A while back I mentioned a particularly pushy check-out clerk who felt free to probe about exactly why my kids don’t look like me.  I hit another one of those cringe-comments at church this weekend.  From a great person, one who’s known me since I was a little girl, one who meant to be encouraging me, no doubt. 

“I think it’s so great that you adopted them.”  ["THEM," meanwhile, are standing right next to me.]

And as I’m thinking “Oh, no!  Shh!” she continues about how great it is that Fred and I have brought the boys here and are “giving them such a great chance in life that they didn’t have before.  And that you really love them like your own.”

And while my brain was firing red flags every which way, my mouth just wouldn’t work.

However, I plan to be ready with a reply next time because… Read the rest of this entry

July 29th is the twins’ birth mom’s birthday.  I don’t know her, never got to meet her, only have two pictures of her – one with each twin at their DNA tests during the adoption process.  But I do know her birthdate, the town in which she was born, and the reasons she gave for placing the twins with us.  I’m happy to answer the boys’ questions any time, of course, but it occurred to me last year that if I set up a time to celebrate her, it communicates to them that they are free to ask and wonder and want to see her again.

And so in our household, we celebrate P’s birthday.

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Adoption has everyone’s attention this week, it seems, with the stories circulating that Russia has suspended adoptions by U.S. citizens.  Or that, no, they haven’t.  All because one mom reached her limit and made the choice to send her son away alone on a plane, with a note, to return him to his birth country (unclear if it’s actually his country of citizenship any longer, since his adoption was completed and he may be a U.S. citizen now).

All the usual reactions are out there: outrage, blame, accusations of mental unhealth (child and mother & grandmother), hints at abuse, suspicion… Read the rest of this entry

Our copy of the U.S. Census 2010 arrived today, and true to claim, it took me less than 10 minutes to fill out.  For any of you who haven’t received yours yet and are curious, you can see all the questions on the form on the U.S. Census website.

The most interesting thing (and it’s pretty straightforward, so nothing really enthralling) was that there are two separate Race/People Group questions – #8 and #9. I guess I didn’t pay attention to that last time, just checked “White,” “White” (oh so very pale) and moved on.  Hadn’t even met Fred yet, last time.

But this time, answering for our whole family, I actually had to stop and think how I wanted to fill out the latter question.  Read the rest of this entry

One of the comments on Friday’s post left me thinking about one of the paradoxical truths about adoption: that while it can be a beautiful thing, it is nonetheless a thing born out of grief and loss.

Just so you don’t have to flip back to the post, the comment was about how the boys looked happier in their more current pictures than they did in the pictures from the first day we met them.

It made me revisit the story of that day from their perspective.  And of course they look happier now!  There was nothing happy for them that day!  They lost a beloved foster mom, their familiar language, familiar-looking caregivers, familiar food, the bed they’d been sleeping in for eight months, the toys they’d played with, the clothes they’d worn.  Everything changed, all of a sudden.  They didn’t know us.  They’d been told we were coming and had pictures, but they were 2 1/2.  They didn’t understand what that meant.  That they would be handed off to us and never see Xiomara again.  That we’d take them far away on a plane.  They weren’t sure they’d like us or that we were safe.  They certainly didn’t love us.  And here we were, strangers, now changing their diapers and carrying them around, telling them it was time to eat or time to go to bed.  Most of the time speaking in a language they couldn’t understand.

All this on top of losing their birthmother, eight months prior.

I pulled out another picture of that day that really says it all:

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Were they to read that heading, BOTH of the twins would protest that they’re not babies.  But they can’t read much yet; nor are they allowed on the Internet by themselves for blog perusal or any other activity.  So “yea!” for me; I can get away with it this one last time.

Today is our kids’ 3^rd “Gotcha Day.”  For those of you who don’t know what that is, it’s the third anniversary of when we “got” them, the day we first met our sons.

January 22, 2007.  Even when I’m old and senile, I’m pretty sure I will not forget that day.  Two little men came toddling into the lobby of our hotel in Guatemala City, clutching their foster mom’s hands with one hand and photos of us in their other.

Tiny two and a half year olds (the size of one year olds by U.S. growth chart standards).  Huge brown eyes, chubby cheeks, dark brown hair, bow-shaped lips.

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Stopped off to grab a gallon of milk on the way home from one of the boys’ classes the other day, and here was the conversation at the check-out:

Clerk:  Are those your kids?

Me: Yes.

Clerk:  Well, they don’t look like you. Read the rest of this entry

I took delivery of new end tables for our living room today, and it hit me that our taste in home furnishings has taken a sharp turn in the southwesterly direction.

When Fred and I got married, we thought the look we’d go for was “Early American.”  Rugged enough for him (our dining room chairs weigh as much as the boys do) yet not so masculine that it looks like no women live here.  Well, woman, anyway.  I’m it.

Think Amish farmhouse.  But with lighting in the top of the hutch – so “Amish plus electricity.”

Then we found a few oil paintings we loved in Guatemala on our pick up trip to adopt the twins.  So “Amish plus electricity plus crater lakes, Maya marketplaces, and 15th century Spanish architecture.”

Moving from that room (and yes, we left it just like that for now) … Read the rest of this entry