art from the lost planet

Supermercado Numero Uno

2012-01-26T14:25:00.002-05:00

The supermercado in this town is a trip. I love it.

The store is no bigger than a convenience store at home, but don't let the size fool you. There's lots going on inside- always a real hive of activity. There is a horse pasture to the right of the building fenced off with barbed wire. This pasture was a parking lot last time we were here. The front of the store is so cluttered you must negotiate through precariously leaning towers of beer bottles and huge racks holding gallons of purified water.

Now that you've entered the store you give yourself a minute to let your eyes adjust to the dimness. You make a b-line straight for the produce section in the far corner. Here you find large wooden bins holding red onions, pineapples, limes, key limes if you're lucky, papayas, long root things covered in dirt that you decide must be cassava, softball sized avocados, potatoes, cubanell and bell peppers, fat carrots that you never buy because you prefer skinny carrots, and eggplants that you always buy because they're the best eggplants you've ever tasted. You make your selections and place them on another counter nearby. You know better than to present the produce at the checkout. You've learned this much.

You pick out a cold beer to buy. Anything cold is a luxury, but especially a cold beer.

Then, you scout the rest of the store. You head straight for the non perishables. Here you find a cat taking a nap inside the box of dry beans sitting on the floor. You notice the array of colorful labels on products and think about Andy Warhol. There are brand names like Don Rodrigo and Ranchero. Occasionally during these forays into the store's innards you emerge holding a prize like balsamic vinegar or some other exotic product that you did not expect to find. On those days you are thankful for the expat community here.

It's time to start the process of waiting in line to pay. You find a place near the counter and stand patiently. Your daughter asks you who the man on the calendar behind the counter is. You tell her it's Jesus. She asks you what he's doing with his hands. You tell her he's making a mudra with his hands like Buddha does. She gets that.

You begin to feel impatient. You look at the design of the store. You re-design the store in your head making it more streamlined and efficient. Then you berate yourself for always thinking like an American. You wonder how long it would take living in a foreign country to ever shake that mind set. You think it would probably take a long time, and even then there would still be vestiges.

You look around at the products for sale at the counter. There are single maxi-pads for sale behind the counter. Sadness fills your heart for the women and girls who can only afford enough pesos to buy one pad, and you imagine their shame at having to ask for it behind the counter from these macho guys who work here. You remember how when you worked at the book store the bibles were always closest to the counter because they were the most likely book to be stolen. You imagine that's the same thing with these pads. Your heart aches for that kind of desperation. You notice the name brand of the pads is "Nosotras" (the feminine form of "us") and you think about what a lie that is, so seemingly all inclusive, and you begin imagining the fat cats in the marketing board room who named it that. Most certainly they were men. You start thinking about all of the corporations who are ruling people's lives, and you get angry at the world's endless injustices.

You've been waiting here for a really long time. You become concerned about the fleeting coldness of your beer.

You listen to the slang Spanish whizzing past your ears with it's strange sounding cadences, and you wonder where a good place to go to Spanish immersion school again would be. You think Ecuador because the Spanish there is beautiful and so easy to understand. Ecuador was the place you had your first dream in Spanish. That seems like a sign.

Your child wants to ride your hip like a baby, which causes any new person who walks into the store who sees this white woman holding a black child to pause and consider this strangeness. Your daughter grips your neck tightly, and you are thankful that she does. You remember when she was a baby how she never held on, and how you walked around with a ready self defense against those who might accuse you of having kidnapped her.

There's another white couple in the store now. The guys who work here are oogling the blonde headed baby. So that's what's taking so long. You wonder what nationality the blonde family is- you haven't heard them speak. You go through a list of all of the possibilities then admonish yourself for thinking in such stereotypical ways.You get into an argument with yourself about how one would go about determining someone's national identity without using stereotypes. The dad of the family is wearing a Ramone's shirt. You imagine randomly saying to him, "Gabba Gabba Hey" in order to illicit a response that would tell his language and therefore his nationality. Then it hits you: your bangs are like Joey Ramone's. You promise yourself to pin them back with a barrette as soon as you get home.

Now things are starting to move in line. It's your turn. Each transaction requires the work of four men:

One man is over where you left your produce sitting. His job is to weigh it all and call out the weights. One man punches the numbers into a calculator and takes the money.

One man's sole responsibility is to give the customer change from the drawer.

The other man puts your purchases into a bag. Sometimes he forgets to put all of your things into your bag. You watch for this remembering your missing package of crackers last time.

You leave the store. You put down your dark sunglasses which have become a crucial tool in ignoring the stares of passerbys who can't help but notice that your family doesn't match. You walk out into the noise of the busy, motorcycle filled street. You notice an old woman sitting in the shade across the street who is staring at you. You tip your head ever so slightly in a greeting in her direction. You think about what her life must be like, you try to imagine how she sees the world when she looks out through those incredibly wise eyes of hers, and you wonder about what kinds of head trips she gets on. You consider how this old woman would react to your local supermarket experience at home- would she be fascinated or would it be old hat? Has she maintained throughout her life a wonder at the weirdness of it all? Will you?

Pretending To Live Here

2012-01-24T10:28:00.003-05:00

We've settled into a little groove here. No surprise there- the groove was easily attainable given our tropical surroundings. Our rental house is fabulous and has exceeded our expectations. We have gorgeous views of turquoise water from our front porch where we can watch fishermen bringing in their boats each day. The house is surrounded by a wild garden with all sorts of flowers and vines and nooks and crannies for Dew Drop to explore. Yesterday she brought us a green mango that she found which lead to the discovery of a mango tree growing right near the house. We have plantains that we pick from our back porch, then fry them up for dinner. We have a cabana in the garden where we hung our hammocks we brought from home. Oddly hammocks don't seem to be a popular furnishing among the locals or expats here.

The days are going quickly though. We rise early, sweep out the sand from our house, hand wash whatever laundry we have from the day before, hang it on the clothesline, eat papaya and oatmeal for breakfast, and then go to the beach. We're teaching Dew Drop how to play Uno. And Babba has begun reading The Wizard of Oz books to Dew Drop! They spend a lot of time swinging in the hammocks in the land of Oz. When he mentioned that he was going to read the Oz books to Dew Drop I admit that I kind of doubted that she'd be old enough to pay attention or to understand. I was wrong. It proves the necessity of always reading up from the level you think your child is on.

Of course, everything is yin and yang- even in paradise. It's a blessing to have this uninterrupted time with Dew Drop. When things are good they are very, very good. And when things are bad, well, you know the rest. She gets bored with us, I think, and we get bored of pretending to be three years old. This trip has really amplified our feelings of desperately needing another child in our family. It's really frustrating to realize that it's out of our control- so much so that it overwhelms me and it makes me want to beat my head head against a coral reef. While that might feel cathartic to do, it wouldn't bring us baby brother any sooner (in fact, if a potential adoptive parent were to do such a thing they would likely not be approved to adopt anymore- that's the rub!) So we wait, and toss around possible life stories of what it's going to look like if we never adopt again, and how it will be if Dew Drop is an only child.

One of the best parts of traveling with Dew Drop is witnessing her reaction to her world expanding. Where we live children are always with adults- especially when they're out in public somewhere. Here, kids play freely. Dew Drop is on the verge of being able to run with the local kids- and has had some really cool play times- but she's still shy and scared of really cutting free. She's realized that there's a language barrier, and has vowed to learn Spanish so that when she's a big kid she can run and play. The local kids think Dew Drop is a Dominican, and therefore can't accept the fact that her Spanish is very limited. They sort of think she's pretending not to understand or that maybe she's dissing them. So their worlds expand, too- to hang out with a kid who doesn't look like her parents and doesn't speak their language even though she looks like she should.

So life rolls on here- to the point that I don't know what day it is. I dig that.

Off to play Old Navy for the umpteenth time (Old Navy is a Dew Drop-ism for Old Maid). Do they play Old Maid, Uno, or matching games in Vegas? If so I think this little family could take Vegas by storm.

No words necessary

2012-01-21T10:15:00.004-05:00

How We Roll. And Why We Roll.

2012-01-15T18:27:00.006-05:00

Two years ago we went here. It was so nice- such easy living- so we're going back.

No trip is complete without bulk nuts-because we're nuts.

