A Flier, and a Fear

Life has a way of imitating life. On a recent family adventure I opted in though I had said I never would and suspended hundreds of feet in the air my fears were pretty plain to all. Grey, on the other hand...Indomitable and extreme athlete in all arenas already at age 1.5 rejoiced. I am sure he believed that he had willed us to our present height by his own desire. As soon as the flier (the highest in the world) came into view, still several blocks away, he began begging in languages none of us speak, but all of us understand that he wanted it, and badly. Gratified by our willing obedience we relented and put ourselves into the hands of technology and God, and climbed the skies.

 Myself, feeling quite human, could not resist the urge to ponder the thrilling principles of Gravity and so I clung to the bench in the middle, knowing that leaning out over the glass walls could speed those timeless principles of falling, if only slightly. But Grey, true to his word (loosely translated) adored everything, even the rubber seal around those glass walls was inspected and pulled away by him.

The ocean he squealed about, the cars he begged to hold, the sky itself he gloried in even as more and more of it separated us from the earth he prostrates himself upon many times a day.  Trying to get closer to the drama and thrill of the heights he laid down and scooted himself into the wall of glass, so no part of him was on the opaque portion of the floor; that portion that was so dear to my sanity. 

I and my doctrine of Gravity sat in the middle or squatted (we learn this in Asia or die of shame) with an outstretched hand clinging to his shirt. Silly, but every fiber of my being told me I had to, my grasp might be his only salvation. I clung. Thanks to those engineers and maintenance staff oiling the cogs and replacing the screws, Gravity never intervened and we survived. As we again stepped on to the beautiful, but admittedly less grandiose tourist scenes like Popeyes, Subway and McDonalds, I breathed and gave myself a 5 for participation.

And then my mind, able now to function, thought of the Flier that is life with teenagers. Lofty conversations, grandiose ideas, amazing potential, near falling from great heights and oh the heights! While we pray they can defy gravity, beg that the earth remain stable and for the cogs in the wheel to remain true.  And often, I sit in the middle, fear of what might be and grasp at their shirt tails, thinking my hand might be the only one to catch them when it all implodes. And confident my hand can keep them. 

Hmmm... but underneath I want the faith to let go, stand up against that glass wall with them, and peer at the majesty, Remark on the beauty and revel in the experience of defying gravity. Grey's right, The sky is even more amazing from these reckless heights, I just need the heart to savor it.  And you know, those two teenagers, and one who thinks he is, are pretty fun when I stop clinging and let them walk upright.

A child who's lost her faith

I always search the ground for those things that will make me stumble, the hand never caught me
I never look at the sky in the swing, for the one time I did the arms did not comfort.
I never ask for food, I anticipate with fear that you will say no to my complaint of hunger, my newborn cries shushed instead of fed.
I cannot trust you when you help with home work, I taught myself how to talk, how to walk, how to crawl...you were not there. I'm not sure you understand 2+2.
I am in constant fear of falling off a chair, one foot always on the ground, my only attachment was a string tied around my leg and knotted to the crib.
I sleep with eyes open, the dark has not been peppered with gentle late-night kisses, and one more tucking-in.
I trip, because concerned about behind me, I look over my shoulder constantly. You have not always had my back.
I cannot listen to the words you read, so much of the rest of this might fade away, I hold on with clenched fists to the moments, I miss the story.
I weep at the sight of a doctor, I faced so many all alone.
I speak of friends and their jibes and habits with obsession. Someday I will be like them, carefree.
I panic when you walk away, for five long years they walked away and never came back.
I play, but frantically, as if it's the thing I must do, the way back to joy.

I read the book, There are no Children Here by Alex Kotlowitz, a classic social study on American inner-city growing up and I've spent hours in orphanages, numbed to the fact that the children are primarily, profoundly silent. But my son asked after returning to Amelia's orphanage one summer, why the room full of 3-5 year old boys and girls couldn't speak and I had to say, I guess they have no one to teach them to talk and play and run and smile. Who knew it had to be taught?

As we try to regrow childlike trust in life, and see this modeled in Grey's wild, exuberant play, I find myself frustrated, wondering how long it takes to get back a childhood? 

