12 Days of Blogging: Seven Super Years

Happy Birthday to my sweet boy Ian who is seven years old today! My big boy is kind, hard working, so funny and always ready to learn something new.  Here are a few highlights from the last year that I will cherish always.

The Lego invasion swept through one year ago today on Batman's motorcycle, scooped up Suki in the process, and is here to stay with the vehicles and characters of Lego City, Lego Chima and Ninjago. And while Legos rival sand in their ability to work their way into the carpet, shoes, and every crevice in between, I am always amazed at the complicated structures that appear in blue, yellow, red and green out of such a joyous imagination.

The story of the summer was this boy with his fishing pole, his trusty worm master (Suki) at his side, with Mom to unhook the fish with a ready supply of juice boxes. After a few lessons at Uncle Nick's "fishing camp" we hit the lakes for sunfish small, smaller and really small. Each catch was a new joy, each cast a new opportunity, and as my fisherman exclaimed during one summer sunset cast, "It's just so peaceful, Mom."

We started a new reading venture over the summer with Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, worked our way through several Series of Unfortunate Events, took a quest with Percy Jackson, and now find ourselves waiting for that special time each night where we snuggle in for the next chapter of the adventure. The Guardians of Ga'Hoole, along with a decent pile of birthday books, will keep us turning the pages well into year seven.

This has been the year of the yo-yo. After seeing a yo-yo master at school, Ian has taken it upon himself to learn the yo-yo well beyond the basics into several tricks that are complicated beyond my ability to process the steps on a youtube tutorial. But Ian is determined, and is making strides with moves that may or may not also be yoga poses. At this point, his expertise has advanced well beyond my own.

First grade has been all about the math this year! Ian works hard in school each and every day, enjoying his math and Chinese lessons, learning about Greek mythology in art (a big highlight!) and taking piano lessons. We are so proud to hear from the teachers and other parents that Ian is kind and generous to other students, making sure to include everyone. These days he goes to school with several rainbow loom bracelets that he gives away, coming home with a selection of new ones from other friends.

There are so many things I could write about what a special son Ian is and the wonderful experiences he has had this year, so I will end this post knowing that Ian's adventure is in progress and still being written with so many exciting days ahead!

12 Days of Blogging: Twas the Night Before Surgery

Twas the night before surgery and on the back of my foot

a pesky little bone spur had take root.

Tomorrow I am having a bone spur removed and a tendon reconfigured in a surgical procedure. I have daily pain in my foot from an injury that changes my gait, triggering the very painful arthritis in my back. The more my foot hurts, the more my back hurts. And since all the other therapies haven't stabilized the condition, the darn thing is coming out.

The actual procedure is a fairly routine, out patient venture (though it feels pretty significant to me right about now!). It's the recovery that looms large. For the next two weeks I need to elevate my foot above my heart 23 of 24 hours a day in an effort to reduce swelling and aide healing. My foot will be immobilized in a boot and I will not be allowed to put any weight on it for six weeks. Forced rest and relaxation wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the promise of that significant pain and boredom.

Tonight though I'm focusing on the many blessings I've come to realize about my situation. Yes, there are a few things I've learned as a frequent patient with chronic pain in the health care system these last eighteen months.

The first blessing is the support of my family and friends. I have a wonderful partner in my husband who takes very good care of me. I have family and friends that are coming to appointments, watching the boys, bringing meals, running errands, keeping company, sending prayers and even wrapping presents if needed. I have compassionate children who want mommy to feel better, which keeps me grounded and focused on recovering well.

 The second blessing is that I have a job that provides health insurance and benefits that allows for quality medical care for my family with providers of our choosing that will not bankrupt our household. I have some sick days that will combine with my scheduled holiday break to give me almost three weeks of rest and healing, without worrying if my job will be waiting for me.  We have not had to make the choice between our health and our home, job or other necessities.

The third blessing is how I have learned to advocate for myself as person with chronic pain. I knew to do it for my kids as instinct, but when it came to my own needs, I had to learn to ask for, and sometimes even demand, what I need to live a quality life. Rather than relying on pain medications, I perused exercise, meditation, massage, and other lifestyle changes to keep me healthy.

So send some more positive thoughts, blessings and prayers my way over the next couple of weeks. I'll be filling a little bit of that time with my seasonal blogging adventures of course, but I do believe that every positive effort will help!

