They're All My Own

Is it Vomit or Bomb it?

2012-02-09T18:06:00.000-05:00

Mikias minutes after his first stomach bug (and a fresh change of clothes).

Mikias was six and had a very important question to ask me.

"What is to throw up?"

"Sometimes if you get sick, food, drinks and other liquid in your stomach, come out of your mouth in a big gush."

He looked at me funny. He kind of laughed and said, "No, really, what is to throw up?"

Apparently, my explanation sounded so ridiculous, that he thought I was joking. Since Mikias came home, he rarely has gotten sick. When he does have a cough or sniffle, he is over it in hours. He had never vomited but had heard about it at school.

This December, we were driving to a holiday party. Mikias told me that his stomach hurt. He had only eaten a banana, so I thought he might be hungry. We were passing a Dunkin Donuts, so I got him a plain donut. He felt better for about 10 minutes and then I heard what I had never heard from him before. Vomiting. He threw up. All over himself and his seat.

He said, "So, that what it's like to throw up!"

Meanwhile in the seat next to him, Jemberu was gagging (in true Noyce fashion-we are a family of gaggers) and demanding an explanation. "What is WRONG with Mikias? (gag) Is he going to be okay!? (more gagging) What is coming out of him!?"

I told him, "It's vomit. Mikias is vomiting. You know, throwing up?" It dawned on me, that the day Jemberu came home from school in first grade because he 'threw up on the playground' was now in question. He had clearly never done this himself.

"Is is VOMIT or BOMB IT?" Jemberu demanded "It sounded like you said VOMIT but I think it probably is called BOMB IT! Look at him! He is a mess! It looks like he has been bombed!"

Mikias was saying, "Why are you talking with Jemby! I need a little help here. I have never done this before. I don't know what to do next!"

"How's your belly feeling, Miki?"

"Totally fine! Can we go to the party?"

That was the entire duration of Mikias's stomach bug. Not too bad.

I was amazed by how well he handled it. I have always been a real baby about throwing up. As a girl, when I threw up, I would sob afterwards. It was just so traumatic! I would fall into my mother's arms in a blubbering heap. She would rub my back and tell me that the worst was over.

As an adult , I have always been just as pathetic as I was as a kid. On the rare times I vomited, I would still cry afterward. Then I would call my mother. She would always give me what I needed, lots of sympathy and the usual comforting advice, to sip ginger ale and take it easy. It didn't matter that I was a nurse. If she didn't tell me what to do, I would feel lost. She knew that no one hated to throw up the way I did.

It has been almost five years since my mother died. For the first time since she has been gone, I threw up today. I woke up with a horrible stomach bug. A weird thing happened. I didn't cry. At 48, I handled being sick without falling apart. I took it easy, I sipped ginger ale. I'm kind of proud of myself.

Maybe I wasn't such a baby after all. I suppose, I just liked having a reason to have my mother comfort me. It doesn't matter how grown up we are, or how capable. It feels good to be mothered. So, I did end up crying a little today, but not because I threw up.

You're So Normal!

2012-02-01T13:06:00.002-05:00

On my first birthday with my parents

I have a lot of friendly acquaintances at our local YMCA. I was having a conversation with a woman I have chatted with many times before. She told me she had noticed me with my boys and asked me if they were adopted. I told her that they were and told her a little of our story.

She leaned a little closer to me and quietly said, "You know, I don't tell a lot of people this, but Bella (name changed for privacy) was adopted."

Bella is her only child, who was five at the time we had this conversation. I had seen them together many times. They are the same race, so no one would immediately assume that Bella is not her biological child.

I shared with her that I was adopted.

She looked at me with surprise and said, "You're so normal! Wow, I can't believe you were adopted! Were your parents amazing? Have you always been okay about being adopted? Do you feel that adoption is a cross you have always had to bear?"

"Yes my parents were amazing. Yes, I have always been okay about being adopted. A cross to bear? No! What makes you ask that?"

"My therapist told me that being adopted is a cross that Bella would always have to bear."

"Have you been worrying about this for five years?"

"Yes" she answered with tears in her eyes.

When Kurt and I began the adoption process, we attended a mandatory adoption informational meeting at our agency. There were several other couples in the meeting. We all were in the early stages of the adopting.

The social worker leading our group, started with a question, "What is the one thing that each member of the adoption triad (birth parents, adoptive parents, and adoptee) have in common?"

The answer was that they have all suffered from loss. The adoptive parents from infertility and the loss of the biological child they dreamed of having. The birth parents suffer the loss of the child. The adoptee suffers from the loss of the birth mother.

I took a deep breath, and leaned forward to speak. Kurt put his hand on my leg. This was not a gesture of affection, but a warning. Just let it go and lets get this class over with. I nodded my consent and was able to remain quiet for about 5 long seconds.

"I don't agree with that. I agree that infertility is a loss, and that it often leads to adoption. Lots of people decided to adopt for reasons other than infertility, including us. Also, I was adopted as an infant. I don't feel as though I have suffered a loss. I know that my birth mother suffered from losing her baby, but I didn't share that loss. She was without her daughter, but I was never without a mother. It's not the same."

Another member of the class, who was familiar with the widely read book, The Primal Wound - Understanding the Adopted Child written by Nancy Newton Verrier, added to the discussion. She said that she had read that all adoptees suffer from the devastating experience of losing their mother and even though they don't remember it, it is still devastating.

The social worker agreed enthusiastically. It was important to her that everyone in the room understood that a child of adoption suffers from loss.

No wonder my friend from the YMCA was worried.

I agree that there is loss in adoption. I know that Mikias and Jemberu have suffered from their losses. I know that my birth parents both suffered from placing their baby for adoption. I know that my parents suffered from their struggle with infertility. I know of other adoptees who upon reading The Primal Wound, felt understood and validated. I accept that. I appreciate that. I believe that if they feel that they suffered a primal wound, that they did. No one can claim that, except for the person who has gone through it. I think to some degree, my older brother suffered from being adopted in a way that I didn't. Every experience is different, even in the same family.

I want to tell you my experience as an adoptee. It is only mine. I expect and accept that your experience is different and uniquely yours.

I have read The Primal Wound, with an open mind. I do not suffer from a primal wound and I resent anyone telling me that because I was adopted, I am wounded. I resent any book that attempts to explain all adoptees. I resent reading that if I feel I don't have a primal wound, that I am in denial.

I did suffer from secrecy. I suffered from lack of information. I suffered from intense curiosity. My adoption took place in the era of closed adoptions. My parents openly shared the information they were given, but it filled only one type-written page, much of which I would later discover was fabricated. I feel all adoptees should have the same rights as our non-adopted peers. The right to know who were were born to, at what hospital, under what circumstances. We deserve to know our own personal and medical histories.

I felt fully a part of my family. I didn't have a 'missing piece'. I didn't feel like an outsider or that I didn't belong.

I never thought that it was my fault that I was adopted, that I wasn't good enough or pretty enough or that I was personally rejected by my birth mother. I always knew that the choices made had nothing to do with me.

When I met my birth parents, it didn't make me feel whole. I already was whole. I was and am grateful to be able to fill in the blanks of my story.

I could go on and on. What I hope that I am able to express is this:

There are challenges that come with adoption but they don't necessarily scar us. Every adoption experience is different and valid. Adoptive parents should read, be aware, talk to others, but most importantly trust themselves and their relationship with their child. Don't assume that anyone knows more than you about your own child.

Most of all, no one should be surprised that a lovely adult was once an adopted child.

Worth Reading - A Friend's post about Adoption Insensitivity

2012-01-27T14:24:00.001-05:00

It is one thing when an adoptive parent or an adoptee gets fired up about an adoption related issue. You kind of expect it. It is refreshing to hear some outrage from someone outside of the adoption community. My recent post "You're Adopted. Hahahahaha!" stirred up some strong feelings among readers. One comment in particular inspired my friend, Michelle, to write a post that I think you should read. Click on the link below.

Adoption Insensitivity

Thank you, Michelle for writing this post!

This is Love

2012-01-23T11:44:00.000-05:00

He had beautiful brown eyes, a great smile and a laugh that made everyone around him happy. He loved the same music she did, Michael Jackson, J. Geils Band and Queen, probably because she introduced him to them and he loved her. Nicholas and Bethe loved each other in a way that would change them both forever. For four months, they spent every moment together. Bethe knew all along that he belonged to another, but she loved him without holding back. She was his foster mom.

Bethe and her husband, Carlos, are Americans living in China. Bethe volunteers at a nearby orphanage while Carlos works at the job that sent them to the other side of the world. When given the chance to be Nick's foster parents, they didn't hesitate.

Nick was 16 months old when Bethe placed him in the arms of his forever mother. He won't always remember Bethe, but his life will be better because she loved him. Not like a care giver, not like a temporary mom, she loved him like a mother. He lit up when he woke up and she came for him. They made each other laugh. She showed him that he matters, that the world is better because he is in it. Bethe will tell you she is the lucky one to have had Nick. I agree. But Nick sure was lucky too. All four of my kids and my dog (and our previous dog) love Bethe. They love her beyond what I would consider normal. Kids and dogs are smart. They know who loves them and who is just being polite. That kind of love changes the world.

You can't love like that without falling in love, even when you know it will end. It wasn't just Bethe's heart on the line, Carlos fell in love with Nick, too. Nick was Carlos's little buddy, following him around while he got ready in the morning. Nick was secure in Carlos's arms and loved to nap there. It has been two decades since their own girls were so tiny. It was a pleasure to do it again.

They knew Nick was in good hands with his new mom, but saying goodbye was heart wrenching for Bethe and Carlos. They knew Nick would wonder where they were. They knew that Nick was used to the routines that they shared together. They knew that it would take a little time for Nick and his new mom to get their bearings. It was hard to think about him wondering where they were.

When Carlos and Bethe returned home, it was too quiet, it felt strange to not have Nick's noise and energy. When they spotted Nick's blanket, which was inadvertently left behind, they broke down. It was going to take some time to get used to life without Nick.

Carlos and Bethe remind me of all of the people that loved our sons before they became ours. Birth family, neighbors, strangers, orphanage workers. Most of the people who cared for them, we will never know, never get a chance to meet, never get to thank. Mikias was four and Jemberu was three, when they became our sons. We know they were loved. They knew hunger, they knew terrible loss but they knew love. They knew that they mattered. They trusted us to take care of them. They returned our hugs and kisses. They quickly found their places in our family. We know that we can't take credit for that. In their important first years, they were loved, like Nick was loved by Carlos and Bethe. What an indescribable gift.

Carlos and Bethe, and every person who gives love and temporary shelter to a child, paint a picture of what love looks like. And that picture takes my breath away.

You're Adopted. Hahahahaha! (caution: sarcasm ahead)

2012-01-08T21:11:00.006-05:00

I was innocently wasting time on my one of my favorite websites, Pinterest (an online pin board, where you can get all sorts of ideas for decorating, cooking, diy stuff...very cool) and I came across the babies to my left. And boy, did I laugh! I mean who wouldn't, right? This is side splitting humor. Who cares that they are babies and wouldn't know or care if they were adopted, some hilarious adult came up with that funny caption. Oh, too be so clever!

Being a woman who loves humor, I googled 'you're adopted' images. Jackpot! What a comfort to know that in a world where we can't openly make fun people based on things like race, religion or sexual orientation, we can still make fun of adoption and not worry about the feelings adoptees! Thank goodness that political correctness has it's limits.

I couldn't add all of the great images that I found, so I had to limit myself to my favorites. I just ordered the t-shirt to my left, in fact, I ordered them for my whole family. Prepare to laugh when we are all wearing them in next year's Christmas card photo.

I can't decide which is the funniest, but the black boy with the white parents, who just found out he was adopted is way up there. I know, I know, that may just be because I am a white woman with black sons. But still. I am roaring.

Oh and the girl telling her friend that she's adopted, cruel and funny (the perfect humor combination)! But...how would the friend (or should I say frienemy) know of her adoption? Who cares. Funny is funny and that's just funny.

A dad telling his kids they are adopted. That is the best.

A toddler, who can't read, crying at the cake telling her she's adopted. Extraordinarily funny, particularly when you add the cat. Seriously, I am crying from laughing so hard.

Tiger Woods yelling at his former wife with the caption, "You're adopted. No one loves you." Brilliant! It's obvious that an adopted person, who had parents that went out of their way to become parents, is an unloved person. Who cares that Elin wasn't adopted! Oh my. Just can't control this laughter. I just snorted!

The great thing is "You're adopted" is so funny that when you say the same thing and just change the photo it becomes funny all over again.

I could go on and on but surely, I don't need to. You probably need a break from all this hilarity!

I will admit, however, that the Robert Pattinson one. "Why not? Because you're adopted." I just don't get that one. But, he is cute and it must be funny so I really wanted to share it with you.

I sure hope you enjoyed these as much as I have. If I made milk come out of your nose or you bumped your head when you feel out of your chair laughing, I hope you'll forgive me.

You are my Sunshine

2011-12-29T13:34:00.001-05:00

Beating the traffic is one of the principals Kurt lives by. So, we left the Patriots football game a little bit early to do just that. Mikias was getting a little tired and slowing down. I grabbed his arm in an attempt to speed him up. Before he could express annoyance, I started to sing to him.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey. You'll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away."

I thought he was going to laugh or shush me but instead he said, "That's beautiful, where did you learn that?" I told him that my mom used to sing it to me when I was a girl.

"Your adopted mom or your real mom?" Mikias asked

I had never heard him use the word "real" in that way. We use the terms birth mom, first mother or, for the boys, we usually say Ethiopian mom. The only person I ever refer to as my mom is my adoptive mom. So I thought fast as he looked at me for a response.

"My mom, Grammy Dawn, sang that to me. When I say 'my mom' I am always talking about my her." My mom passed away a year after Mikias came home, but he remembers her and we talk about her frequently.

"What happened to your real mom? She die?" This was so weird, we have had this conversation. He knows my adoption story.

"No, she didn't die. Remember, she was very..."

"She abandoned you? That's terrible!"

Real mom? Abandonment? Where was all this coming from? Questions and comments from his friends? I was so glad we were having this conversation. Before I could form my response, we were interrupted by Kurt.

"Let's go! Get in the car!"

Oh yeah, we had traffic to beat. We hopped in the truck, buckled in and before we were out of the parking lot, Mikias was asleep.

Over the next week, I found ways to talk to the boys about adoption. We talked about how adoption made us a real family, why a birth mother might choose adoption for her child. We talked about the losses of their Ethiopian moms. I retold my own adoption story.

A few weeks ago, Mikias was in his bed, eyes already at half-mast, giving me a hug goodnight. In his raspy sleepy voice he said, "Someone told me that Jemby and I are step-brothers, did you know that?"

Just because we talk about adoption, doesn't mean that they completely get it. Mikias's friend wanted to know if he and Jemberu were 'real' brothers. Mikias told him that they were born in different parts of Ethiopia to different moms. His friend informed him that they were step brothers. His friend was curious about Mikias and Jemberu and trying to understand their story. To his understanding that made the boys step brothers. That's wrong but that's okay.

I realized that as the boys get older they are going to have to field more questions from their friends. That makes sense. My boys are adopted kids, with mom who was an adopted kid (who loves to talk about adoption) and they get confused, how much more confusing must it be to their friends?

We'll keep talking. You never know what can trigger a good conversation. It could be as simple as a song.

You are my sunshine...

I Got You Babe

2011-12-01T17:16:00.001-05:00

'"Don't let them say your hair's too long.." ~Sonny and Cher

This morning I was updating my status on facebook. Four years ago today we brought Jemberu home, that makes today his 'Gotcha day'. I felt a tiny pang of self-consciousness as I posted about Jem's special day. If you are not a member of the adoption community (or if you didn't read my post a couple of years ago about this subject), the term 'Gotcha day' is actually controversial. Some think it is disrespectful toward adoptees, that it sounds more like acquiring a possession than welcoming a new child, that it is insensitive to birth parents or sounds like an expression of gloating.

The controversy over this expression seems ridiculous and overly sensitive. Yet, I know it offends some people. There are adoptive parents that I know and respect that are appalled by the term. I don't want to offend them or have them think that I am insensitive, but I really love 'Gotcha day'. For our family, it's perfect.

Maybe part of the reason I love it so much is that I use the term 'gotcha' quite a bit in my day to day life. When someone is explaining something to me I often say, " I gotcha" to express understanding. When one of my children is hurt, crying, or scared I have found myself whispering in their ears, "don't worry, it's okay, I gotcha."

During the day today, I thought about writing this post. I wanted to express why I like 'Gotcha day' so much. I didn't know if I could explain how perfect it is to celebrate a child getting a family and a family getting a child. 'Gotcha day' to us is just what it says, the day we got you. The day you got us. I realized that I don't have to find the words. I could just sing them. Sonny and Cher already said it best.

Don't let them say your hair's too long
'Cause I don't care, with you I can't go wrong
Then put your little hand in mine
There ain't no hill or mountain we can't climb

Babe
I got you babe
I got you babe

I got you to hold my hand
I got you to understand
I got you to walk with me
I got you to talk with me
I got you to kiss goodnight
I got you to hold me tight
I got you, I won't let go
I got you to love me so

I got you babe
I got you babe
I got you babe
I got you babe
I got you babe

What's the Deal with the Black Kids?

2011-11-16T21:53:00.002-05:00

Just a few weeks after bringing him home, I brought Mikias to the YMCA. I was excited and proud when I went up to the desk to add him to our family membership. I told the woman working there that we had just adopted him.

She looked him and said, "We just need some kind of documentation that he is your son."

"When I joined the Y, I wasn't asked for proof that my daughters are mine."

"Just an adoption certificate or anything like that will work fine."

"Do you ask other parents to bring birth certificates for their children when they join?"

I was making her uncomfortable. I didn't care.

I yelled to my friend across the lobby, "DAWN! WHEN YOU GAVE BIRTH TO BRADY DID YOU HAVE TO PROVE HE WAS YOURS BEFORE THEY ADDED HIM TO YOUR MEMBERSHIP?"

Dawn has impeccable manners. She says Ma'am and Sir. She is southern, and therefore would never act the way I was acting. She shook her head no but clearly did not want to get involved. I know I was embarrassing her but I couldn't stop. I felt all the blood rushing to my head. I suddenly understood how people are driven to commit crimes of passion over seemingly small things. I was enraged.

So, I continued, even louder, "THEY ARE TELLING ME I NEED TO PROVE MIKIAS IS MY SON! ISN'T THAT BIZARRE? YOU DON'T NEED TO PROVE ANYTHING WHEN YOU GIVE BIRTH! YOU JUST TELL THEM AND THEN THEY ADD YOUR KID! DOES THIS SEEM RIGHT TO YOU?"

I was grateful that Mikias did not speak English and did not seem distressed by my shouting. Perhaps he thought that this is just how American moms act.

The next day I brought in Mikias's green card. It showed that we have the same last name and I hoped it would be enough. It was. The same woman was at the desk. She told me she felt badly about how upset I was. She apologized and explained that sometimes people try to add others to their memberships that weren't actually family members. She knew that I wasn't doing that. She was just following policy. I apologized for overreacting.

I still see that woman at the Y. She is always friendly to me. I still feel embarrassed that I didn't handle that situation with more grace. I could have quietly told her why I didn't feel right about having to prove Mikias was my son. I could have asked to speak to a Y director. I should not have yelled.

It has been almost 6 years since then. I have developed thicker skin. I know one thing for sure, I won't be able to predict when someone is going to say something that just doesn't feel right or good to me about adoption. It happens, but not very often, and I am much cooler about it.

You want proof? Kurt and I recently attended our high school reunion. I was catching up with an old classmate and about one minute into our conversation, he leaned close to me and quietly said, "So...what's the deal with the black kids?" I looked around and saw no black kids. I was pretty sure he didn't want to discuss black kids in general. I correctly concluded that he was referring to my sons. We are facebook friends so I assumed he had seen photos of my family. I gave him a quick version how we came to adopt the boys. It was friendly enough and then we both went off to mingle with other old friends.

Good thing for him I have mellowed. If it had been six years ago I might have been yelling across the room to Kurt, "THIS GUY JUST ASKED ME WHAT THE DEAL IS WITH THE BLACK KIDS? DO YOU THINK HE MEANS OUR CHILDREN? WAS HE THIS MUCH OF AN ASS IN HIGH SCHOOL?"

Yep, lucky him. I am so cool now.

This Place Blows

2011-10-26T12:12:00.042-04:00

Mikias and Jem staying busy waiting for our pizza

It was Columbus Day, but the weather was more like the 4th of July. Kurt was out of town, so I thought it would be fun to take the boys out for pizza someplace that we could dine outdoors. We sat out on the deck of Mama Mia's and admired the view of Plymouth harbor. I was looking at the replica of The Maylower and thinking how lucky we are to live close to so much history. The boys sat coloring their placemats and talking to each other. It wasn't that long ago that going out to a restaurant was not so easy. Kurt and I have worked very hard on restaurant manners with the boys. It was clearly paying off. Sitting there with my well behaved boys, I was feeling proud.

It was busy at the restaurant that evening and I looked at my watch to see how long we had been waiting for our food to arrive. It had been over a half an hour since we ordered.

Mikias noticed me checking my watch and said in a fairly loud voice, "This place blows, huh?"

I gave him the look that begs the question, 'WHAT did you just say?'

He said, " I'm sorry. This place is great. I love their pizza. Their (he pauses searching for the right word) timing blows. They are so slow, right?"

"Mikias, 'blows', when used that way, is not a nice word. Also, you would say service not timing"

"I knew I said something wrong because you looked all pissed up"

What the heck? "Miki, 'pissed' is also a bad word and it is 'pissed off' not 'pissed up'."

At last our pizza arrived. We were quietly enjoying our dinner, the October warmth and the beautiful view.

Jem looked up from his meal and said, "I know something you should NEVER say to a person in your family."

He then looked at Mikias and then at me and said with great enthusiasm, "YOU SUCK!"

