Passages
I was writing a post tonight about my recent trip to Southern Utah to celebrate my grandfather’s 90th birthday and about how it exceeded my low expectations by approximately the same distance between Ruby’s hands and the end of the rainbow kite she flew against a cloudless blue sky in the hot desert wind last Wednesday afternoon. I was writing about how we settled easily into vacation mode, taking slow walks to and from the pool where my daughter shared lemonade slushies with her cousins and her uncle and then finally put together all of the things (monkeys! airplanes! rockets!) she’s been learning in her years of on-again/off-again swim lessons.
I was writing about the three generations of women who went into town for pedicures and had the greatest time they’ve ever had together. Ever. I was writing about how cousins and aunts and uncles moved around one another in spirographic circles, moving in and out of conversations, getting familiar with each other after many years apart. I was writing about the heat of 90 birthday candles, about how they make a sheet cake sag, about how they lit up my grandfather’s face as he bent to blow them out.
I was going to write about the belly dancers and my grandfather’s face as he bent to give them money, about his very sweet, very funny speech, about how sometimes things are better in retrospect than they were in the moment, and how I felt a tinge of melancholy at wishing the rosier view had been the reality.
And with my stories, I’d planned to include some pictures. But WordPress—damn-hell Wordpress!—won’t let me upload them and it reminded me of the re-design I keep putting off.
I got frustrated, hit command+A and then DE-LETE! So that’s all I got for you. I’m quitting Wordpress. Soon. I’m ready for a change anyway. Who’s with me?
What She Wore
I love fashion. It’s not a secret. But I’m not very good at putting things together in a creative or original way. I actually suck at it. Quite magnificently. When I go shopping, which I don’t care for at all, I tend to buy the same thing over and over and over again. I don’t mean to do it, I just gravitate to what’s safe: I have thing for jeans—though a reasonable argument can be made for never having too many pairs of jeans—which pile up higher than my stack of unread New Yorkers. And frequently heard comments from my husband include the back-tracking winner, “Oh, you bought another sleeveless, solid-color jersey t-shirt with ruching. It’s super cute!”
Thankfully, I’ve found a few websites to help me think “outside the box,” a phrase I dislike almost as much as “ah-ha! moment” and more than dressing room lighting, which is saying something.
Anyway, last Friday, I found and fell in love with a new-to-me website and subsequently gave over hours of valuable writing time to perusing What I Wore. The hostess, Jessica Schroeder is darling and very, very good at what she does; I would urge any woman who is looking for ideas to visit her site. I want to be her when I grow up, except that she’s probably 15 years younger than I am. There is no turning back the clock, but I can covet and borrow, which is the whole point of her website.
By Friday afternoon, I was inspired enough to dig out the only scarf I own. If I do say so myself, I think I looked just a little bit more fashionable this weekend as I cheered on the US men’s soccer team from my couch. Look at me, breaking out of my normal norms and trying some thing dangerous and new:
Okay, so maybe I look a little silly with a scarf tied in my hair. But I tried it! And the influence stretched beyond me.
He puts rabid soccer fans to shame.
Alright, if Sam and I can’t successfully translate Jessica’s ideas, then perhaps we should look closer to home for someone who can…
When:
June 13, 2010
What:
Dress: Target
Yoga Top: Target
Leg Warmers: Hannah Andersson
Socks: The Children’s Place (one purple, one pink)
Shoes: Target
Flower in hair: A stranger’s garden (she only took one!)
Where:
Breakfast at Brian’s and the Hillcrest Farmer’s Market
Why:
Because she can’t not. It’s in her DNA, which obviously is not mine. I have much to learn. The question is, can it be taught?
The art of motherhood
If you happen to be free tonight (Tuesday, May 4), come by The Loft for the opening reception for “Exploring the ‘M’ Word,” a student produced art exhibition highlighting the complexities of motherhood. The show, curated by Aimee Harlib and co-sponsored by the UCSD Women’s Center, runs through May 21st. I will be reading a little something during the reception and am honored to be included among the many talented women who will be performing and exhibiting their work.
