Home is a Sister...

I know I have been neglecting this blog, but I have done a little bit of writing this month.

I have a new column HERE about what home means for Meazi and Melese.

I wrote about the Tesfa Teen runners HERE (page 28).

I found Melese outside the other day. It was windy. He was wearing his turtle costume and a pair of butterfly wings. He was moving his back around trying to see if the wind would lift him so that he could fly. 

This pretty much sums up what we are doing around here, trying hard to give our kids wings so they can fly.

Autobiography

Melese's autobiography as told to his teacher:

I'm a boy that's not too big and not that small. I'm just me. I like climbing on the monkey bars. I'm good at the monkey bars. I like going up in the air in an airplane and I like taking the subway. I'm not going to have any kids because my mommy and daddy are going to get tiny tiny like a little baby and I will take care of them and give them food.

In Other News...

That whole "Your own bed" thing didn't quite work out. It's ok. I am pretty sure they won't let us move into the University dorms with them.
Right?

Back to School- New Column

New Column up...Here.

File Under... Be Careful What You Wish For.

When She Was Just a Girl...She Expected the World.

When she was just a girl, she expected the world. But it flew away from her reach. So she went away in her sleep.

Dear Meazi,

Today was your last day of first grade. You were bouncing off the walls when I brought you to your classroom this morning. The room was buzzing with excitement. You have loved first grade. You adore your new school. You've made many new friends. You said it is a bittersweet time for you- sad because it is the end of the year, happy because you will soon be a second grader. How do you know the word bittersweet Meazi?

To say that we are proud of you is an understatement. Yesterday when I dropped you off, I took a moment to just gaze at you. I couldn't help it. You were radiating light. Your friend, and your brother, were staring at you too. You regaled us with some simple story that somehow sounded sparkly because you were telling it. It was as if I were standing next to the sun. Your eyes were huge, and your hair had been just braided by a friend the night before. You were literally shining.

You have shared a lot with your classmates. At the beginning of the year you showed them a picture of your Ethiopian family. You told everyone your entire adoption story. For weeks after, many of the other adopted kids in your class came and told me their adoption stories. When you received your citizenship, you brought in pictures the next day for show and tell.

As a student council member you showed everyone the school you helped build in Kololo. You told them that your father, and your uncles, worked on this school. You showed them what can happen when a community comes together.

You wrote a letter to President Obama, asking him to change things so that people from other countries could become president.

You learned how to hold, pluck, and nearly play the violin.

You showed your entire school your Eskista, and sang "I'm Black and I'm Proud" at the top of your lungs.

When we received the first and only picture of your late Ethiopian momma, you immediately brought it to school to show everyone. "I think my momma is the most beautiful person in the whole world," you said. You pulled the huge 8x10 out of an envelope, gasped and said to me, "Mom, when I first saw this photo I was sure that it was me!" You look so much like her. So much like her.

You are teaching me about what it means to be a friend. In a recent conversation I told you that you might want to avoid a classmate that wasn't treating you so nicely. You said, "Mom, if you are really good friends with someone, you are going to have fights! You just are! She is working on being kinder, and I am helping her." A bunch of kids came to play at the house. They asked you to leave the kitchen so they could draw something for you on the chalkboard.

"I Like Meazi. You are brite(sic) as sun shine."

 Your school assigns fourth graders to first graders as buddies. Your wise and wonderful teachers got you a new buddy after a couple of months. Your first buddy wouldn't hold your hand. I can't imagine why someone wouldn't want to hold your hand. Your second buddy is an amazing girl, generous with hugs and hand holding. She recently did 177 cartwheels in five minutes. You watched her take a horseback riding lesson last weekend. She is lanky like you. Today you wore two flowers on your wrist when I picked you up. Taped to them were her name and yours, a gift from her on your last school day.

I am making it sound like you are perfect. In the beginning of the year we called you Officer Krupke . Your teachers had told us you were policing the classroom, and that you were acting like the victim a lot. You were easily wounded, and felt like you weren't getting what everyone else got. I'd see you cut in line, and tell the teachers about every slight, complaining frequently about your friends. Those same wise and wonderful teachers have assured me that you are over this. They told me that you have matured so much over this last semester.