Mikias and I (and a few surrounding diners) stared at Jem.

Jem said, "That felt awful, right? That is why we should never say to each other 'YOU SUCK!' That is not how families talk to each other! We should make that a rule. Never say 'YOU SUCK!' Okay?"

"Okay." Mikias and I agreed

I caught the eye of our waitress, which was easy, since she and all the diners near us were staring at us.

"Check please?"

Paying it Forward?

2011-10-18T13:03:00.007-04:00

I have heard the term 'paying it forward' quite a bit since adopting our sons. When people ask what led us to adoption, I usually begin my answer by sharing that I was adopted. I believe, that having grown up as an adopted person, I was predisposed to think about adoption as a way to form my own family. I often hear praise, to the effect of, "That is so cool. Your parents did that for you, so you are paying it forward by doing that for someone else!" When I hear comments like this, I realize that many people consider adoption to be an act of kindness. I know when I am praised for 'paying it forward' it is meant as a compliment. Although it is not accurate, I usually just smile and nod. I can't change someone's perception of adoption in a quick conversation at a cookout or at the library.

Luckily, I have a blog. Maybe I can clear it up a bit here.

My parents were 22 and 23 when they got married. They wanted a family and began trying almost right away. It didn't happen. They kept trying. It still didn't happen. They were heartbroken. All around them, their siblings and friends were having babies seemingly without any trouble at all. They consulted specialists. There appeared to be no reason for their inability to conceive. They continued to hope that it would eventually happen. It didn't. Over a decade after getting married, they decided to adopt. They adopted my brother and two years later adopted me. (Two years later what seemed impossible, finally happened and my sister was born.) Adoption wasn't their first choice and they didn't do it to be nice. They did it because they wanted to be parents. Frankly, they needed us more than we needed them. There are always more families that want babies than there are babies who need families. If they had not pursued adoption, my brother and I would not have languished in an orphanage or foster care. We would have gone to other families. Don't misunderstand me, I had wonderful parents, I was deeply loved and I loved them right back. However, I do resent the fact that there are those who think we adoptees should be grateful in a way that our non-adopted peers are not expected to be. Anyone who has been blessed by amazing parents should be grateful. A person is not more deserving just because they born to their parents. Everyone deserves loving parents.

Our adoption story is different from that of my parents. Infertility did not play a role in our desire to adopt. I got pregnant easily and by the time we were 27, we had 2 daughters. Over the years, Kurt and I talked about the possibility of adding to our family by adoption. We were motivated by the very real fact that there are millions of children, all over the world, who need parents. The idea of adopting a child who was waiting for a family was appealing to us. Not because we are nice or have big hearts, but simply because we love being parents. We loved the idea of another child to love. It was a win win proposition if ever there was one. We felt that God led us to Ethiopia and directly to Mikias. Two year later, we felt that leading again and returned to Ethiopia to bring Jemberu home.

My parents did not adopt as an act of kindness and neither did we. My parents were amazing because they were amazing, not because they adopted us. Like my parents, Kurt and I adopted to have the pleasure of raising more children. To give and receive love. My motivation was not to 'pay it forward'. I love a compliment as much as anyone else. But adopting our boys shouldn't make the list of of nice things about me. My motivation was purely selfish. Being a mother is the pleasure of my life.

Parents Weekend

2011-09-28T23:13:00.000-04:00

hanging out at touchdown alley

This past weekend was parents weekend at Maddy's school. Kurt and I always look forward to this weekend. We love having that time, just us and Maddy. We enjoy getting to know her friends, going to her favorite restaurants and cheering at the football game together.

Almost as much fun as the time we have with her, is the time we have when we go back to our hotel and talk about her. It is sweet and rewarding to be able to say, "Isn't she turning into a lovely adult?" After investing two decades raising her, it is with genuine pride and gratitude that we gush about how great she is. "Aren't you so proud?" "Me too." "She's a great daughter." "We are so lucky."

This year, Maddy threw us a curve ball, she wanted Mikias and Jemberu to come. She stated her case well. She told me how much she missed them. She reminded me that they had never been to Texas and that she was dying for her friends to meet them. She pleaded for them to join us. She wanted to show them Baylor and the house she lives in. I told her it was impossible, they couldn't miss school that Friday, they both had games to play in over the weekend, we probably couldn't get them on the flights that we had booked months ago. As I explained to her all the reasons they couldn't come, I was on my computer booking their tickets so that we could surprise her.

Surprise!

Not only did we surprise Maddy (her reaction at seeing the boys at her door was priceless), she surprised us. She has always been a great big sister, but watching her with her brothers on her own turf was delightful. In the days before we arrived, she was arranging for a special gift for us to bring home to them. She got autographed basketballs from both the men's and women's teams (including Brittney Griner- a woman who can DUNK!), a football signed by the entire football team, and caps signed by the baseball team. Maddy was so happy to give these gifts to them in person. I am glad she got to see the boys reactions, which was a combination of thrilled and impressed.

Sampling some Texas BBQ

Kurt and I spent much of the weekend just watching the 3 of them. Maddy took so much pleasure in introducing them to her friends and to the wonders of her life in Texas. The boys loved Rudy's BBQ, Tex-Mex and and especially Baylor football. They learned to make their hand like a claw and yell "Sic 'em Bears!" If all of this wasn't enough, Maddy took the boys to see the bears who live on campus. Yep, Baylor has real live bears. Maddy insisted that the boys sleep at her house and sent Kurt and I off to our hotel.

So, this year's parents weekend was different, yet our conversation when we were alone was much the same. "Isn't she great?" "Isn't she turning into a lovely adult?" "She's a great daughter." "She a great sister." "We are so lucky" "Aren't you so proud?" "Me too."

Dancing Football Players

2011-09-19T10:49:00.009-04:00

Big events make for big expectations. Christmas morning or a long dreamed about trip create pressure for perfection and memories that will last a lifetime. When something goes wrong, the disappointment becomes magnified. This is why as much as I love big trips and holidays, I like everyday life even more.

Everyday life is filled doing what needs to be done. Grocery shopping, walking the dog, taking the boys to sports practice, checking in with the girls, hanging out with my husband. Good stuff, normal stuff, no expectations for amazing moments or big disappointments.

Friday evening, I was at Mikias's football practice. They were working hard for their big game on Sunday. It was a gorgeous, crisp fall evening, the sun was beginning to set. The high school players came out to warm up for their game on the adjacent field. Speakers blared the teams 'pump up' music. I watched Mikias's team to see if it was going to distract them. They were in the middle of a play, and those Jr. Pee Wees were pure focus. However, the moment the play ended, I saw a few boys bust into dance moves. It was subtle, a few head bobs, one guy 'raising the roof' in a kind of modified way. Then I saw my son, his moves not so subtle, he was full out gettin' down. The whistle blew, the moment passed, the music continued but the Jr. Pee Wees were back to work. The play ended and the dancing stepped up a notch, at least half of the team were breaking out their moves. The whistle blew and the boys (and one amazing girl) were back to work. This went on for about a half an hour, each time more players dancing. I have never had more fun watching football practice.

As the high school game was about to start, I turned to face the flag for the national anthem. I looked back at the Jr. Pee Wees. Their helmets were off, their hands were over their hearts and they stood as a team facing the flag. It was a beautiful sight. As I am prone to doing, I teared up. The whole evening was filled with unexpected moments. Lovely moments. Funny moments.

Sure, when I got home it was back to business. Picking up Jem at a birthday party. Trying to convince my two sweaty boys that showering was not optional. Squeezing in some quality time with Kurt before we both dropped off to sleep. I know that these are magic moments too. They makes those other kind of moments more bearable. Getting a note from a teacher because your boy is distracting his classmates while refusing to do his work or intervening in an argument as to whether the Wii game the boys are playing is called LOL Football as Jem insists or NFL Football as Mikias claims (which would be funny if they weren't screaming and hitting each other over it) are easier to take in stride when they are balanced by all those good moments.

My plan for the upcoming (you know they can't be avoided) not so great moments, is to picture dancing football players. Not those silly, show off NFL (or is it LOL?) players with their practiced dances of victory, but the Jr. Pee Wees who danced because couldn't help themselves.

Sweet Talk

2011-09-07T10:09:00.004-04:00

We have a few rules we try to instill in our kids. One is to be respectful, especially to adults. This came easily to our daughters. The boys are trying. One way the boys "follow" this rule is to add a formal title when talking about adults that make them mad. For example, there is a coach Mikias refers to only as 'Coach Grumpy'. Jemberu refers to certain teachers as 'Mrs. Bossy' or 'Miss Meany'. We are still working on this.

Another rule we have is, say what you mean and mean what you say. No one holds truer to this rule than Jemberu (although Devyn runs a close second). The kid doesn't blow smoke, if he says it, he means it. If he tells me my breath stinks, I go brush. If he tells me I look beautiful, I feel more attractive. I am always confident that what Jemberu tells us is exactly what he means.

Jemberu does not gush about his feelings for us. When I tell him I love him, he usually say, "I already know that."

But if the mood is just right, if he is tired and cuddly or maybe has a touch of a cold, his sweet words come out and they are lovely.

Walking up the stairs to put my sleepy boy to bed recently, he wrapped his arm around my waist and said, "You are the best mom in the world."

He went on, whispering, "The day I met you and dad was the best day of my life."

I began to choke up. I said, "Oh Jem, I love you so much. You know, you are so special, you are my baby. You'll always be Mumma's baby."

He ripped his arm from my waist, put his hands on his hips, looked me in the eye and said, "Oh okay, Mrs. Meaner, you are a big jerk!"

He threw himself into his bed crying. I asked him what was wrong.

"You just called me a baby! You think I am always going to be a baby! That is SO mean!"

I sat on the side of his bed and tried to explain. I told him that the youngest child in a family has a special place. That even when he is grown up, I will always love him like I do now. That I was just trying to show him how important he is to me and that I will always be there for him.

He edged closer to me, wiped his tears on my shirt and wrapped his arms around me.

I said, "That's the best thing about being a family. We always love each other and take care of each other. Jem, you will do the same thing for me. When I am old and need your help, you will help take care of me."

Jem let go of me and looking alarmed said, "No way. I do not like old ladies."

I should have quit while I was ahead.

(note: Prior to writing this post, I asked Jemberu once again who will take care of me when I am old. He responded, "Me and Addis (our dog) unless Addis is already dead.")

Hymns and Time Travel

2011-08-08T04:45:00.000-04:00

Candace, Mom, Bradley and me before church 1971

I love how a song can transport you, take you to another time, another place, another version of you.

I have sung the hymn, 'How Great Thou Art' hundreds of times. It was a favorite hymn of both of my parents and is one of my favorites as well. Recently at church we sang a version of the hymn that I love. It is a contemporary rendition, that begins with 'How Great is Our God' and transitions into 'How Great Thou Art'. It melts me. As I often do when singing in church, I closed my eyes. I like to forget that I don't have a particularly pretty singing voice and that I am surrounded by other people. I want to focus on what I am singing and Who I am singing to, virtually impossible with my eyes open.

While singing this amazing song, I was taken by surprise when I suddenly could picture myself as a little girl singing this same song, reading the words from a red hymnal, standing with my dad, sister and brother. I could almost hear my mother's strong voice coming from the choir loft. I could picture myself as I was then, in my Sunday best, which meant I was wearing a dress from Sears with white tights.

As I continued to sing, I could see myself again, this time at seventeen, in the same church, standing with my mother, brother and sister, singing the same beautiful song at my father's funeral.

These memories were so powerful I thought I might start to weep. I didn't want to leave those memories, they made me feel so close to my childhood self and particularly my dad who has been gone for so long now. However, there was no way I wanted to cry in church. I did the only thing I could think of, I opened my eyes. I reminded myself that I am a grown woman. I wasn't in my hometown church with it's uncomfortable pews and beautiful organ music. I was in my church, the church of my adulthood, which is in a movie theater, with guitars and drums! I had to snap myself out of my trip down memory lane.

I didn't cry but it was a close call. Those memories stayed close to me for the remainder of that Sunday. It made me miss my parents and those days of growing up. More than sadness, the missing made me feel grateful to have had a family worth missing. Grateful for the church of my childhood and the church of my adulthood, where the congregation is like family who celebrate life's best moments with you and grieve with you in it's worst. I also felt grateful for the power that a song can hold. It's not just hymns either. Someday, remind me to tell you how 'Crocodile Rock' can really take me back....

Family Weddings

2011-08-02T00:16:00.003-04:00

Aunt Kathy, (cousin)Susan and me

My summer began with the happiest of celebrations, 2 family weddings. My cousin Paul and his bride, Bridget had a beautiful beach wedding. The following weekend we celebrated the marriage of my Uncle Stephen and his new wife, Lynne.

Dancing, eating, picture taking and reconnecting, I enjoyed every moment of celebrating. Love found, families formed and made 'official', what's not to love?

There were moments of sweetness and hilarity. Paul's 16 year old son and best man delivered the best toast I have ever witnessed. It was heartfelt and hilarious, delivered with the timing of a late night talk show host. He ended the toast by telling his dad and new step mom that he loved them more than anything in the world, as their eyes filled with tears and a collective sigh was breathed by the guests, he added "except for the Patriots."

It really did look like white chocolate!

Earlier in the evening my cousin Susan's daughter, Lara, sneaked a bite of the light house shaped white chocolate party favor, only to discover that she had bitten into a bar of soap. Her face in that moment was priceless.

Uncle Stephen and me

Aunt Nora, me and (cousin) Reema

Stephen and Lynne both have grown children and six grandchildren between them. When they shared their first dance you could feel not only the love between them, but also the love for them by everyone in the room. I sat a table with my aunts, cousins and children of my cousins. I felt content, grateful to be with family. Happy to be a part of the celebration.

There is one detail of these weddings that is remarkable for me. Both of the grooms are part of my birth family. Paul is the son of my birth mother's brother, Rob. Stephen is the brother of my birth father, Tim.

I have shared in previous blog posts that I have found 'reunion' complicated in many ways. One place that I have experienced a sense of uncomplicated belonging is in my extended birth family. Aunt, uncle, cousin, first cousin once removed (or is that second cousin?) are not words that trigger conflict, loyalty issues or role confusion for me. You can have lots of extended family members. It's so liberating! You can form deep relationships with those you connect with, and just see the others at weddings and funerals. It's so easy!

Aunt Kathy, Susan, Uncle Rob, Samantha (Paul's daughter) (cousin) Paul and me

Regardless of how complex birth parent reunion was for me, both of my birth parents truly loved me and wanted to know me. My extended birth family has been amazing from the moment I met them. I am grateful that they included me in their lives and welcomed me as one of their own. They didn't have to, they could have just said 'glad to meet you' and moved on with their lives.

In the spirit of celebrating love, I am celebrating the love of my family, both birth and adoptive. Sure, you need a keen memory, and perhaps a chart to keep them all straight, but who's luckier than me?

Ethiopian Culture Camp (in pictures)

2011-07-11T20:23:00.005-04:00

We returned from Ethiopian Culture Camp yesterday. I can't find the words to describe how amazing it was. I hope these photos can help tell the story of what Ethiopian Culture Camp means to our family.

bonding

playing

swimming

meeting (Mikias meeting another Mikias!)

reconnecting (Tariku and Jemberu lived together at Horizon House in Ethiopia)

dancing (Ethiopian style!)

smiling (all weekend long)

learning

running

competing (in a friendly way)

Celebrating!

resting..

"That was Unexpected!"

2011-07-06T21:28:00.001-04:00

On a recent visit to the nursing home, the boys and I couldn't find Grammy in any of her usual spots. We were finally directed to a small kitchen area, where she was seated at a table with 5 other residents. The activity leader was conducting a cooking activity. They were rolling mini hot dogs in dough for "pigs in blankets".

While Jemberu loves pigs in blankets, he doesn't love them enough to interact with the "old ladies" so he stayed out of view in the hallway. Mikias loves talking with the nursing home residents and loves pigs in blankets, so he walked in to join the fun.

An adorable woman, probably in her nineties, in a soft pink sweater took one look at Mikias, clapped her hands together and exclaimed "Oh look at him! He must be from Africa!"

Mikias can be self-conscious. I wondered how he was going to react to her odd greeting. He responded the same way he did when we once spotted an elderly couple kissing loudly in a small recreation room. Mikias looked at me, gave a little smile and raised his eyebrows as if to say "That was unexpected!"

The woman in the pink sweater motioned him to come to her. Mikias was wearing his favorite Red Sox shirt. She asked him if he played baseball. He told her he does. She played too, when she was in high school. They had an interesting (if slightly confusing) conversation. After a few minutes, the activity leader handed her two freshly baked pigs in blankets. She immediately gave one to Mikias. She also gave him a dixie cup of warm diet ginger ale and they had their snacks like old friends.

Although I have come to expect the unexpected in our nursing home visits, the Africa comment took me by surprise. In all likelihood, she has some form of dementia and doesn't know or recall that commenting on a person's race is not considered a good conversation starter. Either way, I was proud of Mikias for knowing that what she said was not meant negatively or to make him feel self conscious. She was delighted by him and happy to spend that time with him.

Meanwhile, Jemberu kept walking past the door of the room trying to look hungry and saying "Smells so good in there." and "Hot dogs are one of my favorite foods."

Because I wanted him to be driven mad with desire for the wieners, I ignored him in the hopes he would come in and at least interact with his grandmother.

He did take a moment to finally greet his grandmother from the doorway. "Hi Grammy. Your snack looks good. Are you going to eat both of your pigs in blankets?"

She told him he could have one but only if he came in and gave her a hug. Smart woman. She got her hug and he got the wiener. Win win.

I admire the way both boys handle their nursing home visits. I appreciate the way that Jemby avoids situations he is not comfortable in yet manages to give his grandmother the love and affection she deserves and needs. I appreciate the way Mikias accepts the residents just as they are and how happy he really is to spend time with them.

I used to think of going to the nursing home as a chore. Thanks to my boys, it has become an adventure, full of unexpected moments.

Now I Know

2011-06-27T18:34:00.005-04:00

Playing catch with Kurt in the backyard, Mikias made a bad throw.

"Sorry Dad. That was a real shit throw, huh?"

"Whoa, Mikias! Shit is a bad word."

"Thanks for telling me that. Now I know."

It is not the first time we told him that. But it had been a while. It is easy to confuse the words that are okay (Darn it! Shoot!) with the ones that are not. When Mikias messes them up, he is appreciative of the reminder.

When it comes to being a mother, Mikias has taught me some important lessons, too. I am appreciative of his reminders.

A few months after Mikias's arrival home at age four and a half, I put on some Ethiopian music in the kitchen. Mikias was in the living room and came running into the kitchen upset. He pointed to the CD player and frantically motioned for me to turn it off.

I crouched down to talk to him. He put his hands on my face, looked me in the eye and said, "No Ethiopia."

I said, "But Mikias, I love Ethiopia. I love this music. I love you."

He looked at me for several seconds. I could tell he was trying to find the English words to say. Finally he said, "In Ethiopia there is no food and no moms. NO ETHIOPIA, okay?"

I shut the CD player off. Thanks for telling me that. Now I know.

Since that time Mikias has come a long way when it comes to Ethiopia. He loves Ethiopian culture camp. He is proud of the Ethiopian marathon runners. He enjoys looking at our pictures from Ethiopia. He loves going to Ethiopian restaurants. For Mikias and Jemberu, Ethiopia is their homeland, the land of their first families but is also the home of painful memories and loss.

Last week, a friend to told me about a concert by a children's choir from Uganda. I was talking to Mikias about us perhaps going that night. He was unsure, so I showed him a clip from one of the concerts. It was a boy singing a beautiful song. There was a video playing in the background. It wasn't graphic, but it did show some of the hard stuff that millions of African children experience. I asked Mikias what he thought about going to the concert.

He said, "The way my body is reacting to that video makes me not want to go. Is that okay?"

"Of course." Thanks for telling me that. Now I know.

We'll keep teaching each other.

Haircuts

2011-06-20T16:56:00.009-04:00

Pre-haircut boys

I usually cut Mikias's hair. Jemby has been wearing his hair 'big', no haircuts required. Last week, Jemby decided he wanted a haircut. I knew we needed professional help. We went to a barber shop in a nearby city that knows what to do with black boys' hair.

It is rare that we are anywhere that most everyone looks like the boys. Everyone in the barber shop was black. Mikias walked over to his barber, who shook his hand in a 'soul brother handshake' (yes, I googled that). and said "Hey Brother". Mikias nodded his head and said "Hey Man." He looked over at me, with only his eyes, and gave me a quick nod. He was telling me he liked being there and begging me not to do anything stupid, like take a picture. No problem. I'll just take pictures of Jem.

Jem mid-haircut

Jemby's barber said, "Hey Man, good to see you again." He had given Jem a trim a couple of months ago.

Jemby initiated small talk the way he usually does. Unexpectedly and inappropriately. "Hey! You got a lot of graffiti in your neighborhood, huh?"

Before his barber could respond, Jemby pointed to the television and asked if he could watch Sponge Bob. As his barber changed the channel, Mikias looked at his barber and rolled his eyes toward Jem, in a way that said, 'little kids, huh?"

Mikias was done before Jemby. Instead of sitting with me, he walked over to the other side of the shop. He watched some hair braiding and chatted with some of the other people in the shop. I could see that Mikias was enjoying being there in the same way he loves going out for Ethiopian food. It's not just about the food. Or the haircut.

When Jemby was done, Mikias went over to say goodbye to his barber. Another handshake that ended with a back slap half hug. "Later, Brother." "Later, Man." Mikias tried hard not to smile until we got outside.

lookin' good

When we left, I asked Mikias what he was thinking about. He said, "Sometimes it's good to be with other black men."

I think I'll retire my clippers.

"Good Game!"

2011-06-12T19:39:00.001-04:00

Since Mikias and Jemberu came home, they have played team sports. Soccer, football, basketball and baseball, they love them all. They have played on teams that have rarely won and on teams that couldn't seem to lose.

