Rock To Wind A String Around

When I started this blog, I envisioned impassioned post after post about our trip to Ethiopia and the girl we met there.  And yet, so often when I sit to compose, I find it easier to share Elliott anecdotes instead.

It’s not that I don’t have fabulous stories to share–the journey was amazing.  The decision to adopt from Ethiopia was inspired, and of course, the Astrid herself is sweet perfection (teething crankiness excluded).  But committing these bits and tales to the blog gives me pause, and I’m not sure why.

I guess it’s partly because all but three of you have heard most of the tales in person (I assume).  I also fear that there’s a generic note in each telling.  While our family’s adoption of Astrid is endlessly fascinating to me, can it possibly be all that interesting to anyone else? Isn’t it like hearing the childbirth stories of others?  (Once, I was at a company party–let’s focus on the word ‘party‘ and all that it conveys,  and as the wife of the boss, I was trying hard to make my way around the room–you know, to mingle and make nice.  I met a man who was the father of  toddler-aged quadruplets.  Knowing that a good friend was pregnant with multiples…   and that this guy was not actively engaged in coworker banter, I asked for a little advice on D’s behalf.  What I got instead was the most thorough explanation ever of another woman’s interior girly bits.   AND,  he was thrilled to tell me all of this…    I couldn’t get away).  I’m just a’feared I’ll be walking you through the same endless loop of unbearable drivel–girly bits mostly excluded, thank you very much.

Something got us from the two that we were, to the four that we are now though.  Maybe someday I’ll figure out how to share this with you.   In the meantime, I’m very open to suggestions.  Really, tell me what you’d like to know.

Just tuning in after nearly a week of snatching every precious moment for ‘Potterland.’    Astrid decided to become a demanding baby, after several months of requiring little care.  Seriously–I could leave her in a box for hours, taking her out only when I felt like being amused.  Okay, not really, but this week she’s learned to crawl so she’s less content to play quietly on the rug at my feet while I quickly read another dozen pages–selfish baby!  Her locomotion enthralls though especially since its mostly of the backward variety and because she can’t see where she is going, she often gets trapped under things–funny for us, scary for her–her frequent forays under the couch inject a bit of excitement into a quiet afternoon.  When I wasn’t rescuing her, the other child in the family made his demands known.  Despite his proficiency as a reader, he’s not quite able to tackle HP on his own, so I was forced (often at wand-point) to put down my own chapter so that I could turn back to read to Elliott.  Again, so selfish!  In the past week, his sleep has been seriously disturbed and while Albert blames HP and his many charms, I know better.  Our earthquake last Thursday night scared him silly.  We’ve reassured him, talked about fault lines, worked on our earthquake kit, and visited the damaged stores in our neighborhood to see that they are back to business as usual (as we live in the epicenter of this latest quake,  several of our village stores lost windows and just had a lot of mess–things off shelves, etc. )   but I think it will take some time before he sleeps deeply again.  In the meantime, as Astrid begins to sleep through until morning, we can look forward to at least one visit from Elliott each night.  The night after the quake, he was desperate for reassurance, “Tell me it won’t happen again for a LONG LONG time.”  And it’s so tempting to give my guy that comfort, that ease, but it’s as fake-believe as anything in Harry Pottter.  Instead all I can do is help him get ready for the inevitable and hope it doesn’t happen for a long long time. If it does though, we’ve got wands and lots of them.  Those glo-wands come 12 to a box, and we bought two boxes, because if we don’t need them for an earthquake before we leave,  they’ll make excellent Harry Potter wands. We’re covered either way, just in case…

jBullfrog.net (oh she of the scrumptious baby pictures!) posted this excellent Jane Austen quiz.  Who are you?  Let me know!

When we were ripped from the comfort of our mid-western town last February, Elliott and I were united in our dislike of all things San Francisco.  Sure, I could put up a good front.  I emphasized the great weather and awesome new play space that is our garage, found the best parks in the area for biking, signed Elliott up for tennis lessons and hip hop, and made liberal use of the local ice cream parlor to soften the blow.  Still, neither one of us has exactly been happy since we moved here, no matter the spin I put on the place. 

