Growing Family

Update on B

The last child we fostered before leaving Australia, "B", has been in our hearts in a continued and meaningful way. Not infrequently one of the children will sigh "I miss B, I wish we were allowed to bring him to America with us." They understand the rules and regulations, and why he couldn't be ours forever, but our collective heart continues to feel the void of his absence in our family.

B's interim foster carer has been gracious to send us updates, and pictures, and we got to enjoy photos of him, enjoying his third birthday (the second birthday spent in foster care). He seems settled, and happy, and I think being a single child in a placement with two devoted older carers has been really good for him. 

Today B's caseworker emailed me to let me know that they have found a permanent family for B. Did I ever mention that the day before we left Australia, the judge finally ruled for long-term care? Maybe I missed it in the mix. They have been searching for a culturally appropriate family and it seems they have finally found one. He'll be moved there in the very near future.

Recently B's previous foster family, the ones who entrusted him to us when their company relocated them overseas, contacted me to ask how he was, and if he was still with us. I had to respond that he was well, but that we too had moved. They, like us, are still thinking about him, are still concerned for his well being, and hoping for his success.

B's start in life has been anything but smooth. A rough beginning, followed by the trauma of multiple foster care placements...it is not what any mother would want for her child.

B, we love you and we pray that your family is everything a family should be. You upended our lives in ways we could not have anticipated; you stretched us to our limits where we found new grace. May the rest of your life be eventful only in enjoyable ways, and may you carry with you the cumulative love given to you by the many families in your journey so far. May this family, your new family, be wonderful, and may your life be blessed. 

Sweet Sleep

I only have one daughter. It's hard to describe how I feel about her.

When Sprout was a baby she would wake up about six, right before the sun, hungry. The Captain would bring her in and she would nurse. We'd both fall asleep and I'd wake up about seven, when the sun was up and coming through the curtains, her warm body nestled against me, her tiny feet pressed into my tummy, and her little snore, content.

This move has not been easy on my girl. Several times a night she comes into our room, and wordlessly climbs onto our mattress on the floor. She tucks herself into my curves and we put our arms around each other. She stays for a little while before returning to her own bed. Sometimes she comes back several times throughout the night, filling up her emotional reserve.

In the day she wants so many hugs. She tells me "your hugs are the BEST; they are so soft and warm." She compliments my kisses, and expresses her adoration in gushing exclamations.

We are back to infancy where her pressing needs can be met in my bosom, and my arms, and kisses on her hair. What a sweet gift.

Joy Makeover

A real benefit of making these massive moves to new places where no one knows you, yet, is that each one can act as a kind of reset button, an opportunity to remake yourself in ways you want to change. Instead of coming across as flaky, or unstable, you just pop out the other end of the plane different. 

You can start wearing lipstick when you never did, or go vegan, or gain or lose weight, or whatever, and neither the people you're leaving or the people you're meeting really know that there has been a change.

I've decided that I want to learn to can and preserve. I want to be one of those dear ladies selling handmade jams at markets. I intend to become that jam lady here in Houston.

On a deeper note, I want to become a joyful person.

Today I was reading on Hidden Cupcakes. Do you read Tracey? She's so fabulous. An elegant and creative mother of five boys (through transracial adoption and birth). I pulled this line from her blog and it is ringing in my heart.

"It wasn't how we had pictured it, but we celebrated."

I grew up dealing with so much fear. It wasn't really until I met and married The Captain that it began to melt away. The knots relaxed in my stomach, and for the first time I slept on my back, peaceful in vulnerability.

Over the years new fears have crept in, and the old ones resurface. More than anyone I know, The Captain lives fear free, confident and assured. I want to live that way.

Some people see the glass as half empty or half full. My personality tends to analyze the contents of the glass into oblivion. Things may be good now but just wait until XYZ and they'll be so much better.  There is always something beyond my grasp, something that could go wrong, something that I'm worried about. I don't want to keep living that way.

We are in the middle of what is a legitimately scary and massive situation. I have every right to curl up in fear. But I'm new here, and this seems to be as good a time as any to change. I want to live out of a place of joy.

I don't really know how to do that, to be honest. I know how to focus on the little things and find joy in them, but I want it to go deeper, broader, and grow more solid. I want joy to be the platform on which I stand, and the foundation under everything. 

I want to live life celebrating, all along the way, in the midst of trials, and not only when we have overcome them.

I want a joy makeover, and who knows, I might try lipstick too.

