or beg for money. I had no easily accessible birr, since I had just changed lots of money and basically strapped it to my body. Which made me look pregnant, or herniated, or like exactly what I was - a crazy ferengi trying to hide fat stacks of cash - since the biggest bill they issue is 100 Birr (about $6). I didn't need anymore help with my bags and I was so mentally prepared and hardened and determined not to dig Birr out of my belly, that I did not give money to a one legged-man who asked nicely, with no one else is around. Not one birr ($.06?). I can't tell you why not. I don't know. I'm ashamed I didn't. There is no public policy reason in the world not to give this man money. It's not like he's going to get a job if people stop giving him money. There is no SSDI, no ADA, no jobs program, no light duty desk job. My six cents isn't enabling him to do anything but survive. There is no crowd around to mob me. I just freaked out and tried to say God bless you but ended up stammering some crazy shit that might have been Thank God, but I'm not sure. I got in the car and Yonas drove away. I was horrified. At myself.

I asked Yonas to bring me to Horizon House first, and was slack-jawed, again, staring at the Ruth and Aster aged kids on the sides of the crazy busy highways with no pants and no shoes. I promise not to dwell on the poverty descriptions but as I write this sentence I think that's a lie, because it is so fucking affecting and I will undoubtedly come back to it.

On the way, we picked up a couple adopting thier first baby girl, staying in Addis from Court to Embassy. Short story: they are awessome.

When we got there, I burst into tears upon seeing Wengel and Bizunesh. Everyone else I knew is gone. It's all different now. More quiet. My understanding of the new(ish) rule is that kids are transferred there only after they have passed court. Except for the exceptions. But there are fewer babies and fewer adults, and it's like a ghost of itself because its built/equipped to handle, feed, hold, medicate lots more kids. And to host lots more "guests" in the guest-house. Wengel and Bizunesh had time to talk/pantomime with me, and look at pictures. They were overjoyed to hear about the kids that we know in common. They remember them all.

Next, I called Dr. Tsegay, who I never saw in Ethiopia because, short story, he blew me off. I was orignially going to go in November until I saw him in August and he told me to go in October so he would be there and see me. I emailed my dates/schedule to him in September and again, as requested, a week before I left. When I got there and called, he sounded really surprised to hear from me. No comment.

His lovely assistant, however, sent Yonas for me, and set me up with Hagirso Desta in Awassa, who arranged a meeting with a relative of Ruth and Aster. In classic WHFC style, they ignored my requests for information until last minute notification of the planned meeting. I don't mean to sound so critical, really, I'm almost glad he was too busy to see me because he was most likely out doing good work. Waltham wouldn't be able to tell me about it, but I'm sure it's good. I trust him. I've looked for fault and my biggest critciszm is that he blew me off. Encouraging and facilitating contact with kids' families is good work. But it is really not part of of any well-oiled program. This was not like the last time they arranged a birth family meeting for me. I was definitely dealing with the B team here. There was no Land Cruiser. An employee/friend of Mulat's drove me to Awassa in his crappy mini-bus. The only good thing about that ride was his Teddy O cassette tape. We both like K'Naan. He pretty much ignored me after we picked up his khat chewing "brother", wearing a t-shirt that played obscenely on the word "beaver", and I KNOW he didn't get it. I will say, however, that they changed a tire in pitt-crew time.

But that was Monday, and I'm still on Saturday.

Since I was not going to see Dr. Tsegay, I spent most of the day at HH. I held a baby who is not matched with a family, and who, I'm quite sure, will never make it to the US. One of the exceptions that can get a kid there before Court, or before a referral even, is severe illness. There is no way this baby would survive an airplane ride, and no way that I'm aware of, that he's going to have surgery to fix a hole in his heart. Word on the street was that there was no doctor in Addis who could do it. But I've got it on good info that there is a pediatric cardiologist at the Black Lion Hospital. I think it more likely that there is no donor in or outside Addis volunteering to pay for it.

He's 18 or 20 months and could not have weighed more than 10 lbs. No sitting, rolling, crawling, talking. His giant eyes blinked at me so slowly, over and over, and I thought they took up his whole face until he smiled. His big, laughless smile, with two yellow/brown crazycrooked front teeth, yanked my eyes away from the big, bulging blue veins pulsing across his head. He wants to be held all the time.

Eventually, I called Yonas to take me to my hotel, Mr. Martin's Cozy Place. It's, hmmmm, how shall we say. . . cozy? It's kind of more like a hostel than a hotel, but it was clean and safe. Simple. Great value for $8/night. Yonas, who is used to driving ferengi to and from the Hilton and the Sheraton, was pretty horrified. Not by the place itself, which is not so bad, but by the location. It's off Bole Road, in a "chechenya", a.k.a. red light district. Shared bathroom, but nice hot water. Limited food menu, but best cappuccino I had in Ethiopia.

Yonas kept asking me if I was sure I wanted to stay, and would I be okay. He looked afraid that he was going to get in trouble. It was interesting to be free from Wide Horizons' policies, but still interacting with them. My Lonely-Planet type itinerary is apparently not the norm. It took me forever to explain that I was not coming back to Addis with the driver after the visit. They had a hard time letting go. I just needed their help locating the family memebers and getting a trustworthy, up to speed translator/social-worker. I am grateful that they provided those things. No doubt that there are cheaper (and better) drivers out there though.

I slept 14 hours that night and woke up feeling good and ready to do some shopping. I packed next to nothing. I was only there 8 days. I needed Habesha libs for me and for the girls anyway, so I figured I'd buy them, and some cheap flowy long skirts and t-shirts, and wear them there. Would have been a great plan if I had gone shopping upon arrival on Saturday. On Sunday, everything is closed. So I had breakfast and started reading my first novel since I became a mom. Cutting for Stone. At lunch time, I called a friend for a ride to a restaurant very close to Horizon House, planning to walk there after lunch and spend the afternoon. The friend is actually, technichally, the wife of a friend of a friend of a blogfriend. I would never have met them without this community. They are amazing. They do this.

