Happy Birthday Mom! And Sessie!

Today is my mom's birthday. She is 19.5 years older than me, so basically we're both middle aged women now. I love her more than words could ever tell. She's almost exactly the same age as Pam's mom, Michael's ex, just one day younger. If she took a "what is your true age" quiz on facebook, I think she'd be 39. She's hip and pretty and totally down with the nasty teenage lingo circulating around her big city high school. She's a phenomenal care-taker, sin-absolver, bff, and kid-spoiler. Ruth recently pitched a temper-tantrum fit and started yelling "Nana's HOUSE!" in the middle of it. We're all pretty in love with, and grateful for, the ill nana 'round here.

The fact that we (sorry mom) are getting older became abundantly clear to me recently when I found myself seriously injured in a sock-putting-on incident. I somehow caused a major muscle spasm in my back and fell down. For ten minutes I laid on the floor, sort-of laugh/crying at myself. So I joined a gym. It's a mom/baby gym and its fun. Classes for me with free babysitting in the "explora-zone". Classes like "musical movement" and "itsy bitsy yoga for tots" with them. Fun.

First class for me: Pilates. Pilates, so passé now, but 5 years ago you couldn't go a day without hearing 5 women say it 5 times. Hailed as the miracle core strengthening regimen, I really thought it would be something novel. In case you have not yet subjected yourself to a Pilates class, let me break it down. It is simply the abdominals section of your standard 80s aerobics class - the whole time. That's it. Bunches of variations on crunches. If you are me, it sucks. And you need it bad.

The girls love it there, and went like gym rats for a week. Then, big surprise, they caught colds from all those germy little incubators of disease they ran around with. This was expected, as it is the girls' first real group socialization thing. It's the first cold any of us have had since last winter, and it is being processed and expelled quickly. Aster is pretty much done with it, and I predict that Ruth will be all better by Sunday. I'm so happy we have working little immune systems, and I feel so lucky that they got to stay home this week, eat injera and popsicles, drink watery juice, sleep extra, and watch Sesame Street.

Happy 40th Sesame Street! I hear and read about all these studies proving that children don't actually learn anything from educational television, but I'm not so sure. Ruth and Aster get to watch one Sesame episode, almost every day. They wake up in the morning, (at 5ish these days instead of 6ish - thanks daylight savings!) run to the clicker, point it at the TV and yell "Street! Street!" Maybe this is not the healthiest behavior on earth, but my mom says Sesame Street is good, and that's more than good enough for me. Aster watches it like there will be a quiz. Which, of course, there is:

Nice & Nasty

First, nice:

Now Nasteh. And it's probably even longer and more repetitive than the nice. Sorry.

I don't like grocery shopping. Wandering around in a clockless, chilly room of casino-ey air, easily listening to Elton John (good thing that HIV+ baby will stay in that institution, btw, huh?), with my fluorescently lit eyes looking extra sunken-in, I take forever looking forlornly from top-shelf items to bottom, trying to do math and make choices.

I am not choosing between milk and bread here. I actually have the audacity to whine about coveting big jars of already minced garlic, prosciutto de parma, fat hunks of manchego cheese, and red wine that costs more than $10. I want these things, but I imagine myself telling somebody, someday, Sorry honey, we don't have enough money for you to do ________, because mommy really likes ham, cheese and booze, and is lazy about garlic.

I hate that organic produce costs 5x more than its conventional counterparts. I hate fish all jacked up on antibiotics and dye. I hate the giant footprint my Chilean grapes leave. I hate how poor the people are who pick them. I hate myself for buying things that do nothing to Make Trade Fair. Grocery shopping has always been an exercise in moral & ethical dilemmas, resignation and guilt. And yeah, yeah, I know that my whole life of consumption and all of the choices that I make have the same implications, and that my lack of manchego is not a legitimate gripe, but the point of this preface to my point is that I'm kind of pre-disposed to negativity at the grocery store anyway.

Enter the nosy, uninhibited commenters who hang out there, all the time. It really gives new meaning to Stop & Shop. And stop again, and again, and shop some more, then stop again. It is like THE place where crazy, white, middle-aged women apparently think there are no boundaries at all.

Now, it's not like this happens every time we go to the store. But sometimes, it feels like it. I understand that we are conspicuous. I was ready for that. I don't mind people talking to us. I didn't come here to complain about the quantity of comments. It's the quality, or lack thereof, of the garbage that strangers too often spew into my face while blocking my way that I am whining about now.

Where did you get them? Was it hard to do? Was it expensive? The trilogy from people NOT contemplating adoption.

Did their parents die of AIDS? Why, does someone in your family have AIDS?

Was it like some young girl got pregnant? Why, do you have a pregnant teen in your family?

Do you have children of your own? Just these two.

Do they [6 months old at the time] speak English?

Seriously.

I am not talking about seeing people I know, or about normal people who tell me my kids are so cute, or have some genuine, sincere question, or interest, or connection. I am also not talking about the bjillions of strangers out to show how non-racist and approving of trans-racial families they are. People who fear that if they don't say something, anything, their silence might be interpreted as disapproval. This is one of those things I've learned about myself, realizing that I used to, subconsciously, try to make it abundantly clear that I was all for trans-racial relationships, by unknowingly adding that additional second or ounce of energy to my smile. That's how I recognize those people. I used to be one.

These people can transform into the kind of people that prompt this post, however, when they, apparently, don't think that a smile or a "they're so cute" will suffice and they have to come up with something extra special to say. But it's not organic. It does not just naturally flow out of them. They're just trying to say something nice, something relevant, but their mouths start moving before their brain has time to catch up. Example:

They're not twins are they? I didn't think they could be because they have different hairstyles.

WHAT? Do you think that one was born with braids the other not? Are you high? Can you hear yourself talking?

My favorite recent grocery store lady encounter was not at the store at all. It was at the beach. But it was so grocery-store-esque, I forgot where I was for a second.

I'm just minding my own business, trying to chase two babies by myself. One is headed out to sea, and the other is shoveling fistfuls of sand into her mouth. I am obviously very busy, but this does not stop grocery-store-lady-walking-down-the-beach.

Is she eating SAND?

I wish I could communicate the shrill and judgmental tone. My first impression is that she is in her late 40s, crazy wealthy, does not swim in the ocean, and we have nothing in common. As she keeps talking, I become sure that she went to college strictly to find a rich husband, hates spicy food, and worries about being pulled over by rapists posing as police officers.

Yeah, I don't know why she eats sand. I try to stop her, but it doesn't seem to bother her.

Oh my god. I've never even heard of that.

So she either doesn't have kids, or just always had her nanny take the kids to the beach. And/or she's an idiot.

Did you adopt them?

Yup.

Where did they come from?

They're Ethiopian. Blank, confused, stare. They're from Ethiopia.

Did you have to go there?

We didn't have to go, but we wanted to go, and we did.

Really? My girlfriend adopted two children from Guatelahara. Guatel lama? Guatemaleeya? Guatemaleya?

It's Guatemala.

Yes. That's it. What happened to their parents?

We're fine! Ha ha.

Do they have health problems?

No. Do YOU? I should have said, but didn't.

My good friend does international adoption. She's been recognized for her work in international adoption.

I am soooo not going to ask who her friend is, or to what charitable Board of Directors she devotes her quarterly hour. I have not made eye contact since she first injected herself into my space. I have not stopped moving around. Any sane person would understand that I am ending our interaction. She follows me.

How old were they when you got them?

Three months.

Oh, that's not too long.

I somehow know that she does not mean: that's not too long that they lived in an orphanage. I can tell that she thinks that this means that our adoption process took three months. Just as I think that I must be misunderstanding her, she says,

It took my friend a lot longer than that to adopt her kids. And they had a lot of health problems.

I can't stand it anymore.

Yeah. Living in an orphanage in a country where people die every day of devastating, heart-shattering, horrific poverty, does tend to cause health problems.

The nasty part was my obnoxious, know-it-all, oh-my-god-you-are-so-ignorant-and-rude-I-hate-you-so-much tone.

Not appropriate, I know. She's not evil on purpose. My let-me-remind-you-that-there-is-a-world-outside-your-peripheral-view response is not an option when Swimmy and Sandy can hear and understand me. Which is now, really.

That's the silver lining, I guess. All these people helped me practice for this time. I'm done indulging your curiosity, groceryidiots. One way to decrease the number of insane questions and comments is to limit our overall exposure to inquisitions and commentary. I'm not saying that I will be a role-modeling the total bitch. But I can be harder to make eye contact with, and less smiley and inviting. I can tone it down without completely shutting out the rest of the world.