The party starts at 7:00 p.m. and is free to the public. Either come play or offer to babysit so someone else can.
Sometimes reality is glaring
Today was the first day of the year that felt like summer. It was warm out—not hot—with a mostly cloudless sky as blue as a Popsicle®. It was quintessential Southern California, the kind of day that begs you to toss your obligations out the window and head directly for the beach with your Coppertone, a double-wide towel and your latest copy of The New Yorker. Or any of the previous four backed up on your nightstand.
I didn’t do that, though, because on Friday, I had a 2mm hunk of skin removed from my chest by a dermatologist who doesn’t think it’s “b.c.c” but wanted to be safe. If it is basal cell carcinoma, of which I have a history, it’s better to remove it now to minimize scarring. Good thing I don’t fancy v-neck tees, or anything. (Which, of course, is part of what got me into the situation in the first place, but save me the lectures. I’m a child of the 70s, a.k.a the Bain de Soleil Era.) After the doctor put the Band-Aid on, she counseled me on caring for the would and said the best thing to prevent it from scarring is to “stay out of the sun.” By which I think she meant, move to Seattle.
I’m not moving. I did, however, pair my 30 SPF lotion with white jeans, a lavender scoop neck t-shirt and a super cute, 3/4 sleeve fuchsia cardigan I picked up at Target last weekend, for a May Day party this afternoon.
Ruby had a great time getting tossed around in the pool by the other grown-ups who weren’t hiding from the sun. I settled for getting splashed on and taking pictures with my phone, mulling the familiar awareness that my child, as usual, was the only brown person in attendance. And I wondered, as usual, how long before she will begin to notice this, too.
Later, when it was time to go home, Ruby wrapped a towel around her body, stuck one corner between her teeth and began to shimmy out of her swim suit, the towel like a tent around her. I knew exactly what she was doing, but asked her anyway needing verbal affirmation as to why my heart was seizing up.
“Here, let me hold the towel for you,” I said.
“No, mom. I can do it myself.” The end of the towel not in her mouth slipped from her bare shoulder. She caught it in with her harm and pulled it around her.
“Well, you don’t need to hide behind a towel, honey. If you want privacy, we can go to the bathroom and change there.” I was starting to panic and trying not to sound like I was starting to panic.
“No, Mom,” she said, beads of water stuck to her eyelashes and glittering on her nose. The towel was still in her mouth and she was speaking through clenched teeth. “I’m trying to do it like the girls at the pool.”
I mean, really: Can the future be any more daunting?
Aftershocks: Don’t believe the current bad rap on adoption
Within a week after the news that Torry Ann Hansen had put her 7-year-old adopted son alone on a flight to Russia carrying with him her resignation letter, we received a thick envelope from our adoption agency. I thought it was a request for a donation, so when I read the contents, my stomach dropped.
The World Association of Children and Parents (WACAP*) is one of two agencies that facilitated Hansen’s adoption. That WACAP initiated a conversation with its families about the controversy speaks volumes about the organization. WACAP is renowned for its integrity and rigorous practices. It is one of the most—if not the most—highly regarded agencies in a business whose regulation can be slippery.
While reading the material WACAP sent addressing the situation, I thought back on our vetting experience. Our adoption was domestic, so I’m not too familiar with the protocol for international adoptions, and I wondered about the similarity between Hansen’s approval process and mine. In retrospect, like a woman who gets an epidural, it didn’t seem that painful. Yet, given what I knew, the connection between Hansen’s actions and WACAP’s requirements simply didn’t add up.
I scoured the Internet for more information. I rushed to dig out our paperwork, kept above Ruby’s closet in boxes stacked behind a plastic bin of family photographs and one crate filled with dusty books from college. I went to the computer archives and opened file after file, each containing some part or another of six months’ worth of information diligently culled as proof we were qualified to parent.
I was scavenging half-a-year of my life, every detail of which had been agonizingly but necessarily white-gloved, gold-starred and notarized. Looking back, I remember being at times resentful of the invasion of privacy and at others straight-up angry. I had, it turns out, forgotten the pain; to this day I adore the quaint remark, “If I can’t get pregnant, I’ll just adopt.”
