We love you lots and lots, Papi!
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Telling Turo his Story
A couple of weeks ago I was listening to a story about the boy who survived the plane crash in Libya. They were interviewing one of his doctors and asked him if the boy knew his family was gone. The doctor said the time wasn’t right yet, they were waiting for the boy’s extended family to help tell him. I thought, “what if that were Turo?” and then I realized in a way it already was. He did lose everything and it falls to us to break the news, to help him navigate the why behind his loss and the origin of our family.
Even before this news segment, I had been thinking a lot about when Turo will make sense of who he is and where he comes from. Right now he is so innocent. Life is seemingly simple. I’m sure on a subconscious level there are deeply stored memories. But right now for him - we are his parents, he is our son, his needs are provided for, he is happy. Someday this will all become so much more complex.
We refer to his first family and Ethiopia often but haven’t really delved into the explanation of it all. So, I’ve been working on a book for Turo about his adoption. Something we could look at and talk about together. Trying to make a toddler version of a very intense series of events has been difficult. I quickly wrote about the happier moments of meeting him for the first time and becoming a family. I had countless of photos from which to pull. But it has been harder to type the tough stuff, to look at the handful of early pictures we have of him and his family. How do I tell that piece of the story to a two year old?
There isn’t an easy, soft way to do it. I don’t want to skip over the tragic parts, but I also want to protect him from the sadness that will come with understanding. I think that’s why the book is in limbo on Snapfish. I know I need to finish it. I know that this will serve as a starting point to support and encourage a lifetime of future conversations and questions.
But I don't look forward to having to say those heartbreaking words to my sweet son.
Even before this news segment, I had been thinking a lot about when Turo will make sense of who he is and where he comes from. Right now he is so innocent. Life is seemingly simple. I’m sure on a subconscious level there are deeply stored memories. But right now for him - we are his parents, he is our son, his needs are provided for, he is happy. Someday this will all become so much more complex.
We refer to his first family and Ethiopia often but haven’t really delved into the explanation of it all. So, I’ve been working on a book for Turo about his adoption. Something we could look at and talk about together. Trying to make a toddler version of a very intense series of events has been difficult. I quickly wrote about the happier moments of meeting him for the first time and becoming a family. I had countless of photos from which to pull. But it has been harder to type the tough stuff, to look at the handful of early pictures we have of him and his family. How do I tell that piece of the story to a two year old?
There isn’t an easy, soft way to do it. I don’t want to skip over the tragic parts, but I also want to protect him from the sadness that will come with understanding. I think that’s why the book is in limbo on Snapfish. I know I need to finish it. I know that this will serve as a starting point to support and encourage a lifetime of future conversations and questions.
But I don't look forward to having to say those heartbreaking words to my sweet son.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Celebrating May 23rd
There seem to be a wide range of thoughts on what to call and how to acknowledge (or not) the first meeting of child and adoptive parents. I think this is a special day in our family's history and it should be celebrated.
We have a couple of working titles for May 23rd since Gotcha didn't work for us and it didn't seem right to say "the day we became a family" since that has taken much longer. We alternated between, "The Day We Met," and "Meeting Day." Neither is very catchy, but they get the point across.
And since no celebration in our house is complete without candles and singing...
Happy Meeting Day to you.
Happy Meeting Day to You
Happy Meeting Day dear Turo, Mama & Papi.
Happy Meeting Day to You!
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Last Year: The Day We Met
Jose held him first. I knew once I had him in my arms I wouldn’t want to let go. When we were finally together, there weren’t fireworks or tears, I just felt a sense of peace.
The three of us sat on the couch while Travis gave us our Ethiopia/parenting orientation. I handed Turo a baggie of goldfish crackers, which soon provided me with parenting lesson #1 – don’t give a toddler a large amount of any food. Travis tried to give us a sense of Turo's routine, cough medicine administration, the week's in -country schedule and eating habits.
But I was having a hard time paying attention, instead I was thinking "this is our son. We have a son. He's sitting right here. Oh, wait what did Travis just say about the medicine? Look how cute he is. Uh, oh, crackers are getting everywhere. What did Travis say about our driver? I hope Jose is listening. I can't believe this has actually happened." Then, what seemed much too quickly, Travis left. We had been entrusted to care for this little stranger, our child.
We were the first ones to arrive at the guest house, and I was happy that there were very few witnesses to our initial, bungling attempts at parenting. I kept wondering what the lovely women who worked at the Bejoe House thought of us. Turo quickly warmed up to these ladies, and they spoke kindly to him in Amharic. I was glad he had them and hoped they were providing some sense of familiarity for him.