This year Mikias is playing in the Minor League in our town's baseball league. In Farm League, which Mikias and Jemby played in last year (and Jemby still plays in this year) the goals are to play your best and have fun. And they did. In Minor league, it is still important to play your best and have fun, but it is also important to win. Score is kept and posted on the league website along with division standings. It is truly a whole new ball game.

Mikias plays for the Nationals. They spent a good chunk of the season in last place. At the beginning of the season they lost a lot. By a lot. As the season progressed they won some and lost some but the games were becoming competitive. They were no longer losing by a lot. They were losing by a run or so. Win or lose, they were competing and it was fun. Fun for the players. Fun for the coaches. Fun for the parents. The best part of all is this; the boys were good at losing. They walked away from the games smiling, laughing and rushing to get something to eat at the Snack Shack. They would shout a "Good Game!" at their teammates and competitors as they got into their cars. I am pretty sure they all went home happy. I know for sure that Mikias did. Happy and tired (my favorite combination).

This past Friday night the Nationals played the first place Dodgers. The Dodgers had only lost one game this season, so were not accustomed to losing. They are a talented team. A lot of nice kids. A lot of good ballplayers. It was the kind of game I love. Competitive. Edge of your seat fun. The National went into the top of the 6th (which is the last inning in the minors) down by 3 runs. And then (OH MY GOSH!) they scored 4 runs. They went into the bottom of the 6th and held them. Our guys were elated. It was a sweet moment for the formerly last place Nationals. You could see by the expressions on the other players faces that they were feeling pretty down. It's hard to lose when you are used to winning.

I don't know about the kids, but I sure learned a lesson that night. There is a lot of pressure in winning all the time. Sure it's fun. Until it's expected. And then it doesn't happen. I think a win, especially against a talented winning team is that much sweeter for having lost a few. Or a bunch.

Mikias team played again this afternoon, against the Rockies. It was a great game. The Nationals were winning until the bottom of the 6th, then the Rockies won in a walk off. I am not just being a good sport, when I tell you that it was just as fun as the Friday night win. It was exciting and competitive. Mikias, who had been struggling at bat, hit a big, beautiful, double. The smile on his face as he stood on second base was my favorite moment of the season (so far) and I am sure it was his too.

This is what it's all about. It is about fun. Making a great play or getting the big hit. Hearing your parents cheering in the stands. Saying "Good Game!" to the other team and meaning it.

"You win some, you lose some." I think it's best that way.

Long live baseball.

Who You Callin' Scallywag?

2011-06-09T12:29:00.011-04:00

When I give Jemby his clothes in the morning, his reply is always the same.

"What are these for?"

"School." I reply as if we have never had this conversation before.

" School? Again?! I went yesterday! I will not go."

After officially rejecting school attendance, he normally gets dressed and does what he needs to do. But on other days, the bad days, I have to force him to get dressed. Sometimes moving things along by brushing his teeth while he complains. Recently, I had to force his raincoat on him while he remained noodle-armed, then slide his back pack on and lead him to the bus by the loop on the top of the back pack. Not pretty.

The problem with school is the work. He doesn't think he can do it. So he often doesn't. He pushes his seat back and crosses his arms in defiance during spelling tests. This Spring his work avoiding methods included putting his head down on his desk and sleeping. Soundly. With soft snoring and drool. The teacher and the nurse both talked to me about it. He ended up at our pediatrician and then the hospital for lots of blood work. He's fine. He was just avoiding schoolwork. Well, reading and writing. He loves gym, library, science, art and music.

As Jemby explained to me, he took a lot of time learning all of the stupid letters. Upper case and lower case. It was a lot of work. Most of his friends had spent their entire lives exposed to letters. Jem spent his first three and a half years in Ethiopia, where he spoke Kembata and then Amharic before traveling to the other side of the world to learn English (not to mention adjust to a new family and culture). I don't blame him for being resistant to turning all of those stupid letters into stupid words that he is expected to read AND write.

I walked into his classroom on my volunteer day, a couple of weeks ago, and the teacher was asking the kids the meaning of certain 'pirate' words.

"What's a scallywag?"

"Someone who's bad!" yelled one of Jem's classmates

"Do you know any scallywags?" asked the teacher

"Jemby!" laughed one of Jemby's friends

"Yeah Jemberu is a scallywag!" piped in another buddy

Jemby was laughing with his pals.

Not me. Arrggghh, he's not a scallywag I wanted to say! He's a matey!

Sure, maybe he avoids his work. He probably is the only one of his pals to have been sent to the principal's office when he was a kindergartner. But that was a misunderstanding (Jem misunderstood that he had to follow the rules.) But he's no scallywag.

My little buccaneer is a really fun kid. He's a good friend. I have never heard him say a negative word about any of his friends. He really is a matey!

The thing that bothered me so much about the scallywag comments, is that I don't want him to be comfortable in his role as scallywag. As much as he doesn't want to read or write, he has to. My goal this summer (pray for me) is to work so hard on these skills that when he enters second grade, his friends and teachers will say, "Blimey! Jemberu is amazing, absolutely shipshape!"

Aye, I know he can do it! I ain't raisin' no scallywag. Anyone who says otherwise, can just walk the plank.

Addicted to Adoption Blogs ( Diet Coke has a competitor)

2011-06-06T22:03:00.004-04:00

I have food to buy. I have window boxes and planters to fill with flowers. A dog to brush. Laundry piling up. A husband that wants me to hang out with him. Daughters to email and call. Sons to feed and pay attention to. Friends who think friendship is a two way street and need some love. A mother-in-law in a nursing home to visit. But all I want to do is read adoption blogs. I'm addicted.

I am a bit embarrassed to admit that while I love blogging, I don't read a lot of blogs. Most of my reading for pleasure comes from books. When my blog was nominated as a 'Top 25 adoption blog' by Circle of Moms, I was excited and wanted to win a place on that list. This is a good time, I suppose, to ask you to go to http://www.circleofmoms.com/top25/adoption?trk=t25_adoption and vote for my blog. This contest is making me more ~~aggressive~~ ~~needy~~ assertive than is normal for me. So many of these blogs are super cool, I want to be listed among them (and therefore be cool too!).

Not surprisingly the bulk of the blogs nominated are written by adoptive parents. I love Liz's blog (http://inventingliz.blogspot.com/) She has great posts and a weekly reading list featuring other cool things to read.
Kristen (http://www.rageagainsttheminivan.com) has thoughtful and often laugh out loud posts and also links to other interesting blog posts (which is going to increase my new blog reading problem).
The contest leader by a mile, Christine, (http://www.welcometomybrain.net/) has a video where she talks about love according to I Corinthians 13, that brought me to tears. She is also just so darn real and appealing that I want to camp at the Texas RV park that her family owns and hang out with her. That seems like a stretch for this Massachusetts girl but we have an RV and a daughter attending college in Waco, TX. So I am not ruling it out.

While adult adoptees (who I keep wanting to call adultees) are not well represented, I found Chris (http://chriss717.wordpress.com), who blogs about her reunion experience. It is very similar to my own experience and I can't wait to dig in and read more but I can't yet.... because another adult adoptee, who is also a birth/first mother, Allison, (http://mybirthnameisallison.wordpress.com/) has me all distracted. When I first read her referencing her adoptive parents as her 'adopters', I gasped! I read on and got more details about her experience and the pain that adoption has caused her. She is honest and raw and I am anxious to read more. Amanda, (http://www.declassifiedadoptee.com) an adult adoptee and Adoptee Rights advocate has a blog that has me wondering why I haven't paid more attention to the rights (or lack of ) for adoptees. What kind of adoptee am I anyway?

The list is short on birth/first mother blogs but thanks to Claudia (http://www.musingsofthelame.com/ ) a first mother and open records champion, I can better understand what she and others have gone through and continue to go through. Her site also has an extensive blog list, I now know that although birth/first mothers are under represented on adoption blog lists, they are well represented in the blogosphere. There are tons. Same goes for adoptee blogs, you can find lots of them at this blog.

I have read blogs of angry adoptees (I am not judging, they are angry!) who have had horrible experiences. Adoptees who struggle or rejoice in their adoption reunions (many experience a little of both). Adoptees who (rightly in my opinion) feel disregarded and unheard in the adoption community. Adoptees who hate their adoptive parents. Adoptees who have been rejected by the birth parents they have longed for. Adoptees who fully feel and believe in the Primal Wound theory. Adoptees who think they speak for all adoptees and claim we all suffer from being adopted ( this I am not a fan of, we are not all the same).

I have found lots of angry birth/first mothers. Knowing what I know especially from my own birth mother, they have a lot to be angry about. Many were manipulated into relinquishing their newborns and given no options. Many birth/first mother blogs are absolutely vicious toward adoptive parents, calling them 'adopters' and mocking them for having to 'take someone else's baby and pretending they were their own'. As an adoptive parent, I can take these comments in stride. As an adoptee, I get really, really angry when I read these comments and accusations. I feel like they are attacking my parents and it gets me all worked up.

I even found a blog that makes fun of adoptive parent blogs, poking fun at 'you grew in my heart' type of sentiments. Yikes. Imagine if there was a blog by an adoptive parent that make fun of or belittled birth parents? Actually maybe there is one...I found so many other provocative blogs.

Things we know: Adoption is complicated and often messy. There are lots of different points of views and experiences out there for all to read. We are all better for listening to each other, even when we don't agree.

Thank You Circle of Moms!

2011-06-01T11:29:00.006-04:00

'They're All My Own' was nominated as a 'Top 25 Adoption Blog by parents'! I was honored to receive the email informing me of the nomination. I took a look at the other nominated blogs, and was thrilled to find so many great ones! They cover a wide range of adoption topics and the personalities of the bloggers really shine through their wonderful posts. If you love adoption blogs, check them out!

Of course, if you want to vote for 'They're All My Own' please click on the pink badge (over to the right), scroll down to 'Their All My Own' and click on thumbs up symbol. You can vote once a day for until June 21st. Thanks :)

They're ADOPTED?

2011-06-01T11:15:00.003-04:00

my pirate

I love going to the beach with the boys. For the boys it is non-stop playing, swimming and exploring (and occasionally being yelled at by an overly intense career life guard). For me it is endlessly entertaining watching them. One one of my favorite days this past summer, Jemberu dressed as a pirate and buried his treasure and practiced his swashbuckling moves, completely unaware of onlookers smiling at him. But my absolute favorite beach memory was a conversation I had with two boys that I have known since they were born, Noah and Landon.

It was a gorgeous beach day and lots of our friends were there. The boys were happy to be see Noah and Landon. Our families go to church together and the boys have all known each other since our boys came home. I was talking to some of the moms with us and mentioned something about when we adopted Mikias.

Noah whipped his head toward our conversation, "Wait, Mikias is adopted?

Landon piped in, clearly concerned and shocked, "What about Jemby? Is he adopted?"

"Yes, they are both adopted."

With alarm in his voice Landon asked, "Do you have any idea where they are from?"

Mikias and Noah at a Christmas party

"Of course!" I reassured him "They are from Ethiopia."

The looks of confusion and concern remained.

Landon and Jemberu

"Ethiopia is in Africa. Mikias and Jemby are from Africa."

Their mouth were hanging open, they were truly shocked to learn this about their friends.

Growing up, I could share the fact of my adoption or not. The boys (at least when they are with the rest of our family) don't normally have that luxury. That moment at the beach was a sweet one. Noah and Landon had never thought of Mikias and Jemberu or our family as different.

The sun shone down on me, I enjoyed the moment. I watched Noah and Landon run back into the warm Atlantic water to play with their friends. I smiled while I soaked up the sunshine and the moment.

I watched Noah introduce Mikias to a friend, "This is Mikias, the reason he has such a weird name is that he is adopted from Ethiopia which is in AFRICA!" he practically shouted

Mikias can be self-conscious about being perceived as different from his friends. I watched closely to see how he would handle Noah's exuberant introduction.

"Noah, are you going to always introduce me to people that way?" Mikias asked calmly

"Nah. I just think it is so cool! I had no idea!"

That was it. Back to swimming, tossing a football and friends enjoying a day at the beach.

A perfect day.

Adoption Heroes

2011-05-22T17:43:00.006-04:00

my first adoption heroes

As an adoptive mother, I have so many resources at my fingertips. Lining my bookshelves are dozens of books covering every possible range of adoption topics, from adopting older children, adopting internationally, how to talk to children about adoption, adoption memoirs, the history of adoption and on and on. Through the miracle of the internet, I have access to the advice of adoption professionals, adoption blogs, and can find play groups, support groups, culture camps and adoption events.

My parents' resources consisted of two books about adoption. 'Adoption and After' for them and 'The Chosen Baby' for us kids. There was no internet. There were no support groups. There were no camps for adopted kids. In spite of their lack of resources, they instinctively got it right. They were my first, and remain my best, adoption heroes.

In a time when adoption was closed and secretive, my parents were open, honest and accessible. Whatever I asked, they answered. When I wanted information, they gave me access to all of my adoption paperwork. They didn't have a lot of information, but what they had was mine for the asking. It was in this paperwork that I first saw the financial agreement between my parents and the adoption agency. I was shocked to learn that my parents had to pay for me. My dad explained that the money wasn't to buy me (which is illegal!) but was for the agency fees to facilitate the adoption and all of the expenses that go along with that. It was the first time that I understood that adoption was expensive. What if they couldn't have afforded to adopt? What if they exhausted their resources after adopting my brother and then couldn't afford to adopt a second child (me!)? I would have been adopted by a different family. I would have a different name and have led a different life. Sure, it could have turned out just fine but it's too hard to think about. I can't imagine not being the daughter of my parents, the sister of my siblings, the wife of my husband or the mother of these particular children. In short, I wouldn't have been me. My parent were not rich or even close to rich, but they were perfectly suited to be parents. I am thankful that they found a way to afford adoption, twice.

I learned more about the expenses associated with adoption when Kurt and I began the process of adding to our family through adoption. I look at Mikias and Jemberu and have the same thoughts I had as a girl. What if? What if we couldn't have afforded to adopt our boys? What if we were able to adopt Mikias but could not afford to adopt a second time, thus having a family that didn't include Jemberu? It's unimaginable.

Like many people who adopt, my parents struggled with infertility for years. I think about people like my own parents, wanting desperately to raise a family. I think about couples who go through invasive and expensive fertility treatments that fail to work for them. It is at this point that many people turn to adoption. It is also at this point that many people realize that they cannot afford the expenses that go along with adoption. Too many loving, caring, and capable people who desperately want to be parents are excluded from doing so because of the cost.

Because of this, I was thrilled to learn that CNN's hero of the week is doing something about this. After infertility treatments and miscarriages, Becky Fawcett and her husband Kipp adopted two children. After experiencing the expenses of adoption firsthand, Becky started an organization to help others. Her organization, Help Us Adopt (helpusadopt.org), has so far helped 43 families to adopt, by providing financial grants to help alleviate some of the expense of adoption.

My parents were my first adoption heroes and there have been many since. Becky Fawcett is now one of my adoption heroes, too. Bravo to Becky for recognizing the financial constraints that prevent people from adopting and for creating an organization that helps create families. Bravo also to CNN for recognizing Becky and her organization and the importance of adoption.

If you know a hero (adoption or otherwise) you can nominate them through CNNHeros.com.

Plee-Plops and Butlers

2011-05-06T15:38:00.006-04:00

Plee-Plops. I have on a pair right now. I suppose you call them flip-flops. My mother-in-law calls them thongs, but that only makes me think of underpants. Mikias dubbed his flip-flops, plee-plops, his first summer home and has been calling them plee-plops ever since. That is until the other day. Mikias was getting dressed for school and asked if it was warm enough for flip-flops. It was a good moment. Surely he shouldn't continue to call them plee-plops. But is was a sad moment too. So many of the boys' unique words for things are disappearing. They are growing up and I really wish they wouldn't.

Some words however, have stuck around in spite of frequent corrections. One such word is 'butler'. It is used for a couple different things. One being the proper use as in, "Mom, why do you make me pick up Jem's toys? I am NOT his butler!" The other use is 'butler' being used in place of the word 'builder'. I don't know where the confusion began, but both boys never fail to say butler when they mean builder.

The elementary school in our town is in the midst of a huge addition and renovation. When it first began the boys got off the bus so excited about the new construction. They were especially thrilled at the fact that there are "so many butlers working hard to get the school built!" Jem thinks there are probably "more butlers at the school than teachers!" (Can you believe it? Butlers at a public school!) Every time they talk about the construction and all of the workers who are making it happen, I visualize a school being built by older gentlemen in tuxedos topped by hard hats. One perhaps, holding out a silver serving tray of nails to be used by another tuxedo wearing gentleman with a hammer. It cracks me up.

So it was with a little sadness that I told Mikias that I didn't think it was quite warm enough for flip-flops. I didn't tell him that I missed him calling them plee-plops. It's time he got these thing right. When he stepped outside to wait for the bus, he was kind of ticked at me. He thought it was plenty warm enough.

He glared at me and said "I could have worn flip-flops and short sleeves!"

I looked at his arms pointedly. I wanted him to realize that he indeed was wearing short sleeves. He looked at me and rolled his eyes.

"I know I am wearing a short sleeve shirt! I mean short sleeve PANTS!"

Phew...looks like the fun isn't going to end just yet.

Family Boarding

2011-04-21T17:30:00.003-04:00

At least four times a year we travel by plane with Mikias and Jemberu. They have the rules and routines down pat. They are considerate of the people around them. They don't put their feet on the seats in front of them. They are not loud. They entertain themselves. They are so great it, that I am sure they could fly alone with no problem at all. But since they are only 6 and 9, we wouldn't let them. Oddly enough, a flight attendant on flight we took several days ago, seemed to think they were doing just that.

Our routine rarely varies. Kurt and the boys sit together. Mikias has the window. Jemberu is in the middle and Kurt is on the aisle. I am also on the aisle right across and slightly behind them. Kurt works. The boys play. I nap. I was resting my eyes as I listened to the flight attendant go over the safety procedures. Floatation devices, exits, oxygen masks. We were about 10 rows from the front. Being the first day of April vacation the plane was full of families with school aged children. I listened as the flight attendant spoke to all of the parents in the rows in front of us.

"Be sure you place your oxygen mask on and then help your children with theirs"

"Be sure you place your oxygen mask on first and then help your kids, okay?"

Row after row.

Then she got to Kurt and the boys. I snapped out of my almost sleep when I realized that she didn't address Kurt as she had all the other parents in front of us.

She leaned over Kurt and spoke directly to the boys. "Okay guys, where does this go?" she said as she held up the oxygen mask.

"Over your mouth and nose!" Mikias loves answering questions. Jemberu, on the other hand, twisted around in his seat to make eye contact with me. He rolled his eyes and jerked his thumb toward the flight attendant. His look told me that he didn't think she was too bright.

She continued, "Great! Now what about this?" She stretched the elastic on the mask.

Mikias had this one too. "You stretch it around your head to secure the mask to your face!"

At this point, Kurt is giving her a look that could make a flower die on it's vine. Jemberu is looking at me with his mouth hanging open and his arms in the 'are you kidding me?' gesture. I said to him "She doesn't realize that you are sitting with your dad." Mikias is beaming at her. He'd be happy to answer her easy questions all day. Kurt, Jem and I were all thinking something along the lines of 'there is something wrong with this woman'. Not Mikias. He is a bit of an oddity in our sarcastic, slightly cynical family. He thinks everyone is nice and worth giving the benefit of the doubt.

The flight attendant was oblivious to our family's verbal and non verbal communication. In fact, she was oblivious to the fact that we were a family. She smiled at the boys and said, "If these oxygen masks come down, you put them on and then look for one of us. Do not take them off until we tell you, okay?"

Later when it was time to pass out the snacks, she leaned over my husband again and sweetly asked the boys if they'd like some crackers and peanuts. She handed Kurt his snack without even a glance. She then asked the boys if they were doing okay and if they needed anything else. "If you need anything at all, you just let us know, okay boys?" She did not say anything like this to the children seated all around us.

This flight attendant was a whole new kind of weird for me. She didn't even entertain the possibility that these boys were sitting with their dad. Often people ask if we are the boys' parents. That makes sense. She didn't make any sense to me. Surely we were not the first transracial family she has seen. Wouldn't she know if there were children this young traveling alone? Did she think the boys were stuck sitting with this white guy while their black mom and dad were sitting in another part of the plane? What would make her see that they were together? What if they were all wearing matching shirts? Or hats? Kurt has a baseball cap that says 'Big Dude' and the boys have matching hats only they say 'Little Dude'. (I don't think I have to tell you they were a gift.) What if they were wearing those? My guess is that it wouldn't have changed anything. She probably would have just thought it was a crazy coincidence.

The Opposite of a Celebrity Crush

2011-04-13T17:39:00.004-04:00

I was in kind of a negative mood this morning. It's pouring out. My team is 2-9 and I don't think it is too early to panic. Nothing really wrong, just the rainy day blues. I was doing my daily internet stuff, facebook, weather, news, when I saw that Tori Spelling and Dean McDermott are expecting their third child. Then my mood went from negative to downright foul. I don't care for Tori and Dean. Then my mood got even worse when I realized that I was investing energy disliking people I don't even know! What a loser I am!

I looked closely at their photo and reminded myself that I had no reason not to like them Sure, he always looks kind of smarmy but maybe he can't help that. Sure, they left their original spouses for each other but they explained all that. They are soul mates, apparently it was out of their hands. What the heck is it about them, particularly him, that gets under my skin so? It's like having the opposite of a celebrity crush.

Adding to the energy I was spending disliking strangers, I did a Google search. I was reminded of why I felt so strongly. When Dean told his wife that he was leaving her for Tori, she was stunned. Not only did they have a young son but they had just adopted a baby daughter. He told his wife, "I'm not leaving the kids, I'm leaving you." Liar. He has joint custody of his son but according to my source (Wikipedia) he 'opted not to move forward with the adoption of his daughter.' His adopted child was optional to him. Perhaps his ex-wife wanted it this way. If this is the case I am willing to guess he gave in without a fight. If she had insisted that he give up custody of his biological son, would that have been okay with him?

