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Monday, April 28, 2008
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
A Family of Her Own, A Family of Our Own
As I type, it is 9 a.m., Thursday, April 10 in China. Exactly one month ago, we waited in our hotel lobby, ready to board the bus that took us to the civil affairs office in Nanjing where we met our daughter for the first time.
Only one month. No time at all, and yet, a lifetime. As a friend observed, so magnificent, and so mundane. As always, life is in the details. A few weeks ago, we met our daughter on the other side of the world. Lanterns swung from trees and doorways. Unfamiliar sounds floated like music on the air. A shy girl hid her head on my shoulder and stole looks at us with dark eyes that wanted to trust, but weren't sure they were able. Back on this side, I struggle to keep the goldfish crackers swept from the floor before the mountain of folded laundry crashes from the couch. Somewhere in the distance, the raspy sound of a cat with a hairball promises a mess waiting to be found. And Cate darts in and out, eyes sparkling, begging to be chased, and caught and tickled and kissed.
So magnificent and so mundane is this life we all lead.
In one month, a little girl has blossomed. She is funny. She has a sense of humor. She has a temper. She is gaining confidence and making friends. She loves food. She's learning to dance. She likes to be tucked in under blankets and nestled beside her bunny before she throws them all out of her crib every night. She plays with her socks. She is particular about her shoes. She loves me, and her baba, and her brother. She has learned to kiss, big puckery kisses, with dramatic "MMMMMMA's." She loves the cats. She want to be outside. She loves being pulled in the wagon and going down the slide, but wants nothing to do with the swing. She will walk on grass, but refuses to move on crunchy leaves. She insists on talking on the phone. She leads us to the bathroom when she wants to take a bath or brush her teeth. She likes to sweep the floor. She hates it when her hands are messy.
I have learned these things in a month... these things, the things I have wanted to know. Every day, every hour, I learn more.
In a month, I have witnessed Alex become the big brother he wanted to be, the one who is teaching his sister, the one she copies, the one who feeds her new foods, the one who hugs her when he goes to school and holds her hand when they walk together through the yard. There is, of course, a vying for attention. Impatience when she has a tantrum. A call for justice when she hits. But there is also a calm and gentle voice drifting up the stairs in the morning, "It's okay Cate. Mama will be right down. You're okay. I am here with you."
In a month, Steve has been smitten, has jumped through hoops, for his new daughter. He is persistent. He makes her laugh. He lifts her high so she can touch the ceiling and barters for kisses with treats. She plays hard to get, but it is clear to see, he has her heart. And she has his. And I fall in love again with this man.
Certain moments in our lives define us. This is one of mine.
The journey to parenthood has not been the easiest for me. I carried both of these children in my heart long before I carried them in my arms. And yet, they are here. I would not undo a single tear, a single anxious night. They are here. They are what I waited for all along. Laughter and tantrums and smashed Goldfish crackers. They are what I waited for all along.
This is my last post on this blog. Every good story should find its ending and Cate is now home. I hope to start another tale and will post the address here when I do. There probably won't be moonbeams or dragons, but I am sure there will be pirates and golden crystals from the sun. I thank all of you, so many people I know, and many people I don't, who have kept us in their hearts throughout this journey. In my life, I have never felt such an outpouring of joy. I am not overstating this in a burst of emotion. This is a fact. The love, the welcome, the delight that has flowed into our lives since we knew Cate was coming into our lives, is astonishing. This little girl has magic in her. I feel it all around me. I see it in people's smiles. I hear it in their conversation. We will never know the circumstances that have brought this child to us, but I do know, that this is where she is meant to be, that her coming here has been a coming of joy. There is tangible joy all around her. I feel it all around me. I have all of you to thank for this pure delight and for filling her life with love. You have created for her a family, a community.
This morning was a typical morning. Alex had school. He didn't want to put his shoes on, wanted to fasten his own car seat (an exercise in patience when you are running a little late), needed a snack or he wouldn't have an once of energy for learning or playing. I forgot that Cate cries and fusses unless she buckles a part of her own car seat. I unbuckled her. Took a breath while she did it herself. We had left the windows down. My seat was cold and a little damp. But the sun was shining, the crocuses up.
