For Our Sons

It’s unlikely but possible that you could get killed today. Or any day. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. Black maleness is a potentially fatal condition. I tell you that not to scare you but because knowing that could save your life. There are people who will look at you and see a villain or a criminal or something fearsome. It’s possible they may act on their prejudice and insecurity. Being black could turn an ordinary situation into a life-or-death moment even if you’re doing nothing wrong. 
-Written by Toure.

Ashagre has been my snuggler from day one. The very first night we slept together as a family of three - me, him, and his daddy - in Ethiopia he buried his face in my chest and fell quickly asleep while stroking my arm wrapped protectively around his little body. Lately our best snuggling takes place in the early morning, right after I wake him up for school and before I turn the light on. As soon as he hears my voice, his arms shoot out from underneath his warm comforter into the dark of the morning and start sweeping the air. I find his flailing arms and scoop up his warm, still sleepy and loose, much bigger than a year ago, body and hug him tight. He melts into me with the biggest hug a six year old boy can muster for his momma. If I let go and set him back down on his bed too early, his arms shoot out again demanding for me to pick him back up and hug him some more. I love this fleeting moment the two of us share each morning before the chaos of the day day begins. I feel like its my chance to fill him up for the day before sending him out into the big world to learn, love, and grow.

This week I haven't been able to hug him tight enough. This week, the terrifying reality that no hug or anything else I can give him is enough to protect him and keep him safe from this crazy world we live in is too close to the surface of my thoughts.

**********

We're running late for no particular reason other than we just didn't get out of the door on time. The kids burst out of the Prius (careful with your car doors please!) in the loud, frenzied ball of early-morning energy that marks our days. Elsa shrieks and sprints to the entrance of the coffee shop. Ashagre is doing that booty-shaking half swagger half skipping while hanging on your arm and singing/shouting gibberish thing that he does. I stop and muster my calmest voice. "Ashagre, take a few breaths with me. You're not ready to go into the coffee shop. No, real breaths. Deep from your belly. Slow." He makes a half-hearted attempt at this skill he used to outright refuse to do but has lately improved on after seeing his sister receive so much praise for using it so well. His breaths never really qualify as deep or calming, but he hears me and pulls it together, at least a little bit.

We go in and get in line - the same line we stand in every morning. The same line that passes right next to a counter with an abandoned scale of some sort sitting on top of it. It's been there for months. Today, Ashagre just can't stand the temptation and/or can't muster the self control. That scale has buttons - buttons he just has to push. My boy LOVES buttons. Beep! His hand darts back to his side. I give him my momma's serious look and send him to sit in a chair in a quiet corner of the coffee shop while Elsa and I wait to order. An over-reaction for a minor infraction, you say? Maybe. But recent headlines flood my frontal cortex.

How do I tell him, without robbing him of the beautiful confidence that has been slowly blossoming over the past year, that minor offenses such as the one he just committed (or less) could get him killed someday? How do I let him know that even if he is better behaved and better dressed and better spoken than his white peers someone might see him as a threat? How do I explain to him that as a black boy in America he always has to be aware of his surroundings? How to I tell him he should enjoy wearing his favorite hooded wetshirt now because in a few years he'll need to consider changing his look to something less threatening? How do I encourage him to no longer fear police men (a deep rooted fear he brought with him from Ethiopia) while explaining to him the potentially lethal consequences of running from those same men when he is just a little bit older? How do I, his white momma, teach him to survive in this country where his particular mix of sex and skin color are still a potentially deadly combination?

Trayvon Martin is dead because he was a black boy living in America. The person that pulled the trigger has not been arrested. Trayvon is not just someone's else's son from across the country that you see on the nightly news. Trayvon Martin is my son. Trayvon Martin is your son too.

If I can find one positive thing that has come out of this horrible crime it's that the internet has been flooded with a wealth of well written lessons for inexperienced mommas of black boys. For mommas in general. For all of us. Please take the time to read some of the links I've shared below. This isn't just Trayvon's family's loss; their issue. It's not just mine, and other mommas of black boys, either. Mull them around a bit. Keep the conversation going. Silence is the best perpetuator of this craziness. For Trayvon. For Ashagre. For our sons. For all of us.