We're going heavy on the whole grains, organic peanut butter, and green tea- all of which we will not be able to buy where we're going. Not shown are the books (yes, we're bringing a Kindle loaded with books, but we have 3 voracious readers to accommodate), two yoga mats, two hammocks, one portable toddler cot, baby dolls and toys, art supplies, one ukulele, Spanish workbooks and flash cards, curry and berbere spice, and this:

What is this? This, my friends, is a home made portable fishing rod that Babba made loaded with 50 pound weight. He's also bringing various hooks and lures, and a pair of gloves (he's anticipating catching fish with potentially sharp fins).

This is a man with a fishing plan.

We travel because if we don't we'll go stir crazy. We travel because we get bored with ourselves and our normal life. We travel because that's what we've done every year for the past 10 years. We love the world, and it's important for us to remember that.

We traveled last year to Thailand and while we were there this happened. We're hoping this year's trip won't be dominated by such awful grief and terror.

It's been unbloggable because up until a few days ago it was still a possibility, but now that it's over I can tell the story: right before Thanksgiving we received an e-mail from our homestudy social worker. The e-mail presented us with a little background information on a two year old boy who needs a family through Department of Social Services.

Our social worker asked us if we wanted to be considered.

On a whim we said YES.

The boy sounded delightful.

We fell a little bit in love with the idea of him.

We knew it would be a long shot though.. We knew we wouldn't be chosen. Neither of us have ever been chosen for anything. But still....just the thought that it was a possibility shot us to unknown territories on The Adoption Freaky Scale. Anytime the phone would ring we would both instinctively jump with racing hearts. Then, after the call wasn't our social worker or DSS we would each deny that we thought it was going to be them.

We were in real pickle about what to do. Should we stay here and wait for the phone to ring or should we still plan a trip this year? If we stayed home it would have been the first time in 10 years that we didn't go somewhere. We really didn't know what to do. Since we hadn't heard anything back from Department of Social Services we decided to go. So a few days ago we asked to not be considered for him anymore. Adoption is really tough stuff- for everyone involved- including ourselves.

We've been waiting for 17 months to adopt another child into our family.

It's a weird mindset to be in.

We need a break from thinking about it and from

waiting for the phone

to ring.

Hasta luego, amigos! I hope to blog a bit while we're there.

p.s. did you know that today as National De-lurker Day? If you've never left a comment before you should. All the cool kids are doing it.

And On The Ninth Day There Was Chia.

2012-01-14T10:48:00.003-05:00

For all of you arm chair cleansers out there, let me introduce you to chia. More precisely, my lemonade, grapefruit chia drink I'll be drinking for most of the day. I'm coming off of my cleanse now.

I had an avocado yesterday sprinkled with salt that will stick in my memory for a long time to come.

Green smoothies are a mainstay.

I'm drinking fresh juice by the bucket full all day long.

I feel like a new person.

And I look like one too.

Eagerly anticipating a more in depth cleanse during April or May

I would have loved to continue my cleanse for another few days but I need to prepare my system for traveling next week (yay!).

When Life Gives You Lemons...

2012-01-10T13:44:00.004-05:00

...go on a freshly squeezed lemonade cleanse.

The Master Cleanse consists of only drinking lemon juice, cayenne pepper, and grade B maple syrup. It's quite tasty. You eat nothing while you are cleansing. Yes, you heard me- nothing, zip, nada, zilch.

I'd advise anyone who's serious about doing The Master Cleanse to get yourself a copy of the book. It's good to know what you're doing and why you're doing it. Why I'm doing it is that I've had some pretty serious upper respiratory infections during the past 6 months- and I had what I believe was probably strep throat (I had a sore throat from Christmas up until 3 days ago). I wasn't into taking antibiotics again. The first night of the cleanse my sore throat was gone.

I'd tried doing The Master Cleanse in August when Baldwin did it. I only lasted 3 days. This time I "eased in" using green smoothies from recipes in this book that my friend gave me. I think easing into the cleanse this time has made all the difference- my cleanse has been relatively easy and pleasant.

The Master Cleanse tells you that first thing every morning you must drink 4 cups of sea salt water, and then wait until your body "eliminates" all that it has until you can have your first lemon drink of the day. Drinking the salt water is my least favorite part of the cleanse. It just tastes gross.

This is your brain.

This is your brain on a cleanse.

I've felt very light. Very silly. Very aloof. Granted, having not eaten since last week I have nothing to weigh me down. The hunger is intense at times- I'll admit that. If I hadn't felt dramatic results within the first day I would probably not have the gusto to continue. My first day of cleansing I felt like I'd received an entire face lift in my sleep. Complete with brand new, supple skin. My hair is shinier than it's been in years. I no longer have bags under my eyes. I've also been given a bionic sense of smell that's a direct result of the cleanse.

I feel like doing this cleanse is giving me a really good perspective on my health and my diet. Even though I don't eat processed or artificial foods (no way, baby, slow foods here at The Lost Planet) I haven't been eating enough raw food in my diet. I too often rely upon bread and cheese to fill out meals. I also see that I don't have to succumb to having a middle aged woman's body. I've already lost an entire inch off of my ass. I could have worked out for a year and never had that result. I'm not doing the cleanse for weight loss, but I'm certainly not going to turn my nose up at losing a few inches here and there.
And the face lift doesn't hurt either.

In other news: this, my friends, is a berry stand...made of playdoh.
Seems Babba's cleanse induced berry farming mania continues.

The Lost Plant-it

2012-01-07T08:29:00.009-05:00

(Or How Four Books Are Changing Our View Of Our Reality And Inspiring Us to Plant Even More Food Than We Already Grow)

The universe has aligned in just such a way as to make us, here at The Lost Planet, reassess our very existence. Do you ever read a succession of books that all link together in a way? That's what's happened to us lately. It started with this book:

Of all the Buddhist books we've read, this one is very high ranking. It took me a month or more to finish it because I had to put the book down after each section to let what I'd read simmer. This is the perfect book for westerners to begin understanding Buddhism. Jack Kornfield has a gift in explaining Buddhist psychology in a way that makes sense. I came away from the book feeling a deep sense of peace. Sounds like a bunch of hokum, huh? Try reading it. I bet you'll feel all peaceful and centered, too.

You're going to want to feel all peaceful and centered before you pick up this 600 page gem:

Seriously, The Culture of Make Believe is the most ass kickingest book I think I've ever read (I think Babba would agree, but he's busy making oatmeal and I don't want to bother him.). Derrick Jensen unravels the nature of hate. It's not leisurely reading- be prepared to confront the atrocities of the Klu Klux Klan, Union Carbide, J.P Morgan, and Weyerhouser to name a few. This untangling of hate is so profoundly emotional, so soul wrenching, that it makes you loathe this entire civilization and what built it. Derrick Jensen is sort of a mixture of Tim Wise and Edward Abbey. He has this amazing ability to connect the personal with the planetary. I'd go so far as to say this book should be required reading for everyone everywhere. Read this. Please.

Auspiciously, we'd also checked this book out from the library:

We admit to having been very heavily influenced by 1960's hippy counterculture- especially the architecture. The 'make do with what you have' ethos permeates our little hand made compound. But more than the architecture, it's the reasons that people chose to drop out of society that are so fascinating to us- because honestly, we are kind of society drop outs ourselves. It's no surprise that we loved this novel partially set in a hippy commune in California in 1968. The other part of the novel features back to the land/ homesteading/ survivalist/ fur trappers in Alaska. It's a book we couldn't put down. We laughed out loud. You care about the characters as if they are your brothers and sisters, with all of their middle class American flaws. It's supremely enjoyable. One of those novels that you'll remember for a long time to come.

Coming off of the Drop City high, we were curious to read a book written by someone we know:

Jim Minick and his wife, Sarah, planted 1,000 blueberries not far from our house. We used to go there to pick berries, and honestly it was one of the most impressive and beautiful organic farms our eyes have ever seen. They've since moved on. They sold their farm, and sadly the new owners no longer have a 'pick your own' business there.

This book has kindled more than a spark of excitement around The Lost Planet. We've always farmed for ourselves. We have many friends who sell at the farmers market, but we never have. House cleaning is our gig- it's flexible and supplements our art making. House cleaning is not fulfilling on many levels- and it doesn't utilize any of the farming skills that we have acquired. We're to ready to make a change. We want to be For Real Farmers. Finding a new home for the goats has reinforced for us how much we enjoy plants more than animals. Babba's pacing the land counting off square footage, and figuring how many berry plants we can fit. He's up at night thinking about solar powered fencing and irrigation. He's like a mad man- a farming hyper spaz. True, he's been fasting and cleansing for six days which is giving him dizzying amounts of energy for such daydreams. It feels like what we should do though. To be farmers. Real Farmers. I think so. I really do. And being farmers fits into The Found Plan. (have I mentioned The Found Plan on this blog? I may not have. Basically, it's our long term/5 year plan of how we want our family to be and the life we want to live. I'll talk more about it in future posts as the details of The Found Plan become more clear.)