 

The Skin We're In

One of the ways that this move has had an immediate impact on our family was evident from the moment we stepped off the plane in LAX. As we shuffled with the crowd towards the customs bay, we rode an escalator down under the clear gaze of President Barack Obama. "Hey, it's Barack!" my kids exclaimed with excitement. "President Obama" I corrected them, hoping people would overlook the casual way my kids felt that they could relate directly to the leader of the free world. They are Australian, after all. 

Every time we eat guacamole, Small Sun makes the same odd joke about how his name, and the Presidents name, and guacamole all sound similar (Barack - guac) and that makes them "kind of the same". 

There is a deep need in Small Sun to see himself reflected in his surroundings, and the beginning of meeting that need was nearly immediate. 

This Sunday I watched him watch church, his focus on the tall, immaculately groomed black men in suits who were the ushers; the sharply dressed and energetic black worship pastors jumping around the stage. He watches, he watches, he watches, and it is like a reassurance, a comfort, a security.

Today Sprout came off the rails. Everything hurt her and she just couldn't recover. I struggled along, knowing how she felt and feeling for her, and also feeling like I needed to help her get back on track. I was too firm, I was not firm enough; we floundered.

I held her while she sobbed, and she got hung on the sadness of "there are no other girls with blond hair in our family, and I feel so ALONE." She cried for ages about not knowing anyone else who looks like her, not knowing any other girls with blond hair and blue eyes, about not knowing hardly any grown ups or teenages with blond hair like her. She cried, and cried, and cried.

Sitting there, wiping her tears and realizing that this immense sadness was not really about hair, it was about all the losses she is currently experiencing, I also had to acknowledge that she had a point. In Sydney, most of her friends were Asian. Very few of her friends had blond hair and blue eyes. 

What sounded like the most ridiculous bit of white privilege, actually held some truth in her reality. She also was somewhat alone in her ethnic experience in Australia. Definitely less so than Small Sun, but she did experience "otherness". She did have Asian tourists approach and touch her hair and take her picture without permission. In reality, she knew few blonde people.

Finch started preK today. We're all starting new. We're all looking for our reflection in our surroundings, in a physical way, but also in a feeling of kinship, of understanding, and community. We're on the lookout for the people we will do life with. I hope we find them soon. 

 

The Dynamics of Fear

Right now we're in the middle of a situation that is really terrifying. I'm not going to go into it here until we have some more clarity, but it is one of those things where you start the day in a normal way, and have the rug pulled out from under you so hard, you can't tell which way is up.

I'm working hard to stay calm, maintain a peaceful environment for the kids, and keep on carrying on until there's something I can DO. Right now being calm and praying are my two jobs. 

While I've been busy working on those two things today I've been thinking about what an across the board nasty thing fear is. It doesn't matter what the cause for fear is, in the midst of our struggle, any other thing seems less scary than what we're facing. "I'd rather jump into a pit of tigers than be hit with that diagnosis. Financial ruin would be nothing compared to this relationship breakdown. A car accident would be better than this problem my child is facing..." 

We're gutted, clutched in the vise grip of fear that is no respecter of persons or situations. It is an opportunist, ready to strangle in any circumstance.

At the same time I'm seeing that there is reason for hope in every circumstance. Pressing back against the fear, I can see how things could be worse, I am thankful that what we are facing isn't some other thing. 

How do we press back against fear?

I have been speaking scripture to my spirit, the promises of God over myself and my family. I have been looking at the sunshine, and my children. I have been trying to be here, where I am, and not let my brain take up residence in some frightening  "what if" nightmare zone.

Right now that's the best thing I know how to do - choose to live in the grace of today, and agree with God for my future.

How do you fight fear?

 

Hopes. Regrets

With this move there are just so many things to think and write about, and as the kids get into school in the next couple of weeks, I hope to do that with more regularity.

Tonight as I was walking the dog, my mind was running over this move, again and again, the way I run my tongue over my teeth after a trip to the dentist, feeling the difference.

There are moments when my heart lifts, and I feel nearly ecstatic, "this is wonderful, we will do so well here, we will be so happy!" I think. Then, at another time I am completely down in the dumps, "what on earth have we done, leaving so much behind?". I feel immature in the extreme when I confess that those two feelings can follow each other within the space of ten minutes, or chase each other around and around like a cat after its tail.

The first thing I saw in Sydney that I loved were the giant ornamental fig trees that grow along Lyon's Road between Five Dock and Russell Lea. Here in Houston, the giant oaks towering every where you look, assured me that this city can be my friend. I can trust a place with such solid trees.

Yet, there are things here that are so different, and that make me feel so uncomfortable.

