As uncool as it makes me, I spent Black Friday in its entirety cleaning carpets in our house.  And Fred got called into work, so he didn’t do any better.  But since that’s NOT probably what anyone wants to see or hear from our end, here are at least some cute pix from our Thanksgiving celebrations.  Once I get a few moments to generate a “real post,” I’ll write again.  But until then, here’s our crazy family (and a couple close friends) enjoying the holiday (the night before, and then Thanksgiving Day):

Our Thanksgiving Craft – Native American Headband Napkin Rings:

Sometimes, the little thermometer thing never does pop up, and then you gotta stab the turkey a few times…

After ensuring that no food poisoning would occur:

Kids all tucked in for the night.  Cheers!

The picture that will, no doubt, be showing up in our Christmas cards/emails (the one-time-annually good pic of all 4 of us):

The boys and TÍa Lori making Thanksgiving Dinner for their stuffed animals:

Little photog in-training (my niece) - Yea!  There will be more than one of me!

The inlaws:

Thanksgiving Night Kid-aoke

Hope most of you got some great deals on the awesome sales this weekend!  I’ll have to just live vicariously this time around.

… and I am thankful for the two little artists featured above, a great hubby, siblings who are among my best friends, other great friends, our home, our neighborhood, and all the many other blessings I sometimes forget to appreciate in the process of living life.

Gracias, Señor.

I picked this day before Thanksgiving to focus again on a goal I wrote down at the beginning of the year:  To be “occupied with gladness of heart.”

I’m a journal-er and a planner.  At any time, I can look back and read where I’ve been; and I get all excited about trying to figure out what’s coming next in life.  But spending the bulk of my time focusing on either will cause me to miss what’s happening right now.

And if I get into the habit, I could lose a lot of “nows” before I realize it.  Once gone, there’s no getting them back.  Enough wise people I respect have told me that. 

So as I prep the turkey for tonight’s dinner with my side of the family and execute on all the details I set in motion weeks ago, I’m keeping both my literal and my mental cameras close at hand.  I can’t promise that I won’t “reflect on the days of my life” at all, but in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I am reminding myself of how much I have for which to be grateful today.   It’s enough to keep my mind and my heart full!

Adopting from El Salvador is going to be a long process, but I figure it’s never too soon to get buy-in from the sons we have.  They love little kids and babies, but it is going to come as a shock when they realize they have to split our attention even further.  And we have no idea how well or how quickly the new members will adjust to joining us.

So I decided I’d have H & J “adopt” the kids with us.  I’m usually the one to run the paperwork around and schedule appointments, so rather than drop them off at Mom-Mom’s house, I always take them with me.

And at every stop, I’ve told them, “and when we were adopting YOU, we did this too!”  Which they know, ’cause they have pictures in their adoption albums of Fred and me doing the paperwork rounds. 

But when our next kids flip through their albums, this is what they’ll see:

Dunno where Mamá is; looks like the big brothers are doing all the work!   (If only I could actually delegate!  sigh…)

I hope the twins remember this, how excited they are right now to be getting little siblings.  And I hope their siblings realize that they were wanted by all four of us long before we even knew their names.

About a month ago, I finally bit the bullet and began attending a Hispanic Bible study our church supports.  It’s a group that’s been meeting for a couple of years now, and Fred and I were invited to come; but we never had because we knew we wouldn’t fit in very well.  However, as I mentioned in a prior post, we haven’t been all that connected to Hispanic/Latino folks in our area aside from those the boys and I have met while out shopping every week.  And it was time to try something more proactive.

I went to the first meeting with what could best be described as a feeling of dread.  I’m not really a shy person, but I’m not that good at not being good at things.  And I am not good at speaking Spanish!  So I was a little bit terrified that I would be received with something resembling “What are you doing here you silly white girl?”

But we went anyway, the twins and I.  Yes, I hid behind my children as my ticket to legitimacy.  And yes, I did overhear a few comments about how we were all “gringos.”  In Spanish.  No harm meant, I’m sure, but there it was: my fear realized.  I don’t “match.”  I’ll never be a Latina.  And because my sons are being raised by Fred and me, they’ll never exactly match, either.  They’ll look Latino and sound Anglo. 