As soon as it was possible, we grabbed the first Skybus tickets back to Cowtown, and spent a blissful week with the friends who are so dear, 4 months after we left.   The minute we deplaned, Elliott announced, “I’m so happy to be home” and I started to cry.  I felt so guilty for taking him away from the place that clearly feels so much like his heartspace.  At the end of the week, I returned to San Francisco,  and Elliott rolled south to Florida aka Grandparentland.  By all accounts, he had an even more fabulous time in Florida–days filled with swimming, cousins,  junkfood, and yes, a VBS experience. 

I worried about Elliott’s return to the bay area.  With no trip to Cowtown to look forward to any longer, we really had to focus on becoming Californians.  The trip east renewed my ‘homesickness.’  Gorgeous weather (and husband) aside, I wasn’t sure I really wanted to come back to the east bay.  I knew Elliott would have the same trouble.  His classes were over at the local rec center, the kids next door were in France for a month and Albert’s work schedule has ballooned, leaving little time for manly bike rides and such.

 Personally, I don’t know what I worried about.  Elliott deplaned on July 3rd, raced into the house and yelled, “It’s so good to be home!”  You know, he was away for three weeks, so it’s only natural that he be a little happy to be back–he does like us after all.   The next day was more of the same though.  He kept reminding us of his incredible happiness at being home.  Hmmm.

Last week, Kyle, the older kid from down the street came back from his vacation and he and Elliott have played together nearly everyday since.  When I pull Elliott inside, after a LEGO build-a-thon  or a K’nex multi-hour challenge, he is full of love.  Love for Kyle, love for our new house (with super building space), love for the bay area.  As we drove my father-in-law to various Rice-a-Roni Land diversions over the last two weeks, Elliott was quick to point out all the things that make the area so great– our own mini tour guide.  After Pops left town this Monday, I thought Elliott would crash–the end of all the scheduled brouhaha was here, surely the waves of  homesickness would come.  Guess I was wrong.  As I am typing this, Elliott is singing me a song about what makes Kyle such an awesome friend.  When I mention all the other awesome friends we left in the town with the Graeter’s in it (he really does love Graeter’s), he, ever the pragmatist, tells me that he gets to see his new friend a lot more often because he lives in the neighborhood AND I take him to the Montclair Malt Shop more than I ever took him to Graeter’s because I felt so bad for him when we moved here.  Foiled by my own plans once again…It’s not like I wanted the boy to drown in a sea of homesickness with me forever, I just didn’t expect him to swim away so quickly.

After raising the first tot who chose to live on air and sunshine and the occasional peeled grape in the first five years of life, it’s odd to live with the baby who opens her mouth for every food-related opportunity.  She is simply delighted by the food offered whether it is prepared in loving fashion (carrots tinged with cumin, anyone?) or hastily popped open mere seconds before being shoveled in (YUM! lentils! with rice!!!!).  A trip to the International Adoption Clinic last week confirmed that all of this nutrition is being put to good use–Astrid is a healthy baby.  We might have had visions of a 12 lb 8 month old, but those were laid to rest once she was hoisted onto the scale, all 18.7 lbs of her.

While I’ve often hoped to live up to Martha Stewart’s impossibly high standards in the kitchen, nobody else in the family pays much attention to my efforts.  Sure, they’re happy to be fed, and no one complains when a dessert graces the table,  but the attention I put into an asparagus quiche or sweet potato soup is really for my benefit–Albert would be happy with rice and beans on a regular basis, and Elliott’s favorite dish is ‘mummy dogs’ so the culinary bar isn’t set particularly high.   Astrid may have turned the corner for me though.  She seems to have an innate ability to appreciate the subtle spicing of the spinach-potato blend.  She claps when the oatmeal is served with just a dash (a small dash, mind you) of maple syrup and a smattering of ginger slivers and she is giddy when the strawberries are served in the pale blue earthenware bowl.  It may be silly to take all this personally, but this is as close to Martha as I am likely to get.   I’ve been warned that Astrid’s love affair with food may not last, and truly, after raising the rainbow-eater, I know how choosy tots can be, but while she’s this happy to sit in her highchair, I can be equally happy about making her meals.  Meals for an appreciative Astrid–it’s a good thing.