Dew Drop's Dollhouse Drama

2012-01-03T13:57:00.005-05:00

Dew Drop lives next door to her grandmother, who we call Nannee. Nannee is the one with the cool doll house. Dew Drop and Nannee spend hours upon hours together playing with it. Nannee has a cat, Katrina, who also plays with the doll house. It's a source of constant amazement, for Nannee and Dew Drop both, that Katrina cat loves the doll house so much. Dew Drop tells epic stories of Katrina using her paws to play with the dolls inside the doll house. Nannee has blogged about it here .

I guess real life mirrors old school Sesame Street.

Adoption Freaky Scale, Ras Ma-kor-kor, and French New Wave

2011-12-24T19:10:00.005-05:00

First, The Adoption Freaky Scale. I'm just going to spare those casual readers from the unsavory details about adoption. Those are selfish details and those are details tied directly into the broader scope of global adoption. It ain't easy stuff, folks. That said, imagine that right after that red dot on the very right hand side of The Adoption Freaky Scale the yellow line just continues...it goes on and on and then circles back around again. That's where we are. That's where our hearts are. It's like a gigantic loop-t-loop. Some days it's fine but most days it's not.

Ras Makorkor (spelled phonetically in case you're wondering). Ras means head in Amharic. Makorkor means tickle in Amharic. Tickle head= Ras Makorkor and that's what we're all calling ourselves in our family now- It's our joke that always brings laughs . Dew Drop and I had our first (and hopefully not our last) Amharic lesson last weekend. I asked Dew Drop before we went what her first five words in Amharic to learn were:

-Banana (pronounced in English by Dew Drop as 'bamana'): mooz

-Sky: semay

-Tree: zaf

-Tickle: ma-kor-kor

-Water: ooh-ha

But seriously? My girl needs to know Amharic. At least a little. She's got a family in Ethiopia she needs to be able to talk to. She's recognized all of the time as being Habesha by other people out in public- they want to know if she speaks Amharic or not. I can't stand the thought of her not knowing at least how to be polite. It tears me apart inside. We're going to Ethiopia in 2012, and I'm serious about learning. No pressure on Dew Drop, but I would love to hear her speaking very, very basic Amharic before we go. And I wouldn't mind her being polite either. But polite or not polite, this runs to the very root of being internationally adopted in America. To deprive her of her language, of her basic right to speak, is another loss that she doesn't deserve. She's Ethiopian and I really hope that one day she will claim that identity as part of her own. I am committed to do my part of that work.

Now for French New Wave cinema. Have I mentioned on this blog how much I love it? Watched

" À Bout de Souffle " (that translates as "Breathless" in English) last night via Netflix. If I could pick a time period to live in I think I would choose that- not the real life time period but the life that's portrayed through film. It's early 60's, it's black and white, I love the style, I love the weirdo plots and I love the dialogue. I know that I really love this genre of film because I can't describe my love for it. That's a good indicator. Good grief, how many times can a girl use the word "love" in one paragraph without disgusting herself? That remains to be seen. But it gives me happiness, and it inspires me to take pictures and films. And it makes me love artists and art, and it makes me want to wear dramatic eye makeup and smoke cigarettes that cast a fog all around the room. And it makes me want to be obscure and existential. Not that I needed more encouragement.

Hanging Out With "If It Takes A Whole Life"

2011-12-20T15:15:00.007-05:00

There's a certain delight in finally meeting a long time blog friend in real life. It makes you want to party and dance.

Dew Drop and Clementine had just one day together, yet they managed to cram in as much best friend type stuff as they could- which included spontaneously deciding to take a bath together...

Supposedly taking a nap together (though there were giggles the whole time)...

and burying themselves in a leaf pile.

I sometimes feel sorry for husbands (and sons) of bloggers. It must seem so crazy and so pointless. I don't think guys have the need to communicate with each other the way most women do. I didn't feel sorry for these guys, though- it was too much fun and I sort of think they knew it.

Can we just pretend for one moment that my eyes are open? I'm posting this as proof of this epic meeting in real life. It needs to be documented.

Seriously, these girls have a strong friendship already. It was unbelievable to see. I kept asking myself why we hadn't gotten together sooner?

I'll congratulate myself for only now, this far into this post, finally uttering the only word that can describe these girls: *cuteness*

Chillin' in the pyramid.

I'd read Rachel's blog, "If It Takes A Whole Life, " since, well, forever basically. There's something so unbelievable about meeting a blog friend in real life. I can't really describe it. I think it's my favorite thing. I love it because it eliminates so much of the background talk that you have to do in order to make a new friend. We don't have to waste our time with all of that- I already know they were in Greece for 3 months (I was there too via their blog!), so we can jump directly from there into conversations all over the place that are meaningful and deep.
And with meeting a blog friend in real life, you already know that you are going to dig this person. And then your families dig each other and it starts feeling like you're going to know these wonderful
people
for a long time.

The morning after our epic day, I awoke with such a huge amount of gratitude to the universe for having new friends. Then, as I'm prone to do, I began to lament. I worried about how much time we've already missed. Why didn't we meet sooner? How could we have let this time lapse?
Think of all of the fun things our families could do together!
I'm just so thankful that we met when we did.
And I'm thankful that it didn't take a whole life.

Santa and the Dominant Culture

2011-12-13T18:52:00.006-05:00

An Open Letter for People Who Stop My Daughter In The Grocery Store and Ask Her If She's Excited For Santa:

First of all, nice to meet you. Up until five seconds ago we were complete strangers. I'm sure if it were any other season other than Christmas you'd avoid my friendly glance and most likely would not return my greeting. But now that you're here, in our faces, spreading your good cheer, asking Dew Drop repeatedly, "Are you ready for Santa?" I guess there's no way to avoid you and all of your holiday weirdness.

When Dew Drop looks at you like you are crazy she is right. We don't celebrate Christmas the way you do. She has no idea who you're talking about when you talk about Santa. Sure, she's seen the image of the fat man wearing a red suit, but she calls him The Christmas Boy. It's no accident that she doesn't know about Santa- we're protecting her from mass consumer culture with all of our might. She doesn't see any advertising, and that's no easy task. We work hard at it.

Has it ever, in a million years, occurred to you that not everyone is just like you? That people have their own belief systems- and that those belief systems are just as important to them as yours are to you? That those belief systems were chosen with thought and care, and that they're sacred? And that by ignoring those belief systems you are fundamentally disrespecting that person and everything that's important to them?

When I try to step in to the conversation you're having with my daughter about Santa, to try to give you a grownup wink that we're not celebrating the holiday the way you do (wink wink nod nod), you ignore me. I try to change the subject or to politely dodge your Santa questions on Dew Drop's behalf, then you pull out of your hat what you think is the one thing that every child will respond to:

"Are you being good for Santa?"

So you've resorted to scare tactics? That's why you shove Santa down our throats? To hope that with the thought of some weird old fat man watching over our every deed we'll follow directions and do what we're told? And what if we don't? Then no plastic toys? That's just sick. Ho ho ho.

I'm protecting my daughter from the idea that gigantic blow up Santas in your yard are something to value. Those inflatable Santas were all most likely made in China by people who probably have no idea who Santa is let alone revere him, and who work long hours in sub-human working conditions to make this Very Important Idol even if in the early part of the morning the Santas are sad piles of plastic on your frozen lawn because they were unplugged from their extension cords that connect them like umbilical chords to coal burning power plants.

Imagine, if you will, a world where we all embraced loving our earth with the same gusto as we celebrate Black Friday? If rather than people getting tazered or trampled to death to enter a Wal-Mart they were waiting in long lines at their chance to dismantle a hydro-electric dam so that a river may run free? Or what if the day after Thanksgiving was the day we woke up at midnight to sort out the recyclables at our local landfill- work that can only reliably be done by hand? What if we were all chomping at the bit to take down barbed wire fencing to create greenways for wildlife? What if?

