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?
Friday, June 17, 2011
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.
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