For the rest of the afternoon, we played, we followed him around. I forgot all the Amharic words I had practiced on my daily commute. I spoke to Turo in complete English sentences as though he knew what I was saying. We fed him. We changed him. After a few hours of all this new stimulation, he fell asleep in the middle of our bed. We stared at him for awhile and tried to wrap our minds around what had just happened. We were now three.
The three of us sat on the couch while Travis gave us our Ethiopia/parenting orientation. I handed Turo a baggie of goldfish crackers, which soon provided me with parenting lesson #1 – don’t give a toddler a large amount of any food. Travis tried to give us a sense of Turo's routine, cough medicine administration, the week's in -country schedule and eating habits.
But I was having a hard time paying attention, instead I was thinking "this is our son. We have a son. He's sitting right here. Oh, wait what did Travis just say about the medicine? Look how cute he is. Uh, oh, crackers are getting everywhere. What did Travis say about our driver? I hope Jose is listening. I can't believe this has actually happened." Then, what seemed much too quickly, Travis left. We had been entrusted to care for this little stranger, our child.
We were the first ones to arrive at the guest house, and I was happy that there were very few witnesses to our initial, bungling attempts at parenting. I kept wondering what the lovely women who worked at the Bejoe House thought of us. Turo quickly warmed up to these ladies, and they spoke kindly to him in Amharic. I was glad he had them and hoped they were providing some sense of familiarity for him.
For the rest of the afternoon, we played, we followed him around. I forgot all the Amharic words I had practiced on my daily commute. I spoke to Turo in complete English sentences as though he knew what I was saying. We fed him. We changed him. After a few hours of all this new stimulation, he fell asleep in the middle of our bed. We stared at him for awhile and tried to wrap our minds around what had just happened. We were now three.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Last Year: Anticipation
For the days leading up to our trip, there was a flurry of activity. Packing, saying good-byes, packing some more, coordinating movers, begging help from parents and then packing again. There wasn’t much time to really process all the things that were happening or about to happen.
Then somehow we were there. In Ethiopia. Our agency’s in-country staff person met us at the airport. He introduced us to our driver and then told us he’d be bringing Buturo to our guest house in about an hour and a half. We had waited two years for this moment, flown half way across the world and in 90 minutes we would meet our son.
As we drove through Addis Ababa, I kept saying to Jose “we’re in Africa. In Africa!” I think in the preparation for becoming parents, it hadn’t sunk in that we were also traveling to another continent. The realization of this fact distracted me from the upcoming life changing experience we were about to have.
Until we arrived at the guest house. Then, it hit. We were about to meet our son. OUR SON. And I freaked out. I could barely breathe. I pulled out all items that might help the transition. Goldfish crackers, a puppet, a truck. I paced. I looked out the window countless times. My heart pounded each time the gate opened. I couldn’t engage in any sort of conversation with my husband. I about bit off his head when he turned on the video camera. I didn’t want a record of my extreme nervousness and fear.
Those 90 minutes were excruciatingly slow. I worried about Turo’s reaction to us. I worried about my reaction to him. I worried that I hadn’t read enough to prepare to be his mother. I worried that I wouldn’t remember the 10 or so Amharic words I had tried to learn. I worried that I wouldn’t know what to feed him or how to change him. I just wanted him to arrive so we could get started. I didn’t want to think about it anymore.
Finally, a white Ranger Rover pulled into the compound. With our son.
Then somehow we were there. In Ethiopia. Our agency’s in-country staff person met us at the airport. He introduced us to our driver and then told us he’d be bringing Buturo to our guest house in about an hour and a half. We had waited two years for this moment, flown half way across the world and in 90 minutes we would meet our son.
As we drove through Addis Ababa, I kept saying to Jose “we’re in Africa. In Africa!” I think in the preparation for becoming parents, it hadn’t sunk in that we were also traveling to another continent. The realization of this fact distracted me from the upcoming life changing experience we were about to have.
Until we arrived at the guest house. Then, it hit. We were about to meet our son. OUR SON. And I freaked out. I could barely breathe. I pulled out all items that might help the transition. Goldfish crackers, a puppet, a truck. I paced. I looked out the window countless times. My heart pounded each time the gate opened. I couldn’t engage in any sort of conversation with my husband. I about bit off his head when he turned on the video camera. I didn’t want a record of my extreme nervousness and fear.
Those 90 minutes were excruciatingly slow. I worried about Turo’s reaction to us. I worried about my reaction to him. I worried that I hadn’t read enough to prepare to be his mother. I worried that I wouldn’t remember the 10 or so Amharic words I had tried to learn. I worried that I wouldn’t know what to feed him or how to change him. I just wanted him to arrive so we could get started. I didn’t want to think about it anymore.
Finally, a white Ranger Rover pulled into the compound. With our son.
The wait was over.
It was time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