But somehow, once I actually experienced what I had been fearing, it wasn’t so bad.  There it was; the truth.  But on the other hand, I knew I was trying.  Trying to connect my children with people of their cultural background, trying to connect myself with people of my kids’ cultural background.  Trying to find a way for all of us to learn Spanish.  And yeah, it was dumb and useless that I took French in school, but I didn’t know that at the time, and I’m doing my best to make the switch now.  So instead of a crushing blow, I decided to frame it as a challenge and do the work to fit in.

I can’t say I feel totally comfortable now.  I want to respect the context of the group and limit my use of English, so consequently I don’t say much (anyone who knows me well, knows this is not the normal me).  But the cool thing is this leaves me with one option: asking questions that get the others in the group to give me long answers (thus saving me from having to talk and also allowing me to get to know their stories at the same time).  And wow, what a cool few friendships I’m making already!  I can’t wait till I have use of more words to express myself there.  But in the meantime, maybe it’s more useful to the others there that I’m nothing if not a space where they can express what’s going on in their lives?

I’m hopeful.  And very appreciative.  Because tonight I noticed there were no comments anymore.  No whispered questions between other members of the group as to whether I had “had” my kids or adopted them.  The core members know, and somehow that’s proven to be sufficient.  I’m in.  Yes, I struggle and my pronunciation of the little bit of Spanish that I do know is off at times.  But I’ve been accepted.  And that’s a great testimony to the graciousness of this group of people who have – I know – had many negative experiences with people who look like me, both in their native countries and here in the U.S.

I’m still “la gringa,” but a welcome one.  Good thing because I’ve had a sense for a while now that this is where I belong.  No idea what God is going to do with it, but I’m growing to love this group, my sons’ people becoming my own.

Our family’s adoption story started before we were a family.  Fred and I hadn’t met yet and wouldn’t for 4 more years.  I was a college student with three younger living siblings and a younger brother who had died shortly after birth.  Still trying for that second boy, my parents decided to adopt.

Enter my youngest brother, born in Guatemala, united with our family at 7 months old.

I was 21 when he came home, so he doesn’t even remember the time when I lived in our parents house.  He vaguely remembers my first house and coming over for sleepovers when he was 3 and 4 years old. 

He doesn’t remember a time when Fred wasn’t part of our lives, but he does know that he’s the one who gave him his nickname.  When Steven and Fred first met, Steven had never heard of the name ‘Fred,” but he knew Fred was my friend, a word he did know, so he assumed that was his name and called him “Fwend.” The nickname has stuck.

So when “Fwend” and I started talking marriage and family, we had this little 4 year old in our lives who was living proof that adoption was a great thing.  We didn’t love Steven any less or any differently than any of our other siblings, so we realized it didn’t matter to us whether our own kids were biological ones or not.  In fact, we thought, we’d like some of each – maybe two bio-kids and two kids by adoption.

After a year and a half of marriage, we switched the order and decided to adopt first, then have biological children.  We looked at all the options, and it came down to Guatemala and two other programs.  The choice from there was easy.  Why would we not give our kids and our kid-brother family members from the same country?

So we began our Guatemalan adoption in late 2005.  We brought the twins home in January of 2007, and just as I had hoped, my boys and my little brother are very good friends.  As it turns out, Steven and H & J are only 5 1/2 years apart in age – closer in age than Steven is to any of our siblings.  He’s enough older that the twins think he’s super cool and will do just about anything he says.  But he’s young enough that he still thinks they’re fun to play with.  Many a video game hour has been logged with the three of them sitting in a row on our couch.  It’s a beautiful thing, so normalizing for all three of them that they have the same story.

And so last year, when Fred and I found out we have a fertility issue that would make the “have two” portion of our family plan a real challenge, we needed only look at our photo album to know what to do.  Adoption has been in my family for 10 years and in Fred’s and mine the whole time we’ve been together.  So we’re adopting again, and again from Central America.  Turns out we have a thing for little Latinos. 

Looking forward, now, to when we have two more handsome or beautiful tan faces to add to this bunch.