Due to road closures, we drove through some barely passable stone "roads" in what M. called the slums of Addis. It was Sunday but there were still people bustling and hustling around, everywhere. Again, little kids, maybe 3, walking down the road by themselves. Trenches for garbage and sewage sparated the roads from the tin-roof residences. But what rolls around in my head, begging to come out here, are the crumpled up heaps next to the trenches. My amalgam of them looks like a pile of clothes on the side of the road, that on closer inspection proves to be a hunched over, pretty much doubled over, sitting or squatting person, head completely covered, only identifiable as human by a skinny, ashgrey arm poking out, gnarled up fingers scraching in the dirt. Moving vehicle or not, I couldn't bring myself to take a picture and I can't possibly describe the glaring invisibilty and dehumaization of these people.

M. drops me off and I sit outside at the restaurant and order avacado juice, which is 2 straight pureed avacados. A delicious fatshake. And fir-fir tibs. My lunch is amazing and it costs $2.00. I had lunch here the day before, with the lovely couple adopting the baby girl. On both days, the owner's daughter is inside practicing her piano lessons and now she's playing a song that suddenly slams itself into my memory as a song I had to learn as a 7 year old in piano lessons.

“Stately as princes the swans part the lilies and gliiiiiide, under the wi-i-i-llows.
Are they enchanted men soon to be free again, here under the willlll-lows?
Oh I would like to be here when a fairy wand touches the leader and changes his looks.
Would he be handsome and brave as the heroes that li-i-i-ve, hid-den in my fairy books"

I see kid after kid walk by to this sound-track, and I know that none of them have any idea of fairy books. I am so much more affected by the children on this trip. I was a bit distracted last time. Sitting by myself listening to the bizzare swan song, I started feeling a little bit dizzy thinking about walking the short distance to HH. None of the kids approach me while I'm on the porch of the restaurant, but I now that as soon as I'm on the street, I will be fair game. Hello! Thank you! Hello! You give me pen! You give me birr! One Birr! One Pen! Hello! I am not afraid of being hurt. I never feel physically in danger at all. (Except when I lock myself in the cozy-room and have a hard time opening the door from the inside, and I think about what if there is a fire). When I see kids who look like they really need it, and are not asking for the sport of it, I give them birr. I know, who am I to judge who "needs" it? Once I give birr to one - it's a chaos. I am surprised by how orderly they become when I shout at them to stop or wait - but then I have to pick which kids get some and which don't - because there are always eventually more kids than birr. And this makes me want to puke. I also feel sick saying "Yellenyim" (I don't have it) or "Zare aydellum" (not today). I can dress down and work myself up to a real bad-ass in my head, but I still look like the soft, squishy, pink and yellow rich lady that I am. It is obvious and I am like a beacon even with my meanest look on.

Just as I'm starting to think that the song and the scene might actually overload my mental capacity and cause my brain to explode, I see the lovely newly adoptive parent couple from yesterday walking in. I am no longer shocked when I meet adoptive parents of Ethiopian kids and isntantly want to be their bff. There are lots of them. I was really thrilled to see these people because: 1) They are so cool and interesting and interested in the ethics and status of Ethiopian Adoption; and 2) we can walk over together. Nobody bothers with 3 of us.

Later that night, I had a beer with my new fb friend Fitsum.

And then kitfo and ensete with M. and H. at Yod Abysinnia. Like the giant peice of what appears to be Wonder Bread?

I learned how to properly hold a thing of T'ej.

In case you missed the Oromomenya dancer I posted in '08, here's a newer, shorter version. There's a new post, btw.

I slept very little that night, and checked out of Addis early Monday morning.

Wordless Wednesday

2010-11-03T22:46:00.000-04:00

I'm hoping for words this weekend.

Water and Books

2010-10-28T00:12:00.003-04:00

I went to Ethiopia. I don't know how to tell you about it, and I have lots to say. So many beautiful, wonderful things. So many horrible, heartbreaking things. Some things are both at the same time. I'll be back to talk about this in more detail, but for now:

Books - Ethiopia Reads: what an amazing thing to see up close. I visited a Children's Reading Center in Awassa and brought books to a library in a school a few hours south of there. When I got to the library it was full of older kids and you could've heard a pin drop. The books there are clearly beloved and greatly appreciated. If you sent the Barak Obama book, the one that starts with his life as a kid, you win the "book everybody liked the most" award. It was a great thing to see.

What they really, really need is text books printed in the Sidama language. Apparently this is possible, but costs money that will only come from people like you, so make a donation to Ethiopia Reads if you can.

Water - what a nightmare to see up close. Let me step back and say that I never learned to use my new camera before I left. Additionally, the most profound and/or moving things that I saw, I could not even attempt to capture. I found myself up close and personal with many women and children struggling with issues related to a lack of accessible, clean water. And when standing in close proximity to people just trying to go about their daily business, I didn't have it in me to raise my camera and start clicking away. I'm not a photo-journalist. I'm just a tourist/voyeur. And there was no way I was going to point and shoot at those people. At least not when they were aware of it anyway.

You can't drive 3 feet without seeing people lugging water jugs, however, and I have plenty of photos taken from behind the closed window of a moving car. And pictures of kids that I paid for the pictures - I have lots of those. I just wish I could show you what it was really like, and I can't.

But back to water and books - they are related. If you don't have to spend hours and hours walking and walking to collect dirty water everyday, then you have time to go to school. Most of the kids on the road had one of three things in their hands: 1. a branch/switch for the cattle or goats they were tending; 2. a plastic bag with books in it; or 3. a giant, heavy, dirty looking plastic water jug.

So, here are a few related pictures.

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Dehna Hoonoo

2010-10-14T12:17:00.000-04:00

Excess baggage fee waivers - check! Thanks Heidi.

Plan tightened up - check! Thanks Wide Horizons.

Bishangari - check! Thanks Friknfrak.

As Aster says: Byebye. Theeeya yaytah.

T - 2

2010-10-13T00:24:00.001-04:00

Thank you all so much for the books. Ms. Lowe's 4th grade class, Breeze Inn, LLC, and my circle of friends, who clearly put some serious thought into what to send, are awesome.