But it is the half-birthday of my big boy.  I remember the first time we celebrated his first half birthday–I packed a picnic dinner and we exchanged the warm still air of our 2-flat for a patch of  cool green in our neighborhood park. It was a night of firsts–a hastily gobbled meal on the grass followed by the delight of the playground swing, and a tamarind popsicle shared by the three of us on the walk home.  I don’t think Albert imagined that we’d be honoring the occasion as a yearly event, but it feels so right to celebrate, to mark the passage of time.  So many days rush by, with so little to savor, it’s amazing how this July 7 is transformed each year with a candle stub plopped into the nearest sandwich crust or watermelon rind.

Earlier tonight, I watched the last episode of the Sopranos, Season 1.  At the end of the episode, the family has gathered for an impromptu candlelit meal.  Tony proposes a toast.  He mentions that someday soon the kids will be off to families of their own and when they are gone, he hopes they will remember the little moments like this, that were good.  It’s all that I’ve ever hoped for and more than I’ve ever dreamed of for my own.  Cheers Tony!

I should probably schedule twice-weekly outings to Muir Woods–it’s so relaxing, it’s better than a meditation session. There’s a lot of beauty to take in, and for me, it’s as much about the people as it is the giant redwoods. All those families made the choice to walk around and look at big trees today–something that thrills me to down to my ‘Suzy-loves-Sydney’ painted tootsies.  There’s a part of my brain that wishes to be very Greta Garbo about my nature experience–just me and the forest friends, but there’s another sector that thrills to the unity of the common experience–I can’t believe so many people also look forward to communing with nature, knowing they’d be joined by throngs.

 If I’m out taking pictures, like on a trip to the giant redwoods,  I usually offer to take pictures for other groups–so everyone can be in the shot.  The camera I use is VERY nice, so I don’t look like I’ll walk off with the one you hand me, and I look pretty benign–small and rounded and maternal.  Again, not like someone who is fencing cameras on the side.  People are so grateful when I offer, and once other people notice sometimes I take pictures for lots of families, like I did on the White House Lawn! in the rain! in 2004 for almost an hour.  So today’s picture-taking only enhanced my giant redwood experience.  It’s like being asked to listen in, to eavesdrop on the language of family.  For all that the lovely trees offered my spirit, there’s nothing like centering my energy through my third eye. Really, after 20 minutes in a stand of redwoods, I felt like I was on a weekend yoga retreat.  I’d like to thank the trees,  but I wonder if I had a camera in the San Francisco airport if the results wouldn’t be the same?  It’s not worth considering–I’ll hang anywhere with giant trees instead of giant planes, but I’ll plan to keep my camera handy in both. 

As soon as our homestudy was compiled, my earliest thoughts turned to the type of kid I’d be lucky to raise. More than once I was glad that he or she would swim in from outside our gene pools. I hoped for a bold kid, one who was clear (in his thoughts and actions) about his feelings and desires. If Albert and I created a dozen little balls of wonder, I doubt any single one of them would ever be as roller-coastery as our first  evil genius. On the first day together, his arched eyebrow quickly ‘told us the time’ when something was awry. In the weeks and months that followed no baby laughed harder or cried louder–his joy made complete by a box of raisins, his day in tatters when sand snuck into his shoes. As months turned into years, and ‘roller coaster’ turned into ’sensory processing dysfunction’ it was clear that my hopes were indeed actualized–Mr. Xcitement wears a flashing neon sign to express his mood of the moment.