One more thing? Spare me the grinch shit. What a tool to enforce your view of reality and your dominant culture! It reminds me of "If you're not with us then you're against us." It's just completely wrong and I resent being forced into some kind of Grinch role. I'm no Grinch. I bet I've given more to charity in the last year than you have- and donated my time volunteering in my community while you were out shopping buying a bunch of shit destined for the landfill. So who's the Grinch now, baby?

Sincerely,

Mother of Dew Drop,
creek walker
cloud admirer
soil builder
defender of what I hold dear.

The Lost Planet Cinema Presents: Wise Why's

2011-12-10T14:09:00.002-05:00

This is our version of a kids' educational cartoon.
Imagine this video as a cartoon segment on Sesame Street
or
Yo Gabba Gabba.
That was the inspiration
anyway.
(Ironic
since Dew Drop has refused any
cartoons
for
months
now.)

4 Haiku About Waiting

2011-12-07T10:15:00.004-05:00

Sixteen months waiting-
Firewood shed overflows.
Get me out of here.

Four hands now to count

Clouds take form then float away-

Winter not yet here.

I suck at waiting
vitamin D seems to help
though sun is best

Winter coming on
it could happen anytime now
snow or referral

A Family Who Rocks Together Stacks Rocks Together

2011-12-03T16:33:00.006-05:00

Portrait of the Artist as a rock stacker.

Even when you think the rock stack is finished, you can always fit another rock. There's always more balance to be found.

Walking from one stack to another. There are many stacks now, but not nearly enough.

The artist says the biggest rock stack has at least a ton of rocks in it if we were to weigh it. The biggest cairn was built by Babba and his friend, Matt Dowdy, when Mama and Dew Drop were away on their October girls' weekend. It's the way male bonding happens when both builders are artists with a lot of brute strength and some beer.

Lest you think there is no color in this winter world of sticks that look like bones. Behold the vibrancy!

It's always a good idea to stop and shake it while you're working.

The artist's apprentice.

This is a good time to mention that I cried laughing while taking these pictures. Here is my daughter standing in the creek working so diligently on collecting rocks for the sculptures while wearing zebra boots. And here is my husband, randomly digging with a shovel in the winter sun to route the creek so that the water swirls around the rock stacks just so. My husband is dressed in what I call His French Cheesemaker's Outfit- it looks like he lives in the French countryside and is the farmer of some special breed of cattle I've never heard of that is known for it's role in making the most delectable, earthy cheese that I can't pronounce.
Is this my life or am I dreaming?

The creek wiggles and winds down through the holler with the rock stacks. I'm a sucker for the harsh shadows and reflections this time of year and the sound the water makes as it trickles
on down to where it meets the big river. This is one big collaboration with nature- these rock stacks and water continue on
even when we're not present
and
when we're not looking.

Stop and pet the hound dog.

Stop and kiss the apprentice.

A kiss for Babba, Rock Stacking Extraordinaire.

Happiness rules. So does making art in nature-together, as a family.

S is for.....

2011-12-02T21:37:00.000-05:00

R is for?

2011-12-02T21:04:00.002-05:00

Vaya Con Dios, Goaties.

2011-11-26T12:52:00.005-05:00

Sometimes you just have to admit defeat in life. That's what we did the other day when we decided to find a new home for our goats. I've written about the goats here.

Babba came home all red in the face after another time of trying to fix their fences. He's put hundreds of hours and dollars into their pastures and enough is enough.
But goats are goats are goats and goats
like
to
break
free.

I put an ad on feecycle and craigslist. "3 free pygmy goats. Trained to hike like dogs. Great with children. Must have goat proof fencing already. Photos upon request."

Within minutes we had a taker. I asked her if she knew what she was getting into. She'd had goats before she told me.
She was positively ecstatic about getting more.

When she came to pick them up the next day she chose to put the largest goat up front
inside the truck
and the other two in a gigantic dog crate in the back.
Only in Appalachia I thought.

It feels weird to not have goats anymore. I'm now a former goat girl.
I'll no longer be singing my goat song "dip dip dip dip dip" through these valleys and woods.
My days of lying in the field with them watching them graze are gone.
It feels good to have found them a home.
I'm relieved.
Just
like
a
goat
my
freedom
is
important
to
me.

Call Me Sister. Big Sister.

2011-11-20T08:18:00.005-05:00

I'm a Big Sister now. As in Big Brother and Big Sisters. I've been matched with a girl who is a kindred spirit. She's seven and spunky and smart. So far we've made chocolate chip cookies, painted our nails, gone on several long nature hikes, and spent many hours working on her math homework. My little sister faces all sorts of adversity and challenges, but my job is just to be a friend and hang out. I've always wanted to be a Big Sister. I've always wanted to volunteer. I don't want to be one of those people who walk around with all sorts of theories about how to make the world a better place, but never lift a finger.

On my first "outing" with my Little Sister I was nervous. I'm actually quite shy. I worried whether or not she would like me. I put myself in her shoes and felt how nervous she must have felt hanging out with me for the first time. In the car I wondered what soundtrack to listen to. I wanted to make sure that it wasn't something too overpowering should we find ourselves in an ice-breaking conversation. I searched through my choices and settled upon Gregory Isaacs. His smooth voice seemed like the perfect choice.

It was a short ride across town to the coffee shop. Gregory sang to us. I sang along with Gregory. (And yeah, I can call him Gregory because even though he passed away several months ago he and I are still really close.) I looked in the rear view mirror at my new Little Sister and she didn't seem outwardly embarrassed at this crazy white lady singing while driving. Things were looking up. That tends to happen when you listen to good reggae.

After we settled down at our table at the coffee shop with sharpened pencils and math worksheets I suddenly realized that the soundtrack in the coffee shop was the exact same song we were listening to in the car. We picked up right where we left off! Seriously, what are the chances of that happening? It was Gregory! I'm not saying Gregory is completely rare and obscure reggae- but he's not the living legend that Bob Marley is- put it that way. Gregory was speaking to me. At that moment I became suddenly aware that I was having my second "Reggae Moment Of My Life Involving Gregory Isaacs." I knew that my relationship with my Little Sister was meant to be, and I was flooded with the knowledge that I was right where I was supposed to be doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing. Gregory told me so.

My first "Reggae Moment of My Life Involving Gregory Isaacs" happened on my first taxi ride in Africa. We'd flown into Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania the day before. We got our bearings, adjusted to our jet lag, and got a taxi. I'm a sucker for car rides in foreign countries. It's something about being an anonymous voyeur behind glass that lets me really absorb my surroundings. People were walking to work or the market that morning- the women were dressed so beautifully. I looked down at my olive drab clothing and wondered how the hell could I have ever bought these boring clothes let alone chose to wear them? Our taxi drove onto a ferry where we waited to cross a river. There were other cars, and there were people standing all around our taxi. And Gregory Isaacs was playing! Babba and I looked at each other. We sang along. People were grooving along and so were we. My travel nerves started melting away in that instant. I felt at home here in this place I'd never been. Gregory was with us. I felt like Gregory was personally welcoming us to Africa, mon.

Exclusive Interview With Mommysquared!

2011-11-17T13:51:00.004-05:00

Word went out that there was an adoption blog interview project underway, and would I like to be linked up with someone to interview- and to be interviewed? Absolutely! It sounded like fun to get to ask someone questions about their life, and to answer questions about my life (you might be surprised to know that my dream is to be on the NPR show "This American Life" so I thought of this as a sort of practice run.)

My interview partner's name is Mommysquared. She's the adoptive mother of two beautiful daughters. Their adoptions were open domestic adoptions. You should check out her blog if you want a chance to witness this amazing family. So without further adieu I present my interview with Mommysquared:

1. Why did you originally start your blog? I started our blog as a personal journal to be shared with our family and friends. Both my family and my husband's live on the East Coast and we are in California. Who did you imagine your audience would be? I've only recently started to share outside the confines of family and I hope from those that read my blog can see we are just an ordinary family. What are your favorite things about blogging? I like to talk about my family and with the blog I can just that . What are your worst things about blogging? I'm not sure that I've had any worst things yet ... my blog is only semi-public Do you ever think about quitting your blog? At this point I have no plans to quit. How do you imagine your blog continuing or someday ending? I'm not sure when blogging this particular blog will end ... I see it as representing two things for our family ... a life book for my girls and a link to our family and friends to keep up with our goings on ... I will say I don't blog as much when both girls were much younger so stories may stretch out in the future :)

2.Your family was created through very open adoptions. Did you always know that you wanted to have open adoptions or did that evolve? WEhen we first looked into adoption we were fearful of open adoption ... only after finding education and peers did we start to better understand about what an open adoption was and that that is what we wanted for our family. It only seemed real when we met our elded daughter's birth mother and how we wanted as open adoption with our second child. What surprised you the most once you were involved in the open relationships with your daughter's birth mothers? That each of our daughter's birth mothers families were so much like ours and embraced us as easily as we did them ... Were you always sure you wanted to do domestic adoptions versus international, and if so why? We wanted the newborn experience so domestic adoption seemed to be the best route to achieve that plus we had no personal or familial connection to any other countries or cultures.

