Growing Family

Houses and Homes

The Captain and I are currently under the 11th roof, in our 13 years of marriage. I am counting the in-between places, because they counted to me.

We have moved many, many times. Big moves, small moves, moves early on that were just a couple suitcases and the odd armchair, and moves that involve shipping containers and...ships!

Our lease is ending quite soon, at a most akward time (end of year school year, double birthdays, and travel abroad are taking up most of our energies), and we don't know what will happen next. In this time of flux I am thinking back on other times when our future lodgings were uncertain, and the way it always worked out.

When we married, we left our wedding reception, stayed locally overnight, and moved overseas the next morning. At the last minute we were informed that the apartment we has rented had been double-let and it would be 4-6 weeks until it was made available to us. After our honeymoon we moved in with my in-laws (in Holland) until our apartment was ready. While I would not have created that situation as my first-pick for starting married life, I got to know my in-laws in a way that would have taken years, given that we usually live overseas from them. It wasn't my plan, but it worked out great, and I have always been thankful for that time. The sweetest thing was learning to love the home my husband loved, and cooking with his mother. Some of her dishes continue to be family favorites at our table.

When we were moving to Sydney, we had arranged an apartment not far from Bondi Beach. We planned on living in the Eastern Suburbs. Weeks before our departure (with our house sold, and all our earthly possessions already en-route), we were informed the apartment had been flooded by a leak above and wouldn't be available after all. Desperately we searched and searched, finding nothing. Close to our departure, The Captain found a temporary furnished apartment in the Inner West, a completely different part of the city. After arriving there, we went walking the neighborhood during the weekend, stopping in at local open inspections. That's how we rented our first house. Little did we know that part of Sydney would become near and dear, and just perfect for us. (We met our very best friends walking to a local church before we had a car.)

When we were ready to sell our Nashville house to move to Sydney, some acquaintances of ours let us know they would like to buy it. They met our asking price and we exchanged keys and contracts in a casual way, assisted by a friend of theirs in real estate.

You see, sometimes the next step is right in front of us, and we can't see it at all. Sometimes it appears that we will end up sitting on our suitcases in the street. Sometimes we think we know exactly what should happen and then life takes a total twist.

The thing to remember is that the sun has shone over our heads at each stop along the way, and we have smiled at each other across the table, enjoying each other and our children, and finding something wonderful in the space we're in. It's silly to worry about where we'll be, because wherever we'll be will be grand.

 

 

Invisible Children

The first night B came to us, he fell asleep on my lap, in the rocking chair, within minutes of me sitting down with him. His head heavy on my chest, his body quickly went slack, and his arms hung around me, surrendered, while I sang "Twinkle, Twinkle."

My first thought was "well that went well, how sweet", but was quickly replaced with concern. How is it that a child not yet two, can fall asleep swiftly in the lap of a near stranger? 

I am not B's mother. I am no longer his foster mother. I lay no claim to him, and he is in no way mine. Yet, he stays with me.

You don't stop loving a foster child after they've left. 

Around our house are pictures of B. In some of them he looks mostly happy, in most of them a wrinkle of concern, and apprehension remains around his eyes. It is as if he's saying "I'm happy?" as a question, rather than a definitive statement. In his hugs "I love you?" was often followed by a swipe or a scratch.

I am a mother with invisible children. They don't show up in the official family portrait. There are no pictures of them on my blog. When people see me walking my children into school, they can't see them. When I do the headcount to make sure I haven't lost anyone, they're not there.

But in my heart, I'm loving a crowd. There's M, the baby we lost, and A, the first baby we fostered, and the girls - sisters we had for only a few weeks, and B, who changed us. 

Yesterday some acquaintances marveled at our decision to adopt again. Four they murmured, "oh you're brave." They couldn't have known that I was mother to four for years. Five, even. The family you see now doesn't show all of the children I love.

I wonder how A and B are doing? I think about how old they are, and wonder what developmental progress they've made? I wonder if their early hardships are beginning to fade into a dependable, stable future? I wonder how the people who love them are handling their challenges? I wonder if they speak? Will they ever look for me in the future, searching for answers about their beginnings? Most likely I won't be recalled in their adult memories, but they will always be in mine.

Today I sit in my chair, and I gaze out the window, taking some time to sit and wonder, and remember, and allow myself to continue loving out into the void.

Heart Pains

"I'm just a nerd. A geek and a nerd. A geek means you think you're cool and you're not."

Last night I lingered in the boys' room, listening, and trying to sooth and encourage.