I can't take all of them. I've donated the leftovers to Wellspring. I spent a lot of time narrowing it down, evaluating based on weight, cultural translatability, age appropriateness, etc. . . I ended up packing almost all of the paperbacks and light hardcovers. And some heavy ones too. I'm well over the 50lb weight limit, but there are so many perfect books that I just have to suck it up, pay Jet Blue and Ethiopian Air their punitive overweight bag penalties, and pray that I successfully drag these rock-like sacks 1/2 way around the world.

Did you know, by the way, that Maya Angelou and Bill Cosby (not together; separately) made children's' books? I did not. Now I do. I spent a lot of procrastination time leafing through, making a wish list.

And I've got what feels like 700 pounds of diapers, formula, pedialyte, diaper rash cream, triple antibiotic, bandages, tape, gloves, cortisone, etc. etc. . . Buying stuff there and supporting the local economy is a fabulous idea, in theory. Two years ago, we went to about 9 stores all over the biggest city in Ethiopia trying to buy lots of baby formula. It was seriously scarce. Soy? Forget about it. Diapers? Available, but boy do they SUCK. And when you see your babies' blistering bleeding diaper rash magically go away with some good diapers and a little nystatin, it makes you want to bring as many as you can, even if it amounts to a proverbial drop in a diaper pail.

So, I'm pretty much ready. Ready as I'll ever be, I guess, to leave two little two year olds who I miss like crazy even when I'm just up the street at work. 11 days. Leaving this.

New Baby

2010-10-04T15:16:00.002-04:00

Before I tell you about the newest addition to our family, I would like to solicit more books for Ethiopia Reads. I leave in exactly 2 weeks and I still need more.

36% of Ethiopian kids go to primary or secondary school. 18% make it to 5th grade. We sponsor a girl in Sidama who does go to school. Where she lives, school goes up to 4th grade - that's it. So, she very well might learn to read, and then finish school, and NEVER SEE ANOTHER BOOK AGAIN. Most kids in Ethiopia will never have a single book of their own. The library to which your books will go is in a school with 3500 kids and 1500 books. Kids in Ethiopia line up to take turns to look at books. Jane Kurtz recommends books that are "colorful nonfiction, children's dictionaries, fiction that crosses boundaries easily--and has relatively little text on the page with bright, attractive pictures." But please give me your childrens books even if they don't quite fit that description. Children will be learning English and will be happy to have books, even if only to look at the pictures. If you live near me, and want me to come pick them up, I will.

Big huge thanks to those of you who have already donated. And thank you to those of you who have offered to donate other things - I'm at capacity.

And now, introducing the new baby who I promise to love and care for and protect and not bang or drop or lose. For ever and ever. We call her Nikon D3100. She is beautiful. She's only been with us for a weekend and I haven't figured her out yet. But she's doing great so far. We're thrilled.

Re: why I love you so much, I need help, and b-o-o-b-s

2010-09-20T18:04:00.000-04:00

Dear blogosphere: I love you so much because in addition to supporting and validating when most needed, you've got my back. Remember this post? Well, just imagine the traffic I might drive to my little public rantspace with that last post title. For some reason, this didn't occur to me. But it was pointed out to me. Thanks. I need your help.

I just checked again to see what phrases people have typed into search engines to end up here over the past year. Most are Ethiopian adoption related, or "how do you say _____ in Amharic." Among my favorites, however, are these:

Boob magic, magic morphed boobs, konjo boobs, morphed boobs faith, unreal morphed boobs, morphed boobs world, Ethiopian boobs, webbed boobs, and search for blogspot freak boob.

But I need more help.

#1. Who's been to Ethiopia (SNNPR) in or around October? What on earth shall I wear? Just kidding. No I'm not. We were there at the start of the rainy season, July. It was 60s when raining and 80s in the sun. How does the end of the rainy season, October, compare? When we packed last time, it was all about what to bring for babies. This time, I hope to have 50 lbs of books for Ethiopia Reads and 40 lbs of other supplies to donate. That leaves me 10 lbs and a carry-on. Which means I'll scrap the laptop. I hear there is internet service at places like the Sheraton in Addis, but do you need your own computer? If there are computer terminals you can pay to use there, do they have skype? What are the things you brought that you were so happy to have? What kind of adapter do I bring for my hairdryer - kidding.

#2. I'm about to buy a digital SLR camera. So many of you are amazing photographers. If you have one and don't mind, please tell me what kind and whether you love, like or hate it.

Thank you for being so awesome.

A. N. vacation

2010-09-20T00:45:00.002-04:00

There's a little State Forest lake a mile from our cabin in NH that is was great for little kids and crowded all summer. I don't go there. It's easy access for people who want to spend some time outside after outlet shopping. I remember going there before the people, before the outlets, before the trashcans were overflowing with diapers and plastic waterbottles. In my snotty, bad attitude point of view, there is a sheen of bugspray and sunscreen on the water by August. There is extra fuzzy-slimy algae grass. The sand/dirt looks to me like it is saturated with fruit punch and soda. But in real life, it looks like this.

And the water is warm and it's safe (I thought) and I knew Aster and Ruth would like it. And they like kids. So I sucked it up and packed a picnic and join the masses for an August weekend afternoon. As we pulled up I tried to ignore a big haired, clown-lipsticked lady crushing her cigarette butt out on the ground, but my eyes got stuck on her and I felt like I was entering in slow motion, and that I should turn and run. But I didn't.

Let me back up and say that there are many places that we go to, both in the country and in the suburbs, where I know that my kids will not only be the only Black people there, but may be the only Black people that other little kids there have ever really interacted with. I have been asked by more than one 3 yearoldish kid, why is she brown? Kids often group things together by their visual appearance. Colors are a big one. It is when parents react by saying "ssshhhhh" or "that's not nice" or "we don't say that" or whatever, that kids are taught to think that there is something "wrong" or secret about brown skin. How come she has brown skin and you don't? Not an inherently offensive question. I'm sorry that my kids are subjected to this otherness but I have fielded these questions, both with and without helpful input from the questioner's parent. The fact that these children are growing up in places where they don't see Black people may be the result of institutional, longstanding racism, but most of them have parents that teach "tolerance" (stupid word for the concept, imho), and may be guilty of ignorance, but not hatred.