As we drove toward town, Cate sang. Alex pretended to sleep. He told her to stop. Still she sang. He told her to stop. Still she sang. It had potential to become unpleasant. Then it was quiet. They were both pretending to sleep. I heard a little giggle from Cate. One eye opened, she was trying to see what Alex was up to, so she could do it next. Alex quickly closed his eyes. Then they both flew open again.
"Mom, I can't even believe that Cate is really here. Can you? I just can't believe she is really true."
I feel a catch in my breath, caught off guard, by the depth of this small boy, by the history of hope and emotion in his question. By the reminder that he too had waited and waited.
Next to him, his sister giggles, trying to catch his eye. He closes his eyes and opens them again.
"And Mom, I am just too, too hungry to go to school."
So magnificent and so mundane is this life we lead.
Only one month. No time at all, and yet, a lifetime. As a friend observed, so magnificent, and so mundane. As always, life is in the details. A few weeks ago, we met our daughter on the other side of the world. Lanterns swung from trees and doorways. Unfamiliar sounds floated like music on the air. A shy girl hid her head on my shoulder and stole looks at us with dark eyes that wanted to trust, but weren't sure they were able. Back on this side, I struggle to keep the goldfish crackers swept from the floor before the mountain of folded laundry crashes from the couch. Somewhere in the distance, the raspy sound of a cat with a hairball promises a mess waiting to be found. And Cate darts in and out, eyes sparkling, begging to be chased, and caught and tickled and kissed.
So magnificent and so mundane is this life we all lead.
In one month, a little girl has blossomed. She is funny. She has a sense of humor. She has a temper. She is gaining confidence and making friends. She loves food. She's learning to dance. She likes to be tucked in under blankets and nestled beside her bunny before she throws them all out of her crib every night. She plays with her socks. She is particular about her shoes. She loves me, and her baba, and her brother. She has learned to kiss, big puckery kisses, with dramatic "MMMMMMA's." She loves the cats. She want to be outside. She loves being pulled in the wagon and going down the slide, but wants nothing to do with the swing. She will walk on grass, but refuses to move on crunchy leaves. She insists on talking on the phone. She leads us to the bathroom when she wants to take a bath or brush her teeth. She likes to sweep the floor. She hates it when her hands are messy.
I have learned these things in a month... these things, the things I have wanted to know. Every day, every hour, I learn more.
In a month, I have witnessed Alex become the big brother he wanted to be, the one who is teaching his sister, the one she copies, the one who feeds her new foods, the one who hugs her when he goes to school and holds her hand when they walk together through the yard. There is, of course, a vying for attention. Impatience when she has a tantrum. A call for justice when she hits. But there is also a calm and gentle voice drifting up the stairs in the morning, "It's okay Cate. Mama will be right down. You're okay. I am here with you."
In a month, Steve has been smitten, has jumped through hoops, for his new daughter. He is persistent. He makes her laugh. He lifts her high so she can touch the ceiling and barters for kisses with treats. She plays hard to get, but it is clear to see, he has her heart. And she has his. And I fall in love again with this man.
Certain moments in our lives define us. This is one of mine.
The journey to parenthood has not been the easiest for me. I carried both of these children in my heart long before I carried them in my arms. And yet, they are here. I would not undo a single tear, a single anxious night. They are here. They are what I waited for all along. Laughter and tantrums and smashed Goldfish crackers. They are what I waited for all along.
This is my last post on this blog. Every good story should find its ending and Cate is now home. I hope to start another tale and will post the address here when I do. There probably won't be moonbeams or dragons, but I am sure there will be pirates and golden crystals from the sun. I thank all of you, so many people I know, and many people I don't, who have kept us in their hearts throughout this journey. In my life, I have never felt such an outpouring of joy. I am not overstating this in a burst of emotion. This is a fact. The love, the welcome, the delight that has flowed into our lives since we knew Cate was coming into our lives, is astonishing. This little girl has magic in her. I feel it all around me. I see it in people's smiles. I hear it in their conversation. We will never know the circumstances that have brought this child to us, but I do know, that this is where she is meant to be, that her coming here has been a coming of joy. There is tangible joy all around her. I feel it all around me. I have all of you to thank for this pure delight and for filling her life with love. You have created for her a family, a community.