It's going to be an interesting balancing act. Protecting them from tactless voyers v. teaching them to be open and kind. Keeping our privacy private v. creating the impression that I think these things are bad or secret.

But once I get the slightest inkling, hunch, or intuitive feeling, that you might be a rude moron - we're done. Immediately. Even if I have to burst into the chorus of Rocket Man in the middle of your sentence, in the middle of the aisle. That'll be a good example for my children, right?

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday

Melkam Addis Amet!

Enkutatash is the celebration of the Ethiopian New Year. September 11, 2009, in America is Meskerem 1, 2002, in Ethiopia. Rather than try to explain how dates are computed differently and what's so different about the calendars, here's a link. The New Year's celebration marks the end of the rainy season and the return of the sun. It's also said to mark the anniversary of the end of Noah's flood. And the return of the Makeda, the Queen of Sheba, to Ethiopia after her visit to King Solomon. It means "gift of jewels."

We didn't have Meskel daisies to pick, but we went out side and picked flowers anyway. And we didn't go door to door singing, but we walked around outside, in pretty dresses, singing.

I know I'm not Ethiopian and never will be, but I can be an Ethiopian culture vulture/parasite/student. And, yes, I did read the Another Country Not My Own Globe article. But no matter what, no matter where or how, we will ALWAYS celebrate Enkutatash. Why? Because when I asked Ruth & Aster's family what, specifically, they wished we would do to honor/remember them and their culture, we were asked to do two things: Celebrate the birth of Jesus, and the Ethiopian New Year. Coming from an Irish Catholic background - we got the Christmas thing covered. The least we can do is observe this holiday today.

So, I made doro wat, gomen, ayib bemitmita, shiro, and timatim salad. I burned etan with my little kessel, and said my versions of prayers for the people I made the food for. It is unlikely that they are having any of those things today.

I made it for those people, but I fed it to these people:

Some people were just sort of polite about it. Aster and I, on the other hand, partied like it was 2002 and sucked down every bit of food from our plates, and then from Ruth & Aldous' plates. Like ravenous, gluttonous American little pigs. No matter how full we were, we just kept eating because it was that good. Quite a feast. Which, of course, reminds me that there is famine. And that's how we celebrate the New Year. Mindful of those for whom this year, like every year, will be very hard. Hopeful that it will be better. Grateful for our gifts of jewels.

Tomorrow we'll do this:

We went last year and it was really great. Live band, kids running wild, real Ethiopian dancing, tej, t'iru habesha migib, nice people. Please come join us if you feel like it.

One year (and one month and twelve days) ago . . .

We came home from Ethiopia with so many photos and videos that I haven't yet sorted them all out. Someday I will make a really great video for Ruth & Aster, with my movie-making software that I don't know how to use. For now, here's this.

Make photo slide shows at www.OneTrueMedia.com

I spent too long trying to figure out how to tell the story of our trip. I can't do it. I can't even add text without upgrading to premium services, which I am too cheap to do at this time. So, here are some of my favorite images from our trip: getting to Addis at 10:30 p.m., leaving at 5:30 the next morning to travel south to meet Ruth & Aster's family, and coming back, in chronological order. Many of the most important moments and people are left out, but here's a bunch of stuff that is, in my opinion, beautiful and happy and sad and heartbreaking, all at the same time. Except my husband dancing and my first real attempt at juggling twins - that's just plain entertaining.

Alyssa Fortin Photography

Alyssa Fortin Photography

Naptural Sisters

Ruth & Aster both have beautiful, very, very tightly curled, course, hair. Tons of it. Pulled out straight, sections of Ruth's hair are about 5 inches long. Other sections, like where she had a baby bald spot in the back, are 1 inch long. My mother complains when I don't just leave her hair out after I comb out her afro, because a.) it's beautiful (although I can't wait til she grows out the awkward dent where the post-baldspot short hair is); b.) it suits her personality well; and c.) my mom is convinced they must hate it when I do their hair. They don't. It's nice bonding time, and they like the one-on-one individual attention. Plus, they are hypnotized.

Ruthie is not often sporting her 'fro because #1. It snarls and matts quickly, and then when I want to comb it out (which we do with conditioner in the tub, without the video), it's not so fun for her. #2. I care what people think about my daughters' hair. Let me be more clear. I worry about what Black women who I don't know think about my daughters' hair.

I used to be someone who, sometimes to a fault, couldn't care less what other people think. But I fear being judged and perceived as a White woman who doesn't know how to care for my Black daughters' skin and hair. For those of you who would like to criticize me, I'm sure you will find ample fodder in this post. For starters, this post is not really about my daughters, or their hair, at all. This post is about me, me, me. My thoughts, my feelings and my issues.

Their cornrows, braids, twists, twist-outs, coils, and post-coil finger-picked-out spiraly curls, get better all the time. I am careful not to create traction alopecia. Their hair is healthy and clean and moisturized and growing fast. Both girls are strikingly beautiful no matter what I do or don't do.

Now, I'm not letting my insecurities lead to undue torture for them, or doing anything outwardly obsessive or weird about it. I am aware that they are only one year old, and there are plenty of important things for me to be focusing on, but let me tell you my friend, hair is no joke.

If you are new to this issue, and wondering what the big deal is, know that (according to Tyra Banks) Black women make up 6-7% of the population in this country, and spend 80% of the money spent on hair care in America. The first Black millionaire, Madame C.J. Walker, sold hair care products. How does the "good hair v. bad hair" issue impact little girls? I cannot wait for Chris Rock's movie. For now, watch Tyra's show on the subject (disclaimer - I am not a big Tyra fan). Take a look at this video.

Having said all that, I'm really getting over it, because there is surely no way for me to please everyone. Many older (and many not so old) Black women, like most of the ladies we know from church, frown on children's hair looking "wild." Many younger women, and those, like me, who are more into a nature-loving lifestyle (says the poser-hippie-chick with fake blond hair), despair at the way little Black girls are made to feel ashamed of their hair by constantly trying to "tame" it. But I know that if my girls' hair is in a beautiful, tall, two day old twist-out, or shrunk-up, tight afro, this may not be seen as a styling choice by me. People just think I don't know any better. And I can't control that.

But here's how crazy stupid I can get about it. Last week, I went into a local Sally Beauty Supply store, staffed by Black women who are all about hair, to get a new little EZ beader thing (which they, sadly, do not carry). I was planning on giving the girls braids when we got home, and their little puffs were looking a pretty messy and neglected. As we approached the door, I suddenly felt like I was walking into a lionesses' den. What was I thinking? Maybe I should change my plans and we should just come back tomorrow AFTER I do something different with their hair without the beader. What? We're already here. Get a grip. Chill. So I start focusing on how ridiculous I am being. Or am I? By the time I got to the door, I was all wrapped up in issues of race and hair and judgment and I felt like an idiot.

Three meticulously coiffed (all relaxed, extensioned, and lace-front-wigged out) Sally Beauty Supply employees oohed and aahhed and asked all the typical questions about whether they are twins, and whether they are mine, and where did they come from, and what are their names. Accidentally, I pointed to Ruth and said "this is Aster" and pointed to Aster and said "and this is Ruth." I've done this a few times before. But this time, I froze. As I was about to correct myself, this imaginary movie scene started playing in my head wherein we leave, and these women are talking about how badly they feel for the nappy - haired little babies with the stupid white mom who can't do their hair, and can't even tell them apart. I just stood there like an mute moron, while they waved and smiled at Ruth, saying "Hi Aster, Aster, can I get a smile? Aster?" And Ruth just looking at me like, Mom, what is WRONG with you? Something like this look.

The women were sweet and friendly, offering tips galore, and I got over my paranoia induced paralysis. Seriously, I've got to get over myself. The world is going to throw plenty of hair issues at my girls - they don't need me obsessing over who's judging my skills.

I read bell hook's Happy to be Nappy with them ten times a day, because they love it and ask for it, but even that comes fully loaded. My 6 year old White niece recently asked me what is "nappy." I told her it was a word used to describe hair like Ruth & Aster's, that is very kinky curly and thick. Then, another imaginary movie started playing in my head, wherein Mia goes to school and tells a little Black classmate, in a nice way, that her hair is nappy. Teacher/mother/other kids don't think it's nice. Cut to next scene where Ruth & Aster first hear people say nappy in an unhappy way, and are confused. Now I'm confused.

Watch TV, or tune into any other main-stream entertainment medium, sometime and count the natural Black styles you see. Think about the pop culture images blasted at your kids and understand how I worry about how my girls will define beautiful.