Back to the lake. Ruth was playing at my feet in 2 feet of water. Other little kids splashed up and played too, and we were having fun. Out of nowhere, three ragged little brats - a girl maybe 8, her brother maybe 5, and the littlest girl maybe 3, run up to us and throw themselves into the water on their bellies in a circle around Ruth, dropping like bombs around her. I'm like woah, that's aggressive, but whatever. I'm all smiles, about to say hi, what's your name? but I don't have time before the big girl spits out,

Whyz she BuhLACK?

This is not an innocent, curious question. Ruth's skin is brown. Black is a social construct that someone has taught this girl. Her question is clearly not simple or innocent. It's not even a question. She might even be older than 8. Her voice is dripping with contempt. I can feel it raining into the water all around us like poison.

Well, I say in my my nicest you-are-only-a-child-so-I-will-try-to-refrain-from-holding-your-head-underwater-voice, there are lots of different colors that peoples' skin can be. Some peo-

Well, I DON'T LIKE IT.

Her evil little brother goes from smirking to outright smiling. I am suddenly more scared of him than her. She is obviously a wretched little bitch of a hillbilly girl. She might even have some type of congitive disability magnifying her racistlittleshitedness - not sure - there is something in her eyes that I can't figure out. Her brother, however, I haven't had time to assess. Seeing his smile bust out across his duh-huh stupid looking face starts me panicking. He is physically closest to Ruth.

This is not "I don yike it" as in "i'm 2 and freaked out by new things" This is a girl deliberately confronting/provoking me and trying to start some shit.

That's not nice. How would you like it if we said we didn't like you just because your eyes are blue?

As I say this, I am turning to pick up Ruth, who has stopped swimming. Stopped moving. Not talking. Not waving. Not smiling. Ruth, who never stops talking, especially to other kids. "Hi boy! Hi girl! I'm Ruthie, Dis is mama. Dats Atah, etc. . .". None of that now.

As I pick her up, I am scanning the scummy little beach for the demons who spawned these things.

Mini-wretch gets in her unprovoked parting shot before I start walking.

You are NOT her mother.

Oh, yes I am. Of course I am.

I am not talking to the girl. I am talking for Ruth. And I keep talking, as we walk away, unaware of what I am saying, unable to recall a single technique or peice of advice from any trans-racial or anti-racist parenting book, website, article - unable to think clearly about how I am acting and whether it is right or wrong.

And now, mama wants to go play over here away from that girl because she was not nice and very stupid. What should we play next? Let's go find nana and Aster, okay? Am I blowing a teachable moment? She's TWO. How much intellectual explaining am I supposed to do here? I could barely breathe. I couldn't think straight.

I'm still looking around for the parents, and I spot a few nasty looking people with shaved heads and prison looking spiderweb neck tatoos.

I guess the point of this story, (other than asking what is an age appropriate response for a two year old), is that it is pretty easy for me to forget how much hate is still being taught, and how fast it can come out of nowhere. As my consiousness of my own white privilege evolves, I realize how easy it was, my whole life, to simply remove racism - race, for that matter, from my life. When racist people exposed themselves, assuming that I was on the same team, I could simply disagree and move away. The luxury of having the decision to engage and confront, or just remove it. I could do lots of reading, talking, thinking, about race whenever I FELT LIKE IT. I was never a real target for anyone, just a witness. And let me tell you: reading, thinking, talking about racism - even dealing with unconscious bias and the stupid things that people say - does NOT prepare you for the day that you are confronted, head on, by a little girl hating on your little girl.

MELKAM ADDIS AMET!

2010-09-11T00:39:00.001-04:00

August was not a good blogging month for me. Obvi. My camera is dead. Not documenting August doesn't break my heart though, because there is no way photos, or even video, could ever do it justice. I hope yours was phenomenal too. As many of you know, two and almost-a-half is so crazy. Every day is a million new things. We're not into "why" yet, but "whas dat" is non-stop. If only winter moved as fast as summer. . . I take that back. If only summer went as slow as winter.

August brought corn, watermelon, beans, tomatos, and broccoli that we grew in our very own back yard. Ruth (so fresh, in the defiant sense of the word - actually both meanings) and Aster (more sly than shy these days) picked tomatos and ate corn right off the stalk. It was a flippin' sweet memory that you'll just have to imagine, due to the untimely passing of the camera. There is only one reason that things grew in our little over-planted gardens of poor soil: seaweed. I read that it was a good fertilizer when I googled "organic gardening" and regularly brought it back from the beach and just threw it in like mulch. I never dreamed it would result in miracle-grow looking food, but that's what happened.

Lucky for me, other people took some pictures. I seriously felt this happy almost every minute of August. (Subsequent edit: I just read this after I hit publish, almost choked on my own cheese, and have to admit that it was not, of course, really EVERY minute, but there sure were a LOT of sunny days.)

Despite the time outs.

Despite the insane anxiety that comes from having a daughter who is convinced she can swim underwater, and literally dives into water and completely submerges herself without warning, causing me to helicopter above her at all aquatic moments.

August was full of hiking

Sunbathing

flower picking

ice cream eating

and hair-doing

And now it's over. Today is the start of a new year. I've kicked it off in a momentuous way. It is likely that I will be blogging more in the coming months, since I am GOING TO ETHIOPIA in October. Yup. Just me. All by myself. October 15th. I am tortured by the thought of leaving my giant toddlers, and am only going for 10 days. But I'm going, and I am hereby soliciting advice. For starters, when we went in 2008, I had no need for regular phone calling to home, and paid no attention to the experience of people who purchased or rented cellphones or plans in Ethiopia, but this time is different. Anybody know an economical way to regularly call home?