We are in the last six weeks of school and I want Small Sun to finish strong. I want him to win the battle that this year has been for him.

Eight years old. Big birth family twists and turns. Big move to a new country. Big school change that was different in every way possible.

It is almost Small Sun's birthday and I'm really struggling because he only has three people at school that he would even think about inviting to celebrate with him.

Small Sun, the boy who has always been the life of the party, at the center of the fun, lighting up the atmosphere.

When we make big decisions for our lives we agonize over them. Will it be the right thing? Will everything work out okay? Will I do irreversible damage to these little people? Will the big changes be too BIG?

This has been such a hard year for Small Sun.

In Australia I worried over him being one of a handful of brown skinned children in his school. I worried that he was cut off from opportunities to interact with kids who shared his ethnicity, or even his skin tone. Of course I appreciated his nurturing teachers, and I loved our wonderful school, but I still worried about that issue.

How wonderful it will be, I thought, to be in a school surrounded with kids who look similar to him, and to have his tone reflected in teachers and administrators!

Now we're here, and we've lost nearly all the other things that made school wonderful back in Australia. We have a good teacher here, and he's gotten to learn an instrument this year, but I'd say nearly everything else has been a FAIL. 

We've got six weeks left in the school year, and he'll be moving schools next year, but that doesn't make it easier when he is crying himself to sleep at night.

He's never been called a nerd before, or a geek. He's never questioned his intelligence, his worthiness as a friend, his ability to walk into school and have a good day.

I call him Small Sun (sometimes Small Son, depending on how I'm thinking of him) because he is like a sunflower, shooting up, brightly, cheering those around him. I feel like this year, these challenges have just cut him at the base. He is wilted, fallen, struggling to survive.

Was it a mistake to come? I don't think so. Will he survive this year? Has has to! I just hope and pray that he can come out of these challenges stronger, and perhaps with empathy for kids who are pushed to the edges and lonely. 

In the meantime, I'm praying often. It's time to redouble efforts to help him academically, and to look for ways to support his friendships. He has such a pack of wonderful mates in Australia. Somehow we've got to find a good friend for him here.

What do you do when you child is going through a tough season?

Devonshire Tea

First, a note about best friends.

I have quite a few people I think of fondly as my "best friend". If you're reading here and you know you are my best friend, and I'm talking about another best friend, you're not being slighted in the least. I love you all so dearly, and am going to feel free to talk about best friends from now on!

I'm part of the Teacher Appreciation Committee at our small school. I show my appreciation through baking the few things I bake well. Even though I received a note that the teachers are trying to eat more healthily, I wanted to share one last luxurious treat before I start whipping up fruit smoothies or the like. 

 In Australia you can order Devonshire Tea at cafes and tea houses, and it consists of a pot of tea (with cream and sugar), hot scones, a bowl of  whipped or clotted cream, and a bowl of jam. You slice open a steaming scone, heap each side with cream, then jam (or jam, then cream - it's controversial) and then eat it, each bite squishing delicious sweetness. You can order  Devonshire Tea by yourself, and it will be enjoyable, but it is best eaten with a friend. You argue about what comes first, cream or jam, and how much of each, and in what ratio. It is a kind of communion, this sharing of a plate.

I can't remember now if my best friend N introduced me to my first scone or not. So many of my girlfriends in Sydney considered it a ritual to be shared whenever possible. When you think about scones you may think of dense goodies, tucked full of raisins or bits of chocolate. By contrast, my friend N's scones are little pillows of fluffy delight. They set the tongues of the church grannies wagging, they are risque scones. The jam is the heaviest thing on them.

When it came time for us to leave Australia, we hosted a play date  at the park for all of our school friends to come and say goodbye. I am still amazed when I think of the turnout we received. You couldn't swing a cat without knocking out three kids in our school's uniform. They filled the sand pit, they ruled the swings, they climbed the spider's web, and they helped each other on the flying fox. People brought food, pictures were taken right and left, and we stayed until dusk, finally dragging ourselves away, arms round each other's shoulders until we climbed into our cars, wet, sandy, loved

In the midst of that wonderful crowd, I found N. She had a basket, lined with a pretty tea towel, filled with scones and a pot of jam. I can't remember now if there was cream or not, but I watched her circle the park, graciously offering this sacred food to all my people. From time to time, we'd smile at each other across the crowds in the silent way that a deep friendship makes room for others, and serves others. 

This morning I arose in the dark, while all the house was sleeping, and I tied my apron over my pajamas.