You love books. You love those Wimpy kid books. You can read chapter books, but prefer that we read to you. You have met Laura Ingalls, and Roald Dahl, and Beverly Cleary. You are really, really, interested in babies, especially in books that show babies being born. I have a couple of books for you on the top shelf of my closet. I bet we take them out this summer. You and your classmates created your own version of Todd Parr's It's okay to be different. Here is your page:

You are a dancer. You did a play. It was the Wizard of Oz, you were Toto, and you had a fever and a bad cold, but you went on anyway. You are shy on stage, the opposite of what you are like in real life. Your dad and I were shocked to see this side of you. It was as if you were actually scared of something. As two theatre majors, this gave us great joy and a deep sense of relief.

You like science. You have a telescope and know about photosynthesis. Daddy has decided that if he brings his bee stuff into the classroom again, that you will do the presentation. When he did it in your current class, you finished all of his sentences, and answered all of the questions. You know a lot about bees. You eat A LOT of honey.

You are a writer. Your writer's workshop stories were both heartbreaking (the story of your bus ride to the care center in Ethiopia), and hilarious (the description of daddy screaming like a girl on Splash Mountain). You are a poet.

Yesterday I picked you up in the carpool line. I chose the stay in the car option because your brother was napping in his carseat. Another mom pulled up next to me, she too, had a daughter who was a "new kid" this year. We sat waiting. I looked up and saw you come out. You spotted me, smiled, waved, and shook your hips in a funny dance. I yelled up to you, "Shake it don't break it!" The other new kid's mom leaned over and said, "She is so beautiful. I don't normally comment on physical appearances, (it's that kind of thoughtful school where 98% of the parents are trying really hard to say the right thing- in a good way) but her bone structure, and her smile...." She put her hand over her heart as she described you. I smiled and reassured her. "It's ok," I said. It is ok to say she's beautiful. Some things can't be denied.
  
In an attempt to capture this time for you, here are your most requested on the way to school songs:

Paradise- Coldplay
Mean- Taylor Swift
Party Rock- LMAO
Buffalo Soldier- Bob Marley
Dynamite- Taio Cruz
Lucky Now- Ryan Adams
Coconut Water- Harry Belafonte

You still like butterflies, and the color purple.

Your most successful school lunch (most eaten) was spaghetti noodles with turkey bolognese.


Things that you ask for repeatedly:

A baby sister from China.
An Ipad.
Pierced ears.
Converse high tops (the ones that go all the way to the knees).


I know that today was an emotional day for you. I am so proud of you. I am so happy that you love me.

I am so lucky that you love me.

I hope that you always feel this way about school, and about friendship, and about life.

You are beautiful.

Safe.

I lie next to him in bed. Our faces are so close I can feel his breath. Our noses are almost touching. His curls are tucked into his silky, gold, sleep cap. My left hand cups his right shoulder. It feels so very small. My eyes are closed but when I open them briefly I see deep into his dark eye. "What are you worried about?" I ask, seeing a great fear in that space. "Noffing," he says. "There is nothing to worry about," I assure him. "Ok Mamma," he says. We lie here together and I wonder to myself just how long it is going to take before he finally feels safe. Will it ever happen? Up until last December I would say things like, "Today we are going to eat pancakes, go to so and so's birthday, and then shop at..." He'd interrupt me to ask, "And then I get a new mommy?"

I think about what it must be like for him. He is three. This already seems to be a jacked up time developmentally for any kiddo. "I do it myself!" seems to be the mantra, whether they can or not. I feel he is in a big place of growth right now. He is his own person, with big beautiful ideas, and some nasty three year old behavior. He likes to spit. This drives me crazy. I want to throttle him when he spits. He pushes my buttons. Today I tried a new tactic to deal with these types of things. I tried, whenever he did something to piss me or anybody else off, to just shower him with complete love. "I love you Melese. I love you so much. We don't spit in this family. We don't throw food. Do you need extra hugs today? I think that you do." I hug him, and hug him again, and wonder how on earth this beautiful child will ever feel safe.