Wise words from people with much more experience than I have. If you can't read all of them please at least read the first (I'm making this one mandatory):

How to Talk to Young Black Boys About Trayvon Martin

My Twelve-Year-Old Son Knows He Could Be Trayvon

No Apologies: On the Killing of Trayvon Martin and Being "Good"

Talking About Race With Our White Kids After Trayvon's Murder

Describing vs. Ascribing: Digging Deeper When Talking About Race

Trayvon Martin, White Denial and the Unacceptable Burden of America (Stick with it. There's some important information in there. It might make your skin feel prickly. Sit with it and consider why. And, yes, I am completely aware that his last paragraph trivializes this post.)

Ode to Target

Evidence of the fall. Piggies left stranded on their
backs with their money-shielding stoppers plucked from
their bellies.

Oh Target. What do I say? You (and your inclusive marketing) have single-handedly served up my once innocent and unwanting kids a huge dose of the consumerism bug.

I've got to hand it to you. You, unlike much of the rest of the media my kids are exposed to on a daily basis, got it. You knew to include kids that looked like them in your glossy, colorful advertisement. The one styled to look like an inviting and interesting magazine. The one that arrived conveniently in our mailbox for the kids to discover after school on Friday afternoon.

Kids that look just like them! Kids in the age range of six to seven years old with beautiful brown skin and heads full of big kinky curls. Not just one brown skinned child either - kids are smarter than that - you knew to represent kids with brown skin like them equally to their blonde-haired counterparts. Both boys and girls too (oh you really are a master at your craft).

Why? Why do you get it when TV shows and text books don't? Oh, I know. You know how important it is; its powerful stuff. After all, there's money on the line. You know they'll notice. And you want them to notice because if they notice they'll feel represented and if they feel represented they'll want to have all the same shiny new toys the kids are playing with in your magazine. You know that if they see themselves in your ads they'll want to be the selves they see in those ads.

You did it. You initiated my kids into that oh-so-American club that their dad and I had been sheltering them from for over a year. They've tasted the fruit. They've handed over their first fistfulls of wrinkled, green bills to the nice young man in the bright red shirt. They've waited (not so) patiently for him to hand over the crinkly white bag with your logo all over it. They've walked proudly through your automatic doors back out into the world as consumers. And they want more!

What "We Are Not Ok" Really Means

I remember to turn down my music before I shut off my car so as not to blast out the kids at 7:45 tomorrow morning (despite the fact that they love it when we start our day off with some high volume tunes). Lately this song has required loud, repetitive play on the drive home from work (thank you for the intro Mary Beth!).



As I open my car door to the clear, crisp evening (as far as crisp evenings go in SoCal) I hear her shriek from inside the house. Moments later Elsa opens the door and runs out to grip my hips tightly in a hug while burying her face in my belly. Out rolls her standard greeting,"Mommy! Amelie was-the-Teacher-of-the-day (deliberately slowed down and enunciated to make sure she gets her prepositions in there - we've been working on this phrase since it's the first statement we hear each day when we see her after school). Do you work good?" She rushes to open the front door for me. As I step in around the dogs who rush out to get a quick smell of the world passing by our house Ashagre glances up momentarily from his legos to acknowledge my presence. He prefers to warm up to the idea that I'm home before seeking my attention.

Brent is at the stove busily wrapping up dinner - homemade lentil soup artfully concocted from last week's left overs with an entirely new flavor to nourish our bodies after a busy day. "It smells great in here. Is that curry?" We chat briefly about our days before Elsa's back again telling me about her day. I pick her up (such a rewarding activity when done spontaneously and not demanded, "Mommy pick-up-a me!" She suggests we snuggle with her blanket and read One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish, and I agree. We're practicing for her Student Spotlight presentation in April; she can't stop talking about it. Elsa, Ashagre and I read together. Ashagre handles the sight words and the pages he's memorized, Elsa takes on everything else with my help on the longer words or the ones she just can't quite remember. "Let's say it ten times together. O-F spells of, O-F spells of..." I take a page or two when she starts getting tired (learning to read is exhausting work).

