The Two Best Pieces of Advice I Have For Traveling Home

I have written about very little of our time in Ethiopia. I hope someday I find the wherewithal to do it. But until then I will write this. A dear friend is leaving soon for her first trip where she and her husband will meet their sons for the first time and I started thinking about our trip home with Yonas. He was 21 months old, scared and pissed off. Here are my best two tips for surviving the trip home with a screaming baby or toddler.

1. Graciously accept every single glass of wine that is offered to you. I'm not trying to be cute. I didn't have any alcohol on the way and it wasn't until I was on the verge of prying open the door of the plane and jumping out on the way home that I did. You'll have paid a load of money for your tickets. Let the wine help you care about the screaming a little less.

2. Yonas screamed a lot. And he was (and is) very loud. (When kids who were with Yonas in the orphanage talk about him, the first thing they talk about is how LOUD he was and how much he cried.) Grab your screaming mess of a child and get yourself into that tiny bathroom. Screw the line. Screw the seat belt rules. Screw 15 minutes passing. We played in the water. Or the soap. We flushed the toilet. We watched ourselves cry in the mirror. And when none of that worked he screamed in that tiny place that felt far removed from judgement and embarrassment. Airplane bathrooms have an insulated, cushioned quality. The hum of the plane will make you less concerned about disturbing other passengers and may even comfort your terrified tot. It's like a crappy noise machine. But there were times when all I had to do was walk into the bathroom and he calmed down. I stayed for as long as I needed to.

These two tips in combination helped us survive the trip home. May it help you too!

Mindful Monday: 'Opia

This past week, the week we officially began homeschooling, coincided with Yonas getting sick for the first time since he's been home. Just you're average cold, nothing too awful. But man, oh man, it triggered something in my boy. He regressed to where we were at about the two-months-home mark. A screaming, tantruming, rabid mess. He started using Amharic words he hasn't used in four months. Milder, less alarming versions of his previous food issues emerged, he wanted to be carried everywhere, sucked his thumb more, hit me, slammed my finger in a drawer on purpose.

He also started talking about Ethiopia, " 'Opia" a lot more.

On Friday it rained for the first time all August, it was a gray, cloudy day. While Yonas had lunch and the girls were off playing, we had this conversation:

"Baby cry 'Opia"
"A baby cried in Ethiopia?"
"Yeah, baby Ula cry 'Opia."
"Baby Ula cried in Ethiopia?"
"Yeah. Baby Ula sad. Baby Ula hurt."
"The baby cried. The baby got hurt. Did Yonas cry in Ethiopia?"
"Yeah."

After lunch I sat down with him and we looked at the pictures of when he lived in Ethiopia. We looked at his friends, the women who cared for him. He didn't seem particularly sad or affected, just happy to see pictures of himself.

I was so overwhelmed in the moment, thinking about how much of his life I won't ever know. He has a couple of scars I don't know the source of, visible reminders of the life he lived before he came to us. But it's all the internal scars, all the pain and grief, all the physical and emotional hunger that I can't ever know that I try to honor but sometimes lose in the face of daily living. His presence seems so natural now, such a given, so right, that it can be hard to keep his losses in the forefront of my mind.

Perhaps being sick shook loose some cellular memories he needed to exorcise. Or maybe he was feeling secure enough to let loose more of the pain. Whatever was happening I found myself struggling not to regress with him back to the pain and fear of when we first got home. It's tricky business, this attachment stuff. We let go, surrender just enough to trust each other so that we can fall in love a little more, then hang on for the unpredictable ride that love unleashes.

I try, I do, to stay open to his heart, to the hearts of all my children. Sometimes I get it so wrong it keeps me awake at night. But occasionally there are moments when I let go of my "shoulds" and give myself space to see what they are really after. What they really need. Sometimes I can actually give it to them. And sometimes all I can do is sit with the awareness of where we both are and it has to be enough because in the moment I can't get any closer.

My practice for mindfulness in parenting, in my life, is to get closer to being with my children and myself wherever we are at any given moment. Whether they are slamming my finger in a drawer or pulling me close and whispering, "Luf you, Mama" in my ear.

Six Months Home

Yonas has been home six months today. When I look back at how far we've all come as individuals, as a family, I am amazed. And proud. I will not write a long post today, nor will we celebrate in an external way. But I will celebrate quietly and internally. Today I celebrate:

Ava, and her ability to help and love and tolerate Yonas. Her siblings adore and idolize her with good reason. She is a demi-god.

Eden, who is often better at re-directing his behavior and extinguishing potential fires than I.

Safa, whose ability to forgive and grant him love and affection when he's been awful to her puts me to shame.

Erik, for his support and strength, his humor and battlefield camaraderie. He has been an anchor for me when I felt adrift.

I celebrate myself for digging deep, being honest, asking for help and coming out the other side to find myself six months later celebrating and loving my son. I celebrate myself for knowing I still have a lot of work to do.

I celebrate Yonas for the boy he was when we met him, the boy he is now, and the boy he is becoming. Yonas feels a home-ness here now. The amount of trust and release and surrender it took on his part to get where we are now is not lost on me. It is humbling and beautiful and heartbreaking. A deep bow of respect to you my son.

May the next six months bring more healing, laughter, and peace and bring us round to celebrating a year together as a family of six.

Silent

As I was changing Yonas' diaper to get him ready for bed, I saw his face look up at mine and I was stopped in my tracks. My heart on pause, my eyes on his. I felt such a profound sense of loss for his Ethiopian parents. They don't get to change his diaper. Or get chatted up about how funny the dog is. They don't get to see his goofy faces, feel his sweet kisses, watch his life expand and unfold. I felt like I could weep. And I felt angry. Angry at a world where children and parents don't always stay together. And a weirder, shameful anger, one that is hard to explain, but mama-bear anger on behalf of my son for the Ethiopian parents that did the hardest thing anyone could do and made a choice for the life of their child, one that I will never have to face, but still it is there.

When we were Ethiopia we drove through Yonas' village. The one he would have grown up in. We saw the field he would have played soccer in; dusty, happy boys running free in the sun. I often think of what Yonas' life would have been like if he'd been able to stay in his village. These "what-ifs" don't serve much purpose I think. Or maybe they do, if they keep us remembering what our children have lost.

As much as I believe Yonas is where he is meant to be, as much as I believe every child deserves a family, as much as I believe he will have opportunity here that he wouldn't have had in Ethiopia, I can't escape what he has lost. What Ethiopia has lost. What two parents have lost. This lovely, chaotic boy that is so full of love he can't contain it sometimes. This lovely, chaotic boy that I claim, that claims me.

At the good-bye ceremony in Ethiopia, the children that were leaving with their families were dressed in traditional Ethiopian clothing. Yonas was subdued and wide-eyed. The children that were staying cried for the friends, brother and sisters really, that were leaving. They chanted the names of each child that was going home. Each family was asked to speak, to put into words what they were feeling. Erik and I were the only ones that didn't. I waited for the transfer to be made, from nanny's arms to mine, I looked around the sea of Ethiopian faces, my time spent there burying itself into the deepest places of who I am, and all I could think was: he's losing so much.

They chanted his name, those resilient unforgettable souls, they chanted for their brother, and I couldn't say a word.