Yes! Just!
Sam and I had to answer—separately—51 multi-part essay questions. We exposed every aspect of our lives from the time we were children (describe your parents’ marital relationship while growing up, what you feel was missing in your childhood and what you would do differently) to how we view ourselves (discuss your experience with counseling, therapy or personal growth practices). They even excavated our sex life (discuss your efforts to conceive biologically, including infertility, diagnosis, assisted reproduction therapies and their results and how you have dealt with your inability to have a child).
We were asked to defend our future parenting style (discuss how you plan to discipline your child and how you will spend quality time with him / her) and contend with possibilities (what is your understanding of your responsibility / commitment to an adopted child in whom special needs have developed following a placement and what do you think being a good parent means?).
We got letters of reference and medical exams. We were fingerprinted, background checked and interviewed—together and individually—multiple times. Meanwhile, 14 women I knew became pregnant, three by the “Oops!” method of family planning. When we finally brought our baby home, we had to send a Personal Letter of Acceptance.
“We did review all information about Ruby that was provided to us,” I wrote, “and have no reservations about taking on the lifelong commitment of being her parents.” At that point, all the other stuff fell away. We had a daughter. We were in.
And so was WACAP. They continued to follow up intermittently for a year with additional visits from our social worker, plus phone calls and e-mails making it known they were available if we needed anything. They underscored the network of support. Based on my experience, and though our circumstances were different, I have little doubt that Hansen’s vetting by WACAP was equally as thorough.
In a column on boston.com last week, E.J. Graff wrote of two tragedies in this story. “The little tragedy is what happened to Torry Ann Hansen’s 7-year-old son…. The big tragedy is that Russia may respond by suspending adoptions to the US.” Already, Russia has temporarily suspended WACAP adoptions, leaving matched children and adoptive parents in limbo. To be sure, waiting to hold the child you’ve been matched with, who has taken up residence in your heart, is the most excruciating part of the process. But to Graff’s tragedies, I would add another—the (misguided) bias against adoption—as a possible third. People turning away from adoption because of misperceptions would be the worst thing that could happen.
In 34 years, WACAP has brought nearly 10,000 children home to their forever families. Of those adoptions, only 1 percent has resulted in disruption. Of course, zero would be the more preferable percentage, but we don’t even see that statistic among biological parents—see the U.S. foster-care system for proof—and the media isn’t exactly clamoring to cover this story.
WACAP is doing good and important work. But the process isn’t perfect. How honest prospective parents are with their agencies is only going to be as honest as they are with themselves. It’s tough to vet for that.
As for Hansen, who knows what her story is? I’m going to say she got in over her head—that she was too scared, too stressed or too embarrassed to seek the help that was there for her. This doesn’t excuse what she did, and the repercussions of her deplorable choice remain to be seen. It is my hope, though, that people will recognize that Hansen’s unhappy ending is not the norm. It’s our happy one that is.
*To read WACAP’s full response, go here.
(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)
Uh…that was awkward
Ruby had already buckled herself into her car seat when she realized she’d forgotten the drawings for her teacher. I ignored the urge to say, too bad, kid. We’re late. Chalk it up to a lesson learned about having your shit together. (God, how I love my fantasy life.) Instead I channeled June Cleaver, set my travel mug in the cup holder, dashed back into the house, grabbed the three sheets of paper she’d worked on with her dad and headed out the door.
Ten minutes later, Ruby was handing her pictures over to Miss Sarah. “This is a castle,” I heard her say. I was distracted by her little friend G. who was hurrying to peel away his shoes and socks so I could see how beautiful his pink toenails looked. “And this is Miss Carlee as a princess,” Ruby continued her parallel conversation. I told G. that Ruby’s dad likes to have his nails painted, too. “He likes purples and blues and greens and sometimes sparkles! How cool is that?” I asked him. His mother seemed embarrassed but also relieved at my reaction.