"Ok. Go wash your hands!" The kids scamper off as Brent pulls warm bread out of the oven and I start dishing up soup. Ashagre doesn't have much to say about his day, "Today, who the Leader is? It starts for a A." I correctly guess Amen, which doesn't impress him much. Elsa rambles on about her day, missing all of her prepositions. We ask her to slow down and add in a few more details so we can understand what she's trying to tell us. Ashagre quickly finishes his soup and asks for more bread while Brent gets back up to pull a special treat from the fridge - a carton of dark red organic strawberries. Ashagre is more than happy to stick around and help Brent and me finish the whole carton. Elsa adamantly responds with a No Thank You when offered. Cajoling her only makes her No Thank You more resolute.

We chat and tease each other while enjoying our meal. Finally, when the strawberries are all gone and we've had our fill of warm bread, Brent, Ashagre, and me get up from the table. Elsa, who spent most of her time talking about her day without using prepositions, remains at the table to finish her soup. She's determined to clean her bowl so she can have more bread. As Elsa finishes up Ashagre engages his dad in a tickling match. Loud shrieks intermixed with belly laughs permeate our tiny bungalow. When she's finished Elsa joins in, and soon enough the whole family is at it, including the dogs. Lola enthusiastically and sloppily licks the kids cheeks and chins when we thrust them in her face and Buster prances around barking in the excitement to keep the energy up.

Finally it's calm down time. The kids handle this once impossible transition with ease and grace. Shortly thereafter its p-jamas, medicine, brush your teeth, story time, hugs, kisses, high fives, and bed.

We are ok. We are a family. These relatively mundane yet deeply rich details are our fabric.

So what about We are not ok? What does that look like, you ask? What can be learned from those four words and the days, moments, life that they describe? Since writing this post, I've been thinking about this question quite a bit. The conclusion I've come to, while not fun to admit, is perfect material for a blog post - perfect, because its not about Them. It's about me, and my shit is ok to write about on this blog because its my story to tell.

So what's the difference? What does we are not ok look like in comparison to the scene detailed above? It looks like huge, wildly darting eyes, irregular, jerky movements, loud, repetitive, non-sensical vocalizations. It looks like kids doing exactly what you asked them not to do and had them repeat back to you two seconds before. It looks like them doing it again moments later after you sternly lecture them some more. It looks like animalistic noises and squirming bodies (avoid eye contact at all costs). It looks like rapid fire questions to which they already know the answers for hours on end. It looks like the complete inability to do something they normally handle with ease. It looks like extremely slow and drawn out half-efforts to complete simple tasks. It looks like pestering one another and treating each other with the same impatience and frustration they feel around them and inside themselves. Sometimes it looks much worse. It is intense. It doesn't go away. It follows you from room to room as you try to step away and take a deep breath and recenter yourself. It looks like things all kids do (please don't use that phrase with parents parenting attachment challenged kids - it cuts so much deeper than you intended). Yes, it looks like things all kids do, but it feels SO different, especially to the parents, who despite their sometimes maladaptive and exasperated approaches to deal with the situation, are acutely aware of and consumed by the depth of their kid's pain and fear. Yes, all kids do those things, but they don't do them from a place of fear, a lack of trust, a desperate need to control the situation at all times, and a suffocating layer of anxiety that kids with attachment challenges do.

In the warm and loving scene detailed at the beginning of this post (which is, by the way, an honest account of this evening) I forgot to mention a small, but important detail. The last sentence of the first paragraph or maybe the first sentence of the second paragraph should have read, I take a deep breath and remember where I am and what that means. I am home. You see, what I'm coming to learn about we are not ok and we are ok is that one of most defining factors is often me. My perspective, my approach, my ability to stay regulated and nurturing, my commitment to embodying the calm and balanced energy I want my kids to operate within.