This morning was a typical morning. Alex had school. He didn't want to put his shoes on, wanted to fasten his own car seat (an exercise in patience when you are running a little late), needed a snack or he wouldn't have an once of energy for learning or playing. I forgot that Cate cries and fusses unless she buckles a part of her own car seat. I unbuckled her. Took a breath while she did it herself. We had left the windows down. My seat was cold and a little damp. But the sun was shining, the crocuses up.
As we drove toward town, Cate sang. Alex pretended to sleep. He told her to stop. Still she sang. He told her to stop. Still she sang. It had potential to become unpleasant. Then it was quiet. They were both pretending to sleep. I heard a little giggle from Cate. One eye opened, she was trying to see what Alex was up to, so she could do it next. Alex quickly closed his eyes. Then they both flew open again.
"Mom, I can't even believe that Cate is really here. Can you? I just can't believe she is really true."
I feel a catch in my breath, caught off guard, by the depth of this small boy, by the history of hope and emotion in his question. By the reminder that he too had waited and waited.
Next to him, his sister giggles, trying to catch his eye. He closes his eyes and opens them again.
"And Mom, I am just too, too hungry to go to school."
So magnificent and so mundane is this life we lead.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Just Trying It
I put a pillow in Cate's crib last night. Like may things related to Cate, her likes and dislikes, I can thank Alex for this discovery. It has been his insistence that we "just try it" with her that has unearthed many new discoveries, like the knowledge that she loves hard boiled eggs, chili, ginger and bubble baths. And he insisted that a pillow be added to her crib. I balked at the suggestion. My one pre-adoption obsession (besides checking my email and every site even marginally related to Chinese adoption at least every ten minutes) was finding the world's softest blanket and the world's softest toy for Cate. In my mind, I pictured her in a cold, sterile institutionalized setting. The caregivers, I imagined, were kind. But the kind of soft comforts a baby would need to thrive would be absent - replaced with stiff, scratchy, low thread count sheets. I had seen pictures of the stainless steel cribs. I knew this girl needed comfort.
And so, I allowed myself one purchase before we had the "OFFICIAL" word. Just one. And that was a doll. A tiny, soft doll who nestles herself inside an equally luscious peapod. My slightly superstitious nature wouldn't allow me to take responsibility for my breach of conduct. The doll wouldn't be from me... Santa, yes, Santa would bring it. And if he didn't want to, I would just put his name on the tag and slip it under the tree. And that is what I did.
When we were officially, official, I began my blanket quest. I spent at least half a day finalizing the research I had begun a year earlier. I touched blankets. Categories developed. Not soft. Pretty soft. Super soft, but in an unrealistic way. And Perfect. Then for size. Cate is two, and big for her age, so a baby blanket would not do. Neither would a full size blanket. Finally, after much testing and holding up for size, the blanket was found and lovingly packed, along with the tiny peapod doll, into a suitcase headed for China. With these item in tow, no language barrier could ever stand between us. She would FEEL the love and comfort all around her. She would hold it in her hand.
And so we met Cate. We brought her back to our hotel. She looked small and scared and not at all sure she wanted to be with us. Alex and I headed for the suitcase. We pulled out the small panda he had wanted to bring to her. She looked at it, unimpressed, and then flung it across the room. Next, a little lamb, a leftover from Alex's smaller days that pulled at my heartstrings. It too went airborne. "She needs the doll, Mom," he said. I was afraid. "Just try it," the four-year-old advocate insisted. And so we did. This was the first time we saw THE LOOK I have described. She took one look at that baby nestled in a peapod, gave a look of great disdain, and then hit it to the ground with all of her might. Next, she reached for the plastic hotel room key and refused to let go of it for the rest of the day.
And what became of that oh-so-soft- you will never want to let go of this-blanket? Well, I saved it until nightfall. I placed Cate in her crib and put the blanket gently beside her. She paid no notice. But when my head was turned, she stood up and threw it out of the crib. In fact, she threw everything out of the crib. The panda, the lamb, the doll, the blanket, the sheet, the thin mattress, and then she put her head down on the hard bottom and went to sleep. And this is what she has done every night since we have known her, with the exception that I made her work more challenging by adding a beautiful silk quilt to the mix. I figured, she needs the exercise.
