Category Archives: Popular

The Huffington Post Adoption Essay

(c) La Luz Photography

Too Many Real Moms

A few months ago I heard an interview on NPR with Nancy L Segal, the author of “Someone Else’s twin: The True Story of Babies Switched at Birth.” The book told the tale of three babies and what happened when one singleton newborn was accidently switched with an identical twin. The “twins” were raised as fraternal and no one knew about the mix-up until they were adults.

It’s a complicated story and in the interview there was a lot of discussion of the various parents of these three girls and how they felt. The interviewer, I presume in an effort to simplify things, used the term “real” mother or “real” parents on several occasions to indicate the biological parent of the child.

If the biological parent is the “real” parent then what is the term for the parent who raised the child? The parent-in-practice? Parent-in-life? Bed-sheet-changer? At some point, it seems like 18+ years of lunch-packing should earn a parent the title of “real,” no?

Click here to read the rest of the essay in The Huffington Post.

What He’s Trying To Say

At the end of our first meeting with our eleven-month-old son, when we were all tired from intense emotions and two hours of solid play, our boy started walking around the room jabbering and touching his flat hands to his chest, turning them palms up, and shrugging his shoulders. There was a crowd of stuffed animals near the window and he spoke to them, vehemently, patting his chest then raising his palms. Sometimes it looked like he was clapping for himself. As if to say, how do you like me now? Look at me walk! Other times it was more of a question, like, what? Or what do you think?

Now that we’re home, playing with blocks and falling madly in love, our son repeats these moves often and I wonder where these gestures came from. We know very little about the first nine months before he went into the adoption agency’s nursery care. We know his birth mother was not there for him but we do not know much else.

Those first months are an empty book, and I find myself trying to fill the pages, looking for clues to patch together a story – a way to make sense of what happened. It’s becoming clear to me that there was someone, a grandparent, cousin or aunt, at least one person in his life who loved and cared for him. There are telltale signs, the broken hairs along his hairline that may be the result of tight cornrows, the well-fed, ham-hock thighs with creases you can lose fingers into, his affection and willingness to bond. I analyze these movements the same way. I wonder if someone who cared for him used this gesture or something similar. Did they pat their hands to their chest while talking to him? Were they joking with him? Were they dancing?

Maybe this is just me being a mom. Maybe it’s just me not being able to imagine someone not loving this baby. Maybe the thought of him alone in his crib is too much to bear.

Sometimes our boy has trouble going to sleep at night. I usually rock him until he is solidly out and then transfer him to the crib. The other night he fell asleep on my shoulder, then when I transferred him to the crib, he woke up. We started over. We repeated this two or three times. He’d spend minutes sound asleep on my shoulder and just when it was time to transfer, he’d bolt awake and swipe the glasses off my face.

He had every right to his insomnia. He was in another new place with another new set of people, but I was frustrated nonetheless. We’d been rocking for over ninety minutes when, as he squirmed, grabbed and pulled away, I sat him squarely on my thighs, looked him in the eye, and said, “Hey, kid, what is it you want me to do? Just tell me, because clearly what I am doing here is not working for you.” I know, he doesn’t speak, but I was desperate.

He dropped his shoulders, tipped his head down just a bit, touched his hands to his chest and pulled them away, palms upward. This time, the gesture meant, I don’t know. I just don’t know. This kid was even more tired and frustrated than I was.

So I rolled him onto his side, we found a new position, we went back to our rocking and I went back to wondering what his life had been like. Had he been placed into his crib fully awake? Did he even sleep in a crib? I wondered how his caretaker was doing. Gradually, our boy drifted off. Even in sleep, he’d occasionally pat his chest and raise his palms. This time the gesture looked a lot like gratitude.

PS – Who in This Room: The Realities of Cancer, Fish and Demolition ships exactly two weeks from tomorrow. It’s available for pre-order anywhere that books are sold. The time has come!

 

At the end of our first meeting with our eleven-month-old son, when we were all tired from intense emotions and two hours of solid play, our boy started walking around the room jabbering and touching his flat hands to his chest, turning them palms up, and shrugging his shoulders. There was a crowd of stuffed animals near the window and he spoke to them, vehemently, patting his chest then raising his palms. Sometimes it looked like he was clapping for himself. As if to say, how do you like me now? Look at me walk! Other times it was more of a question, like, what? Or what do you think?