And I understand how easy it is for me to sit with my inexperience and condemn those who chose to straighten their little girls' hair. I get it. It's a personal choice. It's a free country. So much so, in fact, that I'm free to change my mind someday as a result of real life invading our little bubble, and my goal of always acting in the best interest of my children. But I, personally, certainly do not plan to have any relaxed children's kinks around here.

And if they beg and plead, which I've heard that children often do, I'm going to have to remember that I don't really have a comparable experience to share with them, and I can't pretend to know how it feels to be them when it comes to issues of hair/race. I can listen, comfort, and hook them up with women with shared experiences. Fortunately, we know some beautiful Black women who wear their hair natural, and I hope that my girls want to be like them.

It is hard for me to just listen, though, because I'm bossy and controlling. I always want to tell people, oh, when that happened to me, I did this. You should try this, or do that. I think that just listening and validating will be hard, but huge. I very much want my babies to grow up and have thoughts like these. And there are so many forces working against them, I can only try and try not to be one of them.

Looking for Jendayi Frazer's boobs?

So, I finally joined facebook. Why so late to the party, you ask? Because I know how addicted I was to the blogosphere back in the day, I feared the potential neglect of children and chores. As it is, I am so frantic (like all people with kids, I imagine) scrambling around trying to get everything done, that I regularly bang my head on the edge of the table when I bend down to clean up the dinner mess on the floor, and whack my shins on the coffee table picking up toys between loads of laundry. I know, Dad, I know, too fast.

But the tractor beam finally sucked me in, and I’ve reconnected with all kinds of great people. Now, after the initial onslaught, and having connected this social networking site to that social networking site, it’s manageable. So, if you’ve come here from facebook, welcome.

In the two years I’ve had this blog, tens of thousands of visitors have come, and my sitemeter tells me where they come from. Most of them link from other Ethiopian Adoption sites, or come from basic searches for Ethiopian Adoption related things. But some people, some people search for pretty messed up things and end up here. Like what kind of messed up things? Well, there are lots of hits from people searching for semi-related things like:

beautiful ethiopian women

Ethiopia Adoption Magic.

amharic swear words

can you change the referral for ethiopian adoption

The last one strikes me as so sad, imagining some forlorn, scared pre-adoptive parent. There are others like that, people who I imagine are all alone, just typing in google search terms, looking for answers to their private problems that they are too scared to talk to other humans about. These searches, for example, land people here:

magick to make you straight

i am studying everyday but i dont remember what i study

im pregnant and i ate brownie mix

two of my toes are webbed

let me tell you my friend someday this world's going to end.

employee has to pee in sink inhumane?

I have big manhands

is their magic in the world today?

I know why the pregnant brownie mix lady, the manhands people, and the webbed toes people (lots of them) end up here. And I know how some other bizarre ones end up here, like these:

melons and lemons

moment of truth hot wife

tila tequila" +"where does she live"

Jendayi Frazer boobs

pretty hot sluts

katy sexy magic (obviously they came to the right place)

But some are just so bizarre, I can’t imagine why they clicked. Like these:

morphed boobs magic

fat girl naykid sit on guys head having sex

straight older blogger (I guess, technically)

ethiopia news the magic gay

insanely hot Ethiopian Somalian teen, anal

rug tiles bread Ikea school honey Zen blog alcohol (what?)

can grownup cats hold in thier babies in thier tummy

the stars fall straight on us have bodies chopped up in garages (WHAT?)

Should I alert the FBI to that last one?

Peace out.

Fluff Pulp 'n Stuff

I swear I still think about substantive, complicated things like politics, race, class, and power. BUT, this is yet another fluffy baby post. I've had several people, co-incidentally, ask me lately about baby stuff - products in particular. So, despite a reminder yesterday on the Anti-Racist Parent blog that "parenting isn’t just about picking out a stroller or deciding how much TV time your child is going to have," here are a few opinions about material possessions. Pretty much the last post I ever thought I'd write when I started this blog. I never dreamed I would have useful parenting information of any sort. I'm so happy to be able to share this info.

A year in product review:

Baby Bjorn bouncy seats: The first of a few kind-of-absurdly expensive things on this list. Totally worth it, especially when received as a gift. Great for teeny babies and bouncy little kids. Ruth & Aster still love them and they're in great shape. I mean the seats are in great shape, but the babies do get a good workout.

Then:

Now:

Suction Bowls: Bowls that stick to the table or tray. Allegedly. Teach your kid to use a spoon without the whole bowl thrown on the floor. Sounds great right? Wrong. They stick for 5 seconds. No matter what surface. They super suck - not literally.

Same thing for stupid snack traps. They are a trap for the unwary. My babies couldn't get Cheerios (or whatever) out until they figured out how to pull the trap top open and dump out all the contents.

Strollers and Slings: Our double stroller is great. It's rugged, and great for off-road adventures. It comes with a silly, inaudible little speaker into which you can plug an ipod. The swivel wheel also doesn't work. It swivels, but the whole stroller shakes uncontrollably when it is free to swivel. I have attacked it with all kinds of tools and determination and no matter what you do, it sucks. Not a big deal, however, because if you just keep it locked straight, it's fine. MP3 players and swivel wheels are just not necessary. The stroller works great.

It is wide, however, and impractical for running into a store or anyplace with narrow doors or aisles. For that, the best system I use is a cheap, old-school $15 umbrella stroller (from CVS or Rite Aid) and a sling. Whoever is more fussy or clingy at the moment goes in the sling and the other one strolls. We take up much less space that way.

Hotslings: Are bomb. I don't know how people get anything done without being able to hold a baby and still use both hands. Good for attachment and great for getting a crying baby to zip it. I can't really carry them both at the same time unless one is in a sling. Picking up the 2nd one and putting both down at the same time is too sketchy - like I'm gonna drop one. But with one in a sling, it's easy. This is critical these days, since they have outgrown the carseats that snap-'n-go in 'n out of the car, and they can't walk. So just getting from the car to the door can be a project. I like hotslings because you pop a baby in and pop a baby out without wrapping, tying, strapping, adjusting, etc. It is possible to criss-cross the slings and wear both at the same time, but it takes 5 hours to get them in and out that way and I never do it.

When they were 8 lbs, they went in "front carry" style, all squished up. Aster loved to sleep in there like a little kangaroo. Now they happily do the "hip carry" thing. Grocery store: one in cart, one in sling. Sometimes, if I have a jacket on, people don't even notice the one in the sling and the intrusive, personal questions/comments (post on that dying to spew out of me) get cut in half. Bonus.

The uneven weight distribution can be tough on your back if you wear your baby for a long time. For extended baby carrying, or strenuous activity while babywearing, Mei Tai carriers are better.

Stokke Tripp Trapp highchairs: Ridiculously expensive for a high chair. I love that the girls are at the table with us. They will adjust to be Ruth & Aster's seats for years and years to come. I do have to admit, though, that I also love how aesthetically pleasing and non-plastic they are. One caveat: Ruth puts her feet on the table and pushes herself, and the whole chair, back. Our floor is wood, so the chair slides. If it was on carpet or some other non-skid surface, she could probably tip it over backwards.

Glass bottles: I was originally attracted to them because I have an aversion to plastic. I am lazy and lack the conviction to really follow through and avoid plastic it as much as I could, but I digress yet again. I love glass bottles for a twin specific reason. Since I couldn't hold them both and feed them both bottles at the same time, bottle propping was standard. Don't worry - lots of touching and cooing and eye contact during bottles is also standard, but the bottles themselves get propped by a soft blanket. Yes, present tense, as in, they still drink bottles that they do not hold. Judge on. They kick ass at sippy cups, and I'm not worried about it. Glass bottles are much heavier than plastic ones, so they stay put where they are propped. Wood (or carpeted) floors are important for use with this product, because glass bottles shatter into a bzillion tiny sliverous shards on slate, tile, rock and cement.

gdiapers: Not willing to do cloth (see above re: lacking courage of convictions). Horrified by the number of landfills we personally filled with plastic during the first few months of disposable diaper use, and also freaked out a little by the silicone balls inside of them. Initially, couldn't stand the price of gdiapers. Then discovered that buying them at Whole Foods is two dollars cheaper per refill package than online from gdipaers directly. That was the price break that I could, personally, live with. I like them. They work well and are gentle on sensitive bums. They are not absorbent enough for the occasional overnight when babies are extra-hydrated, and the whole concept of "tree farmed fluffy pulp" is a bit much, but I still like them.

