Born in Our Hearts

Suspiciously Silent

2012-02-09T08:00:00.000-05:00

Yesterday my dogs were suspiciously silent. If you are a parent or a pet owner you know that this can only mean one thing: trouble.

Because dogs are just like children when it comes to committing the naughtiest of acts. They become all stealthy and sly. The dogs that never shut up, the kids who never stop talking all become taciturn when they're up to no good.

For my dogs, this usually means they are doing one of the following:

1) Eating someone's underwear.

2) Pulling dirty tissues from the wastebasket in the bathroom.

3) Eating the furniture.

4) Peeing or pooping indoors.

5) Eating Polly Pockets.

6) Jumping on the kitchen counters to pull down some tasty morsel.

Today Sophie and Brady were merrily playing tug of war with one of Becky's lacy bras.

Which got me thinking about the times when my two girls have been suspiciously quiet. Believe me, during those times the silence is almost deafening because I am blessed with loquacious daughters who never, ever, stop talking. Because for good chunks of their lives they've sort of been "only children" due to the large age difference between them, they are especially good at entertaining themselves, which translates to talking to themselves, putting on shows, and singing and dancing loudly. They're also both night owls, and that means the talking, and the questions, and the singing, and the dancing go on all. night. long.

So, I'm devoting this blog post to my girls' top 5 suspiciously silent moments.

1. The Glitter.

Back when Becky was about 4 and I was newly divorced, we moved into a tiny one bedroom apartment. Becky got the one very large bedroom. I slept on the couch in the living room. Because I'm a great, self-sacrificing mom, of course.

Our apartment, while nothing to write home about, was clean, freshly painted, and had newly refinished hardwood floors. One day, my friend Nancy was over with her daughter, who was the same age as Becky--and incidentally also adopted from the Philippines. We were chatting away and sipping tea in the living room while the girls played in Becky's bedroom nearby. The din of their girlish, sing-song chatter acted as a sort of background white noise as we talked and sipped away at our Early Grey.

When suddenly it became strikingly apparent that the girls were quiet. Too quiet. We knew immediately things had to be very, very wrong in that room.

We approached on tip-toes in our stocking feet, and as we rounded the corner of the doorway, we saw Becky happily smearing Elmer's Glue all over the floor while her friend delightedly sprinkled glitter from an industrial sized jar on top of it. Remember, I was a kindergarten teacher at the time; glitter was like my right arm. A must have. Without it I would have been lost as an early childhood educator. Thing is, I just didn't necessarily want my daughter to be glittering her entire floor with it.

2. The Razor.

I have a very primitive, country approach to decorating my home. It has always been filled with dried flower arrangements and other little items that my mother swore to me when I adopted Becky would have to be put away. Undaunted, I said to her, "She's not going to touch any of this. I'm going to raise her not to."

Fast forward about 6 or 7 years later. My mother, in a phone conversation, happened to say to me, "You know, I always thought you would never be able to keep all that stuff out around your house, but Becky really never does get into anything. It's amazing."

No sooner had those words left her mouth than I heard a blood curdling howl coming from the bathroom. I ran in to find Becky with blood pouring from her mouth.

Me: "What on earth happened?"

Becky: "I was trying to get this dot (a pen mark no larger than a small freckle) off my lip"

Me: "What? What the hell did you use? A razor?" (For the record, I was being facetious about the razor).

Becky (bursting into tears): "Yes! I did! I used Bob's razor."

And when the blood was wiped away, there were two perfectly parallel slices in her upper lip. Gotta hand it to those dual blade razors. They do provide a close shave.

So much for "not getting into things."

3. The Crouton Breakfast.

A few years ago, Lily had been getting up at exactly 2:11 a.m. every morning and trying to worm her way into my bed. I could set my watch to the child's movements. I probably would have let her join us--she's a snugly warm little thing--except for the fact that Lily sleeps horizontally. Which means her feet are located somewhere around my lower abdomen or back. Then there's the matter of movement. As in...Lily. Never. Stays. Still. I have never encountered anyone who fluttered kicked so much in her sleep as my daughter. You'd think she were swimming the English Channel. She did this when she slept with us in the hotel in Thailand, so it's not a new thing. The kid just likes to move.

Because I would never have slept if Lily stayed, I ended up taking her back to her bed and snuggling with her for a bit until she fell back to sleep. For whatever reason this nightly ritual had no effect on her. She rose with the sun each day with a spring in her step and a smile on her face. The same could not be said for her mother. I was not smiling. I was not springing at dawn. Which is why I had been sleeping until about 8:00-8:30 on the average weekend.

One day I got up about 8:30 and staggered into the bathroom. On my heels came Lily, who had been so quiet, I had not even noticed she had awakened and had apparently been wandering around the house. She leaned over and gave me a big kiss. That's when I smelled the pungent odor of garlic on her breath. It was very strong.

"What on earth have you been eating?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said, clearly lying.

"Lily?" I questioned, "What have you been eating?"

"Croutons," she said.

"What???? You've been eating croutons? What would make you want to eat croutons for breakfast?"

"Well, mother," she replied. "If you are not going to feed me, I have to find something to eat, don't I?"

Ouch!

4. The Cheerios

When Lily was about 18 months old, she longed for what most toddlers confined to a crib want. She yearned for freedom. And so, in her quest for independence, she began escaping from her the bars that held her back. She'd only performed this stunt a time or two, so we hadn't switched over to her toddler bed quite yet. Instead we installed very tricky, child proof gates so, at least if she left the crib, she would surely not leave the room.

One Saturday morning, I arose, not to the usual babbling of my little one, but to utter silence. Fearing she had fallen out of her bed and gotten hurt, I raced to Lily's room and unlatched the "childproof gate." Alas, no child.

I frantically ran downstairs calling her name. No response.

Panicking, I began searching the house high and low wondering where on earth she could be and praying she was not injured.

And that's when I found her. Hiding behind the couch with an entire box of Cheerios--that had previously been located in a cabinet about 5 and a half feet off the floor--happily shoving fist fulls in her mouth.

The Evidence

So much for that child proof gate.

5. The Powder

You know that scene in Scarface? You know the one? The one where Al Pacino is sitting at his desk literally covered in white powder?

Well...

I hate to draw comparisons between a six year old's bedroom and a scene in a movie about a drug kingpin, back when this incident happened my mind was drawing a blank as to what the heck else to compare it to.

Let me take you back to another "Lily quietly playing in her bedroom" moment.

Once upon a time we had at least a half full container of baby powder. The big Johnson & Johnson pink and blue kind. But one day when I went to find it to dust Lily after her bath, it was missing from the bathroom. I asked the little one where the talc might be, and she readily confessed that it was in her bedroom. The one she'd been silently playing in only hours earlier.

I went to retrieve it. Oddly enough, the powder container was now empty and Lily's room had taken on a suspicious and highly strong odor of Eau de Baby's Bottom. I asked her about it.

"Oh," she said innocently (because Lily always says everything innocently) "I used some before I got dressed so I would smell pretty."

Can't argue with a girl who wants to smell her best, now can you? So, I didn't.

The next day I vacuumed her room thoroughly just to make sure the stuff wasn't all embedded in the carpet. Still, the fact that that jar of powder had been 1/2 full one day and empty the next nagged at me though I could find no evidence of where the contents could have possibly gone.

No evidence that is until the next day when I was frantically trying to find a pair of Lily's black ballet flats. Which in and of itself is stupid, because Lily owns enough shoes to make Imelda Marcos green with envy. But, there I was getting myself pretty worked up because I could not find these particular shoes and insinuating that Lily might be a tad irresponsible about putting her things away.

If you read this blog with any regularity, you probably know from previous posts, I have a habit of sniffing out the source of a whole host of things...from dog pee pee to decaying vegetation. So crawling around on the floor is nothing new to me.

And this is exactly what I was doing as I searched for Lily's shoes inside the pink princess tent in her bedroom. As I opened the flap I was hit by an odor that could only be likened to what a giant nursery containing something like 12,997 freshly washed babies might smell like. Sure, it was a lovely scent...but it was an overpowering aroma. I nearly had an asthma attack. Because there, on the floor of her tent was at least 3/4 of the contents of what remained of the baby powder. It. Was. Everywhere. Her American Girl Doll, Josephina's, jet black hair had turned cottony white. The Bitty Twins? They looked like they had survived a nuclear winter, covered with with all that grayish ashy fallout. I had to back out quickly so as not to aspirate that stuff into my lungs and pass out right on the spot. Clearly, the dolls themselves must have expired from the dust, because they just lay there stiff as boards.

"Um, what were you thinking?" I asked Lily.

"I wanted my tent to smell nice," she responded...again all sweetness and light.

After the discovery, we had a little chat about using baby powder or any other substance found in a bathroom without Mommy's express consent and/or supervision. 'Cause there just maybe might have been a previous incident involving Lily Chapsticking her entire face with mango-tango lip balm some time ago during another "very quiet" moment.

I really thought she got the point this time.

Or maybe not.

You see, after her bath that night, I ushered Lily into her room to engage in our nightly ritual of story reading, prayers, singing, and snuggles. There I caught sight of "Marsha," Lily's grey manatee, who sits atop a large basketful of stuffed animals. Marsha's silvery coat was looking decidedly less manatee-like.

I picked her up and gave her a little tap. At which time, enormous, cumulonimbus type clouds of powder wafted heavenward. Marsha--which I think you have to admit is a pretty fantabulous name for a manatee--was utterly and completely covered in powder. Even after several good smacks, I could not get all the talcum off Marsha, though I did manage to self-induce a coughing fit that nearly required resuscitation efforts.

"Well," said Lily in her own defense, "She was starting to smell."

As I went to put Marsha back atop the pile, I noticed...

THE OTHERS.

Every single stuffed animal in Lily's basket--all 15 of them--had distinct white patches of powder under their armpits.

"You did this with ALL of them?" I asked.

"Yes, I put powder on their armpits so they wouldn't smell," she smiled.

All. Of. Them.

But as I looked back at my daughter's little indiscretion, I had to be grateful.

At least she didn't use Chapstick. Mango-tango or otherwise.

So, tell me your stories. What kinds of "fun" have your kids been up to when they've been suspiciously silent?

Not Funny. Period.

2012-02-08T06:52:00.005-05:00

F*cebook can be such a dangerous thing. Because it can give strangers an odd power to say the most idiotic, hateful, naive, presumptuous things to other total strangers.

I've been a parent to internationally adopted children for 20 years. In that time, I've built up a pretty thick skin toward the racist, stereotypical, and down right ignorant things people have sometimes said to me, and to and about my girls. From the woman in Macy's 18 years ago who thanked me for adopting my then 2 year old because "Lord knows, no one else wants them" to the relative at Christmas just this past year who remarked that Becky and Lily looked like they "could be real sisters."

I've been gracious. I've educated. I've tolerated.

But sometimes, well, sometimes the harassment or the flippant comments just bring out the post Super Bowl Giselle Bundchen in me (except without the mile long legs or Tom Brady in my bed).

Because I have decided that no one messes with my kids, particularly when it comes to issues of race. And I am going to let them know it. Especially when my child is too young to defend and speak up for herself.