While The Captain was gone, I was driving along a somewhat sketchy street and saw a rough looking man stagger, clutch his chest, retch, and then pass out on the sidewalk. Alarmed and concerned, I circled around the block, which was even sketchier than I had thought at first glance, and confirmed that yes, the man was still passed out on the grass. I didn't stop. There was no place to pull over. I chose not to stop. 

In Australia the social welfare system is strong. You hardly ever see poverty. In fact, I don't think that poverty as we know it in America exists in Australia. I don't know if you could ever actually go hungry there, or fail to have access to medical treatment. There must be situations where people hit rock bottom, and I've spent enough time in poor neighborhoods in Sydney to know not everything is roses, but the middle class is broad, and the social net is well constructed.

Being in Houston for three weeks, I have seen poverty on a scale that I haven't seen in all those years in Australia. People are begging for money at so many intersections, disabled vets are selling candy at freeway entrances, and people sleeping under bridges are visible in my daily routine.

People talk about going to impoverished nations and having their lives changed when they see how others live. Drive two blocks out of my posh neighborhood and you can see the the struggle.

What do I do? How do I respond?

In Sydney I gave money to programs that were important to me, and I tried to live a life of kindness with all those I interacted with. I cared for foster children. Here, there is someone standing next to my car window with an outstretched hand

Fallen on hard times.

Will work for food.

Vet needs help.

God Bless.

 We have to learn how to live here. I have to learn how to raise my children here. I don't have any quick or immediate ideas on how to do that well. I have always raised my children with the perspective, if we see a need, we do what we can to fill it. I have modelled that for them time and time again. 

Here, the need seems so immense, so numerous, and so profound, that I don't know where to start or what to model for them. 

Anyway, I started off with the thought that there are moments here that feel large and lovely enough to camp around, and build a home with, and others that feel so homesick and lonely that I catch my breath. 

Today The Captain hugged me and said in my ear "are you thinking about standing at your kitchen sink, looking across to the stadium and Olympic Park, hearing the laughter from the children playing at the park, and seeing all the trees?" "I'm trying to feel that kind of joy looking at a scene in this house" I said, "so that this place fills my heart the way that one did."

I am looking for the moments that make this feel like home. 

 

Impressions

I am not a chameleon. I don't slip in and out of locations, instantly blending. It feels more like a crash landing, sparks and debris flying, akward edges getting knocked off without grace or poise. 

Like a Star Trek teleporter, I am in the moment of shimmer where I am not quite here, and not quite there, and not quite sure.

Here are some impressions on re-entry that I will cease to notice in a couple more weeks and want to remember for later.

My first time in The Woodlands HEB grocery store I made it past the garden display, the home interiors area, the fresh guacamole maker, the fresh tortilla maker, the steak expert giving a display, the gourmet cheese deli, and the wine area before getting to the first aisle of "regular food". All those initial features took up the same amount of space as my regular grocery store in Sydney, and there was still a massive warehouse of space to navigate to find my groceries. I began to shake on the inside, and tears welled up as I stood in front of a shelf of jams seven feet tall and eight feet wide. Lovely jams, artisinal jams, jams I had dreamed of...if I tried a new one every week for a year I could never get through all those jams. I brushed away tears and tried to slow breathe my way through that massive store, aisle after aisle of more than anyone could ever need. It was just too much for me.

In Sydney I felt so much freedom as a woman. I became used to walking with my head held high, looking men in the eye and giving a nod of greeting, wearing whatever clothes suited me. I felt equal, and safe. Here, I find my open, direct looks often returned with ones of innuendo, and I remember the way experiencing a greater degree of gender equality felt when I discovered it in Australia. 

With The Captain and Finch back from Holland, we are all together under one roof again. This is our roof, this is our family, this is permanent, for now. I thought it would be comforting. It is. It also brings into jarring reality the absence of B, our foster son, and my heart aches.

In Sydney we had four kids and needed diapers, and car seats, and a cot, and high chairs. Suddenly a few booster seats thrown in the car are the last vestiges of baby in our family. No sippy cups, heck, not even any kiddie plates or cutlery. We all eat on real plates and drink from glasses. Again, freeing, and gutting at the same time.

I am enjoying the ammenities my budget buys me in America. My lovely new washer and dryer are fantastic, but the load capacity is so big it takes almost a week to fill a load. My children could easily bathe in the cavernous tub capacity of the washer, and really could get tumbled in the dryer without squeezing. Again, it is that feeling of appreciation, but also slight repulsion by the sheer excess, the volume, the capacity that is just so much more than anything I've seen for years.

Soon we'll settle in, and everything around us will be more normal. There are also benefits to this dissonance and there are many things I don't want to lose in transition. Freedom, cornflower blue skies, and friendship, be present for me always.