12 Days of Blogging: Christmas is almost here!

A couple of days ago, after being asked for about the millionth time if Christmas was tomorrow, I sat my five year old down with some red and green construction paper, scissors, and a glue stick  to make a paper chain. With palpable enthusiasm (I seriously don't know if he has any other kind) Suki cut the strips in alternating colors, glued them into circling links, and created the art project to save my sanity this holiday season.  Each night he tears off one of the links in the chain that takes us closer to Christmas with an enthusiastic (seriously, it's his go to emotion these days) declaration that "Christmas in almost here, Mom!" It is a paper chain miracle.

This holiday season I am determined to win the fight against the insane pressure to spend money on presents, decorations, food, gift cards, that elf on a shelf thing, ugly sweaters that are now trendy, when all I want is the delight of having young children who still experience each holiday season with fresh eyes, and of course, unbridled enthusiasm (like a little bronco, I'm telling you).

So far we've been successful. Decorating the tree was rediscovering each ornament and its history with awe. Baking gingerbread men with raisin eyes and candy buttons only to gobble them right up. Listening to Christmas carols with the hope that the next song will be Jingle Bells, Batman Smells. Making paper chains decorated with a bright tree and shining star that reminds me that each day closer to Christmas is a day to cherish my kids and the innocence of the season and the enthusiasm that shines so bright (it's pretty much blinding, in the best way possible.)

12 Days of Blogging: Two Stories

This week I started teaching a course new to me, a college level multicultural lit course for seniors in high school. One of the objectives of the course is for the students to understand a text from multiple perspectives other than their own. This is a challenge for students who simply by nature of their development are quite focused on their own story. 

On the first day of the course I asked each student to share a story of a defining moment in their life. Each one was unique, though we were able to see a common thread; that defining some aspect of ourselves is almost always done in relationship with another person who opens our eyes to something new.

Here is one of my moments that I chose to share in class that day. It is much more personal than what I typically share, but if I am asking my students to open themselves to new experiences, I need to make myself vulnerable as well. This version is a little different from the story I told in class, certainly more personal I would say, because the nature of stories is that they change overtime, with reflection and perspective. Here is today's version.

When we travelled to Ethiopia to pick up our baby son, Ian, I was on the precipice of motherhood, without really understanding the changes to my identity that were about to take place. I was filled with such overwhelming excitement, joy and anticipation, for this was something I had waited for a very long time. For weeks I had carried a grainy photo of a sad-eyed baby who was now in my arms warm and wriggly and wonderful.

The day after we met Ian for the first time, we had the opportunity to travel to meet his parents. During the long, dusty trip I clutched a notebook full of questions to ask, my thoughts with my baby back at the care center. Pulling into the courtyard of our meeting, I immediately recognized the mother of my son, as he bears her features, most strikingly in his eyes, and before we knew it, we were all ushered into a tiny room with an interpreter to begin.

But what was so very clear is that this beginning for John and me, was an ending for this couple before us. Grief washed over them, filling the room, drowning our silly questions and splashing us with the realization that our joy was their heartbreak. So we decided that the most appropriate action was to simply grieve with them. Now, the rest of this story lies with our son, of private conversation that belongs to him.

When I left that room, I had a more complete understanding of what it meant to be Ian's mom. And when we finally arrived back in Addis, I broke some major protocol, and literally raced through the dusk toward the care center, a weepy, dusty mess, unwilling to be turned away at the gate until I held my child close, carrying the love and grief of two mothers in my heart for him always.

What my defining moment was about is really the collision of two stories. And how when I understood that my own story of adoption was incomplete without realizing, accepting and embracing my child's Ethiopian story, the love, tragedy and heartbreak.

Two stories, now three, incomplete without the others, forever intertwined, full of the tragic, complicated, all encompassing love that is my identity as a mom to my two precious sons.

The Twelve Days of Blogging: On the First Day...

I am embarking an a writing project for the month of December. Join me here for my Twelve Days of Blogging posts, scattered throughout the holiday season, and catch up on what is going on here in my world of teaching, parenting, cooking, surviving, thriving, and living life.

This week marked the first week of a new trimester at school. One of my opening activities is to talk to each student one-on-one. I have them share their name, interests, and then they have a choice of asking me a question or I will ask them a question, which ends up about 50-50 with the asking and answering. Most of our questions and answers run from an overview of our favorite things into the silliness of superpowers, animal hybrid fighting machines, and hypothetical match-ups.

One of my favorite questions I received this week though was "What do you love about school?"

That was an easy question! I have always loved the first day of school, and really the first day of a new quarter/trimester/semester, having done them all. I love the anticipation of staring with fresh with a set of new supplies, the notebook full of possibilities, the challenge of learning names, revisiting hallowed texts with the promise of new insights, and even the satisfying exhaustion of the seating chart, syllabus, and stubborn students.

