I remember when

he did this...daily.  Sometimes several times a day.

 I've got de-ja vue over here

and brother's looking pretty suspicious - 

so I think we know who showed her the ropes

I heart those two rascals...

Reality

you know?  It can be a bit like cold water in your face. 

And reality is a lot to swallow some days. And I'm not speaking for you.  Oh no.  I would never.  I'm speaking for me.  Yes, just for me.  And for mine.  I'm sure there is no one out there who can relate at all.  Nope.  No one at all.

And you wanna know something?  I am that Mom who sits looking out the window, hint of drool in the corner of her mouth, saying "just three more years...three more...then I can have quasi-intelligent conversations with them.  Perhaps even reason with them.  Mayhap...get through a day without a nap".  Me, not them.

And I am also that same mom who wrote many a blog posts lamenting being lonely for these kidlets of mine and longing desperately for that which I now whine about on occasion.  Also, for the record, let's just state here and now that I am hook, line, and sinker in love with these two children of mine.  But help a sista out.  It's hard work.  Can I get an amen?

I'm also a girl who loves order.  With a penchant for a little bit of the OCD.  Yes, that's my reality.  And BC (before children) I thought that order would always rule my life.  That I would snap my little fingers like Mary Poppins and a spoon full of sugar would keep the dust bunnies away.  That even when we were AC (after chaos children) somehow things would just continue as they always had. (oh slap me) We had a motto BC...and it was that everything had a place and everything was in its place.  

I don't know about you, because...well, we're only talking about me, remember?  But in my AC house...things are often just plan ol' messy.  Like a lot.  Like a really lot.  Snort.

I don't think we get through a single day without the living room resembling a toy dumping ground.  Sacred though it may be for all those under 3.  For me it's a tripping hazard.  And I won't even tell you the words that come flying out of my mouth when I step on some jaggedy shaped piece of something that belongs to some whateverthesamhill.  

Some days my dishes sit.  And sit.  And pile up.  And sit some more.  And let's be honest (as per usual) - I hate doing dishes.  Loading?  Unloading?  Rinsing?  Doesn't matter.  Hate it.  Not fun. And sometimes they just, well...sit there.  Until I can get up the gumption to stop adding to the pile and start cleaning it up.  Reality.

I swear to you, laundry literally pro-creates when I leave it alone for like .5 seconds.  No, listen...this is serious friends.  The laundry at my house...like back in...I don't know 2008 I think...it like quadrupled.  And I was all "what the heck" and AB was all "I know, right?".  And now?  Don't get me started. Like around January of this year...it freaking jumped the shark, my laundry.  It's not even realistic anymore.  It's just piles and piles begetting more piles...worse than Genesis.  T-shirts begetting dress shirts.  Dress shirts begetting pants.  Pants begetting onesies.  Oh, the reality. 

Sometimes I'll be cleaning.  Yes, sometimes.  In all my spare time.  Double snort.  And let's say I'll be in the bathroom, and straightening up a pile of clothes on the floor or emptying the trash.  And I look around and see the mess that just  IS.  It just seems like as I'm cleaning up one mess, the other messes are staring me down and calling me out from the corners of every room.  And the bathtub.  Don't even get me started on "The Tub"...mess.

Oh wait, look...it's here.  Awesome.

The hap-hazard makeup basket for the "carefree easy-going lovely mom look" that I sport at least once a year?  I'll be honest...what the hay.  Reality?  I don't wear makeup that often.  Ok, almost never.  I can't help it.  I have frequently  been known to sport a baseball cap, sweats, AND a sad and sorry lack of makeup.  GASP!  I know!  But is there any reason for my poor makeup basket to sit in disarray day in and out? 

Priorities people.  Sometimes it's just about getting into the car in one piece with two kids in tow and making it somewhere on time.  The things you let go...

Reality.

And while we're airing out my dirty laundry...no really, I'm airing it out as we speak - I have been known to engage in child labor.  Listen, start em' young.  That's what I always say. Whatever works.

And see what I mean?  Messes behind messes behind messes while the child pretends to vacuum.  I mean, the messes are just pro-creating all over the freaking house.  (And don't tell me you missed the "naughty chair" back there...facing the door.  Oh yes.  I mean, that's just us, right?  I'm sure you never need one of those at your house...

And I will admit to you that I have stacks of stuff.  And BC? I swore up an down that I would never have "stacks".  Piles of papers, ads, magazine, books, clothes, supplies, random whoseyourmama stuff that just sits and sits and sits.  And now they're breeding.  Taking a lesson from the laundry, I guess?  But it's everything I can do to keep these stacks from growing to the ceiling.  

And it's so not me.  Won't you please believe me?  That is to say, it's not how I thought I would be.  Not how I thought things would get done or not get done AC.  I was so sure my OCD tendencies would carry me through the years and avoid the cleaning "challenged" pitfalls of new motherhood. 

Still, it's my reality.  At least for a while.  Like, umm..17, 18 more years or so.  Sniff.  I mean, that's like...not that long.  And I'm trying to make peace with it.  Of course, I'm only speaking for myself.  I'm sure this is just me...positively sure.