Amelia balancing with friends, Eden and Gabe

I am Boy

My sister likes pretty dresses and fluffy flowers and bright candy. That's nice...
But I love digging deep into the earth with my toe and feeling the rough dirt clinging to my toes,
The zmmmmzmmmmm music of weed eaters, and sawing, and drilling,
The schschsch flash of the street cleaners brush left too low and sparking as it passes,
The arf arf of the dog whose owner can't get him to stand still,
The hum and majesty buildings at the wharf sliding along streets of metal,
And the clang, bang, crash of the metal crate as it dangles in the air, a little toy box and crashes into place with a thousand others,
The puff of hot coming out of large, loud trucks as they whir by,
And the brbrbrbrbrbr of the motorcycles whizzing through the lanes.
I love
The tickle of a dozen ants as I squish them in my hands,
The slime of lotion all over my tummy,
The goo of yogurt as it drips down my chin,
The Ssss Sssss of the sidewalk sweeper.
The taste of insect repellent, fake leather, vitamin capsules and foam,
The crane and excavator and buildings being born and buildings being torn.
It's so fun to see
The shock on mom's face as I chuck a large book at her her, and hear
The roars of laughter when I wipe my food on the wall.
The shout of surprise when I scale new heights, or burrow into new holes.
I live for
The feel of almost-dying when I climb up on the shoe cabinet to jump into the couch,
The thrill of the fall when I dive off the back of the chair,
And even the ouch of pain when my head hits harder than I intended,
The way every different object falls so differently when thrown off the eleventh floor
And the way my sister objects when she has to go retrieve her socks or shoes...again.
The echo of my loudness as it catapults around the room,
And the people who come running to see what all the ruckus is.
You may call me crazy, wild, hyper, urban, gross, in-poor-taste or dirty.
But mostly I am Boy.

Inspired by Grey and recently watched documentary, Raising Cain

Cooking Wherever

I was born for cooking with internet. I've long ago dumped recipe books as no sooner do I find a beautiful recipe than I also discover that I do not have, do not know the name in the local language, or do not want to go through the trouble to find one of the main ingredients.  Don't get me wrong, I've never gone completely local and have trekked to find butter or cream or local honey on occasion, but really I am perfectly happy with how I can cook with a web device in my hands. Search millet, goat cheese, raisins, pork and I'm sure to find a recipe that calls for all 4 and claims to be gourmet (yeah, my kids never buy that, but...).  Search for Amaranth flour, cocoa, coconut, vanilla and Iwith a 'm sure to find an amazing, healthy breakfast bar.
And now with my husband on this radical diet, completely avoiding sugars and most complex carbs I can still search the limited ingredients available: goat cheese, chicken, spinach, garlic, quinoa, lemon and be sure someone out there has also been dieting and finding goat cheese for an unheard of 2 dollars a roll and fixating a bit...and blogging about it.
In the wake of my daughter becoming a teenager and now living with two of them, as well as a tween, an 8 yr. old and a 1 yr. old I was thinking about the mixture of ways family is made, and the personalities that are dumped together and expected to survive--and even to sharpen each other and realized family recipes are for the birds. I'm actually not sure if the internet helps either. I haven't searched for 1 fastidious 14 year old with a desire to succeed that dogs him constantly; 1 13 yr old book worm who loves doing her nails, eating lemons and (who knew) playing soccer in the mud; 1 extremely energetic 10 yr old who loves guns, speed, friends, and playing badminton, biking, hide and seek, or swimming especially when the sun has already gone down; 1 8 yr old from China who loves pretty clothes, pretty shoes, pretty hair, pretty bracelets, pretty cakes, friends, school, and making sure she knows where mom is all the time; and 1 1 yr old who has already shorted our house when he caused an electric fire, jumped out of his crib, summersaulted into his crib, fell 4 feet to his head trying to keep up with sister on the playground,  runs everywhere and will gnaw on a piece of celery for an hour.  But I'm pretty sure I wouldn't find that exact mix and I'd be stuck trying to figure out how to parent these kids on another's contagiously emphatic success plan.
And so I try not to search for plans, and instead pray, hope, laugh, and beg and know that today is the best day I have with these amazing souls and tomorrow they will be different, with different wants, needs, longings, hurts and victories. And today pray that the hope will someday be realized. Even better than a good recipe, I hope for adults that stand tall in the confidence of who they are, what they believe and where they are headed. Someday.

Monday Everyday

orphan fact sheet

In orphanages it's Monday Everyday.
Those who believe international or interracial adoption is a form of cultural genocide have never seen inside orphanages; have never shown up unannounced, without an entourage of officials and cameras and bags of crackers and milk. I wonder how orphanages they've seen instill culture, and if that culture has anything to do with the culture of the birth country?