Harmonious Hamoos (Thursday- b' amarigna)

2010-07-29T13:00:00.000-04:00

Another one of those gratitude posts

2010-07-19T00:31:00.005-04:00

When we moved in to our house five years ago, dreaming of having kids, the area where I'm sitting now - the porch- looked like this.

The next year, it looked like this.

The next year it looked like this.

Here it is right now

My present view

It has taken five years for me to grow plants on and around the porch, but I can smell my little organic, rain-barrel fed herb garden right now, and I am ridiculously thrilled. Wait. let me stand at my front door and show you. Taking these pictures is so fun right now. Simple minds. . .

It's embarrasing how proud I am of this. Five years it has taken me to have a 2.5' by 4' garden on top of a trash bin. I am freakin' delighted. This little porch haven is entirely thanks to my daughters, (and handy husband, and craigslist, and carpenter who owed me money). For years, everything was waiting. I couldn't seem to accomplish or grow anything. Our kids' room looked like this:

And this.

Wanna see it right now? Okay. Hold on.

Giants. Crazy. It's the two year anniversary of the first day they came here.

I had TIME, slowasmolasses time, before kids, to clean up my house/act, - but I couldn't do it. I apparently needed to wait for them, in order to wake up and come (back) to life. Now that I have this little relaxation spot, surrounded my things that make me happy, I never, ever find time, which goes boltlightning fast now, to sit here.

I have absolutely no business being awake but it is so warm and perfect out here right now that I just have to stop. Reflect. Record.

I have no business being awake because it's midnight and we've been on the sleepless (okay, sleeplittle) go for days.

Here's Thursday night, in Concord, NH:

Here's Friday, driving from Concord to Franconia, NH

And Saturday, having left Franconia and attending a pool party in Amherst, NH.

The pool party was a reunion of WHFC Group 66 - 8 of 9 families attended. It was amazing. We slept over, but were at the beach at home by noon. Swimming, sweating, tiring.

This summer has been wild like that.

Here's last week when Ruth, Aster and I went on vacation to N. Conway at the begining of the week.

And then we came home, picked up Dada and hit ECECC.

Different from last year.

Equally fantastic.

When I first sat on this porch, five years ago, I was just not a very happy person. Then the girls came and everything changed. Right now, I feel like I was somewhat lost in a crazed blur after that, and I still am. But this summer, for the first time, with a regularly scheduled Habesha babysitter, things are getting less blury. I'm sitting still tonight looking around at my little life, going dayum! This is so good.

I know it sounds obnoxious, and I know it will change. And of course it's not as perfect as may appear through my sleepy mango-margarita-googles right now. But I coudn't be more content.

I'm even growing vegetables. Maybe. We'll see. I always wanted to do it for myself, but always failed (see previous link). This year, I wanted to do it for them. I thought about their farming family in Ethiopia while we planted seeds, and imagined them being delighted by sprouting seedlings. It didn't work out that way because they just wanted to yank out anything green and eat the dirt. Turns out, they suck at gardenting even worse than I do. But I still planted a teeny little box, late in the season, that looked like this a month ago.

Wanna see it now? Okay, hold on.

It's quite possible that nothing will bear fruit because it's all jammed up too close together but I don't even care because shit grew. I feel like it's a big mothering metaphor. Maybe I didn't do it right this year because I don't know what I'm doing, but things are alive and growing, and I can do it better next year. I'm pretty much psyched and just wanted to say so. Happy Summer to you.

Birthday Porn

2010-06-30T01:18:00.002-04:00

Well, that answers that question

2010-06-05T01:39:00.000-04:00

about Starbucks.

ECECC. . . Just Another Reason

2010-05-25T21:39:00.001-04:00

As if the mass convergence of cool kids and gobs of insight were not enough, now there's Rachael and her wicked sweet photography. Official photographer of ECECC 2010.

Referralversary

2010-05-20T23:16:00.000-04:00

In August of 2006, we decided to adopt children from Ethiopia. We decided to start saving up and investigate it for real, and "we" started talking about it a lot. A lot, lot, lot. Undoubtedly sick of hearing about it, a friend said in October of 2006 (! seems like yesterday) "It sounds like you've decided. When exactly are you going to apply?" in an appropriately "what are you waiting for" tone of voice. Before I had a single conscious thought formed in response, my mouth flew open and I announced "April!" I remember being kind of surprised that it came out so naturally and confidently and immediately then decided that April was, of course, exatly when the Powers that Be wanted me to submit my application to be matched with kids, and that must be why I said it.

By November 2006, April was way too far away. We gave eachother the gift of mailing out the intial WHFC paperwork and money for Christmas (on the 19th) and I was very concerned about the whole moving up the April deadline thing. I felt like I was messing with fate because April came to me so clearly and definitively out of nowhere and I committed to it, and now I was exherting my overbearing ~~need to control everything and make it go very fast~~ free will and could be blowing my date with destiny. It bugged me for 18 months.

The official congratulations and "welcome to the homestudy" paperwork came a few days before Christmas. Aldous was home when it arrived, and decided it would be a good idea to hide the package from me until midnight on the 31st, and give it to me at the bar while his band was on a break. Like, Surprise! Cheer up! Romantic! And for those of you who think, "oh, that's so sweet" I can only say, Really? You think? I am weak, and I was on a mission to win a compitive paperwork processing medal and I was nothing short of PISSED. Really honey? Did you just meet me? Are you NEW? I got over it right then and there (a rare thing, unfortunately), kissed him Happy New Year-that-we-get-kids (ha ha) and was homestudied and dossier'ed before February. Fingerprinted March 16, a time when the Boston CIS office was routinely flipping out approvals within 4 days of fingerprinting. I know this because I made yahoo-group based charts and graphs.

But our approval didn't come for two weeks. There was nothing noteworthy in our histories. April 1 was a Saturday and when CIS reopened that monday April 3, 2007, we started our "official" wait. And I thought Oh, so that's what that spiritual moment, Will-Ferrel-debating-in-Old-School, involuntary blurting of "April!" was all about! The Powers that Be wanted us to "officially" start the 1-6 month process in April. We'll have a referral by October! I can't beleive that I have reached a point in thime where I think it is funny to mock myself in a really patronizing tone in my head as I write that.