Prior to bringing Elsa and Ashagre home, I had a vision in my head of the mother I would be. I would always do my best not to lose sight of where they had come from, I would always delight in their presence, I would not take their expressions of hurt or anger or fear personally, always seeing them for what they were, I would always remember that I am the adult and that they are just six and seven, I would ooze patience, understanding, and acceptance.

I thought I knew how hard it would be. I also thought I could handle it. I had NO idea how hard it could be, how personal it can sometimes feel, how good they can be at triggering my own shit. I had no idea I would find myself resorting to maladaptive coping mechanisms - threats (not empty ones, but the repetitive kind that build on each other necessitating more and bigger threats as your kids get more dysregulated and out of control), emotional distancing (a huge dysregulator for attachment challenged kiddos), the inability to admit its not about "winning" or "reinforcing ridiculous behavior" and instead backing down from a chosen, heavy-handed approach and giving in to what they really need - a calm, understanding and loving chance to try again with nothing hanging over their heads.

It seems I have this stubborn streak in my parenting style. Once I get headed down the path of needing to control I can't back down even when I can clearly articulate that it is exactly what the kids need. Even when I know it could make everything better almost instantaneously. We are not ok when we are trapped in this cycle. This pattern of parents trying to control out of control kids through traditional parenting approaches of threats and loss of consequences, even when one said kid, the most easily out of control one, clearly has not developed cause and effect thinking. We are not ok when I perpetuate it. We are not ok when I feel guilty for perpetuating it (because I know I am doing it) and choose to define myself as a shitty mom.

Seriously. Sometimes I think it really is that simple. The moment I can calm down, change my perspective, find my own balance, speak in a soft and loving voice, and let them know its ok to go on, to move beyond the last infraction and try again, everything is usually ok. A hug goes a long way. Admitting you were wrong in your approach and doing some repair work can set you straight for days. Sure, one kiddo might need fairly constant reminders to calm down, but that same kid is very able to calm themselves down by taking breaths with just a simple reminder to do it. Sometimes they even recognize it before we say something and initiate their own breath taking these days.

All of the suggestions in the attachment books work too. Loving and warm facial expressions. Gentle touch. Co-sleeping. Plenty of warning about what's coming next. Predictable routines and consistent boundaries. Naming feelings. Giving your kids a voice to name and explore their own feelings. Validating where they're coming from (even when it seems ridiculous). Playfulness and silliness. Games and activities generally reserved for younger kids. It all works; we've tried and regularly do almost all of it. But, at least in our house right now, the major difference between we are ok and we are not ok is my ability to control my own emotions and keep things calm and loving. Why, when it is that simple, is it so damn hard?


You did it. You made it through this entire rambling post! Here are some gratuitous cute photos as a reward.

Which Way to Shashamane? (Wordless)

Little Man's choice for his school outfit today 

There You Are!

Something big happened recently and I missed it.

Just weeks ago our family was really struggling. Life was hard. Harder than I ever imagined it would be despite having tried to prepare ourselves for the worst before taking the leap into parenthood. Both Brent and I were exhausted. We were stretched to what felt like our limits. Every aspect of our lives was precariously teetering on a narrow and very unstable ledge. If one thing gave, and it felt like they all could at any moment, it all would be lost. Our kids were really struggling too. One kid, in particular, was letting us know loud and clear that they were not ok.

We are not ok. There were many days a few weeks ago when I was so tempted to post those four little words on our blog and nothing more. We are not ok. I needed to cry out. I needed to tell the world, or at least those of you in it that seem to care, how things were really going. I needed someone, anyone, to hear me. Just to know. I needed a space to stop pretending that I could hold it all together. We are not ok. I didn't post it. It seemed to melodramatic. It seemed pointless.

So we trudged forward. No we battled forward, with weary arms swinging dull and damaged blades. We wrote more checks to our therapist. I had honest conversations with my new employers. Brent and I had many, many honest conversations with one another. We listened and heard each other even when doing so zapped whatever minuscule amount of personal energy and perseverance we might have been clinging too that day. We cried. We fell into our beds so tired we hurt, only to wake up the next morning before dawn to battle again. We stepped outside of our comfort zones - I stepped WAY outside of my comfort zones. We worked to break old habits and form new ones.