I've learned about special needs, how to feed multiple babies quickly, how to clean it up, diaper them, wipe their faces, lay them down for a nap and begin with the feeding and hygiene rituals all over again in another room. I've learned that coloring is messy and the mobile kids steal crayons, so they can't be left behind for poor Ling to color when I've left. I've learned that gifts disappear when I leave, and so does the holiday celebration.  I've learned that the caregivers are too tired to sing traditional songs and teach traditional dances, that no one has a budget for party dresses and hair bows. Culture rarely happens over shift work.

I've learned firsthand from my little orphan, who is one no more, how little she knew about her beautiful land, and rich culture. She knew nothing of Chinese New Year or Dragon Boat Festival or when she should eat dumplings, or our favorite date-filled zongzi 粽子.  She had not tasted the most famous dish from her hometown, Yangzhou chao fan 扬州炒饭 (fried rice).

She did know how to queue, and lay still while being tied to a crib, that it was easiest to be fed from a spoon, and not to feed herself, that she shouldn't make messes...

Culture is a part of the family. It is a mother and father who care about the next generation who instill culture, who celebrate achievements and who take a moment out of life to talk about the meaning behind a day. Culture is the collective memory of a group of people celebrating life and hope.

There are amazing foster homes where life is celebrated, like Little Flower, Star Fish Foster Home, New Day Foster Home, Blue Sky Healing Home, and many others...but for so many an orphanage is just like a school. Only the goal is not learning and nurturing minds and molding hearts, but surviving. And survival is all that gets done. Please check out this movie about all those who are still Stuck and how you can work to help. To help give a child culture, whether it is yours or their own. To help make less Mondays for more orphans.

See Current International Policy for insight into policies that are curbing international adoptions around the world

It's so not Northern China!

Little Number 4 at a beach in Indonesia

We have experienced a lot since the last post. And I even forgot how to blog, where my blog was and who follows it. But I've been inspired to begin again. A different part of the planet, a different lifestyle and a different family. Beginning again.
For starters, we live in Singapore, and contrary to what the check-in lady at DIA believes, Singapore is not part of China. The Chinese here want to make that clear. The country is off the southern tip of Malaysia, a long ways from China and 1 degree north of the equator. Living here is breathtaking and stifling in many ways.
I have learned to deal with hordes of ants creeping their way across my floor, become grateful for the gecko I know is lurking behind a picture frame and waiting for me to leave so he can eat the ants. I have learned to live with constant rain and ensuing mould. I have learned (most importantly) to add u to many words, see 'mould'.
I have lived through the longest drought in Singapore since the mid 1800's and prayed for rain. I'm done praying now.
I have wondered with the taxi drivers and neighbors where in the world MH370 went and considered that people living somewhere down the street were in that plane and are not found.
I have learned to live very far from home. No more of those neat and clean 12 hour flights to Chicago, no. Now it is a 2-day affair to get home. I have learned to call Singapore, 'home'...much like 600,000 other expats in a city-country overrun with foreigners like me.  I have learned to live around white people again, and even learned to understand the Chinese around here, well sometimes, some dialects. The pinyin still bothers me, and the characters confound me.
I have learned how to take kids to the beach and how to have a swimming pool at my disposal. I have learned how to stop and smell the flowers and other amazing scents in the forest behind my house. I've learned to pay exorbitant rent prices and not gulp for air every time. I've learned how to keep things from moulding, but not before I lost a leather purse that I kind of liked and a few other bags and blankets. I've learned babysitters are much more expensive than a full-time maid, so I've learned to train a maid.  That is harder than it sounds...we spent some months in utter frustration and confusion, as I'm sure she did too. It's working now though, and I have time to blog again!
We also gave birth to a baby. A family long past baby things, and baby sounds, and baby nights welcomed a baby almost one year ago and he has been good. He has helped us to experience a kinder side of living and taken the edge off our days and shaved some of the sleep off our nights. But he is good. His joy is unstoppable, his adoration unending, and his zeal unquenchable.  Here are a few fun pics from life in the (almost) Southern hemisphere.

Little Number 5

Marina Bay Sands, the iconic Singapore resort

Colin loves to explore the jungle in our backyard

An intense sensory experience everywhere I look