Ruth and Aster were born the following April and got our referral on May 14, 2008. Two years ago. That wait is such a distant, fading memory now that I forgot to stop and notice that it was our referralversary. I like remembering that day. There's a new post, btw.

I'm sorry

2010-05-09T15:36:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I write blog posts that I regret. I read them later and see that they don't at all convey what I was trying to say. Normally, I move on. I feel like deleting them is somehow wrong so I just leave it and live with it. It's all me and looking back to the beginning of this little journal, it's obvious that my thinking about lots of things has evolved over time. Normally, I don't go back and retract things I said before, even if they bother me.

But the post I put up at 2AM last night bothers me so much that I can't stop thinking about it. It's not passing the gut check. I can't read it without getting that bad feeling. Here's the thing: I don't feel like saying "birth" mother. Fine. Don't. I want to celebrate another mother on mother's day too. Fine. Do.

What bothers me so much about my public opinion, and my last waking thought last night and my first waking thought this morning is that "Birthmothers' day" was created by birth mothers. They wanted a separate occassion to honor their mother experience. It's not like adoptive mothers decided they would relegate birth mothers to a separate, disparate day. This was the idea of honorees who wanted it. I'm sorry that I even attempted to have a loud-mouth opinion about it.

Similarly, "birth" is no small contribution. "First" is accurate. The name should, ideally, be chosen by the bearer, and in most of our situations here in EthiopianAdoptionLand, it can't be. I wish I could just ask her. I think that what motivated my relatively bad atttitude was an overwhelming desire to honor and recognize her, and my tremendous anxiety about not doing that well enough.

All those waiting Mother's Days, I never expected it to be so hard in a whole new way now. It is incredibly joyful - don't get me wrong. I'm the luckiest girl I know getting to spend the morning with my own mother and my own daughters.

But next year, in addition to trying to live my life and raise my daughters everyday in a way that honors and recognizes her (and my own mother), I think we'll do somethings special and ceremonial with her in mind on both Saturday and Sunday.

BirthFirstBio. . . Whatever

2010-05-09T01:31:00.002-04:00

I forget from where I learned that the day before mother's day is celebrated as "Birth Mothers' Day" or "First Mothers' Day," but I thought it was a nice idea. Until I really thought about it. Now, I have to agree with the author of the linked entry above.

In telling you my feelings, I do not mean to disparage anybody else's thoughts, traditions, or vocab. Different things work for different people and situations. I think that most reasonable people who end up here on this blog would agree that "gotcha day" is gross. But what to call the woman who gave birth to your children? Seems like "birth mom" is most popular, despite a movement to change that to "first mom."

I have never been comfortable using the term "birth mother," or it's way-too-cutesy-for-me-counterpart "tummy mummy." There is more to it than the birthing thing. Conjures images of a breeder robot in my messed up head.

"First mother" doesn't sit well with me either. In part because it seems confusing to kids who can count. If there's a first, then there's a second. So is there a third, fourth, fifth. . . ? I guess I just don't really see the need for a modifier at this point.

When speaking to people who are not my children, she is just their "mother". Since I am not in the habit of referring to myself in the third person, when I say "Ruth & Aster's Mother . . . " nobody is confused.

So far, when speaking to my children, I just call her by name. I understand that it could be confusing to them if I were to go around talking about "their mother," who is not me, to other people, in front of them. But I'm pretty sure we will figure this out without using birth or first.

Again, I don't think they are derogatory words, or incorrect. They just don't fit in my big mouth.

As for having a separate day? In our case, it just seems to just emphasize the huge inequity and sadness of it all. My day gets hallmark hyped for weeks. Nobody even knows about hers. So, we can plant something for her on a Sunday every May, instead of a Saturday. We can all remember, think about, and appreciate her too on Mother's Day. It's not a mutually exclusive thing. My Mother’s Day is happy. I imagine that it is not a happy day for lots of women. I can’t imagine that designating a different day, distinctly NOT Mothers’ Day, is always helpful.

Maybe I’m totally missing the point. Feel free to educate me. Ruth & Aster’s mom doesn’t get to weigh in on this subject and let me know her thoughts. So you’re just stuck with Ruth & Aster’s mom’s (just kidding) thoughts.

Picking up

2010-05-05T22:42:00.001-04:00

where we left off. Today was such a beautiful, warm, sunny day, that it can't really be called typical. And I suck at this and did not take a photo every hour. But anywayz:

Typical breakfast.

No video watching this morning. Playing ~~in the~~ ~~big cage~~ on the little deck while I get ready to go.

10 minute ride and we're at the office (aka oppice). The door on the left is my oppice. The door on the right is Breeze Inn drop-off activity center. Ruth, Aster, and I (and everyone else who knows them) love the two women who run it. Seriously, if you are local, check it out. I wish it were a daycare and they could go there every day. It isn't and they can't. But they go there often and I'm so lucky.

9-12 they're there. At 12 they come up for lunch and a nap. That can get pretty hectic and I forgot to take a picture. BUT I have photographed lunch and nap in the office before, and it looks like this.

They slept 'til 3. Ruth woke up and immediately asked for ice-cream. Why not? The plan was go home and go to the beach. But we stopped for ice-cream and decided to stay at the public part of the beach.

Some people are dainty when eating ice-cream.

Other people are not.

Then we walked.

Out of the stroller and into the water. Freezing cold water, and plunked right down. In retrospect, I think I can hear the other moms laughing as I roll up my daughters' pants.

The beauty of hanging at the strip is being with all of the different kinds of people there. Seriously. And before you ask me WTF is up with these people we saw today, I'll tell you. I have no idea.

People were really hungry by the time we got home, and there was no time to change out of wet clothes. Damp is better than melting. Notice the two green tones to Aster's t-shirt? Wet/dry. Surfer girl.

After dinner, tub. And brush teeth. Gotta tell you, I really love this Burt's Bees bath oil and moisturizer.

Then Sessie with "passy blanky".