Which brings me to yesterday, when I posted on a friend's wall that Lily had been selected as the only student in her class for math enrichment (gifted program) for the second straight semester. My friend responded with a very positive and supportive comment. And that should have been that.

But it wasn't.

Because, out of nowhere, some guy I've never met, who has no connection whatsoever to me (my FB page is completely private to all but my friends), and knows nothing about me, my family, or my children, felt the need to make a comment. On a post designed for my friend about my 7 year old. And without having any idea how I might react. (For the record, I'm generally not fond of wall hijackers, unless they're there to make a positive, substantive contribution).

But this guy, whom I think thought he was being cute and witty, said...

I'll give you a moment to brace yourselves.

"You mean Asians know math and engrish?"

And, no, the last word is not a typo.

I quickly let him know he was messing with the wrong lady, and that I did not find him funny. I was straightforward and direct, hoping to end the entire thing.

At which point, he played the race card. Oh, yes he did.

He told me that he was of Asian/Hispanic heritage, that he was--get this--actually born in an Asian country (Bonus Points!), and that I really should lighten up and have a sense of humor in this "multicultural world."

I countered by explaining that I don't play the "I'm X, so I can say whatever I want about race" game, and that I found his comments offensive, particularly given that he was directing them at an innocent 7 year old little girl whom he did not know. I also may have mentioned that, regardless of his race and/or nationality, I found nothing multicultural about his sentiments or about the fact that he thought I lacked a sense of humor for not finding them such.

I mean, since when does living in our "multicultural world" mean that we can hurl around stereotypical or racist remarks under the guise of humor? Shouldn't being part of a more multicultural world make us better than this? And why on earth are the folks who call these people out on their racist BS considered the humorless bad guys?

Oh, boring, straight-laced me. If there is one thing I lack, it's a sense of humor, particularly about myself. I really need to lighten up.

I suppose this gentleman by all accounts could be a very lovely guy, who just happened to really step in it yesterday. But his comments underscore something we all should be cognizant of: watch what you say on social media sites. Choose your words carefully. Watch to whom you respond, and ask yourself, "Does this conversation have anything whatsoever to do with me and am I contributing to it in a way that is at all edifying or helpful?" Let's face it; you have no idea who your audience is and who you might be hurting.

It just might be a very sweet little child.

Of course, I'm just glad that my very impressionable and much-smart-than-that-guy 7 year old is too young for F*cebook and that, at least in this case, I could head off a comment that would have deeply hurt her very sensitive little heart.

I stood up for my little girl and my family.

I said, "No more. This is NOT OK with me."

I don't expect an apology, though I think one is deserved, but maybe, just maybe, this person will think twice before he opens his mouth again and lets fly comments that are offensive, hurtful, and, at least to this Mama, not in the least bit funny.

But that's just humorless me.

The Little State In The Middle of Super Bowl XLVI

2012-02-04T11:06:00.002-05:00

So, there's a big game coming up tomorrow. If you're a football nut, like me, you've been waiting for this moment since, well, since August, and you've watched every game and followed the season with religious fervor. Hey, my daddy may have been a Giants fan, but he raised this girl right!

Otherwise, you're probably going to make a whole bunch of delicious, but heart attack inducing food, and watch the game because it's an American rite of passage, and you've got nothing better to do. You'll cheer and scream, but your heart really won't be in it, because you really don't know what encroaching means or what the penalty is for face-masking (there are actually two kinds). Or, you'll watch and cheer on a team you really don't give a rat's hiney about simply because your team didn't make it to Indianapolis this year. And that's OK. It is a really amazing spectacular nonetheless.

Or if you're my friend, Wyndee, you'll go to the movies or rearrange your sock drawer.

But if you live here, in Connecticut, well, chances are this Super Bowl is IT for you. Because we are located smack dab between the two powerhouse teams that are going head to head in the Big Game this year. And we're tiny, so no matter where you live, you're close by. In fact, depending on your location, you are likely to be either an hour or less from Gillette's Stadium or 60 minutes from The Meadowlands.

Our loyalties are divided in Connecticut. About half of us love the Pats while the other half root for the Giants. Oh, and then there are the misguided few who are fans of the Jets...

So, this Super Bowl is a fantastic one for us Connecticutians. We're filled with passion, pride, and a whole bunch of rivalry.

We don't have to buy Super Bowl attire depicting either one of the teams playing. We've got closets full of the stuff already.

This is not a "Well, my 49er's didn't make it, so I'm going with New England" Super Bowl for us. It's not a "Well, my Dolphins were never in it, so I'm rooting for the Giants, but just for the Big Game."

This is serious. This is war. Our war.

These are OUR teams. And we care about this game a whole lot!

So tomorrow let the best east coast team win--even though we all know it will be the Patriots!

Stupid Husband Tricks

2012-01-30T18:52:00.002-05:00

There are times when my husband leaves me in such a state of awe and incredulity--and I don't mean that in a good way--that I literally have to take pause. Or leave the room. This is done for his protection.

I know most of you who read my blog are surprised that the Renaissance Man to whom I am married could inspire anything that even approaches wrath on my end, but it's true.

I give you: The Weekend of January 28, 2012

Driving home from a business trip, my beloved called to tell me he was running late because he had to stop to pick up a headlight for his car.

This was on Friday night, a piece of evidence that will become crucial as this tale unfolds.

He arrived home, bulb in hand. Friday night.

Saturday came and went, a day in which my spouse took the dogs for a walk, spent 4 hours at Walmart (at night), and engaged in many other activities requiring the use of a motor vehicle. Sadly, none of these tasks actually included installing the bulb in his car.

On Sunday we had plans to visit the Roger Williams Zoo with my brother, his wife, and their toddler daughter. I should have known that the day would not pan out well when, 15 minutes after we were supposed to have left, Bob was frantically searching for a cooler in which to put snacks and rushing around throwing cabinets open from which to pull said snacks. The kitchen looked like it had been hit by a cyclone.

We hit the road, planning to meet up with my brother and family at the zoo, a 2 hour and 15 minute trek from our home and about an hour and 45 minute journey from theirs.

Everything went like clockwork. We met in the parking lot within 10 minutes of one another and spent the day enjoying the zoo's lovely animals, some of which are pictured here to provide a brief interlude. Plus, I like many a lot more than my husband right now. You might use this time, as you look at the pretty animals to, perhaps, recommend a good anger management therapist for me.

It's all fun and games until someone decides to change a light bulb!

Now, back to our regularly scheduled tirade:

After departing the zoo, we ate at The Melting Pot, a fun, but decidedly not-baby-friendly fondue restaurant that features a first course of bubbling cheese in a pot situated on a burner right at your table and within arm's reach of very interested 15 month olds. During the second course, you can plunge all sorts of raw meats into snap-crackling oil, and then dip them into a variety of sauces. When we weren't trying to keep the baby from getting 3rd degree burns, we were removing her hands from the small containers of no less than 25 different sauces. But it was good eatin' and she did remain relatively unscathed (which is more than I can say for my brother, whom she peed on--but that's another story). Not to mention that I was carded--yes, carded--by our young waiter, who easily could have been my son.

Nonetheless, the meal was fabulous, definitely worth clogging my arteries with again. By the time we were through eating, it was the very reasonable hour of about 6:45, plenty of time, I thought, to get home, feed the diabetic dog, give him his insulin shot, rescue the puppy from the crate she had been confined to going on 12 hours, and get the child, who had school the next day, into bed.

The day was really wrapping up well.

Fun at the zoo, baby unscathed despite proximity to scalding oils, 46 year old woman carded!

But, as usual, I was wrong. Why am I always so very, very wrong?

Because, just as we were turning the corner to leave the ice cold parking garage, a light bulb (no pun intended) went off in my husband's brain. Why not stop now, in the middle of the parking garage, to change the bulb?

The only problem was--and is--that my husband is no mechanic. Not only were the instructions on how to install the bulb not in the owner's manual, he could not find them on Google either. In short, he had no $*%&^ clue how to install that bloody bulb.

So, he did what any reasonable man would do. Undaunted, he decided that, instead of driving home with the light out--even though apparently it had been OK to do so for the past 3 days--he HAD. TO. INSTALL. THAT. BULB. RIGHT. THEN. AND. THERE. NO. MATTER. WHAT. And he wasn't very cheerful about it, either.

He insisted that the car be turned off, and left the driver's door open so he could scream instructions to me like, "Turn the wheel all the way to the right" and "Turn the wheel all the way to the left" every 3 minutes.

Lily and I were freezing. And tired. And I was becoming just a teeny tiny bit, oh, how shall I say? Frustrated?

OK, really? I wanted to kill him.

Because we sat in that parking garage for one hour and 45 minutes. That's 105 minutes. Or 6,300 seconds. Long enough for my sister-in-law to text me a photo of their home as they pulled into their driveway. Long enough for my daughter to start wailing that she had to go to the bathroom. While we continued to sit in a freezing cold parking garage. That had no bathroom.

Nearly two hours after we had initially entered our car to go home, my husband announced that he had sort of, kind of, successfully installed the light. "But it's kind of dangling..."

Really?

The ensuing couple of hours were, in a word, quiet.

Except for Lily crying and telling us she had to go to the bathroom and could we please just go home?

We finally reached a rest stop where, after Lily had been to the lady's room, Bob asked if she wanted to play the "claw game" by the door. You know what I mean, right? That stupid arcade game where you addictively shove in dollar bills and then try to maneuver a claw to catch some cheesy carnival stuffed animal that invariably drops back into the heap just seconds before you think you've got it in your clutches.

Sure...we've got time for that.

If there had not been witnesses and cameras monitoring the facility, I would have laid him out cold.

We did manage to get home...around 11:00. I frantically rushed to get my near-comatose child to bed, to feed and medicate the dogs, and to prepare Lily's snack for school. Bob? He sat leisurely by the fireplace reading the New York Times and singing Neil Diamond.

So, perhaps it should come as no surprise to anyone that this morning, as I raced to get ready for school and my husband again sat by the fire sipping coffee, my blood pressure shot up and my mouth fell open long enough for several flies to wander in when he said,

"Hey, next weekend, let's drive Lily into the City for the day."

Because for once in my life, I was speechless.

Coolest Valentines Ever

2012-01-20T07:00:00.003-05:00

This past year I did something I should have done ages ago. I hired a professional photographer, Laura Fuhr at Sugar and Spice Photography, to take pictures of my girls. And I'm sort of addicted. My home kind of looks like a shrine to my daughters. I was always a little picture crazy, but now that they're done right, I feel the need to display even more.

Recently, Laura, whom I've used twice in the past few months to do photo shoots of Lily (alone) and Lily and Becky together, featured Lily on her website to promote the cards she designs.

Of course, I couldn't resist. And now my kid is going to have the coolest Valentine's in all of the second grade...maybe even in the whole school. So, if you happen to live in Connecticut and are looking for an amazing natural light photographer who is also a really cool lady, check out Laura's website Sugar and Spice Photography. You can see more examples of her work on the righthand sidebar photos of the girls together and of Lily on this blog and here.