Good news for those who struggle telling the twins apart – José is now “the one with the glasses.”  Turns out he has a lazy right eye.  The optometrist said he’s had it since birth, and we just didn’t discover it till his most recent annual check-up.  José was beside himself with excitement that he got to wear glasses “just like TÍo Steven,” my youngest brother who is also Guatemalteco by birth.  And he does look quite handsome and scholarly in them, if I do say so myself.

 The downside: a lazy eye doesn’t fix itself, and glasses don’t really correct it.  They just magnify everything through the right lens to alleviate the strain on his left eye.  But even magnified, everything he sees through his right eye is a little fuzzy.

 To fix the problem he has to wear a patch over his good eye for an hour every day to force the muscles in his weak eye to work.

 And even though I picked out the coolest pirate patch I could find at the costume shop, he doesn’t like to wear it.  It catches on his amazingly long eyelashes, and he complains that it’s itchy.

 So at the suggestion of a friend with a background in child therapy, I asked him if it would make him feel better if we ALL wore patches for that hour.

 And being the extravert he is, that sounded GREAT to him.

 So every afternoon in our house, we have Pirate Hour.  I set a timer, we all put on our patches, and when the timer beeps,  José yells  “…5, 4, 3, 2, 1 – Patch Off”  (ok so I mixed a little Space Shuttle metaphor in there with the Pirate Theme).  And we all put our patches away till the next afternoon.

 I have to say, it has given me a whole new appreciation for what I’m asking him to do.  He’s right:  the patches DO itch.  And using only one eye really messes with your depth perception.

 Can’t wait till “we” don’t have to wear them anymore, but for now, if you show up at our house mid-afternoon, THIS is what you can expect to greet you at the door:

Oh, and yes, I am the one WITHOUT the earrings…

It was with great rejoicing that I sent our adoption dossier off to El Salvador at the end of July.  After 10 months of paperchasing, home inspections, and fingerprinting at the state, national and then international levels, I was happy to have the whole thing in someone else’s hands for a while.

Check.  Done.

Oh, but False.

Somehow, in the midst of looking over files in August or September, OPA (the agency currently reviewing our file) decided that an apostilled copy of a health report would be best accompanied by an apostilled photocopy of that doctor’s license.

Of course it would.  So I got photocopies from our general practitioner’s and pediatrician’s offices.  Had them notarized as authentic photocopies.  Asked our notary again to get her stamp certified at her county courthouse (a paper stapled on top of the notarized document with it’s own raised stamp indicating that the notary’s seal is real).  And I found myself in the van driving to Annapolis yesterday for the all-important culminating Apostille.  The sticker that goes over the county stamp that goes over the notary’s seal that authenticates the document smothering under all that weight.

Twins in tow for all of this, as usual.

Only THIS time, I have a blog.  So wanna see it?  this sacred Apostille?  Of course you do:

Tada!  And I got two!  Woo.  Cost me $5 each.  Plus the $32.23 to overnight them to our agency, so our director can take them along to E.S. when she goes this weekend.  I’m hoping, now, to go the remaining 6 months until our homestudy expires without seeing (or needing to find public parking anywhere near) this building:

But I think I’ve learned my lesson.  Expectations officially loosened.  Our dossier is complete for now and again El Salvador’s “problem.”  I would love it if it would stay down there for a while.  Oh, and maybe get approved while it’s at it.

But that might be dreaming.

I tuned into BBC News this evening, since I figured I could catch up on world news while finishing up some mindless work I needed to do.  And there it was – video of flooding in El Salvador.  We see it all the time: drought in Ethiopia, typhoons in Indonesia.  It’s easy to become numb to the natural and human-inflicted disasters of our world.  Till something becomes personal for some reason.

And for me the name ”El Salvador” catches my attention.  Because we have two kids there.  We don’t know who they are yet.  They don’ t know we’re coming.

Scores killed in El Salvador storm aftermath – 09 Nov 09 (YouTube News Video)

Were their parents among the dozens killed by the rushing waters and mud?  Is that how we’re going to be united?  Or are they already orphans, with no Mamá or Papá to cuddle them and tell them they’re safe, even as President Funes declares a national disaster?