At preschool the other day I told him I needed to use the bathroom. When I came out of the bathroom I found him sobbing. I hugged him and he whimpered into my shoulder. He thought that I had left without saying goodbye. "I was just in the bathroom," I said, "I just had to pee. I was coming right back."

What is it like to be three and to have had two moms, and to have two dads and to have family in different, far away places? Isn't life confusing enough? Isn't it enough for a three year old just to figure out why they can't have a fucking lollipop whenever they want? Isn't that enough worry? Why can't I have a fucking lollipop mommy?

But instead we have this. "Why did my mommy die mommy? How are we family if they are there mommy?" Really goddamn good questions Melese.

His eye is blinking. It is finally getting heavy with sleep. I know that I will have to move soon because he can't physically touch Meazi with me between them. The only way they both sleep soundly is if parts of their bodies are actually touching. If they are not they will thrash all night, searching for each other. I have been between them sleeping, and gotten a good elbow in the throat, a fast slap in the face, and a heel blow to the ribcage. I know now to find a new place in the bed so that these two can find each other again.

Why wouldn't they try to? It is all they know to be constant. It is all they know to be there, and to be here. The two of them together through the trauma of their past, the confusion of their present, and the vast unknown of their future.

I look at him one more time. His eyes are closed. I'm not sure if my eyes are watering from his hot breath on them, or from my great sadness of what I think it must feel like to be my beautiful son.

March

This made me cry when I saw it in Meazi's classroom. When hasn't she been brave?

 Hopefully what she wrote about was something downright middle class and American like, "I was brave when Stride Rite didn't have light up shoes in my size" or "I was brave when daddy said that I couldn't get my ears pierced".  I hope she wrote about something like that.

Oh, and March,
We know what you are like...

This year you can suck it. We are a tight unit. We are huddled together and prepared to barrel through this month of sad anniversaries.

We give you a smile and a wave. We are together. We are holding on tight.

This is a time when we are brave.

Tomorrow, No Matter What

I must be the very last person in America to read the book Nurture Shock. Reading the chapter on siblings yesterday, I found myself putting the book down and crying for a full ten minutes. Something struck me as I read it.

 Meazi and Melese don't have the kind of  sibling relationship that is described in this book. Yes they bicker sometimes, and sometimes they drive each other crazy. Most of the time though, they work it out. They play games together. They imagine themselves travelers, and with real suitcases as props they board our green couch (a stand-in for a 747), to travel to exotic lands like Milwaukee and Santa Fe. They zoom around out back on their bikes and plasma cars, stopping for pretend gas at their toy gas station. They each grab a baby doll and get busy dressing, feeding, and setting up a computer for their 'kids'. They dress up as princesses and turtles. She reads to him. They choose matching pajamas. They sleep through the night soundly, only when parts of themselves are touching each other; a hand on a wrist, a foot on a foot. They look out for one another. He worships the ground she walks on. He'll shout, "Momma! It's time to go and pick up my Guuuuurllllll!" whenever my carpool alarm goes off. His eyes brighten when he sees her. His shoulders soften when she is finally within arm's reach.

The chapter on siblings in Nurture Shock describes some brothers and sisters who won't stop fighting, and who are not at all kind to one another.

From the book:

Scottish researcher Dr. Samantha Punch found similar results in her interviews of ninety children. She determined that kids don't have an incentive to act nicely to their siblings, compared to friends, because the siblings will be there tomorrow, no matter what.

This above quote is what made me cry. I realized that this isn't a given for Meazi and Melese. At least it hasn't been a given in their past. What makes them think that they won't be separated like they were separated from their other siblings?

I believe that, subconsciously, this has something to do with why they treat each other so beautifully.

This revelation made me weep.

Just Like Me.

 Melese and I take Meazi to school everyday. We get there early and play on the athletic field. When we first walk in, we always see a man that works at the school. From the very first day, Melese has been mysteriously drawn to this man. Jose (not his real name) is an older gentleman, maybe in his fifties, from Mexico. When Melese sees him he shouts, "Hi! Hi Jose!" Jose walks over, his crossing guard stop sign in hand, and says good morning to Melese. The second day Melese threw his arms around Jose and gave him an enormous hug. Unheard of for Melese who will barely give a smile to dear friends we have known for years. One day, after a similar hug, Jose kept holding Melese as he stopped carpool traffic. Melese helped him 'work' and talked all about it for the rest of the day. There is just something about this man that Melese is drawn to.

