Growing Family

Soul Scrub

Little turns me off from foster care more than foster care training itself. Hours upon hours of the horrific traumas children have experienced before entering care, chased with a shot of "here's what to do when the sh*t hits the fan."

I came home today feeling nauseous, and tired, afraid and defeated. The needs are so immense, I know from experience. The outcomes can be so challenging. I've seen that too.

The people on the journey can restore your faith in humanity...or not.

My husband is a gracious man, who didn't object when, upon returning home, I slipped into the garden, sitting, waiting for direction.

I picked up a flat or two of annuals, that have been waiting to be put in the ground, along with a packet of seeds and my basket of tools.

He only interruped to ask "is there something you want me to make for dinner?" God bless that wise man. 

I stayed out until the gloaming, tucking snap dragons in with a tender press around the roots, and stopping to admire my gorgous daughter who was finding the enchantment in planting surprise nasturtium seeds for me to find come sprouting.

The garden is where I scrub my soul clean. The garden is where I hear the God whisper "it will all end well" and I whisper "it is well with my soul" into the chilling air.

I am thankful that God has put a garden in my heart, and a place for me to grow. When all the plants are settled for the night, and the sky has settled from guava and purple to a dusky grey, my husband pulls the burgers off the grill. It's time to go in, and I am ready. My soul has released its burden and I am freed.

Foster Care Training

Tonight we attend the first session of our intensive two weekends of foster care training. Even though I've had so much training and experience, I'm still looking forward to it. There is always something new to be learned and applied as a parent! I am most hopeful about the opportunities to connect with other families in the process.

The next two weeks are going to be crazy busy, with a quick trip to Austin, and then a getaway to New Oreans to follow. Fun, fun, fun!

Six Month Sea Legs

It is six months to the day that The Captain and I arrived in Houston, just the two of us, rented a car, and headed to San Felipe Drive to meet our relocation specialist. The air was heavy and humid, his office was frighteningly cold. That very evening we went to a cheap store to buy jackets, totally unaccustomed to the deep freeze air conditioning.

I've passed through that initial dizzying feeling - waking up in the dark of pre-dawn, unsure what continent I was on. I've lost that feeling that I could just blow away - disconnected from everything.

Six months in, we've traveled several times and come "home" several times, and when we felt that blessed relief of climbing into our own car at the airport, it's been here. Houston.

Six months in here is a simple list of what I am still longing for in Sydney, and what I still can't get enough of in Houston.

Sydney

1. Our friends. My heart aches for them daily, and I still succumb to sobbing on a fairly routine basis.

2. The sunlight and the natural beauty and the beaches (I know, that's three things. I'm cheating!)

3. Our foster son

4. Our school and the Australian school system in general

5. My garden

6.  Our house

Houston

1. The shopping. I'm sorry, husband, the evidence is in the receipts. Ebay, Etsy, Target, Lowes, it is all so easy, and so much less expensive, and I have been on a six month shopping spree.

2. Our house with the pool, proximity to The Captain's office, and everywhere else I need to be.

3. The Captain's more relaxed schedule. This office is more flexible so he has been more able to help with school drop offs, or adjusting his schedule to accommodate family needs. It has been wonderful.

4. The food. I am still happy to eat Mexican food as many time in a week as my family will let me. Eating out is so much less expensive. The overall quality of food is better in Australia, but yummy things are more easily accessible and less expensive here.

5. Our new church family, and our developing school community at the private school

6. My garden, in containers mostly, but still growing!

Today I met up with a mother from school, and we had one of those great conversations that ends up running over time, and you both dash of, only to stand by the car a couple more minutes, because you just want to keep talking. As I was leaving, someone called my name from across the street - a guy in our church community group. He was heading a few blocks over to see his wife at work, and asked me to come along. At her office I was introduced to a number of people who attend our church. Then, after I had rushed back to school in time for Finch's afternoon pick up, I exchanged numbers with another mom to get our kids together to play.

Six months in, and I'm no longer afraid of flying off into the ether. I have sent down some rootlets, and a sprout has shot up. We are going to make it here.

 

 

Code Switching

 

Code switching, for those of you who don't know, refers to a person's ability to change the language they are speaking, or the dialect they are speaking within one setting. For my husband, code switching is talking to him mom in Dutch on Skype, and then switching to English when the kids join him. I guess you could call my ability to change my vernacular based on whether I am speaking to an American or an Aussie code switching, but that probably doesn't count.

The Key and Peele clip above perfectly illustrates the kind of code switching that is going on in our house the most these days.

