Here is what we're dealing with.

Hunger.

Poetry Speaks to Children.

I love sharing poetry with my children. And lately I have become a bit obsessed with trying to find the work of African poets. Today, I searched online: “Ethiopia + poems.” I found a bunch of poems written in Amharic. If only I knew what this said.

Hmmm....

A friend who is (as I type) on her way to Sierra Leone to pick up her newly adopted twins sent me this a week or so ago.

Watch it and tell me it doesn't stir something in you.

Here's what it stirred in me: should we? could we? bring home more than one child?


Scroll down and watch the videos "Orphans of Nkandla" and "Toddlers."

Blood Diamond.

I have a very low tolerance for Hollywood violence. I firmly believe in the right to exercise my choice on whether or not to turn on the television or put in a movie. That doesn’t mean that I don’t watch TV or go to the movies. I do. (Mostly Thursday nights – I love you, Tina Fey!!) That doesn’t mean that I never turn it on for my children. I do. However, I work hard to censor the things that are projected in our living room.

Movie lovers are annoyed by me. I appreciate movies, but again, I have no tolerance for violence. As I child, I was so distraught during Bambi that my mother had to remove me from the theater. At twenty-six I got literally sick to my stomach during the movie Crash. Those who know me know that I am very sensitive. My husband and I joke about it and I’m totally about to lose some respect here, but I generally only watch movies that receive three stars or less. I sometimes try to watch movies just for the art of the film. But usually, I end up troubled for days by what I see.

So, it was with a sense of dread that I picked up Blood Diamond from Blockbuster recently. I did not enjoy watching it. I didn’t enjoy those three hours of my life and wished over and over again that I was doing something else with my time. However, it was a learning experience. I am a more educated and passionate person for having seen it. It’s been haunting me. It’s been keeping me up at night. The scenes that run through my mind physically pain my heart. I’ve found that to be true of the books I’ve been reading as well. I want to learn about this world, but I want badly to close my eyes and for someone to be able to tell me that it’s over.

I’ve always told my students that learning is hard. Learning hurts. Broadening your world is painful, but necessary.

Because I'm slightly addicted.

I have found myself somehow living, more aptly spinning and spying, within this blog-culture for the last six months (see family food blog) and I guess an adoption blog seems like the thing to do. I kept a pregnancy journal with each of the boys, so this will serve the same sort of function, I suppose.

I’d also like to use this as a place to learn about adoption and learn how to talk about adoption. I am a knowledge-seeker. I will use this blog as a place to post the things that I’m reading or looking at and learning about. I have no agenda…other than awareness. If you’re reading, it’s because you want to.

It's a...

...girl?

We’re requesting a baby girl. 6-12 months old. For some reason, this has been very clear to me from the beginning. When I started dreaming about an Ethiopian child in my life, I started dreaming about a little girl. I’ll admit to wrestling with myself thinking, “Can I really choose a gender? Isn’t there something weird and slightly sci-fi about choosing your child’s gender? I wouldn’t genetically pre-dispose a biological child to fit such a preference, why would I insist on that for an adopted child?” These are good questions. And I’m just not sure I’ll ever come up with a good, concrete answer as to why this ultimately feels okay. After swimming around in my mind for a bit, but I’ve pretty much dismissed such questions. Instead, I close my eyes and picture her. She’ll be a daughter, a granddaughter, a niece, and a sister. And she’ll be beautiful. I just know it.

Why Ethiopia?

I remember in college, my mom picked me up one day and took me to an art store somewhere outside of Iowa City—a small town, maybe Solon? Lisbon? I can’t remember. Anyway, I remember it seemed a strange setting for a small shop that was filled with African art and artifacts. I also remember admiring a silver cross crafted in Ethiopia. On that day my mom said, “Ohhhh. The Ethiopians are kingly, beautiful people.” I was intrigued.

Several years later, around the time that J and I got married, my aunt waited for a little boy that she was adopting from Ethiopia. S soon met my aunt in the Minneapolis airport, fresh from Addis Ababa. My family is close. My aunt has been like a sister of me. Her adopting such a sweet boy from Ethiopia had a huge impact.

Fast forward four years to a random Spring morning in 2007. My sister-in-law called early in the day to tell me that she and her husband (J’s brother) were adopting a child from Ethiopia. I believe they were influenced by knowing my cousin S and by their love of Africa. Anyway, the surprise was great. My heart skipped a beat because although it had only been mentioned casually among our extended family, we had already been visiting adoption agencies in Chicago that service Ethiopia.

How could this not seal the deal? How could we not believe God had had this all lined up?

