According to social scientists, gratitude can help us all lead happier lives. I have tried to create an atmosphere of gratitude in my family, and I have failed. I try to give thanks before meals. My son is not thankful; he is resentful. Why should he be thankful?
He doesn't seem to understand that it is only by chance he was born a white male in the United States where his chances for survival are greater than his chances for survival as a black male or a female of color or a person living in what we call the Third World. But guess what? If he lived in Washington D.C., he could live to be eighty-four while a black male may not live past the age of seventy-one! (kff.org) This privilege is invisible. He not only can't see it -- it's too abstract for him to grasp.
I don't blame my son -- it is not his fault he cannot appreciate what he cannot see or feel or know as fact. If he hails a taxi in New York City, a taxi stops. He doesn't know that taxis don't pull over for people of color. How can he know these things?
I googled Peggy McIntosh who wrote "White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Backpack" way back in 1989. I remember this article circulating person to person before the Internet, and it is easily available there today. So I printed out the shorter version, and I began a discussion at my Thanksgiving table. If I am going to be asked by our culture to share a meal of Thanks, then Thanks has to be on the menu.
I was not met with much interest. It is difficult to present the topic to white males. But I presented it anyway, along with my sugar-free dessert, and got a polite nod from my husband and no interest at all from my son. I announced that we would be learning from the list of invisible (white) skin privileges for the next month as we move toward the end of the year holidays in the hope that we will learn to notice and know what we have taken for granted so that we might better understand our world and become better allies to the people of color who do not share our skin privileges. I believe that if we can see this invisible privilege as members of the dominant culture, we will be able to make better choices, and we will begin to question our society as conscious, conscientious citizens.
So I am grateful for the opportunity to try to educate myself and my family, and I am grateful to Dr. McIntosh for her brilliant article that opened a conversation years ago that clearly still needs to be continued since we still live in a culture where privilege goes around thinking it did something to deserve all the respect it gets.
Here are the first five privileges on the list:
1. I can, if I wish, arrange to be in the company of people of my race most of the time.
2. If I should need to move, I can be pretty sure of renting or purchasing housing in an area which I can afford and in which I would want to live. (I think this is more class privilege than skin privilege, but it's still privilege.)
3. I can be pretty sure that my neighbors in such a location will be neutral or pleasant to me.
4. I can go shopping alone, most of the time, pretty well assured that I will not be followed or harassed. (I assume this means harassed by store personnel.)
5. I can turn on the television or open to the front page of the newspaper and see people of my race widely represented. (I assume she means to say represented in a positive light.)
This may seem old hat to many, but I think it's time we discuss it again, for Michael Brown in Ferguson, for Trayvon Martin in Miami, for Eric Garner right here in New York City, and for many more than I could list here. Let's give more than thanks -- let's give some time to figuring out how to move forward justly in our unjust world.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Splurging in The Country of Control
Since I am unable to digest and absorb most (typical) American foods, I sometimes feel as if I am on a diet. But who wants to be on a diet? As a malnourished (thin) person for most of my life, I have had the pleasure of being able to shun diets. I've been able to say that they are not good for us; they don't really work; they create a sense of scarcity; they cause rebounding and bingeing; and on and on… And yet the word diet itself is really harmless -- it means what we eat.
Our culture today has caused the word "diet" to mean that cruel device we torture ourselves with, but it actually means what we put on our plates, our diet. My diet is mostly breakfast. I love my breakfast: steamed greens (dandelion and mustard greens, the bitter greens to help my liver), some kale or chard or collards, and some purple cabbage for color and fun. I cover my plate first with ground flax seeds (almost two tablespoons worth for fiber) and then I add raw sauerkraut (for pre-biotics) on the side with two or three sardines. (My husband eats the same thing but adds a tablespoon of chickpea miso. We are soy free.) We put a dash of olive oil on our mounds and dive in. (I cover mine with over 450 billion bugs -- probiotics made by VSL#3 without which I would disintegrate!) Afterwards he has Greek yogurt with cherries and honey. I have plain blueberries for the antioxidants. This is breakfast. We eat like Royalty in a Very Strange Country. The Country of Control.
Why do we eat this? Because my mother died when I was nineteen, and I am still angry about it. Because it is terrible to lose a mother. Because it is hard to live a long time without one. Because the week I became a mother, it was inferred (by several doctors) that I had lung cancer. Tests were done. And I took the possibility of death to heart. So for years now (over a decade), I have been terrorizing myself (and my husband) saying, we have to be as healthy and responsible as we can possibly be, because we are parents now!
So we eat everything we think we are supposed to eat, and we actually like to eat it, but it probably doesn't keep us alive. It probably doesn't protect us from whatever future is out there waiting for us, and yet we cling to it. I cling to it. I believe that this "diet" is part of what keeps me healthy and alive for my son. If I die young, he won't be able to blame the Doritos! And since I can't control much else, I control my diet.
How do I do that, you ask? Isn't it hard? When I stray from my diet, I get sick. Profoundly sick. So no, it isn't really hard, because the consequences are so awful. (Not the consequences of a few extra pounds or a hangover, which are not great either, but Celiac Disease and Ulcerative Colitis consequences are painful, embarrassing and potentially deadly.) But I still sometimes feel deprived and need a little something to ease my cravings.
Tonight I had a few dates. The sweet kind with 18 grams of sugar in each! Last night I boiled some water and thinned some cashew butter (two tablespoons) with a teaspoon of coconut oil and had that over my blueberries. (Technically my blueberries are a splurge alone so this is really super decadent for me.) Once in a while, I'll have some cantaloupe! If I overdo it, I get sick. Not the fun kind of sick, the sick that involves blood, ruined clothing, accidents… I have great respect for the digestive system, because mine demands it.
I am glad I can still digest my amazing breakfast. I am grateful that I am still here. I am four years older than my mother ever was. I try to give myself a break, cut myself some slack, indulge in a few bites of gluten-free pizza every once in a while, but mostly I want to be around for my son, so I usually let him have the rest of it and enjoy every bite of my bitter greens. I recommend a dash of Umi Plum Vinegar with some olive oil to dress them up.
Our culture today has caused the word "diet" to mean that cruel device we torture ourselves with, but it actually means what we put on our plates, our diet. My diet is mostly breakfast. I love my breakfast: steamed greens (dandelion and mustard greens, the bitter greens to help my liver), some kale or chard or collards, and some purple cabbage for color and fun. I cover my plate first with ground flax seeds (almost two tablespoons worth for fiber) and then I add raw sauerkraut (for pre-biotics) on the side with two or three sardines. (My husband eats the same thing but adds a tablespoon of chickpea miso. We are soy free.) We put a dash of olive oil on our mounds and dive in. (I cover mine with over 450 billion bugs -- probiotics made by VSL#3 without which I would disintegrate!) Afterwards he has Greek yogurt with cherries and honey. I have plain blueberries for the antioxidants. This is breakfast. We eat like Royalty in a Very Strange Country. The Country of Control.
Why do we eat this? Because my mother died when I was nineteen, and I am still angry about it. Because it is terrible to lose a mother. Because it is hard to live a long time without one. Because the week I became a mother, it was inferred (by several doctors) that I had lung cancer. Tests were done. And I took the possibility of death to heart. So for years now (over a decade), I have been terrorizing myself (and my husband) saying, we have to be as healthy and responsible as we can possibly be, because we are parents now!
So we eat everything we think we are supposed to eat, and we actually like to eat it, but it probably doesn't keep us alive. It probably doesn't protect us from whatever future is out there waiting for us, and yet we cling to it. I cling to it. I believe that this "diet" is part of what keeps me healthy and alive for my son. If I die young, he won't be able to blame the Doritos! And since I can't control much else, I control my diet.
How do I do that, you ask? Isn't it hard? When I stray from my diet, I get sick. Profoundly sick. So no, it isn't really hard, because the consequences are so awful. (Not the consequences of a few extra pounds or a hangover, which are not great either, but Celiac Disease and Ulcerative Colitis consequences are painful, embarrassing and potentially deadly.) But I still sometimes feel deprived and need a little something to ease my cravings.
Tonight I had a few dates. The sweet kind with 18 grams of sugar in each! Last night I boiled some water and thinned some cashew butter (two tablespoons) with a teaspoon of coconut oil and had that over my blueberries. (Technically my blueberries are a splurge alone so this is really super decadent for me.) Once in a while, I'll have some cantaloupe! If I overdo it, I get sick. Not the fun kind of sick, the sick that involves blood, ruined clothing, accidents… I have great respect for the digestive system, because mine demands it.
I am glad I can still digest my amazing breakfast. I am grateful that I am still here. I am four years older than my mother ever was. I try to give myself a break, cut myself some slack, indulge in a few bites of gluten-free pizza every once in a while, but mostly I want to be around for my son, so I usually let him have the rest of it and enjoy every bite of my bitter greens. I recommend a dash of Umi Plum Vinegar with some olive oil to dress them up.
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Organic Chicken Broth
Why make my own organic chicken broth? It's cheaper than buying it. Many brands add sugar! I go berserk with sugar, so that can't happen. But even if I search for the organic kind that doesn't add sugar, it is really easy to make and free with the chicken that I buy already, so I hope this inspires you to do it yourself. It's 730pm, and I'm blogging about it, so it can't be that hard.
So I buy organic chicken, because it's actually cheaper for me to buy the one that's already cooked at the store than to cook a raw one myself, plus my oven has been broken for over a year now, and that's a different story.
So I buy rotisserie organic chicken from Fairway for $12.99, and for an extra $1.00 they will throw in two sides. I get green beans and broccoli rabe. I checked with the store, and their squash has added sugar, so I can't buy that. I don't buy peppers that aren't organic, so I can't buy the regular broccoli side because it comes with pesticide-peppers, and I won't eat that.
Do I sound like a freak about sugar? The thing is that once I have some, I crave more, and on and on it goes. Sugar messes terribly with my intestinal flora, and since I have Celiac Disease and Ulcerative Colitis, I can't afford to mess around with my flora. In fact, I spend a lot of time and effort cultivating good flora (the only garden I can't show off)! So sugar is out!
So for $13.99 I get three to four meals a week, for all three of us. I mostly eat green stuff (broccoli rabe, kale, chard, spinach, brussels sprouts, etc), so the chicken is not even half my plate. I might have six to eight bites. And I love organic potatoes! Who knew the regular kind is sprayed heavily? Environmental Working Group (ewg.org) knows, and I love what they do! Check them out for which items to get organic and which to buy regular.
My son will have one drumstick and a salad and call it dinner. Sometimes he won't even touch the potatoes. My husband eats his chicken in a sandwich for lunch and goes light for dinner. He does the King-Prince-Pauper Diet where you eat a lot in the morning and then lunch and burn your calories all day... so for dinner he has a grapefruit and some almonds.
Now that it's almost winter, and we're back and forth to Vermont to ski and snowboard, we like soup, so I'll make broth with the chicken I get at Fairway today. They have a lot of flavors (plain, latin, barbecue, etc). We like the herb or the lemon garlic. They post all their ingredients, so it's easy to know what you are getting. After putting the groceries away, I bone the chicken. (I save the drums for my son, but everything else -- boned!) If there is garlic, I press it out of its skins and save that too! All the bones go into the crockpot and get covered with water and set on high. If you add a tablespoon or two of apple cider vinegar, the calcium in the bones will be released into the water. After four hours on high, the bones are soft.
All the chicken goes in a freezer baggie for our trip to VT. The sides go in baggies too -- easier to carry and takes up less room in the cooler.
I got home from the market around 2pm. After dinner (6pm) I turned off the slow cooker and let it cool. After an hour of cooling, I strained the chicken into mason jars (5, plus a lot spilled), and don't forget to leave a lot of room in the top of the jar if you freeze your broth. You don't want the jars to burst! I leave a finger's worth of space before the neck. Once my jars are cool, I will freeze a few and put the others in freezer bags to take to VT -- easier to carry!
So now I have two drumsticks for my son, about three pounds of chicken (out of a 5 pound chicken) for dinners and sandwiches, and five jars of broth for soup bases, plus two sides for $13.99.
Meshugunah, our dog says, thank you for the chicken skin, Mama! (She'll turn 16 next week -- that's 112 years old in human terms.)
So I buy organic chicken, because it's actually cheaper for me to buy the one that's already cooked at the store than to cook a raw one myself, plus my oven has been broken for over a year now, and that's a different story.
So I buy rotisserie organic chicken from Fairway for $12.99, and for an extra $1.00 they will throw in two sides. I get green beans and broccoli rabe. I checked with the store, and their squash has added sugar, so I can't buy that. I don't buy peppers that aren't organic, so I can't buy the regular broccoli side because it comes with pesticide-peppers, and I won't eat that.
Do I sound like a freak about sugar? The thing is that once I have some, I crave more, and on and on it goes. Sugar messes terribly with my intestinal flora, and since I have Celiac Disease and Ulcerative Colitis, I can't afford to mess around with my flora. In fact, I spend a lot of time and effort cultivating good flora (the only garden I can't show off)! So sugar is out!