And with that, I have not a scrap of dignity left with which to flaunt in your direction.

Oh - except I'll say this: I love my babies.  (Do I have to qualify that each time I write honest posts about real life - God forbid we ever confess to not being totally infatuated with all aspects of motherhood - i.e. a messy house)

Just keepin' it real

Holla'

June, Swimming, and Revisions

Whew...ok...so after two years, a new look on here...a revision, if you will. And updated pictures, no less! 

Are you proud of me or what?  I tell you...

And I'm relieved because though it's not as fancy as the previous look - it's my own creation and I'm rather happy with it...(read = free)

And even though it took me eons and eons of eyeball-frying time hours because I am not a whiz at photo-shop...I'm pretty proud that I figured it all out on my own.

Yes, that's me patting myself on the back.  Ahem.  

Meanwhile, the previous post stirred up a lot of...well, silence.  So I never know what to think about that kind of thing.  Silence because it was "meh" or silence because it was touchy?  Guess we'll never know.

We've been swimming.  Like, daily.  Oh yes.  And today?  We swam in the rain.  Yes, we did.  Because I waited many a month for summer to get here and my calendar says June and where I come from June is summer and I'm not waiting anymore.  Because Lord help me if I have to spend one more ever-lovin' hour staring at the four walls of our living room with two toddlers when we could be happily ensconced inside floaty thingies and swim-whatsies and slathered in sunblock.  Yes.  Rain or shine.  We are swimming.  

Until the thunder hit.  Then it was bye-bye pooly and hello four walls again.  Cough.

Happy Thursday...translation it's almost Friday, ergo it's almost the weekend.  Come to mama...

A Black and White Life

I've often wondered about the long-term impacts or outcome of adopting an African child into a white family. 

I've wondered how it will impact each of us as the years progress and how Quint will handle the issues that are sure to come up.  The questions.  The stares.

Where's your Mother? 
That's her over there.
Where? 
Over there!
I don't see her? 
The WHITE lady...
Oh, sorry....Oh...

Children can be cruel, and I can only imagine some of the words that might be thrown at him.  Not just because his parents are white, but because he is black.  And let's be honest, it was only a little over 50 years ago that people were still using separate doors and drinking fountains and buses and on and on.  (yuck!)

And that used to seem like a long time ago to me.  Until he came.  And now it doesn't seem like nearly enough distance between us and that awful, hateful time.  Not nearly long enough.  And I will never fully know or understand what he will face.  Breaks my heart.  But I'm willing to try...and try hard, because I love him with every fiber of my being.

I know we've come a long way as a society.  Just look at the White House.  We have certainly felt the winds of change for years.  So that does my heart some good.  Also knowing that we would never intentionally put him in harms way - or live in a community that was not blended in some fashion.  Certainly not in any communities that are not tolerant of bi-racial families.

And it hurts me to even write that, but I know it's true.

It's something we'll always consider before we move...for the sake of both of our children.  We'll always consider their needs in the life choices we make and how we live our lives from now on.  The church we attend will have to be integrated.  The company we keep will be diverse (and thank God for that anyway, right?).  The places we visit as a family will be a blend of cultural experiences for them to take in.  On and on...that's our job.  To offer them diversity in their lives.  Because they are likely to have some struggles in this arena.  And as their parents, we should do our best to bring them up to appreciate all the facets of our differences and support them.  Not shelter them, but acknowledge the good and the difficult together...and find ways to see all the sides of it openly.

The mother in me wants to say that racism is no more.  That those were the old days and that those "old days" are long gone.  But it's not true.  Not enough.  Better, yes, but not forgotten and certainly not over completely.  You and I both know it.

Aside from the questions he will surely live with regarding his abandonment and adoption,  I can't help but wonder how much more he will have to shoulder because he is a black child with white parents.

We can say that America has grown and changed - and we have.  But racism is not dead.  It's everywhere, in fact.  And I can't protect him forever.  I can't keep the ignorant people from judging him first as a black man, and second as a human being.  (oh, my heart...)

I stumbled over a blog recently.  It was written by a black woman who was adopted by a white family.  I'm not going to link to it for several reasons.  The essence of her post was this:  while she loves her adoptive parents and appreciates what they "tried" to do for her - she still believes very strongly that they made a big mistake in adopting her.  She went on to make it clear that she felt white people had no business adopting black children.  Please note that she was admittedly a loved member of her family.  She had three siblings, one of which was her biological sister, also adopted into the same family.  She admitted her parents were "good" parents.  That she was a complete member of their family, and cherished.

I was perplexed reading her words.  Completely.  Because she admitted to having felt really badly about throwing her own parents under the bus - but still felt compelled to tell the "world" that bi-racial families, in her mind, were just misguided attempts to "do good deeds" or "self-seeking" attempts to have children without any thought or understanding of what the adoptee would go through for the rest of their lives.  That it was truly, selfishness, at its core. 

Ouch.

I've thought about this a lot.  Wondering what Quint would think if he were a grown man and I could go to him and ask if he felt this way too. 

I wondered if we had added to his loss by bringing him around the world to live in a white household?  Had we unintentionally screwed up his life by loving him, because we're white and he's black?  By having the best of intentions, but not giving enough thought to how living in a white family might impact him later on?