With my recipe book before me, I followed N's Lemonade Scone recipe, as I have many times before. I sifted flour, and watched the lemonade bubble and foam before mixing the ingredients with a knife, just so, like N taught me. I pressed the cool, moist dough onto my floured benchtop, leaving the gentle shapes of my fingers on the surface. I cut the scones out using a pretty glass, and then watched them puff and rise in the oven, all while the house slept. 

These rituals are home rituals, regardless of where I am. This food is love food, prepared with all the grace of good memories, and generosity of heart. When I thought of what I could do to show my children's new teachers that I appreciate the thoughtfulness and care they are extending my little dear ones, I knew right away what to do. Make them Devonshire Tea, just like N taught me.

"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.

 

 

 

 

To my Wistful Self

Darling Girl,

You've left all your Sydney friends behind, not out of your heart, but an impossible distance away for movie nights, coffee dates, and playdates that turn into dinner, with the husbands joining after work, and carrying sleepy children home, slung over shoulders like sacks of potatoes. Do not lose heart. It feels like you had those friendships forever. You didn't. They started small.

Those darling, life long friends, to whom you could open your soul, were once strangers. Once they asked you to a movie and you didn't know if you should go - you didn't know if they would like you, or if you would like them, you didn't know if you would click. You sat in your home pining for your Nashville friends, the only ones who really knew you, the only ones you could show your soul - the ones that had playdates, that turned to dinner, and husbands carrying sleeping children to the car.

All friendships start out small. First, there's the meeting. Then, the getting of numbers. You have to get over yourself and call for a coffee. You have to conquer your jitters and be so bold as to invite someone to a movie. They might say no. 

Your best, best, best friends used to be strangers. Don't despair, and don't punch your husband in the nose when he says "PMS". 

 

Permaculture

Studying Permaculture is taking up more of my time and energy these days and so I thought I would start to share about it on the blog. As I've mentioned, I am viewing this year as my transition year. I have stayed home with my children, and now that Finch is in preschool part time, and will be going to school full days next year, I want to prepare to start working outside my home again. After years of thoughtful consideration, I am deciding not to return to social work/adoption/child advocacy at this time, and am putting my brain and hands to another one of my passion - growing things.

To that end I am enrolled in the Certificate of Permaculture course through Urban Harvest, a local organization on mission to "grow gardens, and enrich lives" through farmers markets, community gardens, school gardens, educational classes, and a myriad of other green things.

I first learned about permaculture in Australia. For a succinct definition, you can view this video: 

 

The concept of permaculure originated with two bright Australians, Bill Mollison and David Holmgren.

Now, lest you be afraid that I am going to go all beardy weirdy on you from now on, take heart, I will not! I just completed the first section of the Permaculture Certificate course which was "Growing Bountiful Gardens", which combined classroom lectures and two full days of hands on learning out at Animal Farm, an organic vegetable farm that provides produce to Houston and Austin chefs, and much more. 

In talking to my classmates I have come to realize how important gardening has been to me for years. I come from generations of gardeners, and being in my mother's gardens was a wonderful part of my childhood. I have been trying to grow food for The Captain and I since we had our first place together, and I have included our children in the garden from the beginning. In Nashville, I created landscape designs for friends, and in Sydney I helped many friends start their own vegetable and fruit gardens. I love growing. It makes sense to continue on this path.

I also love nature in general, and stewardship of God's creation seems like a natural value to me, not like a hippy dippy extreme. My interest in permaculture stems from this intense love of nature, green, and lovely, and wanting to nurture and protect it. If you have time and interest, this video is the first thing about permaculture I ever saw, and I continue to find it the most inspiring. It is the most information rich, and exciting garden video I have ever seen, and I've been thinking about it since I first saw it six years ago. Who knew in 2013 I would be living in Houston studying permaculture? I certainly never did! Thank you Josh Byrne for inspiring me in the first place!

 

 

Unexpected

There are some changes in a major move that the relocation specialists, and the "Welcome to _____" guidebooks just can't help you anticipate. Things that you don't even think about, but that end up mattering in a profound way.

No one says "the intensity of the sun, and the length of daylight hours, and the angle of the sun in the changing seasons (or seeming lack of them) will disorient you entirely and leave you feeling the most primal unfamiliarity, where you awaken, disoriented, for weeks on end."

We moved to Russia during the white nights in June. The sun dimmed from ten pm until about two or three am. It was not dark, just muted daylight. Daylight filtered by the impression of night, but not night itself. Then, three hours later, the sun rises with strength, and I couldn't tell where, or when, I was.