So for $13.99 I get three to four meals a week, for all three of us. I mostly eat green stuff (broccoli rabe, kale, chard, spinach, brussels sprouts, etc), so the chicken is not even half my plate. I might have six to eight bites. And I love organic potatoes! Who knew the regular kind is sprayed heavily? Environmental Working Group (ewg.org) knows, and I love what they do! Check them out for which items to get organic and which to buy regular.
My son will have one drumstick and a salad and call it dinner. Sometimes he won't even touch the potatoes. My husband eats his chicken in a sandwich for lunch and goes light for dinner. He does the King-Prince-Pauper Diet where you eat a lot in the morning and then lunch and burn your calories all day... so for dinner he has a grapefruit and some almonds.
Now that it's almost winter, and we're back and forth to Vermont to ski and snowboard, we like soup, so I'll make broth with the chicken I get at Fairway today. They have a lot of flavors (plain, latin, barbecue, etc). We like the herb or the lemon garlic. They post all their ingredients, so it's easy to know what you are getting. After putting the groceries away, I bone the chicken. (I save the drums for my son, but everything else -- boned!) If there is garlic, I press it out of its skins and save that too! All the bones go into the crockpot and get covered with water and set on high. If you add a tablespoon or two of apple cider vinegar, the calcium in the bones will be released into the water. After four hours on high, the bones are soft.
All the chicken goes in a freezer baggie for our trip to VT. The sides go in baggies too -- easier to carry and takes up less room in the cooler.
I got home from the market around 2pm. After dinner (6pm) I turned off the slow cooker and let it cool. After an hour of cooling, I strained the chicken into mason jars (5, plus a lot spilled), and don't forget to leave a lot of room in the top of the jar if you freeze your broth. You don't want the jars to burst! I leave a finger's worth of space before the neck. Once my jars are cool, I will freeze a few and put the others in freezer bags to take to VT -- easier to carry!
So now I have two drumsticks for my son, about three pounds of chicken (out of a 5 pound chicken) for dinners and sandwiches, and five jars of broth for soup bases, plus two sides for $13.99.
Meshugunah, our dog says, thank you for the chicken skin, Mama! (She'll turn 16 next week -- that's 112 years old in human terms.)
Monday, December 2, 2013
RELAUNCHING MY LIFE
I recently logged on to my old blog -- I haven't been here in years! And I have over a thousand views. This shocked me. I had no idea that anyone was really interested in what I was writing (back then I was writing a lot about adoption, because that was what I was living). Well, that got me to thinking, maybe I should just do this. Maybe people will be interested in what I have to say.
I have to say that I have been working really hard to turn my life back on.
A little background here -- I used to be a playwright with an MFA and teaching credits loving my NYC single life in an amazing apartment in Chelsea, and then my grandmother died, and then my father died four days later, and then as I was grieving all that, and trying to move to pay my father's estate taxes, and then 9/11 happened, so yes, we're talking history here, and I moved uptown, way uptown to where I can see the Harlem River meet the Hudson River, and I fell in love with my gorgeous new 'hood called Inwood (which is in Manhattan, even though many NYers don't believe me), and I met my husband, and we got married and had a baby. And then we couldn't have more, so we adopted a little boy from the Congo.
Long story short, we unadopted our little boy from the Congo. Even though he was (and is) amazing and wonderful and lovable, he could not live in our family because everyone in a family must be safe in their home, and our older son could not be kept safe with our little one around. Izzy is now living with his new family, and he is fine. There are no little ones anywhere near his age for him to compete with, and he will thrive and be loved as he deserves.
Turns out that many adoptions don't work out (almost 25% according to Child Welfare Information Gateway), and I have spent the past twenty months or so trying to grieve our loss and move toward living in a family that I love in a joyful, positive way. We have been healing and helping each other to let go of the worst of the reality of what we lived through. And this holiday season, I am finally feeling as if we are done with all that. Maybe this year I will send out holiday cards once again (I didn't last year -- I couldn't).
So here I am, still married to the same amazing man, still mom to the same amazing child I birthed just over a decade ago, but no longer working to get back to my playwriting -- instead I am actually doing it! I am happy to report that I completed two full-length plays this year, and three short plays, and I am sending them out to theaters/directors/friends, whoever wants to read them, let me know! I am thrilled to get feedback! (Wish list -- I could use a group of writers interested in sharing and caring uptown on a monthly basis! I am even happy to host us.)
What I want to do with this blog is write about many different things. I am thinking FOOD (cause I love it, and I want everyone to know how to eat more healthily and with ease, because cooking can be simple if you get prepared and have some tips). I am thinking KIDS (because I have one, and I ponder issues relating to him all the time, like how can I protect him from everything without denying him his independence??? I am thinking HORMONES -- I have been reading Dr. Sara Gottfried's book, The Hormone Cure and loving it! On Day 3 of my Vitex and Vitamin C solution, because apparently I have high cortisol, low progesterone and high estrogen, and I will be working on all that as I move closer and closer to the big M of menopause, and I want to do it as JUICILY as possible! And other stuff will crop up, so please keep reading and responding, and I will try to stay on top of my NEW BLOG!
I have to say that I have been working really hard to turn my life back on.
A little background here -- I used to be a playwright with an MFA and teaching credits loving my NYC single life in an amazing apartment in Chelsea, and then my grandmother died, and then my father died four days later, and then as I was grieving all that, and trying to move to pay my father's estate taxes, and then 9/11 happened, so yes, we're talking history here, and I moved uptown, way uptown to where I can see the Harlem River meet the Hudson River, and I fell in love with my gorgeous new 'hood called Inwood (which is in Manhattan, even though many NYers don't believe me), and I met my husband, and we got married and had a baby. And then we couldn't have more, so we adopted a little boy from the Congo.
Long story short, we unadopted our little boy from the Congo. Even though he was (and is) amazing and wonderful and lovable, he could not live in our family because everyone in a family must be safe in their home, and our older son could not be kept safe with our little one around. Izzy is now living with his new family, and he is fine. There are no little ones anywhere near his age for him to compete with, and he will thrive and be loved as he deserves.
Turns out that many adoptions don't work out (almost 25% according to Child Welfare Information Gateway), and I have spent the past twenty months or so trying to grieve our loss and move toward living in a family that I love in a joyful, positive way. We have been healing and helping each other to let go of the worst of the reality of what we lived through. And this holiday season, I am finally feeling as if we are done with all that. Maybe this year I will send out holiday cards once again (I didn't last year -- I couldn't).
So here I am, still married to the same amazing man, still mom to the same amazing child I birthed just over a decade ago, but no longer working to get back to my playwriting -- instead I am actually doing it! I am happy to report that I completed two full-length plays this year, and three short plays, and I am sending them out to theaters/directors/friends, whoever wants to read them, let me know! I am thrilled to get feedback! (Wish list -- I could use a group of writers interested in sharing and caring uptown on a monthly basis! I am even happy to host us.)
What I want to do with this blog is write about many different things. I am thinking FOOD (cause I love it, and I want everyone to know how to eat more healthily and with ease, because cooking can be simple if you get prepared and have some tips). I am thinking KIDS (because I have one, and I ponder issues relating to him all the time, like how can I protect him from everything without denying him his independence??? I am thinking HORMONES -- I have been reading Dr. Sara Gottfried's book, The Hormone Cure and loving it! On Day 3 of my Vitex and Vitamin C solution, because apparently I have high cortisol, low progesterone and high estrogen, and I will be working on all that as I move closer and closer to the big M of menopause, and I want to do it as JUICILY as possible! And other stuff will crop up, so please keep reading and responding, and I will try to stay on top of my NEW BLOG!
Friday, March 30, 2012
Another Mother
How to build a poem after the death of Adrienne Rich
is the most necessary impossibility of my life.
First I cannot even choose or find the right pen
or is that dumb or wrong or phallic
She would shoot me a glance -- don't be stupid
I hear her and then I hear another, my biological mother interrupting
Adrienne might put her hand on my cheek, say munchkin or liebkind,
some gentle forgiving words the way she did in my dreams.
Adrienne looked like my mother if my mother had lived in black and white
never full color full blown and unbearable both short Jewish women
with arms that might run combines, harvest wheat in Russia, pull beets from the earth
with rough hands making borscht with onions and sour cream.
I wanted Adrienne alone or even in a room full of one thousand
other pairs of ears while she spoke into the microphone bent beside her mouth
on a box behind a podium I wanted my eyes to trace
the outlines of her shoulders, jawline, breasts and now
she's dead I refuse to let this mean that I am lost
I am not lost.
I can find her in the empty parts she left inside her words.
I remember first stealing those big gaps, considering the Holocaust
a subject to assume, new words including oven, grasp and skin
women as in two women, something else to write about
Oh, how I tried to become a lesbian for this tiny angry poet
who wrote my life to me before I lived it tried so hard to show everyone
what real was, felt and tasted like She breathed into me
the desire to work so hard to get good at it until I could be
denigrated by famous men in Iowa for liking her, loving her,
for putting her on my short list, and it was years after she had become
her own pillar the fortress of words in the shape of a woman
ten times the size of those penis-people who tried to put her down
It is hard to be a mother of small boys and feel true to her,
the mother of small boys, how did she do it? Surviving to write it all down
living eighty-two years, honest, responding, highly definitively real how
dare she leave us all to grieve and grope at the hole she imparts
a hole no one can fill only play Nina Simone
reread all she wrote and cry another mother dead!
And a voice, and a heart til now beating through a life
that stood up to every insult, poet in this world that spins too fast
for words to heal Adrienne, finder of the ways to pen
a balm for wounds without softening or trying to hide the scabs
resultant scars and hobbled parts we can be proud of
and through these tears I'm smiling even though I never got to thank her.
is the most necessary impossibility of my life.
First I cannot even choose or find the right pen
or is that dumb or wrong or phallic
She would shoot me a glance -- don't be stupid
I hear her and then I hear another, my biological mother interrupting
Adrienne might put her hand on my cheek, say munchkin or liebkind,
some gentle forgiving words the way she did in my dreams.
Adrienne looked like my mother if my mother had lived in black and white
never full color full blown and unbearable both short Jewish women
with arms that might run combines, harvest wheat in Russia, pull beets from the earth
with rough hands making borscht with onions and sour cream.
I wanted Adrienne alone or even in a room full of one thousand
other pairs of ears while she spoke into the microphone bent beside her mouth
on a box behind a podium I wanted my eyes to trace
the outlines of her shoulders, jawline, breasts and now
she's dead I refuse to let this mean that I am lost
I am not lost.
I can find her in the empty parts she left inside her words.
I remember first stealing those big gaps, considering the Holocaust
a subject to assume, new words including oven, grasp and skin
women as in two women, something else to write about
Oh, how I tried to become a lesbian for this tiny angry poet
who wrote my life to me before I lived it tried so hard to show everyone
what real was, felt and tasted like She breathed into me
the desire to work so hard to get good at it until I could be
denigrated by famous men in Iowa for liking her, loving her,
for putting her on my short list, and it was years after she had become
her own pillar the fortress of words in the shape of a woman
ten times the size of those penis-people who tried to put her down
It is hard to be a mother of small boys and feel true to her,
the mother of small boys, how did she do it? Surviving to write it all down
living eighty-two years, honest, responding, highly definitively real how
dare she leave us all to grieve and grope at the hole she imparts
a hole no one can fill only play Nina Simone
reread all she wrote and cry another mother dead!
And a voice, and a heart til now beating through a life
that stood up to every insult, poet in this world that spins too fast
for words to heal Adrienne, finder of the ways to pen
a balm for wounds without softening or trying to hide the scabs
resultant scars and hobbled parts we can be proud of
and through these tears I'm smiling even though I never got to thank her.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Father's Day
Last Father's Day Israel weighed twenty-four pounds and clung to my husband, calling him Papa in a tiny French accent. I couldn't pry him off his Papa. And he was so sick, he had night sweats from TB, and he slept on Scotty all night, soaking him and kicking him. There are many good reasons for newborns to be small. Israel, when he was newborn to us, wasn't small, and his kicks landed and bruised us, and we hadn't had any time to learn to love him yet. Adoption can be a difficult road.
We didn't go anywhere to celebrate Father's Day because we were in shock just like brand new parents with a newborn. We worried all the time that we were freaking him out. We shouldn't have worried so much. He was totally freaked out, but he has almost no memory of it at all.
We took him to Vermont. Papa taught him to fish, and he taught him to swim. Papa played shark with him in the water, and let him ride on his back and play whale-rider. Papa was the father in the pool with whom all the other kids tried to play. Papa also taught him to ski. Now Izzy wants to learn to snowboard, and he just calls him Pop.
Israel had a low of awe for Scott when they first got home. Scott ran a mile, carrying luggage and Izzy on his back, at the airport to make the plane. Scott carried Israel out of the Congo and fed him pizza. Now Israel knows that I am the person who will feed him, but he is starting to grasp the idea that even though I buy and cook all the food, it is Pop's money that pays for it all. In this year's Father's Day card, he thanked him for Costco.