After a few mornings of this mutually adorable greeting, Jose told us a little bit about his family. His wife lives in Mexico with their two children, a son and a daughter. Recently his kids had to drop out of school because it was too dangerous to attend. The violence from the Mexican mafia has caused their neighborhood to become a war zone. He showed me pictures of his adorable children. His son is named after him.

Later at home, I was telling Meazi about him. I said that I felt so sad for him, and for his family. She said, "Which part of the story is the saddest to you mom?" I said, "I guess that he can't see his family Meazi, that is the saddest to me."

She said, "Just like me. I can't see my family. He's just like me."

Maybe this is what Melese and Jose have in common. Maybe this is why they hug each other like that each day.

Maybe he just misses his son, the one who doesn't get dropped off at the beautiful, progressive, expensive school, surrounded by guards and kindly employees who could watch out for him.

And what about Meazi? Is she, like him, just working and waiting until a time when she can see her family again?

Please pass the Dalwhinne.

This Week...

This week has not gone as well as I hoped it would. Sanding has not been successful. Not at all successful.

I spoke to my friend, Grenache Blanc, and she said, "Keep on Truckin".

So we will.

This weekend we will go to the happiest place on earth. Meazi requested this day trip for her sixth birthday.

Please tell me it isn't as bad as it sounds?

Start Sanding

Dear Melese,
Mommy and Daddy are on their way, please don't worry. We love you very much. Meazi is okay, and we will all be together soon. Your teachers will take good care of you until we get there. We love you so very much.

I just had to write an earthquake kit letter for Melese. It is a letter for him to open if there is a big emergency WHILE HE IS AT SCHOOL. Did I mention that he is going to start school on the 6th?

This 'in case of earthquake' letter pretty much sums up how I feel about Melese going to school. I feel like I am leaving him in a room without power, the earth shaking, with strangers who are kind, but not his family.

I know, logically, that school will be wonderful for Melese. He is only going three morning a week. He has dear friends in his class, and he loves visiting there. It is a lovely little school that follows this nice philosophy. He needs to be around other kids. It is a good thing. I know all of this.

I am still having a little trouble with the idea. The problem with all of this attaching we have been doing for the last two years is that I AM REALLY ATTACHED TO HIM!

It will be a challenging transition for both of us. He still seems so young to me.

I just Googled 'How to Remove a Barnacle' and the first result said, 'Start sanding'.

It is only nine hours a week. This might be a good thing too, the nine hours to myself. I might actually have time to move the laundry from the washer to the dryer instead of finding the wet clothes several days later, and just rewashing them because they are a bit moldy smelling. I might even haul my flabby bleg (it's not leg, it's not butt...what is it?) to the YMCA. The possibilities are endless.

Still, in my mind he is cowering in a door frame, his pants wet because no one reminded him to use the potty, tears streaming down his face. He is clinging to a picture of Meazi, and this lame little earthquake letter I've written him.

I know, I know- I am the barnacle. Not him. He needs to remove me. I need to be sanded off.

It is just that it happened so fast. I miss him so much already.

Up North

After six days at the lake, my father called me over last night and said, "Jules, I want you to know that we love these children as much as we love you guys. They are wonderful, and there is nothing we wouldn't do for them. We will love them forever."

Happy vacation ugly cry to me!

We are off! Again! Did I mention my baby sister is getting hitched?

Growing Pains

Meazi is having growing pains, literally. Her shins hurt. I have to buy new clothes and shoes for her all of the time. I am now an Ebay shopper, bidding late into the night on used Naartjie leggings. I wake up in the morning and do an Ebay walk of shame over to my laptop, half hoping my rash overbidding has been outbid by someone who likes Naartjie more than me. I am working on her back to school wardrobe. I keep an eye open for butterflies, and purple, and 100% cotton.