Going through the adoption process is a big deal. Making the initial decision. The home study. The mountain of paperwork. It doesn't just happen, he decided to do it. He can't claim to have been blindsided. He chose to bring a new member into his family. He probably helped his wife decorate her nursery, pick out her name, prepare their son for a new sibling. They brought her home, she was theirs. Then he met Tori Spelling. A woman he had just met was not optional for him but his daughter was. Yuck.

As much as I don't think it is right for me to voice opinions regarding people I don't know, I am going to make an exception for Dean McDermott. I think he is a huge creep.

Funny Thing Happened at the Cemetery

2011-03-30T21:04:00.005-04:00

I took a drive to my hometown this past Sunday. It was the anniversary of my mom's death. I was missing her and knew a cemetery visit was just the thing to lift me up. I like cemeteries in general, and the one in my hometown in particular. Not just because it's the resting place of my parents, but also because it triggers so many memories from my childhood. The memory flood actually begins as soon as I cross the town line. The fields where my siblings and I played ball. The roads my dad taught me to drive on. The yard of a friend where I kissed my husband for the first time. The pond where I learned to swim. The church I grew up in. That simple old church stirs my emotions more than any other place. It is there I learned the depth of God's love and mercy. Where I said goodbye to my dad, my grandmother and my sweet neighbor, Andy. Where Kurt and I exchanged wedding vows. I don't think there is one part of town that doesn't trigger a memory for me. I may be 47, but when I am in my hometown I am 6, 11 or 17 at any given moment.

My cemetery visit routine is to spend some time at my family's gravesite and then wander around a bit. Almost every time I go, I notice the gravestone of someone familiar, that I hadn't spotted before. The parent of an old friend. A former classmate. A neighbor. Someone I went to church with. On Sunday, I spotted the grave of Mrs. Farmer. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed it before. She went to my church and was a friend of my parents. I loved going to her house with them. She old, even when I was very young. She called me Rosebud, maybe because I was lovely, maybe because she couldn't always remember my name. Either way, she made me feel special. She let my sister and I go crazy dressing up in old clothes in her basement. She was mysterious and eccentric . She had a real fur rug in her living room. I forget what animal it had belonged to, but remember it's softness. No one, I mean no one, knew exactly how old she was. When she died, my mom called to tell me. Mrs. Farmer had been in a nursing home for years. Even then, my mom speculated about her age, which was not included in her obituary. She had her pegged at mid nineties, but really hated not knowing for sure.

Spotting that gravestone was a real bonus for me. I hadn't thought of her in years. The best part of all was that the place on her gravestone before her name, where a birth year normally would be, was blank. Only the year of her death, 1997, was engraved after her name. I laughed so hard. My first instinct was to call my mom, she would love this. It was a lovely split second of forgetting that she was gone.

I am thankful for the places, moments and people that took me from childhood to adulthood. I am especially thankful to Mrs. Farmer for giving me such a great moment 14 years after her death. I hope that if she and my mom are together now, she is still keeping her guessing.

Visiting Grammy

2011-03-17T17:12:00.004-04:00

On the way to visit Kurt's mom in a long term care facility, the boys and I had a great talk. While they love seeing Grammy, they had confessed that some of the residents give them 'the freak'. We talked about what can happen to people when they get old. They agreed that people sometimes cannot help they way they act or appear. They both promised to be kind even if they were uncomfortable.

We had Addis (our black lab) with us to visit and the boys took turns holding his leash as we walked to Grammy's room. The residents in the hallway smiled as they watched the boys and the dog. The boys made eye contact and smiled back. I was feeling pretty darn proud of them.

And then Jemberu said, "Whoa! That guy has food all over his shirt!"

Indeed, one of the residents looked as though he had had some trouble getting his blueberry cobbler to his mouth.

I quietly told Jemberu to hush. The look I gave him told him that I meant business.

In an attempt to defend himself, he loudly said, "Don't worry, that guy is probably death."

I held his arm, looked into his eyes and said, "What did you say?" in a ferocious whisper

"Death! Death! We talked about it in the car! When you get old you get DEATH!" he replied loudly

"Deaf, the word is deaf and let's hope your right."

In her room, Grammy and I sat chatting while the boys took turns using her walker. They like pretending to be elderly and hope that someday she will get a wheelchair they can play on.

I was watching Jemby's impression of being old. He shuffled his feet and said in a shaky voice, "Watch out Sonny boy! I can't see or hear because I am SO OLD!" (Blind and death)

I was so engrossed with his elderly act that I didn't notice that Mikias and Addis were missing. When I finally found them, Mikias was going from resident to resident with Addis. As soon as anyone took notice of the dog, he would bring Addis over to greet them.

"Well look at that!" Mikias was saying with his arm around a man in a wheelchair, "He really likes you!"

I watched Mikias make the rounds with the dog. Always telling the person patting Addis how much the dog really likes him or her. He and Addis looked completely at home, as though they spend time with the elderly everyday. I watched, amazed at how easy compassion and empathy are for Mikias. I was also impressed with Addis. He doesn't even know how to play fetch (when I throw the ball he just looks up at me as if to say "good throw!") but he sure knows how to give love.

At this point I remembered Jemby back in Grammy's room. I feared he would take his elderly act on the road. I grabbed Mikias and Addis, zipped back to Grammy's room to wrap up our visit.

As we drove home, the boys talked about how much fun they had. Mikias asked when we could go back. Jemby asked if we could get a walker. Addis just gazed at me and I realized that fetch was totally overrated. I have the best dog and the best boys in the world.

Meeting My Birthfather (the wrap up)

2011-03-10T17:00:00.008-05:00

Most Saturday nights, Kurt and I watch a movie 'On Demand'. The 'sneak peek' option is a huge help in guiding our decision about what to watch. I wish that deciding whether or not to meet members of my birth family came with a 'sneak peek'.

I previously wrote about meeting my birthfather, Tim, in the posts Meeting my Birthfather (part one) and Meeting my Birthfather (part two). I wanted to share my story because I wanted to tell a real (as opposed to the made for TV kind) reunion story, even if it is not of the 'feel good' variety. I have been asked by a few readers to share what happened after our initial meeting. It's a bit of a long and complicated story but I will do my best to give you my condensed version.

I tried to sleep that night after meeting Tim. I was exhausted but unable to quiet my mind. He didn't ask me one question about myself. Not one. I was prepared to tell him about my parents, my sister and brother, Kurt and some highlights of my happy childhood. I figured that if your infant was placed for adoption and you have the chance to meet her twenty years later (especially if you initiated the meeting), you'd want some details of those missing decades. Turns out I was wrong. As I tossed and turned, I thought maybe the questions and getting to know each other part would come later. They didn't.

The next day Tim called. He was feeling great about our meeting. He began to talk. About how much I look like him. About how cool it would be if we could find Jean and have a family picture taken. About Alcoholics Anonymous. About how f **ked up his life had been and how he now finally had his shit together. About mistakes he had made. About his upstairs neighbors. About his AA sponsor. About a couple of his buddies. About nothing that had any relevance to my life. I was pretty sure he was high. When I told him I had to go, he told me again how great this all was and how happy he was to be getting to know me.

Every few days he would call. These were the days before caller ID and we didn't have an answering machine. I would listen to him ramble and then find a reason to hang up. I would make the timer go off on my oven. "Whoa, gotta go get something out of the oven!" I would stretch my long kitchen phone cord (before cordless phones, too) out to my front door and ring the bell. "Gotta go! My neighbor is here." Or, "Drat, the paper boy. Gotta go pay him!" Anything. Anything at all to get off the phone. To get him out of my head. To make myself stop feeling stupid for meeting him. To not feel freaked out that he was part of my formerly mysterious genetic history.

How to sum up the next twenty something years? His wife and son left him and moved away. Phone calls tapered off, with months or years between them. He was on and off 'the wagon'. He was in and out of jail. He would often call me on September 26th to wish me a happy birthday, in spite of the fact that I told him on the day we met that my birthday is the 29th. A few years into our 'relationship' he called on the 29th, which I thought was progress until he apologized for being late for my birthday.

I limited my contact with him to Christmas cards. I am not sure he understood (or noticed) my reluctance to have a relationship. Cards were the best I could do. They included pictures of my family. He usually called after receiving them and was grateful for the contact.

About 7 years ago, he called to tell me he was out of jail and living in the town next to mine. He wanted to see me. I got a copy of his police record. It was extremely long- close to 70 arrests over the years. I met him for coffee. He asked if he could meet my children. I said no. I don't remember what else we talked about but he had mellowed a little over the years. He talked a bit less, asked more questions. He told me that I was the best thing he had ever done. I drove home in tears.

Three years ago, Tim's brother called to tell me he had died. He had just turned sixty. He had spent his last years living in Arizona with one of his sisters. They had a close relationship. I was sad for her and for his other siblings. I kept waiting to feel my own sadness, my own feeling of loss. I never did.

At the memorial service, I met members of his family for the first time. I made some positive connections. In particular, Tim's brother Stephen and his sister Nora made a real effort to welcome me and get to know me. We have stayed in contact since then. They have been incredibly gracious in helping me understand Tim. They have shared unedited and difficult stories of their years growing up, shedding light for me for how Tim became Tim. They made no excuses for him. They had the same upbringing and have worked hard to earn the lives that they have. They are wonderful people and I am glad to have them in my life. Through Stephen and Nora I got to know Tim in a way that I never could by actually knowing him.

If adoption reunion were like 'On Demand' and I had a 'sneak peek', would I still have done it? Probably. Unlike picking a movie, there were no other options if I didn't like what my 'sneak peek' had to offer. To know the true story of how I came into the world and why I was placed for adoption I had to hit 'play.' How Tim's story affects my story is up to me.

Family Rules

2011-03-04T17:21:00.000-05:00

Last week on an airplane, I was looking across the aisle at Mikias's handsome profile. He was watching a movie with Kurt and didn't notice me admiring him. Something looked different about him. It took me a minute but I figured out what it was. His normally long curled eyelashes were little stubs.

"What happened to your eyelashes?"

"Huh? I have no idea what you are talking about?"

"Did you cut them?

"Oh yeah, I did that at school when I was bored."

"That is NOT okay, you cannot cut your eyelashes!"

"Why?"

"Your eyelashes protect your eyes from getting stuff in them." (Not only that, they are the perfect frame for his beautiful eyes.)

"Okay, do you want to make that a family rule, no eyelash cutting?"

"Sure, if you think that would help."
~

A few days ago, Jemberu came into the kitchen demanding my full attention.

"Watch me be a cowboy." In his red pajamas with the polar bears he didn't look much like a cowboy.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pajamas. He walked over to me bow-legged and tied up his imaginary horse.

He turned to an imaginary foe and drawled, "I don't like you and you don't like me. We both know that this here town isn't big enough for the both of us."

He dramatically turned his head away and spit. On my floor. Not pretend spit. Real spit.

I gasped in horror.

He turned back to me, tipped his imaginary ten gallon hat and said, "Sorry you had to see that, Ma'am."

"Jem, great cowboy impression, but you CANNOT spit in the house!"

"What about after I brush my teeth?"

"Yes in the sink. No on the floor."

"Want to make that a family rule, no spitting on the floor?"

"Yes, good plan."
~
The boys like rules. They like to have a plan. They need to know what to expect and what we expect from them. However, I could not possibly lay down enough rules to cover every strange, misguided or bizarre thing they could ever think to do. I should have already known this from when Devyn and Maddy were little.

When the girls were little we had a cat. We kept the cat box in the playroom downstairs. For a period of time, when I cleaned the box, I noticed the clumps were unusually large. A bizarre thought crossed my mind.

I yelled upstairs, "Maddy (really I knew, Devyn wouldn't think of doing this) have you been PEEING in the cat box?

"Only sometimes, when I am too busy to come upstairs." she replied casually

"Are you KIDDING me, Maddy? You CAN'T do that!"

"Okay. Now I know."

I would like to continue this blog post but I really should go. I have rules to make.

Three Cheers

2011-02-28T13:14:00.008-05:00

I read a lot of adoption memoirs. Adoptees, birthparents, adoptive parents, non-adopted siblings of adopted siblings. I never tire of learning about how adoption has affected the people most directly involved. I sometimes see myself and my family in the stories of others. Other times, I cringe, disagree or cannot relate at all.

I have read books relating the experiences of my transracially adopted counterparts, who were adopted in the 1960's and 1970's. Growing up in a same race family, we could share the fact of our adoption with whom we wanted. Transracially adopted kids of my generation not only were part of a pioneering group of families, but also didn't have the luxury of anonymity. They were often subjected to hostility, looks of disapproval, name calling and worse. Also the prevailing wisdom of the time was to ignore the differences and not to pay too much attention to the 'race thing'. I am thankful this 'wisdom' has changed. There is more openness and discussion around adoption and differences are acknowledged and celebrated. I hope when Mikias and Jemberu are adults they will be able to look back on these growing up years positively.

I am writing this post in an airport, I am with Kurt and the boys. I decided to hang back a bit from them as we walked through the terminal and see if I could observe if we were noticed differently than other, less conspicuous families. Most people take little notice of our family, which I think says a lot about the acceptance of tranracial adoption in this generation (and the fact that people are doing and dealing with their own stuff and that the Noyces are not the center of the world!) . However, we do get our share of second looks but it is almost always accompanied by smiles or what look like nods of approval. On the other hand, the smiles might not have anything to do with us as a family. It might be directed at Jemberu, who has not had a hair cut in nearly a year. One little boy was staring boldly at us. He keep tapping his mom on the leg, when she didn't acknowledge him he yelled, "Mom look at his HAIR!". So I will have to reconduct my little social experiment after Jem decides to cut his "big giant" hair.

We are about and about everyday doing our thing. The truth is that most people are great. The fact that I have probably written a blog post about every truly nutty or negative thing that people have said says a lot. People do ask us questions but are almost always respectful and tactful. The most asked question I get, is if the boys are 'real' brothers. I usually say, "Yes of course they are 'real brothers' are you wondering if they are biological brothers?" Almost 100% of the time people say something like 'Oh yes, thats what I meant' or 'of course they are real brothers, that's not what I meant.' I know that most people do not know 'positive adoption language' and that they really do want to get it right.

This past week we were on a beach vacation. There was a large extended family, with lots of boys that we saw everyday. My boys played with those boys all day long, every day. I had lovely conversations with the adults. We were not asked one adoption question. Not from the kids. Not from the adults.

Today, I want to take a moment to thank everyone who 'gets it'. Here's to those who ask politely and out of earshot of the boys and to those who don't ask at all. To Devyn and Maddy, the world's most amazing daughters and sisters, who didn't sign up to be adoption advocates, but are, in a big way. To our friends and neighbors who get it and help others do the same. To our small, mostly white, town who welcomes families that are not like everyone else's and let's us just be us. To the advocates of adoption and adoptive families everywhere who educate others by sharing what they know and who teach by example. Hip, hip, hooray!

Alison the Adopted Girl

2011-02-25T13:13:00.011-05:00

My best friend's daughter, Jocie, is a college student. One of the new girls in her sorority told her new "sisters" that she was adopted. Weeks later, another girl in the sorority confided to Jocie that whenever she sees that girl she always thinks "There's Paige the adopted girl". This stunned Jocie and me too when she told me. I couldn't help but wonder if people saw me as "Alison the adopted girl".

At first I didn't think so. But, as I looked back I realized that the fact of my adoption actually was never too far from my friend's minds. My older brother was often in trouble both at school and home. It was a source of worry, and often, embarrassment for me. Friends would try to comfort me with the reminder that he wasn't my "real brother". It is no comfort to be reminded that we are not connected by biology. Who cares? He is my brother, he can worry me and embarrass me!

I can recall times being furious at my parents and venting to my friends (just like they did about their parents). Usually the response was normal, "Yeah they ARE ridiculous!" Other times I might hear "I'd be mad too, especially since they aren't even your real parents!". This immediately put me on the defensive, "No they are the same way with Candace (our parents biological child)." Suddenly, I would feel like I have no right to vent. I suppose the plus side of that kind of comment is that it made me extra protective of my family.

At sleep overs, when talk turned intimate in the wee hours, I was often peppered with questions about my "real parents". What did I know? Nothing. How old were they? Young, I think. How did it feel to be unwanted? Huh? I'm sure I was wanted. (I am thankful to my parents for my excellent self esteem.)

I suppose I was (and am) 'Alison the adopted girl'. And as much as I don't want it to be, my boys, to some people, are 'Mikias and Jemberu the adopted boys'. I have overheard kids point out one or both of the boys and say "That's Mikias (or Jemberu), he is adopted from Ethiopia." or some variation of that. When I am at school, the boys' classmates ask me lots of questions, "Are Mikias and Jemberu real brothers?" Yep, adoption makes us a real family. "Are they really from Africa?" They sure are. One first grade classmate of Jem's said, "So, you are white and he is black and you are his mother? What's up with that?" It is at the front of some kid's minds, especially when they see us together.

The lesson I am learning, and that I hope the boys are learning too, is that we can't control what people think. We can't make people not be interested in the things about us that are different (and yes, interesting). We can't force others to understand that adoption is not second best and that our family is as real as anyone's.

The boys and I are adopted people. It does not define us but it is part of what makes us...us. We can only control how we define ourselves in the world, mother, son, wife, brother, sister, friend, baseball fan, football player, video game expert, dog lover and yes, people who came to their families through adoption.

Bright Spots

2011-02-18T19:09:00.003-05:00

The last couple of weeks have been difficult. My mother-in-law has been very ill. It has been a sobering reminder of how quickly our health can be taken from us without our consent. However, a couple of unexpectedly positive things have occurred during this time that I want to share with you.

The first is that Adoptive Families Magazine has chosen "They're All My Own" in their first annual round up of Top Adoption Blogs to be featured in the magazine's upcoming March/April issue. I am honored and thankful to the magazine (which is a great adoption resource) and to everyone who reads my blog and encourages me to keep writing by leaving kind and thoughtful comments.

The second (and best) bright spot is that I had a visit from my beloved grandmother. I wrote about her last year in the post Remembering. It is true that she died at the age of 90 and if she were living she would be 116. Yet she did visit me in a very real way this week. Gram was actually kind of famous in and around my hometown for the 'clothespin' dolls that she made. They were beautiful, made completely by hand, each one unique. She put a tiny sticker on the hem of each doll's dress with her initials 'MEG'. If Gram knew you and you were getting married she would have made you a bride doll. If you were lucky enough to be her granddaughter, you might get one for a birthday or after getting your wisdom teeth out. She also made them to sell at our church's annual holiday fair. Most of my best friends had one from her and many of the women and girls of our church owned a doll or two. I have a small collection carefully packed away. I haven't thought about Gram's dolls in years.

After a particularly hard day this week, visiting my mother-in-law in the hospital and helping Kurt cope with making some difficult decisions regarding her care, I came home feeling very blue. There was a package at my door. The return address showed it was from one of the dearest friends of my childhood, Lori. Lori and I are a lot alike. We grew up in the same small town. Attended the same small church. Had amazing, warm and caring parents. Our families were close friends. We were both adopted as infants and raised in families with both adopted and biological siblings.

I had no idea what she might be sending me. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw that the package was filled with clothespin dolls, just like the kind my grandmother made. She must have found them at a craft show and thought of me. I was so touched. As I closely examined one of the dolls, I flipped up the hem and saw the 'MEG' sticker. They were Gram's dolls! I bawled. I was so sad when I arrived home that day. Suddenly, I felt as though I was wrapped in my precious grandmothers arms. I could almost smell her lilac perfume and feel her small hands that she kept soft with Vaseline Intensive Care lotion.

As soon as the tears stopped flowing, I read Lori's letter. She explained that another girl we grew up with (of course we are all women in our forties now) had a collection of the dolls from her childhood. She had donated them to the most recent church Christmas fair. Lori recognized them, did a little research with the church old timers (forgive me Mrs. Damon) realized they were Gram's dolls and bought every single one and sent them to me.

Lori couldn't have surprised me more or had better timing. The comfort of an old friend and a beloved grandmother's handiwork made a sad day much brighter.

Subject: Huge Life Changing News

2011-02-01T14:49:00.009-05:00

Mikias being welcomed home

Last Friday was Mikias's 5th Gotcha day. We celebrate, not on the dates we met the boys, but on the dates we landed at Logan airport. Because the girls didn't travel to Ethiopia with us, the day we arrived home was the day we all 'got' each other. It is a hugely important day in our family.

We are a sentimental family. On the girls' birthdays, Kurt and I always reminisce about the days they were born. The labor, the terror, the indescribable joy. We talk about how crazy fast it has all gone by and the women that they are today (which is far more amazing than we could possibly deserve).

For the boys, it is Gotcha Day that triggers our trip down memory lane. Last week we talked a lot about the first time we saw Mikias (in an emailed photo), the wait, the wondering and the amazing moment of meeting him, holding him, hearing his voice, seeing his smile, being stunned by the fact that he was even more strikingly beautiful than his picture.

I hoped to capture some of those emotions for a blog post. I kept coming up short. Then Kurt forwarded the below emails to me. They were sent by us (Me, Maddy, Devyn and Kurt), to each other during that time.

With their permission, I am sharing pieces of these emails. I think they say what I can't seem to.

From me to Kurt sent on the day we got the call to go to Ethiopia to bring Mikias home:
From: Alison
Sent: Friday, January 06, 2006 11:20 AM
To: Kurt Noyce
Subject: Huge life changing news

We have to be in Ethiopia in 2 weeks!!! I just got the call this
morning...I have been trying to reach you but no luck on your cell
phone.

I called the recommended travel agent and she is going to get us the
info we need....she'll give us quotes on both Ethiopia Airlines and
British Airlines....We would probably fly Providence to Washington
Dulles then from there to Addis Abbaba.

Hun...can you believe it???!!!!

I love you ....we have 3 kids!!