Then bed for them. Then clean up. I'll spare ~~myself the embarrasment~~ you the details of that.

Then couch for me. Still couch for me.

Good night.

Last night

2010-04-30T23:54:00.002-04:00

of my NaBloPoMo committment. Sorry it's been so boring, but I just had to. Now that I'm back in the habit, and feeling a bit more connected, I'll be back more often. I came SO close to blowing it tonight, because I was here with my Mia. Remember Mia? She got booted out of her blog-post-topic seat when her cousins showed up, but she's still as here as ever. I'll fill you in on her later.

And WFT is one of my favorite Boston area attractions ever. Mia and I go to at least one production each year and we go to the Urban Nutcracker by BalletRox every December. Tonight I learned that the two previously unrelated entities have undertaken some kind of partnership and, to me, its like that time somebody decided to put penut butter and chocolate into one reeces candy. I'm so excited. I'm not even a huge theater person - but Mia is, so we seek out local theater stuff and everything I've seen either entity do is astounding. Seriously, the sets on the play we saw tonight were better than anything I've seen in much larger, more expensive productions. And they have themed craft-making for kids before the shows. And ask the cast questions sessions. And a red carpet they roll out for autograph signings. Everything about it is excellent. Especially for kids.

Then we went here for ayib begomen and doro wat. Her request. I let her drink coffee if so long as she orders it herself, in Amharic. "Buna, ebakesh." "Amasehganallho." We need it when we're not getting home until 11:40. Just in time.

Tomorrow she is my helper in Cambridge when we go see lots of cool families with Habesha lijoch. Should be good.

New Heights

2010-04-29T23:08:00.000-04:00

I'm embarrassed to admit that I did not know anything about Dorothy Height until she died last week. This, in and of itself, is a reminder that there is an awful lot that I don't know.

But I keep learning. Tim Wise helps. And blogfriends like Liz who bring things like this and this to my attention help. Thanks.

Fingerpaints

2010-04-28T22:27:00.001-04:00

I have been passively looking for fingerpaints for about a year. By passively, I mean looking for them at the following places where I happened to be anyway: CVS, Rite-Aid, Kohls, Toys-R-Us, Babies-R-Us, Magic Beans, Stop & Shop, Shaws, Michael's Crafts, and every little mom 'n pop toystore and art supply store I saw. I asked several moms who asked me why I would ever want them. They are messy and disgusting.

I found a million clever little fingerpaint-derivative products, like these clear gel paints that turn colors upon contact with special paper only. Reserved for the exclusive use of nieces who are old enough not to eat it. Toxic or non, it's just kinda sketchy.

But I could not, for the life of me, find the basic tubs or tubes of primary colors for use on glossy paper. Until today. K-Mart, baby.

I knew they would love them and I was right. There is something so basic and rewarding about touching and feeling your slimy colors and designs. Mixing and mooshing them together until you are satisfied, and then exclaiming, if you are Aster, "Picksher fo meeeee!" (as she holds it out to me - she means "picksher fo you" but is mimicking my typical excited "picture for me?!" reaction when she hands over her art).

If you are Ruth, then you look over your work and say "Oh wow. Woothie. Boooful." And then you scrunch it up.

PVC pipe for mother's day

2010-04-27T22:03:00.004-04:00

From Water 1st, "For Mother's Day, we suggest PVC pipe instead of flowers. Honor your mother by ending the walk for water for another mother." Check out E.O.R.'s efforts (before May 1).

Yardwork

2010-04-25T20:52:00.001-04:00

Happy Belated Earth Day

2010-04-24T23:49:00.004-04:00

Too bad the Meles government jammed the VOA in the run up to elections. It's the only place I think this AP story appeared.

This ECECC attendee

2010-04-23T23:51:00.003-04:00

and professional photographer extraordinaire was at my house today. Cuz I'm lucky like that.

Cruel Ethiopia

2010-04-22T22:43:00.003-04:00

“It’s called ‘Green Famine,’” she said, but when I asked her what caused it, her answer rambled from rainfall patterns to soil erosion to local preferences for nutrient-poor root vegetables and made little sense. That is an excerpt from this article that I liked. Are agencies sending families to Addis during the week of elections, May 23rd?

Two hours

2010-04-21T21:40:00.007-04:00

Two hours is how long my plan to do one of those "a day in pictures" blog posts lasted. You know, where you take a photo every hour and document your day. Here's the very first thing that happens in my day. It is not always this brand. I shop around and am open to suggestions. This is next.

Here's the end of the first hour, after breakfast, strapped to the screen while I take a shower and get dressed.

Then they get dressed and we go outside and "ride car" to work. The untouched and overgrown flowerbed is "wow. so booofull."

And that's it. Couldn't find six seconds to take a picture in the sixty minute intervals that made up my busy day. The best snapshot would have been one of Ruth at lunchtime, when she had to get down from the table because she kept dumping out her water on purpose. She burst into the saddest little fit and then stormed off wailing "Imma go fine gwumpa!" who would comfort her and fix all her problems. Last time she told me she was going to find Grandpa (my boss) it was because I would not unwrap a candy that somebody gave her.

So, maybe another day I'll take pictures. For now, here's one little sucess story and video on decreasing infant mortality in Ethiopia.

Crunchy Honey Wheat Bread

2010-04-20T23:37:00.006-04:00

I made it and it is freaking amazing. Delicious. Tall. Fluffy. Crusty. Big fat pat on the back for me the bread machine. Soooooo easy. Dump ingredients in. Press buttons. Wowzers.

I am carving dairy out of the girls' diet at the moment, and was a total loss for what, if anything, to spread on the bread. I had a baked yam just out of the oven and I smooshed it on like buttah. They loved it. Loved it. Loved it.