Small Sun is finally in an environment at school where is he surrounded by Black kids. Within weeks of school starting, his bouncy walk took on a swagger, and he mastered the "sup?" nod.

Several months in, he is starting to respect his sister's decision that she doesn't like being called "guuurrrrrllllll" all the time.

Here we are, in the midst of a transracial parenting learning curve, and I don't know what to do. I am happy that he is in an environment where he is learning some skills to blend in, and I honestly think that learning this style of speaking is an important one.

At the same time, when he was speaking that way at our (all white) holiday family gatherings, I felt uncomfortable, and had to choose not to correct him. I think I feel like it's fine to talk that way with his friends at school, but in an all white setting, I become uncomfortable.

Is that prejudice on my part? Perhaps.

Is it knowing that in reality, he won't be able to advance in life if he presents himself that way in a job interview or application process? Hm.

Because I am white, and I am not fluent enough in Black American culture, I do not know how this works, and I don't know what Small Sun needs to learn. I don't know how to encourage his budding exploration of language and dialect and style, while also teaching him how to present himself to get ahead.

I know he is 8, and not applying for jobs, but the whole idea of code switching is knowing when to switch, reading your environment and knowing which code to use. 

I suppose all parenting presents dilemmas and learning curves where you find yourself at a loss, without all the answers. This is one, particular to transracial parenting, when the family is lacking close friends of color who are willing to act as mentors and guides. 

While I struggle to find all the answers, I can find comedic relief in the challenge. Thank you, Key and Peele.

 

 

 

"Whose Kid is That?"

We were entering the Battery Park Metro entrance in Manhattan, heading home after a long day enjoying the city. Because of some confusion with our tickets, a few of our group (including Small Sun) went in one entrance, and the rest of us came through the entrance on the other side. 

As we came through the turn style, one by one, Small Sun gave it a pat, feeling like he was helping to turn it.

I saw the man across the way, watching Small Sun, disapproving.

"That kid, that kid is messing with the turn style. Hey kid, don't do that." he called out, annoyed.

"Whose kid is that? Whose kid is that anyway?" he asked, looking around.

Just then it was my turn, and I swung through. "He's MY SON. I'M his mother." I asserted.

"Your kid's messing with the turn style. He's blocking the people." he insisted.

"All these people are his family. Every single one, and he's not bothering us." I gestured to our group, seven strong, oblivious to the child "blocking them."

"Well, he shouldn't mess with the turn style." he insisted, as I turned my back to him, a protective arm around Small Sun, walking on.

I have always hated the term and the concept of helicopter parenting, and yet being a white mother to a Black son, I have spent his childhood hovering at the playground, keeping my ears on all the time, and keeping him close in the shops.

From early on, I could see people looking around at the playground while he played. "Where is this kid's mother?" They wondered. He wasn't in any danger, he didn't need my help, they just couldn't "match" him with anyone. I get the maternal instinct to worry about a kid that seems unsupervised. I have been known to check on a child who seems alone at the park "are your people here?"

When I see people doing the scan, I call out "hey babe, how's it going?" just to let them know I'm there. In Sydney that's all it was. People see that the child has an adult with them. Check. Move on. No big deal.

Small Sun is eight years old, adorably snaggle toothed and precocious. I've heard so many other mothers with Black children talk about the day it changes - the day their sweet boy becomes a perceived threat - someone to be followed in the store, someone to avoid on the street, someone who might not want to walk around at night wearing a hoodie. 

We're not there yet, and don't we all wish that day will never come? My Australian passport sits at the top of my drawer - an exit door to safety. None of my Australian friends would think twice about my son taking their daughter for the school dance and are horrified that is even a thing to think about here.

That man in New York upset me. I hurried forward to throw my privilege like a blanket over my son. He was just being a kid in a new environment, having fun, but some stranger felt comfortable to try question him and bring him into line. 

What happens when we are not there, seven strong, well dressed and able to put someone in their place?

These are worries I carry for my Black son that I don't carry for my white son. This is part of transracial parenting. This is part of being male and Black in America. I wish that it wasn't. 

Sisters

Lately there is the thought of another daughter in all of my thoughts and plans. Sisters. The girls. My mind has already created a new category of feminine affection.

"I should start looking for a complimentary antique iron bed for the girls room."

When Sprout and I went to The Nutcracker I bought her a ballerina tree ornament, and I picked up a gorgeous dark skinned ballerina ornament as well, for next year, for sister.

I tuck my favorites of Sprout's outgrown clothes into a visible shelf in my closet, and picked up a gorgeous hand tucked dress too small for Sprout, but not too small for someone...smaller.