She just had her last day of a month long summer program. Originally I had her in the Spanish Immersion class. She was miserable, so I switched her to art. We now have tons of painted toilet paper rolls, and decorative switch plate covers filling our rooms. She liked art. I was happy that the program was so diverse. Today, her last day, she told me all sorts of stories about her racist classmates. There was a boy who told her she was disgusting the very first week. She had mentioned it when it happened, but what she didn't tell me was that he said, "You are disgusting. Black people are disgusting." A second student told her that "Chocolate people were stupid". In both instances, Meazi spoke to the child and then to her teacher. The kids were reprimanded. Steven said the problem with all of this diversity is that this diversity apparently involves skinheads too. All are welcome. Meazi, surprising me with her strong sense of self, and her brave sense of right and wrong, believes these kids are wrong, and sad, and bullies. She feels sorry for them that they don't see how beautiful chocolate is, and how a mixed family is special. She knows to gravitate toward the students that agree with her.

I am watching her grow up. Her length astonishes me. The family bed is getting more and more cramped. She is tall and strong.

On our way to class one morning she said, "Mom, we should really get back to the zoo. It looks like on July 9th there will be a new Los Angeles zookeeper." She was looking up at a billboard for this movie. It had a Coming on July 9th banner on it. I loved this so, so, much when she said it. I love that she doesn't understand movies, or billboards, or who Kevin James is.

This moment, as I am writing this, she is sitting next to me braiding her doll's hair and asking me if I like Lady Gaga. She is wearing her new underwear I bought her at Target today, and her butterfly backpack, and nothing else. In the backpack are her doll's clothes. She says that she and her baby Sarah are traveling to North Ecuador to visit Sarah's mom. She says that she adopted Sarah, but that it wasn't because of a sad reason like her adoption. She says, 'Sarah's moms are both living".

"I think Lady Gaga is a wizard. Do you think so mom?"

I'm not sure Meazi. I'm not sure.

One year and 303 days...

We headed to the YMCA today, to squeeze in a family swim. They heat the training pool to over 90 degrees. It is very relaxing to splash around in there with the kids. There is a lifeguard, and today there were about one hundred other children swimming. The pool is only four feet deep. It is heavily chlorinated, which is a good thing because those one hundred children never get out of the pool to use the bathroom. Meazi is a fish, and can now swim on her own. Melese splashes around, jumps into our arms from the ledge, and occasionally blows a bubble or two. It is a nice way to wrap up the weekend.

Just before five, as we were getting ready to leave, I asked Steven if he wanted to grab burritos for dinner. There is a new make-your-own burrito place that just opened in our neighborhood. The kids and I tried it last week. He said yes. In the locker room I asked Meazi if she wanted to go out to eat. As we walked to the car she said, "Dad, I really have a surprise for you, that you are going to like." He said, "Well Meazi, I have a surprise for you too." I said, "I think you guys share the same surprise- burritos."

We drove over, and Meazi discussed what she was going to choose this time, spinach tortilla, refried beans, Spanish rice. I asked Melese if he wanted a burrito and he nodded an emphatic yes. We pulled into the parking lot, hair wet, flip flops, all of us reeking of chlorine. I opened up the back to give Meazi a hand out of the car. She said, "Uppy!". "Uppy?" I said. "Ok." I picked her up. She wrapped her arms tightly around my neck, I felt a drop of water fall from her curls onto my clavicle. She put her head on my shoulder and then whispered into my ear.

She said, "You are very special to me." Tears shot out of my eyes onto my cheeks. "Oh Meazi" I said, "That is so swee..." She cut me off, "You all are, you, daddy and Melese. You are all very special to me."

It was the nicest thing she has ever said to me. I know that she loves me, but this was different. This was not a rote, "I love you," following one that I said to her. This was different. I said, "Meazi, tell daddy what you just said." She got embarrassed and asked me to tell him. So I did. We got burritos.

In the one year and 303 days that I have known her, I'd have to say that this may have been my most favorite moment.

But maybe she just really likes burritos.

Later of course, Steven and I decided that it sounded like something a teacher would have said to her. My moment of pure attachment-happy-joy turned into, "Which of her teachers told her that?" Then, because I am apparently still a misanthropic cynic who fears the worst, I wondered which creepy adult told her that so he could molest her.

Nice.