3. Your daughters have been part of your family since before they were born which is very different from my daughter who joined our family at 6 months from Ethiopia. Have you had any attachment related issues? If so, how did you work through them? We have been lucky in that neither of our girls have had attachment issues which is still common in domestic adoptions ... I think mostly in part to our feeling entitled to be their parents helped us to create that attachment with them ... it came from counseling and our adoption support and community!

4. One thing that is very different about our two families is that your family "matches" because you're all the same race. As a very conspicuous family like mine, we're constantly aware of how we are perceived by others as an adoptive family. Do you ever feel "conspicuous" as an adoptive family despite the fact that you match? You are right most people do not suspect our family was built through adoption but it's the kind of thing when someone says how Ally or Jess look like me or my husband I wonder should I share more or less? Our girls are at the age that it is their story to share so more times than not we just agree it is a family thing.

5. Within the international adoption community that I'm a part of there is a considerable amount of focus on ethics. For example, we are always going back and forth about socioeconomic disparities within the adoption triad and how this effects the choices that are made for our children. We debate women's rights, and what constitutes a "good reason" to relinquish a child. Those are just a sample of what we toss back and forth. Within these conversations there is some serious passion and people's feelings get hurt quite often. Does the open domestic adoption community have anything similar? I would say there are definitely conversations about why a woman would make an adoption placement and could she have parented or why no family came to help step in ... but I'm not sure it is seen in the same light at times as international countries support or lack of support for women's rights.

6. I was recently called out on my blog for sharing too much information about my child from an adult adoptee who felt like I was disrespecting my daughter's anonymity. The whole issue of children's rights and on-line anonymity really made me pause to consider and to dig really deep to uncover my opinions about it. Do you ever worry that you share too much? Have you had situations where you've regretted posting something? My blog is not fully public so no one yet has made any comments along those lines ... I feel for the most part I am sharing stories that I would gladly share to someone in a conversation too.

7. Along those same lines: how do your daughter's birth mothers feel about appearing on the blog? Both women like that I blog about our lives and that I've always included them without hesitation.

8. If you were stuck on an island with your family and could only bring two books- 1 adoption book and 1 parenting book- which two would you bring? The adoption book would be their own picture book stories through our lives before meeting their birthmoms and through their first year. The parenting book would be how to talk so your kids will listen and how to listen so your kids will talk (I need to reread this now that our girls are getting older)

9. Do your daughters have a favorite adoption related children's book? Each like "Tell Me Again About The Night I was Born" and "The Family Book"

10. You mentioned on your blog that you're going back to school to become a Social Worker (very exciting, by the way! congratulations!) What kind of work do you envision doing within that field? Thank you. I have found that I have become very passionate about familes made through adoption and through my volunteering leading pre-adoptioneducation groups, leading our social domestic adoption group and speaking at events, that this is what I want to do now that I am almost grown up :) I feel that I can from the perspective of personal experience help those in the pre-adoption process through agencies and homestudies as well as offer more assistance as post-adoption support for those parenting their children now in their families.

***If you'd like to read more adoption interviews from the project head over here. Word on the street says there are about 120 bloggers who've signed up. Should be interesting.*************

Beauty.

2011-11-10T14:37:00.002-05:00

How I Grow.

2011-11-04T08:35:00.008-04:00

There are dairy farms all around us. The farmers use a truck that drives around to the nearby fields and sprays manure. This is their way of fertilizing and dealing with an apparent overload of cow shit- it's a modern farming technique. I always know when they're spraying manure because their truck, "The Husky," dribbles a line of liquefied cow manure all along its path. It stinks to high heaven. The worst part about The Husky is it seems like the farmers always choose the most beautiful days to spray the manure- and the hottest days of the summer. The stink sticks to the air and burns your nose. I've seen The Husky in action- it reminds me of a cow lifting its tail in the middle of the field how it sprays its liquefied cow manure. I always feel slightly embarrassed for The Husky driver- should I give a polite hand wave when I see him or look the other way? Imagine waking up that morning and knowing that your work is driving The Husky and what a foul mood it must incite upon that driver. It's like farting in elevators all day long. While I admit that I often click my tongue at the farmers for not thinking of a better way of dealing with the excess shit, I also stifle my judgements because I am thankful that I have farmers as neighbors. Much better than suburban sprawl, I remind myself- which carries its own kind of stink.

But cow manure in itself isn't necessarily gross. Think of all the cooking fires and homes around the world that rely upon it- homes that I've eaten in and homes that the very walls I've slept in have been made of this wonderful commodity. What's gross is this modern farming technique- of mixing it with water and spraying it into the air. It's an industrialized problem not to know how to use this resource. But I digress.

We all have excess manure in our lives. How to deal with our shit is an age old question. I don't know anyone who doesn't struggle with it. In Buddhism this is called Dukkha. It's suffering. It's wanting what you don't have. It's judging others and not realizing that we're all interconnected. It's attaching fiercely to our own individual experiences- our own life stories and our own supposedly personal pain. It's the First Noble Truth.

I grew up in a family who believed in spreading their Dukkha around- a multi-generational Husky Family! I was a good Husky girl- I could yell and prove a point and know that I was right. I could carry my Dukkha around with pride. My Dukkha was hard earned: a totally freaky family situation, being adopted when I was 15, and trying to navigate an overpopulated planet in crisis. All through my twenties I lashed out at those around me. I blush now to think of all the Dukkha I spread around. I blush even more thinking of all the future Dukkha I will spread around despite myself.

Somewhere along the line I became aquainted with Buddhism, and though I first flat out rejected the First Noble Truth, it sunk in anyway. Realizing that suffering, that Dukkha, is universal was completely liberating for me. I didn't need to walk around trying to prove something anymore. I could begin to look at those around me, even the people who really pissed me off, and see that they were sufferers....just like me. As soon as that barrier was destroyed empathy was born.

Which leads me to my compost pile. We cleaned out our chicken house the other day. I was walking around the garden feeling sorry for myself that the growing season was over. I was attached to those fresh vegetables. And attached to the idea of a gentle, sweet, giving earth. I was attached to walking out in the garden first thing in the morning without a biting frost. I looked around and saw death and decay. There were rotten tomatoes and peppers and wilted plants all around. The trees had dropped their leaves.

After a time of despair, of wondering why the hell do we live here instead of the tropics, we decided to clean the chicken house of it's season of manure. We shoveled wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of it. The air was thick with a layer of ammonia laden dust. We were breathing in chicken shit! Pulling our t-shirt necks over our noses we persevered to get the job done.

I looked around and noticed all of the dead leaves lying around. I sat quietly and looked at the pine trees. I thought about how bad winter sucks. It reminded me of how much I hated winter as a child- stuck in the house with chain-smoking, alcoholic meanies picking on me because they had nothing better to do. And then, I got up. I picked up my rake and my shovel and layered that compost. Chicken manure was winter time blues. Pine needles were melancholic memories. Leaves and debris were arguments with my spouse. Rotten tomatoes and other garden debris were every time I was ever misunderstood- or underestimated. The whole world began to look like a potential compost pile. Potential is the key word there. What compost becomes is what's so amazing. That's part of my transformation from being a manure spreader to a composter- to try to focus my mind to see what's composatable. . It's been a long time coming. I harvested some really beautiful vegetables this year from our garden. We surrounded our family in beauty and we fed our family- and it wouldn't have happened if we couldn't see the potential in all that refuse.

Composting relies upon admitting that manure exists and that it's all around us. It's not denying the manure. It's not sweeping the manure under the rug or calling it another name. It's not throwing it at someone else. It's using it wisely to make the world a better place- it's valuing it for the precious commodity that it is. It could be gardening or it could be making art. The main thing is don't waste it. The rule of thumb to make compost (or art) is to layer it and give it time to turn into something useful. Or beautiful. Or nourishing. The rest happens naturally.