Each time I am in Holland, I arrive in a jet-lagged stupor, and each time I am struck by the paleness of the sky, the whiteness of the sunshine, and the mournful sound of the turtledoves when I awake in the morning, to the ringing of bike bells out on the street below.

In Australia the sky was so blue, and the light so intense, I could hardly believe it was real. I took picture after picture, documenting cornflower skies against terra cotta roof tiles, the saturated colors filled up some empty reservoir inside me. The sun shines butter yellow, unimpeded by the ozone layer.

Here in Houston it is dark when I awake. I have never lived at this latitude and longitude before. I have never experienced the sun at this angle in this season. I look for friendship in the color of the sky, the rhythm of the seasons, the way things are here.

I plant my garden, I sow seeds in trays. I squat down to examine blossoms that don't ripen to fruit. I plunge my finger into the soil, to the second knuckle, dry. I roll the soil in my palm, the richness has all dripped away in rainstorms, the plants sag and shrivel.

They don't tell you in a guidebook that the very earth feels different, depending on where you stand on it, and sometimes, waiting for the firmness to descend into your feet is the hardest part. 

Two out of Three is Not Enough

In Australia Small Sun and Sprout went to a private Christian school with about 350 students spanning Kindergarten to sixth grade. Each grade ran two classes, and the whole school had assembly together two times a week.

The older children looked out for the younger children, and as a parent, I really felt that if my young children grew up admiring and copying the older children, I would be pleased. It was a wonderful school for us.

I did as much research as I could  into schools here, and knew stacks of statistics about the public schools (diversity profiles, number of financially disadvantaged students, special programs), and the details about the private schools in our budget, in the areas we were considering.

In the end, we landed where we landed, and prioritized a house we liked, and it happened to be zoned for a really good public school that met all of our criteria. It is big, about 750 students in Kindy - 5th Grade. Unfortunately, there wasn't space in the preschool program affiliated with the school, so we had to look for another option for Finch.

This is how Small Sun and Sprout feel about going to school in the morning.

 

They feel like Usain Bolt before a race, or after he's won, take your pick. They're playing in the school band, they're reigning champions of lunch time jump rope competitions, and they're surviving the American worksheet homework and myriads of tests. Small Sun reported having made "about 17" friends on the first day of school, and Sprout had "about nine best friends." They're confident, they're athletic, they're capable, and they're ruling this transition.

On the other hand, here's how Finch looks most mornings.

Forgive the blur, but this picture captures the most scowly of the scowls*. He hates the formal uniform (which includes hard black dress shoes on chapel days), he hates the formal academic structure, he hates learning a second language, he just isn't into it.

How can I blame him? In Australia preschool was something I wanted to attend. A massive outdoor space with a sandpit as big as our swimming pool, a resident rabbit on the premises, a garden, raising tadpoles, making messy art, very tuned in and empathetic teachers, bays of sunny windows, interest-led curriculum...I could go on for ages.

In Houston when I looked for a preschool I asked each place we toured "would you say your program is play-based or more of a formal education model?" As if to assure me that my money was well spent, they would all jump to exclaim "oh no, not play based! Our kids learn French/Trigonometry/Baroque Literature, etc!" If only they had known that was the last thing I wanted to hear.

I care about childhood immensely, and I have a very clear opinion on what kinds of environments and opporunities contribute to great childhood experiences. The only local preschools tailored for those types of opportunities were 25k+. For PRESCHOOL. EACH YEAR. So I picked the best of the options in our budget, and we're doing our best.

It is a good school, it's just no the right preschool for Finch at four years old. He is, shall we say, ecentric. He was finally thriving with teachers that went to great lengths to find a new dinosaur activity to engage him each time he arrived at preschool. Here he comes home and moans "we had to write so many letters, and I cried because I was so fruster-er-ated!"

My poor baby.

Two are thriving, and one is hating. We've done what all good parents do, and have resorted to bribery. "If you can make it through drop off this week, without throwing tantrums in the morning, we will celebrate with a special breakfast on Saturday with your choice - waffles or pancakes."

Tomorrow is Monday, so we'll see how we go.

Thoughts? Condolences? Opinions? We are contractually bound to pay for the year whether we stay or not, and I really don't think we'll find anything better in our budget. The teacher is good, although less tender than I'd hoped for...Sigh.

 

*I know the star looks weird, but it's the only way I know how to obstruct the school logo. I'm tech savvy enough to write a blog, but not savvy enough to do it better!