Who knew that J and I would both have family members brought to this country…this pocket of Iowa…from a world away? Our child will grow up with two cousins that look like her, that carry themselves like her, and that share a similar story.

And that’s how we arrived at Ethiopia.

And so we tell the world.

By now, everyone knows. We’ve told our friends. We’ve told our families. My hairstylist knows and so does the woman at Starbucks. My parents found out on Mother’s Day and delighted us by their reaction. J’s parents were informed at Woodfire Grille and are thrilled. There have been hugs all around. Part of “the spiel” is that we’re preparing everyone for a long journey. In that same breath, I think we’re preparing ourselves as well. My estimate is that we’ll be bringing home a baby in the fall of 2009, but I really have no idea how realistic that is. I do know, however, that that is a long time from now. Right now, I’m trying to remain calm. I found out last week that one piece of paper from a therapist that I saw while living in Chicago was being held up a bit. I keep telling myself that it’s fine. This small setback, so early in the process, should not unnerve me. I’m trying to remain Zen-like in our wait. We’re not in a big hurry. The process will unfold as it will and I’ll be sitting back, letting it happen, enjoying the ride. Right?

I know. It’s kind of like how I wrote down the words “Bring it on” in the journal that I was keeping before giving birth to Oliver. I was thinking to myself, immediately after I settled into my hospital bed at Northwestern Hospital, before the Petocin kicked me from behind, “This isn’t so bad. Let’s just do this. Bring it on.” Little did I realize the pain of childbirth.

Regardless, I’m trying to be realistic. I’m trying to be patient. I’m fine.

I’m so obviously and completely naïve.

It begins.

On February 14, 2008 (Valentine's Day), J and I had our pre-adoption conference call with our agency in Minnesota. (We latched on to this agency--the one our bro and sis used--after the ones we had visited in Chicago would not serve us as we now call Iowa home.) Immediately, we sent our application. Here is a picture of J at the computer. We are lucky in that J and I both arrived at this decision on our own. Neither one of us had to convince the other. That has been nice.

And look! He even dressed up in his leather sweater.

And here we go...

The time is right in the plan of our family. We feel we have been ordained to adopt our next child and are so thankful that God has given us this adventure to live through as part of our story. We know the road will be long. This is not a ten-month pregnancy or a walk through the park with our bright orange buggy. We’ve watched family members and new friends endure the weight of adoption. We know that there are challenges inherent to the nature of adoption and we know that it is not an easy endeavor. But we don’t really feel like we have a choice. Somehow God chose us to parent a child with different DNA. And in our eyes, this is a tremendous honor. How did we get to be so lucky?

...

The man and woman went on to have a baby boy…their second big-eyed bundle. The baby was welcomed home by a bouncing blond big brother who insisted on wearing navy blue snow boots and practicing Power Ranger moves daily. The new baby was a delight…an easy spirit and a good sleeper. Even during this happy and peaceful time they remembered the moment in the doctor’s office, the agencies they had visited, the things they had learned. They were careful not to let time and life let the realization fade away.

...

There was a litany of doctors. Neurologists, maternal fetal specialists, obstetricians, anesthesiologists. Everyone agreed: the couple could go ahead and try to have another biological baby. They were cautious, but pleased. Soon, they announced a second pregnancy to their family over Chinese food. The woman felt great. Healthy. Relaxed. The man was excited, too. But they both remembered the long road they had walked during the months before. It was so fresh and they were so curious that, before this pregnancy physically announced itself, they visited several adoption agencies. They listened to experts and began reading. The young woman enlisted prayers from her beautiful praying friends, not just for a healthy second pregnancy, but for the very idea of adoption. It was 2005 and there were already people praying around adoption.

Once upon a time...

...there was a Maternal Fetal Specialist at Northwestern Hospital in Chicago, IL who, pointing to a small abnormality on a picture of a young woman’s brain said, “There is no scientific explanation as to why this happened to you. We just can’t explain it.”

In the exact same moment, an overwhelming voice occupied the heart of the young man looking at the picture that said, “I did that. I put my finger on her brain and left my mark on your family forever.” The young man swears he felt the presence of God in that sterile white-walled office and a nudge toward adoption.

The young woman (whose remarkable brain was being discussed) noticed to, although she had already received the message. It was clear to her shortly after she suffered a small stroke? a crazy migraine? (no one was really ever able to say) and was faced with the prospect of not having another biological child. She knew they would adopt. She decided on the way home from the hospital, in a red car cruising up Lake Shore Drive. Adoption entered her consciousness and she was okay with it. Surprisingly calm. Excited, in fact.