I think Albert Camus was talking about compost, pain, and Buddhism when he said, "We all carry within us our places of exile; our crimes, our ravages. Our task is not to unleash them on the world; it is to transform them in ourselves and others."

Greetings From The Nature Triage Unit!

2011-10-30T12:30:00.005-04:00

Dew Drop's a patient in the Nature Triage Unit here at The Lost Planet. This is a unit with the sole mission to return children to their inherent splendor and to restore happiness for the entire family. The director of the ward was so kind to give me today's up to the minute reading of her medical charts. I thought I'd share those with you, the concerned reader:

1. Stress levels: We've seen the patient's stress levels rise and fall throughout the treatment period. During the initial phase of the treatment it was very difficult to get her stabilized. We've found that extreme simplicity has worked best for her thus far. Furthermore, no schedule, very little music or NPR in the house, limited adult conversation, and climbing and jumping outside have proven helpful. Playing with toys undisturbed in sun rays shining through the window has proven to give the patient much relief.

2. Cooperation: The idea of cooperation- the very notion of it- has caused this patient to exhibit extreme behavior. During the first 24 hour period after quitting preschool we witnessed what appeared to be almost complete noncompliance ranging throughout all aspects of daily life. However, we've seen the cooperation levels increase drastically since then. The patient is making great strides (Knock on examining table. That's what doctors say instead of knock on wood)

3. Tests and Scan Results: The patient was given a series of medical tests and scans. The tests verified that this patient is a lover and a dreamer not a school girl. The results were surprising in that she tested remarkably high in this area of scrutiny which could explain the strong negative reaction she had to preschool (even if it was a Reggio Emilia method preschool)

Overall Diagnosis: Patient is no longer in the critical care ward of this unit. Patient has been upgraded to "fair to stable". Medical team in charge of treating this patient maintain that the true cause of this patient's malady was preschool.Testing has revealed that the patient was suffering from extreme sensory overload at preschool. Additionally, the patient's heart was in turmoil from separation anxiety. The patient could not function properly in the very aggressive physical environment of the classroom. Team believes that in the coming days we will see increased healing.

Prescription: Patient must have as much free time outside as possible. Patient is encouraged to sit in the dirt and play with acorns. Patient is advised that sunshine is always the best remedy. Patient should spend at least 1 hour per day staring into moving river water and watching bubbles float down stream. Bird songs are recommended to the patient. Gardening with pretend garden pruners is also very effective and encouraged. The medical team hypothesizes that with every new day we will see continued improvement. The patient is expected to make a full and total recovery.

Poster Child For Quitting Preschoold

2011-10-28T12:09:00.001-04:00

The Happiness Party Redux: Eating Crow Cupcakes

2011-10-25T16:50:00.003-04:00

Remember a few weeks ago when I posted about our Happiness Party we had at school? How great it all was? How we taught Dew Drop about choosing to be happy? How we made smiley face cupcakes to share with all of Dew Drop's friends in her class? How we were celebrating Dew Drop learning to be happy at school?

I was wrong. We were wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. The nightmare continues.

This whole school thing has been a nightmare. Dew Drop still cries uncontrollably at every drop off. Dew Drop had really bonded with one of her teachers- adoption folks will understand what I mean when I say that she triangulated/strangulated onto this teacher. It was a false sense of security though- the teacher could scoop her up anytime a problem arose or anytime Dew Drop felt scared. We didn't *love* that Dew Drop was triangulating/strangulating onto this teacher, but there wasn't much we could do about it. Last week this favorite teacher was let go. She's gone. Vanished. Poof!

That puts us into an interesting position to say the least. A lot of the ground we've made almost 3 months into this was lost. But that's not the only problem.

The classroom itself is chaos. The school practices a very 'enlightened' philosophy. Children who hit, kick, push or bite are not given time outs. They are gently coaxed into compliance. At least in theory. In reality they are screamed at and they don't listen to being screamed at. It's a pro-wrestling cage match in there. A freaking mosh pit. Dew Drop doesn't do well in crazy environments- on so many levels.

There are some adoption related issues going on with Dew Drop for sure, too. Text book adoption issues that leave us debating the merits of just pulling her out of school and nuzzling back into our comfy nest again for a while until she feels more secure about being independent.

But Dew Drop has made friends. And the school itself is a really nice school. And we still want preschool to be positive. We don't want to put our tail between our legs and slink off. We quit preschool last year- who wants to be a two time preschool quitter?

It's really flabbergasting how stressful it has become around here. I can't tell you how many late nights we've stayed up pontificating about all of this. Should we stay or should we go? Fight or flight? How does this all equate into our future family plans? Does this mean we're definitely home schooling for kindergarten? You see how far all of this goes? How deep? What a quagmire? Yup.

It just sucks basically. I think we're just going to quit.

Adoption Freaky Scale: The Roundabout

2011-10-16T13:13:00.004-04:00

A Word about the new Adoption Freaky Scale: there seems to be no beginning or no end. It's based on a traffic roundabout. The shape also brings to mind diagrams of hurricanes.

Once when Babba and I were in Cambodia we rented bicycles. We set forth early one morning on our squeaky old single speeds. The town had a roundabout, and there was no way to avoid riding in it to get to a nice beach. The roundabout was full of motorcycles that wove every which way- motorcycles carrying huge loads of lumber or plumbing supplies, multi-generational families or livestock.

Babba went first- circling around the roundabout cautiously. He was nervous about where I was since he couldn't turn around to find me while focusing his bike. When he did have a chance to sneek a peek as to my whereabouts he couldn't see me. He thought that I'd accidentally turned off one of the other streets on the roundabout. He circled around the roundabout again in order to catch me and supposedly save me from becoming lost.

Meanwhile, I'm bicycling along and following what I perceive to be the traffic rules and Babba suddenly disappears. He just vanishes. Just like that- GONE! I pedal as fast as I can to find him. I turn down the road we'd said we would take- the right road- through dense jungles with iguanas whipping their tails in the undergrowth. I get laughed at for being a white tourist as I bike through tiny villages with a worried look on my face- all the while looking for Babba. I race and race and race.I encounter a drunk man passed out miserably in the middle of the road. I imagine never finding Babba again. My mind darts around about possible tragedies that explain Babba's disappearance: he was kidnapped with his bike and thrown into the back of a truck or he'd had a bicycle accident and had been taken to the hospital. Where the hell is Babba?!

I don't have a hotel key or any identification on me. Babba has all of that. I have no money on me. And I don't speak the language- there's always that.

Babba rides all the way back to the hotel looking for me- from his perspective I'm the one who disappeared! He retraces everywhere we'd ridden that morning and he retraces everywhere we'd been the previous day. I'm totally gone to him.

We each ride around looking for the other for hours in the baking sun not knowing where the other one is. That's what this adoption is like. Like that day- over and over again. In the real life story we found each other and ate green curry on the beach out of coconuts.

The Happiness Party

2011-10-03T14:05:00.006-04:00

We had a Happiness Party today at pre-school. We promised Dew Drop that if she could learn how to be happy at school we'd bring cupcakes and have a party. This party was a long time coming, folks. I found myself in "unbloggable" territory not wanting to share the intense trials and tribulations we've gone through with starting school. I have new gray hairs and lots more wrinkles to vouch for it. At the Happiness Party Dew Drop requested I sing Donovan's song "Happiness Runs In A Circular Motion" for the class. It's one of our family theme songs, and has been the sound track for teaching Dew Drop to choose happiness at school. She seemed surprised that the other kids didn't know the words (Dew Drop: this is just the beginning of the weirdness your parents are going to thrust upon you as time rolls forward. Just get used to it. There's really no avoiding it that I can see.)

*While making the cupcakes Babba and I joked that being the whacked out visual artists we are, even our happiness cupcakes took on a very sinister and postmodern look. Babba was in charge of the happy faces, and as they came down the assembly line for me to add the sprinkles (for hair!) I was met with one wicked looking smiley face after another. If Babba worked at a bake shop he would be fired! We decided that there's just something inherently creepy about making a human likeness that is meant to be eaten- even if it's drawn with chocolate icing. Babba maintains that his problem was with the color palette he was given. He wanted them to be chocolate icing with vanilla icing lines. Dew Drop would have none of that- she was adamant that the icing should be white and the faces should be brown- proof that there's a lot of skin color consciousness going on around here. I told them both that either way of doing it would create brown faces (that was Dew Drop's main concern- that the faces be brown), but different routes to get there. It's positive space versus negative space peeps!