I wish I could claim that my heart was broken for the victims of every conflict or disaster about which I hear.  Maybe someday I’ll get there.  No doubt nights like tonight are the start.

“Lord, keep the children safe – mine and all the others.”

Buenas noches, hijos míos. Dios esté con ustedes. ¡Ya voy! 

*Photo credit: BBC News online 

Hi, I’m Fred, the Papa here at American Mamacita. I guess that makes me American Papacito, although I’m not very small… so maybe just American Papa.  Just like Kim, our boys named me. I had planned to be Dad, the name I call my father, and the name he called his father. But adoption shakes things up, and for me, it brought a new name. I love being a Papa; it sounds more personal to me–not sure why. I’ll have to write more on it in the future.

As you probably already know, we’re in the process of a second adoption, this time from El Salvador. And I’m a bit nervous about it. If you asked my friends for a list of traits that describe me, you’d probably get a bunch. Most of them I’d be proud of, and some of them I’m sure I wouldn’t. But one trait I wouldn’t expect to hear is fearful. It’s usually not me. Yet that’s at least 50% of the emotion I feel when thinking about bringing home our new kids.

When we adopted our first boys, I was a bit nervous. I guess it was fear of the unknown. But I really wanted kids. Kim and I knew there was a chance that things would be difficult, or maybe even really difficult. We had done all of the reading (well, she had). But we didn’t have a complete family yet, so I felt prepared to tackle anything. I could allocate whatever emotional/financial/spiritual/time resources that were necessary to make things work. If God wanted to give us challenging kids, he’d give us the energy and insight we needed to work through their issues.

It’s now three years later, and our kids are wonderful… and not just an ordinary wonderful. They are fun, energetic, exciting, full of joy, and downright fun to hang out with. They are growing in new ways each day. When I come home from work, they make pulling into the driveway joyful in a way I never anticipated. (For instance, most recently I’ve been playing a game with Jose where he calls me a girl, and I tickle him until he admits I’m a boy. He’s insisted on playing every day for the last two weeks.)

Our family isn’t perfect, but it’s perfect for me. What man can ask for more than a good job, good friends, and a great family? I can already see my boys growing up into strong, Christian young men… and there is no greater joy in parenthood for me.

That joy is also the source of my fear.

See, our family is awesome – just the four of us, and just the way it is. I not only feel like my boy’s father; we’re also friends. And when they grow up, I’m confident that God will honor the efforts we put in now, while they’re young. I can see us enjoying holidays with them, watching them start careers, and likely marry (no doubt to upstanding women!)

And these new kids? Well, I just don’t know them. Will they adjust like our boys have? Will they love Kim and I as much as our boys do? Will we love them as much as we love Jose and Bear?

We know that our next children will have their own set of experiences, including potentially very deep hurts that we neither completely know, nor can fix. We know they may experience serious attachment disorders that could make life very hard for us and for our boys. In fact, with an adoption from El Salvador, these risks are ever more real, since adoption-eligible children grow up in orphanages and generally do not form attachment to a single caregiver. We know there’s a chance they will have been abused, and that we’ll deal with all the issues that come with that.

When I think about it, it seems like the odds are stacked against us. How can our next children live up to what our first have already become? Will our family life be much harder when we get them?

Maybe so, I think.

But, as I pray about the next kids, I am reminded: our current kids, and their personalities are a gift from God. While we (especially Kim) have worked hard to raise them well so far, the results are in God’s hands. And so it will be with the next set of kids; the results are still His, along with our whole family’s future.

But, I don’t feel that way yet… I just think it. And perhaps that’s the root of the problem.

Or perhaps the root is my selfish enjoyment of the life we have today, a life that I can seldom imagine to be better. The whole situation reminds me of an analogy C.S. Lewis used to describe those who settle for the pleasures of this world instead of seeking God’s rewards for their lives.  They are “like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea.”

Not that my family life is making mud pies in a slum… but you get the idea. Maybe the next kids will bring even more joy than I can imagine?

That would be awesome.