Everyone needs a fresh start sometimes, another first day. Sometimes it feels like we need one every hour of every day. Sometimes its hard to ask for the forgiveness and open mindedness that is often needed to move forward. Sometimes that exhaustion is not so satisfying and comes with a tension headache that makes the blank page an impossibility.

But when the page is turned, the expanse of space is ripe to be filled with hope, creativity and joy.
So here is to 31 first days of school, and to a fresh start of a new writing project, in the spirit of the season.

Tembleque (Puerto Rico)

Recently, the scourge of lactose intolerance has hit home, literally in our house, and within my extended family. Certainly not an uncommon condition, nor a dangerous one, thank goodness, but still one that requires a change in our daily eating habits. The intolerant are forced to become tolerant of less than tasty alterna-soy substitutes and passing on dishes with buttery, creamy deliciousness that the very soul wants to gobble up.

Really though, changing and substituting some ingredients has not been that difficult. In fact, it has actually been fun to experiment with new recipes and products. That's how this recipe for Tembleque, coconut pudding, was chosen. I wanted to find a dairy-free dessert, and with its base of coconut milk, it fit the requirements.

And let me say, this recipe is a game changer. It is creamy, with a smooth coconut flavor that grows with each bite. Topped with only a bit of cinnamon, it is absolutely delectable, and that is not an understatement. This dessert is going to live a long and happy existence in the belly of our family. I want to find other dairy free dishes like this one that make me want to lick the bottom of the bowl until I am blissed out in a pudding-drunk stupor.

But...It's not ice cream. It's never going to be ice cream. And while some of us want to bathe in a coconutty tub of Tembleque for eternity because, seriously, it's that delicious, when one's favorite food is ice cream, and has been for a very long time, the reality of letting it go is so very difficult.

Because it's really about the loss of a shared experience. Spontaneous trips to Dairy Queen might not be the same when one person is left with a lame-o slushy type drink. Our favorite homemade mac and cheese can't be replicated with whatever faux cheese substitute exists to torture the intolerant.  Eating a meal together, sharing the flavor and texture of foods that comfort and delight us all, cannot be substituted if one person is left out. And as such, this requires a change in our eating habits, as a family.

That doesn't mean the rest don't ever get ice cream again. The intolerants our family knows and loves are gracious and forgiving even as they watch a scoop of ice cream get added next to the birthday cake or raspberry pie.  And they smile wide as we all eat our coleslaw made with veganaise. Which is a real thing. I swear.

A Prayer for My Son and Black Boys Everywhere

Thank you for my precious boy, who was created perfectly, in your image, with a sharp mind, a tender heart and cinnamon skin.

Since I first held him in my heart, and then my arms, I have prayed for wisdom and strength, with gratitude and joy, to be the mother he needs, now and always.

Now I pray for his life, his future, his sense of purpose in this world that breeds injustice and intolerance even as you have taught us to love first, always first, and love most and love best.

Please enter the classroom where my son will sit on the edge of a chasm between himself and his white classmates that is filled with lowered expectations, higher rates of suspension, suspicion of cheating even as he is so articulate.

Turn the pages of his book, lift his ballpoint pen, build the connections in his mind despite the depths of that chasm, so he can prove himself over and over and over.

Hold in your hands the inferno of his curiosity so the pervasiveness of institutional racism does not extinguish his light.

Please walk alongside him in the store while he clutches his allowance in search of the perfect reward for a dollar earned, all the while tailed by suspicious security, a concerned cashier, a secret shopper.

Help him not to lose the lessons we have imparted in the excitement of his purchase.

                 Never touch merchandise you do not intend to buy.

                                Never wander aimlessly in a store.

                                                Always ask for a bag and a receipt, no matter how small the purchase.

Hold in your hands his carefree spirit that he must leave at the entrance to be ever alert, on guard, in control, until he can resume a relaxed posture, perhaps in the privacy of his home at least, and always in the arms of his family.

Please sit in the passenger seat when my son is pulled over for a burned out taillight, not using his turn signal, drifting too close to the center line, driving while black.

Speak the words ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ through his lips, even while spread eagle and cuffed, without hesitation, as if his life depended on it, which it does.

Hold in your hands the hurt, the anger, the attitude, the humiliation, the questions, until he is among his own, who will be ready to hear it and bear it, every time it happened.

Please keep my son alive.

Please keep my son safe and healthy.

Please keep my son motivated, passionate, and loving…

                …even when he has every right not to be.

Please hold my son in your hands, along with every other black boy who sits in that classroom, walks into that store, and drives down that street.