So, fast forward three weeks or so... Alex insists we "just try it" with the pillow. I tell him she will throw it out. "Just try it, Mom. Trust me." And so we do. We put a full size pillow in the crib. We put her in the crib, and instead of standing up, she lays right down, her head on the pillow. I put the soft blanket over her. I put the silk quilt on top of that. And just for kicks, I tuck the baby (now out of its peapod wrap) in right beside her. And she smiles, and looks so cute and adorable that I want to crawl into the little nest too. Alex stands triumphant.
I turn out the light and sit down. Cate doesn't move, but begins to talk. And talk, and talk. And sing and laugh and copy any sound I might make - a cough, a sniff. She goes on and on like that, nestled in her pillow bed, and suddenly, instead of tears and cries and sterile cribs, I picture a huge pajama party every night when the lights go low at the orphanage. Little children calling out to their friends, making jokes, and laughing while the nannies quietly sing and shush them to sleep. I start to laugh and Cate laughs back in the darkness. Then, all is silent. The sweet sound of sleep. Or so I think. I crack open my eyes and in the shadowy light, I see her. She is standing. Out goes the silk quilt. Out goes the soft blanket. And yes, finally, the baby doll is flung with as much force as Cate's chubby little little arm can muster.
But the pillow remained. And a moment or two later, I crept out of the room, pausing to look at her peaceful little head nestled in its soft comfort and smiled as I imagine Alex's grin in the morning.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Sunshine Almost Always
The sun poured in every window today. The cats stretched themselves out from head to tail in front of the glass door. Alex's "egg-head" filled with grass seed sprouted in the bay window and even Alex moved himself to a spot where he could bask in the golden glory. I can't remark on the temperature outside - we were all sick and never left the house - but from the inside, it looked and felt as if spring might actually return after all.
And it felt that way in our family too. It was a golden day. We could feel the impossibility beginning to thaw and something beautiful beginning to bloom.
And it felt that way in our family too. It was a golden day. We could feel the impossibility beginning to thaw and something beautiful beginning to bloom.
It didn't start that way. As I said, we all awoke in various states of the same illness. Alex and Cate coughing. My head feeling the size of China and ready to burst. Steve reporting he was two days behind me. Alex announced it was all Cate's fault. Snarled at me. Pointed at his sister and ended up in time-out on the stairs before I could put the tea kettle on to boil. Moments later, Cate found herself in "time-in" on the couch for unprovoked hitting of her brother. And while I struggled to get the tea kettle filled and to the stove, I dragged two children along with me, one clinging to each leg, not out of their pure love for me, as I would have liked, but out of spite for each other.
At 8:30 a.m., up for less than thirty minutes, I looked at the clock and calculated the hours until bedtime. There were many. Oh so many.
But, then something happened. Maybe it was the sun pouring in the window, pulling us all out of the early spring snow-storm depression that brought sloppy snow and (YES) a snow day for Alex on Friday. Maybe it was the silent prayer, that was more like a plea for mercy. Maybe it was a week of patient and, lets be honest, not always so patient persistence with these two new siblings. Maybe it was all three. But the moods shifted and the day became one we won't forget.
The morning passed without much ado. We ate lunch. Cate went down for a nap. Alex and I did a craft... Alex even creating a picture that said, "Mom I Love U," much to my joy after the previous day's harsh rejection. The first good sign, I suppose, was that this all felt normal. Not forced or determined. The next good sign came when Alex asked after about an hour, if Cate was still asleep. She was. A big sigh. "Well, you can't just leave her up there all day you know," her new advocate reported huffily. Hmmm.... was he missing her?
We finished the craft. Spilled hot chocolate all over it. Cleaned up. And Cate was awake. Steve brought her down. She looked unhappy, and when she is unhappy, she looks injured, but not like a baby bird, she looks injured like someone looking for a trial lawyer willing to sue the pants off someone. When Cate is unhappy with something, the person responsible is given a look that leaves no doubt in his mind that what he is done is beyond unacceptable in her eyes. I am not sure where or how she learned to give a look like this, but I pity her boyfriends, her husband, her children and all of those of us along the way that she turns it upon. This look can come out of no where. It can be given in response to a green bean offered up at dinner. It can be given to someone who has been making her laugh, but tried to tickle her one too many times. It is given to her brother for almost everything. It is given to me when I take something (like a tube of lip gloss found in my coat pocket) out of her hand. And after the nap today, we will all recipients of THE LOOK just for looking at her. It didn't look promising.