What's not to love?

And Thailand Has My Heart, Too!

2012-01-17T09:00:00.001-05:00

My Thailand post doesn't contain as many pictures as did the one I posted on our journey to the Philippines, because we were more on a mission this trip. But that does not mean that a big part of my heart doesn't lie in this amazing country, too. Our mission, of course, was to bring home our Lily. However, we have assured her that we will return to Thailand to visit her foster family and do the whole tourist thing so she can see more of her beautiful homeland when she is at an age to really appreciate it (like now!). These pictures mostly feature downtown Bangkok and the area immediately surrounding Lily's foster family about an hour outside the city.

View from our hotel in Bangkok

Lily with her foster family

Lobby of our hotel on meeting day

Lily and I at Lumpini Park

Hanging out in the hotel lobby

Lily at hotel pool

Bangkok skyline

Meeting Lily's amazing foster family

Lily's neighborhood

Small temple in Lily's neighborhood

River beside Lily's foster home

Going to Bangkok during the rainy season means...well, rain. Every day.

But life goes on

Area around Lily's foster family's home

Nearly everyone rides a scooter in Bangkok! Sometimes families of 4 or more all on one at the same time!

Street food in Bangkok is everywhere and it is DELICIOUS!!

Delicious street food...watch the spices!

More of Lily's neighborhood

Statues of the King and Queen are everywhere. We were fortunate enough to be in Bangkok during Thai Mother's Day, the Queen's birthday.

People living in crumbling buildings

Lovely Lumpini Park

Lumpini Park

Lily at Lumpini Park...not so sure she wants to come to me!

Statue of the King

Thai music

Bangkok is a shopper's paradise

Becky in the background shopping her heart out!

Rice water fountain

Really Annoying Stuff

2012-01-16T08:47:00.000-05:00

I referenced this post for The Teacher's Lounge a few days back in the PG-13 version of why I hate Japanese erasers on this blog (for the record, Lily added a lovely little hippo to her bathtub menagerie just last night. Ouch!). My "teacher's" version, can be found at Really Good Stuff's blog here.

The Philippines Has My Heart

2012-01-15T15:36:00.001-05:00

I began blogging after I had already adopted my children and after we'd gone back to the Philippines again for a homeland visit; I never got a chance to document those trips here. So, this month I've decided to write two posts, one representing each of my daughter's homelands: The Philippines and Thailand. Today's post will feature some of the pictures we took that show the diversity of our beautiful daughter's Becky's birthplace, Cebu, Philippines.

Alegre Beach Resort Cabana where we stayed for 2 weeks

Another cabana at this fabulous resort

The view from our cabana

Another view from our cabana

The beach

Becky at her orphanage, Asilo de la Milagrosa. The map beside her shows all the children adopted from the orphanage with a push pin indicating their new homes around the world.

Tiny shoes for tiny feet

This little angel, Lourdes, captivated our hearts!

Becky fell in love with this darling, Monica

Lily and Lourdes

Another adorable baby at Asilo

We had fun playing ball with this precious little girl

Probably my favorite picture. This little boy made a bee-line for Bob, and gave him a big hug!

Sweet little girl

Lily and our wonderful waitress

Lily and Becky

Flowers beside the pool

View from the restaurant

Sunset

The beach at night

The resort's restaurant at night

View from our cabana. Every day was this sparkling!

Local traffic

Jeepney in front of Asilo de la Milagrosa, Cebu City

More precious babies

Lily meets Lourdes

Sleepy baby

One of the lovely nuns who works at the orphanage

Silly boys

The kids LOVED my camera and could not wait to see the digital images of themselves!

This little tyke liked to hoard all the toys! She was hilarious.

Toddler beds

Taoist Temple in Cebu City

Homes in view of Taoist Temple

The hospital where Becky was born

Church of St. Nino

Altar inside church

Part of the ceiling

Magellan's cross

Cebu traffic

One of my favorite pictures

A family at work and play

Homes en route to Cebu City

Lapu-Lapu

Homes along the water

Doesn't matter where you go in the Philippines. No village is too remote. You'll always find a pick up game of basketball!

More homes

Market

Kids at play


Spanish style church

You see over-loaded trucks, trikes, and bikes like this everywhere.

Out-island trip

Gorgeous water

Entrance to the spa

Lily doing what Lily does best

Gorgeous nights

Delicious breakfasts

Scenery on the way to Cebu City

Small food stands dot the landscape

A marvel in physics

Local traffic

Headed into Cebu City

The military makes its presence known

Another one of my favorite photos

Little boy trying to fly a kite

Fear and Loathing of Japanese Erasers

2012-01-10T12:34:00.001-05:00

As those of you who follow this blog regularly know, in addition to teaching 3rd grade full time, caring for my 2nd grader, paying to keep my nearly 20 year old living the college lifestyle to which she has become accustomed in NYC, trucking 3 dogs to and from the vet, cooking gourmet meals, and keeping a spotless abode, I also write a monthly column for Really Good Stuff, which is a very cool educational supply company that sells really good stuff and features an online blog called The Teacher's Lounge.

OK, so I may have stretched the truth on the meals and the house, but that's a small matter.

In any event, I write this column for The Teacher's Lounge, which is something I enjoy doing very much mostly because it's sedentary and is a change of pace from my usual work which involves teaching a classroom that includes 13 boys, all of whom have lots of energy and think they are comedians. This job is akin to herding cats.

Sometimes my articles are serious; I write about the importance of sharing quality children's literature with students or how to get children to read more fluently. But mostly, my posts are light-hearted and inspired by the daily ins and outs of being a teacher, which, I should mention, is something I love doing more than just about anything else in the world. I'm one of those crazy people that likes to herd cats, I guess.

My most recent column, which is to run on the Teacher's Lounge website on Monday is about one of those "inspired by real life" topics; it's one to which I think all teachers can relate. And maybe a few parents as well.

My column this month is about the stuff we teachers take from children during the course of the day and store on our desks for "safekeeping." What I've noticed is that each generation has its own gadget of the year, some annoying trinket that kids feel compelled to take to school and fiddle with during math and which teachers feel equally driven to remove from the hands of offending students.

This year it happens to be the Japanese Eraser. Which is an invention I loathe with every fiber of my being. Perhaps you agree.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Japanese eraser, let me explain. These are no ordinary pink erasers. They come in all shapes and sizes--pandas, pigs, sushi sets, cell phones, cars. And most of them have a zillion teeny tiny parts. And when I say teeny tiny, I mean they make a Polly Pocket shoe look like it came from a Sasquatch.

The one thing they have in common is they don't really erase a bloody thing. The were just designed by someone who hates teachers, so that we can be driven mad. My guess is that there is some grand anti-education conspiracy. And it's been going on for a long time, too.

Because Pop Rocks, Bubble Yum packs, yo-yos, mood rings, and Wacky Packs, weren't enough in the 70's. Madonna-type black rubber bracelets, He-Man and My Little Pony figures didn't do it in the 80's. Tomagachis and Slap bracelets (which I understand are making a little comeback) didn't send us fleeing from our classrooms the 90's. And the 2000's, which brought Pokeman cards, Livestrong-type bracelets in every color of the rainbow, and Silly Bandz, didn't do us in either. It's just that every year it's something.

Of course, I mentioned all this in my article. I talked about how kids reveled in the springy projectile action of Silly Bandz, and what a joy it was to have one of those suckers come flying at you while you were teaching and hit you square in the forehead. I mentioned trying to talk about fractions above the din of 20 slap bracelets keeping a steady snap, crackle, pop beat.

I mentioned how teachers don't even have to say a word when we take these items away from kids. There is a universal "This Is Now Mine" gesture we employ that looks something like this:

1) Child is fiddling with Japanese eraser in the shape of a car, which includes no less than 15 small parts including wheels. These wheels keep rolling off the student's desk at which time the other 18 kids in the class shout out in unison, "So-in-So, your eraser just fell on the floor". Either that or they "helpfully" all run up at once to gather up the fallen pieces for the child. Very sweet. This all happens in the middle of a very serious and dramatic reading, test, or lesson about How to Draw Conclusions and Make Inferences.

2) Teacher silently, skillfully, without disengaging from the lesson, walks over to the offending fiddling student with arm outstretched. This is the universal sign for "hand it over."

3) Child deposits slap bracelet, Silly Band, eraser, random gizmo of the year in teacher's hand.

4) Teacher casually meanders over and places it on her desk, again, without missing a beat and continues on with the lesson as if nothing happened. Even though inside she is secretly seething--because this is the 40th eraser she's taken away that day--and wondering why on earth the school store sells these things in the first place.

The key is to never let them see you sweat, of course.

So, this is all the stuff I put in my RGS article.

What I failed to include was the personal side of my Japanese eraser loathing. Because it is just a little too PG-13 for the educational blog crowd.

You see, the reason I hate these little devices of the devil go deeper. Much deeper.

For some reason, my daughter has gotten her hands on a sizable number of the adorable erasers. She has pandas, seahorses, an elephant, and several food items like a hamburger than breaks apart into two buns, a leaf of lettuce, a slice of cheese, a patty, and a layer of ketchup. These are held into place by a minuscule little rubber nail, I guess you'd call it, which is about 2 mm long.

And I thought Polly Pocket shoes were bad.

Lily likes to take these treasures into the bathtub with her, which I suppose is perfectly fine.

Except...

There is nothing more tragic than filling a bath after a long day herding cats and sinking into the bubbly warmth only to have an elephant's tusk jam into your butt.

This happens to me on a regular basis at which time I am startled into leaping out of the water--which flows over the side of the tub like a tsunami. I also just might utter an unlady like word or two.

Because I am decidedly not happy.

Though I figure these silly erasers will run their course soon enough, and I'll be holding out my hand for some other new whats-it next year.

I just hope it's something that isn't bathtub friendly.

Or unfriendly, as the case may be.

2011 in Pictures

2011-12-31T06:31:00.001-05:00

2011 started off with a whole lot of snow. Snow that just kept coming. And coming. And coming. School was cancelled for endless days; roofs collapsed, the Northeast pretty much came to a stand still. But, boy, was it pretty.

JANUARY

Becky and her friends took Lily ice skating for the first time.

Feelin' Groovy...Lily attended a 60's themed birthday party.

This was only the start.

Because the snow just fell and fell and fell.

Taller than our dogs...

Covering my car

And creating other-worldly icicles!

We needed to find new things to do. When I submitted this photo of Lily to the Imagination Box Company, they decided to use it for their website banner!

FEBRUARY

February found us covered in both snow and ice.

And Becky had some amazing headshots done for her up-coming career as a performer.

March

By March, the snow started to recede a tiny bit. Kinda.

But we didn't see the ground for long...

April

By April, there were still piles of snow around, but enough had cleared that Lily could find Easter eggs at Grandma's house. In fact, Easter day was down-right balmy!

And, of course, Lily got up extra early on that April morning to watch a beautiful young lady in England become a real princess.


Lily wore this tiara to school the day Prince William married Kate Middleton.

But April was also an especially sad month. We lost the most special dog ever, our Abby. Abby, we will love and miss you FOREVER.