Triple Paste & Nystatin: Ruth & Aster came home with insane, blistering, bloody diaper rash. We tried every other rash cream you can think of. For them, Triple Paste was, by far, the best protecting barrier. Nystatin is a prescription for diaper rash caused by bacteria or yeast (I forget which one) and, unfortunately, not the first prescription we got. Once we got it, it worked like magic right away.

Zippy feety pjs: This may be sort of twin specific. I couldn't stand all the snaps every time they got dressed or changed a diaper. This sounds silly but I bet I've saved hours by just doing one zip up instead of 15 snaps each, only to find that I missed a snap somewhere and have to start over on a squirmy baby. And only metal zippers, no plastic ones. Just kidding.

Pacifiers: I wanted to be a mom who didn't use them. Because they are plastic. Kidding again. I didn't want to use them because I hate how dependent my kids are on them, and I try to restrict use to bedtime, long car rides, and emergencies only. I wanted my kids to be able to self soothe without an external prop. I brought two to Ethiopia, thinking that sucking might relieve ear pain on the plane. It did. But they didn't have them in Addis, so why start when we get home?

Why?

Because they are amazing miracles. Sucking is comforting. Ruth & Aster were so comforted by them, I probably would have used them if they were PBAcificiers. Also key, as long as you clip them down low on the clothes and are comfortable that your baby is big enough not to get strangled by them, are negligence-straps pacifier tethers.

Co-sleeping & related literature: This is a very family specific situation. For us, co-sleeping was definitely the way to go at first. They really needed us at night. They were comforted by us just being right there all the time. I believe it was huge for us in the attachment department. They were TERRIBLE sleepers for a long, long time. This was not because they were in bed with us. We tried everything. They weren't ready to go in their own room for about 7 months. But when they were ready, when they felt safe and calm, and done with what could only be described as night terrors, we knew. And instead of some tortured week of crying it out, they just went in, went to sleep for 12 hours and never looked back.

Okay, that's not exactly true. Aster cried herself to sleep twice, because she is stubborn, but it was relatively painless for everyone. They very quickly became phenomenal sleepers; 2 hour morning nap, 2 hour afternoon nap and 6:30 p.m. to 6:30 a.m. So take THAT, all you people who said we would crush them and create monsters in our bed for 7 years.

And yes, I am aware that now, because I have publicly stated this lovely routine, it will completely change tomorrow.

The popular book, Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child, which, ironically, is kind of an anti-co-sleeping treatise, was very helpful in educating me about baby biorhythms and sleep cycles and the science of sleep. I recommend it.

Babyfood, organic or otherwise: Totally overrated. I didn't think I would make my kids' food, because it just wasn't a priority. Then I ended up doing it because it was, surprisingly, so quick and so easy. We just ate things that were good for babies, made extra, and pureed the leftovers. Lamb, applesauce, & spinach - yum. Mangos (they're not citrus-okay for infants) & cereal - yum. Potatoes, peas, chicken - moosh it up, together or separate. You get the idea. So much cheaper than the preserved tastelessness and all you need is a food processor, or a "hand blender" as pictured. And ball jars. They come in all different sizes and you can freeze them.

They (you know, "they," the people who do all the bad stuff) make babyfood extra bland on purpose to reduce the likelihood your baby will spit it out, which is a natural reaction the first time they try any new taste. Then you think your baby likes it and you buy more. I don't remember where I read this, but since this is my opinion and I'm one of those irresponsible bloggers, I don't even have to back it up. So, I hope Ruth & Aster (or Rooster, as more than one child under 4 has called them) grow up to be adventurous eaters. Plus, I like to control EVERYTHING what goes into them.

Shuruba.com videos: Someday I will do a post about hair. A deep, societally critical post. I think about it a lot. About how infrequently I see natural Black hair in television, advertising, and movies. I'm new, and still have much to learn about it keeping my daughters' super-thick, super-long (with about 75% shrinkage), Type 4 hair healthy and easily manageable for them. I will do my best to be sure they love their hair and understand how much I love their hair, but I am already bracing myself for the day they ask for a relaxer. Another digression.

Back to the point: there is a tab on the homepage of Shuruba.com for "Pictures and videos." It is very helpful to be able to watch, pause, rewind and re-watch the adoptive mom of 4 do her daughter's hair in lots of pretty, protective styles. I also have to recommend practicing and playing with your baby's hair at a young age. Ruth (pictured above) who came home with lots of hair, is totally used to it now and will sit (with a video - see below) for 40 minutes at a time (if necessary, depending on the style) while I do it. Aster's hair (right) is newer and she is less patient with me. Okay, so I overuse and don't know how to properly use parenthases. (Big deal).

Brainy Baby Videos: I never thought I'd recommend baby TV. But sometimes (hair time, important phone call time, whatever) I need it. We didn't have TV on near them until they were 9 months and then I was all excited to show them Sesame Street, thinking they would be totally captivated. They could not have been less impressed. Wouldn't even look at any of the cartoony colorful programs for babies. I found myself totally disappointed and had to laugh at all my previous snotty criticism of TV watching kids.

Then we found Brainy Baby and the trance-like state it induces. They've been watching the same two videos (Logical thinking and Creative thinking) for five months, and they still get crazy excited when it comes on. Originally, it was because they loved seeing the babies in the videos, and the colors and the music. Now, they're into the content and try to recite the alphabet and numbers with the annoying voice lady. I don't expect it to make them smarter, but I do think it makes their hair really, really cute.

Happy to be Nappy: Ruth & Aster LOVE this book. That, and this one are the favorites, and board books are their favorite toys. I was thrilled to learn about Happy to be Nappy because bell hooks is a famous intellectual feminist author that I was really into in college. When I found out about this book, I was really excited. Then I found that a "new" copy in board book form was retailing for $125.00 on Amazon.com. I got a gently used copy.

Okay, I have 900 other stuffs to tell you about, but this post has been sitting for days waiting for me to finish it, is way too long already, and has to get up now or never. I'll leave you with storytime.

Major May Events

I probably don't have to tell you about the referral of M&M. Isn't it so amazing how moved you can be by events happening to people you've never met? I cried my little crybaby eyes out when Julie announced champagne at her hose.

I was also unexpectedly moved in May, at the re-adoption/finalization hearing. I was pretty annoyed that we had to do it, since the adoption is full and final and recognized by the US when it happens in Ethiopia. But you can't get a passport or a certificate of citizenship without a birth certificate issued by your state. So, annoying. But then we met the Judge. He was so excited for us and so happy and nice to the girls. He showed them his "judge in the box" that looked so much like him it was surreal. He gave them teddy bears. He made it a big celebration and so, of course, I cried my little crybaby eyes out.

Plus, I must admit, I was pretty excited about officially changing their middle names from Aldous (upon adoption, the Ethiopian government automatically gives the children the first name of their adoptive father as a middle name) to meaningful, appropriate names that we picked, that we love. Here we are at the fake adoption/finalization of Ruth Senayit and Aster Tseday.

In other May news, Ruthie worked her first S.I. swimsuit model shoot.

She's kind of a high maintenance, demanding diva on the set.

Her yoga practice, triangle pose in particular, helps her deal with the stress of it all.

Meanwhile, Aster found work as the face of the new BabyMaybeline eyeliner campaign.

But was shocked, just shocked, that we allowed her sister to participate in the objectification of the female body in S.I. like that.

She happily called social services to report us when we got home.

Referral

For Haze, today!

For us, 365 days ago. Our receptionist (my 87 year old grandmother) intercoms me that some lady with a name I don't recognize is on the phone. Disappointed for the 143,987,203th time, I pick it up. Blah blah from Wide Horizons. Hearing "Wide Horizons" causes a momentary tingly hot lightning strike feeling to circulate around my body, but it lasts less than a nanosecond because my immediate thought is this is not our social worker. Your assigned social worker makes the referral call. It's some other lady I've never heard of, undoubtedly calling with some question or update or bad news. Again.

This has happened before, and completely ruined days that were previously just regularly miserable. A false alarm call: a shot of adrenaline followed by a plunge into exhausted despair.

Here we go again.

Then she says, I am [social worker's] supervisor. She is on vacation and she is going to be so disappointed that she didn't get to make this call.

What?

Yes, this is it. This is the call.

Really? I can't believe they say "this is the call." So dramatic.

Yes. Are you sitting down? Do you have a pen?

I am sitting at my desk, surrounded by pens and papers and I can't find them because projectile tears start shooting out of my eyes and they can't focus. My ears and nose get so hot and red I can't hear or breathe. I try to talk and it sounds kind of like a seagull. I tell her I know she must be used to people acting like this, but I am really messed up already.