Here are a few things that Scott did as a parent for Israel this year. He sent him to violin school. Israel had music theory classes, group music lessons, and private lessons all year long, and he is now learning his seventh song. Scott attended his two big concerts, including one at Carnegie Hall, plus three recitals. Scott also had Israel converted to Judaism with a ritual mikveh bath and a naming ceremony. He paid for small group French classes every week. He also spends time with him over the weekends and in the mornings before work when they play ball or ride bikes in the park. Scott has stood by Israel in the emergency room and shared his iPad with him. Most of all, Scott supports our choice to keep our family as close as we can through homeschooling. So Israel was not sent to daycare or preschool this year, and he won't be starting kindergarten in the fall. He is with his brother Eddie and me all day long, and we try to help him learn what he wants to learn. The most important thing Scott is helping him to learn is that we are his family.
This Father's Day Israel weighs forty-six pounds and really looks like the five year old that he is. He is cured of TB. He has lost his little French accent. Not a newborn anymore. No longer new to us either. He is our Izzy. He still insists we are not his real family, and he threatens to leave us the minute he turns eighteen, but the next moment he is hugging us and hanging on us and hard to pry off, telling us how much he loves us.
One of the first things that Eddie did when Israel arrived was to sing to him from the Broadway show, Oliver! "Consider yourself at home! Consider yourself part of the family!" So Izzy quickly got to love that music, and I'll never forget when Scott sat down to dinner one night, and Izzy sang to him. "I'll do anything, for you, dear, anything, for you mean everything to me!"
I hope for Father's Day that Izzy will sing it again, or if not, at least Scott can remember it as part of his first year as Izzy's Pop.
We didn't go anywhere to celebrate Father's Day because we were in shock just like brand new parents with a newborn. We worried all the time that we were freaking him out. We shouldn't have worried so much. He was totally freaked out, but he has almost no memory of it at all.
We took him to Vermont. Papa taught him to fish, and he taught him to swim. Papa played shark with him in the water, and let him ride on his back and play whale-rider. Papa was the father in the pool with whom all the other kids tried to play. Papa also taught him to ski. Now Izzy wants to learn to snowboard, and he just calls him Pop.
Israel had a low of awe for Scott when they first got home. Scott ran a mile, carrying luggage and Izzy on his back, at the airport to make the plane. Scott carried Israel out of the Congo and fed him pizza. Now Israel knows that I am the person who will feed him, but he is starting to grasp the idea that even though I buy and cook all the food, it is Pop's money that pays for it all. In this year's Father's Day card, he thanked him for Costco.
Here are a few things that Scott did as a parent for Israel this year. He sent him to violin school. Israel had music theory classes, group music lessons, and private lessons all year long, and he is now learning his seventh song. Scott attended his two big concerts, including one at Carnegie Hall, plus three recitals. Scott also had Israel converted to Judaism with a ritual mikveh bath and a naming ceremony. He paid for small group French classes every week. He also spends time with him over the weekends and in the mornings before work when they play ball or ride bikes in the park. Scott has stood by Israel in the emergency room and shared his iPad with him. Most of all, Scott supports our choice to keep our family as close as we can through homeschooling. So Israel was not sent to daycare or preschool this year, and he won't be starting kindergarten in the fall. He is with his brother Eddie and me all day long, and we try to help him learn what he wants to learn. The most important thing Scott is helping him to learn is that we are his family.
This Father's Day Israel weighs forty-six pounds and really looks like the five year old that he is. He is cured of TB. He has lost his little French accent. Not a newborn anymore. No longer new to us either. He is our Izzy. He still insists we are not his real family, and he threatens to leave us the minute he turns eighteen, but the next moment he is hugging us and hanging on us and hard to pry off, telling us how much he loves us.
One of the first things that Eddie did when Israel arrived was to sing to him from the Broadway show, Oliver! "Consider yourself at home! Consider yourself part of the family!" So Izzy quickly got to love that music, and I'll never forget when Scott sat down to dinner one night, and Izzy sang to him. "I'll do anything, for you, dear, anything, for you mean everything to me!"
I hope for Father's Day that Izzy will sing it again, or if not, at least Scott can remember it as part of his first year as Izzy's Pop.
Balancing on the Tree Railings Again
This particular block between Broadway and Columbus in the West 60s is apparently not where I should be walking with my son Israel, because one week after the incident I described with the doorman and the super, we were balancing on the tree railings yet again, when we were passed by a well-dressed grandma-type, with a gold and turquoise Mogen David around her neck, and except for that, she could easily have been my own mother or mother-in-law. My own mother and mother-in-law would never wear visible signs of their Jewishness the way this woman does, but then my mom and mother-in-law didn't and don't live in New York City.
She stared at us. I thought, doesn't she think we're cute! She glared at us. I thought, oh no, not again! Then she passed us, and I thought, phew! But then she turned around and stopped.
"Is he yours?" she asked. She didn't smile. She wasn't asking nicely.
Since we were on our weekly mission to balance on every single railing on the south side of the street, we continued forward. She had to turn and keep up with us.
"Yes, he is!" I said, proudly with a big smile. "Isn't he cute?" I challenged.
She smirked.
"He's been home a whole year now, from the Congo!" I told her, again with pride, again with a big smile.
She softened. Maybe she thinks: war, famine, charity. I am not trying to get her to feel badly for my son who is doing great, no longer licks his plate clean, would prefer bread without crust these days. I am just trying to get her to think.
"Mama, no talking!" Israel tells me.
"Oh Israel, this nice lady wants to know about you. She's curious."
I know Israel hates it when I tell people stuff about him, and yet, I have a hard time not letting people know who he is and how proud I am of him. I believe that there are people who need to know.
"What is his name?" She now wears the look of horror that I prefer not to take in, so I keep my eyes on my little guy.
"His name is Israel," I tell her, emphasizing the three syllables distinctly.
"Isn't that a bit, uh, ironic?" she asks.
"Actually it was his birth name, and yes, I think it's very ironic, since although I am Jewish, I am not a Zionist." I let that sit in her craw for a moment.
"A lot of orphanages give biblical names to the children. I think it has to do with hope," I say, and again, she softens. And I notice that in myself I have softened too. I am no longer angry with her for intruding. I smile for real now. She smiles back.
"Well, good luck, Israel," she tells him and leaves.
I think we all have these softer and harder places, like lakes often have warm and cold spots, and it is really just a matter of finding them, noticing if we get stuck in a cold spot, or, if we are in a soft spot, learning to stay there, to let compassion be where we live.
She stared at us. I thought, doesn't she think we're cute! She glared at us. I thought, oh no, not again! Then she passed us, and I thought, phew! But then she turned around and stopped.
"Is he yours?" she asked. She didn't smile. She wasn't asking nicely.
Since we were on our weekly mission to balance on every single railing on the south side of the street, we continued forward. She had to turn and keep up with us.
"Yes, he is!" I said, proudly with a big smile. "Isn't he cute?" I challenged.
She smirked.
"He's been home a whole year now, from the Congo!" I told her, again with pride, again with a big smile.
She softened. Maybe she thinks: war, famine, charity. I am not trying to get her to feel badly for my son who is doing great, no longer licks his plate clean, would prefer bread without crust these days. I am just trying to get her to think.
"Mama, no talking!" Israel tells me.
"Oh Israel, this nice lady wants to know about you. She's curious."
I know Israel hates it when I tell people stuff about him, and yet, I have a hard time not letting people know who he is and how proud I am of him. I believe that there are people who need to know.
"What is his name?" She now wears the look of horror that I prefer not to take in, so I keep my eyes on my little guy.
"His name is Israel," I tell her, emphasizing the three syllables distinctly.
"Isn't that a bit, uh, ironic?" she asks.
"Actually it was his birth name, and yes, I think it's very ironic, since although I am Jewish, I am not a Zionist." I let that sit in her craw for a moment.
"A lot of orphanages give biblical names to the children. I think it has to do with hope," I say, and again, she softens. And I notice that in myself I have softened too. I am no longer angry with her for intruding. I smile for real now. She smiles back.
"Well, good luck, Israel," she tells him and leaves.
I think we all have these softer and harder places, like lakes often have warm and cold spots, and it is really just a matter of finding them, noticing if we get stuck in a cold spot, or, if we are in a soft spot, learning to stay there, to let compassion be where we live.
Friday, June 17, 2011
My Adorable Miracle
So I was walking with Israel down the street where we go to get the bus to violin after dropping Eddie off at Hebrew School. It is a tree-lined street in the West 60s, and the trees are surrounded by wrought iron railings that designate the trees's space and presumably provide protection to the flowers planted there from trampling dogs and other creatures.
My boys love to balance on the wrought iron. Eddie does this easily now, occasionally grabbing the tree trunk or leaping off the iron onto the sidewalk. Israel needs my help. Since he is new to this, I have pointed out that he should try never to fall toward the tree, because he might hurt the flowers. He knows the names of many flowers now, and he loves daffodils, and he told me, "I don't want to hurt the daffodils, Mama." I was pretty confident that he wouldn't.
The first building we pass, as he balances on the wrought iron, holding my hand, being very careful, is a doorman building. The doorman is a white man in his forties. He has an accent that I can only say is from somewhere in Eastern Europe. The doorman yells at us, "hey! There are flowers growing there!"
Very calmly, without shouting, without losing my focus on Israel, without dropping his hand, without turning to face this man, I say, "yes, I know, and there are also children growing here." We walk over to the second railing and begin to balance there.
The super arrives and speaks with the doorman. Here is a man in a white undershirt and workpants who is younger than the doorman and also has an Eastern European accent.
"What are you crazy?" he yells at me.
I smile at Israel.
"Should I get down, Mama?"
"You're fine. You can do this."
"Lady, didn't you hear the doorman tell you to get off the flowers?"
"I'm not on the flowers. My son won't hurt the flowers." We continue to the next railing. The super follows us down the sidewalk.
"Do you want me to call the police on you?"
"You are free to do whatever you want to do, sir."
(When I lived in Paris, one good rule I picked up was to always be nicer and more polite than the person with whom you are arguing. If you don't win the argument, at least you have raised their blood pressure higher than your own.)
"Mama?"
"Don't worry. Keep balancing. You're doing fine. You are not doing anything wrong."
A well-dressed white woman is walking toward us on the sidewalk. The super goes up to her.
"Do you see what this crazy woman is doing?"
I don't know what she says to him because I am afraid to catch her eye, so I keep reassuring Israel that he has every right in the world to walk on the railings since every child I've ever known has always done exactly what he is doing, and he is doing it well and carefully. We are now well away from the doorman's personal daffodils, at least half-way down the block, but it seems that the super has business down here too, because he moves with us and stops on a brownstone stoop.
"Crazy lady! Hey, I'm talking to you!"
"You are yelling, sir," I tell him, in a very controlled normal tone.
"Don't you get what I'm saying to you?"
I shrug and smile at my son. "Whatever his problem is, we don't have to let it bother us."
The super goes into the brownstone. Israel and I continue down the street at our slowest pace, and Izzy balances on every single tree railing. When a bus comes down Columbus, he starts to jump off the railing, but I hold him on the rail and show him that it wasn't our bus anyway. When we do get to the corner, our bus arrives at the same time.
On the bus I remind him that he didn't do anything wrong, that he can be proud of himself and ignore people like that on the street. It takes me well over five hours to even begin to think of this incident as motivated by race.
At home that night, we run into our super who is a white man of Polish descent. Every time he sees Israel, he cracks up laughing. As a playwright, sitting in the back of many theatres, I have known happy laughter and laughter that might turn into tears, and I know the sound of embarrassed laughter. My super's laughter is that awful uncomfortable kind. I am not faulting or judging him for it. I doubt he can help it. I rarely even think of it anymore, but I heard it when we got home, and I realized that some people do not gaze on my child as if he is the adorable miracle I know and love. Some people see a black kid and get angry. Are they more angry to see that he is being raised by a white woman? Is there anything I can do about this sort of reaction?
My boys love to balance on the wrought iron. Eddie does this easily now, occasionally grabbing the tree trunk or leaping off the iron onto the sidewalk. Israel needs my help. Since he is new to this, I have pointed out that he should try never to fall toward the tree, because he might hurt the flowers. He knows the names of many flowers now, and he loves daffodils, and he told me, "I don't want to hurt the daffodils, Mama." I was pretty confident that he wouldn't.
The first building we pass, as he balances on the wrought iron, holding my hand, being very careful, is a doorman building. The doorman is a white man in his forties. He has an accent that I can only say is from somewhere in Eastern Europe. The doorman yells at us, "hey! There are flowers growing there!"
Very calmly, without shouting, without losing my focus on Israel, without dropping his hand, without turning to face this man, I say, "yes, I know, and there are also children growing here." We walk over to the second railing and begin to balance there.