 

Now that we’re home, playing with blocks and falling madly in love, our son repeats these moves often and I wonder where these gestures came from. We know very little about the first nine months before he went into the adoption agency’s nursery care. We know his birth mother was not there for him but we do not know much else.

 

Those first months are an empty book, and I find myself trying to fill the pages, looking for clues to patch together a story – a way to make sense of what happened. It’s becoming clear to me that there was someone, a grandparent, cousin or aunt, at least one person in his life who loved and cared for him. There are telltale signs, the broken hairs along his hairline that may be the result of tight cornrows, the well-fed, ham-hock thighs with creases you can lose fingers into, his affection and willingness to bond. I analyze these movements the same way. I wonder if someone who cared for him used this gesture or something similar. Did they pat their hands to their chest while talking to him? Were they joking with him? Were they dancing?

 

Maybe this is just me being a mom. Maybe it’s just me not being able to imagine someone not loving this baby. Maybe the thought of him alone in his crib is too much to bear.

 

Sometimes our boy has trouble going to sleep at night. I usually rock him until he is solidly out and then transfer him to the crib. The other night he fell asleep on my shoulder, then when I transferred him to the crib, he woke up. We started over. We repeated this two or three times. He’d spend minutes sound asleep on my shoulder and just when it was time to transfer, he’d bolt awake and swipe the glasses off my face.

 

He had every right to his insomnia. He was in another new place with another new set of people, but I was frustrated nonetheless. We’d been rocking for over ninety minutes when, as he squirmed, grabbed and pulled away, I sat him squarely on my thighs, looked him in the eye, and said, “Hey, kid, what is it you want me to do? Just tell me, because clearly what I am doing here is not working for you.” I know, he doesn’t speak, but I was desperate.

 

He dropped his shoulders, tipped his head down just a bit, touched his hands to his chest and pulled them away, palms upward. This time, the gesture meant, I don’t know. I just don’t know. This kid was even more tired and frustrated than I was.

 

So I rolled him onto his side, we found a new position, we went back to our rocking and I went back to wondering what his life had been like. Had he been placed into his crib fully awake? Did he even sleep in a crib? I wondered how his caretaker was doing. Gradually, our boy drifted off. Even in sleep, he’d occasionally pat his chest and raise his palms. This time the gesture looked a lot like gratitude.

 

PS – Who in This Room: The Realities of Cancer, Fish and Demolition ships exactly two weeks from tomorrow. It’s available for pre-order anywhere that books are sold. Do it! The time has come!

Her Beautiful Friend

Lately my three-year-old brown baby has become aware of skin color. She points out all the black children at the pool and the store. Sometimes she seems pulled toward them. Other times she seems not to have any interest, she’s just pointing out a fact.

A few weeks ago, I bought the new Mavis Staples CD. When Josie asks for her it comes out sounding like mabitaple and she always wants to listen to her LOUD. I’ve told her teachers and grandparents that if they can’t figure out what she’s saying, she’s probably asking for Mavis.

We’d only listened to the CD a few times when Josie found the jewel case sitting on the front seat of my car. She picked it up and stared at the picture of Mavis. We talked about how pretty she is – what a nice smile she has. Josie started calling Mavis her bootiful fwiend and carrying the case around, holding it close to her chest.

For the rest of the post, click on over to www.mybrownbaby.com.

How to Adopt a Baby

1.       Talk to friends and friends of friends about their experiences.

2.       Try not to get lost driving around foreign neighborhoods looking for a community center that will host the Journeys of the Love, Hope, Heart, Blessed-Child’s Dream of the Christ’s Open Adoption agency meeting.

3.       Ask the social workers what programs/countries will let you adopt if you are single, over 40, in a same-sex relationship, and/or a cancer survivor.