Orbs

2010-04-19T22:39:00.000-04:00

They are in pictures with Aster ALL the time. Pretty much whenever she is photographed in poor lighting. For example:

*

2010-04-18T00:23:00.005-04:00

I forgot, I wanted to ask about Starbucks. Not my favorite coffee, but somebody in my office goes there a lot. I buy fair-trade Ethiopian coffee for home. After I saw Black Gold, I boycotted Starbucks all together. I highly recommend the movie. Some time after that, either due to, or coincidentally with, Oxfam and other international pressure, they buckled on the trademark issues. Then I read something about them paying fairer prices to growers. But I'm not sure exactly what that was, and whether or not it was true and/or written by Starbucks. In any case, sometimes I get something there now. What is the consensus out there on this these days? Good or evil?
New post. Same word.

Links

2010-04-17T20:04:00.007-04:00

Yesterday, I talked about how I am really trying to eat more vegetables, fruit and whole grains. Less cheese ravioli. Less apricot jam glazed lamb. Fewer sausage, egg, and cheese on a bagels. No cheeseburger subs. I was talking to the woman at work who was going to Starbucks*. I nearly bored her to death with a monologue about my choice to request toxic waste tasting sugar-free syrup instead of caramel in it. I didn't want plain coffee. I love sugar very very much. Not so much candy, but definitely chocolate and desert. Plum wine. German Reisling. Smoothies.

Pink, yellow and blue packets of sweetener strike me as poison. I am amazed when people can't tell the difference between coke and diet-coke; one is good and one is foul. The "skinny" caramel macciato was an undrinkable mistake. BUT the fact that I tried was a success. I had a lot of success being healthier this week, and I'm a little surprised. I have historically sucked at it, and have been saying I'll start tomorrow because this is a special-occasion-last-supper type thing every day for a very long time. So I was feeling pretty good, and finally found five minutes to look around the sphere. And there was Kristine.

Tonight, my husband is away. I purchased a kitchen-full of good choices for my do-the-best-you -can diet, and planned on cooking. The main event was going to be baking bread. I bought whole wheat pita bread for myself and my soon to be falafels, but planned to bake bread for the girls. This is something new. Every single loaf of bread (except banana bread) I've ever made has failed. I haven't tried THAT many times, but pretty much everything I bake (not often) is gross.

Last weekend, my mother in law gave me a bread machine, and I decided it was a perfect timing. I am going to be a wholesome, healthy baker type ~~girl~~ mom. Right before I started to tell you this story, I sat down and looked at some new posts, and there was Meg.

My mother in law is a consummate baker. She makes honey bread, pumpkin, zucchini, elaborate, spicy, amazing breads and my children go crazy for all of it. She is also a consummate nurturer and my children LOVE her.

She puts on an egg-hunt like no other.

And baked birthday carrot-cake that might have been Ruth's favorite present.

And took the picture that is now in my banner.

And gave the girls an entire summer wardrobe complete with hats and sunglasses.

I am very fortunate to have Aldous' wonderful family as my family. So, thinking of my mother in law today, and before I unpacked my new just-because present/machine (or enclosed recipe/instruction manual), I went to the grocery store in search of healthy yummy bread-type ingredients. Fancy whole wheat flower, baking soda, baking powder. I think you need one or the other but don't know which and didn't have either.

I finished all my chores and busted it out of the box and opened the book and remembered yeast. Not "remembered" as in I thought of it before I went but forgot to get it. Nope. "Remembered" as in it didn't even occurr in my shopping-baking thinking. Ooops. Yeah. I don't bake much.

But I bet they'll like this!

NaBloPoMotivation waning

2010-04-16T22:20:00.009-04:00

It's getting harder. I'm thinking of quitting. I signed up for this challenge to encourage myself to write about the things that I want to write about. But instead, I slap stuff up between 11 and 12 everynight with one eye (barely) open. It's just not happening. Here are my two random thoughts of the day.

1. Upcoming elections in Ethiopia. It is easy for pre-adoptive American parents to come across nice things that our government and agencies say about "the government" in Ethiopia. Here is a view from another perspective about what's happening with our big ally in the horn.

2. Bite me, book.

Making the Crooked Straight (Magic)

2010-04-15T20:19:00.001-04:00

Sounds like a film worth watching.

Wordless Wednesday

2010-04-14T21:20:00.002-04:00

Finally

2010-04-13T23:06:00.003-04:00

Aster and Ruth are starting to play together. With each other, instead of just near each other. It's wicked cute. And I'm not making fun of anybody when I say "wickid". That's really how I talk. Big ups to Bridget, btw, for suggesting that I google "how to get the video uploader button back on blogger." Just switch back to the "old editor" in settings. Viola!

How to avoid cleaning up dinner

2010-04-12T21:57:00.000-04:00

NaBloPoMo almost defeated me today. So, random video it is. But I don't have the option to upload video directly onto here. There's no icon for it on my post-toolbar. There used to be, long ago, before the blogger format changed. But it seems like other people still do it. Heh? Anybody know what my problem is? I'm sick of having to upload stuff to youtube to get it here. Also, I have no spell check. Do other people? Damn annoying.

Thanks for all the birthday wishes!

2010-04-11T22:22:00.002-04:00

Hair Love

2010-04-10T13:40:00.003-04:00

I get a lot of questions about my girls' hair. Did I do it? How did I learn to do it? I needed someone to physically show and teach me cornrows, which I still suck at. But basic twists, braids, and coils (that's all I got) are not rocket science. You just make parts (or not) and then either twist the sections - literally two chunks of hair twisted together - or braid them, or spin them with our without a coil comb. Sadly, I learned primarily from the blogosphere. And I started learning about things like oils and moisturizers before our referral when (a little embarrassed to admit this) I heard Brad Pitt say he liked Carol's Daughter's products for Zahara's hair. When I started reading ingredients and learning about different hair needs, I was hooked. Having said that, I could write a book about what I DON'T know about hair, but I'm learning.

What I do know is how to find tutorial videos and pictures on a million hair care blogs that teach the basics. The videos on shuruba.com are great. Everything on Happy Girl Hair is great. I really like this product for detangling. Today, thanks to Corinne, I have found what appears to be a good source for pure Shea Butter, and other things. Give all for Love. FIFTY percent of proceeds go to either Ethiopia Reads, the Fistula Foundation or Ethiopian Orphan Relief. You pick. How cool is that? So cool.