In 2 weeks will will hear his voice and hold his little hand.

xxxoo

From Devyn (who was 17), sent before we were able to connect with her, the day before we were to meet Mikias.

Hey guys!!!

how is it over there??? I ve been thinking about you non stop
trying to imagine what you're doing!! I bet you're going to meet Mikias
tomorrow!! it makes me so happy to think about it. Mumma, take
notes! I want to know EVERYTHING. I bet a million dollars you both water
when you see him! i'm sure he'll love you guys right away.
Hows the city? is it gross or nice? Your hotel looks gorgeous! Do they
have diet coke? i hope so or else mumma will have a heart attack!
How was the flight? Was your back ok, dad?.
i cant stand not hearing from you guys!!! I hope you email
soon!
i love you guys so much! Give Mikias lots of love for me! Im so
happy for you guys being there. Take lots of pics!
email soon!!
love you!!
devyn
xoxoxoxo

From Kurt to the girls, sent our first night with Mikias :

first moments

Sent: Mon 1/23/2006 1:06 PM
From: Kurt Noyce
To: Noyce, Devyn; Noyce, Madison B.
Subject: Your brother

Your brother is sleeping with mom!

Been so hard not being able to talk with you guys...it's killing us!

Air trip was fine...I couldn't sleep at all, but you know mom didn't
have any issues! Arrived late Sunday night (Ethiopian time), then took
2 hours to get thru customs and get our luggage...sadly someone stole some
stuff out of my suitcase

Arrived at orphanage about 10:00 am
this morning, to find Mikias not in class where he was supposed to be (should have known right then
he was going to take after Maddy - more on that later!)...his
caretaker/nanny found him helping the cook make lunch and brought him out ..he ran and gave mom

a hug for over 10 minutes! I got
pictures...we hung around orphanage until about 2:00 (whoever said he
was shy was sadly mistaken - as he is clearly the most rambunctous kid
at the place - a little more like Maddy, than Dev, if you know what I
mean!)...sadly, he hoards all food he sees...he is very possessive of
whatever toys we gave him, except for one girl he'll share everything
with ...we then spent the rest of day
at US Consultate with four other families completing paperwork. Afterwards the three of us were dropped off at
hotel...dinner at the restaurant certainly was Mikias's first ever...we went
for a nice walk around the hotels' playground, and then tried to get him
to sleep - he won't put on his pajamas as he is fearful he won't get his
new pants/sweatshirt back, as they wear "community clothing" at
orphanage...so far, Addis Ababa is not as overwhelming as Bombay, but far worse
than anything mom ever saw...

Despite being so careful with eveything I ate, I was sick all
day...first thought it was just nerves, but most feel it is Altitude
Sickness, as Addis is about 8,000 feet above sea level...

Will not get another chance to contact you until late Wed (time here),
as tomorrow we leave for a 5-6 hour ride to his old village...that
should be interesting with how I feel! We will need to find a hotel
there for the night...

Good thing we know what "shinty kaka" means, as I had to get him out
of the consultate and restuarant today!

Just when you feel "what the heck are we doing", you see young kids begging
everywhere and know that within 5 more years, that may have
been his fate...

He kissed the picture of you guys on mom's camera...

We love you!!

dad/

from Maddy (who was 14)

From: Madison.B.Noyce
Sent: Monday, January 23, 2006 2:26 PM
To: Kurt Noyce
Subject: RE: Your brother

Hey Daddy!!!
Oh my gosh, it was soo good to hear from you!
What is the time difference there? Well, life waiting for you guys to
come is very boring! I miss you guys, all three of you, very much!!!
Tell Mikias that he has some snow to look forward to when he comes home!
How is everything going with my little rambunctious boy? How is the
language thing interfering with getting to know him? Does he know any
English? have you guys picked more of his language up? Are you feeling
better? Where is Mikias going to stay when you guys go meet his family?
Whats the deal with the pronunciation of his name? There are more
questions but i will leave that for later....
Tell Mumma to take so many pictures, even if we will think its boring, i
want to see EVERYTHING!!!
I miss you guys soo much and can't wait til you guys get home!!
I love all three of you soo much it hurts!
Love, Hugs, and Kisses,
Maddy

5 years later at his 'Gotcha' celebration, given by the world's best neighbors!

Opening his 'Gotcha' gift with Jemberu

Oprah's Big News

2011-01-25T19:10:00.001-05:00

http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20460114,00.html

Yesterday, my friend Bethe sent me an email telling me I HAD to watch Oprah. Bethe knows that afternoons are pure chaos here. But I tuned in, knowing that Bethe wouldn't insist without good reason. The show revealed that Oprah has a biological half sister who was placed for adoption at birth. Bethe was right, I was interested in this story.

I sat on the edge of the couch, tuned into every word. Mikias was equally interested, he sat with his arm around me. The only times he ever sees me this engaged with the television, the Red Sox are on. He knew what was on was somehow important to me and he didn't want to miss out. He quietly asked me questions during the commercial breaks and hushed Jemberu (who kept screaming, "This is BORING!") with me during the show.

I realized that Patricia (Oprah's sister) and I had some things in common. We were both born in 1963 to mothers who placed us for adoption. We both had reunions with our birthmothers. We both discovered half siblings. We both initially looked for information at the age of 20.

Watching Patricia interact with Oprah, it was clear that she was sweet and open with a genuine desire to embrace her newfound family. I suddenly hoped that no one in my birth family was watching. She was making me look bad. I could imagine them sitting together or calling each other, "You see Oprah's sister? Too bad Alison couldn't be more like her!"

Patricia didn't bristle when Oprah referred to her mother as 'our mother'. I would have probably said, "Well, your mother, my birthmother."

When Oprah asked her what the most rewarding part of this journey had been to Patricia, she sweetly replied, "Getting my family."

I don't consider my birth family "my family". I already have a family. I have one family and I also have birth family. The distinction is important to me.

Patricia's path differed greatly from mine when our birthmothers left the hospitals without us. Is it because I was a much desired (both in 1963 and continuing to this day) white baby girl? During that time in the history of adoption, "matching" a child to an adoptive family was all important. Transracial adoption was virtually unheard of. Was it because there were more African American babies than there were African American parents seeking to adopt? No matter the reason, the adoption system seems to have failed her.

I know nothing about Patricia's relationship with her adoptive family. I don't know what it is like to spend the first seven years of life in foster care. No one had ever told her she was a pretty baby until her birthmother said during the interview that the nurse asked her why she didn't want to take her home, she was such 'a pretty baby'. This revelation made her cry. Her childhood was difficult and she longed to be reunited with her birth mother. Her desire to connect with her birth family makes sense to me. She was seeking a peace, a wholeness, a family. Isn't that what we all want? To be loved, valued, wanted? I got those things as an infant and have carried them with me everyday.

I was in tears by the end of the show. Mikias rubbed my back and asked why I was sad. Did I wish Oprah was my sister? "No way, I already have Auntie Candace (my sister, who is my parents biological daughter), you can't top that." He agreed that Auntie Candace is the best. I told him I was crying because I was so grateful for the life that I have had and the family that I have now. He told me that he knew exactly how I felt. He told me that we are the luckiest people in the world. I couldn't agree more.

Meeting my Birthfather (part two)

2011-01-18T16:48:00.001-05:00

As I rode the 'T' into Boston, I looked at my reflection in the window and wondered what Tim's first impression of me would be. Would he think I was pretty? Would I look like him? I was really nervous. Kurt had offered to come with me. I declined and was fully regretting that decision. I reminded myself that Tim had initiated this contact. He probably had a lot he wanted to know about me. I tried to distract myself from my nervousness by preparing for our meeting. I mentally listed the highlights of my twenty years. I didn't want to babble or fall mute when asked about my life. I was as ready as I could be to meet to the contributor of half my genes.

Mrs. Kelly brought me into a conference room and then brought Tim in and introduced us. We both looked at each other and laughed nervously as we shared a hug.

“Oh my God, it’s like looking into a mirror.” Tim said as he stared at my face.

I was looking back at him, trying to see what he saw.

Mrs. Kelly said that she could see a resemblance too.

I wasn’t sure. There was some similarity. I just thought it would be more striking. I had always wanted to look like someone. I wanted to be blown away by a resemblance but I wasn’t.

We all chatted for a few minutes together and then Mrs. Kelly left us alone to get acquainted. I got my life story straight in my head and got ready for his questions.

He began. I was relieved because I was too nervous to think of anything to say. "I thought of you every September 26th"

" For my birthday? Wow, thank you! But my birthday is September 29th."

"Shit! I thought of you on the wrong day!"

I took in Tim's appearance as he talked. He did look young. He wore a pullover shirt, jeans and a leather jacket. My dad would have worn a sport coat and tie. I reminded myself to stop comparing. He had shoulder length brown hair, blue eyes. Medium height, lean build, handsome. As he continued I added talkative to the list.

"I'm an alkie. I am clean and sober now. I have a sponsor, go to AA."

I realized that alkie is slang for alcoholic. I was trying to come up with a response but he continued to talk.

"I was so nervous. I got my haircut today, so I would make a good impression. I told all my friends that I have a 20 year old daughter, they were blown away! I was in reform school when you were born. After I found out about you your (birth) mother gave me a picture of you. I carried it everywhere. Always kept it between the cellophane and package of my cigarettes. One day some asshole threw it away. I was so pissed, I wanted to kill the guy. I would have liked to have kept you. After I found out about about you, my mother and I came to see if we could get you. We were told we couldn't. Too bad, I had a great name picked out for you, Marquette Renee."

Mrs. Kelly popped her head in and asked how things were going. Tim told her that everything was great.

I used the interruption to ask a question. "What can you tell me about my birthmother?"

"Well, it was weird. Before meeting with Mrs. Kelly, I couldn't remember her name! I was a total blank! All I could remember is that when we used to run around Boston everyone called her Sheba. I'm glad Mrs. Kelly told me it was Jean. Can't believe I forgot. I really loved her though and want you to to know you were conceived in love."

There were so many things I wanted to discuss. My conception was not among them. I silently prayed that Tim would move on to another topic. He did.

"God, her parents hated me! I don't blame them. I was a pretty bad kid."

At this point Mrs. Kelly came back in and told us that it was time to close the office. Tim asked if he could walk me to my car. I told him I had taken the 'T' into town. He suggested I come to his apartment, meet his wife and then he would drive me to the 'T' station. I agreed.

We got into his big yellow Lincoln Continental and took the short ride to his apartment. He talked about growing up in Boston. When we walked from the car to his apartment he laughed that no one would ever guess we were father and daughter. We climbed the stairs to his apartment, a typical triple decker. His wife was there and seemed happy to meet me. She asked me a few questions. I told her a bit about my family and where I grew up. After a few minutes of conversation and a glance at their sleeping son (who I realized was my half brother) I was suddenly exhausted and told Tim that I really needed to head home. I wanted (needed) to be with Kurt.

As we hugged goodbye at the 'T' station, Tim told me how happy he was and how proud he was of me. He promised to be in touch soon.

Meeting my Birthfather (part one)

2011-01-16T15:52:00.007-05:00

You might imagine that the first time an adopted person mets a member of his or her birth family that the experience would be emotional, moving, perhaps even profound. A connection is formed, a missing piece suddenly fits, similarities are found and long wondered about questions are finally answered. I have read stories like that. I have seen a few adoption reunions on television. Emotions run high, tears flow, hugs are exchanged and new relationships are formed.

My story is not like that.

Unlike most reunions, I met my birthfather first. It wasn't officially a 'reunion' since we had not previously met. Although I believe at some point I would have searched, I wasn't looking for him or my birthmother. I was looking for information. I had been struggling with a chronic medical condition. I was tired of going to doctors and being unable to answer questions regarding my medical history. I called the agency that handled my adoption on a whim. I was almost positive that they wouldn't have any medical information to give to me. I called anyway. Just in case. Part of me just wanted to voice my frustration at the absurdity of placing a baby into a family and not including a thorough family medical history. Regardless of my motivation, the result of that call was the last thing I expected. I was told that my birthfather had called two weeks prior to my call, inquiring about me.

The social worker that I spoke to, Mrs. Kelly, told me that my birthfather said that he would consider meeting me if I were to ever call. Was I interested in a meeting?

I was twenty years old. I had never had never met anyone with whom I had a biological tie. I had never seen a picture. I didn't know even the first names of my birthparents. I had no idea what hospital I was born in. I didn't have knowledge of the circumstances of my birth or why an adoption plan was made for me. I didn't know who I resembled.

Was I interested in a meeting? I was.

Mrs. Kelly wanted to meet with Tim (now I knew a name!) and then with me. After those meeting we could plan a time we could meet together if we both agreed.

A few days later, I walked into Boston Children's Services for my meeting with Mrs. Kelly. It was here that my parents came for all of their adoption interviews. It was here that they picked me up to bring me home. I could almost see them. My dad in a suit, my mom in her best dress and my brother (also adopted from this agency two years earlier) wearing his Sunday best. I have heard the story so many times that it felt as though it was from my own memory. My brother happy and proud, my parents so nervous and excited that they forgot to bring any baby supplies. I loved 'my story' and I loved my family. I was ready to know the rest of my story.

Mrs. Kelly had met with Tim the day before. She asked me a few basic questions. What were my expectations? I really just wanted information. I hoped to fill in some of the blanks. She asked about my family. I told her the basics, happy childhood, I lost my dad two years earlier, my mom was supportive of this meeting, particularly so I could get some medical history. I was recently married to my high school sweetheart. I worked in a dental office and was studying to be a nurse.

She had met with Tim the day before. She told me that he was 35. That made him 15 at the time of my birth. I didn't like how this made me feel. I felt inexplicably embarrassed. He was married with a 4 year old son. He also had a daughter from a previous marriage who was 15. He had struggled with drugs and alcohol. He assured her those days were behind him. He implied having some problems with 'the law' as a result of a tough childhood. He was interested in meeting me as long as I wasn't 'a troubled kid looking for money'. I assured her I wasn't. Maybe this information, so carefully given to me my by Mrs. Kelly, should have caused me to reconsider, but it didn't.

Our meeting was scheduled for the following week.

Call Me

2011-01-03T20:53:00.002-05:00

Mikias was 5 when he celebrated his first Halloween. When we told him that he could dress in a costume, knock on our neighbors' doors, say 'trick or treat' and be given candy ("For free?" "Yep, for free!") he stared at us in disbelief. As we headed out, his delight quickly turned to disappointment. Most of the 'free' candy was chocolate and Mikias does not like chocolate. At every house, in spite of us telling him to just say 'thank you' and nothing else, he would blurt out some variation of "Thank you! Is this chocolate? I don't like chocolate." Often followed by (if we weren't quick enough to pull him away) "You got any Skittles?" It was embarrassing.

The next year was better but not great. He now said "Thank you! It's okay that this is chocolate. I don't like chocolate but I am not disappointed."

This year was his best ever. Not only did he thank everyone without a hint that he didn't like chocolate he went out of his way to say something positive. At one hauntingly decorated home, Mikias shook the hand of the woman of the house saying "Well, look at you! You really outdid yourself this year! Great job!"

Mikias is a positive guy and it is second nature for him to give a compliment. On a recent beach vacation, Mikias spotted a family who had made a sand barrier to shield them on a particularly windy day. "Wow! Great sand fort! Is it just sand or do you have some other kind of support in there?" This was accompanied by hand shakes for the entire family. As we gently pulled him away, he gave them all a thumbs up along with another compliment on the great job.

We never really know what Mikias might say, but we know it will be positive and kind. Jemberu on the other hand, is less predictable. Sometime when he is standing next to a girl he will say "I don't like GIRLS!" or to a bald man, "You have NO hair!". It took a lot of strong conversations from us, but Jem's comment making has improved. We can almost go out in public with the boys with out the fear of them embarrassing us while offending strangers.

Last month, we were at a local restaurant (the only restaurant in our small town) celebrating Jem's 3rd "Gotcha Day". We saw our pool guy, 'Dan the Pool Man' and his wife, whom my kids call, 'Mrs. Dan the Pool Man'. Jem got went over to their table to say a quick hello. As he walked back to our table. Dan's wife said "Bye Jemby!". Jemby turned back to her, and responded by putting his thumb and pinkie up to his ear (phone like) and mouthed out, "Call me".

As he returned to our table I said, "So, you want Mrs. Dan the Pool Man to call you?"

"No!" he responded angrily "I don't even have a phone! I don't even answer the phone!"

"Well, why did you tell her to call you?"

He rolled his eyes at me, as though I am the biggest fool, and said, "It's just an expression!"

Oh thank goodness, I was beginning to worry that going out with the boys was going to become dull.

Christmas - Florida Style

2010-12-27T14:45:00.005-05:00

Our Christmas Snowman "Breezy"

I had never spent Christmas outside of Massachusetts. This year we broke with tradition and headed to Florida. The reasons we decided to head south were both practical and personal. We normally leave for Florida on the 26th or 27th. When I was looking for flights for the six of us, the prices were astronomical. I realized that if we left earlier, we could go for half the price and add 4 days to our trip.

Mikias making shells into ornaments

It was not just the savings and the longer vacation that enticed me to head to the Sunshine State for Christmas. I thought that maybe it would help me to not miss my mom. Since my mother died in 2007, it has been Christmas day that I feel her loss most keenly. I miss her bursting through the door, (arriving at least an hour early) wearing a Christmas sweater, usually with a matching pin and earrings. I miss her unloading her many gifts, hugging and kissing everyone and taking over my kitchen. Christmas has not felt quite right without her. I decided that a change of location could make it easier.

Ready for the tree

As our trip loomed closer, I feared I might have made a mistake. Christmas in Florida wouldn't feel like Christmas in New England. At home in Massachusetts, the season was as festive as ever, Santa was visited, the house was decorated, parties attended and given. Everything felt right, why were we leaving?

A small tree was delivered to our house in Florida. Since our ornaments were at home it looked a little lonely. A plan was made to decorate the tree "Florida Style" . We walked the beach searching for the best shells. We strung them on fishing line and decorated the tree with them. Better. As the kids hung their stockings on Christmas eve, that Christmas eve feeling was the same as ever. Christmas morning felt, well, like Christmas morning. Taking pictures while stockings were unloaded, gifts oohed and ahhed over. The girls were good sports about getting up at an ungodly hour for the boys. The boys were good about not being excessively loud while the girls went back to sleep a couple of hours later. Later in the day we built a 'snowman' at the beach. The day was a lovely and did indeed feel like Christmas.

Christmas eve

I still missed my mom, but I do think the change of location, along with another year gone by, made the sting less. I don't think there is a holiday that brings back memories the way that Christmas does. I'm grateful that my mom made Christmas so memorable.

In the end, we loved celebrating Christmas in Florida. I really had nothing to fear. Like home, Christmas is where your heart is.

Figures of Speech and Other Confusion

2010-11-17T13:49:00.005-05:00

"Play it by ear."

"I'll give you a piece of my mind."

"It's raining cats and dogs!"

My boys have had some trouble with figures of speech in the years since they arrived home from Ethiopia. Learning English is hard enough. But add the way we use it? It's 'no picnic'.

Sometimes they find an expression they like and understand (or think they do) and use it 'like crazy'. Jemby recently started saying "Way ahead of you!" regularly. To the morning question, "Did you brush your teeth?" He answers "Way ahead of you, Mom!" Yesterday at the bus stop when he smiled at me, I had reason to think he hadn't brushed.

"I thought you said you brushed"

"No, I didn't."

"I asked you and you said 'way ahead of you'!"

"I am way ahead of you. I already knew you would ask that!"

Mikias loves the expressions, "pretty much" and "by a long shot".

"Did you have a good day at school""

"Pretty much."

"What part wasn't good?"

"Who says part of it wasn't good?"

"Well, you kind of did."

"No I didn't, not by a long shot!"

You get the idea.

Over the weekend Mikias and I had a disagreement . I said "Let's just drop it."

"Yes, let's just put this behind our backs." Mikias agreed

When the boys started football this summer, their first game was part of a Round-robin tournament. The coaches worked them hard that week to get them ready for their first game of the season. The boys were focused, excited and a little bit nervous.

"I'll see you boys in the morning for the Round-robin!" Mikias's coach told the team at the end of practice

Mikias yelled out, "I sure hope we beat those Round Robins!"

It not just figures of speech that have caused confusion. Our customs and traditions are also tough.

A few months after Jemby came home to us, Mikias lost a tooth. All day long, the talk was about putting his tooth under his pillow and the arrival of the Tooth Fairy. Jemby asked no questions. In fact, he seemed completely uninterested. That night when we put the boys to bed, Jemby asked us to leave the hall light on. Instead of laying down, he remained seated on his bed. When we asked him what was up, his answer surprised us.

"If that tooth fairy comes in here to get Mikias....I'm gonna destroy him!" he said while pounding his fist on the bed.

It's was comforting to know that although Jemby was a new member of our family, he was willing to fight off the unknown danger of the Tooth Fairy to keep his brother safe. I guess you could say, he's 'got his back'.

I suppose it's 'safe to say' that, the bright 'light at the end of the tunnel' of language confusion is that I often find myself 'laughing my head off'!

"You're adopted." Is this funny to anyone?

2010-11-01T17:41:00.011-04:00

I was watching the World Series last night and the above commercial came on. At the risk of sounding dramatic or overly sensitive (which I know I can be) it really shocked me. The dad telling his daughter 'you're adopted' in an attempt to distract her from a video game? Is that funny? It's like Christmas advertisements poking fun of the gift of fruit cake or the Father's day gift of the hideous tie. It's just lame, old, over used and not funny in the first place. How many sitcoms have you seen that have the child in the family freaking out because he thinks he may be adopted? Not creative and not funny.

In my attempt to find this commercial on You Tube, I put 'you're adopted' in the search box. What I found was much worse than the above commercial. This link is one example: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CYu7xP1zjbc. The creator of the song says "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt anyone's feelings. It's just a silly little joke song :-)"

Because of my connection to adoption, I am not objective. This type of 'humor' is offensive and hurtful to me. I hope that it is offensive to those outside of the adoption community as well.