4.       Choose the agency that can answer your question.

5.       Get fingerprinted, background checked, dig up the value of your house, find pay stubs, photocopy bank statements, get friends to write references, find your dog’s vaccination records, have the pet store where you purchased your fish sign an affidavit of its health, make a list of every illness you’ve ever had, dig up the name of your third grade teacher who could verify that indeed your favorite color was lavender, make a list of your stuffed animals and their names and how well you took care of each and every one of them, and promise, that if they could talk, they would guarantee that, if given the opportunity, you’d be the bestest mother ever. Click here to read the rest…

Tunes My Husband Whistles (While Sleeping)

Paul’s been doing a lot of sleep-whistling lately. I wish I wasn’t awake to hear it.

I bring this up with Paul at dinner. Lots of whistling going on over there at night – what’s up?

What’s the tune? He asks. Is it that Chicago song, 25 or 6 to 4? Because it’s been stuck in my head for like two months. I can’t get away from it. I heard it in a store or in the background somewhere and it keeps coming back.

I don’t know what song he’s been whistling. I’d never thought to listen. Even though I’m often painfully awake wondering why my melatonin isn’t working or if I should take more magnesium or break down and take an ambien. Even if I did listen and even if I did manage to identify the song, surely I wouldn’t remember in the morning. I’d write something unintelligible on my notepad about sunrise, chocolate milkshakes and slurpees that made perfect sense to me at the time but would represent some unbreakable code in the morning.

After dinner, I Google 25 or 6 to 4. Did you know Chicago has produced 250 songs? I came across this special treat (below), and discovered that it’s a song about staying up all night trying to write a song. When Paul hears it’s a song about a song, he hates it even more. He doesn’t like songs about rock and roll either. He’s like the opposite of post-modern. Pre-modern?

Anyway, I don’t know if it’s the song Paul’s been whistling or not but that doesn’t matter now. My sleep-deprived brain has made it so.

Maybe tonight I’ll sleep. Or maybe I’ll lie in bed with my finger on the button of my sound recorder. While I wait for the break of day, I’ll think about how poignant it is that the song he whistles is about waiting for the break of day. Maybe if this continues and I keep recording, over the next few years I’ll actually capture whistled versions of the whole Chicago collection. Once I have a handful of songs, I can make a mixed CD of sleep-whistling that I can give to him for our anniversary or his birthday or some other special occasion. He’ll love it. They’ll be like lullabies to him. Then other people will hear about it and I’ll post it online, you’ll be able to download it from this very blog. You’ll have your own copy of his sleep-whistling. We’ll expand to other classic rock bands by making him listen to classic rock right before bed. Hotel California sleep-whistled or maybe Wake Up Little Susie. Then, of course, it will become a massive internet sensation and he’ll be famous and then we’ll have a Twitter feed of his latest night whistles with millions of followers. And the whole world will wait every day for me to update his list of classic rock whistles. The CD will be produced by a big record label. Instead of Muzak, department stores will play Paul’s night-whistles in elevators. We’ll write a book about it. Someone will purchase the rights. OMG who will play me in the movie?!

Or, maybe the insomnia will go away, I’ll start sleeping again and Paul’s whistling will rise up and dissipate into the black sky unheard. Wouldn’t that be nice?

In the Name of Cancer

On a Saturday morning in early October Josie and I were headed to a birthday party when we arrived to find the main road into the park blocked by a stage, tables and an abundance of balloons. There was no easy way to get to the playground, dog park, soccer fields or the Gymboree where the party was being held. I took a few turns trying to figure out how to get there and so did everyone else who wanted to use the park that fine Saturday morning.

Finally I found the right building. I was trying to park when a woman came running, waving her arms with fire in her eyes – clearly caught up in the adrenalin of a live event. This road is closed, she yelled, this road is closed!

I rolled down my window, pointed at the building and said I was parking for a birthday party over there. She told me I wasn’t allowed to be there and she was so adamant that I turned around. As I drove away she screamed – It’s a walk to benefit breast cancer!

Seriously?

I didn’t know what to think at first. Did I feel a little guilty because, after all, I’m alive and cancer-free? Sure, I’ve lost a few body parts and a few friends but not my mother or my sister. I wondered if I should feel bad because I had been frustrated with the woman. Then I remembered that I wasn’t the one who was frustrated. I wasn’t the one who raised my voice. I was just looking for parking. I was just trying to get my 3 year-old to a birthday party.