For the last two weeks, Elliott has been on a trip with his grandfather. They’ve gone on several adventures together, and while there is too much emphasis on junk food, and too little emphasis on hair care for my liking, I can’t deny the wonderful relationship that the two of them share. During the time Elliott is away, my house rings with silence. I find myself turning on the radio, talking to the baby, even turning on a dvd in an attempt to fill the space. It’s all for naught, however because it’s not the noise I miss. Without Elliott, there is no roller-coaster. The closest I come to filling the chasm while he cavorts in the sun 3,000 miles away, is with a rousing Oprah episode, or if the situation is particularly dire, a replaying of the faithful Sense and Sensibility. Elliott is my comedy and my drama–a million viewings would leave me asking for more. The Coen Brothers couldn’t have written him any better. Ask Astrid who’s clearly gaga over him. She seems to agree that he’s pretty roller-coastery too.

When Albert and I began our happy life spiral together, the fact that he was working for a PhD in philosophy seemed a laudable goal.  To be sure, we’d never vacation in the Canary Islands, but I envisioned a life made cozy with lentil soup and fresh-baked bread, bookshelves lining the walls, kids frolicking in the yard.  As Albert put in his years of academic toil, we began to realize that the life we planned for ourselves looked an awful lot like a trip to the Canary Islands–simply unobtainable. There might be lentil soup, and plenty of books, but the soup pot and bookshelves would be moved again and again because tenure track positions for logicians were rare and coveted objects and not likely to become Albert’s lot in life for many years to come.

Planning a transracial adoption while facing what could well be a series of one year  appointments to a variety of universities in the deep south  was so unpalatable, Albert jumped ship.  He picked up a second Master’s degree while working on his PhD, and with it, found the stability of a job in consulting for a big 5 firm.  I’d like to say that we left all of the uncertainty behind, but why mislead so early in my blog life (And really, about this?  If I’m going to mislead it will seriously be about my appearance or skills).

Three months after we adopted Elliott, we moved to big city#1 for Albert’s career.  We rented for two years, saved our pennies, and bought a condo in a terrible neighborhood (but close to the train–for easy access out of the neighborhood).  After two years in the condo, we decided we were miserable putting all of our money into a house we tolerated in a neighborhood we couldn’t.  Our response was to move across the country to another major metropolitan area. Yes, by the time Elliott was newly four, he had lived in five houses.  We lived in the City of Brotherly Love for 2 years before we were transferred by Albert’s company, and in the new town for 2 years before we were transferred again, to our city by the bay.

With so many moves in such a short time, I’ve become quite adept at the unpacking process.  8 days after we arrive, the books are on the shelves, and soup is in the pot–there may even be fresh-baked bread (if I employ the bread maker).   After 8 days, we’ve explored the yard, rearranged Elliott’s bedroom to his liking (usually twice)  and we’ve rehung the pictures in the ‘right’ places. 8 years after we’ve arrived however, I’m still getting my bearings, hoping this will be the house with the yard, and the books, and the kids, and the soup.  You know–home.  We aren’t there yet, but maybe we can take a trip to the Canary Islands now, to figure out where home should be.

So, several states ago I knew a girl who frequented our homeschool group. At one of our regular gatherings, Lilly climbed a chair in a room filled with people, put her hands on her hips and shrieked, “Everybody listen to me!”  Her screech knocked the room silent.  We all turned to the small girl on the chair, ready to listen to her important pronouncements, and well,        nothing came.  All that buildup, all that disruption, and um, nothing.

I think about that moment a lot as I get ready to join the blog world.  What if I’m just standing on a chair, yelling about nothing?  Even worse, what if I fall as I climb up–I’m terribly clumsy  (really, it’ll be in the top10 of the ‘100 things about this blogger’ list should I compile one) and falling while yelling is more embarrassment than I can bear.

Two years after Lilly’s rebel yell, some of us in attendance still remember it (less than a little fondly).  I hope this launch is memorable too but perhaps a little more enjoyable for those trapped in the room.