But the sun did its work on her too. I brought her into the living room and put in a Baby Einstein DVD a friend has dropped off. It is about simple, everyday words, and shows the sign language for each word... maybe she could sign before she could speak... well, Cate wasn't interested, but Alex (the one we have rented 27 movies for during the past two days so he could rest, but not one of them could hold his attention for 15 minutes) was captivated. Go figure. Cate, instead, took off her socks and shoes. You cannot keep socks or shoes on this girl. She takes them off and then she puts them back on with skill and dexterity not often found in a two-year-old. She does this in her crib, in the car, anyplace. She needs no toys. Only socks and an occasional tissue or two. So, she took off her socks. And then mine. And she tried to put her socks on my feet. "They are two small," I said. "Put them on Alex." I knew I was taking a big risk here. At the every least, I would get THE LOOK. At the worst, she would touch him when he didn't want to be touched and all peace would be lost. But Cate laughed. Said "Al-yay," and ran to him. Putting socks on the small feet of a big brother is a challenge. And so, she put them on his hands. And he let her. And then, my heart skipped a beat, and so did Steve's. Cate took Alex by the hand, and hand-in-hand they walked to the other room. We both held our breath. And then we heard laughter. Two children laughing. A minute later, she led Alex back. His face had brightened, like the day. "I guess she likes me!" he said. And I saw so much anger dissolve. He had finally been accepted by his sister and it changed everything. They played like this for a long time. He made her laugh. She made him laugh and we all laughed together.
At dinner, Alex said, "In my heart, my heart is telling me I love Cate a little bit." (We've done a lot of talking about what is in our hearts recently). At bedtime, he searched his room for something to give her and settled on my 1988 MVP volleyball trophy, which might seem like small potatoes to you, but to Alex, this is a golden statue. The greatest of awards. As I read Cate a bedtime story, he carried it proudly into her room and announced that he was giving her the "honor of putting it on her book shelf for five days." Little did I know in 1988 the true reward of that trophy would come twenty years later.
And while I know this is just the beginning, that not all days can be like today, tonight, they went to sleep as friends - as a brother and a sister who love each other, just a little bit, in their hearts.
As we watched the relationship blossoming earlier, Steve looked over at me and said quietly, "We are going to be okay. We are a good family." And a good family is what we were today.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Almost the End
I have contemplated ending my blog. Our journey to China, is, after all, complete. Now begins our journey to becoming a family. But I am not ready to let it go just yet. I have thought of starting a new blog, and I think I will, but for now, I want to savor the last of our journey to Cate.
We have been home for one week. Only one week. It is hard to believe. There is a lot I did not anticipate. It has, honestly, been one of the most challenging and rewarding weeks of my life. I guess any seasoned parent will tell you that it is not easy to go from mother of one to mother of two. I had not anticipated the sheer difficulty of it. As our beloved pediatrician said today, Alex is mourning the loss of the relationship he shared with me and I the relationship I shared with him, and it has not been easy, but we are both ready for the next stage however difficult it may be to get there. And today was a better day than yesterday. But I did not anticipate the sadness or the guilt.
I also did not anticipate the new peals of laughter sounding through this house, the giggles of a little girl so pure that Steve and I look at each other and ask, "How could she have lived in an orphanage?" How could such joy bubble up from a girl who had so little? And I have to believe she had more than we thought. I think she has known a lot of love. Maybe not from a family. Maybe not in the best of circumstances. But this girl has been loved. I do not think often of her birth mother. Not yet. I know that will come. She knew her for such a short time. But I do think about her caregiver. I know she must feel an ache in her heart for this little one, now on the other side of the world.
Cate is pure joy. She is two. Full of games. Full of laughter. Full of tantrums and looks that rock the house. And now she is our pure joy to discover. Yesterday, she said "Mama," for the first time as my name. She has been able to say the word since we got her, but yesterday, it was clear, it had become my name. The tone was different. The intent. Likewise for "Baba." In two days, we have taught her how to hug. In three weeks, I have felt her body, once stiff and resistant, melt into mine, a little at a time. When I gave her a bottle before bed last night, she looked into my eyes, directly into my eyes. It was only for a minute and then she was looking away, and until that moment, I didn't realize that look had been missing. But there it was. Our eyes had met and for a moment, at least, she trusted me completely. It is an amazing thing to form a bond with a small girl from far, far away.