Eventually we made it to the party. We had a lovely time. As we drove out I saw the woman. I didn’t say anything to her but I wish I had. I wish I had stopped and gotten out of my car. I wish I had said that I wasn’t mad or upset or threatening her in any way. I wish I had re-iterated that I was just trying to get my daughter to a birthday party, and that I had, in fact, been parking in the right place. I wish I had told her that I was sorry for her loss, that I was sorry for her grief.

I wish I’d told her that I’d had cancer once. I wish she’d told me her experience. I wish we’d really listened to each other. Then without giving her a hug or sharing any tears or secret handshakes, but simply as one compassionate adult to another, I wish I had said goodbye and been on my way. Most of all, I wish we’d both really heard each other. Maybe if all of us did more of that, then maybe someone would stumble upon a cure for our sadness.

Redshirting

Have you read Outliers, The Story of Success by Malcolm Gladwell? While it’s not a parenting book it is a great read for parents – an enjoyable and thorough analysis of what it takes to succeed. One of the points he makes is how much of a difference a few months can make in the physical, emotional and mental capabilities of children.

Recently I read this newspaper article about the increasing number of parents “redshirting” or holding back their kids from kindergarten. These are kids who are otherwise ready for school but instead of having them be the youngest in their class, their parents have held them back to make them the oldest, and thus, they believe better positioned to succeed.

In recent years kindergarten has become less play and more instruction-based. Maybe parents see the standards for attention and focus are higher. If a child isn’t socially or cognitively ready then holding her back makes sense. It’s a tough decision and I respect each parent’s choice.

However, if the kid is ready by all accounts to go to school then why hold him back? Sure, I want my daughter to succeed but what’s wrong with making her work for it? I was one of the younger students in my grade and school was never easy. I wasn’t the kid who figured it out while taking the test. I struggled. Sometimes I cried, but I learned to work hard and be persistent. Isn’t developing a good work ethic as important as succeeding? Isn’t it more important than appearing to be smart because grades come relatively easy?

Besides, do you really want your child to hit puberty first? Do you want her entering her senior year of high school at the age of 18?

What do you guys think? Did any of you make a tough decision about when your child should start school? Someone disagree with me. Please.

Race Relations

We’re sitting in a gluten-free bakery/café last weekend waiting for our “pizza” and nothing-at-all-like-mac-and-cheese-but-still-kind-of-good dish (you know, that’s the key to gluten-free eating, just banish the thought of what it should taste like and you might really enjoy it). Anyway, the “pizza” crust held together by nutshells wasn’t really good but that’s a story for another time. We were relying on a completely stoned, dreadlocked barista who seemed overwhelmed by my Groupon, as if she hadn’t seen 2,000 of them already, and things were not looking good. The food was taking for-ev-er.

I use the word “sitting” loosely. Jose is alternating between hiding under a neighbor’s table playing peek-a-boo with strangers, and running down the long hall to the kitchen. Dining experiences need to be planned well in advance, prepared for with crayons and paper and toys and discussion. The restaurant should be kid friendly, the food fast, and no one should be hungry when the expedition first sets out. In short, it’s never a good idea for us Ellises to “stop in” anywhere for food, but we seem to need to re-learn that over and over. We are doing a pretty good job of disrupting everyone’s fine Sunday afternoon with our last minute decision to stop for lunch. Josie is somewhere in the general vicinity of our table when a black man sits nearby.

“Mommy, why is he brown?”

Silence… [shit]… I thought she was supposed to ask that question when she was, like, 4. Damn it kid, I have 1.25 years to prepare my answer to that question! Instead of coming up with a good response, I say, “Hey, let’s read this book together.” Smooth.

In the car many minutes later, I’m ready. I ask her what color her skin is. Brown.

What color is Mommy’s? White.

What color is Jada’s? Brown. Alyssa’s? Donnel’s? Etc. Brown, brown, brown.

I make a mental note to put the Josie Book on top of her pile of bedtime books so we can revisit the pictures of her infancy and her birth mother.

What color is your hair? Black.

What color is Mommy’s hair? You get the idea…

I say something like, well, your skin is brown because some of your ancestors, your grandparents’ grandparents’ grandparents, were from Africa. Mommy looks more like some of her ancestors who were from Norway.