A relatively new paralegal is standing in the doorway to my office, horrified, mouth open, looking like she is about to alert others in the office that something very terrible has happened. Or call 911. But I ignore her, and get it together enough to hold a pen.

You have six week old twin daughters.

I repeat after her. Six week old twins.

I ask my first question.

How old are they?

Not like Wait. HOW old are they? Not like I'm surprised by the age. I ask it in a very sincere, direct examination kind of way. I honestly have no idea how old these six week old twins are.

They are six weeks old. Two girls. She is obviously used to this kind of thing. Their names are Ruth and Aster.

She tells me a little bit about thier family. She tells me how many kilograms and centimeters they are, which means nothing to me. No, she can't email me a picture or any more info. We have to wait until tomorrow for deets. I have no problem waiting until tomorrow. I'm looking forward to seeing their faces and hearing their stories, but I am done waiting. Poof. It's over. I don't care what they look like. Two unexpected girl babies. Uncertainty eliminated. It's not never going to happen anymore.

I have to call Aldous. I have to get it together. I have to call my mom. I have to call my sisters. I try to do all of these things and can't remember any one's phone number. Then I remember but keep pressing wrong buttons. NONE of them answer the phone. I think I know where Aldous is, so I set out to find him.

Driving under the influence of a referral really should be illegal. I feel shaky and weak and disoriented. My judgment, motor skills, reflexes - all dangerously compromised. Plus I am frantically dialing and redialing over and over and over. And NOBODY will answer. I leave a few tearful messages. My mom will keep hers saved on her phone for the next year.

I find Aldous power washing a house, totally soaked and completely covered with paint and mud. I am wearing a pastel colored suit type of thing and have some court type thing I have to do in the afternoon. I can't touch him. I can't believe I will have to go back to work. It's unreal.

Later, when he tells people this story, he says I got out of the car and came stumbling at him all breathless, eyes rolling around in my head, flapping my arms, sounding like Gumby. He mocks me, looking like a drunk zombie baby bird.

Wide Horizons called. You have six week old twin girls.

Twins? Girls? Holy sh*t. I'm gonna have to paint a lot of houses.

Their names are Ruth and Aster

What are they, ninety?

What? No. They're little teeny babies! Two little girls!

I then try to micromanage his response, unable to control my controlfreakyness, and tell him that he is not having the emotional, joyful type of response I am looking for. An hour later he calls me from some pizza place where he is sitting, by himself, not eating, just sitting there. In complete shock. For a long time.

A year later, we're both still in shock. Amazed by the grace, the whole thing. Astonished by how fast the year after the longest year ever went by.

Thousands of Words

Photos by Kristen Boyson last weekend

Cake by Aldous

I have no words to quantify joy like this.

More on children and clean water

Random Furious, Pictureless, Wrong Side of the Bed Rant

This morning, I woke up to this lovely little 411 tid-bit: Rocket fuel chemical found in baby formula.

The whole tone of the article struck me as: oh, don't worry about it! Maybe there's no health risk! Really, whether your baby's thyroid/brain gets damaged depends on lots of things - the size of the infant, the amount of formula they drank. How much is in your water. . .

My favorite part is that, apparently, the CDC won't tell what brands of formula were tested. Helllooooo. . . you are a public agency. We pay for the research. It's not a national security issue. Nobody's privacy is at stake here. Oh, you don't know how many batches may or may not be contaminated? Oh, you don't want to unnecessarily spread mass hysteria? Then TEST LOTS AND LOTS AND LOTS MORE BATCHES RIGHT NOW and tell us what you find ASAP. My other favorite part is going to cdc.gov and not being able to find a single word about it.

I'm telling you, it set me off. I woke up this morning with a bad feeling, even before being assaulted by the news. My first waking thought was of a stupid thing that I let happen last night, and of bad dreams I had last night, as I regained consciousness to the soundtrack of NPR.

The perchlorate thing was the first story. Then, the existence of this new video of the Taliban flogging a teenage girl was the second thing I learned about within 10 minutes of waking up. Don't watch the video; it could cause you to lose your ability to stop your brain from spinning around on all the horrific, nightmarish, inhumane, deliberately inflicted pain and suffering of which you are aware in the world.

Sorry, there's just sooooo much out there to whine and complain about today, it's just going to keep pouring out of me as blogvomit for a bit. You should probably hang up on me now.

I try to be open-minded. To be respectfull of cultural differences and understand that my value system doesn't play well everywhere. But hadd punishments under sharia law? Puh-leeze. Not a fan. For months now, I've had this 13 year old girl who was stoned to death by grown-up men for getting gang raped in Somalia, creeping into my head. Every day. And I try to ignore her.

Recently, I've also been regularly visited by the face of this young man who, along with three friends, was flogged, lightly, on top of his clothes while he laughed, for gang raping another girl. These people are taking over my brain today and I can't get rid of them. GO! Leave me! Move through my fingers and into the computer.

Next up in my face and the headlines today: Malawi says no to Madonna. Malawi has a residency requirement for adoptive parents. Lots of countries do. Madonna does not reside in Malawi. A judge decided not to waive the residency requirement. This is not rocketfuel science. But it IS now another referendum on "celebrity adoption." Adoption is something that people, celebrities and commoners, do. There is no household phrase: "celebrity childbirth" or "celebrity marriage," but I digress. It's now a referendum on African adoption. On whether the little girl should grow up poor there or rich here. On whether Madonna is a good or bad person.

Within 15 minutes of getting out of bed, I am listening to a blathering expert explain that intercountry adoption is almost insignificant - it affects such a tiny number of children. What you've got to do is ensure that each child has an opportunity to grow up in their own country, to be protected and healthy and cared for.

Really? That's what you've got to do? That's all? Why, oh why, didn't I think of that!

CNN talked to MFG about it, BTW.

Now, what happened last night that was so bad, you ask? Nothing that terrible. I was watching Ruth & Aster, adding to my hours and hours of videotape of them doing nothing in particular. They were petting Pacino, adoring him, laughing at him. I really thought that if they bothered him, the worst he would ever do would be to bat them with a soft paw, with claws retracted, like he used to do to our dogs when they were puppies. So, he's wagging his tail, dangling it in thier faces, beckoning to them, drawing them in, and I think it's soooo cute.

I can't bring myself to watch it, but I know that on the video you can hear me cooing, "Oh, that's nice. Gentle to the kitty. Niiiice kitty. Good girls."

How dumb am I? That sneaky, evil, oversized rat swung around and took a swipe at Aster's face, claws OUT, deliberately administering one tiny, barely visible, puncture wound no bigger than the commas in this sentence. It bled so much I couldn't believe it was such a teeny spot. I thought he slashed her. She was fine but scared and confused and very sad.

I could probably submit the video to that show formerly hosted by Bob Sagat and everyone would shout "oooohhhh!" and laugh like a laugh track at the moment of violence. Like they laugh at the poor little boys who get whacked in the crotch with baseballs, and on stair rails when they wipe out on skateboards.

Its a good thing that I am trying to BE the change that I want to see in the world or I might have punched the cat (and some people, including me, yesterday), right in the face.

Basically, I am just angry today that I have to send my daughters out into this world that, at first, they will think is sooo niiice, and looks so pretty, and then will undoubtedly strike when they least expect it.

As usual, no solutions offered here. Just more waaah waaah blah blah!

Go Team, Go!

World Water Day was March 22nd, and I was so wrapped up in doing things like bathing babies and feeding those clean, healthy babies their clean, healthy bottles that I didn't notice.

Earlier this month, Rebecca Haile said this:

Here is something I think about which falls a bit outside the usual discussion: whether adoptive families will in time become engaged advocates for Ethiopia. It isn’t sexy, the long term business of pushing for a democratic government or good US foreign policy in the Horn or advocating for infrastructure or the development of good farming practices (discussed below). It isn’t nearly as clear-cut or gratifying as responding to a heart-breaking famine or loving a beautiful child. But Ethiopia desperately needs such advocates.

I can do more. I will do more.

Right now, if you want to do something without even having to reposition your wrists, you can help build a well in Ethiopia. Lovely Lori, who I've had the pleasure of meeting in real life, is building a team of donors for a charity : water well in Ethiopia."charity: water gives 100% of public donations to direct project costs, funding sustainable freshwater solutions. $20 can give one person clean and safe drinking water for 20 years"

To donate any amount and join the team, go to Lori's charity : water page.