The super arrives and speaks with the doorman. Here is a man in a white undershirt and workpants who is younger than the doorman and also has an Eastern European accent.
"What are you crazy?" he yells at me.
I smile at Israel.
"Should I get down, Mama?"
"You're fine. You can do this."
"Lady, didn't you hear the doorman tell you to get off the flowers?"
"I'm not on the flowers. My son won't hurt the flowers." We continue to the next railing. The super follows us down the sidewalk.
"Do you want me to call the police on you?"
"You are free to do whatever you want to do, sir."
(When I lived in Paris, one good rule I picked up was to always be nicer and more polite than the person with whom you are arguing. If you don't win the argument, at least you have raised their blood pressure higher than your own.)
"Mama?"
"Don't worry. Keep balancing. You're doing fine. You are not doing anything wrong."
A well-dressed white woman is walking toward us on the sidewalk. The super goes up to her.
"Do you see what this crazy woman is doing?"
I don't know what she says to him because I am afraid to catch her eye, so I keep reassuring Israel that he has every right in the world to walk on the railings since every child I've ever known has always done exactly what he is doing, and he is doing it well and carefully. We are now well away from the doorman's personal daffodils, at least half-way down the block, but it seems that the super has business down here too, because he moves with us and stops on a brownstone stoop.
"Crazy lady! Hey, I'm talking to you!"
"You are yelling, sir," I tell him, in a very controlled normal tone.
"Don't you get what I'm saying to you?"
I shrug and smile at my son. "Whatever his problem is, we don't have to let it bother us."
The super goes into the brownstone. Israel and I continue down the street at our slowest pace, and Izzy balances on every single tree railing. When a bus comes down Columbus, he starts to jump off the railing, but I hold him on the rail and show him that it wasn't our bus anyway. When we do get to the corner, our bus arrives at the same time.
On the bus I remind him that he didn't do anything wrong, that he can be proud of himself and ignore people like that on the street. It takes me well over five hours to even begin to think of this incident as motivated by race.
At home that night, we run into our super who is a white man of Polish descent. Every time he sees Israel, he cracks up laughing. As a playwright, sitting in the back of many theatres, I have known happy laughter and laughter that might turn into tears, and I know the sound of embarrassed laughter. My super's laughter is that awful uncomfortable kind. I am not faulting or judging him for it. I doubt he can help it. I rarely even think of it anymore, but I heard it when we got home, and I realized that some people do not gaze on my child as if he is the adorable miracle I know and love. Some people see a black kid and get angry. Are they more angry to see that he is being raised by a white woman? Is there anything I can do about this sort of reaction?
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Israel's First Shakespeare Play
So he's been home a whole year now, and I haven't taken him to see any Shakespeare at all yet, but tonight we had to plunge in, because it was Scott's night out, and Edward and I are scheduled to see fourteen classic shows this summer (mostly Shakespeare with a few Greeks, a Chekhov and a Moliere), and we are behind already due to crazy sickness last week, so off we went (Eddie, Izzy and me) to see The Merry Wives of Windsor by Hudson Warehouse at 89th and Riverside.
I brought lawn chairs, because they stage on the marble steps of the war memorial, and I can't bear to sit there for two hours, but Eddie preferred to climb the walls and watch from up high, while Izzy was happy to sit on the free cushions. I worried that the boys might be bored, but Izzy was really into it, asked appropriate questions, referred often to the photos on the program cover -- "she is married? she is getting married? he likes her? he is funny?" He laughed in appropriate places, carefully absorbing everything the audience did in response. He was surprised by the humor and the physical comedy that the actors provided. He will do the hip-thrusting "Dr Cassius dance" for the next few years I'm sure!
Afterwards, Izzy was thrilled that love won out, and the girl got to marry the boy she wanted. Eddie, my romantic, couldn't understand how the actors could stand being pawed on stage by people they didn't really love in real life. Izzy got to punch Falstaff in his padded belly. Eddie got to quote Shakespeare all the way home calling himself "an ass"! Izzy recounted most of the play accurately to Papa before bed. Eddie loved how Ann Page's true love recited Shakespeare's sonnets to heavy metal music. And I have two Shakespeare fans at home now, happily fast asleep!
I brought lawn chairs, because they stage on the marble steps of the war memorial, and I can't bear to sit there for two hours, but Eddie preferred to climb the walls and watch from up high, while Izzy was happy to sit on the free cushions. I worried that the boys might be bored, but Izzy was really into it, asked appropriate questions, referred often to the photos on the program cover -- "she is married? she is getting married? he likes her? he is funny?" He laughed in appropriate places, carefully absorbing everything the audience did in response. He was surprised by the humor and the physical comedy that the actors provided. He will do the hip-thrusting "Dr Cassius dance" for the next few years I'm sure!
Afterwards, Izzy was thrilled that love won out, and the girl got to marry the boy she wanted. Eddie, my romantic, couldn't understand how the actors could stand being pawed on stage by people they didn't really love in real life. Izzy got to punch Falstaff in his padded belly. Eddie got to quote Shakespeare all the way home calling himself "an ass"! Izzy recounted most of the play accurately to Papa before bed. Eddie loved how Ann Page's true love recited Shakespeare's sonnets to heavy metal music. And I have two Shakespeare fans at home now, happily fast asleep!
Friday, September 24, 2010
Culture Shock Continues
I put Israel in the sandbox at Hecksher Playground on Tuesday afternoon, and two minutes later I couldn't find him. After searching the entire playground (it's a huge place, in Central Park), I finally found him hanging onto a fence by the benches staring at what seemed to be space. When he didn't answer my calls, I knelt beside him and asked him what he was doing. Turns out he was fascinated by the sprinklers just outside the playground.
What are they?
They are sprinklers.
What do they do?
They water the grass.
Grass is not for eating.
That's right. Grass is not for eating.
Will there be strawberries there?
No. Just grass.
Why is there water there?
The water grows the grass.
But grass is not for eating.
That's right.
Grass is not for eating.
That's right.
Why?
Why don't we eat grass?
Why water?!
He was genuinely confused and concerned. Water, in Africa, is a precious commodity. And grass is not for eating.
What are they?
They are sprinklers.
What do they do?
They water the grass.
Grass is not for eating.
That's right. Grass is not for eating.
Will there be strawberries there?
No. Just grass.
Why is there water there?
The water grows the grass.
But grass is not for eating.
That's right.
Grass is not for eating.
That's right.
Why?
Why don't we eat grass?
Why water?!
He was genuinely confused and concerned. Water, in Africa, is a precious commodity. And grass is not for eating.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Becoming a Citizen
Things have been hectic around here, so much so that I haven't been able to get the mail from the mailbox in the lobby for a few days, so finally this morning (Sunday morning) I had my chance and grabbed it. A large envelope from CIS (US Citizenship and Immigration Services) was there.
At home I opened it up unprepared for what was inside: a formal certificate the size of a high school diploma, bordered like money, marked The United States of America, Certificate of Citizenship, Original, Department of Homeland Security. There is a gold seal at the top and an embossed stamp over a photo of Israel Isaac Sherman looking serious and sad, the look he wore in most of the photos we have of him in Africa. He isn't even trying to smile, but then it is doubtful that anyone told him why his photo was being taken.
He is listed as male with a birthdate of May 10th 2006 from Congo-Kinshasa, marital status: single. Our address is given as where he now resides. He became a citizen the day he arrived here, May 6th 2010. The certificate was issued on May 26th 2010.
Israel was building a marble run when I opened it up. This is very important, I told him. He looked up at me, oh yeah? This is from the government. You are an American now. He stood up and wanted to see for himself.
I pointed to each part of the document. Here is your photo. This is your name. Here is our address. He recognized the apartment code, F6. F6! he repeated. I live here!
He took the certificate into his own hands. He held it carefully, as if it might be hot. He paced back and forth with it past the green, red, blue and orange pieces of the marble run.
Every day, he told me, I live here. Yes, every day, I told him.
I gently took the certificate and propped it up on some family photos high up on top of the stereo. So we had a candle in his toast, and we sang, "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" and I told him to make a wish and blow out the candle, and he did.
This evening he came to kiss me goodnight as I did the dishes, saying, every day I say good night Mama. Every day I say good night Eddie. Every day I go to sleep with Papa. Every day I say good night Meshugunah. Good night Meshugunah! And off to bed he went.
He has asked me before, "but how did this happen?" as in the old Talking Heads tune, how did I get here? I have tried to explain that we went to the government of his country and asked for him, and we wrote letters to the government of our country, asking for permission to bring him here, and we filled out a lot of paperwork, so I think it made sense to him that a piece of paper should arrive granting him an every day American life.
He has also asked that he get to ride his tricycle every day, play the violin every day, eat food every day, and it is so easy to say yes.
At home I opened it up unprepared for what was inside: a formal certificate the size of a high school diploma, bordered like money, marked The United States of America, Certificate of Citizenship, Original, Department of Homeland Security. There is a gold seal at the top and an embossed stamp over a photo of Israel Isaac Sherman looking serious and sad, the look he wore in most of the photos we have of him in Africa. He isn't even trying to smile, but then it is doubtful that anyone told him why his photo was being taken.
He is listed as male with a birthdate of May 10th 2006 from Congo-Kinshasa, marital status: single. Our address is given as where he now resides. He became a citizen the day he arrived here, May 6th 2010. The certificate was issued on May 26th 2010.
Israel was building a marble run when I opened it up. This is very important, I told him. He looked up at me, oh yeah? This is from the government. You are an American now. He stood up and wanted to see for himself.
I pointed to each part of the document. Here is your photo. This is your name. Here is our address. He recognized the apartment code, F6. F6! he repeated. I live here!
He took the certificate into his own hands. He held it carefully, as if it might be hot. He paced back and forth with it past the green, red, blue and orange pieces of the marble run.
Every day, he told me, I live here. Yes, every day, I told him.
I gently took the certificate and propped it up on some family photos high up on top of the stereo. So we had a candle in his toast, and we sang, "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" and I told him to make a wish and blow out the candle, and he did.
This evening he came to kiss me goodnight as I did the dishes, saying, every day I say good night Mama. Every day I say good night Eddie. Every day I go to sleep with Papa. Every day I say good night Meshugunah. Good night Meshugunah! And off to bed he went.
He has asked me before, "but how did this happen?" as in the old Talking Heads tune, how did I get here? I have tried to explain that we went to the government of his country and asked for him, and we wrote letters to the government of our country, asking for permission to bring him here, and we filled out a lot of paperwork, so I think it made sense to him that a piece of paper should arrive granting him an every day American life.
He has also asked that he get to ride his tricycle every day, play the violin every day, eat food every day, and it is so easy to say yes.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
In The Swim of Things
Imagine here a photo of Israel, cute as a button in his one piece zip up the back swimsuit that covers his whole body like a onesie (shorts/tshirt in one), and he arrives at the pool where we are members for the summer season for the very first time, and he is like, let me at it!
I barely have time to get ready before he is in the water trying to blow bubbles, choking, and trying again. Let's not compare children and remember that it took some other child years to put his face that close to the water. So I have a swimmer now. He starts swim lessons in two weeks -- I sure can't teach him! (As a Leo, I have always hated the water.)
When people find out Israel has only been here three weeks, they are amazed. He seems very comfortable in the world. He projects a lot of confidence. He terrifies his older brother who is sure that Izzy will outgrow and out-everything him in the next month or so. You would think this would make Eddie nicer to him, but it doesn't seem to work that way.
Click: Izzy sitting on his beach chair eating pistachio nuts -- he can shell them himself.
Click: Izzy running in the grass with the enormous beach ball he got from our neighbor Jackie -- the running is underscored by the music of his constant laughter, almost hysteria. I have never known a happier guy.
Click: Izzy tackling the laughing Eddie who has the ball now.
Click: Izzy trusting me to support him in the water, on his back, kicking his legs and smiling up at me.
Click: Izzy jumping into the water -- and I catch him!
Yes, it is hard for Edward to watch his mother fall in love with someone else. I do try to show Edward as much love as I can these days, but it is hard to be loving toward someone who keeps taunting, hitting and pinching my new baby, even if my new babe is very able to defend himself. Izzy's newest word, practiced repeatedly in the car on the way to the pool: STOP!
Izzy is so quick to copy Eddie, it shocks Eddie, but it hasn't yet made him think twice. I now have two boys who open their mouths to show me their chewed food (pistachios are amazingly green, the same color as my brand-new -- thanks honey -- pedicure), two boys who try to stick their tongues up their own noses, two boys who come into the kitchen only to bless me with their farts! (That last one isn't really Eddie's fault -- I think boys just do this automatically on their own without having to be trained.)
And that is the news -- tomorrow will be Izzy's first day at the beach!!!!
Big Hellos to Donna who is following this now. Hope all is well in California! xoxoxo Emma
I barely have time to get ready before he is in the water trying to blow bubbles, choking, and trying again. Let's not compare children and remember that it took some other child years to put his face that close to the water. So I have a swimmer now. He starts swim lessons in two weeks -- I sure can't teach him! (As a Leo, I have always hated the water.)