MAY

By May, the girls were begging for a new puppy. We knew we could never replace, Abby. No dog ever could, but we hoped to fill a tiny piece of the hole in our hearts. And when we saw this face on the Companion Pet Rescue website we were in love. By the middle of the month, we had a new member of the family, our Great Pyrenees/Yellow Lab puppy, Sophie. She weighed 9 lbs. at 2 1/2 months old.

JUNE

June was a very busy month. Recitals, Lily's first professional photo shoot, and a treat for Mommy and Becky--awesome seats to Michael Buble (yummy!). Lily turned 7, and I got a new job for the up-coming school year teaching 3rd grade.

JULY

July was hot, hot, hot (we never really had a spring; we just went right from a snow-bound winter into the tropics). I spent a lot of time indoors in the AC preparing my classroom for the fall and bribing Becky's friends with some food to help out a bit. They managed to help me label and color code about 800-1,000 books for my classroom library. We also traveled to Baltimore, a great place to take in a baseball game, to take in the sights of the Inner Harbor and, of course, to watch the Red Sox destroy the Baltimore Orioles. The fact that we chose the hottest week of the entire summer to go to a day game? Well, that wasn't the wisest move, but at least the folks at the ball park tried to keep everyone cool by handing out cups of ice, which we promptly dumped onto our heads, shoved into our bras (well, you know I did) or sat upon. But, since we were in the 5th row right behind home plate, it was worth it. I got some grade shots! We also met up with some great friends in NYC for a fun girls day out!

Teenagers bribed with junk food will do just about anything.

Task complete

Mid-July I received a fabulous care package from my friend Agnes in California. The contents of this glorious gift allowed Lily and I to make fresh squeezed calamansi juice. I was in heaven.

Care package from Agnes, whom I love!

Lily prepares calamansi juice

and declares it a winner!

Lily went to an awesome spa birthday party in July and got a fabulous, fun make over! What happened to pin the tail on the donkey in some kid's backyard???

Oh, and the puppy grew and grew...

We also met up with friends Mireille and Jen and their Thai daughters Jasmine, JJ, and Ruby and had a lovely lunch at Alice's Tea Cup in NYC.

We met up at the Balto statue---Mireille came from South Africa; I came from Connecticut, and Jen came from New Jersey!

Pretty Girls in Central Park

Then it was on to Baltimore...

Good seats, see? (No pun intended)

The incredibly talented Jacoby Ellsbury, who hit 2 homeruns in the game and looked very pretty doing it!

Lily having a blast watching the Sox win!

AUGUST

In August, we met a storm called Irene that left us in the dark for over a week and delayed the start of school by 7 days. My classroom started to take shape--even though I began to wonder if I'd ever be able to teach in it! We watched a family of deer grow up in the woods in our backyard, and someone got a new car.

Bob, the bird whisperer. We had at least 5 separate nest of cardinals in our bushes this year. This little guy was having some trouble with flying lessons. He got a helping hand from my husband.

The classroom library

My third grade classroom

Becky's new wheels

Hello, Irene

The for-sure OSHA approved electrical rigging system my husband devised so our generator could operate the microwave and fridge.

Some damage from Irene in our yard

Lily finally got to head off to her first day of 2nd grade.

SEPTEMBER

In September we celebrated our "baby's" 19th birthday by getting ready to send her off to college again, this time to her own apartment in the very funky Hudson Heights area of Manhattan. I got to see my childhood crush, Roger Daltrey, perform in concert (front row seats) for the 4th time.

OCTOBER-NOVEMBER

In another example of the Mother Nature Freak Show of 2011, this October we were introduced to a guy named Alfred...storm Alfred, that is. A storm that left our town in ruins, folks without power for over a week again, and cancelled Halloween statewide in most towns twice! One minute we were running around outside without coats, the next we were under 18" of snow!

We celebrated our little niece's 1st birthday, Becky and Lily had their first-ever joint photo shoot. Becky got a kitten and packed up to move back to New York City, this time to move into her very own apartment in the Hudson Heights section of Harlem (very cool). Oh, and the puppy continued to grow.

Best 1st birthday cake eating EVER.

Becky and Lily's first joint photo shoot

Becky's kitten, Toulouse

Becky's apartment building in NYC

One minute Lily was playing outside sans coat; the leaves were on the trees; the grass was green; we were preparing for Halloween...

The next minute...THIS!

Tons of trees down all over town (among many others, we lost our Mulberry tree shown here) and roads closed for days.

DECEMBER

We celebrated a lot in December. Lily scored the highest grade in her entire school in the Noetic Math contest and in the top 10% of the country. That 9 lb. puppy is now a 70 lb. beauty who is still growing! And Santa was very good to some equally good girls!

Looking forward to a Happy New Year!

Of Mice and Men

2011-12-29T09:00:00.043-05:00

There are several theories on how humankind emerged as the dominant force on the planet earth. For instance, Creationists believe that God created the world and everything in it in 6 days and in doing so gave man dominion over animals. Darwinists believe in evolution and survival of the fittest. Which still leaves humans with authority and control over a whole bunch of stuff except maybe the weather and 20 third graders the week before Christmas.

But I'm here to propose a third theory. And it's called Mousism.

Actually, it's not a theory at all. It's cold hard fact.

Folks, despite what we may think, we are not in control. Regardless of the theory in which you believe, we do not have the upper hand. Trust me on this one.

Mousism is based on the premise that mice are superior beings and secretly rule the world. They are smarter than you and I--particularly if the I in question happens to be a man who fancies himself a do-it-your-selfer. What's worse is that mice spend their time laughing their little mouse asses off at us all day long. I know because I hear them mocking me. And, yes...I have taken all my medication.

The reason I know mice are intellectually superior is because last night I watched my 45 year old husband, a man of considerable intelligence and engineering skill, try to jerry-rig no less than 6 different types of mouse traps in an attempt--which I know will be futile--to catch the creatures that are clearly living under--or at least frequently visiting--our kitchen sink cabinet. He was looking semi-possessed and muttering things under his breath about "making a clean kill."

I also know that mice rule the world because every 19.5 minutes, I hear a lot of rustling going on under the sink. Immediately after which, three dogs fall all over each other and make a bee-line, skidding across the kitchen floor, to the cabinet beneath that sink and begin barking like fools. So, they're definitely smarter than the dogs. But I suppose that goes without saying in this household.

Then I hear festive squeaking coming from under said sink. This, I am convinced is the mice laughing at us--dogs and all--as they carefully lick the peanut butter off yet another trap. "Hey, more free food!" they giggle, their mouths and little mousy paws sticky with their treasure. "And these humans keep on giving us more! Who's luckier than we? Hee, hee, hee" (which you'll notice, when you read it aloud in a high pitched voice--which I'm asking you to do right now--sounds suspiciously like squeak, squeak, squeak).

But every time I look under the sink to check one of the now 7 traps beneath, I find absolutely nothing except mouse droppings.

Right now we have a traditional snap trap of the "head's will roll" variety. We have a sticky trap (very cruel and normally not endorsed by this homeowner). We have 4 very distinct "trap door" traps. The kind where the mouse is "supposedly" lured in by the smell of ~~food~~ poison, the trap door descends, and it's bye, bye mousy. There's something else under there, too, that resembles a hockey puck and has a picture of a big, fat rat on it.

The point is...none of these devices works. THEY. NEVER. WORK. Not last year. Not the year before.

This is more reason for the mice to laugh at us. Because I know that they know that for the amount of time, money, and energy we have wasted without catching one single rodent, we could have called a good exterminator and been done with ALL of them with a full one year guarantee to boot.

But men--or at least the one who resides in my house--are maddeningly stubborn. Plus, they have tremendous egos. They refuse to call in professionals when their attempts at do-it-yourself are so clearly failing. Which is why we have to walk around with increasing vigilance throughout our own home so that our toes aren't snapped off or our feet do not become permanently attached to black plastic mats--which will never be a fashionable statement in footwear.

And, because of the obstinance of some men, this is how we end up with disasters like the great Christmas Tree Light Calamity of 2011 which I discovered when I hauled our $800.00 brand-new-from-last-year artificial Christmas tree from the garage and found, upon opening the heavy duty canvas bag, a big ball of flossy green fluff at the bottom of the bag.

I further learned that when I turned on my pre-lit tree, the one with the 1500 lights that were supposed to last decades, the entire bottom section of twinklers was out.

After only a cursory examination of the evidence: flossy fluff (part of the binding that holds the branches in place), gnawed wire, and non-illuminating lights, Lily easily determined, after insisting on writing a "Great Christmas Mystery Book," that mice had done our lights in in their attempts to find nesting materials.

As if the 100 lbs. of laundry waiting to be washed on the garage floor beside the washing machine could not have provided sufficient fodder?

Now, I love all creatures great and small. I'm a tried and true animal loving gal. I don't go to the circus or the rodeo (if there were rodeos in Connecticut). I won't eat veal. I give to the Humane Society and the ASPCA. All my dogs are rescue pups. My animals eat the highest quality food (for all the good it does them). I spend countless hours on my hands and knees cleaning up every manner of animal spewage imaginable and a bottomless pit of dollars to make sure my pets are getting the best possible medical care. You get the idea.

But when you eat my expensive faux fir and there is no way to fix the lights short of purchasing and re-rigging an entirely new set--and I would probably have to enlist the help of a licensed electrician to do that--and then you further have the nerve to poop where people eat, well, then all bets are off. I want you dead. Even if you are my intellectual superior.

Which is why the next time my husband heads off on a business trip, I will so be on the phone to the highly competent exterminating company we've used every year for the past 3 years when Bob's pathetic attempts to be a hero have failed.

And the exterminator will yell at me yet again for having a bird-feeder so close to my house (free food right next to a warm place to sleep and get a quick drink; what more could a rodent ask for?). Which, of course, is Bob's fault, too.

Because mice are definitely smarter than men.

Stepping on Toes

2011-12-27T09:00:00.004-05:00

This post is about the uncomfortable reality of being an adoptive parent--to say nothing of being an adopted child--whom society expects to tacitly conform and agree with racist and/or comments of utter stupidity or insensitivity made by everyone from the stranger at the grocery store to one's relatives at Christmas dinner.

Because the folks making these comments just "assume" that you're on the same page. Kind of the way that white folks in a room full of Caucasians can utter racist remarks and just figure that we're all in on the joke because we're white, too. And then if you call them out on it, you're the trouble maker. There's something wrong with you!

This post is about how the people who make these comments then end up making you feel like the one who ought to feel embarrassed for not towing the line and going along with those remarks just to keep the peace.

But for the sake of your children...why on earth should you?

Or maybe it's just me.

I'm writing all this because for about the 100th time, someone--this time a relative--made a comment about my girls that I found cringe-worthy and ignorant. It wasn't racist, really. It wasn't overtly mean-spirited by any means. I've certainly heard far worse. But it was, well, it was just thoughtless, and it was made by someone who ought to know better. Am I overly sensitive? Perhaps. But when my 7-year-old's heart is on the line, I feel I sometimes have to step on a toe or two. Even if they happen to be the toes of family members.