Adoption Messages

2010-10-18T13:22:00.011-04:00

Adoptive families are regular families. The children in adoptive families are not second best or plan B. My parents came to adoption after infertility. Adoption may have been their plan B on their quest for a family, but we were not. We were their deeply loved children. No different from our youngest sister who was born to them after 15 years of marriage and infertility.

Adoptive parents do not want to be pitied or admired. We want to be seen for what we are; families. Regular old, run of the mill, crazy, complicated, loving, fighting, caring, embarrassing, proud, families. We want our children to feel good about who they are and how they came to their families. This is a challenge when our culture sends out so many subtle and not so subtle messages about adoption.

Below are some comments I have heard that have given me pause:

-A (non-adopted) woman complaining about her family: "I just want to tell people I was adopted!"

-Two woman talking about another woman's pregnancy: "I'm so happy for her! She recently started the adoption process. Thank God she can have her own."

-To me: "My brothers would tease me by telling me I was adopted."

-To me while with Mikias: "I almost had to adopt. Thank God I got pregnant!"

-A mother about her biological multi-racial children; "People always ask me where they are from! They are NOT adopted. They are mine!"

-To me while out with the boys: "You have your own children too, right?"

-To a friend (an adopted person with biological children); "Wow, your kids are so great. That must be a comfort with you being adopted."

-To Mikias: "Your parents bought you."

-To me as growing up: (asked more times that I can count) "Don't you wonder about your real parents?"

-To me about my boys: "Are they real brothers?"

-Again about my boys: "Wow, they sure could pass for brothers."

-To an adopted teenager at a youth group, said by a peer: "You are so annoying, no wonder your parents didn't want you!"

-One white preteen girl to another (who happens to have an Ethiopian brother) : "I would never date a black guy. If you fell in love and got married, everyone would think your kids were adopted."

-To a friend whose mother was adopted: "I don't know why you are so sad about your grandmother's death. She wasn't your real grandmother anyway." (this said by her now ex-husband)

-To an adoptive mom, spoken by a woman who believed that you go to an orphanage and choose your child after looking the 'available children' over: "It must be like picking a dog out at the pound!"

Usually at this point in a blog, I share my thoughts. I hope that these comments (some outlandish and some just born of ignorance) speak better than I can.

A Fabulous Day

2010-10-13T15:49:00.007-04:00

To say Mikias loves Legos would be a wild understatement. Mikias has told us that next to his family, Legos are the best part of his life. I think he only threw in the family comment so he wouldn't hurt our feelings. Jemby is quickly following in Mikias's footsteps and is becoming a passionate Lego fan as well. When we heard that the Lego Kid's Fest was coming to Boston there was no doubt that we would be there. It was Lego heaven. Several times I overheard Mikias saying to himself, "This is the best day of my life!".

Despite the chaos and the crowds, I could hardly wipe the smile off my face. Watching our boys enjoy this day was a blast.

There was a HUGE Lego city being built. There were giant tables of Legos set up around the city so that kids could build something to contribute to the city. Mikias and Jemby worked for a solid hour on their creations. Kurt and I stood behind them watching. There were kids and parents everywhere. It was a tight squeeze around the table. While we were watching the boys build, a woman tapped Kurt on the arm and said in a tone that was unmistakably irritated, "Could I please get in here? That is my son." She was pointing at the boy next to our boys. She proceeded to cut in front of Kurt. She must have thought Kurt and I were standing there with no connection to a child at the table. Kurt maneuvered himself so we could all fit behind our kids and nicely said to the woman, "And these are our sons" while pointing to our boys. She turned her back to Kurt and never looked our way again.

Later the boys went to a cool interactive area where they could build with electronic Legos. There was a spot for parents to sit and watch. Kurt stood, so I sat alone until another dad sat next to me. We commented about never having seen so many boys in one place before.

He said "I assume you have a son here."

"Two actually, one is right there." I pointed to Mikias while looking for Jemby to point him out.

"Whoa."

I waited for more. I thought he was going to say something like, 'what a serious builder' or 'what a handsome boy' but he said nothing else.

I said, "Whoa?"

He didn't even look me in the eye, he just said "Adopted obviously."

I ignored him and watched my boys build. He ignored me and his own sons while he texted on his blackberry.

After a while he looked up from his phone and said to me "Where did you get them?" His tone was not the normal friendly curiosity that I am used to.

"Ethiopia."

"Did you go there?"

"Yes."

"Did you get them as babies?"

"Nope."

"How was the adjustment for them?"

"Easy, perfect, in fact they are perfect." All lies. It wasn't easy and they (although perfect for us) are not perfect.

I know that I don't owe him or anyone else the details of our family. He had formed his opinion as soon as I pointed Mikias out. There wasn't anything I could say that would make him understand.

When we first brought Mikias home, similar encounters would shake me. Kurt told me that we would have to develop thicker skin. I told him that I couldn't. Encounter after encounter left me steaming. It has been over four and a half years since I became a mother by adoption. Like so many other things, thicker skin develops slowly over time. It kind of sneaks up on you. That fabulous day with the boys at the Lego Fest was not dampened at all by a couple of negative moments with people who just don't know better. It was a great day. I watched my boys have the time of their lives and realized for the first time that perhaps I have finally developed thicker skin.

Interchangeable Ethiopian Boys

2010-09-23T12:58:00.003-04:00

Mikias and Gibson 1st day of school '10

When Mikias joined our family, our neighbor Gibson was a few months shy of his third birthday. We live in a small, mostly white, town and Mikias was Gibson's first black friend. For that matter, Gibson was Mikias's first white friend. Not long after Mikias was home, Gibson was at a playground and spotted a black boy. The boy didn't really look like Mikias but Gibson was confused. He walked over to the boy, peered into his eyes and said, "Mikias, is that you?" His dad was close by and quickly explained to Gibson that this was not Mikias but another little boy. That day Gibson understood that there were more children than just Mikias with brown skin and never experienced that confusion again. It is too bad that adults can't learn that lesson with the same ease as Gibson.

About a year after our youngest son, Jemby came home another Ethiopian boy, Bude came home to his family. Bude's family lives in the next town. Jemby and Bude are the same age and quickly became friends. The two boys attended the same preschool program and people have been confusing them ever since.

People in our community often call Bude Jemby and vice versa. All the more astonishing since the boys are usually called the wrong name while out with their parents. Bude's parents are taller, thinner and younger than us (yet, we still like them) and without our Ethiopian children in tow, no one would confuse us for each other. One woman in particular would see Bude and never fail to call him Jemby in spite of multiple corrections from Bude and his parents.

Bude and Jemby at football practice

The most absurd Jemby/Bude confusion that I encountered was in a gift shop. The young woman working there was talking to friends when Jemby and I walked in.

She took one look at Jemby and said to her friends, "Ohmygod, I know him!"

"You know Jemby?" I asked

"No, it's Bude." she corrected me

"No, I know Bude but this is Jemby. He and Bude are buddies."

Without acknowledging me, she continued talking with her friends, "When I worked at Qdoba, he came in all the time. He is Ethiopian but he loves Mexican food!"

Pointing at Jemby she said to her friends, "Isn't he adorable?"

Jemby and I walked away to do our shopping. This girl was beyond reason, she had a story to tell and she wasn't going to let the little detail of having the wrong Ethiopian boy ruin it.

I think I need to pay a visit to that gift shop soon. I'll bring Gibson along, I have a feeling he'd be able to explain it to her better than I could.

Rainy Days

2010-08-24T21:41:00.007-04:00

Today was the 3rd day in a row of clouds and rain. More than 2 days always seem to make me feel blue. It doesn't help that tomorrow's forecast doesn't look any better. This morning, I dragged the boys to the YMCA with me so that I could work out. I hoped it would lift my mood but I still felt gloomy and yawned through the entire class even though I got a good 9 hours of sleep last night.

Then in spite of me, things kept happening that made me laugh.

On the way home from the Y, I was frustrated to be behind a septic pumping truck....until I read the the quote on the back, 'Caution, this truck is full of political promises'.

I overheard Jemby talking to our dog, He said a lot to Addis while laying on the dog bed with him including:

"I like fitball but I don't like all of the listening they make you do." At this point I told Jemby that it was 'football' that he plays not 'fit ball'. He told me I was lying because that doesn't make any sense. (Mikias originally thought the game was called flipball but believed me when I corrected him, he also thinks the name football is nonsense.).

"Addis stop licking my face, I am trying to grow a beard." When I asked him what he just said, he said ''Nothing". Apparently the beard is meant to surprise us.

Jemby and I were making kale soup this afternoon, while Mikias was playing a game on my computer in the kitchen. Jemby doesn't like kale soup but loves to help cook. Kale soup is one of Mikias' favorites and he has been asking for it for the last couple of weeks. Jemby said to me "Pretend this is our restaurant and I am the chef, and you are my girl chef and Mikias is our patient and our restaurant is the coolest because we have video games while you wait for the chef to make your food."

The final thing that brought me out of my funk was overhearing Mikias singing this song to himself to the tune of "Bingo",
"I have a family that's so cool and Noyce is our name-o, N-O-Y-C-E, N-O-Y-C-E, N-O-Y-C-E, N-O-Y-C-E and Noyce is our name-o.

It reminded me that "Although it's raining and kind of cold, I am pretty lucky, L-U-C-K-Y......."

"Thank God, huh?"

2010-08-16T23:15:00.004-04:00

I love summer. I love being with the boys all the time, but last Tuesday, I felt I needed a little time to myself. I was watching our boys at football practice when my husband arrived. I asked if he wouldn't mind taking over alone so that I could go get a pedicure. He is a smart man who rarely says no to me, so off I went.

I put my feet in the warm water, turned on the massage function of my chair and settled in. Ahhhhh. The woman next to me was very talkative, so I opened my book (the universal sign for 'I don't want to chat') and began to read. She was talking to the women working there about her daughter, (who was seated on the other side of her) she was 17 and had several tattoos and numerous piercings, all of which were being discussed in great detail. I couldn't help myself, I took my eyes off of my book and leaned forward to check her out. Big mistake. The woman began to pepper me with questions. She asked if I had any tattoos. I told her I didn't. She then asked if I had any children with tattoos. I should have just lied. I should have shook me head no and went back to reading. I have a problem, I never think to lie, even though I think, in certain circumstances (like this one), it is perfectly okay to do so.

I told her that both of my daughters have tattoos, and while I would rather they didn't, I was pleased that they put them in spots they won't later regret and that I was happy that their tattoos had special meaning to them. She wanted the details, so I told her that Devyn, after spending the fall semester of her junior year of college traveling the world on 'Semester at Sea', got a tattoo of a compass rose (which I learned is a compass not a flower). I told her that Maddy's tattoo was the word 'family' written in Amharic, which is the national language of Ethiopia, where our two youngest children are from. The following conversation ensued:

Woman: Oh my God, that is so cool that you did that. I have always wanted to adopt but she (pointing her thumb at her daughter) is all I can handle. Did it cost a lot? Did it take long? Did you have to go there?

Me: They are priceless...it is the best thing we have ever done. It didn't take long. Yes, we went there and loved it.

Woman: You're not afraid their mothers will ever try to get them back?

Me: No.

Woman: I would be. It happens all the time.

Me: It doesn't happen all the time and my sons' birth mothers are dead.

Woman: Thank God, huh?

Me:(mouth hanging open, speechless)

Woman: Seriously, you are lucky. It really does happen you know. I would be petrified of that.

Me: (never really knowing when to stop talking) Honestly, it doesn't happen all the time, that is why when it does, it makes the news. Adoption is a legally binding relationship. I was adopted and my birth parents lived a half an hour away, there was no way they could have 'taken me back'. It really isn't something to be feared.

A teenage girl working at nail place: Oh my God, your parents didn't want you?!! They gave you away? Does that make you feel awful?!!

Me: What? No, I am glad I was adopted.

Teenage worker: I would hate it.

At this point it was time to go put my now beautiful feet under the dryer. Instead of reading, I tried to comprehend how anyone could ever think that a dead mother could be seen as good news. I wish I could have found the words to make her understand how awful what she was saying was. I should have told her that birth mothers and adoptive mothers are not in competition with each other. I wish I could have found a way to tell her how terribly sad it was that the boys will never know their Ethiopian mothers. How wrong it feels that their Ethiopian mothers will never know the beautiful, strong, resilient and funny sons that they brought into the world. I should have found a way to tell her that when I get to heaven, the first people I want to see, after my my mom and dad, are my boys first mothers. I want to thank them for our amazing boys, to tell them what a gift and an honor it has been for me to be their mother.

Of course, knowing what to say after the conversation is over is easy. Next time, I hope I am ready and do the boys and their Ethiopian parents justice with my responses.

Great Movie... Despicable Me(ssage)

2010-08-01T20:45:00.008-04:00

Is it possible to enjoy a movie and have a strong objection to it at the same time? This past Thursday afternoon, while viewing 'Despicable Me' with my sons, I learned that the answer is yes. The movie was clever, funny and original. We laughed out loud, a lot.

I will admit that when it comes to adoption, I am extra sensitive. I am an adopted person and an adoptive mother. My sons were 'older children' when we adopted them and they lived in an orphanage. I have no idea how the adoption story line of 'Despicable Me' would have affected me if I were not....me. But I am, so I am compelled to share my concerns.

Not only did I worry about how this movie would make my boys feel, I worried about how it would affect how their friends view adoption. For many of their peers, Mikias and Jemberu are the only children they know who were adopted. I hope that parents will discuss the things about the movie that were silly and funny but not really what adoption is like.

Things that I wanted to make clear to my sons (and anyone else who would listen) include the following:

-In our country we do not have orphanages. Children who are orphans or have parents who cannot care for them are usually cared for by other family members or a foster family.

-Children would never be forced to sell cookies in order to earn their keep. When Margo, Edith and Agnes were knocking on doors saying 'We are orphans would you like to buy cookies?'. I heard a mom in the audience say 'Awwww' like it was the cutest thing ever (they were adorable) but it made me cringe and smack myself on the forehead (as I am prone to do when horrified).

-Gru (the evil villain who adopted the girls) leaving food and water for his new 'daughters' in dog dishes... funny and wrong.

-People cannot adopt on a whim, even if it is to carry out their evil plan to steal the moon. Background checks such as home studies help to insure that children are placed in a caring and safe environment.

-Adopted children cannot be returned. (Yes, there was the mother who sent back her Russian adopted son, but she created an international adoption crisis by doing so.) It is NOT normal or common or okay. In rare instances an adoption is disrupted, just as in rare circumstances biological parents might surrender their parental rights. Adopted children are NOT optional family members. For me, the worst moment in the movie was when the girls were returned to Miss Hattie's Home for Girls and punished in the 'box of shame' (also funny and wrong) as if they were to blame for being returned.

-IF a child was returned....the returning 'parent' would not be able to change his mind and get the children back. Ever.

Of course in the end, love conquered all. The villain was changed and redeemed by the love of the three girls. A family was formed where there once was none, which is the real and true message about adoption.

Music Recital

2010-07-25T19:57:00.006-04:00

Watching Mikias at a music recital earlier this summer, I nearly burst with pride. The recital was held at an art museum in a nearby city. It was delightful to watch the students, young and not so young, play their guitars, fiddles, and keyboards. I guess I should mention that Mikias wasn't playing in the recital, he was a member of the audience. One of his best friends invited him to see him play his guitar publicly for the first time. His friend was amazing, he even composed a song that he played. Mikias was proud and supportive, he even gave his friend one of his silly bands for good luck before his performance.

I only had to look back four and a half years and remember the early days of being Mikias's mom to realize how far he has come and why I have every reason in the world to be proud of my son, the audience member.

He was 4 and 1/2 and had been home from Ethiopia for a few days when I took him to the supermarket. We used the shopping cart that had a 'fire truck' attached to the front of it and Mikias was delighted. He steered the truck, beeped the horn and smiled at everyone he saw. I was so proud of my beautiful new son, and pleased with how well our first outing was going. Then he saw the abundance of produce, escaped the fire truck and began frantically and delightedly grabbing and biting into everything he could get his hands on quickly, which was a lot. I wrestled him (literally) back into the cart, while he screamed at me in Amharic. The people who moments earlier were smiling at us were now trying to decided if they should intervene personally or call the department of social services. I tried to smile at the other shoppers like I had it all under control, but am pretty sure I didn't fool them. We quickly checked out with our partially eaten fruit and nothing else. Mikias gamely got back into the fire truck and was laughing as I pushed him through the parking lot. I motioned for him to hop out of the fire truck and into our car. He refused. I reached in to lift him out and he held onto the steering wheel like a drowning person would hold onto a life preserver. As soon as I could pry one hand off the wheel he locked the other hand onto it. I switched tactics and grabbed his waist and pulled as fast as I could, he continued to hold fast to the wheel so I was pulling both him and our fire truck shopping cart across the parking lot. I think at this point he sensed that I was going to cry, so he let go and got into the car with me, smiling and undisturbed by the commotion he was creating. It was January and no more than 20 degrees outside, but I was sweating like I had spent an hour on the elliptical machine at the YMCA.

A few weeks later I tried a trip to CVS. I had a plan, hold his hand, grab what I needed, and check out. I would avoid anything would would look appealing to him, like candy and toys. This went well for no more than 45 seconds, when he broke away from my grip and found the toy aisle as though he was being pulled there by a powerful magnet. By the time I caught up to him, he had pulled a half dozen toy cars off the shelf and was playing happily with them, while making loud and accurate sounding car noises. I told him (with a combination of speech and sign language) that he could pick one. He clearly understood, shook his head and threw his body over all six cars. I stayed firm (like any good mom) and told him 'one'. He started to cry. I stayed firm. He began to kick his legs and flail his arms. I stayed firm. He added screaming. I knew I shouldn't give in, besides I checked the price and hadn't brought in enough money. I tried to lift him up to carry him out and he screamed louder and held the cars in a death grip. At this point a couple of shoppers and an employee wandered over to see what was going on. I could see them glance around for his mother. I looked around too, my whiteness keeping me anonymous. Then he called me Mumma as he continued his ferocious tantrum. I took a deep breath, pried him off the floor and forced the cars that he clung to out of his arms. I carried him out, while he screamed "NO MUMMA!! MACHINAS (Amharic for cars) FOR MIKIAS", like a sack of potatoes over my shoulder. I buckled him into his car seat, and waited a few minutes incase the police were going to come to question me, then drove home.

We continued going to stores and restaurants with mixed results. Little by little, things improved and life began to feel slightly less insane but it did not come easily or quickly. Although Mikias is predictably well behaved when we go out, I don't take it for granted.

So this particular Sunday afternoon in June, I beamed with pride while my son sat and enjoyed a music recital in an art museum. He could have played Mozart on the keyboard while accompanying himself on the harmonica and I wouldn't have been any prouder.

Something in Common

2010-07-11T22:33:00.008-04:00

On the day of President Obama's inauguration, Mikias was in first grade and he was pretty pumped. He began watching the news coverage the moment he woke up. He was chanting with the crowd in Washington, "O-ba-ma! O-ba-ma! I could barely tear him away to catch the bus for school.

At the bus stop, I stated the obvious, "So, your pretty excited about the new president, huh?

He nodded in agreement.

"Because he has brown skin?"

"Yeah, and he had a white mom!"

I honestly had never made the connection. His next comment threw me.

"When did he get adopted?"

At this point the bus pulled up. I gave him a hug goodbye, and decided that is wouldn't do any harm to wait until that evening to explain that our new president was not adopted. (Although, I did plan to inform him that both President Ford and President Clinton were adopted.)

We make connections to people with whom we have something in common. This is why Ethiopian Culture Camp, where we spent our weekend, is one of the highlights of our family's year.

Three years ago when we drove to the first Culture Camp, I was pretty nervous. Mikias was 6, had been home for 18 months and 'hated' Ethiopia. If we looked at pictures from Ethiopia, played Ethiopian music or heaven forbid, talked about Ethiopia, he would cover his ears and say "No Ethiopia."

I did my best to be enthusiastic during that ride. I told him how much fun he was going to have with the other kids from Ethiopia. I gushed about how cool it was that we would be with families like ours. He just glared at me and said, "No Ethiopia." I was afraid our weekend was going to be a disaster.

As we pulled into the parking lot at camp, another family pulled in next to us. Two Ethiopian boys got out of their car, followed by their white parents. Mikias raised his eyebrows and gave me a look that told me this was a pleasant surprise. I started to feel optimistic.

Mikias hopped out of our car and asked the older boy if he was from Ethiopia. The boy responded, "Yeah." in a tone that implied the word 'duh'. Mikias gasped and said "Me too!"

That was that, Mikias loved Culture Camp and equally as important, began to feel proud of his heritage. He loved being with his Ethiopian friends. When I asked him the names of his new friends, he laughed and said, "I have no idea!" It truly didn't matter. He was with kids like him. For the first time in 18 months, I couldn't quickly pick him out of a crowd. We smiled the entire weekend. It was great being with families like ours.

Two years ago when we went to Ethiopian Culture Camp, Jemberu was 4 and had been home for 7 months. On the Saturday night of camp, after our Ethiopian feast, we all gathered in a big hall. Ethiopian music was blasting, adults were yelling conversation over the music and the kids were running around like crazy. I noticed Jemberu playing with a boy we hadn't met before.

Jemberu did something crazy, like standing on his head, and the other boy said, "Jemby that is so funny!"

Jemby, wanting to show his friend another one of his skills said, "Yeah, watch this Tariku!"

He did something else and the two boys cracked up.

Then it struck me, these boys knew each other. Yet, I was sure they hadn't met. I found Tariku's family and we compared notes. It turns out that they were in the same orphanage, they even slept in the same dorm room together. Now here they were. On the other side of the world. With brand new families. Speaking a new language. Playing together. No big deal.