“Thanks for saying that,” she said.
“I’m not making this up,” I told her. “He’s artsy.”
Just then, I turned to see my daughter handing her teacher this:
He’s artsy, alright. He’s 8th grade, trapper-keeper, boy-doodle artsy.
Down there in the lower left quadrant? That is a naked person bending over with an asterisk for a butthole. Up above that guy are two formerly androgynous people drawn “without clothes!” per request of the child. Since Sam decided to make these two clowns G-rated—unlike the blue muscle man bending to pick up a dumbbell—she who is obsessed with all things penis, grabbed a sharpie and filled in the blanks. And then there’s the scary monster thing with hair made of lightning bolts, a squiggly smile and a Sonny Crockett 5 o’clock shadow. Notice the sharpied-on boxer shorts with the open fly. I’m not positive, but given the severe focus of conversation in our home lately, those are either tampon strings or urine running down his leg. Could just as easily be one as the other.
Of course, the upshot—I always like to find an upshot— is that the child is accurate and has some fairly impressive fine motor skills. But back to pre-school.
I saw the drawings and gasped. Then I stammered. So much for having my shit together. I hemmed and hawed and grabbed the paper with less subtlety than I would have liked. “I’ll just take this back home,” I said, withering. “Ruby’s in a phase…she asked Sam to do it and…um…well, we don’t do everything she asks…I mean…she did it.” I was selling out my man and my kid. I was losing credibility. I looked back and forth at the teacher and G.’s mother, apologizing, swearing that we do not normally sit around the house drawing wieners and sphincters. Princesses with giant breasts and “nibbles,” sure. But wieners and sphincters?
No siree.
Normally, we prefer naked dancing.
After searching for her hairbrush for 15 minutes
The Gaydi Project: Oh! Here it is! It was in front of my face the whole time! Duh.
Sam: Why didn’t she just look there first?
She is sixteen going on seventeen
I woke Ruby this morning, got her dressed and then told her that I needed to rinse her hair in the sink so that I could poof it out a bit. Revitalize it. She started to cry a really slow, dramatic cry and continued until we had her head turned upside down under the faucet. At that point she only whimpered.
When she was all done with a head band in place—two minutes later—she ate her breakfast and watched a little Noggin. I passed through the room on one of my many trips taken while getting ready to leave, and stopped to tell her how brave she was to let me wet her hair (which was completely disingenuous because there is nothing brave about getting water on your hair and she was mostly crying for effect, but I figured a little positive reinforcement would bode well for tomorrow and anyway, it couldn’t hurt to take her seriously).
“You did such a good job letting me rinse your hair, Ruby.”
“I cried,” she said.
“Yes, you did. But you pulled it together and your hair looks great.”
“I cried because I was really stressed out, Mama.”
Wha…??? “You were stressed out, honey?” I tried not to laugh but it was sort of adorable.
“Yes. And what I wanted you to say was, ‘Ruby! I love you!’”
“Well I didn’t know that. I thought you wanted me to say that less because I say it so much.”
“No, I don’t want you to stop saying that because it makes me sad and it really stresses me out.”
She needs me, she needs me not…
This picture was taken by my friend Jamie using her Nikon D300 while she was here on vacation with her family. All I can say is it would have been way cuter if she’d used a canon 40D. But whatever. You have to work with what you got, right? This will have to suffice.
We’re off to San Francisco for five days of entertaining our little Nikon-captured roommate up there. This person who resides down the hall from me can pour herself a bowl of cereal now. By that I mean, she can get it out of the child-proofed cupboard, pour it and put it away, sealing the open bag with a bag clip. She can access the bowl even though it’s on a shelf above the counter, retrieve, pour and put away the milk. Helping herself to a spoon is baby talk by comparison. And the kid can clear her dishes when she’s done. Without being asked!
But with Candyland, a matching game, a plastic dolphin, two barbies, a pair of underwear and a terrycloth swimsuit cover-up, the child cannot for the life of her pack a suitcase. To say this makes me feel needed is an understatement.