And then things changed. The change was so subtle I didn't even realize it was happening until sometime earlier this week when my conscious was triggered and my body reactively released some of the past weeks' stress and fear in the form of one big sigh. So this is what it feels like to be a family. To have a natural rhythm and common understanding imbedded in your day's activities. To just be together. To just be together and enjoy it. This is what I thought I signed up for! This is what it feels like!

Things are ok. We are ok! We are better than ok! (Wait, that feels dangerous putting it out there like that. Maybe I should at least delete one of those exclamation points and turn it into a period. I don't want to jinx anything).

Sometime in the last week or so, just over one year of starting this crazy experiment, our little family of four really found its groove. I know I've typed that phrase in the past - found its groove - but this is different. I don't think this is just a false groove created by a temporary lack of the really hard and messy stuff. That kind of groove is more palpable; it doesn't sneak up on you. This is different. This new rhythm is more natural. It includes the messy stuff, but the messy stuff is ok. I never signed up for no messes. Messes are the cornerstone of family life. Families do messes together. That's what they do.

The other day our therapist asked me how things were going. I began to answer her cautiously; I still had to convince myself it was true. As I continued to provide examples of how well things were going, I grew more confident in my answer. The kids are thriving. They've made HUGE academic leaps in the past few weeks - academic leaps that wouldn't be possible if they were existing in the fearful place of a few weeks ago. Both kids are making big leaps socially as well. Both kids, but one kid in particular, is showing amazing emotional growth. Work is going well for both Brent and me; we're both too busy, but things are going well. The other pieces of the puzzle that felt so precariously arranged a few weeks ago are starting to feel more managable. This weekend, I had a conversation with the kids about bickering and whining. Bickering and whining. These are things every kid struggles with, they are no where close to the things we were struggling with just a few weeks ago - struggles stemming from trauma and institutionalization.

I don't expect that we'll never be in that not ok place again. We've all still got a lot of work to do, both individually and as a family. My comfort zone still needs stretching. Both of our kids still need so much reassurance and love and understanding. There's a lot of filling up and reinforcing and nurturing to do. I'm starting to gain the understanding and accept the fact that the really hard stuff seems to bubble up explosively right before a huge leap of growth. There is still much growing to be done and I'm sure things will be tough once again.

But for today, for now, I'm just going to enjoy the messy, beautiful, crazy family we've managed to become.

We are ok.


There you are my beautiful children! There you are - the true you - the beautiful you hiding behind all that fear and sadness. Thank you. Thank you for persevering. Thank you for fighting right alongside your new Mommy and Daddy. Thank you for fighting harder than we can even imagine even as we watch you do it. Thank you for your optimism and openness and willingness to wake up each morning and keep moving forward. You take my breath away; you inspire me. Thank you for pushing, sometimes outright demanding, us to be better, to grow. You are worth it. You are so worth it.

Yes, they are eating Starbucks breakfast sandwiches
before school. No, it is not a common occurance. We
had no electricity and mommy was getting coffee. Yes,
we absolutely enjoyed our breakfast date before school.

Sticking With Shorts: Baseball, Values and Opportunity

Play Ball, A Family Tradition
This Saturday was Opening Day for the Foothill Baseball League. Our Saturday involved baseball, and nothing more.

Despite the fact that neither Brent nor I are even remotely passionate about baseball, the sport has been a part of our family since the first, maybe the second, day of becoming a foursome. Stuck an extra week in Ethiopia due to a hold up with the Embassy, not allowed to leave our guesthouse with our kids except to take care of adoption related business or frequent one of three approved restaurants, we made due with whatever was lying around the compound to keep everyone entertained, including a couple of plastic bats and some half inflated rubber balls. "Baseball?" was one of the first English words the kids learned. We played a lot at the guesthouse and the kids both developed accurate, if not a little tomahawk-like, swings.