Camp is amazing. It is pretty cool to be with people who not only 'get it' but 'did it'. No one at camp gives me that mystified look and says, "Now why....what....made you do that? We want to share our stories at camp but we don't need to justify our choices. The questions are never loaded. When we ask about each others experiences, we want to compare notes, empathize, encourage and most of all, connect.

I look around at camp and see how we are different and the same.

We are brand new parents.

We have been parents for decades.

We have families formed exclusively by adoption.

We have a blend of birth and adopted children.

We are single.

We are married.

We came to adoption after infertility.

We came to adoption because it called us.

We have one huge thing in common. We felt the pull of a child in Ethiopia and we acted on it. Our lives will never be the same. We are thankful.

Over the weekend we laugh (and cringe) at all of the crazy things people have said to us. We talk to other parents who face challenges similar to our own. We talk to parents who have been where we are and are happy to share how they got to the other side. We share the stresses and the funny moments.

Most of all, we share the incredible blessings of having our lives changed forever because we fell in love with our children from Ethiopia.

I am already looking forward to next year.

Passing Notes

2010-06-30T20:07:00.008-04:00

I spent last weekend in Waco, Texas. Maddy is a student at Baylor and is taking summer classes. She moved into her first apartment off campus. We spent the weekend decorating, talking and eating. I got a glimpse of her life there, meeting some of her friends, going to her favorite restaurants, seeing the parts of Waco that she loves. Outside of the Baylor campus, my initial impression of Waco was less than enthusiastic. I thought of Waco as a tired, economically depressed city with a huge homeless population. (My apologies to all Wacoians for not looking deeper.)

Maddy's first couple of months of college were pretty tough for her. She hated Baylor, hated Waco, in fact hated the entire state of Texas. She let us know in daily conversations that she missed New England, missed us, had made a huge mistake and needed to transfer...asap. Although we did feel for her, we reminded her that she had chosen Baylor for some really good reasons and that we would not allow her to give up on it after only a couple of months. She needed to stay put and make it work.

Almost immediately after her parental denial of transfer, Maddy fell in love with Baylor, Waco and the great state of Texas. She made friends she adored, began using 'y'all' and 'yes ma'am' in everyday conversation and listening to country music, often while wearing cowboy boots.

Last weekend she showed me around Waco (so much better than I thought!) like she was a native tour guide, with genuine appreciation for her adopted city. Although some of my initial impressions remained,seeing Waco through her eyes was fun, I enjoyed it and her tremendously. She has long had the ability see the good in any situation and without any real effort on her part, she convinces others to see things her way as well.

It reminded me of an incident that happened when Maddy was in third grade. It was my volunteer day in her class and I was quietly correcting papers when her class returned from conducting science experiments in the gym. She rushed over to me before taking her seat and blurted out that she had been mean to her friend Jodi, telling her she ruined her science experiment, because she didn't do her part correctly. She felt awful about hurting her Jodi's feelings and asked me what she should do. She wanted to make thing better quickly. My advice was to write her a note, taking full responsibility for her mean words and asking for forgiveness. She returned to her seat and I returned to grading spelling tests.

A few minutes later I hear her lovely but no nonsense teacher say, "Madison Noyce! Did I just see you passing a note?"

I turned around to look at Maddy and saw a hint of terror cross her face. I was floored when I heard my daughter reply, "No, you did not."

"Are you being honest right now Madison?"

"I am." responded Maddy with a straight face.

I sat in the back of the room, no longer able to grade papers, coming to the realization that I was raising a liar who was mean to her friends.

Maddy continued, "It was a letter of apology not a note. I was mean to Jodi when my experiment failed, I felt awful and I asked my mom what I should do." she said while pointing at me.

I sent Maddy a look, the one that says 'leave me out of this!'

"So I sent her a letter on the advise of my mother asking her forgiveness."

I was about to give her the 'you're dead' face, when her teacher called her to the front of the class.

She put her arm around Maddy and said, "Boys and girls, Maddy just taught us a valuable lesson, didn't she? She took responsibility for her actions and asked for forgivness."

She told Maddy how proud she was of her, giving her a little hug and sending her back to her seat. Maddy looked right at me and gave me a tiny wink before sitting down.

I couldn't believe it, she broke a class rule, then lied to her teacher and wound up a hero. Who was this kid I was raising?

I still see a lot of 3rd grade Maddy in the young adult she is now. The kid who could turn breaking a class rule into an act of kindness, can make a fairly unremarkable city feel like a great tourist destination.

It is comforting to me to know that if she ever changes her mind about becoming a nurse practitioner, she would surely have a future in sales.

All the Difference

2010-06-21T21:09:00.008-04:00

"A father makes all the difference." ~ Robert Redford as Roy Hobbs in 'The Natural'

My birth father was 15 years old when I was born. As the contributer of half of my genes, I cannot say he had no role in life. While my looks are a combination of my birth parents, I most strongly resemble him. I seem to have inherited my talkative and outgoing nature from him as well. I met him when I was 20 and for a variety of reasons, it would be an understatement to say it was a disappointment. He had two other children, one with each of his ex-wives. I met them a couple of years ago, shortly after his death. It came as no surprise to me that his failure to be there for his children (they were completely estranged from him and each other) had a lasting negative effect on them. As the one who didn't know him as my dad, I was clearly the lucky one.

My parents adopted me when I was 2 months old. Growing up, I knew only one person as my dad and for me, he set the standard for what a father should be. He was protective, warm and loving. Of course, a few adjectives really can't paint a picture of what he was like.

When I was a girl, our family spent many spring and summer evenings at the ball fields in our small town. My sister and I both played softball, and my brother played baseball. They were both really good players and I was really at my best as a fan. I can remember one cool spring evening sitting on the wooden bleachers with my dad watching my brother play. The sun was setting and the temperature was dropping. Without taking his eyes off of the game, my dad took off his sweatshirt and wrapped it around me. It was warm from him and it made me feel cozy and safe. That moment best sums up what he was like as a dad. He was easy to talk to and had a great sense of humor. I loved being with him. I was 17 when he died of cancer at the age of 54. I was devastated but know now, almost 30 years later that having a great dad, even if only for 17 years, made all the difference for me.

Two years after my dad died, my mom met Harry. She married him after knowing him for 2 months. I thought she had lost her mind. I remember wondering why at her age (she was 55!) she would need another husband. I realize now how young she really was, but at the time it seemed kind of ridiculous. It took me a while to warm up to Harry, I didn't care for seeing her with someone other than my dad. Luckily, it didn't take me long to realize that Harry, like my dad, was perfect for my mom. Not only was he crazy about her, he was wonderful to the rest of our family too. He treated us like we were his own, even though we were young adults at the time. He could have gotten by with just being cordial, but he was so much more. When Kurt and I became parents, he took as much joy in our girls as my mom did. When we bought a new home, he positively swelled with pride for us. He carved the turkey each Thanksgiving. He was a true dad and grandfather to our family. He let us know in countless ways that he loved and valued us. We loved him right back. I feel sure that my dad would have loved him too. When Harry got sick 17 years after they married, the time came that we knew we were going to lose him. My heart broke for my mom to be widowed again and it broke for the rest of us too. My mom wondered where he should be buried. I suggested we bury him with my dad. Then when her time came (which was unthinkable at the time) she could be a truly modern woman, buried with both of her awesome husbands. So that's what we did.

When I visit the cemetery, where my mom rests now too, I can't help but marvel at her luck with men. Of course her luck became our good fortune too. Roy Hobbs was right....a father truly does make all the difference.

Too Many Rules

2010-06-09T18:09:00.007-04:00

The day Jemberu got off the bus after his first day of of kindergarten, I couldn't wait to hear about his day. His only response to my inquiry about his big day was, "Too many rules!". I was surprised, but okay with that response. I knew he'd adjust to the rules and love kindergarten. I mean, all kids love kindergarten, right?

The last day of school is next week and although we have 6 school days to go, it is safe to assume that I was wrong. His response to "How was your day?" or "Tell me about your day." is a variation of the complaint about the excessive rules of school. It now comes out as one word "toomanyrules" or if he got in trouble that day "toomanystupidrules".

Earlier in the school year, when he refused to leave the gymnasium after gym, he had to spend some time with the principal, Mr. Ryan. A boy named Jake is in Jem's class and rides the same bus, he happened to sit with our next door neighbor, Gibson on the bus that day and told him about 'the incident'. When Gibson got off the bus he said to me, "Jem had to go to the principal's office today!" I thought I was hearing things, I have never had one of my kid's go to the principal's office and Jem is only in kindergarten! When Jemberu threw his backpack and stormed into the house yelling "THAT is between me and Mr. Ryan and I don't want to talk about it!", I realized that Gibson wasn't pulling my leg.

The school year has hummed along and I have not received any calls from his amazing teacher (note to self: get her a great end of school year gift). So, in spite of occasional confessions of having to 'stand on the fence' at recess or missing recess altogether, I have assumed things are going pretty well. I mean, it's not like I am going to ask his teacher, I am not the type to look for trouble.

Recently Jem came home pretty glum. I asked him if he needed to talk to me about anything and he muttered that because of thestupidrules, he was going to have to sit out his WHOLE recess the next day. I asked him to tell me more and this was his story.

"So, you know how we can't slide in baseball? I can't stop thinking about sliding, so when we were going into the cafeteria, I started to run but just a little so I could SLIDE into the cafeteria line."

My response was not one that will make the parenting manuals.

"You were thinking about baseball? That is awesome! How was the slide, feet first or head first?"

"Feet first!" he told me "And I didn't even get hurt!."

"So cool Jem, most kids your age are too scared to slide! We can practice more in the yard."

"Yeah, that way I won't hurt other kids."

"Oh shoot! You hurt someone? That is not okay, "

"Two kids fell but they didn't even have to go to the nurse."

He also added that he didn't have to see the principal, I was relieved until he said "because his door was closed!"

"So you were sent to the office? That's not good."

"It IS good because his door was CLOSED!" I didn't have to see him!"

Trying to act more like a mom, I reminded him that when he was sitting out recess the next day, he really needed to think about trying harder to follow the rules. In my best mom voice I added a bit about the rules being there to keep kids safe.

I tried to look concerned but I was smiling on the inside. I love baseball and he is the first one of my kids to ever tell me they were thinking about it when they weren't playing it or watching it. It was a good moment for me. I pictured us making a tradition of going to Opening Day together. I envisioned summers of watching him play and love the game.

When he got off the bus the next day, I asked the usual question and expected the usual reply but this is what he said, "I had a GREAT day!" I asked what was so great about it. He told me that his teacher forgot to have him sit out for recess. Lucky break.

The Labeler

2010-06-03T22:41:00.004-04:00

Not too long ago, I bought a labeler and I really love it. It makes my filing system look professional, I feel good every time I open my drawer to file something. I label the boy's sports equipment and electronics. I told Kurt about it after I bought it and he asked me what was for dinner. I told my neighbor, Dawn, and for some reason, my enthusiasm made her laugh at me. After I labeled a few things that belong to my boys, they responded with kind of a dull "Cool, Mom." I banked on one person to think it was as awesome as I did, Gibson. He is my 6 year old neighbor, a smart, intense, mostly serious kind of guy. I told him I bought a labeler and he wanted all the details. I offered to label some of his important things for him, he grabbed his DSi and Leapster and we headed next door to take care of it immediately. Gibson is my kind of kid. After we labeled, he was ready to head home. I said, "When ever you need something labeled, you just head over and I'll take care of you." He looked me in the eye and said "But, what if your're not home? What if you are volunteering in Jem or Miki's class?" I said, "You can just wait until I get home, okay?" Gibson, glad to have a plan, agreed.

I like my labeler because it makes clear what is what. It makes things easy to identify and find. While I think all of my kids are (mostly) nice, 3 of them have great skills in seeing the positive and negative qualities of their peers. One, does not have this skill. He likes everyone, he is quick to give a second chance (even when I wouldn't recommend doing so) and is not fast to realize when someone is being unkind to him. I wish I could use my labeler to help him out. I would love to type labels that could guide him in choosing friends, deciding which children he should invest in and which he should avoid. I would take my labeler and put my labels right where he (and no one else) could read them. There are a couple kids I would label 'BULLY..stay clear!' Another I would label, 'Shy but get to know him...he likes Legos as much as you do!" Another I would label 'Nice in front of adults but mean when they aren't around'. One kid would get the label 'Social climber, will only hang out with you when someone he thinks is cooler is not around' There are several boys and girls that I would label 'Nice, fun kid, great choice for a friend!'. One or two kids would get the label, 'Could use a nice friend like you!'.

Too bad my labeler can't work that kind of magic. In the meantime, I will keep giving him guidance as best I can and appreciate the fact that if I could label him it would say, 'Good friend who will always see the best in you'.

Patriotic Songs

2010-05-29T16:33:00.010-04:00

Like many families, we have expressions that are exclusive to us. When Mikias is made nervous or afraid by something (like spooky music on a video game). He will say, "That gave me The Freak." When Maddy was little and would tear up from emotion, she would say "That made me water." Now we all use those expressions.

The very first day we met our then 4 and 1/2 year old son, Mikias, he came back to our Addis Abba hotel with us. Yes, we were his parents but we were also perfect strangers. We didn't share a language, he had seen very few white people and he had never been anywhere as fancy as our hotel. We were nervous and he was overwhelmed. We had brought a duffle bag full of clothes with us for him, in varying sizes, unsure exactly how big he would be. We needed to take the clothes off that he was wearing, so we could return them to the orphanage. We opened the bag of clothes and he was mesmerized. He chose a pair of jeans and a blue fleece hoodie. When it came time for bed, I took off his jeans, preparing to put him in the the new pj's we brought for him. As soon as I got his jeans off, he was really upset and the new pajamas didn't sway him. He didn't want any part of them and he refused to take off the hoodie. Somehow in all of the confusion, his underpants came off but he just wanted to stay the way he was, in the hoodie and nothing else. He wanted to sleep in the bed with me, Kurt took the couch to give him plenty of space. He curled into me and quickly fell asleep. I was wide awake with amazement, staring at this beautiful little boy who was now our son.

I finally fell asleep around 2:00 am and was quickly awakened by the sound of singing, in Amharic. I opened my eyes to see Mikias's naked bottom, he was standing on our bed. Singing. Loudly. In a voice that sounded close to tears. Since I don't speak Amharic, I couldn't understand a word that he was singing and then I noticed one word that he repeated throughout the song.....it sounded like E T Opia. I wasn't sure at first, then I realized through my sleepy haze that it was 'Ethiopia' and he was singing some kind of national song. He must have woken up with The Freak and who wouldn't? Poor kid, how scared he must have been that first night. And how resourceful too, to comfort himself with a patriotic song.

Now, when we put the boys to bed, we play a CD for them to fall asleep to. I usually choose 'African Lullabies'. When Kurt puts them to bed he favors 'Freedom Songs', patriotic songs accompanied by a military marching band. Personally, I have nothing against his CD, other than I don't think it is very soothing. A couple of night ago after Kurt's CD ended, I heard the boys talking (this never happens after African Lullabies because they are sleeping). I went to the door to listen and I heard Jemberu singing 'God Bless America' in his beautiful clear voice. When he finished, he said to his brother, "Sing your favorite, Miki." Then, Mikias in his raspy, tired, beautiful voice sang every word to 'Grand Old Flag' before falling asleep.

My mind went back to our first scary night together and I was overwhelmed with emotion. I couldn't help it, I watered.

Happy Memorial Day.

All because two people fell in love...and found themselves infertile

2010-05-20T23:49:00.003-04:00

On this date in 1950, my parents were married. My dad was 23 and my mom 22. They met at Mt. Ida Junior College, where my mom was a student and my dad was visiting a friend from high school. Both were the youngest of three children. A lot younger. My mom by 12 years and my dad by 10. It is safe to say they came to their parents unexpectedly and yet they made their families complete.

Once married, they were anxious to start a family. They were patient when it didn't happen right away. After several years with no pregnancy, they were discouraged, but still felt it would happen eventually. They visited their doctor, and then specialists, none of whom could find any physical reason that my mother could not get pregnant.

It was after celebrating 10 years of marriage that they finally and reluctantly accepted the fact that they were not going to be able to begin a family in the way that they had planned. Infertility is a loss and I am sad that my parents had to go through those years of trying and then being disappointed month after month, year after year. And yet....I am grateful too. Grateful that their love for each other remained strong and their desire to become parents lead them to adoption. Grateful that in February of 1962 they became parents of a 6 month old boy, my brother, Bradley. Grateful that they loved being parents so much that in November of 1963 they welcomed a two month old daughter, me, into their family. Grateful that 2 years later, after 15 years of infertility my mother found herself pregnant at long last, with my sister Candace.

The circumstances that lead to adoption usually involve loss. I feel for the loss my parents felt when they were unable to conceive. I also feel for the loss my birthparents, who were teenagers, felt when I was relinquished for adoption. I know my birthmother loved me and was not given the choice to raise me. My brother's birthmother was not a teenager but his birthfather was a married man. Imagine all the circumstances, most of them involving loss, that needed to line up in order for my family to become my family.

I guess the full title of this post could be 'All because two people fell in love, found themselves infertile, two other woman had unexpected pregnancies and had to say goodbye to their babies at the same time the infertile couple finished their home studies and were approved to become adoptive parents and and finally the infertile couple found they weren't infertile after all.'

Graduation Emotions

2010-05-13T20:21:00.002-04:00

Devyn, our oldest, graduated from college last weekend. It was beautiful evening in South Carolina and Kurt and I watched the ceremony, and in particular our daughter crossing the stage to receive her diploma, with no small amount of pride. Graduations, in general, are pretty boring affairs, except for the moment your child graduates, which is worth sitting for the other 1 hour, 59 minutes and 57 seconds. Before and after Devyn's moment, my mind was all over the place, and so were my emotions.

I was struck by the fact that Devyn is now absolutely an adult and amazed by how quickly the past 22 years had gone by. I remember dropping her off for her first day of kindergarten and unsuccessfully holding back my tears as I walked to my car, leaving her in a building full of strangers who could not possible value her as I did. Another mom was walking near me, and I kept my head turned so she wouldn't see my tears. As we were getting into our cars, she turned to me and said, "Thank God, huh?". I wondered what kind of cold blooded monster is happy on a day like this? She looked at me, noted my tears with her cool stare, and I could feel her thinking, 'Amateur'. How could we have gone from that day, still so fresh in my memory, to this day? My emotions still get the best of me and I often still feel like an amateur.

As my thoughts continued to drift, I thought of my parents. How proud they would be to see their oldest grandchild graduate from college. It was Mother's Day weekend, so I was already missing my mom, but on that night it was the absence of my dad that I felt most keenly. He battled cancer through my junior high and high school years. He was in the hospital the day of my high school graduation and died that summer. He never saw me graduate, get married, become a mom. I like my grown up self so much more than my teenage self. I selfishly wish he could have seen me at my best. I felt so proud and privileged to watch Devyn become an adult and I wish my dad could have played a part in Devyn's life story. He would have been a doting grandpa, and I wish he and his grandchildren could have known and enjoyed each other.

I thought about how quickly the next three years will go by, before I know it, Maddy will be a college graduate too. Tearing up a little, I focused on how much childhood is still left to enjoy with the boys. It will be a long time before it is Jemberu's turn to graduate. Phew. That thought comforted me....until I started to do the math and my emotions turned to terror. I realized that when Jemby graduates from college, in most places, I will qualify for a senior citizen's discount! No, that couldn't be right, I was never good at math. I recalculated and felt myself get a little light headed as I realized I was right the first time. Yep, Kurt and I are going to be pretty old when that day comes. I hope we'll both be alive. And healthy. And not senile. I had a vision of me asking Kurt, "Who is this incredibly handsome black man and why is he calling me Mom?!" I told myself to snap out of it and focus on the ceremony. Which I did.....and it was quite wonderful.

My Wit's End

2010-05-06T18:59:00.006-04:00

I don't often say, "I'm at my wit's end" but I do think it quite often, and when I do, it is always my mother's voice I hear in my head. "I'm at my wit's end" was usually followed by with something like "with you, young lady" or "with you kids".

I have been trying for months to get Jemberu, who is a U.S citizen, a passport. We applied for it the day after Halloween and we were warned it might take up to 6 weeks. After two months with no passport, I checked his status online and learned it was 'being processed'. Cool. I checked again a month later. Again, 'being processed'. Okay. A few weeks later I called, and was told again that it was "being processed". I told the man at US passport services how long I had been waiting. He connected me to the Boston office where it was 'being processed'. The woman in Boston told me that she had sent me a letter months ago (liar) alerting me that they needed his green card, as additional identification, to finish processing his application. I told her I would be happy to send it, and mentioned to her that it had an incorrect birthday for Jemberu on it. I explained that in Ethiopia, Jemberu was assigned a birthday when he arrived at the orphanage. But while in Ethiopia, while meeting a member of his birth family, we were able to find out his actual birthday. When his adoption was finalized, his birthday was legally changed and I had already sent them the court documents to prove this.

I was informed that the birthday on the passport had to be the same one as the one on his green card. 'Okay, what do I do?' 'Contact USCIS for a new green card.' This apparently was my only option unless I wanted Jemberu's passport to have an incorrect birthday. So for hundreds of dollars, I applied for Jemberu to get a new green card, explaining to USCIS about the birthday. I wait months for Jemberu to get an appointment at a local(ish) USCIS office for biometrics, which is fingerprints and a photo. Today was that day. I took him out of school and brought all of the required paper work. We were brought into the office of an immigration official to explain ourselves.

Officer: "This is very unusual, the little guy is already a citizen you say?"

Me: "Yes he became a citizen when his adoption was finalized in the US."

Jemby: "I am not a little guy."

Me: " I was told by a US Passport agent that this is the only way my son can get an accurate passport"

Officer: " I don't know if he actually can be issued a new green card, the little guy is already a US citizen and we don't give green cards to US citizens."

Jemby: "I. AM. NOT. A. LITTLE. GUY."

Me: silent trying not to lose my temper, trying to find new words to explain this situation to the officer

Officer: "Just calm down."

