Today the twins and I fulfilled what has become a family tradition: setting up our family Christmas trees at the end of October.

It started in 2007, the year we brought them home.  Because Fred and I had been hoping to get them here by Christmas 2006 or at least shortly thereafter, we never took down our trees.  (We have two – remnants of our pre-marital days when we each owned homes.)  Consequently, H & J came home on January 25th, 2007 to brightly lit trees and a bunch of wrapped gifts.  They liked how pretty they were but had no idea what Christmas meant here, so they actually left the gifts alone until we felt ready to host the extended family for a belated Christmas party. In mid-February.

But, oh, once they figured out what presents were!  Christmas was the greatest thing they’d ever heard of!  (at least till they experienced a birthday party later that year)

So in October ‘07, somebody (we’ll blame Fred’s mom…it was probably her) mentioned that Christmas was coming again!  The boys couldn’t contain themselves, and they begged me to put up the tree.  And because they were so darned cute with their little Spanish accents and all that, I couldn’t say no.

Then on October 31st, my sisters experienced a house fire at their place, and one of them came to live with us for what turned out to be a year while their house was put back together.  She told me a few days after the fire that even though she had been so upset about what had happened, when she came to crash on our couch that night and the Christmas lights were on, it was really comforting on an otherwise horrible night.

She was still with us the following October, but it seemed like she’d be moving back home in November, so of course we had to put the trees back up early, so she could enjoy them one more time before she moved home.

I’m a sentimental sucker.  Yes, I know.

So this year, the precedent has kind of been set.  No, we don’t have any extra houseguests, and sadly the Spanish accents and chubby cheeks are things of the past.  But the little men are still awfully cute, so when they asked to put up our tree this afternoon, I found myself back out in the garage hauling out rubbermaid tubs that really ought to be Fred’s job to carry.  I think he’s gotten used to just coming home to a lit tree at some random point in the Fall.

I realize we’re skipping over a few key dates of significance in our haste, but nevertheless “Merry Octobermas from our Family to Yours!”

When Fred and I adopted Heriberto and José, we determined that we would do the best we could to keep them exposed to their native culture, make it our business to pursue more friendships with other Latino people than we had at the time, so our kids would grow up with role models who “look like them,” and that we would do everything we could to preserve and then build upon the little bit of Spanish they spoke.  Oh yeah, and parent them well in all the ordinary things at the same time.

With two 5 year olds in the house, I’ve found that as much as I’m committed to learning Spanish and building new relationships, I’m just not able to crack out the Rosetta Stone for an hour (or even a half hour) of uninterrupted time very often at all.   And most of our new relationships with Latino people?  Employees at the local stores we frequent.

But I’m doing the best I can.  And I’m learning to incorporate Spanish into what’s already going on.  For the boys, it’s one of their school subjects (we homeschool).  And for me, it’s the Bible.  Having grown up with it, I have a fairly good grasp on its contents, but can always stand to learn more of that, too.  So I’m trying to double-dip by  reading a passage in English and then picking one or two verses to write out in Spanish and then look up what words I don’t already know.

And so today, I found myself translating Habakkuk 3:19 which starts: 

Jehová el Señor es mi fortaleza  [The Lord God is my strength]

I knew that “fortaleza” was a substitute for “strength,” but the word implies a “fort;” so I went ahead and looked it up.  And according to my handy Random House Spanish-English, English-Spanish Dictionary, “fortaleza” means “vigor; fortitude; fortress; natural defense.”

Yes, yes, knew that… wait.  “Natural defense.”   Natural defense.  How often to I think of God as my natural defense?  Super-natural defense, sure.  But if I’m honest with myself (and this afternoon I WAS in one of those rare moments), I must admit that I think of God most often after I have exhausted my own efforts.

How different would my day look tomorrow if I actually defaulted to relying on His strength before running out of my own?  What would that feel like to have something left over even as the busyness of life keeps rolling on?  How would it seem for those around me?

Just some light pondering for my Thursday afternoon.    

But as I try to do the things I “need to” do, then add on top those I’d “like to” do, I’m fairly sure I’m going to need my “Fortaleza” in every sense of the word. 

So we’re taking a slow day tomorrow, the boys and I.  Some time to focus on what God has already done in our family’s life – just in bringing the four of us together for starters!  And what He’s done for his people throughout history.  We just finished reading the story of how the Israelites bucked going into Canaan because the people were giants and their cities well-fortified.  Even though they had already seen so many examples of God’s strength in their story up to that point.  And so they were turned back around into the wilderness to wander for 40 more years.

Since I have no interest in turning our family life into a 40 year desert-trip, I’m sure that I need to grow in the area of looking back to my Source of strength before just deciding what can or can’t be done on my own.  ‘Cause let’s face it, Fred’s not home all day, so I really DO set a lot of the tone around our house.  Is God my Natural Defense?  Really?

[Can tell you ONE thing for sure: gonna keep up this "re-read the Bible in a new language" thing - it's great for new understanding!]

Fred and I had one of our (many) gringo moments the night we first set up this blog.  While we owe the name idea itself to a good friend (Hi, Chris!), we discovered that HOW we spelled it sends messages we didn’t even realize. 

Mamasita – according to UrbanDictionary.com (and confirmed among other sources), “is a misspelling of mamacita, the Spanish for ‘little mother.’”  It means “a hot mama; a hot babe; a ho of particularly hispanic/spanish but possibly other decent.” 

Whoops.  Yeah, not that one, thanks.