Because last night we had one of those awkward moments initiated by a person who, after being part of our family for 15 years, ought to have a clue.

As one member of the family looked at a framed photo of the girls I had given her (the one you see in the right hand sidebar of this blog, in fact), she said, "You know, when I look at this picture, Becky and Lily look so much alike it looks like they really could be real sisters." As if this was supposed to re-assure me somehow? Or re-assure the girls in some weird, warped way? I'm not quite sure.

But the comment was made in front of Lily. My sweet, very sensitive angel, whose sister is every bit "real" to her in every sense of the word and who was looking on quizzically.

So, I bristled. I clenched my teeth. I raised a what-are-you-talking-about eyebrow. To which the offender reiterated, "I mean, you would never know that they weren't really sisters."

The offender wasn't talking about the loving bond between the girls. The one that transcends bloodlines and shouts to the world: We are sisters. She was specifically referring to their physical appearances and implying that that was what connected them. So, even though I was slightly hot under the collar and I wanted to come out with something snarky--'cause I'm really good at snark-- I casually and calmly said, "Well, they are real sisters. Adoption makes them real."

I know. I could have said nothing. I could have let it slide. But I didn't.

That's when I got an eye roll that would make any teenager proud. And a "you-know-what-I-mean" glare. As if I should be embarrassed for being so obtuse. For not "getting" what this relative really meant. Because now she was uncomfortable. How dare I.

Yeah, I get it. I get it. My kids aren't biologically related. And, thing is, I don't think they look a thing alike. They aren't even from the same country. I don't mind and neither do they. But they sure as heck care about being real sisters.

And, so, something had to be said. Even if it was Christmas. My girls are real sisters. Forever.

Because if I don't call people out and protect my little girl's heart, who will?

Because next time it may not be a gesture or statement as seemingly innocent as this one was.

*The video below was posted on my Facebook wall by a friend in response to a post I put up about the subject of racism and responding to racist and insensitive comments. I think it's awesome and something everyone, especially, adoptive parents, should watch.

You just never know when you'll need to heed this advice. Be vigilant. Be ready. Do it for your family. Do it because it's the right thing to do.

So, what are your thoughts about responding to insensitive comments made directly in front of your children? How do you handle racist and/or thoughtless remarks?

Christmas Through the Years

2011-12-26T11:30:00.001-05:00

I totally stole this idea from my dear friend Wyndee. I'm not ashamed to admit it.

Here's a look at Christmases past with the girls. Unfortunately, Becky arrived long before the advent of the digital camera and I'm way too lazy to scan 15 years worth of photos, so she's only in a few of the the pictures since Lily's arrival (and the purchase of our first digital). We've also had several "Do-not-take-my-picture-or-I'll-kill -you-mother" years though she's starting to come around now that she's an adult.

2005

Our first Christmas with Lily, four months after we brought her home from Thailand. Lily is 18 months old; Becky is 13.

2006

2007

2008

2009

2010

2011

Looking forward to 2012!

Merry Christmas From Our House to Yours

2011-12-25T00:00:00.002-05:00

Lily's Love Day #7

2011-12-16T08:00:00.001-05:00

(Lily's Referral Photo)

I am revisiting a post I wrote last year commemorating the day we (or rather, Bob) received THE CALL. Our referral of Lily. Last year, Lily decided this auspicious day ought to have a special name. And so, she named it Lily's Love Day. It's a day that is, and always will be, as special as she is.

It's always on your mind. Day and night. Particularly after you've been on hold months or years. When you're waiting for that referral call, it seems as if you can think of nothing else. You plan for your child. You dream about your child. You imagine what that call will be like. And then the day arrives. It comes out of the blue...when you least expect it. When your mind is elsewhere.

Exactly seven years ago today, after having taken the day off from work to do some Christmas shopping, I was stepping out of Old Navy, my mind pre-occupied with holiday gift lists, when my voice mail alert sounded. On the other end of the line was Lisa Vertulfo, head of the Thailand adoption program at Holt International Children's Services. And she sounded pretty excited.

Which is why I stopped dead in the middle of the driveway to the parking lot and nearly got flattened by an oncoming car.

Lisa had three words for me when I called her back, and they weren't "It's a girl."

They were, "Call your husband."

Call my who?

As in...you're not going to tell me why you really called?

Nope. She wasn't. She refused. Despite my begging. And pleading. And begging some more.

"Just call your husband," she repeated. "He has some good news."

Of course, I couldn't call my husband. Because Bob was trying to call me, and, as I always tell Lily, our calls were "bumping into each other so we couldn't get through."

But I finally did get through, of course. And that's how I found out that our little one wasn't going to be a boy named Jackson Thomas, as I had imagined. SHE was a perfectly healthy six month old precious angel with a shock of black hair. SHE was to be our Lily June.

That's the story Lily begs to hear over and over again, especially around this time of year. I started talking about it at the bus stop this morning with tears pouring down my face. "Sometimes," I reminded that sweet, sensitive little girl, "People cry when they're really happy."

That conversation got Lily's gears turning. Because she wanted to know why this very important day--one that could reduce her mommy to tears in recounting it every time--didn't have some kind of official title.

Which is how she came up with the name Love Day, because Lily told me as we waited for the bus, "today is all about how much you love me."

Today and every day, now and forever, my baby girl.

December 16--Lily's Love Day

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If you didn't read the story two years ago when I posted it and would like to get the unabridged version of Lily's referral day in it's entirety, click on the link here.

Random Thoughts on the Holidays

2011-12-09T22:29:00.000-05:00

I've been too busy with work, pseudo-single parenting, pet-care, and Christmas decorating and shopping to do much blogging lately. So, here are some random thoughts about the holidays that just happened to pop into my head. Because there isn't much else going on in there at 10:00 on a Friday night.

1. Do not hang holiday decorations before Thanksgiving. Likewise, everything should be taken down by January 15. No browning wreaths the could be used as kindling should be hanging all crumbly on doors at Easter.

2. If you are going to put light-up reindeer, snowmen, or trees in your yard, make sure they are standing up-right. If your Christmas decorations routinely fall over daily, it's time to think of another option. Nothing is more depressing during this season of joy than a toppled top-heavy Santa.

3. If I could ask for one thing this Christmas season it would be that my neighbor, who is an otherwise lovely person, would remove the seizure inducing Christmas lights outside her home that flash in time to frenetic music directly into my big bay window.

4. If you live in a cold climate, do not, under any circumstances, plant plastic poinsettias in your yard or in decorative window boxes. I could give a million reasons why this is just painfully wrong.

5. Those icicle lights? I think I've only seen 2 houses in the past 10 years that have done them right (though when done correctly, they do look rather pretty). One section is always out, parts are dangling from eaves. Plus, they look crappy in the daylight hours. If you have good looking ones, I'd love to see pictures.

6. The following Christmas specials should be mandatory television viewing during the month of December: How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Charlie Brown Christmas, Rudolph the Rednose Reindeer, Santa Claus is Coming to Town, Miracle on 34th Street, It's a Wonderful Life.

7. The following songs should be banned from airplay on any and all radio stations during the holidays: first and foremost...the morbidly depressing song about the Christmas shoes. I hate that song. Also, Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer, and All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth. I'd also include Last Christmas by Wham! (especially the video) except that I have a late teenage soft spot in my 80's heart for George Michael.

8. The following holiday songs should be required listening (in no particular order): O, Holy Night, Adam Sandler's Hanukkah Song, Stuck Up In The Chimney, Angels We Have Heard on High, The Hallelujah Chorus, any songs from the Nutcracker, Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire (but only sung by Nat King Cole or Michael Buble), Do They Know It's Christmas (again, it's the 80's in me), Do You Hear What I Hear?, Father Christmas (by the Kinks), Santa Claus is Coming to Town (Bruce Springsteen Version), pretty much anything sung by Josh Groban, You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch.

9. Can't they make the Elf on the Shelf look just a little less demonic? And am I the only parent who routinely forgets to move him before retiring for the night and then bolts upright in bed at 3 AM in a cold sweat to go running downstairs and put that grinning devil someplace else before my kid wakes up and says, "Why is Elfie still in the same place again?"

10. The people who last year told me an artificial tree would be easier to deal with than the real thing? They lied.

11. I love Michael Buble's pretty face and sweet-as-honey voice, but why on earth was Justin Bieber on his Christmas special this year? And why did I have to look at him in his boxer shorts? What idiot thought that any sane woman who is attracted to Michael Buble, a sexy ADULT man, would be in the same demographic that would like to see an adolescent boy in his skivvies? The whole thing made me feel dirty.

12. I will always love Alec Baldwin's Schweddy balls.

13. Peppermint Stick ice cream. A whole lot of yummy. Enough said.

14. Where is all the ribbon candy these days? My grandmother always had ribbon candy out for Christmas. I haven't seen any in ages.

15. The guy who invented candy cane Hershey's kisses is my personal hero.

16. I wonder when my daughter will be old enough to smell Santa's "ashy" footprints on Christmas morning and ask why they suspiciously smell like Johnson's and Johnson's.

17. So glad tinsel is out of fashion as a tree accessory, but, God, did I love heaping that stuff on our tree every year when I was a kid in the 1970's.

18. You will not convince me, even now, that I did not hear the sound of hooves on my roof on Christmas Eve when I was a kid lying in bed frantically trying to feign sleep so Santa would not pass me by.

19. Advent calendars. Gotta have one.

20. I am waiting for the day I get to write the blog post entitled: The One Where Sophie Knocks the Tree Down.

It's inevitable.

Happy Thai Father's Day

2011-12-05T00:01:00.008-05:00

Happy Thai Father's Day to my husband, daddy to the sweetest little Thai girl in the world!

It's a Small World (Revisited)

2011-11-28T08:00:00.002-05:00

Last week I revisted a post I had written about focusing on the future with your adopted children when you've missed so many "firsts." Today I revisit a post from early in 2010 that reminds me why I have come to terms with not having been there for those milestones. Because I know someone else was. Someone who cared so deeply (and who still does) and ensured that my daughter (in this case, Becky) would have the best possible chance for a wonderful future by giving her the a loving start in life.

Seventeen years ago, Sister Adelina Terrado, who was the adoption coordinator at Asilo de la Milagrosa Orphanage in Cebu City, chose my former husband and I to be the parents of a cheeky baby girl in her care. Having met this wonderful woman, who gives so selflessly of her time to others, I know how personally child care workers take the placement of children in adoptive families.

Over the course of the first few years after we brought Becky home, we kept in close contact with Sister via letters and frequent photographs of our growing baby/toddler/preschooler. But then life kind of got in the way. I got divorced from Becky's dad, moved three times, got remarried, and lost touch with Sister Adelina. The last I heard, about 10 years ago, was that she had a very aggressive form of cancer and had been transferred to a new position on another island.

Fast forward to 2009. Bob, Becky, and Lily and I traveled to the Philippines for a vacation and with the hope to reconnect with Becky's past. We stayed at the gorgeous Alegre Beach Resort about 3 hours north of Cebu City. After arriving, I called Asilo hoping we could stop by for a visit and leave off the many gifts we had brought for the children. I was hoping against hope that they would still have record of Becky having been cared for there. To my utter surprise, I found out that the very social worker who had handled Becky's case and brought her from Asilo to our agency's orphanage in Quezon City was still there.