Me: "I haven't said anything yet!"

He lets me know we can go ahead with the biometrics but he can't make any promises that they will issue a new card to the little guy.

Jemby and I get in the car for the long ride home and he starts talking. A lot. About nothing. I asked him if we could please have a little quiet time. He talked some more. I said "Hush Jemby." He said "Hush is a bad word and I am telling dad you said it"

Me: Hush is not a bad word.

Jemby: What about "Oh my God?"

Me: "That is a bad word in our family. Please say 'Oh my gosh' instead"

Jemby: "What about penis?"

Me : "That's not a bad word."

Finally silence. Jemby fell asleep for about 15 beautiful minutes. He woke up too soon and the silence was broken.

Jemby: "Can we stop for ice cream?"

Me: "No."

Jemby: "You don't have to be such a penis!"

Anyway...that is how I reached my wit's end today.

Celebrity Adoption

2010-05-04T23:18:00.009-04:00

http://www.cnn.com/2010/SHOWBIZ/05/03/sandra.bullock.black.blogs/index.html?hpt=C2

I was checking the news on CNN's website and was surprised to see the article 'Bullock's adoption of a black baby stirs debate'. Sandra Bullock is almost universally liked, people really felt for her when she found out ,with the rest of the world, that her husband was unfaithful. Now we find out that she is the mother of a beautiful baby she adopted 3 months ago. Isn't this great news? Apparently it's not that simple.

When it comes to adoption, certain public responses have become predictable, and I would say almost boring, except for the fact that even though I can predict what some people will say, I still manage to get angry. So perhaps boring is not the right word. I read the 'People' article and felt happy that Sandra and Louis found each other....and then I braced myself.

I braced myself for the "Well at least SHE adopted from the U.S!" I still find myself stunned by the animosity that surrounds international adoption. One comment to the CNN article, said 'at least people will realize how many babies we have right here who are waiting for families'. If there were an abundance of babies waiting to be adopted, Sandra would not have waited 4 years after beginning the adoption process to be matched with her baby. If you want to adopt an infant from anywhere, you wait. It's older children, both domestically and internationally who wait for families.

I don't understand why so many people are so invested in where an adopted child came from. It is the weirdest thing to me, that people who are not personally involved in adoption, have such strong opinions of where others adopt from. It confuses me that people who get steamed that someone didn't adopt from the US and voice grave concerns about all of the children 'right here' that need families, are oddly not moved enough to adopt these children themselves. As the saying goes, talk is cheap. There are children all over the world in need of families. No child is more deserving of a family than another, regardless of where they were born. I am forever grateful that my parents and I found each other through adoption (right here in the US!) and equally grateful that Mikias and Jemberu, who were born in Ethiopia, are our sons. I defy someone to tell me that they are not deserving of a family because of where they were born.

The next predictable and irritating comments are about all the celebrities who adopt. I can think of a handful of celebrities who have adopted. It really isn't a huge number. The people who adopt are regular people, and there are a lot of us. We, along with our children, in all of our regular every day normal person varieties, are the real face of adoption, not Sandra, Angelina, Meg, Tom or Hugh. I wish the world would stop judging and forming opinions about adoption by magazine covers.

Finally, the controversy that CNN talks about, white parents raising black children. There is a lot more to parenting than skin color, but in a perfect world, if all other things are equal, it would be better for black children to be raised by black parents. I love my boys beyond reason, but it would be easier for them, if we were black. Right now, they are 6 and 9, and they wished we matched. It is not fun for them to have our family stared at, for people to wonder if they are ours, or to have a family that doesn't look like the families of their friends. As they get older, we will continue to talk about race and deal honestly with racism but we don't know what it is like first hand, and that will be a difficult reality for them. Of course, it is not a perfect world, and a family that doesn't match is better than remaining without a family, whether it is here in foster care or the other side of the world in a orphanage.

On a bright note, in spite of CNN's headline, the vast majority of commenters were not opposed to Bullock's adopting a child of a different race. The 'controversy' seems to be overstated.

I (obviously) think about adoption a lot. In my life, it has been nothing short of a miracle. I think about my parents and know that, if they had started the adoption process a month earlier or later, I would have grown up an entirely different person, with different parents, siblings and friends. It all hinges on the perfection of timing. Sometimes I watch my sons and my heart feels so full it almost hurts, I know that if not for adoption, we would never even know each other, and now I couldn't live without them. They, along with our daughters, are the best part of our lives. If that is not a miracle, I don't know what one is.

Let's Stop Comparing

2010-04-28T20:53:00.001-04:00

I recently overheard some moms talking about which math and reading groups their children are in. They were naming and analyzing the kids in each group to figure out which group had the smartest kids, obviously taking pride if their children were in the 'smart' group. It made me angry. Who were they to judge other people's children and decide who is smart, who is average and the worst fate of all, who is below average? Being in the highest level doesn't make you smart and being in the lowest level does not make you stupid. There are no groups that help parents to judge if their child is kind, has a good sense of humor or is a good friend and shouldn't we be more concerned with those qualities?

When Mikias was in first grade, he was at soccer practice and the coach had the kids doing one on one drills. One boy, who is clearly a natural athlete, was paired up against Mikias. The boy loudly said "too easy" as if my son wasn't enough of a challenge for him. I was appalled, and looked at the boys dad, who I figured would reprimand his son for being rude to Mikias. Instead the dad nodded in agreement and mouthed out to his son "kick his butt". This dad was completely invested in his son's athleticism, to the point that he wanted him to dominate even his own teammates. Whenever I see that dad around town, I give him the evil eye. I am pretty sure he hasn't noticed yet.

Kids come to us with a range of gifts and abilities that have nothing to do with us as parents. You cannot take credit for the genes you pass along (or assume your awesome parenting skills are what makes your adopted child a success in a certain area). It is not a reflection on you if you child is gifted, average, autistic, has a learning disability, is a natural athlete or a klutz. I am not saying we don't influence our children or that the kind of adults they turn out to be is completely out out of our hands..... but can't we stop comparing?

Many parents see their children's successes as their own. A pat on their own back for a job well done. It puts pressure on kids for all the wrong reasons. Don't get me wrong, parents should take pride in their children, encourage them where they are strong and help them where they are not. Our children can't all be the best, but they all can be their best. Our children are so much more that whatever group they are placed in or team they are on. Let's put our pride aside, and help our kids be the best they can be.

Adoption Reality?

2010-04-18T16:24:00.012-04:00

http://www.cnn.com/2010/WORLD/europe/04/13/russia.adopted.boy.returned.reaction/index.html?iref=allsearch

http://www.slate.com/id/2250590

By now, everyone has probably heard about the 7 year old boy who was adopted in September from Russia and recently put on a plane, by himself to be returned to his homeland. He returned to Russia with a note from his new mother, which explained to the Russian officials that she felt that her son was mentally unstable, that she had been deceived by the officials who handled the adoption and no longer wished to parent her son. By all accounts she did not reach out for help, she obviously felt as though she was in over her head and just wanted to quickly undo what she must have felt was a horrible mistake.

I keep thinking about this little boy. I don't know what his life was like in Russia, but can imagine it was difficult. I also believe that some of the problems, his adoptive mother, Torry Hansen, described were very real.

What was it like for him to arrive in the United States, to have a new home, a new mother, lose everything that was familiar, to be called by Justin instead of Artyem? The transition must have been disorienting and scary. I am sure his adoption began with the best of intentions, with excitement and visions of a life together, mother and son. I don't know what went wrong, but I do know that it was handled horribly and that the media circus surrounding this story is very bad for adoption.

Equally bad for adoption is the story that followed a few days later. A woman who adopted a 3 year old girl from China last summer wrote an article, seemingly to open up an honest dialogue on the particular difficulties of adopting an older child. The title of the article did me in, "I Did Not Love My Adopted Child" with the subtitle (completely pushing me over the edge), "The painful truth about adoption". THE painful truth about adoption? Her experience is not the truth. The story is her truth. I accept that. Not all adoption are easy, and yes, there are built in challenges in adopting an older child. An older child has had real life experiences, all involving loss and hardship, before coming into their adoptive families, we cannot simply give them a new name and what we see as a fresh start and a life that is seemingly better than the one they left behind and expect everything to be fine.

The Beatles were wrong..."All you need is love" is a lie. You need much more than love, you need patience, empathy, understanding and commitment. You need to remember that love is not just a feeling it is a verb. Sometimes what we are feeling doesn't really matter, we are parents, we have a job to to, kids to love, whether they are particularly lovable at any given moment or not. Adoption involves risk, just like having a child by birth. I don't think any parent looks at their child, whether by birth or adoption and thinks, "this is exactly what I expected". For me, all my kids are a mystery and a surprise, it is harder yet better than I could ever have imagined.

The writer of this article says that "even the best adoptive parent is just the clean up crew". I find that insulting and resent her speaking for all adoptive parents. I have never considered myself the clean up crew for my adopted children. I don't think my parents considered themselves the clean up crew for my brother and me after they adopted us. They simply considered themselves our parents, just like Kurt and I do for all of our kids. Yes, we deal with issues surrounding our boys and the lives that they had before they became ours. I am okay with that. I will also admit that Kurt and I have been incredibly lucky with our adoptions, our boys bonded quickly and deeply to us and were open to and ready for the love our family had to give to them.

To me, these stories don't accurately reflect the complex realities of adoption. They are simply two stories, two women's experiences about what adoption has been for them. No secret reality has been exposed. Families are complicated, our stories are happy and sad. One person's adoption story is simply that, ones person's story.

The Middle Finger

2010-04-08T21:20:00.008-04:00

The Red Sox season just started, youth baseball too. Mikias and Jemby are both in the farm league and playing together for the Cardinals. When official parent-children talk (homework, meals, showers, rules and so on) isn't going on, I want to talk about one thing....baseball. Mikias also has one subject on his mind but it's not baseball. He wants to talk about the middle finger.

Friday: Mikias: "Does the middle finger really mean something bad?"

Me: "Yes it does. Don't ever put it up, it is very rude."

Mikias mutters something that sounds like 'too late' but when asked to repeat it, is silent.

Monday: Mikias: "So what does the middle finger mean?"

Me: "It is a mean way to say 'get lost'"

Mikias: "Why would you want somebody to be lost?" (Mikias is still very literal with language.)

Me: "I didn't explain it right but it is VERY rude and mean and you cannot put your middle finger up."

Mikias: "How can a finger mean anything? It is just a finger."

Me: "No idea, but just don't do it, okay?"

Mikias: "Okay."

Wednesday: The boys and I are at the home of friends. Mikias and his pal Dante are engaged in a galactic battle with Lego ships.

Mikias: (loudly) "Watch out Dante! They are about to kick our asses!!"

Me: "Mikias Warren Noyce! That is NOT okay to say! That is a REALLY BAD word!

Mikias: (calmly) "Which one?"

Me: "Asses"

Jemberu: Ooooohhhh....... Mumma just said asses!!" Mumma said a bad word!!

Me: "Jemby, hush. I am talking with Mikias."

Mikias " Thanks for telling me that. I just learned something. What did I say again?

Me: "Asses"

(later walking to the car) Mikias: "Does the middle finger mean ass?"

Me: "No. Something worse. A really bad word.

Mikias: "Please tell me, so I will know not to say it."

So I tell him the F word and the phrase that the middle finger represents. I tell him that I am letting him know so he will understand if (let's face it..when) he hears it, that it is NOT okay to repeat. Ever.

Mikias: "Thanks for trusting me with that information."

Me: "No problem, where did you hear 'kick our asses'?

Mikias: "I have NO idea."

Today: I was volunteering in Mikias's class and his teacher wanted to talk with me. She told me that last week Mikias had been putting up his middle finger and some of the boys told on him. She assured me that he clearly had no idea that it was bad. He asked her if he could still put up a 'peace sign' since when he did that his middle finger was up along with his pointer. He got the green light for the peace sign and the red light for the middle finger.

So to put another digit to good use, he pinky swore he would never put up the middle finger again. Phew.

The Gift of Unshared Genes

2010-04-07T21:48:00.013-04:00

Our daughters, who were born to us, are like us. Freakishly like us.

Devyn is very smart and very intense. She is loyal. She is passionate. She would gladly do bodily harm to anyone who would dare to hurt someone she loves. She is driven, which to a point is a good quality, but she takes it to a level that borders on insanity. She is impatient with those who are not like her, she thinks she hides this, but she doesn't. She might as well hold up a sign that says 'You are annoying me by: not working hard/ not taking this seriously/ wasting time with your stupid questions or any number of inexcusable qualities. She is Kurt.

Maddy is very social, she loves her family and friends intensely. She is charming and usually gets whatever she wants. She is uncommonly lucky. Things come easily to her, this is good because, she is unwilling to work harder than necessary. Her intentions are good but she tends to procrastinate, putting more effort into not doing something rather than just tackling the task at hand. I would list more of her good qualities, but that would be like bragging, because Maddy is me.

Seeing yourself reflected in your children is a mixed blessing. It can be fantastically rewarding but it can also be humbling.

There is something liberating about raising our sons. Not only do we not share genes, but since we adopted them as older children, who they are is influenced not only by the (beautiful) genes of their Ethiopian parents, but also by the people in their villages and the orphanage that cared for and loved them. There is no misplaced guilt or pride in being their parents. We know so little about their backgrounds that we literally have no preconceived notions of who they will become. Will they be tall? Have a head for business? Be musical? Athletic? Have a quick wit? A receding hairline? Who knows. We take each piece of who they are as it is revealed to us. It is a gift, given to us little by little, as we have the privilege of watching our boys grow into men.

Mikias has a real talent for putting things together. He builds things from Legos with the passion of a true artist. He is the sweetest child I know, our other children don't even come close to him. He has endless patience with others, even when another child is mean to him, he always forgives and offers a clean slate. We love his kindness but worry that he won't stand up for himself. He is exceedingly hard on himself, and cannot stand to let anyone down.

Jemberu is a fast runner. Crazy fast. Oh my gosh fast. He loves drawing and creating things. He is outgoing and a natural leader with his friends. He is competitive and the only one of our children with killer instinct. He is amazingly stubborn. He has a short fuse and is scrappy. No one will push Jemby around, he will not stand for it.

When I watch my sons, not only do I accept them for who they are without any excessive guilt or pride, I fall in love with their first families and every person who loved them, showed kindness to them and nurtured them before we did. In seeing who they are I feel like I am getting a glimpse of the parents who gave them life and the people who took care of them during their first years.

There are people who truly believe that in raising children with whom we share no genetic link, we give up something. That is foolish. We give up nothing and gain so much from accepting the gift of unshared genes.

Love O' Meter

2010-03-30T17:44:00.004-04:00

Recently I had a conversation with one of the sales people at my favorite clothing store. She asked me how old my children were, I told her 22, 18, 8 and 5. "Second marriage?" she asked, "Nope, same old husband". "So was your third child a surprise?" I smiled and told her that he was so planned that we went to the other side of the world to bring him home and then his brother 2 years later. She asked a little more, I answered and then she said, "Wow...I could never do that. I don't think I could ever love an adopted child as much as my own." I told her that once you adopt a child he is your own. She replied that it couldn't really be the same. I started to tell her that there is no difference in how I love my children but I could tell she had made up her mind. I realized it was silly to try to convince her that she could love an adopted child in the same way as her children by birth. Maybe she couldn't. What do I know about her heart and it's capabilities?

I wonder if other people see our family and wonder the same thing, if we could possibly love the boys as much as the daughters who were born to us? If asked, Kurt and I will tell you that we love all of our children individually and equally. But I am pretty sure that is not exactly true. If you were to hook us up to a Love O' Meter (if there was such a thing), and measure the love we feel for our kids, the Love O' Meter might tell you something that would make us feel embarrassed and the doubters surprised. It would probably reveal that we love our boys (that right, the children not born to us!) more.

There is an extra protectiveness,a real fierceness, that we have for the boys that goes above and beyond what we have for the girls. Raising the girls, no one questioned who we were as a family, we didn't get stared at on a regular basis and no one wondered if we could really love them like our own. No one ever told the girls that their parents 'bought' them. The girls have been cherished and deeply loved since we knew I was pregnant with them. The boys had difficult years before they became ours. We hurt for the losses they have endured and yes, we love them extra hard to try to make up for those losses and the doubts of others.

When Mikias was had been home for a few months we brought him to the local track club. He was grouped with kids his age and they played 'duck, duck, goose'. I was watching closely and by the forth kid to go around I was really angry and turned to tell Kurt what I was seeing. Before I could open my mouth, he said "I know..none of the kids will touch Mikias's head." He was the only black child in the group and the kids clearly didn't want to touch his unfamiliar hair and no one made him the 'goose'. I sprang forward to set things right for my new son. Kurt pulled me back. He was strangely and annoyingly calm. I wanted him to go fix it, for starters by kicking the butts of the other parents for not noticing . I don't recall exactly what he said but it was something like "Blah blah....develop thicker skin....blah blah...calm down, we will be interacting with these families for years....blah blah....remember Mikias will see how you react to these things...blah blah...this is not going to be anything like raising the girls."

He was right...it is nothing like raising the girls, who we love wildly. And that is the difference. It is why our love for the boys is extra big and why if that love o' meter is invented we could be in hot water with our girls.

Adoption as Punch Line

2010-03-22T19:27:00.003-04:00

I love the show Modern Family. I started watching it half way through the season and to catch up, I went onto the show's website to watch the episodes that I missed. The site gives you a who's who of all of the characters. One thing that rubbed me the wrong way was the way Lily was profiled, daughter of Cameron and Mitchell with the notation under her name 'adopted'. Cameron and Mitchell are a same sex white couple and Lily is Vietnamese, so the fact of her adoption is pretty obvious. But more than that, why does it matter how she is their daughter? The other children of the show are not listed as biological in relation to their parents.

I used to get steamed that magazines like 'People' would always point out when children of celebrities were adopted. As in, 'the adopted children of Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman'. I don't know if you noticed this, but that has largely stopped (at least in People). The adoption community spoke up and the magazine listened. Adoption is still mentioned but usually only when it is relevant to the story. That is a change for the better.

Back to Modern Family. Recently there was an episode, where part of the story line, was one sibling exacting revenge on another sibling by convincing him that he was adopted. Now, I know this is a sitcom and I will admit that the way that that story line was carried out was funny. I also will admit that if I were not an adopted person and an adoptive mother, I may not have thought of the story line as being in poor taste, but I am, so I did. I didn't think it was realistic that a family that had a close family member who was adopted (in this case, the kids' cousin) would portray adoption as something like a horrible family secret. I also thought about how this would make adopted kids who were watching the show feel. The message was that being adopted was a bad thing.

When I was growing up, my family was always very open about adoption. More than a few times when a friend learned I was adopted they would respond something like this, "Oh my God, my brothers used to tell me that I was adopted! I would bawl my eyes out and my parents had to convince me that I wasn't." I would be speechless. I could only wonder why someone would think that they were relating to me being adopted by sharing that adoption was used as a method of teasing in their family.

As an adult, people amaze me in the same way. When I was out with Mikias, shortly after bringing him home, I was approached by a woman with a girl about 4 years old, the same age that Mikias was. She asked if he was mine "yes", adopted?, "yes". She responded with "Oh my God, I almost had to adopt! We even contacted an adoption agency, but thank God, I got pregnant." It made me feel just like I did when kids would share their adoption as teasing stories...speechless.

Like 'People' magazine, I think our world is catching up to the fact that adoption is just another way to become part of a family. Hopefully Modern Family will resist turning adoption into another punch line and just continue to be the hilarious show that it is.

Everyone's Favorite

2010-03-19T11:53:00.006-04:00

Devyn was 2 and I was putting her into the seat of the shopping cart before we went into the grocery store. She insisted on walking. I agreed. We headed to the produce section and she ran away laughing. I scooped her up and put her in the cart. She was furious. "One more chance!" she begged. I refused. She looked at me with her beautiful blue eyes and said "When I grow up and you grow down and I am your mommy....you'll be sorry."

I have always loved the way Devyn sees the world. She was no ordinary kid. She lived in a world of make pretend, which she pronounced rake-a- tend. "Mom rake-a-tend you are Luis and I am Maria" And that was that, for the rest of the day that would be who we were. "Luis, may I have a snack?" "No Maria, it's almost dinner time." She would put on sunglasses with the lenses popped out before she 'read'. When she got a little older, beanie babies were popular. She didn't just collect them, she played with them, but it was more than that. She gave them lives. To keep those lives straight, she made files for each beanie, complete with a picture and vital information. Fetch, the dog, was divorced and lonely and fighting an incurable disease. Freckles the leopard owned a waffle factory but was addicted to smoking.

Today is Devyn's birthday, she is 22. She will be graduating from college in less than 2 months. She is beautiful and smart. She is funny, compassionate and sarcastic. I am proud of her beyond words. It goes without saying that she is a wonderful daughter, but I think her finest role is that of sister.

I know all of our children love each other. But they all love Devyn the best. She is the one they turn to for comfort, understanding or advice. When Devyn went off to summer camp, Maddy fell apart. The entire week, she moped. She said she just didn't feel like herself without Devyn. This did not improve when she got older, when Devyn moved away to go to college, Maddy was inconsolable for months.

When Mikias came home, he loved and bonded with us all but with Devyn it was something more, something fierce. When she walked through the door after school, during his first months home, he would visibly relax in her presence. When he was six, he told me he was going to marry Devyn when he grew up. When I told him that he couldn't marry her because she was his sister, his eyes filled with tears and he said "Fine, I will just stay a child."

Whenever Jemberu sees a young woman who even remotely resembles Devyn, he says "I wish that girl was Devyn." During the Olympics, we were watching the women figure skaters. Jemberu asked me to call Devyn to have her skate on TV, because he would rather watch Devyn, rather than 'those stupid girls'.

Kurt and I adore all of our kids but Devyn did something that changed everything. Twenty-two years ago, Devyn Caroline Noyce came into the world and turned an ordinary couple into a family.