Mamacita – means “little mother.”  And “rather like the English word ‘momma,’ mamacita can mean a mother of both the standard and the red hot kind.”  UrbanDictionary is even so kind as to note: “If you spell it ‘mamasita,” you probably don’t speak Spanish.” 

Yup, pretty much, though I’m trying to learn it in the midst of everything else and was clearly aiming for the more maternal meaning (though I do want to reserve the right occasionally to be thought of as a hottie).

So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen.  Spelling does count.  The English-major within me rejoices that we caught that one before I began snagging porn-seekers from all over the not-so-Spanish-speaking world!

For any parent, picking a child’s name is one of the most personal decisions we make in the beginning.  Bedding can be changed, rooms repainted; but we’ll be calling our kids by their names for the rest of our lives.  So we want to get it “right.”  Something that fits with our last name, something with a good meaning (if you’re into name meanings), something that doesn’t conjer up images of elementary school bullies or weirdos for either parent.

But what if your child comes pre-named?  Ours did, and so, like most adoptive parents, we had to make a different kind of naming decision: keep it? change it? modify it?  What’s the right answer?

We know adoptive parents who have done all three, and with great reasoning behind each choice.

1. Keeping the Child’s Original Name – With older children who know their names, this is the simplest way to keep something consistent amidst all the changes that they experience.  It stands as a marker of  their life story – that they are the same children throughout, and that the past and the adoption are open for discussion.  While adoption is a joyous thing in many ways, it also involves the loss of the birthparents, foster parents, and/or orphanage caregivers.  And with transracial adoption, it involves the loss of culture, diet, and sometimes homeland.  So the name may be the one thing that doesn’t have to be lost.

2. Changing the Name – On the other hand, giving a child a whole new name can symbolize a new beginning, the complete belonging and acceptance of that child in the new family.  I have friends who have known what names they wanted to give to their kids ever since they got married.  Then they discovered they had an infertility issue, and so they adopted their two kids.  And gave them those two names.  For them, it’s a way to say to their children “you are the ones we always wanted.”  Other times, name-changing is just the practical choice because a child’s name is hard to pronounce or doesn’t translate well in the new family’s language.    Rather than have the child go through life with his name constantly fumbled over or mispronounced, it seems more considerate to give him a name everyone knows.

3.  Old Name/ New Name Combination – I’ve encountered this choice most often in our circles.  The new daughter’s original name becomes her middle name, and her parents pick a new first name.  It make a lot of sense, meeting both the acceptance and consistency benefits of the first two choices.

With our sons, we went with keeping their names.  Their birthmom gave them to them, and she did try to parent them for the first couple of years of their lives.  There was no abuse or anything like that; she was simply a single mom in a socioeconomic position that made it hard to care for twin boys.  So out of respect for her and the very hard choice she had to make and the gratitude we have to her for the lives of our sons, and out of respect for their culture and the fact that they knew their names and each others’ names, we’ve kept them. 

Frankly, calling my sons by their names is a daily reminder to me that they are a gift.  We could have ended up with a different pair, but they are the ones God gave us.  They match us so well it’s uncanny, and when I did go back and look up their names’ meanings, those meanings suit them so well it’s uncanny.

And as they get older, their names also remind us that they do have a heritage that is different from mine or Fred’s, and that we have a responsibility to educate them about it.  WE made the choice to adopt transracially; they didn’t even know what was happening.  So the burden is on us to make sure they know people who look like them, have a sense of their cultural identity, and are prepared for strangers to approach them out of how they appear despite the fact that they’re being raised by white parents and fit comfortably into Anglo-American culture.

So what’s in a name?  All that, for us and our kids.  And while people do mispronounce their names sometimes, both boys are very proud that they still have them.  One right choice down.  So many more to negotiate!

I play a game with my kids, “Do you want to know a secret?”  And of course they do.  So they come over and I whisper “You’re my favorite!” or “I love you so much it’s ridiculous!” or something along those lines.  And they love it, and I love it.  And just recently, they’ve gotten the hang of actually whispering, so now they do it back.

And tonight, at my Brother-in-law-in-law’s (the Hubs’ sister’s Hubs) birthday dinner, Heriberto whispered to me, “You’re the best mom in the whole word!”

And so I begin this blog.  (Was planning to anyway, obviously.)  But I’m glad it’s tonight and that that happened.  Because I’m not his only mom in the whole world, and as soon as he said it, I thought that.  Now I’m fairly sure he didn’t think of that.  He’s only 5.  But he will.  And so goes the dance of post-adoptive-placement life.  Normal events (though special and sweet) have that second significance.

I’ll always be the second mom – to him, to his twin brother, and to the next kids we’re in-process to adopt.  And we’re very open with our kids about  their history.  So they know they have two moms, two dads, and a heritage that makes their skin/eyes/hair/history different than ours.  But we’re building new history today and tomorrow.  And when they’re grown, we’re the only parents they’ll remember.

But when they’re grown, will they still want to tell us we’re “the best?”  It’s not a given.  Unlike lots of kids, they do have another option for that title.  But we sure hope we’re that kind of close with them, even as we help them search for their biological parents some day down the road.

Nights like tonight remind me of the tremendous responsibility of parenting – for all parents, not just adoptive ones.  We’re given our kids for a time, and that time flies by quickly.  But in it, we’re commanded to love them well, train them well, give them what they need to grow into adults of good character who will in-turn care for those around them. And then they’ll be off, doing whatever it is they’ll do in their adulthood.

I sure do hope they’ll still remember to drop in on their Mama every once in a while.