I think not.  Here's why:

While I can say with deep conviction that we are certainly the better for having known and loved Quint, and I hope and pray he will feel the same in his life - I think I can also say that his options were fairly bleak.

I'm gonna step on toes here...but where were the throngs of people lined up to get him?

There were hardly any at the time.

There were 300 children in that orphanage when we visited.  Three-hundred in one orphanage.  I can tell you, our referral time was two weeks from the time our dossier was received in Ethiopia.  Two weeks, friends.  Let that resonate for a minute.  Especially considering Keira's long process.  While we were there. (roughly two weeks)..we saw only one other family - a French family, also white.  So when people say we have no business adopting an African child, I say..."are you going to?  Who then?  Only black people should raise black children?  Why? And  for that argument, if black people are not able to, then these children should languish in poverty and disease without ever knowing a family or parents or siblings...or love?"  Help me.  Really?

Because I'm all for black families adopting black children.  Of course, I am.  I'm all for families of any color, race, nationality, etc adopting.  I don't care who.  But we all know there aren't enough adopting families, period - no matter the nationality or race - to soak up the vast numbers of children without parents and homes.  

Obviously we cannot be the end all/be all for Quint in his lifetime.  Some things, yes even racial issues, he will simply have to figure out.  That is part of his story to tell.  But this is true for many children - no matter the race.  I can't erase American history - so he'll have to learn what it means to be a black man in this country.

He'll also need to understand that being from Africa, being adopted, being a black child in a white family...he'll have challenges that other people won't.  But it's how he handles those challenges that will make him into the man he will become. I pray we will be sensitive to those challenges and lovingly guide him with compassion and grace.  Is there any other way in an adoptive family? 

Recently, CNN published an article about white families adopting black children.  You can read it here.  It's a fascinating read, and I highly recommend it - but even more startling were the comments to the article, found below it.  The blatant disregard for anything different.  One commenter noting that white people adopted black children for the sake of appearing "holier" and "savior-esque".  Another said it was like a white person picking out a "Fendi" bag...whatever the hot trend is at the moment.  And oh...the many people who vehemently stated they felt races should "keep to their own kind".

The assumption that somehow we think we're superior...a white family..saving a child, adopting a black baby...an African child from Ethiopia - the layers get more intense to ensure sympathy and pats on the back.  Yuck.  I don't want sympathy or pats on the back!

I wasn't trying to save Africa, if you really want to know.

I was trying to be obedient to what God told me to do.  I was also trying to be a mother.  And the color of skin that my children would have, had NO BEARING WHATSOEVER on my desire  to love a child or on the condition of my heart. It didn't make me a better person because I went "all the way to Africa."  Or because, gasp, I adopted an African child.  Frankly, I'm a little bit insulted when people suggest we did this brave, bold, amazing thing to adopt him.  Is it really that foreign?  Aren't we past that yet?  Aren't families  made in all sorts of wonderful ways - biology notwithstanding?  Isn't he worth it...it's just a plane ride after all.  Why is this still so shocking - it's borderline offensive, and truly I try very hard to choose not to be offended.  I do.  But this is so bizarre to me.

To say that we have no business adopting a black child, well it's ridiculous.  The argument being that I can never know what he'll go through.  That we're too different.  That I'll never understand what he'll face as a black man in this world.  Never appreciate the struggles or the trials or the culture differences that are there, even if we would be inclined to pretend they aren't there.

But I guess we could abstractly argue that I'd also never understand what he would go through were he to get cancer - God forbid.  I couldn't relate.  And it would be something he would have to carry with him his whole life.  But I would certainly love and support him and be there for him, no matter what he faced.  Right? 

My God, are we not all people?  Do we not all live and die the same way?  Do we not all eat, drink, sleep, and move about in the same fashion?  Why is this still an issue? 

No one is superior.  No one.

And please don't send me hate mail.  I'm making an abstract but drastic comparison of one person having an internal struggle that another person could not ever truly be able to relate to.  I'm not equating being of another culture with having cancer.  So please.  



And so now we've brought into our family a beautiful African baby boy who had quite literally, no one in the world to love or be loved by.  Which is TRAGIC in itself.  And yet there are those people  who would say we are horrible people.  Unfair.  Self-righteous.  Un-kind.  Ignorant.  Self-seeking.  And selfish.
Maybe I am selfish.  Because from the minute I saw Quint's face, I wanted to be his Mommy more than anything I had ever wanted in my life.  I was rocked to my core with love for him.  Moved beyond anything I can express in writing.  So if that makes me selfish, then I'll take it.

I'm here to put in writing that I could not love Quint more if he had come from my womb.  Simply not possible.  I do not look at him and see skin color.  Ever.  Period. I look at him and see my wonderful, amazing, beautiful boy.  Every. Single. Day.  Nothing less.

If sometime in the future he takes issue with our adoption of him- of our desire to love him...(and I pray that day never comes) then I hope we will listen with careful ears and open hearts.

In the meantime,  I like to think we've helped each other - he and I.  A childless mother and a motherless child.

Skin color be damned.