At least for that split second...pure joy.

These Days

And I would go so far just to be where you are... would take no time bringing my heart to you. 

These days I am a really good mother...

While they are sleeping.

It's the when they're awake part that I need to work on.

I usually wake up around 5:30, giving me a full 30-45 minutes to get my shit together. This week was particularly tough for some reason. The kids have been bickering a lot. All of us have had numerous meltdowns. Three of our four kitchen chairs have been decimated by the two-year old. Not sure how we are going to have family meals anymore without chairs. I think Meazi is a little anxious because school is winding down. She is also sad that her dear friend Masha is leaving to go to Russia for the summer. This 'short four day' week has dragged on and on. I am depleted.

Before they wake up, I have it all figured out. I will not raise my voice. I will not nag her to get into the car so we can make the first school bell. I will listen to him more, and make sure he has a lot of my undivided attention.

I will cut down on the processed food. I will measure their feet again and make sure I have them in the right size shoes. I will schedule a dental appointment for Meazi. I will go through their clothes and take out what is too small. I won't cry so much in front of them. I will set a good example. I will teach them coping skills that they will use throughout their lives.

Doesn't happen. There isn't time. I am navigating meltdowns, and low blood sugar episodes. I am refereeing. I am asking them to put away their toys for the 13th time apparently in a voice so harsh that it causes Meazi to cry and say, "Mom you are scaring me!"

One mistake can go through this life so slow, want to keep myself from making two.

I don't want to keep making so many mistakes. One mistake can go through this life so slow.

But each sunrise, I get another chance.

And the sun will rise and we'll open up our eyes and see love showing what's really true.

I get another chance to remember to wear my homemade Mother's Day pin.

 I get another chance to give my undivided attention to his amazing Buzz Lightyear shoes.

I get another chance to be the mother that I thought I would be.

These Days is a song I am listening to over and over lately. It is on this album. It is a beautiful song. I can't find a video of Alison singing it, but I did find this one. Think I'll give it another listen.

Nightshirt

I woke up late today, 6 am. Since Saturday was the beginning of daylight savings time, I guess it was really my normal wake up time, 5am. I went to turn off my I-Phone alarm and heard the slap, slap, slap of Meazi's feet coming down the hallway. She was wearing a shirt I gave her to sleep in. It was a shirt I got in grammar school, the letters JULIE ironed on the back, a kind of baseball jersey with a white chest, and long purple arms. She had her gold sleep cap on. I joined her on the couch. She said, "Mommy, I want in." She climbed into my sleep shirt, Steven's shirt, a super soft grey cotton shirt he got from work, thin enough to sleep in, but with long sleeves to keep my arms warm during the cool night. She stuck her head up through the neck, her face now touching mine, her chest against mine. She put her head on my shoulder and we sat their together in his shirt, her in my shirt, the two of us a strange two-headed groggy person. We sat there silently for a moment and then she said, "They made you put Croq's on." She was taking about the orphanage and how they make you change your shoes, and put on a pair of their 'inside shoes'. I said, "Yes they did Meazi."

Melese woke up and called out for me.

If he hadn't, I would have stayed with her like that... forever.

Time is a Circus

Time is a circus, always packing up and moving away - Ben Hecht

In an effort to join the brilliant Claudia by joining in the conversation, I tried to think back to a time when I felt the worst about my attachment with the kids. The clearest example would be when I took Meazi to the circus last September. This was going to be a great outing with some of our closest friends; just moms and their girls. I ended up in tears. When we arrived home I went into the house and wailed to Steven, “She hates me.” I cried later too, to my friend who had gone with us with her daughter. The whole afternoon I had been reaching for Meazi both literally and figuratively. I wanted to hold her hand, she refused. She was doing everything in her power not to sit next to me. She went to my two girlfriends sitting with us with hugs, hand holding and other affection I was hoping would be for me.

This combined with the fact that she had just started full time school two weeks prior had me in some sort of attachment freak out. How could I send her off to a school from 7:30-3:00 everyday when I had just met her? Everything we had been working on would be lost, I thought. I needed more time. If you are friends with me on Facebook you may recall that I spent weeks obsessing about finding a school with shorter hours. I searched futilely for a half-day kindergarten thinking that if I had her home by midday, maybe she wouldn’t completely bond with her new teacher instead of me. I don’t know what would have been ‘enough’ time for me with her, it is indefinable.