What happened next was one of the most memorable experiences of my life. Alice, the social worker, drove up to our resort, picked us up, drove us back to Asilo, and spent the next day giving us a tour of Cebu City. We saw the neighborhood where Becky's birth family lived, the hospital where she was born, and, best of all, we got to meet and play with the cuter-than-can-be babies and toddlers living at the orphanage. If that wasn't enough, we finally got to see pictures of Becky's birthmother (Becky is a dead-ringer for her biological mother from the top of her gorgeous thick hair, to her pouty mouth, to her long, elegant fingers).

While we were at the orphanage, we inquired about Sister Adelina. Alice confirmed that she had been transferred long ago to an elder care facility on another island where she worked helping elderly patients.

Two days later, the front desk of the resort called me out of the swimming pool. There was a Sister Adelina on the phone for me. Sister had arrived for a visit at Asilo just one day after we had left. Upon hearing that we had been there, she had to visit "her" baby, Becky. So, this 80+ year old nun took the 3 hour journey to our resort for a visit where she was reunited with the little girl she had placed with me so long ago. It was truly a miracle that our paths crossed.

Now, we are fortunate in this day and age to have the wonders of the internet to help keep us in touch. I am able to email Sister Adelina and send her photos of Becky, because even after all this time, she wants to make sure she made the right choice in placing this child with me. In her emails she still talks about missing Becky and how she feels responsible for her welfare to this day. She worries about her education and is thrilled at Becky's every achievement.

I guess the point of my post is that our children have made indelible marks on the child care workers and foster parents who nurtured and cared for them during their first months or years of life. So, if you haven't sent photos or written a letter to your child's orphanage, foster family, or agency, consider doing so. Your efforts will be so appreciated.

Focusing on the Future When You Can't Regain the Past (Revisited)

2011-11-26T08:00:00.000-05:00

Lily in Thailand weeks before we brought her home

In this post from earlier in 2011, I wrote about how focusing on the future as a family with your adopted child can help ease the pain of all those childhood "firsts" that you may have missed during the long wait to take your son or daughter home.

International adoption is not for the faint of heart. Along with the interminable waiting times, mountains of paperwork, scrutiny to be the "perfect" couple or family (or at least to have all your outlets covered and baby gates ready years in advance), there is the uncertainty that comes with being at the whim of politics, natural disasters, epidemics, and myriad other potential crises worlds away that can, and often do, affect when we can finally be united with our children. These are all factors with which adoptive parents come to learn to live if not to fully accept.

But perhaps the most difficult aspect of the waiting game happens after the referral in those tenuous months as we wait for the call that we can travel to bring our children home. In the meantime, though we prepare and nest, it's difficult for parents not to be grieving the many loses and missed shared experiences we could be realizing with our children.

The first smile. The first tooth. The first steps. The first birthday.

Most families in the Thailand program from which we adopted Lily can relate. At least in the United States, referrals typically come anywhere from 6-10 months before parents can actually travel to bring their babies home. And, there's no sugar-coating things; it can be an agonizing time. Our children transform from helpless infants to independent toddlers while we wait. All we can do is read about their growth and development on eagerly awaited progress reports. It can be a pretty helpless, frustrating feeling, to say the least.

And that's what makes this part of the waiting game so hard. Because we know our children are out there. We have photos and progress reports, each one reminding us of all the milestones we are missing. And we want nothing more than to hop on that plane, race to our children, and hold them in our arms. Finally. Forever.

In December 2004, we were referred an adorable 6 month baby girl--our Lily. Over the eight months before we could fly to Bangkok to bring her home we fawned over the pictures of her as a plump infant, propping herself up on her elbows. Then as chunky baby sitting up. And finally as a chubby toddler looking more like a pretty little girl than tiny baby.

All without us.

June was a particularly difficult month as we watched Lily's 1st birthday come and go. We celebrated it in our own special way without her. But it was a bittersweet day.

Reading her final social progress report, which arrived days before our travel date, was probably the most difficult for me. Because Becky hadn't walked until she was 14 months old, I assumed I would get to see Lily's first steps since we would be traveling to Thailand just shortly after her 13 month birthday. So, when the last progress report told me that she had been walking and running well since she was 11 months old, I felt a tug on my heart. I had missed all the important milestones of her infancy and babyhood. And I could never get them back.

But then the end of July came, and we boarded a plane to meet our daughter, who boldly and bravely walked through the front doors of the Amari Boulevard Hotel in Bangkok and into our lives forever. And somehow, in that instant, all the heartache that I had focused on, melted away. It wasn't about me and what I had missed. My life--our lives--were all about Lily and who we now were as a family with her in our lives.

Over time, I find that I don't ever focus on the time I lost with her. Lily had a wonderful foster family. They had the honor of seeing her first smile, hearing her laugh for the first time, and seeing those first steps. And that's OK. They nurtured and raised my baby to be the healthy, happy toddler who walked into my life that day in August 2005.

What we get as a family is the future with an amazing young lady. I'll gladly exchange that for those first 12 months of missed firsts.

I may have missed those first unsteady steps, but I have had the honor and privilege of hearing my daughter say her first English word. Of hearing her call me "Mama" for the first time. I've seen her first day of preschool, her first dance recital, her first soccer goal, her first day climbing on the bus for kindergarten. I have been there for 6 fun-filled birthdays, for Halloween parades, for magical Christmas mornings, and exciting Easter egg hunts. I've seen the joy on her face the morning the tooth fairy left fairy dust on her bedding and dollar bills under her pillow. Our family has shared so many joyous, precious moments that Lily's presence has made possible in our lives. They are too numerous to count.

I will be there when she goes on her first date, attends her first dance, graduates from high school, goes off to college, and walks down the aisle with the man of her dreams. We will all be there as a family made complete by this special little angel. We will always have the future.

And, really, what more could any of us ask for?

Happy Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T08:00:00.001-05:00

Scrapbooking Photo Tinks by WiddlyTinks.com

To Share or Not To Share (Revisited)

2011-11-22T08:00:00.000-05:00

In this post from early 2011, I took an introspective look at the motivation behind my blog and stressed why I believe it is important to keep my girls' personal histories as private as possible.

When I began this blog my intention was to use it as a way to sell sterling silver ankle bells from my daughter Lily's native Thailand. It was never my intention to delve into personal, family matters or to have the blog be anything other than a vehicle for an unemployed teacher to make a little money and give back to my daughter's native land in some small way. Because really? Who on earth would be interested in my little old life anyway? As it turns out, the anklet venture did not pan out. So I changed the title of the blog, took a leap of faith that I had something marginally interesting to put forth in the blogosphere, and then set out to write about the three things I figured I knew best of all: being a mom, a teacher, and a part of a multicultural family.

Given that the majority of my readership is adoptive parents or prospective adoptive parents, I wasn't surprised when I was asked recently why I don't write more frequently about adoption and about the specific struggles--if any--my children have faced as transracial adoptees. Has life been a bed of roses for my kids? Have our experiences as an adoptive family been stress-free? My blog, perhaps, gives that impression.

There are myriad blogs out there devoted to the subject of adoption, written by adoptive parents, adoptees, first/birth parents, you name it. Prospective adoptive parents, particularly and for obvious reasons, scour the Internet looking for any information they can get their hands on to prepare themselves for the arrival of their children. Like any good waiting parent, they want to know how best to meet their children's needs. I know this because when I was a waiting parent--though when I adopted Becky there were no Internet resources and precious few support groups or books available to provide guidance--I, too, gobbled up whatever I could find.

So, I understand why parents might want to hear our stories--or, more specifically our daughters' stories...the good, the bad, and the ugly from beginning to end. I guess I know why folks might wonder why a website called Born in Our Hearts that features photos of my two internationally adopted children spends so little time talking about the subject of their adoptions. And, in a way, I feel slightly disingenuous for writing a blog whose title and subheading suggest that adoption is its primary focus. Because, in truth, this is not an adoption blog, per se. I'm just an ordinary mom with two kids, who happen to have joined our family through international adoption, muddling my way through life. So, I write about our lives and sometimes those posts happen touch on various aspects of adoption, because the fact that the girls are adopted is inexorably intertwined into the fabric of our lives.

But, because my blog is open and very public, I hold my daughters' personal adoption stories and experiences as adoptees very close to my vest. Other than the stories of receiving their referrals and traveling abroad to their birth countries, I rarely open up about my children's backgrounds or how adoption affects their everyday lives.

And there is one simple reason for that. Those stories and experiences are theirs and theirs alone. I guess I am sometimes disheartened when I read some public adoption blogs in which parents divulge intimate details of their children's private lives and struggles. They talk about keeping their children's stories away from prying eyes and intrusive questions at the grocery store, yet they have no problem sharing excruciatingly intimate information with virtual strangers the world over via the Internet.

Honestly? If they're OK with that, it's not my place to argue. But, I don't feel it's my place to know the circumstances of a child's relinquishment. I cringe when some parents, who have identified themselves, their location, and their children by name, talk of their kids being left on street corners and doorsteps of orphanages. Of not knowing their actual birthdates. Of potentially uncomfortable, personal, intimate family matters and childhood behaviors that may or may not be adoption related. And I have to I wonder: Have they asked themselves if this information is something their children would want shared? Because the way I see it this stuff is so none of my business.

On the other hand, are issues like loss, abandonment, and racism the realities of international adoption? Sadly, truthfully, they are. And they need to be talked about. It's just that I'm not comfortable delving into those areas with the world at large as they relate to my kids' personal, private experiences. Because you do know my children on some level. You know their names, their talents, their ambitions, their personalities. I've let you into their lives to some extent. As for their pasts, their experiences as adoptees? I do not believe I have any right to share that kind of information. It's not my information, after all. It belongs to my girls. If I were writing this blog completely anonymously, well then the story might be slightly different.

Mind you, I have no problem throwing myself under the bus. If it puts a smile on your face or gives you a chuckle, I'll share my painful experiences with Zumba; my humiliating job interviews; those foot-in-my-mouth faux pas. And I'm even more than OK with sharing the cute, funny, hilarious things that come out of my six-year-old's mouth ('cause I ask her first). I'm happy to share our experiences going through the adoption process and traveling to our daughter's respective birthplaces. I'll post resources, recipes, cultural information. I can tell you where to find the best adoption books or multicultural dolls for children. I'll recount in excruciating detail the excitement of receiving our referrals and traveling to both the Philippines (twice) and Thailand respectively. But that's pretty much where I draw the line.

I won't talk about attachment or trauma beyond perhaps our initial few days as a family. I won't provide information on what led my girls to be relinquished for adoption. I won't discuss their behavior if I believe it would embarrass or humiliate my children now or down the line. Without their consent, I can't breach their privacy by telling you they act this way or that because they are adopted.

Because That's. Not. My. Story. To. Tell.