And so I looked tonight at my two sleeping children. The one whose moods and moves I can anticipate before he knows them himself and the one I know so very little about but am eager to discover as her trust in me grows. My life feels complete. And this is what I had anticipated all along.
We have been home for one week. Only one week. It is hard to believe. There is a lot I did not anticipate. It has, honestly, been one of the most challenging and rewarding weeks of my life. I guess any seasoned parent will tell you that it is not easy to go from mother of one to mother of two. I had not anticipated the sheer difficulty of it. As our beloved pediatrician said today, Alex is mourning the loss of the relationship he shared with me and I the relationship I shared with him, and it has not been easy, but we are both ready for the next stage however difficult it may be to get there. And today was a better day than yesterday. But I did not anticipate the sadness or the guilt.
I also did not anticipate the new peals of laughter sounding through this house, the giggles of a little girl so pure that Steve and I look at each other and ask, "How could she have lived in an orphanage?" How could such joy bubble up from a girl who had so little? And I have to believe she had more than we thought. I think she has known a lot of love. Maybe not from a family. Maybe not in the best of circumstances. But this girl has been loved. I do not think often of her birth mother. Not yet. I know that will come. She knew her for such a short time. But I do think about her caregiver. I know she must feel an ache in her heart for this little one, now on the other side of the world.
Cate is pure joy. She is two. Full of games. Full of laughter. Full of tantrums and looks that rock the house. And now she is our pure joy to discover. Yesterday, she said "Mama," for the first time as my name. She has been able to say the word since we got her, but yesterday, it was clear, it had become my name. The tone was different. The intent. Likewise for "Baba." In two days, we have taught her how to hug. In three weeks, I have felt her body, once stiff and resistant, melt into mine, a little at a time. When I gave her a bottle before bed last night, she looked into my eyes, directly into my eyes. It was only for a minute and then she was looking away, and until that moment, I didn't realize that look had been missing. But there it was. Our eyes had met and for a moment, at least, she trusted me completely. It is an amazing thing to form a bond with a small girl from far, far away.
And so I looked tonight at my two sleeping children. The one whose moods and moves I can anticipate before he knows them himself and the one I know so very little about but am eager to discover as her trust in me grows. My life feels complete. And this is what I had anticipated all along.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Alex is back to school today. It is "Silly Day" in honor of Dr. Seues and he is in full silly costume- homemade hat, mismatched socks and shoes, pj's under his T-shirt and pirate pants. In reality, he looks no sillier than he does any other day since he started dressing himself, but this outfit required effort, and I thank Nate's mother for informing us that silly day had arrived... otherwise Alex would have gone to school wearing an Olympic T-shirt and his emperor hat, and that certainly would not have been silly at all. I had hoped to leave Cate at home when I brought Alex back to school - attempting to recreate the normalcy of his life BEFORE and assuring that all attention would be on him for his first day back. But, as Cate does not allow me out of her sight for five minutes, let alone twenty, I could see this scenario would create undo stress. Besides, I reasoned with myself, this IS our new reality. My next idea, was to somehow dress these two children (one in special silly day clothes, which would certainly take several attempts to get just right) and myself, AND get to school early. Early, before the other families arrived and in that way, Alex could get back in the swing of things with the full attention he desperately needs right now. And it almost happened that way, it really almost did... but first, look at the whole morning.