When people find out Israel has only been here three weeks, they are amazed. He seems very comfortable in the world. He projects a lot of confidence. He terrifies his older brother who is sure that Izzy will outgrow and out-everything him in the next month or so. You would think this would make Eddie nicer to him, but it doesn't seem to work that way.
Click: Izzy sitting on his beach chair eating pistachio nuts -- he can shell them himself.
Click: Izzy running in the grass with the enormous beach ball he got from our neighbor Jackie -- the running is underscored by the music of his constant laughter, almost hysteria. I have never known a happier guy.
Click: Izzy tackling the laughing Eddie who has the ball now.
Click: Izzy trusting me to support him in the water, on his back, kicking his legs and smiling up at me.
Click: Izzy jumping into the water -- and I catch him!
Yes, it is hard for Edward to watch his mother fall in love with someone else. I do try to show Edward as much love as I can these days, but it is hard to be loving toward someone who keeps taunting, hitting and pinching my new baby, even if my new babe is very able to defend himself. Izzy's newest word, practiced repeatedly in the car on the way to the pool: STOP!
Izzy is so quick to copy Eddie, it shocks Eddie, but it hasn't yet made him think twice. I now have two boys who open their mouths to show me their chewed food (pistachios are amazingly green, the same color as my brand-new -- thanks honey -- pedicure), two boys who try to stick their tongues up their own noses, two boys who come into the kitchen only to bless me with their farts! (That last one isn't really Eddie's fault -- I think boys just do this automatically on their own without having to be trained.)
And that is the news -- tomorrow will be Izzy's first day at the beach!!!!
Big Hellos to Donna who is following this now. Hope all is well in California! xoxoxo Emma
Thursday, May 27, 2010
The Lead Report
That's not lead as in "into temptation" but lead as in pencil, only pencils don't have real lead in them anymore, because children suck on them, and lead is dangerous to children and other living beings.
So Israel has lead poisoning, but he's fine -- smart as a whip actually, very super-curious and happy. And yet the Department of Health takes an interest in children with venous lead levels over zero (translation: blood tests, not pinprick tests, that come back with any level over zero, and Israel is at 19 -- hospitalization starts at 45 with emergency chelation as a remedy). I will let you know what the treatment is for 19 when I get to that appointment, sometime next week. I have heard that eggs are good for taking lead out of the body, as in eating eggs, which might explain why Israel eats 6-10 eggs a day lately.
So J. from the Dept of Health (the DOH) returned this morning for a three hour tour (cue the Gilligan's Island music please) of my apartment, the same apartment I have lived in since just after 9/11, the apartment I have neglected to clean since my first son was about four (2007) when I decided it was better to just have fun with him than to stress about cleanliness. This has done wonders for our relationship, and we've also seen record growth in terms of our dust levels.
J. was very nice, and I had the feeling he would have rather hung out and watched Sesame Street's "Do the Alphabet with Baby Bear" on dvd than interview me on his laptop about Israel's medical history (of which I know basically nothing), but we got through the interview.
"I am so sorry I have to ask you this, but do you know where his mother was born?"
I was so relieved to have such a simple question to answer. "No," I told him.
"Well, I guess I will just put you down as his mother, and add a little note at the end explaining the situation."
His computer allowed for such things as Israel being born in the Democratic Republic of the Congo -- it was part of a pull down list for answer 17a on his form. J. told me that most of the lead cases seen in New York come from Bangladesh. (I am making up the part about 17a -- I didn't track his work that well, but it's important to be specific when writing, and it was a pull-down list anyway, and didn't it sound good?)
After the interview he used a hand-held machine pressed against my walls, door, mouldings, frames etc, to measure lead. He had a control to check that his machine was working -- a four inch by six inch lead paint sample on a piece of wood, and he regularly made sure his machine was working, moving from the wall to the lead paint sample and back again. After each area was measured, he would enter the data in his laptop. He told me how I was doing as he went along.
My apartment was built in 1926. Lead paint was outlawed in 1978. I know my place was painted in 2001, and because I have small children, I wasn't intending to repaint until I can trust that these children won't Sharpie the walls (again), so I was anticipating the college years as a good time to repaint. The DOH threw my plans into a whirlpool of worry that my mind used to spin out all sorts of scenarios where I would have to move out of my home with my boys and live in a hotel off a highway surrounded by blinking neon all night surviving on popcorn and take-out pizza (impossible being gluten/dairy and soy free in this nightmare vision), so I would slowly suffer and then die from all my currently barely-under-control digestive issues and simultaneously go broke from renovation and medical bills!
In reality, my apartment is lead-free. It is full of toothpaste masquerading as caulk, but toothpaste is also lead-free. My windowsills are peeling -- J. recommended contact paper since it is waterproof, and I have plants. I can't wait to go out and find fabulous contact paper! Lest I celebrate too soon, my door and the doorframe in the hallway (outside my apartment) is full of lead and received the very official red LEAD stamp that the DOH uses to designate places where there is lead -- barely discernible on the mauve doorframe. I do not feel even a bit like Hester Prynne, well, maybe a teensy bit, but in a good way, like I've always wanted to be a bit like a famous character in a book that everyone is supposed to have read.
I have no idea what I am supposed to do about my door and doorframe, but J. said the DOH will let me know. In the meantime, Israel went to the playground today, loved the slide and learned to climb the castle-like structures, actually accepted that it was too cool to play in the sprinkler even though it was on and looked like fun, attended violin class with Eddie, worked on tying and untying his sneakers, ate his sandwich without fuss, enjoyed carrots dipped in mwamba (peanut butter in Lingala, and doesn't it taste more like mwamba than peanut butter?), and fell asleep a happy boy in the trundle beside his big brother.
So Israel has lead poisoning, but he's fine -- smart as a whip actually, very super-curious and happy. And yet the Department of Health takes an interest in children with venous lead levels over zero (translation: blood tests, not pinprick tests, that come back with any level over zero, and Israel is at 19 -- hospitalization starts at 45 with emergency chelation as a remedy). I will let you know what the treatment is for 19 when I get to that appointment, sometime next week. I have heard that eggs are good for taking lead out of the body, as in eating eggs, which might explain why Israel eats 6-10 eggs a day lately.
So J. from the Dept of Health (the DOH) returned this morning for a three hour tour (cue the Gilligan's Island music please) of my apartment, the same apartment I have lived in since just after 9/11, the apartment I have neglected to clean since my first son was about four (2007) when I decided it was better to just have fun with him than to stress about cleanliness. This has done wonders for our relationship, and we've also seen record growth in terms of our dust levels.
J. was very nice, and I had the feeling he would have rather hung out and watched Sesame Street's "Do the Alphabet with Baby Bear" on dvd than interview me on his laptop about Israel's medical history (of which I know basically nothing), but we got through the interview.
"I am so sorry I have to ask you this, but do you know where his mother was born?"
I was so relieved to have such a simple question to answer. "No," I told him.
"Well, I guess I will just put you down as his mother, and add a little note at the end explaining the situation."
His computer allowed for such things as Israel being born in the Democratic Republic of the Congo -- it was part of a pull down list for answer 17a on his form. J. told me that most of the lead cases seen in New York come from Bangladesh. (I am making up the part about 17a -- I didn't track his work that well, but it's important to be specific when writing, and it was a pull-down list anyway, and didn't it sound good?)
After the interview he used a hand-held machine pressed against my walls, door, mouldings, frames etc, to measure lead. He had a control to check that his machine was working -- a four inch by six inch lead paint sample on a piece of wood, and he regularly made sure his machine was working, moving from the wall to the lead paint sample and back again. After each area was measured, he would enter the data in his laptop. He told me how I was doing as he went along.
My apartment was built in 1926. Lead paint was outlawed in 1978. I know my place was painted in 2001, and because I have small children, I wasn't intending to repaint until I can trust that these children won't Sharpie the walls (again), so I was anticipating the college years as a good time to repaint. The DOH threw my plans into a whirlpool of worry that my mind used to spin out all sorts of scenarios where I would have to move out of my home with my boys and live in a hotel off a highway surrounded by blinking neon all night surviving on popcorn and take-out pizza (impossible being gluten/dairy and soy free in this nightmare vision), so I would slowly suffer and then die from all my currently barely-under-control digestive issues and simultaneously go broke from renovation and medical bills!
In reality, my apartment is lead-free. It is full of toothpaste masquerading as caulk, but toothpaste is also lead-free. My windowsills are peeling -- J. recommended contact paper since it is waterproof, and I have plants. I can't wait to go out and find fabulous contact paper! Lest I celebrate too soon, my door and the doorframe in the hallway (outside my apartment) is full of lead and received the very official red LEAD stamp that the DOH uses to designate places where there is lead -- barely discernible on the mauve doorframe. I do not feel even a bit like Hester Prynne, well, maybe a teensy bit, but in a good way, like I've always wanted to be a bit like a famous character in a book that everyone is supposed to have read.
I have no idea what I am supposed to do about my door and doorframe, but J. said the DOH will let me know. In the meantime, Israel went to the playground today, loved the slide and learned to climb the castle-like structures, actually accepted that it was too cool to play in the sprinkler even though it was on and looked like fun, attended violin class with Eddie, worked on tying and untying his sneakers, ate his sandwich without fuss, enjoyed carrots dipped in mwamba (peanut butter in Lingala, and doesn't it taste more like mwamba than peanut butter?), and fell asleep a happy boy in the trundle beside his big brother.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Letting Go of Expectations, Loving What Is
So I thought that we would have a Welcome Home Party for Israel around the end of June. A medium sized gathering (for us that means about 50-75 people) in the park with soccer balls, our soccer goal and cones, and a soccer ball full of candy to hang from a tree and beat with a stick til all the candy falls out and the children swarm. Israel is into soccer, only he calls it football. I imagined we would also surprise my husband with a 50th Birthday Cake since he turned 50 in the Congo and we never got to celebrate. To make this happen I would need to send in my parks department request immediately, and I just can't do it.
Sorry to everyone who is waiting for the invite to this event. It isn't coming right now. I feel totally overwhelmed with our life right now. I cannot plan this event until I am no longer overwhelmed. I know that by the end of June, I will feel much much better. I will be spending five days a week at our pool, one day a week at the beach, and one day a week at home. No more downtown, no more subways, no more walking everywhere carrying enough water and food for the entire day for three people, no more desperately trying to stay connected to my four year old on a busy sidewalk when he is frightened by each passing dog, every homeless person, and many other sights, sounds, sirens and random grown-ups.
The adoption books talk about his anxiety as pervasive, and maybe it is -- supposedly he is constantly worried if he is safe, if he is where he will stay, if I will leave him, if Papa will leave him, if he will be okay, loved, fed, housed, clothed, and on and on. A lot of the time I actually see these thoughts move round in his busy brain, and then, thankfully, he gets interested in something (a friend's electronic piano, his drums, the computer, the printer, how a door works, how a lightswitch works, the stepstool and how to reach what he can't reach, music, his tricycle...) and he is totally absorbed with that thing and the worries go away.
I think life at the pool will be calmer and simpler. I imagine him exploring the grass, the concrete, the water, the shade, the sun, the mushroom-shaped fountain in the toddler area, kickboards and swim-noodles. He loves to splash water into his own face, so I am hoping he will love the pool.
By the end of June, I will be able to begin to plan this event. Since no one is around in August, I can get a date from the parks department for early September. This is my current plan. At this party, I want to honor all the people who helped bring Israel home -- the ones who wrote letters to recommend Scott and I as parents; the ones who helped us get things done, because there was so much to get done; and all of you who offered us so much support. It has been a long, strange trip, (a la J. Garcia) and we will look back on this and it will all seem funny (a la Bruce),
Right now Israel would be overwhelmed by it all. Especially since we have birthday parties galore to attend in the upcoming six weeks. I am looking forward to teaching Israel that we honor each person on their birthday with wishes and gifts and sugar. But until he sees a few other parties, he won't be interested in his own.
What is happening here that is wonderful is that today Israel learned how to pedal his tricycle (thanks again Kate!). This was no small feat with his muscles being very low in tone -- he never got a chance to use his leg muscles in the Congo. His feet roll in and splay out, and the orthopedic doctor said he just needs to wear his new sneakers with support inside, and use his feet, and he is, and he is loving it. After learning to cycle on his own, Papa showed up to watch. Israel beamed with pride.
Every time he sees an airplane, he gets very excited, smiles wide and says, "avion! Papa!" and he waves, as if Papa is still on the plane. (Avion is French for airplane.) He loves that he was on a plane with Papa. Me too. Papa too. Even Eddie is starting to love it.
Sorry to everyone who is waiting for the invite to this event. It isn't coming right now. I feel totally overwhelmed with our life right now. I cannot plan this event until I am no longer overwhelmed. I know that by the end of June, I will feel much much better. I will be spending five days a week at our pool, one day a week at the beach, and one day a week at home. No more downtown, no more subways, no more walking everywhere carrying enough water and food for the entire day for three people, no more desperately trying to stay connected to my four year old on a busy sidewalk when he is frightened by each passing dog, every homeless person, and many other sights, sounds, sirens and random grown-ups.