The above photos of people getting water in the Amhara region of Ethiopia (and the dirty baby bottle) are taken from the charity:water.org site. There you can read and learn all of the shocking statistics about Americans using 150 gallons of water per day while your average person in a "developing" country struggles to find 5. About how many people die every day from drinking dirty, disease infested water, etc. Water1st and A Glimmer of Hope are two of my other favorite sites/groups with ample, beautifully presented information. But reading it is just not the same as seeing it. Which is, of course, not even remotely related to actually living or understanding it.

We are all so numb and desensitized to horrific photos and numbers. You may not find the fuzzy distant pictures below to be very moving at all, but I do. I took them in a place where some families send their most beloved children far, far away to avoid walking 10+ miles to get water that makes them sick.

It makes me feel sick. These are REAL people. Pretty articulate, huh? There's nothing new I can say about it. Check out the links. Join the team. Little bodies should learn how to walk so they can play and go to school. Not so they can become broken down and brittle and tired and sick and walking and walking and walking, lugging gasoline jugs of sludge.

I write this, by the way, completely mindful of How to Write about Africa, and that it's not really fair to post a picture of these konjo Habesha lijjotch (who are not walking yet but very close) in connection with a plea for the team. But that's what I think about when I think about building wells. What a difference clean, accessible water (and some irrigation - separate topic) could have made.

Photo Every Hour - Saturday

Late Friday night, I read Evelyn's "Photo Every Hour" post and commented that I would do it on Saturday. Then I woke up Saturday morning at 6:30 and forgot. Until 9ish, when my brain started to work a little bit after breakfast and playtime, and during morning bottles on the couch, where I normally sit between them. Then they hit the cribs for naptime.

The 10:00 hour is all about clean up - the house and me. I even have time to blow dry my hair(highly unusual)but people wake up before I have time to do any type of 'do (usual).

11ish: Baths and piano playing with dad before he leaves for NH.

12ish: lunch

1ish: turn my back for one second while packing.

2ish: Packed. Despite Ruth's best efforts to unpack.

3ish: Pack up babies. They go to sleep. Hit the road.

4ish: Pick up sister, Kristen, on corner of N. Washington and Commercial Streets after Bruins game.

5ish: Children awake. Dunkin Donuts at Exit 47 on 93N. Diaper change, coffee, and general merriment.

6ish: Baby dinner in Bebe-Pods (great invention for travelling) at Aldous' parent's house in NH.

7ish: Get ready to leave babies in highly capable, kind, loving hands of Aldous' wonderful parents.

8ish: Get babies to sleep and eat delicious lamb chops prepared by fabulous chef mother-in-law. So consumed with eating them, forget to photograph them.

9ish: Stop at store for camera batteries, drive 12 minutes, and go to husband's gig at Irish place where trumpet player, regular violin player, and one keyboard amp are somewhat conspicuosly absent.

10ish: Chicks dig it anyway.

11ish: Hear him sing only real slow song of the evening - about Ruth & Aster. Violin player has never heard this song before. Lovely keyboard part is inaudible. I love it anyway. Good lookin' out Aldy.

12ish: The front of the black T shirt pictured below says "Sandy Money." Violin player inquires of meaning and is informed that it is the name of the band with which he is playing. The back of the T shirt says "Cougar Friendly Music". The wearer is 7? years younger than woman with her hands on said shirt.

1:03: Not attending after-party due to age and tiredness.

2ish: Sleeping, briefly, in pack-n-plays.

Referral posts are the best

So, I'll direct you over to my friend Jen. She and her family are amazing and beautiful and loving and caring - about each other and the people around them, locally & globally. How many 14 year old girls do you know who ask for nothing for their birthday but to sponsor a kid? The whole family rocks and I am SO excited for them and their little B. Can't wait to meet her!

Aster is home and doing great!

Thanks for your kind words about it.

Sick and tricks

Lately, I'm in triage mode a lot of the time. And the blog gets cut. BUT, during my bloglul time, I am still checking constantly because I know that at least ahnd, hulet, sost referrals are seriously imminent. And these pictures/videos are for Kristine.

Unfortunately, this next picture is a little bit sad. Just a little bit, though. Even though Aster has been in Children's Hospital for four nights now, and she's still there, she can give her dad a high-five. Both girls have RSV, and it's kicking Aster's butt a little bit harder than Ruthie's right now. But don't worry, they will be just fine. Sitting on the convertible chair/cot in her room for days, listening to music with one ipod earbud in my ear and one in Aster's, we watched a giant Spongebob Squarepants on a crane and this out her window. Everything else just faded away and we just sat, being occasionally interrupted by the best health care providers in the world. I felt so grateful the whole time. For her, for the hospital, for all the things I often take for granted.

Here they are (above and below) during the week before the illness from hell. No wonder they got sick. Who does baby swimming lessons in New England in February?

Actually, when Aster got sick, and I mean really, really sick, we were in a house that sits, literally, on top of a mountain, during a storm that dumped 24" of snow in 24 hours, with 90 mile per hour winds. It would have been a fun adventure to be trapped up there if it didn't SUCK WORSE THAN ANYTHING watching our little girl work so hard to breathe. Too sad.

Anyway, here they are again, performing like seals for your (and my) viewing pleasure.

They'll be back to their old and new tricks in no time.

It's still the weekend!

We were gone to NH all weekend. Just got home, a lot later than I expected. Got. . . to. . . get. . .video. . . posted! (eyes drooping closed, fingers shaking). I wanted to spend time with my many hours of footage of babies being babies, and do something cool with it, but it didn't happen yet. Sorry to be so darn disappointing.

Here they are watching the inauguration. I also apologize, in advance, for annoying the crap out of you by saying "Oh. ba. ma." over and over and over in an exceptionally over the top repetitive type of way. My poor children do a fabulous job trying to say it and get nothing from me but more "Oh. ba. ma. Oh. ba. ma" I was pretty into it. Them, not quite so much.

Here are a few clips showcasing their mad eating skills, and a few other tricks.

Other new tricks (video coming soon) include crawling, pulling up to standing on everything, SLEEPING IN THEIR CRIBBIES ALL NIGHT LONG! (probably not gonna post video of that), not sleeping in our bed anymore, putting themselves back to sleep when they wake up in the night, SLEEPING! SLEEPING! (except last night), Being healthy, not being sick, and basically just being super frickin' awesome 24/7.

And the bloscars go to . . .

I should have received an award for WORST blogger ever. Repeatedly promising to post more and just blatantly not doing it. The worst. Or at least runner up to the worst. Non-operational-battle-station Jamie is the worst. Don't you miss her? I do.

I really hate it when my favorite bloggers disappear. Anyone on here been around long enough to remember swerl? She was my favorite in a serious, informative way. Tasha of Uzbek Ubet! was one of my faves in a hilariously funny way. Aaahhh, those days when I compulsively checked other people's Ethiopian adoption blogs like 50 times per day for updates. Miss the people, not the wait induced blog obsessive insanity. My blog is puny and pathetic next to those, but I didn't get worst blogger award. I undeservedly got this one from the brilliant, the beautiful, e.e. Julie.

If you don't habitually read her blog, by the way, you are missing out. Big time. Rebecca Haile is the guest blogger on there today for godssake!

So, in keeping with the way-back machine theme, I bestow the award upon some of my oldest blogfriends:

Haze. She has maintained her non-whiny, funny, smart, optimistic, on-line personal story for a long long time, enduring a wait many, many times longer than she was expecting. She's handled it very gracefully and I'm really sick of her not having a referral yet. Her and Julie. And Evelyn. The world needs them to be parents because it needs more fabulous people, which their children will have to be, having moms so cool and all.

Tracey. I've gotten to watch her little baby turn into a beautiful big girl right before my very own computer monitor. She doesn't post much, but when she does it's like little blurbs of gold. She makes rare appearances on one of the yahoo groups I follow. When people are spinning around sending each other bad information about things like: Can you get the adoption tax credit before re-adopting? and Are our children automatically citizens when they arrive? or Does it really matter if my children are never around other black people? Tracey will pop up and break it down step by step. She's like the ultimate authority, in my book, on several issues.

Tami: Tami has a new blog, Middle Rageously, that I'm an idiot for never commenting on, because I look at it and I love it. I admire her resilience in the face of adversity and her kick ass attitude. I wish I could hire her to stylize my life and make me completely fabulous in four years at 40. Although, I must say, that the photo on there from yesterday almost made me puke. It is one of the most messed up things ever.

