Worthless Wednesday

Arachibutyrophobia --- the fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth

Yep. Any sufferers?

I mentioned to my mom that I would probably do a Wordless Wednessday post today. She heard "Worthless Wednesday". I ran with it.

Raw

Today begins week three of the 21 day cleanse I'm doing. I decided that in order to be ready to be mama to four children under the age of 8, it might be a good idea to throw a little self-care in along with figuring out laundry systems and menu planning. It is good and relatively easy for a cleanse of this nature. Raw, liquid meals for breakfast and dinner, with a solid (but very clean) lunchtime meal.

The combination of doing the cleanse and passing court has been an interesting one. For one thing, I'm sleeping. I am a chronic insomiac, have been my whole life. I generally spend between 1 and 3 hours every night awake. It rarely stresses me out and I rarely put it to good use. It is hard to separate to which events I owe this sleep, but I'm thankful to have it.

Another side effect of cleansing is that along with clearing the physical body, it clears the emotional stuff too. Everything gets stirred up, brought to the surface. You are invariably more thin skinned and raw yourself. Which means I have been weepy, joyful, and awed by how blessed my life is. And irritable and grumpy. But I haven't been filled with the anxiety that had been hanging over me, a low-lying fog of helplessness and restlessness.


I have been thinking for a long time on a world in which Erik and I have the honor of parenting, loving, growing with a child that was not born to us. Moving last week from the abstract to the legal weighs on me heavily. How much I owe Yonas' Ethiopian family. How much I owe Ethiopia. How much I love this child that I've yet to meet.


Becoming raw to the emotions of the adoption process (especially a transracial one) is painful. It toothpick-opens your eyes simultaneously to some of the most beautiful and ugly aspects of humanity.


May I forever remain thin-skinned.

Candy Is Good

Safa was the requisite fairy. Eden was a peacock. Ava was...well, we don't know exactly what Ava was, but we know she looked cool. Some kind of Eastern European folk dancer perhaps? We found her costume at Saver's (for you out-of-towners, it's a mega-thrift store). I told her when someone asked, she should say, "What do you think I am?". I told Erik we should give her a bottle of vodka to carry around. (We didn't.)

In a spin-off of the mid-90's Shoes For Guns program, we gave them the opportunity to trade most of their candy in for a trip to Terra Toys. I'm happy to say it was a success. No more endless candy negotiations at 6:30 in the morning. No more eating a KitKat from someone's stash then remembering it's not worth it because I am a chocolate snob.

Candy is good. But toys are better.

In Your Face Mensa

We have this weird game we play at our house. It began about a year ago and was born out of a conversation Ava and I had in which we were comparing what color each day of the week is. You know, Wednesday is green, etc. We thought of five of the seven days as the same color. This game has morphed into such ridiculousness as this:

"What is Monday plus book?" said Eden.
"Library." I said. (I mean, c'mon, give me a hard one.)
"Nope."
"Orange?" Erik asked.
"Nooooo."
"Wednesday?" I said.
"Banana tree?"
"Peacock?"
"N0!"
"Beaver." Eden said.

Damn it.
I should have gotten that one.

I'm In

This is NaBloPoMo. 30 posts in 30 days for the month of November. I heard about such craziness last year. I promise to not resort to recounting what I packed the girls for lunch...

Yonas Hailu Romberg

I sit here stunned, blessed, trying to find the words to convey the emotions and the meaning of this day. The sleepless nights, the anxiety, the ache I feel for him in the deep night...

all eased by the light that now shines at the end of this tunnel that has been so dark at times, so much harder than I imagined when we began this journey...

He is my son.

Building a Tribe

I have not stated here, but should, that our original October 9th court date has been pushed to October 26th. I guess the good thing about experiencing multiple delays lasting months is that a couple of weeks isn't the end of the world. The delays over the summer were made bearable in large part due to Sarah, whom I've mentioned before. She and her husband have three children in the same orphanage Yonas is in and are still waiting on a court date. (Soon Sarah, soon!!)

I have felt grateful for her presence in my life, this woman so many miles away, this woman I know only through the magic of the internet. So many times a moment has passed and I think of Sarah moving through her day, missing her children, wondering how they are, as I miss Yonas and wonder how he is. And this: our children are sharing a home. They know each other.