The adoption books talk about his anxiety as pervasive, and maybe it is -- supposedly he is constantly worried if he is safe, if he is where he will stay, if I will leave him, if Papa will leave him, if he will be okay, loved, fed, housed, clothed, and on and on. A lot of the time I actually see these thoughts move round in his busy brain, and then, thankfully, he gets interested in something (a friend's electronic piano, his drums, the computer, the printer, how a door works, how a lightswitch works, the stepstool and how to reach what he can't reach, music, his tricycle...) and he is totally absorbed with that thing and the worries go away.
I think life at the pool will be calmer and simpler. I imagine him exploring the grass, the concrete, the water, the shade, the sun, the mushroom-shaped fountain in the toddler area, kickboards and swim-noodles. He loves to splash water into his own face, so I am hoping he will love the pool.
By the end of June, I will be able to begin to plan this event. Since no one is around in August, I can get a date from the parks department for early September. This is my current plan. At this party, I want to honor all the people who helped bring Israel home -- the ones who wrote letters to recommend Scott and I as parents; the ones who helped us get things done, because there was so much to get done; and all of you who offered us so much support. It has been a long, strange trip, (a la J. Garcia) and we will look back on this and it will all seem funny (a la Bruce),
Right now Israel would be overwhelmed by it all. Especially since we have birthday parties galore to attend in the upcoming six weeks. I am looking forward to teaching Israel that we honor each person on their birthday with wishes and gifts and sugar. But until he sees a few other parties, he won't be interested in his own.
What is happening here that is wonderful is that today Israel learned how to pedal his tricycle (thanks again Kate!). This was no small feat with his muscles being very low in tone -- he never got a chance to use his leg muscles in the Congo. His feet roll in and splay out, and the orthopedic doctor said he just needs to wear his new sneakers with support inside, and use his feet, and he is, and he is loving it. After learning to cycle on his own, Papa showed up to watch. Israel beamed with pride.
Every time he sees an airplane, he gets very excited, smiles wide and says, "avion! Papa!" and he waves, as if Papa is still on the plane. (Avion is French for airplane.) He loves that he was on a plane with Papa. Me too. Papa too. Even Eddie is starting to love it.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
The Department of Health
Bringing a new child into my home is not the easiest thing I've ever tried to do. Certainly it rates with finally quitting smoking (eleven years ago this summer, yay!) and having a baby. Bringing a sick child home is even harder. My beautiful little four year old doesn't seem to feel sick or act sick, but according to all the tests, he is sick. Quite sick. Israel has TB and lead poisoning. So the Department of Health has become quite involved in my life. TB and lead poisoning are "public health issues" and the DOH takes them (as they should) very seriously. So on top of adjusting to life with a new child, my family and I are also adjusting to life with the DOH.
I have to prove to the DOH that we are giving Israel his medicine. For TB, he takes four different anti-biotics that I have to crush and mix with maple syrup and rice milk and administer through a syringe into the back of his mouth, making sure he swallows every drop. (If a child doesn't swallow, the DOH recommends holding his nostrils closed to force him to swallow in order to open his mouth to breathe. I can tell you that this is quite an effective method.) To prove I am doing this, I can either wait all day until my recently assigned caseworker arrives or go to the DOH with my two boys and administer the medicine there in front of the nurse.
Friday I spent the entire day waiting for my caseworker to arrive. At eleven am the door buzzed, and a voice said they were from the DOH. I was thrilled to be able to get this out of the way. I flung open the door and welcomed a man I'd never seen before.
"Is that peeling paint?" he said, staring at my steel-exposed door.
J. is from the DOH, lead division. He had come because I didn't answer my phone yesterday. Israel has lead in his blood, and my home needs an assessment. He scheduled a three hour tour for this coming Thursday. He inspected my window guards. He shook his head at what he seemed to assume was lead dust everywhere. He lectured me on children eating paint chips from off the floor. While J. lectured, Israel ran hysterically through the house with different plastic objects in his mouth.
"You know you shouldn't let him put anything but food in his mouth," J. told me.
I nodded and agreed with J.
"You own this place, right?"
I could only nod again.
"You know that you will have to do whatever we recommend," J. said shaking his head sadly.
I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. As soon as he left, I got out my HEPA vacuum.
My TB caseworker was kind enough to call me at noon and remind me that yesterday she had mentioned that she wasn't coming til the afternoon, but I had been flushing syringes into Israel's mouth and forcing him to swallow while holding down his arms and nose and responding to my seven year old head-butting me and whining to be allowed to use my ipod in a room the size of my bathroom with two nurses from the DOH watching, so I never did realize (until that moment) I could have taken the boys to the park all morning. But then I would have missed the lead guy! She then explained that her car had broken down on 100th Street so she would be a while longer.
Israel is supposed to take his medicine about an hour after eating. At home on my own, I feed him breakfast and give him his meds an hour later. But I had held his lunch, hoping to feed him after his meds. I fed him as soon as I got her call thinking she would be late. Israel eats a lot when he eats, so he sat down at quarter after twelve to dine, and he spent about an hour at the table. He ate salmon salad with crackers (his first request). He ate a turkey sandwich with salad and honey mustard (because he saw his brother eat one). He waits patiently in between courses preferring to watch me cook from a chair he likes to stand on beside the counter. He ate a bowl of rice and beans (because he said he was still hungry).
When my caseworker called again at one, because Israel was still eating, I was almost relieved that she still hadn't shown up. She was calling to tell me that even though I corrected the paperwork at the DOH the day before (in that little room I mentioned with my two boys struggling for my attention), I guess I hadn't been emphatic enough, because she was lost. Her paperwork still read, "Israel Seaman on Sherman Avenue" instead of Israel Sherman on Seaman.
When she did show-up, I had to give Israel his medicine. I couldn't say, "he just had lunch", so I gave him his medicine, and he ran to the toilet and made retching sounds. I told him he wasn't allowed to throw up and rushed him to the kitchen where I handed him ice cubes to suck on. He didn't get any ice in the Congo, so the novelty and the coolness helped to keep him from puking his meds. (Or maybe it was the desperate look on my face.)
I asked the caseworker about the schedule for the following week, but she couldn't promise me anything better than "some time after noon". I tried to explain that I just couldn't do that, and she asked me if I worked. I tried to explain that I homeschool, and that we have classes to attend, and she looked at me like a basset hound might look at a rabbit doing a handstand. I tried to explain that I had to take my other son to French class on Tuesday morning and that on Wednesday morning Israel starts Early Music Classes, plus we have recess and playgroups and violin three times a week plus Hebrew School in the afternoons.
"Well," she told me, sweet little old lady that she is, "you have to do what you have to do."
It was decided that I would take Israel to the DOH every day according to my own schedule for the next six months. With the meds and the milk and the maple syrup, the spoon and the dish to crush the meds, and the funnel for the little bottle and the syringe to shoot it down his throat, and maybe a leash to keep him from running in the hall there. And new ipod programming for my big boy.
J. in the lead department is completely unconcerned with Israel's health, because his lead number is too low to chelate according to the DOH, and yet it is high enough to warrant two visits from a man who I am sure my tax dollars are paying. I wonder what Israel thinks of all this.
Israel will probably never even remember that this happened, whether or not we paint the windowsills or have a gut renovation. He won't recall the little room where we went for six months where Eddie whined while he drank strange stuff shaken up in that tiny bottle with the green lid that made him pee bright orange all day. He will probably only ever talk about the day he first had ice.
I have to prove to the DOH that we are giving Israel his medicine. For TB, he takes four different anti-biotics that I have to crush and mix with maple syrup and rice milk and administer through a syringe into the back of his mouth, making sure he swallows every drop. (If a child doesn't swallow, the DOH recommends holding his nostrils closed to force him to swallow in order to open his mouth to breathe. I can tell you that this is quite an effective method.) To prove I am doing this, I can either wait all day until my recently assigned caseworker arrives or go to the DOH with my two boys and administer the medicine there in front of the nurse.
Friday I spent the entire day waiting for my caseworker to arrive. At eleven am the door buzzed, and a voice said they were from the DOH. I was thrilled to be able to get this out of the way. I flung open the door and welcomed a man I'd never seen before.
"Is that peeling paint?" he said, staring at my steel-exposed door.
J. is from the DOH, lead division. He had come because I didn't answer my phone yesterday. Israel has lead in his blood, and my home needs an assessment. He scheduled a three hour tour for this coming Thursday. He inspected my window guards. He shook his head at what he seemed to assume was lead dust everywhere. He lectured me on children eating paint chips from off the floor. While J. lectured, Israel ran hysterically through the house with different plastic objects in his mouth.
"You know you shouldn't let him put anything but food in his mouth," J. told me.
I nodded and agreed with J.
"You own this place, right?"
I could only nod again.
"You know that you will have to do whatever we recommend," J. said shaking his head sadly.
I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. As soon as he left, I got out my HEPA vacuum.
My TB caseworker was kind enough to call me at noon and remind me that yesterday she had mentioned that she wasn't coming til the afternoon, but I had been flushing syringes into Israel's mouth and forcing him to swallow while holding down his arms and nose and responding to my seven year old head-butting me and whining to be allowed to use my ipod in a room the size of my bathroom with two nurses from the DOH watching, so I never did realize (until that moment) I could have taken the boys to the park all morning. But then I would have missed the lead guy! She then explained that her car had broken down on 100th Street so she would be a while longer.
Israel is supposed to take his medicine about an hour after eating. At home on my own, I feed him breakfast and give him his meds an hour later. But I had held his lunch, hoping to feed him after his meds. I fed him as soon as I got her call thinking she would be late. Israel eats a lot when he eats, so he sat down at quarter after twelve to dine, and he spent about an hour at the table. He ate salmon salad with crackers (his first request). He ate a turkey sandwich with salad and honey mustard (because he saw his brother eat one). He waits patiently in between courses preferring to watch me cook from a chair he likes to stand on beside the counter. He ate a bowl of rice and beans (because he said he was still hungry).
When my caseworker called again at one, because Israel was still eating, I was almost relieved that she still hadn't shown up. She was calling to tell me that even though I corrected the paperwork at the DOH the day before (in that little room I mentioned with my two boys struggling for my attention), I guess I hadn't been emphatic enough, because she was lost. Her paperwork still read, "Israel Seaman on Sherman Avenue" instead of Israel Sherman on Seaman.
When she did show-up, I had to give Israel his medicine. I couldn't say, "he just had lunch", so I gave him his medicine, and he ran to the toilet and made retching sounds. I told him he wasn't allowed to throw up and rushed him to the kitchen where I handed him ice cubes to suck on. He didn't get any ice in the Congo, so the novelty and the coolness helped to keep him from puking his meds. (Or maybe it was the desperate look on my face.)
I asked the caseworker about the schedule for the following week, but she couldn't promise me anything better than "some time after noon". I tried to explain that I just couldn't do that, and she asked me if I worked. I tried to explain that I homeschool, and that we have classes to attend, and she looked at me like a basset hound might look at a rabbit doing a handstand. I tried to explain that I had to take my other son to French class on Tuesday morning and that on Wednesday morning Israel starts Early Music Classes, plus we have recess and playgroups and violin three times a week plus Hebrew School in the afternoons.
"Well," she told me, sweet little old lady that she is, "you have to do what you have to do."
It was decided that I would take Israel to the DOH every day according to my own schedule for the next six months. With the meds and the milk and the maple syrup, the spoon and the dish to crush the meds, and the funnel for the little bottle and the syringe to shoot it down his throat, and maybe a leash to keep him from running in the hall there. And new ipod programming for my big boy.
J. in the lead department is completely unconcerned with Israel's health, because his lead number is too low to chelate according to the DOH, and yet it is high enough to warrant two visits from a man who I am sure my tax dollars are paying. I wonder what Israel thinks of all this.
Israel will probably never even remember that this happened, whether or not we paint the windowsills or have a gut renovation. He won't recall the little room where we went for six months where Eddie whined while he drank strange stuff shaken up in that tiny bottle with the green lid that made him pee bright orange all day. He will probably only ever talk about the day he first had ice.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Day Seven with Izzy (same as FB notes pretty much)
Today Israel spent the morning with his Papa, and after Eddie and I had our private time at the Ice Show, we picked up Israel and took him to School for Strings. He has already visited and attended Eddie's private violin lesson with the inimitable Mr Lieb on Tuesday. I explained he had to be quiet, and he immediately requisitioned my notebook and pen and took notes throughout the lesson -- tiny scrawl writing with his left hand from right to left (backwards) reminiscent of the finest doctors or Cy Twombly on acid. When Mr Lieb harmonized with Eddie, Israel stood up to listen with his entire body.