I awoke this morning at 4:45 a.m. (awoke is a generous term here, and by it, I mean, accepted the fact that it was no longer night and sleep should be forgotten) to Cate whimpering and an unpleasant aroma filling the air. While her sleep schedule is adjusting to her new time zone, her other bodily functions are trying to catch up. I stumbled around for my glasses. I knew I had put them by the bed, but they were no where to be seen, not that I could have seen them anyway because I am blind as a bat without them. I tripped over something to her crib and pulled out her whimpering, still sleeping body and began to peel back the multiple layers of clothes that encase her while she sleeps as waves of nausea started to rise in my own body. Anyone who has parented or cared for a young child knows all too well what that smell means. It means a body, covered. It means wondering how to get that body out of the layers of clothing without covering it with a trail that goes from toes to hair. And in this particular case, it meant doing it in the semi-darkness, without seeing and trying hard not to cover myself . I promise, this will be the last very personal detail I will share about my daughter, as she does have a right to privacy, but for now... We got through it. I put her back in the crib, and blessedly, she went back to sleep. I tried, and quickly abandoned hope, opting instead for a cup of tea and a little quiet time to myself.
I got up. The house was freezing. A fresh layer of snow covered the "spring" ground. A ripple of fear swept through my body - was there ice under it? Would there be a snow day today? There just had to be school. Had to be. I made it down the stairs, tripping over the dozen or so plastic eggs that lie everywhere around our house, walked to the stove, pausing to pull Easter grass out from between my toes, put on the tea kettle... what was that I heard? Small feet following closely behind. Alex, up for the day. Good bye quiet time, but it wasn't so bad. It gave me a chance to give him a little cuddle of his own - one he did not have to share and one that I did not have to navigate with comments like, "Come on you two... both sides of my lap are just as good as the other. Alex, please don't put your foot there, that is your sister's leg. This is your leg. Cate, it is okay if I talk to your brother sometimes." It is good to be popular, but it comes at a cost.
We made it through breakfast. One meal for Cate, one for Alex, one for me, and fortunately, Steve is self-sufficient and is now able to feed Cate. I kicked aside the plastic egg shells and shoved the array of hats, mittens, dishes, mail, telescopes and sippy cups cluttering the counter. I tip-toed around yesterday's egg yolk on the floor and wondered where to toss the new pile of freshly soiled clothes. I tried to turn on the T.V, for Alex, jumping over the fallen playhouse, a mountain of blankets, an abandon Easter basket, a pair of plastic sunglasses and an apple core that must have been there from our pre-China days... had it been dragged out from its hiding place by a mouse in the night? On the table, my list of to-do's - kindergarten registration, bills due, thank you's to write, phone calls to return, and I wondered just what I thought was so difficult in my hotel room in China? Was it really that challenging to live in a small room with only three toys and our four sets of clothes sent to Stella in the morning to be laundered and sent back in neat piles wrapped in plastic each afternoon for only $10? Was it so hard to get dressed and head down to a breakfast buffet that could feed a small nation and return to my room where the beds had been made and the bathroom put in order? Was that really a challenge? What was it about home that we needed? I thought I needed my hair styling products since I lost the one thing I had brought somewhere between Beijing and Guangzhou, but even looking at the collection, Aveda for frizzy hair nestled next to Paul Mitchell for smooth, next to Suave for curls, filled me with a sense of dismayed pressure. If I owned all these products, had them all at my fingertips, I must be expected to use them and look like I had used them. In China, I just said, "I lost my mousse, and every woman nodded a kind of knowing nod and expressed her deepest sympathy with her eyes, in a way no man (metrosexuals not withstanding) could ever understand.
And so, I find myself, again at home, and happy. I have unpacked slowly. With each item put away, with each souvenir handed out, China recedes a little further, and while I hesitate to let her go, I am anxious to feel the heartbeat of a normal day. A normal night. The boredom and comfort of routine.
And so, Alex was ready for school. Ready early. Cate was dressed. Her shoes found and put on, her coat and hat on (by this time, it was raining and sleeting that early spring type of rain) and we headed for the door... but wait. What was that smell? Off with the shoes, the coat, the pants. And so, Alex was a little late. Just a little. And it didn't matter that he was late, or that Cate was with us and shared the attention. A "Welcome Back, Alex" sign hung on the door. A favorite teacher waited inside who scooped him up and hugged him furiously and all the silly hats and clothes gave the feeling of a party, just for him. Cate got gentle welcomes and words of praise. And it was good to be home.