Last year after only one month home, Ashagre joined the Tigers baseball team. It was something we never would have even considered signing him up for that early upon his arrival in America, but our friend Greg, who's son Izaak is the same age as our kids (and Elsa's highly competitive math partner at school), was coaching a team that was shy a few players. He suggested we bring the kids down to a practice to check it out. It was too overwhelming for Elsa, but Ashagre was hooked on that first day.

Warming up playing catch with Izaak. First day of baseball practice.

Slugger in the making.

We decided to go with it, no pressure, and pull him out if it became too much. It never did. Knowing no English, he was an astute observer of the game. He learned the rules and objectives by carefully scrutinizing what was going on around him as it unfolded. His skills improved dramatically and his confidence soared. By the end of the season, Elsa, who had attended every practice and practiced in most of them, was quite the baseball player too. She even earned an honorary jersey and a place in the batting line up for the last game of the season.

This girl knows how to keep her eye on the ball.

When baseball season rolled around again this year there was no question. The kids just assumed they would be playing. Izaak had decided to do karate instead of baseball, and Greg therefore wasn't coaching, so we decided to sign the kids up in our neighborhood league rather than drive them across town to play in the league that they played in last year.

About 30 Minutes Before the Opening Day Ceremony Begins
Fidgeting with a piece of ribbon, attached to one of a bunch of many balloons, desperately trying to untangle it from all the others before the warm breeze that is blowing through the canyon on even a warmer day undoes my handiwork and tangles the ribbons up again. 

Seriously? Balloons? Mylar balloons? I woke up an hour early and rushed my Saturday morning to come out here to tie mylar balloons to a fence? Mylar balloons that I will get to take down again in a few hours because, according to the umpire, they will distract the players during the first game of the season? Mylar balloons that a few kids will ask for, play with for a few minutes and then accidentally release to the warm breeze and deep blue sky above us so they can loose their helium and become yet another artifact of humanity's fascination with the frivolous floating around in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch? Mylar balloons that no one else will want that will be shoved into the back of a mini van only to be batted around your house by your kids before loosing their helium and ending up in the landfill? You needed four volunteers to help with opening day to tie mylar balloons to a fence? Elsa and Ashagre know this as unnecessary and wasteful. Elsa and Ashagre, who with no coaching from Mom or Dad, stop to pick up trash on the sidewalk or in the forest, so that it doesn't end up in the ocean and hurt dolphins (they love dolphins) understand that no one's life will be any richer because these balloons were tied to the fence for a few hours.

Fifteen Minutes into the Opening Day Ceremony
I gaze out across the well manicured field, enjoying the absolute adorableness that is little kids in baseball uniforms. We bought Elsa extra small baseball pants. They barely stay up on her. I wondered how the younger kids that played T-Ball would even be able to wear them until I saw them, drawstrings pulled tight around their tiny wastes, uniform shirts tucked in giving them a little extra girth, the extra pant leg fabric folded and bunched at their ankles like rolls of fat on a cartoon elephant. Elsa and Ashagre's team, the mighty Mud Hens, by far has the cutest hats.

New families arrive. I stay vigilant, keeping my eyes peeled. Please don't let them be the only ones. Wait, nope, there's an African American woman over there. Which team is her kid on? Ah, Kristopher. He looks like he's about their age. Maybe they'll play each other. Two out of three out of approximately 275. One percent. Next I scan for girls. The numbers aren't any better. Why am I surprised? We should have stuck with the league from last year - the one on the other side of town. Sure the fields are potholed and some seemingly shady characters (who usually turn out to be parents of players) lurk around grounds, but at least the makeup of the players is representative of the community we live in - about equal Caucasion to Hispanic with two percent African American mixed in there too. At least girls in those families are encouraged to play baseball rather than being pigeon-holded into ballet by age six. At least those families get to know each other on the bleachers as they cheer their kids on, united in their commonality as parents of the kid that picks dandelions as the ball flies by his head or the kid too busy spinning circles in the outfield to notice that her team has gone in and is now up to bat.