When I told Israel we were going to School for Strings to see Eddie's lesson, he packed his "sacky" (Thomas train knapsack) with paper and markers to play with while Eddie attended music theory class. For group violin Israel sat still for the entire forty-five minutes during which time he listened and watched, and when he was bored he would work on removing or replacing his sneakers and socks, tying and untying the laces. He has never had sneakers or socks before. He loved the class, and if you ask him, "Izzy, do you want to learn to play the violin?" he quickly answers, "YES!"
Violin takes place on the fourth floor, and I don't know if Israel has ever dealt with walking up or down steps before, but he is certainly interested in learning how. Today, after we got to the bottom, he turned around and ran back up all four flights while I chased him (both of us laughing all the way) with the violin on my back and my purse filled with snacks and stainless steel water bottles.
Israel runs to see his Papa, as soon as he gets home. Papa asked him, "did you have fun at school?" and Israel said, "YES!" He starts an Early Childhood Music class in a week and a half, and he'll interview with the School for Strings to start classes in the fall on the instrument of his choice, but we're pretty sure he'll choose violin. I feel so blessed to have two children from two different continents moving in the same direction.
When I told Israel we were going to School for Strings to see Eddie's lesson, he packed his "sacky" (Thomas train knapsack) with paper and markers to play with while Eddie attended music theory class. For group violin Israel sat still for the entire forty-five minutes during which time he listened and watched, and when he was bored he would work on removing or replacing his sneakers and socks, tying and untying the laces. He has never had sneakers or socks before. He loved the class, and if you ask him, "Izzy, do you want to learn to play the violin?" he quickly answers, "YES!"
Violin takes place on the fourth floor, and I don't know if Israel has ever dealt with walking up or down steps before, but he is certainly interested in learning how. Today, after we got to the bottom, he turned around and ran back up all four flights while I chased him (both of us laughing all the way) with the violin on my back and my purse filled with snacks and stainless steel water bottles.
Israel runs to see his Papa, as soon as he gets home. Papa asked him, "did you have fun at school?" and Israel said, "YES!" He starts an Early Childhood Music class in a week and a half, and he'll interview with the School for Strings to start classes in the fall on the instrument of his choice, but we're pretty sure he'll choose violin. I feel so blessed to have two children from two different continents moving in the same direction.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Day Two
Papa took big brother Eddie out for a new baseball bat, so Israel and I went to the park. We said good-bye to Papa, and I set about teaching Israel the abstract terms "away" and "back". He was very anxious as soon as Papa left. As we got ready to go outside, he insisted on wearing a Thomas Train backpack that we hung by his yellow fireman's raincoat near the front door. I don't know how he knew it was his, but he knew. He looked like a little runaway!
We walked out to the park, hand in hand, passing the parking lot where we park our car. I pointed out that Papa took the car and went "away" to open the discussion. I tried to take him to the swings to show him "away" and "back", but he wouldn't get into the swing. Of course, I thought, he isn't ready for "away" and "back" -- look how anxious he is! He keeps asking, "ou est Papa?" The swing was the last thing he needed. All he really needed from me was "back"! So I picked him up and held him. He relaxed slowly in my arms. I weighed him this morning, and he is twenty five pounds, and then the backpack, so I couldn't walk carrying him all morning. We had to keep finding quiet places to sit. He sat facing me so that we could play "away" -- I rock him away from me -- and "back" -- I pull him close to me. I kept talking about how Papa would come back. I even pointed to my head and told him that I knew Papa would come back, and then I pointed to my heart and repeated I knew and I could feel that Papa would come back. He mimicked everything I did, but he thought about it a lot, and he seemed to really take in the idea that Papa would come back.
Whenever there were people around, he was markedly nervous and shut down. I took this to mean that he was worried I would hand him over to someone else. I talked to him about this directly, in both languages. I said, Mama is Mama and there are no other Mamas and no other Papas for Izzy. Izzy is home with Mama and Papa and Eddie, and no one else. (We don't use caregivers, so this sort of talk works for us. We fully expect never to leave him without one of us with him for at least many months, probably at least a year. We don't often have caregivers for Eddie. In our culture, this is far from the norm, but it works for us. We homeschool, so we really are hands-on parenting most of the time. I have Monday nights out, but I probably won't take a Monday night for a while right now during this critical bonding period. Scott has Thursday nights out. We try to give each other small breaks of a few hours over the weekends. I go to the gym at a ridiculously early hour in the morning. Scott works mostly from home.) When a child has been recently handed over to someone, and then taken to the other side of the globe, that child knows that anything can happen because anything has happened. I keep trying to reassure him that he is safe with us.
With my first biological child, I felt intensely mortal all the time. I couldn't reassure him that I would be around, because I literally felt I could die at any moment. Now I feel immortal, because it seems to me impossible that after coming all the way around the world, my second son should have to go through any more intense loss (at least for the time being).
We saw the ducks and the pigeons and the robin redbreasts. We went to the Inwood Hill Nature Center and saw the mummichogs (fish) and the turtles with long necks and the snake. We got to pet stuffed (real) ducks. We saw a man play a dulcimer. We stopped to watch a lot of the number one pastime in our beautiful park -- baseball! He learned about the diamond and the bases. He learned colors in French and English. And all of this in slow motion, while I carried him, while he worried about Papa, and I kept on repeating the lesson of the day ("away" and "back"). He holds onto me. He looks into my eyes more and more especially in the mirror, like when we brush our teeth. He searches me out when we are near the mirror, because it is less threatening to make contact this way. We were relaxed for a lot of the time. And then we saw Papa with Eddie playing baseball on the second field, and Izzy learned "back"! Papa comes back! Papa helped him hit a line drive. He is already starting to love baseball.
He does not love the dog near him while he eats, and he had his first tantrum telling me this. I put the dog in the bedroom during our meals now. So far she hasn't complained.
Later Izzy and I walked Shug while Papa and Eddie went to the basketball courts, and again Papa comes back! We celebrated Shabbat with candles and blessings. Food is good. Sleep is good. In bed, Izzy chanted "Izzy home, Papa home, Mama home, Eddie home, Meshugunah home." (Yes, he says the dog's full name!) He chose me to put him to bed tonight. Afterwards I played Rummy 600 with Eddie and read three chapters of <> by Kate DiCamillo. Then we talked about his feelings, and I told him stories about growing up with a little sister (don't worry K) that will not be repeated or blogged about, ever.
Tomorrow is Little League! I think if I can just keep trying to seeing things from Izzy's point of view, I will be able to help him feel safe with us. And with safety comes relaxation and trust, so that bonding can happen. Bonding is so nicely built into biological parenting, and yet feels so forced with adoptive parenting in the beginning with an "older" child who has no reason to trust anyone. Every time I start a new bonding game, it feels strange to me, but when I see him smile, I'm all endorphins.
We walked out to the park, hand in hand, passing the parking lot where we park our car. I pointed out that Papa took the car and went "away" to open the discussion. I tried to take him to the swings to show him "away" and "back", but he wouldn't get into the swing. Of course, I thought, he isn't ready for "away" and "back" -- look how anxious he is! He keeps asking, "ou est Papa?" The swing was the last thing he needed. All he really needed from me was "back"! So I picked him up and held him. He relaxed slowly in my arms. I weighed him this morning, and he is twenty five pounds, and then the backpack, so I couldn't walk carrying him all morning. We had to keep finding quiet places to sit. He sat facing me so that we could play "away" -- I rock him away from me -- and "back" -- I pull him close to me. I kept talking about how Papa would come back. I even pointed to my head and told him that I knew Papa would come back, and then I pointed to my heart and repeated I knew and I could feel that Papa would come back. He mimicked everything I did, but he thought about it a lot, and he seemed to really take in the idea that Papa would come back.
Whenever there were people around, he was markedly nervous and shut down. I took this to mean that he was worried I would hand him over to someone else. I talked to him about this directly, in both languages. I said, Mama is Mama and there are no other Mamas and no other Papas for Izzy. Izzy is home with Mama and Papa and Eddie, and no one else. (We don't use caregivers, so this sort of talk works for us. We fully expect never to leave him without one of us with him for at least many months, probably at least a year. We don't often have caregivers for Eddie. In our culture, this is far from the norm, but it works for us. We homeschool, so we really are hands-on parenting most of the time. I have Monday nights out, but I probably won't take a Monday night for a while right now during this critical bonding period. Scott has Thursday nights out. We try to give each other small breaks of a few hours over the weekends. I go to the gym at a ridiculously early hour in the morning. Scott works mostly from home.) When a child has been recently handed over to someone, and then taken to the other side of the globe, that child knows that anything can happen because anything has happened. I keep trying to reassure him that he is safe with us.
With my first biological child, I felt intensely mortal all the time. I couldn't reassure him that I would be around, because I literally felt I could die at any moment. Now I feel immortal, because it seems to me impossible that after coming all the way around the world, my second son should have to go through any more intense loss (at least for the time being).
We saw the ducks and the pigeons and the robin redbreasts. We went to the Inwood Hill Nature Center and saw the mummichogs (fish) and the turtles with long necks and the snake. We got to pet stuffed (real) ducks. We saw a man play a dulcimer. We stopped to watch a lot of the number one pastime in our beautiful park -- baseball! He learned about the diamond and the bases. He learned colors in French and English. And all of this in slow motion, while I carried him, while he worried about Papa, and I kept on repeating the lesson of the day ("away" and "back"). He holds onto me. He looks into my eyes more and more especially in the mirror, like when we brush our teeth. He searches me out when we are near the mirror, because it is less threatening to make contact this way. We were relaxed for a lot of the time. And then we saw Papa with Eddie playing baseball on the second field, and Izzy learned "back"! Papa comes back! Papa helped him hit a line drive. He is already starting to love baseball.
He does not love the dog near him while he eats, and he had his first tantrum telling me this. I put the dog in the bedroom during our meals now. So far she hasn't complained.
Later Izzy and I walked Shug while Papa and Eddie went to the basketball courts, and again Papa comes back! We celebrated Shabbat with candles and blessings. Food is good. Sleep is good. In bed, Izzy chanted "Izzy home, Papa home, Mama home, Eddie home, Meshugunah home." (Yes, he says the dog's full name!) He chose me to put him to bed tonight. Afterwards I played Rummy 600 with Eddie and read three chapters of <
Tomorrow is Little League! I think if I can just keep trying to seeing things from Izzy's point of view, I will be able to help him feel safe with us. And with safety comes relaxation and trust, so that bonding can happen. Bonding is so nicely built into biological parenting, and yet feels so forced with adoptive parenting in the beginning with an "older" child who has no reason to trust anyone. Every time I start a new bonding game, it feels strange to me, but when I see him smile, I'm all endorphins.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Izzy is in the House!
Eddie and I got up at 6am to meet Scott and Izzy at the airport. I am not a regular driver, so I white-knuckled it all the way to JFK with the MapQuest directions on the steering wheel the whole time. Izzy came out of customs riding on the luggage, calm, sitting the way toddlers sit, back straight as if held up by a balloon. He looked just like his pictures. He fussed when he saw me, wanting only his Papa. I have been reading <> by Patty Cogen, (thanks Diane!) so I knew that this behavior was normal and expected and didn't take it personally.
After greeting all the other new parents with their children and hearing about how they all love my husband (he is an awesome dude, if I say so myself!), I handed out the one-handed bubbles and the placemats, and we went to the car. I should have told the other new parents that the reason I bought the bubbles was because if your child freaks out about the car seat, the bubbles work well as a distraction. Boy was I glad we had the bubbles!
At home, the first thing we did was greet Meshugunah. Our shih tzu "Shug" is a very sweet black and white fifteen pound mop of love. She desperately wanted to meet the newest member of our pack. Izzy was terrified. We sat with him on the sofa while he stared at this creature on the rug, careful to keep his feet as far away from it as possible, while Edward hugged Shug and petted Shug and showed Izzy how lovable she is.
After about fifteen long minutes of this, he noticed blocks to stack and then a bin full of plastic superheros and matchbox cars. Carefully avoiding the dog, but no longer panicked, he took handfuls of toys up to the sofa until he had amassed his own stash which he enjoyed playing with for much of the day, on and off.
Next stop was the kitchen where Mama (me) had put on a pot of rice and the slow cooker was full of pinto beans. He ate at the kitchen table with beautiful manners, a napkin on his lap, holding his spoon well -- he was not at all interested in being fed. Still, all day long, as much as possible, I made eye contact with him whenever I could, especially while eating. He tried sweet potatoes. He can count -- I gave him three meatballs, but he asked for four! He tried a cut up grape tomato. He tried ketchup and maple syrup, separately. He ignored cucumber. He had some of Papa's salad including the red onion, and he seemed to really like the radish. He poured out the "sauce" from the beans and rice onto another plate with help and encouragement from me. I don't know how I understood that he wanted to do this, but I did.