There are times with Meazi when I think I will always be Just Julie, a poor replacement for her real mother, and there are more encouraging times when I am her Superhero. The truth is that her preferred parent is usually Steven. Initially this is because he was a  'Festive Weekend Dad!' After not seeing him (due to his inevitable 70 hour work week), she would have a weekend full of fun with him. There were no responsibilities, no reason for him to tell her to hustle up and get in the car, or put on matching socks, or share with her brother, it was all about what birthday party do we get to go to today! Or which park should we play at?!  Now, after Steven having a couple of months with them where he didn’t work, I see that he is preferred by Meazi not because he is more fun, but because he is a better parent- calm, steady, firm but not harsh. She told me yesterday as she described how salt was made, “Daddy taught me that. Daddy teaches me about most things.” And indeed he does.

Some days I pick Meazi up from school and she throws her arms around me and tells me she missed me. Other days she does everything she possibly can to avoid me, grabbing another mom’s hand for the walk to the car. When I feel particularly distant from her I try to engage her in an old fashioned staring contest. She always wins having a remarkable way of not ever blinking. At these moments I take the opportunity to stare into those gorgeous eyes of hers and try to let her know that my eyes are open to her, my heart is open to her, and that I would do absolutely anything to have her sit next to me at the circus.

Melese, my Melese. Oh Melese, my former barnacle! I feel stronger about my attachment with the tortuga. He looks me in the eye, he gives me so much unsolicited affection. He comes to me for comfort. He says “Mommy,” as he throws his arms around me right before he falls asleep. His first word of the day, nine times out of ten, is ‘Mommy.” Although all of this is great, I have left him with someone other than Steven only twice in 19 months- the first time with my mom and dad so that I could go to the dentist, the second time yesterday at the YMCA. The first time was fine, yesterday was not. If he were securely attached I think I could leave him and he would know I am coming back. We will have to work on that.

Time

I think about time now, more than I ever did before. Time is always packing up and moving away. I feel like I am in the middle of a very crucial time period in regards to attachment. I don’t want to blow it. I don’t want to miss my window, especially with Meazi who seems to gain two years, both physically and mentally, every two months. (Already putting an I-touch on next year’s letter to Santa, and constantly asking about getting her ears pierced).

Nuts

Melese is like a peanut when it comes to attachment, with just the slightest bit of effort, just the tiniest press of a thumb and forefinger, his shell comes off revealing his meaty center, ready for the taking. Meazi, is more of a walnut or a filbert (or insert the nut with the toughest shell imaginable). She needs one of those metal tools and a lot of muscle power to crack open her shell.  Our attachment is a life long process that will change as she grows and develops, as will my attachment with Melese, as he will most likely not remain a peanut forever.

There are times with Meazi that are so beautiful. At these times she is like a tin of these, no shell, smooth, ready to be shared and enjoyed.

In a nutshell, (he he enough already huh?) It is a process. I feel privileged to know these nuts. We are working it out. We have the rest of our lives to get it right.

I will always reach for them, whether they reach back or not.

Just Julie

I recently had the opportunity to speak to a woman that I like very much. She told me that if my blog was any indication of how our attachment was going, things were just hunky dory. She used a better term than hunky dory, but I can't remember what it was.

I think we can all agree that attchment is an ongoing, lifelong, difficult process.

My Habesha Tortuga is quite attached to me. He strokes my arm when I hold him. He hugs and kisses me. He still prefers to sleep with his toes gripping my ribs to make sure that I am right there. When I say, "How much does mommy love you?" he squeals back, "Soooooooooo Much!!!"

Meazi is a tougher nut to crack. I know she likes me. Some days are beautiful. Some days are difficult.

Beautiful:

Meazi told me she made the above picture at school. She described it as a picture of her thinking about, and missing me, during a long day at school.

Difficult:

She put in an envelope addressed to "Julie".

I know that I am her mommy.

Sometimes to her...

I am just Julie.