The other mom I am standing next to behind the t-shirt sales table and have been trying to engage for the past twenty minutes with absolutely no return effort on her part finally asks, "Where are your kids?" as I cheer for the Mud Hens while they ceremoniously run the bases to kick off the season. I pause, briefly, grinning to myself about the level of discomfort I would create if I answered with the most obvious answer of all, and, instead use my pointer finger to identify them. She says nothing in return.

As My Brain Wanders in the Days Leading Up to Their First Game
Maybe I'll cornrow her hair and get beads or cute barrettes that match her uniform to put on the ends of her braids. Maybe I should sew some sort of bow onto her hat. Maybe she can wear a headband so they'll know when she takes her hat off.

Sitting in the bleachers a little boy confirms my suspicions. Mommy, is that a girl or a boy? They have a pink mitt. As Elsa swings the bat and sends the ball hopping past the catcher I clear up his inquiry. "Go Elsa! Run girl!"

Why? She doesn't care. Why do I? Elsa is fascinated by gender roles in America. Things aren't as clear cut as they were for her at her orphanage where everyone had a shaved head and girls exclusively wore dresses while boys exclusively wore pants (poor thing, I can't imagine how awkward she felt when we put her in a pair of shorts the first day we met her). "Mommy! I saw police! Girl in police car! Girl driving police car!" "Mommy, boys no wear barrettes." Brent and I are constantly explaining that, in America, girls can do anything boys can do and boys can do anything girls can do, except, of course have babies. The whole thing tickles her. "Mommy, four boys, two girls." She counts the ratio of boys to girls everywhere we go. I still can't quite understand the motivation for this counting, but am certainly no longer surprised to hear it.

Despite her fascination with gender roles and despite the fact that she is a girly girl at heart learning to live with her far from girly momma, she, herself is not concerned about other's interpretation of her sex whatsoever. As hard as we're working to grow it out, her hair remains relatively short. Other kids, the masters of asking legitimately innocent yet socially unspoken questions, ask their moms all the time if she is a boy or a girl plenty loud enough that we can both hear it. It doesn't even phase her.

Why do I care that Foothill Little League knows she's a girl? Why do I, the mom that is fine being an additional five minutes late for school as I explain in the parking lot that the woman we saw in the coffee shop is not pretty just because she has a Macy's counter full of make up on. That makeup doesn't make someone pretty. That their heart and the love they show others is what makes them pretty. That while, yes, many very pretty people wear makeup some would actually be prettier without it. That, no, Mommy doesn't wear makeup and won't be anytime soon. That she (Elsa) doesn't need makeup to be pretty. That she is already the prettiest girl in the world with her huge brown eyes, radiant smile and tender and loving heart that erupts with explosive sobs at the happy part of Disney movies. That she is pretty because she is who she is, because she's Ethiopian, because she just is. Why?

The Day After Opening Day
Our car speeds up the 33 through the other side of town, the west side, home to the Pony Baseball League, the other league we used to be a part of. The kids are strapped safely in their booster seats. Each one sings some repetitive ditty or another just a little bit louder than the other. Brent and I steal a moment to discuss our housing options.

We could continue to live in our current bungalow. The cute one in the great neighborhood with great neighbors. The one with a slumlord landlord, mold on the bathroom walls, and only two bedrooms. We can continue to sleep with one kid in between us in bed at night (alternating kids so as not to make anyone feel excluded) or we can look for something else. We can rent a new place like the one we are quickly approaching in Oak View. One with three bedrooms, another bathroom and a dishwasher (A dishwasher! Sign me up! I don't even need to see the house!). Or we can look into buying one that our realtor neighbor has in mind for us. One of the houses on the other side of town - the only side of town we currently have the ability to possibly afford in our overpriced beachside community. The side of town that has been "up and coming" for thirty years, but still remains to be considered a good place to invest in housing, unless, of course, you're another slumlord landlord. The sole destination of all the City's redevelopment funds.