That's not to say that I haven't and won't gladly counsel, be an ear for, or share more intimate details with individuals privately. But, let's face it. I have a six year old whose classmates' parents may be reading this blog. I have an eighteen year old in college whose friends have access to what I may write about her.

Yet, at the same time, I also believe it is vital for adoptive parents to have networks, support systems, and places where they can become as informed advocates for their children as possible. We need to know the joys, celebrations, sorrows, pitfalls, roadblocks, and difficulties we may encounter as adoptive parents. I just believe that information can and should be shared by individuals who are able to give informed consent (i.e. adult adoptees, anonymous bloggers, parents who have gotten their children's consent, consultants, social workers, researchers in the field, et. al.). These stories should be brought forth by people who have a say-so in what kinds of information about their very private selves gets disseminated on the Web. And, honestly, our children often are not afforded that option.

So until the time when my children ever give me the go-ahead or wish to share their stories personally--I will protect their privacy. And I thank you all for allowing me to do that.

For Crying Out Loud

2011-11-21T08:04:00.001-05:00

In my latest article for The Teacher's Lounge, I talk about the power of really good children's literature and its often emotional tug on the reader's heart (in this case, mine). Check out For Crying Out Loud.

New Blog Design

2011-11-19T18:42:00.001-05:00

I am pleased to unveil my new, improved blog design created by the incomparable Kelsey at Kreated by Kelsey. This is the third blog I've had Kelsey work on for me (she designed my more scrapbookish previous style as well as my super cool Rock Star classroom blog), and I love the more simple lines of this new design. If you're looking to up-date your own look, please check out Kelsey's site. Her rates are reasonable, her portfolio is chock full of great work, and she's a teacher, too!

Thanks so much, Kelsey!

So, what do you all think? Hope everyone loves it as much as I do!

With a Little Help from My Friends (Revisited)

2011-11-18T18:34:00.000-05:00

I received lots of supportive, lovely comments from fellow adoptive and prospective adoptive moms when, earlier this year, I published this post about the magical bond we share.

If you are reading this and you're not an adoptive mama, you might not understand or fully appreciate this post. Because this post is about the undeniable bond, sense of friendship, and connection that so many of us in the adoption community share.

Over the course of the past 18 years as an adoptive parent, I have developed some of the most enduring, loyal, close friendships with women simply because of our connection through adoption. The funny thing is, I've never even met most of these people. And, I likely will never meet many of them.

My husband thinks I am crazy. As if I communicate with imaginary friends. As if the bonds are any less real because we have never met. He's a guy; I guess I don't expect him to get it.

But really? While you're going through a process that is so unique, stressful, and...ultimately...full of joy, these are the women who sustain you. Who offer advice. And comfort. These are the friends who assure you that all that paperwork, and scrutiny, and all those ups and downs are worth the wait. These are the women who then can actually make you believe it.

My adoptive mama friends are among the most generous I know. They are there with words and emotional support...which is how I can spend 2 hours on the phone with my dear friend, April, a woman I have only ever communicated with previously via blog comments and occasional emails, and still feel like we could have talked another 2 hours. Or how I can meet up with my friend, Mireille and her twins and go pumpkin picking even though our only communication up to that point had been through a Yahoo online forum. Or plan to get together in Central Park with my friend Jen and her daughter. Or how my friend Tonggumomma can flatteringly write to ask my advice about her daughter's reading in school. Or how I can repeatedly spit whatever beverage I am consuming onto my keyboard as I read one of the flurry of hysterical emails from my hilariously funny best friend, Wyndee, someone with whom I have been friends for 6 years and have yet to meet. Or laugh and laugh with the Jens (there are several), Rachel, Renee, Deborah, Tammy, Autumn, Katie, Jessica, Lisa, Krista, Robin, my great Aussie friends Gemma, Kerrie, Sharon, and Lainie, and others whose names I may have inadvertently left out.

We can laugh together, cry together, and give each other virtual hugs that feel likes arms reaching out from hundreds and thousands of miles away. And my adoptive mama friends are not only there for each other with their words and emotional support. They are there in real, tangible ways as well. We send each other our hand-me-downs and out-of-nowhere, thoughtful gifts (Mireille recently sent Lily the most adorable Thai dress simply because I admired it on her girls. Yes, this is a woman I met only once 5 years ago!). My friend, Haley, who just got home from the Philippines with her beautiful daughter, somehow found the time to remember that I love calamansi juice (OK, so I might mention it on Facebook a dozen or so times a day, but who's counting) and brought me home a bottle from the Philippines.

The adorable, funky Thai dress that my friend Mireille sent Lily

And then there's Agnes. Funky, fun, spunky, Agnes. Yesterday I received the coolest care package full of Philippine treats from my outrageously fun friend, Agnes, from California. For no other reason than we are friends even though 3,000 miles separate us.

Care package of Philippine treats not to be found in Connecticut!

She may be Thai, but Lily is ready to dig into these treats from the Philippines before her Filipina sister gets a hold of them.

What's great about all these friendships is that it doesn't matter where we are in the process; whether we've been home with our children for years, as I have, or are just starting the paper chase, we are always there for each other. We share each other's sorrows, frustrations, and joy. Every time we hear a friend get a referral, it's as if we received the call ourselves all over again. That's how powerful our connections are. That's how much we "get" each other. And that's why I am so grateful for every single one of the friends I have made through this amazing journey called adoption. Whether we ever meet...I love you all!

Are they Yours or Are They Adopted? (Revisited)

2011-11-16T18:51:00.000-05:00

REAL SISTERS!

This is another post I wrote two years ago about how to handle those pesky and intrusive adoption related questions you get while you're trying to eat your dinner at a restaurant, bag your groceries, or shop at the mall.

Sixteen years ago when we adopted Becky from the Philippines, I regularly was badgered, harassed, and otherwise accosted in the supermarket (trapped between the nosey cashier and the probing bagger), department stores, restaurants, and other public places about my daughter's heritage, country of origin, and personal history. Some of the inquiries were harmless and provided me with teachable moments where I could fill people in on the Philippines or on positive adoption language. However, most of the questions were just downright intrusive. Back then, international adoption was not as prevalent as it is today, so our family, living in a predominantly Caucasian suburb, was something of an anomaly. Other than families from our agency, I didn't know anyone else who had adopted. So when I went to the store I got all sorts of queries about my six month old...things like, "Does she have to eat special food?" "What language does she speak?" "Who's her REAL mother?" "What is/was her REAL name?" "How much did it (the adoption) cost?" "Where did she come from?" "Why didn't her REAL mother want her" "God Bless you for what you did...Lord knows, no one else wants these kids" (I am not making up any of these remarks; in fact, the last remark was made to me and a friend by a saleswoman while we shopped at an upscale department store with our 3 year olds). I learned to live with most of the questions and use them to advocate for adoption while keeping my children's personal information private.

As Becky got older, the comments subsided only to resurface when we adopted again, this time from another Asian country, Thailand. Now I get questions like, "Are they REAL sisters?" When I answer, "yes," I invariably get, "You know what I mean." Like I'm the stupid one. When I tell people Lily is from Thailand, many of them respond by telling me she is Taiwanese. Once a 10 or 11 year old child in a store asked her mother loudly, "Is that girl Japanese?" Standing right beside them, I said cheerfully, "Honey, she's from the Philippines." "Same difference," said the mother. All righty then.

Our most interesting and recent incident occured last year when we were out to dinner with the girls. Seated in rather close confines across from a table of two couples, we were blithely enjoying our meals when I got the very uncomfortable sense that we were being stared at. Not just looked at or glanced at but truly gawked at. Finally, I looked up and one of the gentlemen at the table said, "Are they yours or are they adopted?" I debated this question for a second, thinking, “well, yes and yes!” Sure, they're adopted; I'm certainly not ashamed of it (and it's pretty obvious anyway), and they certainly are ours as well.

But before I could respond properly, my fabulous actress daughter looked up at me, mouth agape, and demanded rather loudly, "What? I'm adopted?? You mean you're not my real mom? You're not my real dad? Why didn't you tell me?" It was a priceless moment. Frankly, I wanted to reach over and give her the world's biggest hug. That kind of shut down our friends at the next table and we finished the rest of our meal in peace. I think it's safe to say that those people will never make another adoptive family feel uncomfortable in public again.

So this brings us to the age old question of how to respond to those intrusive questions. Do we just sit back and take them; do we react with anger and frustration; or do we use them as a chance to share positive adoption experiences with people? I normally would opt for the latter; but when my family's personal space is being invaded, when my kids are being made to feel like a circus act, I think it's appropriate to politely shut people down. In this case, I didn't have to, my daughter did it for me!

And, of course, she's known that she was adopted from the second we laid eyes on her and the story of the miracle of her joining our family became part of our family story.

Other adoptive parents...what's the most outrageous comment you've gotten or do you think that people have become more educated and/or more accepting of diversity?

Adorable Multi-Cultural Merchandise for Adoptive Families

2011-11-14T08:00:00.008-05:00

If you are about to bring home that new family member, are looking for some adorable, personalized merchandise, or just want to shop for some one-of-a-kind gifts that celebrate your unique family this holiday season, check out Mandy's Moon. I have been shopping with them for several years now, and have purchased everything from return address labels (our latest--with the address edited out--is shown above), to cards, ornaments, and magnets. Becky still has a magnet of her and her best friend that I bought from the company about 6 years ago. And we used the sweetest return address labels of our new family of four when we sent out Lily's adoption announcements six years ago.

What I love about this small, family run business, is that the folks there are so sensitive to and appreciative of multicultural and adoptive families. As those of you who have adopted children know, that's not always easy to find. But at Mandy's Moon, you'll discover all sorts of great stuff from adoption announcements celebrating your child's birth country (they will personalize the cards with the flag from your child's country, for instance), to luggage tags for that wonderfully, exciting, trip you're going to make, ornaments, adoption "shower" gift bags, tee shirts, bibs, multicultural dolls...you name it.

Mandy's Moon also has personalized items celebrating your child's unique personality and talents. Have dancer in your home? A singer? A gymnast or a black belt? Mandy's Moon has the special gift for your star!

There are gifts and merchandise for every occasion and person imaginable, and each one celebrates what makes you and your family special. Please check out Mandy's Moon for some great holiday ideas!

Philippine Parols Revisited

2011-11-12T16:44:00.000-05:00

Now, I know that all the adoptive folks who follow my blog don't have children from the Philippines, so this re-post is not exactly in keeping with my pledge to keep this month's posts adoption related. But it's close. Because it celebrates my daughter's culture, and reminds me how important keeping in touch with our children's heritage really is. Plus, it's that time of year and this is my most popular post of all time (over 3,000 people have taken a peek). So, even if you don't have a child of Philippine decent, these parols are a fun craft activity to make with your little one!

In her comments to me about my Christmas Tree dilemma, Deborah, asked for instructions on how to make Philippine Parol lanterns. So, here's a post on how to make a kid-friendly version at home. And, trust me, if I, someone who has no patience for crafts, can do this with 25 five-year-olds at one time, you can do it, too!