She’s quiet for a minute. She stares out the window. Then: “Sometimes my ancestors… My ancestors, sometimes they blow bubbles for me.”

Exactly

Like any parents we have our struggles. Without giving you all the details, let’s just say that we’re seeking professional help and not for the first time. I don’t believe there is anything wrong with our girl, but the conventional parenting techniques (ie: Love & Logic) aren’t working, and we need an advisor to help us through our days. There are weeks and months when I feel like I can’t do anything right for her, when I feel like it’s all wrong. When I don’t know what parent she needs me to be.

We met with someone last week. When I thought about the appointment beforehand I worried I’d start crying and not be able to stop. We gave her the whole story from the beginning.

I told her about Josie’s grand entry into the world: spontaneous labor and an unplanned home birth (ie: have a contraction, get in tub, have baby). I told her about Josie’s first week of life in the ICU, and how she had a little orange bow in her hair the day we met her. I told her how Josie had complete head and neck control and cried real tears from the beginning. I told her about the time Josie got so mad at me for running out of formula that she wouldn’t make eye contact. About the crawling and the climbing and the walking and the running, oh god, the running. The running and how she ran without fear or boundaries, how she’d run into large bodies of water, off tall ledges, into traffic. I told this woman about the pinching and the biting and the hitting, but also about the hugging and the loving and the joking and her first words which were ‘owl’ and ‘hug.’ We talked about how other children cluster around her, how everyone is drawn to her, and also about the sleep problems, the night waking, the sensory seeking and the inability to calm herself. I told her I was reading the “Spirited Child” book and that Josie scored 106 on a scale of extreme behavior that only goes to 50. And, finally, I told her about the unreachable place where Josie seems to go sometimes when nothing works.

I talked about all of these things with surprising composure. It was when I got to the adoption, to the part where we talk about the birth family that I got into weepy, quiver-lipped, trouble. I mentioned a friend who had a spirited child. How the boy’s father had been the same way growing up. I thought about how wonderfully reassuring it would be to be to know Josie’s traits came from a relative and be able to say, yes, it’s okay – look at what a lovely and interesting adult she is now.

We know very little about Josie’s birth father but, for some reason, I think she gets her temperament from him. I wonder what his mother would say if she knew there was a small version of her son in the world. I wonder what her life and his childhood were like. I imagine her hearing about Josie and saying something like: Oh heavens! And putting a hand to her chest and laughing. Then saying: You have got your work cut out for you! Or something like that. That’s all. She doesn’t give me any sage advice, or answer questions. She doesn’t tell me what I already know, that this kid is going to be fine and that everything will be all right. We share a look and I get everything I want and everything I need from her eyes because I can see there is someone in this world who knows exactly what we’re going through.

Back to School

News flash: Labor Day is in 3 weeks. It’s time to buy a new lunchbox! Even if you aren’t in school, wouldn’t you like a new lunchbox anyway? Shouldn’t we all get a new one each year? I recently bought myself a tiffin and I love it. It’s a great way to pack a salad or strawberries for the beach. It makes me so happy.

Of course our good friends at the Environmental Working Group have put together a back-to-school shopping guide complete with recommendations and materials to avoid. Here are some highlights from their report and some of my own recommendations.

Lunch boxes and bags – Since these touch food, it’s important to get something that is BPA , PVC, phthalate and lead-paint free.

  • EWG recommends these   
  • Look at these adorable bags on Etsy 
  • Or a bento lunchbox

Sandwich bags – Reusable.

Water bottles – Stainless steel is the way to go.

Backpacks – EWG recommends one made of natural fibers, nylon or polyester instead of plastic.

Art supplies – From the EWG site: “Paints should be water-based to avoid solvents and colored with natural, non-metal pigments. Don’t buy polymer clays that stay soft at room temperature or can be hardened in a home oven — they’re made from PVC (polyvinyl chloride) and often contain phthalates.”

  • I just came across Clementine Art at the grocery store . I haven’t tried their stuff but it looks awesome and is all non-toxic.

Complete Report — For the complete report and more info on markers, pencils, paper and notebooks click here.  

You guys have any good recommendations?