Chandra: I think she wrote one of my all time favorite posts when, after I had been following her blog for a year, reading about her trip to pick up little Biruk, she posted revealing pictures of herself in Ethiopia. Six months pregnant. It was like reading a referral post, but shocking. So now she has 3 under 4. And still manages to do fabulous charitable work. Pretty amazing fabulousness.

Leo: No pictures, which I'm sure will deter many. Fabulous short stories. During the 18 months that I thought that we would be referred a walking, talking Ethiopian child, I imagined and wished that they might be like Leo's daughters. Reading about Marin and Emmy's intelligence and mastering of English has been a joy. This recent post and this older post are examples of why I think this blog is fabulous too.

Rules of this award:

You have to pass it on to 5 other fabulous bloggers in a post. You have to list 5 of your fabulous addictions in the post. You must copy and paste the rules and the instructions below in the post. On your post of receiving this award, make sure you include the person that gave you the award and link it back to them.

Now, I expressly forbid any of the people I just tagged from participating. Unless they really, really want to. Especially Leo. That would just be weird.

Addictions? Blogsurfing, and nunya. As in, nunya business! I am trying to front a very wholesome mommy image here!

I have some cute video of Ruthless and the Asteroid that I promise to post this weekend. Seriously. Here's a little sneak preview.

Cheeseface on a Christmas Ham

Ruth & Aster, who will be 9 months old this week, have had their pictures taken at least 400,000 times. In response to an increasing number of Kodak moments over the Holidays (Best. Christmas. Ever.), Ruth randomly started making a very funny scrunched up face every time a camera was pointed at her. And people laughed, so she did it again. And again. And again. Now, its' her "cheese" face. See what I mean?

Too cute. They both have all kinds of new tricks. Cheeseface's latest is pulling herself up to stand in her crib, looking like she's plotting all kinds of future trouble. Which I'm sure she is. And don't be fooled by little Miss sucking her thumb and looking innocent either. These are two very smart tricky little people.

I try not to say things like "I can't wait until they can talk" or walk or whatever. Because I can wait, and I can't beleive how big they are already.

So, I'll say it this way: I'm so happy we have so much to look forward to.

Supa Fine '09

We were lucky enough to be invited, again, up to our wonderful friends' hotel for a fancy New Year's Eve. I had been looking forward to it for a while, because I have really felt like celebrating and kicking off a new year full of hope and promise, for real. I said that last year, in an attempt to create my own joy, but it was a lame attempt. I was severely lacking in the joy department, and therefore, even though the party was fun, I was not so fun.

This year was like Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve. I got a party dress and our first stranger babysitter for the evening. And I wasn't even worried. They were ready (and asleep). It was pretty perfect. Just about as celebratory as one can be - fireworks and everything. We were also lucky enough to be invited to stay at our friends' insanely beautiful new home that looks down upon said hotel. Ruth and Aster loved it, as evidenced by their telepathic communication that I will now interpret for you, reader: Aster! Aster! Look behind us! I have not been decapitated, I'm just arching back, looking behind us!

Whoa, what a view. Turn us around!

This is crazy Ruth! You can see the whole valley from here!

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I know. Look, over there to the left, you can see Jackson village.

And to the right, Mt. Washington! Look how big it is!

Mom, are you eavesdropping?

PEACE ON EARTH

Wishing everybody very happy holidays!

Wordless Wednesday

What you don't want to see

This is a gut-wrenching article about international adoption that you don't want to read, but should (IMHO). Here's the bottom line as I understand it: When a poor country's international adoptions increase exponentially, all kinds of people get involved on both sides and see opportunities to make money. The process goes from a humanitarian relief effort, placing primarily older children who have lost their parents, to an increasingly corrupt industry coming up with healthy babies to meet Westerners' demand for same. And it's happening in Ethiopia. I know that this is not news to most of the people who read this blog, but this is a pretty detailed article, accompanied by an interactive map and photo essay here.

And this brings me to a point that I don't usually make here: I heart WHFC, and I don't think I'm just brainwashed. There are plenty of things that I was not overjoyed with during the process. There are things that I might do differently if I were the executive director, but none of these negative things compare in any way to the two reasons why I positively heart them.

#1. Most, if not all, other agencies have stopped facilitating meetings between adoptive parents and the children's families of origin. Because I was able to meet that family, speak with them, ask them questions, videotape the meeting, check the accuracy of the translations, I don't have to wonder. There is no question in my mind as to the identity of the people I met with, or the reasons that Ruth and Aster came to live with me. WHFC continues to facilitate contact with the family.

#2. I went to a meeting with the humanitarian aid coordinator and CFO of the newly formed separate 501(c)(3) WHFC uses to do its water projects, schools, hospital, clinics, etc. in Ethiopia. I went in fully loaded with questions designed to prove that, in fact, these efforts were designed to increase adoptions and somehow benefit WHFC. I, the most skeptical, suspicious, seek-out-the-negative, person I know, left feeling like a conspiracy theorist nut. They do good work.

So, I don't mean to be a rah-rah promoter for the agency. I don't know anything about other agencies and certainly do not mean to put any of them down. I just had to express my gratitude about being able to meet and communicate with Ruth & Aster's family in Ethiopia. That's all.

I'd love to write more about it, but my kids' privacy interest in the intimate details of their life is my new inhibition, and has been since they came to me. So, I'm never going to write about any medical, grief, attachment, or relinquishment details. I will say that I believe that no matter how young or old a child is when you bring them home from an orphanage in Ethiopia, they will suffer grief, attachment, and medical issues to SOME degree, and it is heartbreaking. If people have specific questions about any of these things, I'd be happy to answer them privately. But not here.

Now, to continue the degree of privacy violation that is acceptable to me:

What you do want to see:

Just Livin' My Life (Ay!) My Life (Oh!)

Sorry for the long absence. I can’t tell you how great a feeling it is to have blogfriends who write and ask how I am, and “real” friends who ask when I’m going to blog. So, without further ado, I give you what you want . . . Curly and Not So Slick anymore! Curly and Curlier. During the past month, they have turned into big fat mini giants. Huge, and so grown up now at 7 months old. They can sit up all alone now. Almost. Ruth is about to crawl. Aster can roll all around, but chooses not to work on crawling. She's prefers to spend more time on her back, gurgling and laughing her head off at nothing. She stops when I pull the camera out, though, so I'll have to get back to you on that with a video.

When we were waiting, I all I ever did was say that I had all this stuff to say, but couldn't, because the Evil Embassy Blog Stalkers could deny my future kids’ visas. Well, my inhibitions are gone, but so is most of my angst and urge to write. I apologize for going all soft and lame, but I’m just more of a reader than a writer, and more of a lover than a fighter these days.

Plus, I just want to spend every waking moment (way way way too many of which are between the hours of 1 and 6 a.m.) with my daughters but I still feel there aren’t enough moments. But I miss my blogfriends. I still check in with many people that I’ve virtually known for over a year, and surf around a bit, but somebody always wakes up or needs something before I get through. I really do still love this crew of people with whom I share such a huge experience. And I like recording my thoughts and feelings and pictures here. So I will try to be a better blogger.

I meant to write about Senator Russ Feingold's introduction of the Support for Democracy and Human Rights in Ethiopia Act of 2008.

I meant to write about the glaring contrasts between free speech and non-violent regime change happening here, and Meles Zenawi's repression of the press and attempts to clamp down on dissidents and NGOs with the proposed Charities and Societies Proclamation there.

I meant to write about how much the US and Ethiopia have in common, and how their relationship may or may not change now.

I meant to do a post on Blog Action Day about poverty.

I meant to write a lot about the election. How I cried like everybody else with a heart and/or soul. How much better the world and its future looked to me all of a sudden. And because I (like all complacent complainers)find it easier to write about the negative than the positive, I meant to write about my grave concerns about how I keep hearing white people say that we now live in a "post-racial" society, or that racism is obviously not a big deal in America now.

But I was busy with things like random Tuesday night dance parties. Sorry. So now, I give you Mia and her fly girls:

Tagged

I got tagged by Jen, Kristine & Sarah & Tim. Like, weeks ago. Sorry I'm such a blog slacker. I love reading everybody else's posts and seven random things, so here are mine.

Seven random things about me:

1. Okay, this first one isn't that random. I've been meaning to post these pictures since August.

Back in the day when middle class people could take two weeks off in the summer, my family used to rent a cabin in N. Conway, NH. My great-aunt rented it before us, and my great-grandparents started renting it in the summer of 1936.