Our Esteemed Goat Gurus

2011-10-01T16:04:00.003-04:00

We have three goats. Originally I'd wanted a horse. The goats were a compromise. You can't just get one adorable baby goat- it would be too lonely. So you have to get two. The people we bought the kids from threw in that third one for free. That should have been an omen.

If you've ever spent any quality time with a goat you know what the word capricious means. They're great at climbing out of their fences. They are strong as hell- many a trip to the chiropractor has been due to goat wrangling.

Goat wrangling: now there's a zen concept if ever there was one. We debate the merits of" carrot"or "stick" in philosophical terms. There are times when goats respond well to a "carrot" which can take the form of an actual carrot or more often than not a horse biscuit. There are other times where the "stick" becomes an essential goat wrangling tool. Usually the "stick" is a green branch that we use to make whipping sounds behind the goats to get them moving.

A disobedient goat can make even the most calm person into a raging lunatic. They hold a special power to take you the brink of your temper. You grit your teeth so hard you think they're going to crack. You use expletives you promised yourself you would not use in front of your daughter. You walk gingerly on a tightrope between the poles of "carrot" and "stick." The irony is they're the master sitting calmly teaching you to see your anger as another passing phenomenon. They're the master who whacks you over the head with a stick to remind you to stop being in such a rush and so concerned with getting your own way. Chasing a goat around reminds you of the absurdity of life. If you can get into the right mindset while goat wrangling it's actually funny. It's the getting there that's hard.

One of the most relaxing things in the world is to watch a goat graze. Goats are "browsers" (closely related to antelope). They like to taste a little of this- then a little of that- then a little more of something else. When we first got the goats we were so spellbound by their grazing that we got down on the ground and tried to graze a little just to see what it's like. The goats make these little purring sounds when they're really satisfied with the plants they're eating. Watching a goat graze is like watching an aquarium. Sometimes if I can't sleep I think of goats grazing- much better than counting jumping sheep.

Seeing the world through a goat's eyes gives another perspective. We've trained the goats to hike with us like dogs. We traverse mountains and valleys. The goats wade into the river to graze upon the tender island grasses that grow in the shallows. They wear bells so we can find them if they're lost. We call them by saying "Dip! Dip! Dip! Dip! Dip!"
We've tried to give our goats away before, but each time we put the call out for a new family for them we always chicken out and take back the offer. The thing is, we don't really want to get rid of them despite our complaining about them. No one wants them anyway. We've realized that we'd be getting rid of our teachers, our goat gurus, and that just seems inherently wrong. And foolish.

Down With The Love Planet!

2011-09-24T12:53:00.003-04:00

We're taking our show down this weekend. We have to rent a U-haul truck to bring it all home. I eagerly anticipate having our new art back home- we've had old art hanging around the house for a month and it's really getting on my nerves. Our older art just doesn't look finished. I can see where we thought we were going with it, but that we just stopped too short from really getting there. We didn't work as hard back then on each piece like we do now.

Not to say that our newest art is any better. I'm sure in a few years I'll look back at what we've been making lately and roll my eyes for equally valid, if different, reasons.

Part of our obligation for the show was to speak to two groups of students. Each group was 400+ students. We gave a presentation about our art, life, and travel. It was an interesting experience to put ourselves on stage like that- to put our lives on stage like that. Sort of like creating your own reality t.v. show of yourself. But we did it. And it wasn't that bad. Or that embarrassing. In fact, it was kind of fun once we reminded ourselves that even if we sucked we'd still get paid. We went back the following week for a question and answer time with the students before they got tested on us. Here's a sample test of what I imagine were some of the questions:

1.) Baldwin and Mindy have 3 goats. What are their names?

2.) True or False: Baldwin and Mindy say dropping out of art school was one of the best decisions they've ever made.

3.) Multiple choice: Baldwin and Mindy's house little world is called The Lost Planet. This is because:
A. it's painted like camouflage so other people can't see it B. they don't know how to get back to their home planet C. they've lost their faith in humanity

4.) Baldwin and Mindy are Hare Krishnas. True or false?

Lost In The Parenting Our Brains Out Planet

2011-09-16T08:05:00.006-04:00

Starting preschool has been quite a transition for Dew Drop. We've been parenting our brains out. We've been "adoption parenting" our brains out. And we've been drawing upon our resources including adoption parenting books that we read years ago when all of this was just speculation. We've been reading adult adoptee blogs reminding ourselves of what not to do. And we've been utilizing this completely amazing adoption community that we're part of.

There's this thing that happens when you're parenting an adopted child. Maybe a new behavior has come up. Maybe a new level of intensity has shown itself. As a parent to this child, this child who carries unspeakable burdens and memories, you recognize these behaviors. You empathize with them. You see so clearly that "this is adoption stuff going on.". Yet....yet....there's still this tug of war that goes inside of your head. On one shoulder sits some kind of pseudo-logic saying "Wait a minute here! This isn't adoption stuff. This is normal behavior for a child this age." And on the other shoulder, frantically bouncing up and down trying to get your attention is another logic vying to be heard. This logic gathers its philosophy straight from the heart and it's saying "Don't listen to that pseudo-logic. It doesn't understand the ways of the heart. It doesn't give credit to what a deep and feeling person your child is- and has always been. You know this is adoption stuff. Listen to me!"

And your child tells you flat out that it's adoption stuff using her newly acquired vocabulary. There's no denying it then. Or there better not be.

I read a great quote recently (who wrote this? I'd love to contribute the author's name.): Parenting in the 70's was like crate training a puppy. That resonates with me- like most people my age who were brought up in the 1970's the parenting techniques used then are laughable at best. Barbaric at worst. The parenting that's going on now is so thoughtful- and dare I say advanced- that it blows my mind. I have friends who are creating such beautiful families it chokes me up. For real. I can't wait to see how the kids brought up in such a conscientious way turn out.

And adoption parenting has changed. The adoption community that we are part of is so big. The internet has created an intricate web of us. We're all learning- a lot. We're challenging ourselves to do this better. We're all sharing. One of my favorite things about it is that it completely eliminates the need for any background conversation that's always necessary if I'm talking about parenting with a non-adoptive mother. If I'm seeking help for a food issue caused by Dew Drop's early malnourishment I don't have to go into how she came to be malnourished. I don't have to explain what a "food issue" is. Within minutes I can be deluged with other parents who are, or who have, first hand knowledge about how to help heal this particular wound. Put two adoptive mamas who have never met in a room together for five minutes and it's guaranteed that there will be:

Goosebumps brought on by suddenly realizing that you totally "get" the other person in such a profound way.
Tears- usually sad and happy tears within minutes of each other.
That you need to spend at least another hour talking to this person and learning from them.

And you know what else is really cool? Our kids have each other, too. Dew Drop has so many friends who were adopted- they're forging special friendships already. They're growing up together. I can't see these relationships ending anytime soon. I think it will always be part of Dew Drop's life. Before we know it Dew Drop and her posse of fellow adoptees will be staying up all night comparing notes on who has the most neurotic mother.

I know we modern day adoptive parents don't have all of the answers. Most of the adult adoptees who write books and are blogging about their life experiences weren't raised in the internet age. Their parents probably didn't have a wide and vast network that helped them keep on task. The adoptees of days past probably didn't have their own network of peers to call upon- or to nourish them. It had to have been so much more isolating back then- even just 10 years ago. I don't know how adoptive families survived. I can't imagine.

Wordless Wednesday (our house when it was a newborn baby house)

2011-09-14T16:37:00.001-04:00

The Skinny on Babba's 10 Day Fast(Exclusive Interview!)

2011-09-06T17:18:00.009-04:00

Me: You just finished a 10 day fast and cleanse. How do you feel?
You: Fantastic. Best I've felt in years.

Me: How did you know the time was right to do a cleanse?
You: I wasn't feeling healthy enough. We have a lot of friends who do cleanses. It always seemed like such a fad before, but I heard another amazing account from someone who was visiting (shout out to Cheyenne!) and I decided to do it. Fasting and cleansing isn't really a fad- it's more of a chain letter.