I remember a conversation overheard at opening day. Another mom, hair bleached blond, well sculpted body, designer work out clothes and a large diamond ring on her finger marvels at how great Foothill Little League is. "We had to play in the Pony League for a few weeks last year. It was awful. The fields are a wreck, and how can you keep track of the kid's stats with no score board?" She shutters. I shutter, remembering the first morning in a long time where I have felt like the other in our community. Brent and I decide to keep our options open. We take an application for the place in Oak View. We invite our neighbor over later in the evening to discuss the houses she knows of on the west side. I quietly wonder if even west side will offer enough otherness for our family.

Happy Birthday Dr. Suess!

Watching a kid learn to read is probably one of the more gratifying and exciting wonders of life. Watching a child learn to read in a language they didn't understand just a year ago is even more miraculous.

Elsa has had a love affair with language as long as we have known her. Words fascinate her. They are the focus of many moments of her day. When we first met her in Ethiopia, she single-handedly taught us more Amharic than any other source we had available to us. "Layla" she demanded, shaking our empty water bottle. "Bacca" she scolded when she had had enough of her daddy's goofy antics.

When she first was learning English her vocabulary expanded rapidly as she pointed out and named the new world around her. She delighted in reciting, writing, and singing her letters and quickly learned their sounds. She learned to spell her nine letter Polish last name after writing it only five times on her chalk board. Sight words are a breeze for Elsa. She can tell you the American sign language sign for most common words and, at times, subconsciously signs when she's speaking just like her teacher. Multiple, multiple times a day I hear, "Mommy, how do you spell..." Sometimes I answer. Sometimes I don't, knowing that if I do I'll be spelling words for hours. Elsa explicitly identifies people she meets by the first letter and sound of their name.

"E" like Elsa, like Emily, like elephant
"J" like Juliana
"N" like Natalie, and Noah, and no

Not surprisingly reading has come easily for Elsa. She has literally gone from knowing some, but not all, of her sounds at the beginning of school in late August to functionally reading in February. Regardless of her natural capacity, the process is still wondrous and her pride is palpable. Now, as a reader, a whole new dimension of the world is opening up to her. Brent and I will very soon no longer be able to spell in front of her when we don't want her to know what we are talking about. Brent thinks pig latin will buy us a few more months, but I have no doubt she'll figure that out too.

Tomorrow we will celebrate Elsa's new found skill in commemoration of her favorite author's, Dr. Suess, birthday. Her school has a huge party planned for tomorrow, complete with pajamas, real green eggs and ham, and homemade Cat in the Hat hats. Elsa, is the keynote reader for her class's celebration. She and I will be reading Green Eggs and Ham to her class to kick off the celebration. She'll read the part of Sam-I-Am. She has been practicing and counting down the days all week.

When the kids first came home they didn't have the attention span or skills to sit and listen to a story. We held fast though, and in no time they were begging for story after story. Even though they couldn't understand the language, they relished in the cadence of our reading voices and the pictures found in all their beautiful books. Dr. Suess, the master of cadence and whacky illustrations quickly became a household name. The first time the kids ever got to go to a bookstore and pick out a book, they picked Dr. Suess. The first book they understood in English was Green Eggs and Ham. Many a night as a food battle was shaping up with our picky eater, I just had to grin and say, "I like it! I like it! I like it Sam-I-Am!" and she would giggle and take a try it bite. The first book Elsa read cover to cover, all by herself was Green Eggs and Ham (she memorized a few others before this, but this is the first one she's read).

So in celebration of language, of the world of books, of growth right before your eyes, of one of the best children's author's, and of my daughter, I share with you this video. (Warning, the pace is kind of slow, but the miraculousness of it all is undeniable, despite my low energy contribution - I should be in bed instead of writing this blog - and Elsa provides some pretty funny distractions along the way).

Post script: Ashagre is quite jealous of Elsa's new found skill and the attention she is getting from it (despite our efforts to shower him with attention for his unique skills). They kids are competitive with one another. They do not like it when they can't do something that the other can. In just the past few weeks Ashagre's knowledge of his letter sounds has grown tremendously and his sight words are starting to click more too. I doubt it will be long before we post a video of him reading his first book. I wonder what he will choose.