And so Sarah and I have been on a quest for months trying to find others with children in the Bethel Orphanage in Nazret. And until last week our efforts were futile. But there are more. And we have found each other. And it feels like the most beautiful, amazing, important thing. Our children know each other. They are playing and eating and sleeping together before any of us have even met them. They are living together. They are sharing what we cannot yet share with them right now as I type these words. And now we, their parents, have found each other. And we can lift each other up and make each other smile and plan for a time when we can all come together as a giant family for our children who once upon a time shared a life together before we ever knew them.

The Romberg Family Creed

We gathered around the table to have a discussion about what we wanted our family to be, to stand for, who we wanted to be as a group and as individuals as we make our way on this crazy journey together. We talked. We listened. I wrote it all down:

"Be nice."
"Talk kindly."
"Say you are sorry."
"Don't grab."
"Be respectful."
"Ask instead of tell."
"Share."
"Help each other."
"Don't yell."
"Have fun."

Then we compiled our list and I wrote it on the wall at the end of the hall.






Once I was walking down the hall and felt like continuing out the door. It didn't seem peace-making or respectful. So I stayed. After all, we shook on it.

Blocked

It's been two months since I've posted here. I've tried and failed posting a video a couple of times, but beyond that I've felt relatively uninspired. And herein lies the rub. I know better than to wait for inspiration. I know that motherhood, with all its sweetness and tedium, all its beauty and need, will suck me in and pull down into a place I find difficult to climb my way out of if I'm not careful. But here I am again. It's been months since I've written any fiction beyond a page or so. Even longer that my hands have created anything that wasn't edible. And so I'm sinking.

I'm accutely aware of Yonas' impending arrival, that I'd better get my ass in gear and figure this out before we bring him home. And so my gut is in pain, my breath short, my body in a perpetual state of panic. In short, I'm a mess.

The problem is that the balance I seek is one that must be perpetually sought if you are a woman. The balance of self-care over caring for others. We are by nature and by nuture, caregivers. I have long felt that a huge part of my path in this life is to learn to make peace with and find space for my maternal and creative selves. I believe they can not only co-exist, but inform and buoy each other. But I also know that for that to happen, one must fight the good fight of finding time for self, time for silence and solitude, and for me, time to create. And it's not happening. And there is no blaming children or laundry, or lack of time. There is only me looking back at myself wondering how long I'm going to let this continue before I do something about it. I've been a mother for alomost eight years. It's not like I haven't had this conversation before. But this is a conversation that needs repeating, that must be screamed, that never goes away.

I don't know what the answer is for me right now. I know it starts with loving myself enough to take the time to figure it out. I think it might end with a metaphorical swift kick to the ass.

But I Miss Him

We found out on Tuesday afternoon that we will not make it through Ethiopian court before closure. This means that our court date will be sometime in mid-October (hopefully). This means that we will not hold our boy until December (hopefully). He will be 19 months old in December.

I do not presume to know the workings of the universe. I do not presume to question the intelligence of the way our lives unfold. I implicitly trust that these delays have a deeper meaning for any one or all of us that are on this path of getting Yonas home. But I miss him.

Maybe Yonas needs more time in Ethiopia. Needs more time to absorb in his cells the beautiful country of his birth. When we finally pass court, Yonas will move from the place he's called home for almost his whole life, to an agency run care center. Sometimes nannies will go with the children, but in Yonas' case this is unlikely. Maybe he needs more time at Bethel orphanage to be with the nannies that have loved him from babyhood into toddlerhood. I even thought maybe his nanny needs him for a bit longer.

Maybe Safa needs more time with me before adding a brother to the mix. Maybe Erik and I need a bit more time before we begin this next journey that will undoubtedly be challenging, this journey to help a toddler heal his heart and trust that we are his final stop.

And finally, and maybe most importantly, it will bring us to number five, or as Erik and I call him/her--Five. This delay will bring us to the next child that is meant for our family in the same way that everything unfolded to bring us to Yonas.

I believe and trust and surrender. But I miss him.