Today I found some Anne of Green Gables clips on YouTube, and some Little House on the Prairie, and felt all aflutter in my heart at the loveliness those books and media brought to my girlhood, and the anticipation of sharing them with the girls.

On my knees, scrubbing the ever present drips and runs on the cabinet doors below the sink, it suddenly struck me how amazingly WHITE my treasured childhood stories are. "What are the equivalent time period dramas for little Black girls?" I wondered.

Then my breath caught. My stomach slumped into an instant ache. When Anne was finding her footing on Prince Edward Island, little Black girls were slaves. When the Ingalls were heading West to financial opportunity, little Black girls had no such freedoms.

When I started this blog, navigating a new found awareness of race was front and center in my parenting experience. As we moved to Australia, the myriads of interactions all charged and shadowed with American racial dynamics simply fell away. It felt so free. 

These days I find race taking up more of my head space than it has in some time, and I will start to write about it again. I am the mother of white and Black children, and that role takes on such a greater weight in America.

I wonder if there are any wonderful historical book series for African American girls? If not, maybe I will write one. I've always loved children's literature the most.

 

 

 

 

Closing up Christmas

Well, we took the tree down today and the rest of the decorations are soon to follow. I do so love Christmas, that if the tree hadn't lost all its colour, and started drooping and dropping needles, I may have been tempted to keep it forever.

Before I put it all away until next year, I thought I'd share some pics with those of you who are friends, and would have loved to see my house at Christmas, as I always loved seeing yours!

So, sniff in the last scents of pine, and enjoy, we sure did!

I hung large ornaments on the door handles, and this one with a jungle bell gave a merry chime each time I came in the door.

 

I picked up some red velvet cushion covers from IKEA to bring the season to the lounge. The wool throw blankets did their part as well.

 

The Captain hates this reindeer I brought from Sydney, but I adore him, and have to keep the kids from prancing him all around the house.

 

I found a whole box of this wooden bead garland for $3 at an op shop. Needless to say, I flung it everywhere!

 

What, you don't have Aussie native animals in your nativity?

The shutter doors in the dining room made the perfect place for holiday cards.

 

This little treetop table ended up with a paddlepop stick baby Jesus wrapped in felt swaddling clothes, and a paper gingerbread man luxuriating underneath it.

 

Without a tree skirt this year, I tucked some wicker baskets around the base and then nestled presents between and on top of them. It worked a treat.

 

I traded out a patterned duvet for a white one, threw on a red throw blanket, and tied on some leftover paper lanterns. Voila, Christmas bed! Next year I'll definitely do lights.

So that's a wrap. We're still eating Christmas cookies, and I'm sure I'll be finding stray decorations for weeks, since I have things in nearly every room of the house...but I just wanted to share it with my far flung friends before tidying it all up. Next Christmas we'll probably be in a different house, but this one sure was cozy at Christmas!

 

 

Bumps and Breaks

As I get older, I find I am able to make some decisions with more clarity and brevity than in the past. Others I agonize over and never feel quite sure I've got right. I know I have heard parents with grown children admit that most of their experience parenting felt like one big gamble, and they were just happy things turned out all right in the end. I wonder how many people feel that way?

The decisions that come with the most certainty are those that I can stand next to the principles we are guiding our life by, and get a clear read. The ones where I feel like I constantly fumble are those where I am measuring against a host of outside thoughts, perspectives, and opinions.

It looks like one of our children is changing schools. I had decided that Sprout and Small Sun would stay put through the rest of the year and we'd reevaluate for next year, but then Sprout had a little meltdown last week, and asked if she can change schools. While she might be staying afloat socially, I feel like academically, she's gaining nothing, and losing some hard earned ground from school in Sydney. So *I think* she is starting at Finch's school on Monday. I feel great about the decision, even though it was made very quickly.

Yesterday we were celebrating New Year's Day with my mother-in-law. We were having a tea party and a play at Herman Park when Sprout fell off the play equipment. She did not rally, and was obivously hurt, and despite her loud and tearful protests, we took her straight to Texas Children's Hospital which was only a few blocks away. 

She has a fractured wrist, and is spending today lying on the couch with her arm propped on pillows, and playing round after round of Mancala. 

So, for Sprout, 2014 is starting with a bang and a bump. She'll come out all right though. I asked her, "do you feel nervous about going to [another] new school without knowing anyone?" "Well, Finch goes there and he needs me to take care of him, and don't you know I make friends very easily?" she replied. That's my girl, heading into new situations, confident, even with one hand tied behind her back. Go girl power!