But first, a little background. Christmas starts early in the Philippines, the only Asian country that celebrates the holiday. Though the season formally begins on December 16th, most Filipinos gear up for the holidays well before that. And making and displaying traditional star lanterns or Parols is a huge part of Christmas in the Philippines. Parols adorn buildings, homes, and streets throughout the country (many still lined some streets on our last trip to Cebu in April). Some are simple, while others are extremely ornate. The real things look like this...

One of the ways in which we celebrate our children's cultural heritages into our family life is by incorporating Thai and Filipino traditions into holiday celebrations. When she was younger, I used to visit Becky's classroom every year around Christmas to share food, song, dance, and crafts from her native land. The kids always loved learning more about the Philippines--a place most of them had never heard of--and it was a great opportunity to discuss adoption and multiculturalism with the students in Becky's class. One year, we even used an old refrigerator box and made the world's cutest jeepney. Another year, I chopped down thick bamboo from our back yard--no easy task; that stuff is tough as nails--and brought it in so the children could learn Tinikling, a traditional Filipino dance.

But the activity the kids always enjoyed most, and one that I shared with my own students every year--was making Parols. I wish I could dig up some pictures of my classroom with all my students' multicolored, bright lanterns hanging from the ceiling. They were spectacular.

If you're interested in making Parols of your own or learning more about Christmas in the Philippines--even if you don't have a connection to the country, it's a very cute holiday activity--this website has some wonderful information on advent in the Philippines as well as instructions on how to make a slightly more complicated version of the stars.

But if you don't want to soak dried bamboo shoots in water for hours or you just want to make your life easy and share some time with your children, try my modified-for-kids Parol. It's mom, teacher, and kid tested and approved! I hope the written directions are clear enough because I haven't added step by step pictures to accompany my directions. That's because I have been crafting with 3-6 year olds for twenty years and this is my year to keep my hands glue free.

Enjoy!

HERE'S WHAT YOU'LL NEED:

Five 1/2" wide x 15-18" long strips of oak tag or thin cardboard (cereal boxes work great) Stapler

Glue (school glue like Elmer's works best)

Large sheets of colored tissue paper, rice paper, or colored cellophane (I like tissue paper best)

Scissors

Paper punch

Yarn/fishing wire

If you've got a paper cutter, bonus!

1. First thing you'll need are five 1/2" wide, 15-18" long strips of oaktag. If you don't have oaktag handy, you can cut up a cereal box. It works just as well. You can make the strips longer than 18" if you want bigger parols, too. If you've got a paper cutter or access to one, this job will be much quicker.

2. After you've cut up the strips, assemble them into the shape of a star and glue them together at each meeting point, including where the strips meet in the center of the star. This is harder than it sounds, because the strips like to slip all over the place. Your life will be easier if you staple them. Just ask all the room moms who volunteered assemble what they thought was going to be this "simple" project for me and then came back with suspiciously less hair on their heads. It will look something like the image above, but not with actual wooden sticks--unless you're a Martha Stewart-type and want to try this; in which case, I don't know what you're doing taking crafting advice from me.

3. Choose two colors of tissue paper for the two sides of your star. Using one color for both sides is fine, but you'll get a cooler effect if you use two. Spread glue thinly and evenly over one side of the star. It's really important that you only put down a thin layer of glue. Otherwise the tissue paper will rip and/or your star will take forever to dry. Lay your first sheet of tissue paper down over the star. Gently smooth over the glue. Allow to set. DO NOT CUT PAPER YET.

4. Flip star over and repeat on the other side.

5. When glue is dry, cut right alongside star frame to remove excess tissue paper.

Now you're ready for some tassels.

6. To make simple tassels, take two 2' long x 4" wide strip of tissue paper and from the bottom cut fringe. Do not cut all the way through the paper.

7. Once you've cut the fringe, fold the paper over onto itself multiple times, flattened down the top and staple at the top. Repeat with the other strip to create another tassel. You should have two full, fluffy tassels.

8. Punch a hole at the top of your tassel above the staple.

9. Punch a single hole in the bottom two points of the star.

10. Attach the tassels to the star with a short strand of yarn

11. Punch a hole in the top of the star and attach fishing wire or more yarn to hang Parol in window or from ceiling. Or, if you're working with two dozen impatient five year olds, staple the tassels and yarn hanger on.

When the sun shines through, you'll see a lovely blend of your two tissue paper colors.

Maligayang Pasko!

Diversity Revisited

2011-11-11T08:00:00.002-05:00

I'm dedicating my blog this month to adoption in honor of National Adoption Month by digging up some of my favorite posts on the subject.

This post on diversity, which I wrote back in August 2010, garnered many thoughtful comments.

I'm so grateful for others in the blogging community. Those who make me think. Those with whom I wholeheartedly agree. Those who make me shake my head in disbelief. Those who infuriate me. Those whose thoughts directly or indirectly encourage me to share my own feelings on a topic. That's what happened the other day when I read TongguMomma's very thoughtful post on diversity. Because, that lady? She sure can make me think.

Like many parents, who have adopted transracially, we've wondered how much diversity our children have needed to feel comfortable, settled and whole. Because I know that what we can give them alone will never quite be enough. This hasn't been an easy feat in our home over the past eighteen years.

We live in a small suburban community that is over 90% Caucasian. Though we have always exposed our children to as much cultural diversity as we can, there have been many times when Becky has been the only minority student in her class at school. Last year, Lily was the only minority in her kindergarten class. This year, she will share her classroom with a little girl from China (not adopted), the only other child of color in her classroom, and one of only a handful at her grade-level.

Worrying about the ratio of Caucasian to minority children in our community used to be something that occupied a lot of my time. I questioned whether my girls--Becky, in particular because she was my first child and I tended to hesitate before trusting my gut instincts as a mom--needed to be raised in a community that more physically resembled them. Should we move? If so,where? Send them to a more racially diverse private school?

But the truth is this. We knew before we adopted our daughters what type of community we lived in. We had an idea of some of the challenges we and they might face. We knew they would have unique needs as transracially adopted children. I figured my job was to help build strong, confident, young women, who were comfortable in their own skins as Filipina and Thai Americans regardless of where we resided. Because no matter where you go--and I've taught in the inner city and in upper middle class suburbia and have pretty much seen it all--racism and prejudice against all sorts of people on a variety of levels is all around us.

Over the years, as Becky started to grow up, I began to look at diversity from a completely different perspective. Because right here in our supposedly very white, very traditional, very Judeo-Christian community, I began realizing something. Hey, maybe we're all not so white or traditional or Judeo-Christian after all. And maybe my kids do fit right in.

As she got older, Becky's circle of friends, while still predominantly Caucasian, became a rich melting pot of wonderfully diverse individuals with so much to share. Many of them, though you may not see it in their skin tone, in their eyes, or in the way they pray, are minorities in their own right. And they, in turn, represent just a microcosm of the community as a whole.

They are gay. They are bisexual. They are straight. They are agnostic. They are Christian. They are Jewish. They come from broken homes. They have traditional families. They have blended families. They are immigrants. They speak the languages of their parent's homelands. They have lived through the divorce and death of parents. They have mothers and fathers with substance abuse problems. They have lost siblings. They are Democrats. They are Republicans. They are fantastically wealthy. They are middle class. Some share our values, our political views, our opinions. Others do not. But they are all amazing human beings.

None of them is adopted. None of them is Asian. But, my daughter? She fits in here. She belongs. These are her people. And, boy...you couldn't ask for a more ecclectic group. Nor a better group from whom to learn.

To have them over at my house is to be surrounded by a plethora of opinions, ideas, and outlooks on life (sometimes all voiced at the same time). I am a 44 year old woman, and I have learned so much, my world has been expanded, my perspectives on life have been challenged, and I have become a more tolerant, loving person because of these young people.

And sadly, some of what stands these kids apart from the mainstream, the very characteristics that uniquely define them and make them so wonderfully diverse, may open them up to prejudice, to scorn, to ridicule, to hostillity, and even to violence. Because hate and fear are all around us even if we look clean cut and Caucasian and upper middle class on the outside.

So, I think about diversity now and what it means to our family. Because it has come to mean more than the color of my daughters' skin or the shape of their eyes or their countries of origin. The world is full of brilliant people and with so many opportunities to reinforce our values with our kids while demonstrating tolerance, understanding, and love. Being a minority can mean more than what people see on the outside. And, with that understanding, we can teach our children to be caring, compassionate citizens of the world to all people.

Exactly as we would expect them to be treated.

A Month of Oldies But Goodies on Adoption

2011-11-09T18:41:00.001-05:00

Over the course of the next few weeks, in honor of National Adoption Month, I will be pulling out some of my favorite blog posts on the subject. Some serious; some humorous. I swear it has nothing whatsoever to do with the 456 standardized tests I have to give my students before report cards are due on Friday. Or the fact that I have to write said report cards. And conference with the parents of my students after distributing the aforementioned report cards. And care for the family while my husband is away on a long term job assignment for a month. And somewhere in there actually teach, too! I promise, it's not because I'm being lazy and don't want to write new material.

I'm recycling. I'm being green.

So without further ado...here's contribution #1 from my blog back in October of 2009.

The Top 10 Things The Parents of Internationally Adopted Children Want You to Know (+1)

Sometimes we adoptive parents are a little too serious about the subject of our kid's adoptions. We're so used to the silly comments and strange looks, that we feel like we must be advocates at all times and we may forget to just laugh about some of the things that are said to us. So, one day my good friend, Wyndee, and I were joking around about the crazy stuff people have said to us over the years. We came up with a list of the Top 10 Things Adoptive Parents Want You to Know. I don't have the list anymore, but I can remember the spirit of the list. David Letterman eat your heart out.

1. I am NOT "just like" Angelina Jolie and though I think he's a real dish, my husband is certainly no Brad Pitt.

2. My six month old doesn't speak any language. She cries, she giggles, she says, "da da da" like every other baby in the world. If she's speaking a language, I sure as heck don't know what it is.

3. I do not have to feed my baby "special food." She's an infant. She's pretty cool with formula.

4. I am her REAL mother. Anyone who gets up in the middle of the night with a screaming child, answers the daily call of "Mommy, will you please wipe my poopies," stays up until mid-night turning a 2' cube shaped cardboard box into a colorful multi-dimentional project explaining the virtues of South Dakota, sings Waindwops on Woses every night before bed...is a real mother.

5. I am not a saint or a really good person for having adopted my children. Please don't thank me for what I've done. Would you stop another woman and say, "Thank you so much for birthing that child?" I adopted my kids for the same reason people give birth to their children: because I wanted a family and this is the way I chose to do it. Really, when you think about it, I did it for pretty selfish reasons.

6. I didn't adopt from the United States because my daughters weren't here. They were in Southeast Asia. And, by the way, how many U.S. born children have you adopted lately?

7. This man is my teenager's father NOT her husband.

8. My children are not "so lucky" that I adopted them. I am so lucky that I adopted them.

9. No, it's not going to happen. I am not going to get pregnant now that I've adopted even if you personally know someone that has happened to.

10. You "pick out" puppies to adopt, not children.

11. No, they're not twins...they're not even the same race! (This one's for you, Wyn)

Ready for your comments! What are the craziest comments you've gotten over the years?