Traveling with Papa, he had baggies of gluten free organic cheerio-type cereal, and he would often go into "his" backpack and retrieve a bag of these and carry these around. I explained several times that he could keep the closed bag in his pocket or he could eat them in the kitchen. He knows not to eat them in the living room. He repeated what I said about "dans la cuisine". (I am speaking in French and English even though he speaks neither - he speaks Lingala and babbles away as if we can understand him. We nod and try to decipher whatever it is he said.)
After snacks, I gave him a bath and changed his clothes. He splashed and was very happy in the tub. He isn't afraid of getting water in his eyes at all. Eddie said, "what a great swimmer he will be!" He put on pants, but realized he was too warm, and he took me over to his closet, opened the pants drawer himself, and I helped him take off his pants and put on shorts. I taught him that instead of leaning on the furniture to take his pants on and off, he can lean on me. Later when I helped him into his pajamas, he did lean on me!
We have a few phrases -- ca va (French for "it goes", as in, "how's it going?"). Ca va bien (it goes well), and ca va mieux (it goes better). He says a few other things that we can understand, a Lingala word for toilet, and the sound "my" which is important and accompanies fidgeting and searching, but I have no idea what it means.
Outside we took a walk to the soccer field where we met the bird man Jim who has huge parrots on his shoulder and another bird in a cage. Eddie got to pet and hold the big birds. Then Izzy climbed into my arms and stayed there, resting his head on my face for long periods of time until we came home again. He is not light! Definitely over twenty pounds. Hopefully almost thirty!
Then Papa decided to have some alone time with Eddie outside, and as soon as he left, Izzy got agitated, stopped eating, went to the book that Papa had probably read to him a million times and threw it on the floor and stomped on it. I tried to explain in every language imaginable that Papa will come back, but I knew that he needed more reassurance than that. So we went out again.
We easily found Papa and Eddie playing ball in the park. Izzy made it clear that he had to join in, and he did. The baseball game became a soccer game (with Izzy's new soccer ball), and they all had a blast together. Izzy has a great sense of humor, and sometimes instead of kicking the ball, when he finally got it, he would just sit on it and laugh!
After more beans and rice than I've ever seen anyone eat, he went to play in the family bed, and when Eddie came in, he said, "come on up, Eddie!" Eddie immediately hopped onto the bed and then did a bellyflop and Izzy copied him exactly. Eventually Israel went to sleep on Papa's shoulder in the family bed. It was five thirty. What a glorious day! I did four loads of laundry, and Eddie and I have been finding homes for all the amazing artifacts and sculptures and masks that Scott brought home. Eddie hung up a few things with his own hammer and nails as a surprise - wow!
Time to walk the dog and clean the rest of the kitchen. I put Eddie to sleep after reading <> by Roald Dahl. I know Eddie likes his baby brother because he shared his meatballs with him. And I know that Izzy likes his big brother because Israel shared his cereal with Eddie. When Izzy went up to Eddie's violin, Eddie played for him, and Izzy started a rhythm on the big new drum Papa brought home for Eddie (we'll get one for Izzy on Saturday for his birthday), and the rhythm was a perfect match for the song! Then Izzy bowed on the violin and held Eddie's box violin under his chin. It's the beginning of a beautiful relationship...
After greeting all the other new parents with their children and hearing about how they all love my husband (he is an awesome dude, if I say so myself!), I handed out the one-handed bubbles and the placemats, and we went to the car. I should have told the other new parents that the reason I bought the bubbles was because if your child freaks out about the car seat, the bubbles work well as a distraction. Boy was I glad we had the bubbles!
At home, the first thing we did was greet Meshugunah. Our shih tzu "Shug" is a very sweet black and white fifteen pound mop of love. She desperately wanted to meet the newest member of our pack. Izzy was terrified. We sat with him on the sofa while he stared at this creature on the rug, careful to keep his feet as far away from it as possible, while Edward hugged Shug and petted Shug and showed Izzy how lovable she is.
After about fifteen long minutes of this, he noticed blocks to stack and then a bin full of plastic superheros and matchbox cars. Carefully avoiding the dog, but no longer panicked, he took handfuls of toys up to the sofa until he had amassed his own stash which he enjoyed playing with for much of the day, on and off.
Next stop was the kitchen where Mama (me) had put on a pot of rice and the slow cooker was full of pinto beans. He ate at the kitchen table with beautiful manners, a napkin on his lap, holding his spoon well -- he was not at all interested in being fed. Still, all day long, as much as possible, I made eye contact with him whenever I could, especially while eating. He tried sweet potatoes. He can count -- I gave him three meatballs, but he asked for four! He tried a cut up grape tomato. He tried ketchup and maple syrup, separately. He ignored cucumber. He had some of Papa's salad including the red onion, and he seemed to really like the radish. He poured out the "sauce" from the beans and rice onto another plate with help and encouragement from me. I don't know how I understood that he wanted to do this, but I did.
Traveling with Papa, he had baggies of gluten free organic cheerio-type cereal, and he would often go into "his" backpack and retrieve a bag of these and carry these around. I explained several times that he could keep the closed bag in his pocket or he could eat them in the kitchen. He knows not to eat them in the living room. He repeated what I said about "dans la cuisine". (I am speaking in French and English even though he speaks neither - he speaks Lingala and babbles away as if we can understand him. We nod and try to decipher whatever it is he said.)
After snacks, I gave him a bath and changed his clothes. He splashed and was very happy in the tub. He isn't afraid of getting water in his eyes at all. Eddie said, "what a great swimmer he will be!" He put on pants, but realized he was too warm, and he took me over to his closet, opened the pants drawer himself, and I helped him take off his pants and put on shorts. I taught him that instead of leaning on the furniture to take his pants on and off, he can lean on me. Later when I helped him into his pajamas, he did lean on me!
We have a few phrases -- ca va (French for "it goes", as in, "how's it going?"). Ca va bien (it goes well), and ca va mieux (it goes better). He says a few other things that we can understand, a Lingala word for toilet, and the sound "my" which is important and accompanies fidgeting and searching, but I have no idea what it means.
Outside we took a walk to the soccer field where we met the bird man Jim who has huge parrots on his shoulder and another bird in a cage. Eddie got to pet and hold the big birds. Then Izzy climbed into my arms and stayed there, resting his head on my face for long periods of time until we came home again. He is not light! Definitely over twenty pounds. Hopefully almost thirty!
Then Papa decided to have some alone time with Eddie outside, and as soon as he left, Izzy got agitated, stopped eating, went to the book that Papa had probably read to him a million times and threw it on the floor and stomped on it. I tried to explain in every language imaginable that Papa will come back, but I knew that he needed more reassurance than that. So we went out again.
We easily found Papa and Eddie playing ball in the park. Izzy made it clear that he had to join in, and he did. The baseball game became a soccer game (with Izzy's new soccer ball), and they all had a blast together. Izzy has a great sense of humor, and sometimes instead of kicking the ball, when he finally got it, he would just sit on it and laugh!
After more beans and rice than I've ever seen anyone eat, he went to play in the family bed, and when Eddie came in, he said, "come on up, Eddie!" Eddie immediately hopped onto the bed and then did a bellyflop and Izzy copied him exactly. Eventually Israel went to sleep on Papa's shoulder in the family bed. It was five thirty. What a glorious day! I did four loads of laundry, and Eddie and I have been finding homes for all the amazing artifacts and sculptures and masks that Scott brought home. Eddie hung up a few things with his own hammer and nails as a surprise - wow!
Time to walk the dog and clean the rest of the kitchen. I put Eddie to sleep after reading <
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
The Night Before Izzy
'Twas the night before Izzy, and all through the house,
not a dust mote was falling, nor fridge-emptying spouse...
I am trying to think of what I still need to do -- put the quilt back over the velvet couch; prep my husband's coffee for tomorrow to take to the airport at 7am as a surprise; prep his salad for lunch tomorrow, so I won't have to tear myself away from my new little boy; comet the bathroom sink. (I am not a great cleaner, but I have been cleaning in sections all week, so over three days I managed the tub, and then in one day the toilet, and I still haven't done the sink. So tonight, the sink!) I'd also like to clean up the dining room table that we use as our schoolroom, but I don't know if that will happen. If I can't sleep, it will, but I may just go to sleep.
I have laid out the clothes I will wear to the airport -- forest green linen capri pants with a forest green floral print dress on top. I can't wear short dresses without pants underneath. I just feel too naked.
I will probably make a list of stuff to take with me -- food for the car in case we are stuck forever in traffic, presents for the other new parents (bubble things that you can use with one hand -- you just squeeze and the blow-circle pops up full of bubble juice -- I find these very calming for the parent because of all the deep breathing you get to do, and bubbles are always fascinating for the child). I also got them alphabet placemats, the wipe-off kind, with Africa as the letter A.
What else? Try to remember that I can do this. I'll be fine. I am totally terrified. I can breathe and be okay with my feelings. My son Eddie is thrilled and excited. I keep trying not to hyperventilate. He is sound asleep. I am going to alphabetize the fridge alphabet letters.
This is sort of like labor. I thought he would be here this morning, but he won't be here until tomorrow, and I am once again dreading parenthood. Lots of blood! Cramping rather heavily - it's my period, day two. Sort of just like the second day of labor. Only easier. Four years gestation. No pushing to do at all. No nerve damage or paralysis. No emergency c-section.
I had two hours to myself this afternoon while Eddie went to Hebrew School. I bought the bubble things I mentioned. I went to Fairway. I went to Sephora and bought concealer and lipstick. The guy at the checkout asked me if I wanted a regular shopper's card, and I said, "no, I know I won't be here for at least another four years." And I am sure I won't, because it took me until Eddie was seven to go there to buy make-up. I didn't have time to wear any when he was younger than that. I was so focused on him, I didn't even mind. Hopefully, one look at Israel tomorrow, and it will be years before I mind again. Because whether or not I mind, I won't have the time or the band-width to deal with make-up, so it's much nicer if I don't mind.
I think I'm as ready as I'll ever be.
not a dust mote was falling, nor fridge-emptying spouse...
I am trying to think of what I still need to do -- put the quilt back over the velvet couch; prep my husband's coffee for tomorrow to take to the airport at 7am as a surprise; prep his salad for lunch tomorrow, so I won't have to tear myself away from my new little boy; comet the bathroom sink. (I am not a great cleaner, but I have been cleaning in sections all week, so over three days I managed the tub, and then in one day the toilet, and I still haven't done the sink. So tonight, the sink!) I'd also like to clean up the dining room table that we use as our schoolroom, but I don't know if that will happen. If I can't sleep, it will, but I may just go to sleep.
I have laid out the clothes I will wear to the airport -- forest green linen capri pants with a forest green floral print dress on top. I can't wear short dresses without pants underneath. I just feel too naked.
I will probably make a list of stuff to take with me -- food for the car in case we are stuck forever in traffic, presents for the other new parents (bubble things that you can use with one hand -- you just squeeze and the blow-circle pops up full of bubble juice -- I find these very calming for the parent because of all the deep breathing you get to do, and bubbles are always fascinating for the child). I also got them alphabet placemats, the wipe-off kind, with Africa as the letter A.
What else? Try to remember that I can do this. I'll be fine. I am totally terrified. I can breathe and be okay with my feelings. My son Eddie is thrilled and excited. I keep trying not to hyperventilate. He is sound asleep. I am going to alphabetize the fridge alphabet letters.
This is sort of like labor. I thought he would be here this morning, but he won't be here until tomorrow, and I am once again dreading parenthood. Lots of blood! Cramping rather heavily - it's my period, day two. Sort of just like the second day of labor. Only easier. Four years gestation. No pushing to do at all. No nerve damage or paralysis. No emergency c-section.
I had two hours to myself this afternoon while Eddie went to Hebrew School. I bought the bubble things I mentioned. I went to Fairway. I went to Sephora and bought concealer and lipstick. The guy at the checkout asked me if I wanted a regular shopper's card, and I said, "no, I know I won't be here for at least another four years." And I am sure I won't, because it took me until Eddie was seven to go there to buy make-up. I didn't have time to wear any when he was younger than that. I was so focused on him, I didn't even mind. Hopefully, one look at Israel tomorrow, and it will be years before I mind again. Because whether or not I mind, I won't have the time or the band-width to deal with make-up, so it's much nicer if I don't mind.
I think I'm as ready as I'll ever be.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Ten days til Israel Comes Home
Scott leaves on Tuesday the 27th for Kinshasa, and he will pick up Israel and bring him home on Wednesday May 5th. I can hardly believe it, but it is happening. I can tell because I am packing, and the living room is strewn with donations and the sandals we bought in every size from 5 to 12 because we don't know what will fit.
I am worried because he is almost four years old and wears a 2T. I got a baby carrier because they tell me he is really little. It is not completely comprehensible to me that he should be so small.
Eddie made a welcome home sign today. We talk about the butterflies in our tummies. And dancing dinosaurs.
I am worried because he is almost four years old and wears a 2T. I got a baby carrier because they tell me he is really little. It is not completely comprehensible to me that he should be so small.
Eddie made a welcome home sign today. We talk about the butterflies in our tummies. And dancing dinosaurs.
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