A deep, clean, beautiful river is right behind the house in this picture. In 1989, the owners planned to knock it down and build a new house for an heir there. My dad bought it and moved it from the place pictured above, to the place pictured below, less than a mile away. Still on the river, but now on the road. Still the best place I've ever been.

All those river cliches and metaphors - all true and beautiful to me. I'm pretty sure that this bend in the river was a sacred place to the Abenaki people who lived here first and you can still feel the spirituality and magic of the place. Sound corny and cheesey? Oh well. I mean it. A lot.

Here's the path to the river that my dad and I built. It needs to be rebuilt abandoned in favor of a better one, but I added ropes to it a couple of years ago.

Well, I guess it was more than a couple of years ago, but it doesn't seem it.

I've been there every summer of my life. I've lived there as a grown up, all by myself in the non-winterized-non-insulated-heated-with-fire place during the winter. It is much more than a cabin to me. It's a huge part of my identity and I would be a very different person if I had not been given this incredible gift. I'm convinced that swimming in a current, climbing and jumping on rocks, and sitting on a river bank goes a long way toward making more confident, peaceful people.

We walk from the house to this place where we got married. My dad walked me across the rocks just like he did when I was little.Just like he does with the little family members now, and will do with Ruth & Aster.

Two beautiful rainbows came out that day we got married.

Another big, bold rainbow (that also did not photograph well) showed up to welcome Ruth and Aster on their first day there. Again, cheese factor off the charts. Don't care.

Bringing Ruth & Aster there this summer was up there among the happiest days of my life. So far.

You might want to put on sunglasses before you look at the next picture, to avoid being snowblinded by the world's chaulkiest whitest thigh. Chillin' on the ill NanaThere is nothing I like to do more than rest on the porch,

after days of swimming,

hiking, and serious RiverOlympic longjump competitions.

2.We have lots of slugs living around our house. Skunks like to eat slugs. My dogs get sprayed every summer. Occasionally, I find them by the back door, in the house. Slugs, not skunks.

3. If I did not love and listen to music so much, I would be much less emotionally volatile. I can usually manage my emotions, during a sad movie, for example, until music plays - then I'm done.

I was standing in my living room today, going about my business, feeling perfectly emotionally fabulous. A beautiful sad song came on (Mark Erelli singing Tom Petty's All Right for Now, which I had never heard) and slayed me. This has not happened for a long time. I held my babies and cried and cried and cried until I felt like a wrung sponge. I was (A) so grateful and moved by how much I love them; (B) so so so sad for their family in Ethiopia that must miss them so much; (C) so so sad that my babies will someday have to absorb and understand that heartbreak; and (D) so so heartbroken for all the families who are struggling to keep their children and reassure them that they are all right. For now.

If you are a crybaby like me, DO NOT listen to that song. Unless, like me, you don't mind an occasional purging of pent up feelings via unstoppable waterworks.

4. I'm a total poser. I have a piano I can't play, a kayak I did not use ONCE this summer, and I sometimes wear running shoes. Having accomplished my New Year's resolution of being able to run a mile, I'm pretty sure I will never do that again.

5. I live in a teeny tiny house and I love it. It might get too small someday, and we'll cross that bridge then. For now, it's perfect. We just keep everything up high and get crazy with the bike hooks.

6. I have man-hands and webbed toes. My hands are big and ugly and my fingernails are bittten short and usually dirty. Two of my toes are webbed. As in, they don't separate all the way down to where normal toes separate. I don't like my hands but I do like my toes. My nana had them.

7. When we started the insanity that is the procedure of adoption, I had to surrender and learn to trust "the process of life." This was very hard for a control freak like me. As we were starting, lots and lots of inexplicable coincidences (that I took as signs) kept happening, letting me know we were doing the right thing. I started to TRY to have faith, and keep that faith. It worked. I just kept going with my gut and gave up on logic & reason. I went completely mental during the wait, obviously.

When I started this blog, and didn't have a name for it, I handed a beer to my friend and he said, "Thanks Kate. Yah (how we say "you're" in Boston) straight magic." And I liked it. God, destiny, fate, faith, nature, the super-natural. The good and the bad. All of the things I can't explain - I just call it all magic now and see it everywhere. I have to come back and tag/link people later. Babies waking. I tag Evelyn, Rachael, Julie of the nonpurple house, Barbara, Haze, Nancy, and Stacy.

Today

That picture was a mistake, but it cracked me up 'cuz I look all hell yeah, me and this seagull, we're rockin' this walk.

I guess technically, it was yesterday, since it's after midnight now. I don't want to go to bed, because I don't want this beautiful day to ever end. I think this is our last weekend of summerness. Seasons are changing for really real. I hate to say it, but I could feel the end of an era in the air today. Suddenly, Curly & Slick are six months old. It seems like yesterday it was Spring and someone called and told us about six week old girls. The sun is setting on that time when everything changed. Soon we will start having a routine and it will be hard to remember what I ever did without them. Our euphoric time in the sun of maternity leave is ending. Gone will be days like today when I have time to notice spiderwebs, and we don't go anywhere we don't walk to.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not feeling bad for us. Real life is creeping in, but better than ever. Ruth & Aster are very close to ready to take on this crazy world.

Yesterday

Another Rant

This month, Ethiopia is supposed to start trading its coffee on an electrical system, in the afternoon, so that that it can be linked to the markets in New York. Wow. This seems a bit, well, untimely?

I am just about the most cynical, negative, ignorant person I know when it comes to both the world financial crisis and my own personal finances. Upon learning that we the people could lose our (in my case) meager little 401Ks while the greedy rat bastard hedgefund managing fat cats take their severance and retire early, I kind of felt a little better about not making all the contributions that I should have to that IRA.

Call me unsophisticated, but I have never understood why we, as a society, decided that it would be good for the "stock market" to run the world. I guess at one point stocks were actual pieces of paper being traded, but as far as I can tell, at this point, its just imaginary made up currency for the portfolio people. The synonyms they come up with to confuse us paycheck people, like "shares" "equities" and "securities" crack me up. There just doesn't seem to me to be much equitable or secure or sharing about the buying and selling of imaginary money and IOUs. The creative derivative securities that nobody can even begin to guess at the value of are my favorite.

You can even sell stuff haven't bought or borrowed, and call it "naked short selling." Which also cracks me up because all I can picture are the traders of my generation working their magic in the champagne lounge at Scores.

I understand that now, after decades of failing to trickle down, what happens on wall street could be devastating to life as we plebeians know it. But I couldn't help but smile a little bit when our crazy autocracy government declined to bail out Lehman Brothers, a company that made all its original money selling cotton in the 1850s.

So, Ethiopians, who don't do mortgages or credit, will now have their most valuable commodity traded in the afternoon on an electrical system. Presumably, this electrical system will be shielded from the the rolling blackouts that affect the people? Will have all kinds of energy and resources supporting it? I guess the idea is that closer linking up with the NYSE will bring wealth that will trickle down to the people suffering the real effects of a food crisis? Suffering like we can't even begin to imagine while we deal with our financial crisis. Photo by Stephen Morrison, L.A. Times

Round 2

Revenge of the Sis :

Truce:

Peace: The scream (that is often 10x louder than this):

Updates

How Ruthie rolls:

She thinks she's real bigtime. She rolls into and onto her sister, and sister Aster is not all that impressed. When Ruth rolled up in her face yesterday, Aster grabbed a handful of hair, yanked Ruth's head down, and gave it a few swift kicks. I just stood at the edge of the mat taking pictures with my phone yelling "fight! fight!"

She also beats up on poor Lucy, who just loves her, no matter how hard she pinches and pokes.

They grab and hold and scratch and punch each other all the time, but Aster's got a big advantage because Ruth's got hair. Which I love love love to play with. She's very cooperative, especially while she's sleeping. Here are a few first 'dos:

Headbands are my favorite these days. And coils:

Because there's nothing for Aster to rip out of Ruth's hair and eat. And as you can see, the girls really like to eat. Everything they've tried so far.

Are there snaps made for little babies that are harder to get out? I guess maybe snaps and beads have to wait until the kid is not quite so orally fixated? Is there a technique I'm missing here?

Anyway, they do something new every day. Discovering their feet. Sucking each other's toes. Making funny faces. Making funny noises. Aster has a recently discovered eardrum-piercing screech that she likes to do just for fun. Laughing. Rolling. Bouncing.

Everything but sleeping. As 5 month old, 13 lb. eating machines, they still want at least two bottles in the middle of the night. I'm looking at it as extra opportunities to meet expressed needs and attach them to me. Its about the only thing they do that I do not think is the cutest, most brilliant thing ever done by babies. Ever.