I awoke this morning at 4:45 a.m. (awoke is a generous term here, and by it, I mean, accepted the fact that it was no longer night and sleep should be forgotten) to Cate whimpering and an unpleasant aroma filling the air. While her sleep schedule is adjusting to her new time zone, her other bodily functions are trying to catch up. I stumbled around for my glasses. I knew I had put them by the bed, but they were no where to be seen, not that I could have seen them anyway because I am blind as a bat without them. I tripped over something to her crib and pulled out her whimpering, still sleeping body and began to peel back the multiple layers of clothes that encase her while she sleeps as waves of nausea started to rise in my own body. Anyone who has parented or cared for a young child knows all too well what that smell means. It means a body, covered. It means wondering how to get that body out of the layers of clothing without covering it with a trail that goes from toes to hair. And in this particular case, it meant doing it in the semi-darkness, without seeing and trying hard not to cover myself . I promise, this will be the last very personal detail I will share about my daughter, as she does have a right to privacy, but for now... We got through it. I put her back in the crib, and blessedly, she went back to sleep. I tried, and quickly abandoned hope, opting instead for a cup of tea and a little quiet time to myself.
I got up. The house was freezing. A fresh layer of snow covered the "spring" ground. A ripple of fear swept through my body - was there ice under it? Would there be a snow day today? There just had to be school. Had to be. I made it down the stairs, tripping over the dozen or so plastic eggs that lie everywhere around our house, walked to the stove, pausing to pull Easter grass out from between my toes, put on the tea kettle... what was that I heard? Small feet following closely behind. Alex, up for the day. Good bye quiet time, but it wasn't so bad. It gave me a chance to give him a little cuddle of his own - one he did not have to share and one that I did not have to navigate with comments like, "Come on you two... both sides of my lap are just as good as the other. Alex, please don't put your foot there, that is your sister's leg. This is your leg. Cate, it is okay if I talk to your brother sometimes." It is good to be popular, but it comes at a cost.
We made it through breakfast. One meal for Cate, one for Alex, one for me, and fortunately, Steve is self-sufficient and is now able to feed Cate. I kicked aside the plastic egg shells and shoved the array of hats, mittens, dishes, mail, telescopes and sippy cups cluttering the counter. I tip-toed around yesterday's egg yolk on the floor and wondered where to toss the new pile of freshly soiled clothes. I tried to turn on the T.V, for Alex, jumping over the fallen playhouse, a mountain of blankets, an abandon Easter basket, a pair of plastic sunglasses and an apple core that must have been there from our pre-China days... had it been dragged out from its hiding place by a mouse in the night? On the table, my list of to-do's - kindergarten registration, bills due, thank you's to write, phone calls to return, and I wondered just what I thought was so difficult in my hotel room in China? Was it really that challenging to live in a small room with only three toys and our four sets of clothes sent to Stella in the morning to be laundered and sent back in neat piles wrapped in plastic each afternoon for only $10? Was it so hard to get dressed and head down to a breakfast buffet that could feed a small nation and return to my room where the beds had been made and the bathroom put in order? Was that really a challenge? What was it about home that we needed? I thought I needed my hair styling products since I lost the one thing I had brought somewhere between Beijing and Guangzhou, but even looking at the collection, Aveda for frizzy hair nestled next to Paul Mitchell for smooth, next to Suave for curls, filled me with a sense of dismayed pressure. If I owned all these products, had them all at my fingertips, I must be expected to use them and look like I had used them. In China, I just said, "I lost my mousse, and every woman nodded a kind of knowing nod and expressed her deepest sympathy with her eyes, in a way no man (metrosexuals not withstanding) could ever understand.
And so, I find myself, again at home, and happy. I have unpacked slowly. With each item put away, with each souvenir handed out, China recedes a little further, and while I hesitate to let her go, I am anxious to feel the heartbeat of a normal day. A normal night. The boredom and comfort of routine.
And so, Alex was ready for school. Ready early. Cate was dressed. Her shoes found and put on, her coat and hat on (by this time, it was raining and sleeting that early spring type of rain) and we headed for the door... but wait. What was that smell? Off with the shoes, the coat, the pants. And so, Alex was a little late. Just a little. And it didn't matter that he was late, or that Cate was with us and shared the attention. A "Welcome Back, Alex" sign hung on the door. A favorite teacher waited inside who scooped him up and hugged him furiously and all the silly hats and clothes gave the feeling of a party, just for him. Cate got gentle welcomes and words of praise. And it was good to be home.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
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