Me: What's so great about it (with a touch of sarcasm because I broke my fast after only 2 days)
You: I feel clear headed, new appreciation for food. I lost 10 pounds. I had a vacation from the kitchen. I feel good about myself for having the will power to not eat for 10 days.

Me: You didn't mention a 'liberated' feeling from this mortal coil or from being a cog in the machine. Did you just forget that part?
You: Oh yeah. That too.

Me: What was your hardest day and why?
You: Probably day 3. I didn't have a fasting companion anymore because you jumped ship. (editor's note: no guilt implied Babba says)

Me: Part of doing the cleanse is to remove built up toxins in your body that accumulate from our modern lifestyles. Do you feel less toxic after your cleanse?
You: It's hard to say. I hope so.

Me: You said you were more sensitive to caffeine now. And you haven't had any alcohol. Do you feel more sensitive in general?
You: Yeah. And I can't eat big meals.

Me: What was the worst part of your cleanse?
You: I guess the acid reflux I had on day 5. That was the worst part. But that was really cured by a teaspoon of molasses and cucumber juice.

Me: Speaking of juice- you seemed to really connect with our juicer which had been stored away all by itself in the dark and damp basement?
You: Yeah. After day 5 I did start to cheat on the "strict Master Cleanse" a little bit. Our apples and grapes are coming in . We're having a bumper crop- so for the last 5 days I added in a little fresh apple and grape and cucumber juice. And basil juice! I still used the lemon and cayenne a lot. I cut way back on the maple syrup part of the original lemonade recipe of the Master Cleanse the last days.

Me: It was weird not to have you in the kitchen.
You: It was weird not to be in the kitchen. It was the first time since I got obsessed with cooking as a kid that I let it go- except, of course, when we travel and have no control over kitchens in restaurants. Not cooking and being in the kitchen has always been my worst part of traveling.

Me: Do you think you'll fast again?
You:Yeah. I want to make it a yearly or twice yearly thing.

Me: Knowing you, there's usually a spiritual component to everything that you do. What's your spiritual take on the whole fasting thing?
You: Um...it's just about mental discipline. It helps my Buddhist practice because it all goes along with mindfulness that I'm trying to learn how to maintain. It also makes you slow down a lot which is good.

Me: you didn't worry much while you were fasting.
You: Yeah- It did seem to clear my head quite a bit.

Me: Thank you for this interview.
You: My pleasure and thank you for your support.
Dew Drop: My presents! (in response to Babba saying "my pleasure")

What Adoption Freaky Scale?

2011-09-05T11:24:00.003-04:00

It is with considerable hesitation that I present you with this month's installment of
The Adoption Freaky Scale
because that means I must admit that
we've now waited an entire
twelve months.

It's just a weird place to be.
No words can really describe it.
Everything is uncertain.
I'm not complaining
or
whining.
I'm just stating a fact.
The adoption process
pushes your ability
to accept
uncertainty.

Even still , I would say that I'm
holding steady
in the "uh-oh" realm.

Uh-oh is a fine place to be
for now.

A Family Who Makes Art Together Stays Together.

2011-09-03T12:37:00.001-04:00

Wordless Wednesday (almost)

2011-08-31T11:31:00.000-04:00

Dancin' At The Love Planet

2011-08-29T09:37:00.004-04:00

Our show, The Love Planet, opened on Friday. Thanks to everyone who came out to see the show. Dew Drop partied like it was 1999.

Art openings are weird. I don't personally like to go to openings- even of other people's work. I just can't concentrate on the art, let alone feel emotionally moved . Being at your own opening is akin to attending your own funeral. Your friends and family come out to support you and to let you know that you're not all alone (thankfully people showed up! how awful if no one came! nightmare!). But still, it's just awkward. There's this relationship that I have with my art while making it and while living with it in my house that is radically different than standing in a gallery surrounded by this stuff I made. It's not really a self-conscious feeling, or a guilt for having thrust all of this art upon the innocent viewers, but more a shyness on behalf of my art. Like I want to shield my paintings from the world. Like they're fragile babies who need coddling. Then again, that's probably just an extension of
my
own
fragile
ego.

And I realize, too, that these feelings are so stereotypically artist feelings. It's laughable.

From a semi-objective perspective I think the show looks good. I'm anxious to go to the gallery someday anonymously to really look at the works critically, and not have to talk.

I Am An Earthquake Dreamer. (No Relation to Nostradamus)

2011-08-23T17:27:00.003-04:00

There was an earthquake today. I felt it. It was amazing. I had a dream last night that sort of embarrasses me. Disclaimer: in relaying this dream, I am in no way saying that I have any special psychic power of prediction. Not at all. But it was weird no less.

In my dream last night I was being called out by Mother Nature herself. This rebuking voice was distinctly the part of Mother Nature that is in charge of earthquakes. The voice (a.k.a. Mother Nature) admonished me for painting paintings of earth changes and earth quakes, but for not showing proper reverence for their real magnitude and power. I tried to argue with the voice that I should get some bonus points for at least attempting to show this unbelievable force. You would think there would be at least a nod in my direction for that. I could be painting about all sorts of subjects, but I'm not. I passionately contended that special credit should be given to me for at least acknowledging how deep the earth is, and how it's all interconnected. Maybe I haven't succeeded, but I've given it my all.This only brought upon more wrath from the voice. The voice was pretty much done with me for not getting it.

I read recently that dreams that are only narration- meaning, that you don't see the voice who's talking- are the "loud dreams". Those "loud dreams" are the ones you're supposed to really stop and listen to.

I'm not sure what to make of this. I guess I should start painting calderas and solar flares? Maybe a whole series of 2012 paintings is due?

But how to show that power that Mother Earth was so adamant about? I just don't know.

Don't Burst My Bubble

2011-08-20T09:10:00.006-04:00

My neighbor down the road has this bumper sticker. Every time I drive past I wonder what it really means. People around here say the Confederate flag represents their southern heritage. I won't even go into what is so wrong about that. Whatever. But what does "Git-R-Done" mean? Get what done?

A friend of a friend who doesn't live near here had the word NIG written in her lawn the other day. Let's just pause to let that soak in. I can't type something like that so casually.

It was written in Roundup- the weed killer formerly packaged and known as Agent Orange and sprayed in the Vietnam war to defoliate the forests to make it easier to drop bombs.

When I heard about this hate crime committed to my friends' dear friend I felt sick. I tried to forget about it, but felt its heavy weight for a few days. I'm' still feeling it. Just writing about it.

How scary. How scary to look out your window in the morning and catch sight of that word. It happened to my friends' friend. It could happen to us one day. To my little family.

Most of the time around here I don't think much about being a conspicuous family. Sure, there are local businesses I just know we'd never go into as an interracial family (the gun shop nearby is a great example of that. just judging from the amount of confederate flag bumper stickers in the parking lot.) But overall, I don't feel stared at a lot. Even though we're in a very rural area we have two universities nearby which help.

But after hearing about what happened to my friend I felt this uncontrollable urge to put my family into a bubble. To keep us safe. We are so conspicuous. I have no idea if the people who drive around with Confederate flag stickers are actively racists or not. I don't know if they would ever in a million years write the word NIG in someone's lawn. I don't know if they know a black girl lives here.

Having been white all my life I've never really had to consider what it would be like to have someone write the word NIG in my yard. What a perfect example of white privilege. Would I call the police? Would I tell the newspaper? Would I just keep quiet out of fear? Would I just pack up the family and never look back? But where would I go? Where is different? Where isn't populated with haters?

For me, the moments that I'm aware of how conspicuous our interracial family is are rare. When I do feel aware of it- stared at or people uncomfortably averting their gazes- that's when I stand back and look at our family. How we don't blend in. How we will never blend in. And how huge just that one detail about our family is.

**This is part of a blog symposium that Claudia is holding. If you want to read what others are saying about their experience as a conspicuous family then hop over there. It's all good stuff.

Love Planet: The Peep Show

2011-08-18T13:57:00.004-04:00

Here's a little glimpse of what we've been working on. I know I'm being coy and not sharing pictures of finished pieces. I want to wait until the show is installed in order to take better pictures of individual pieces.

We finished our show yesterday. The art has now moved to the gallery, which is a weird feeling. To get to the point that you say "There. It's done. It is what it is," is not easy. Being an artist is like creating Frankenstein- then when Frankenstein walks out those studio doors to live as his own man is what it reminds me of. You hope that you were a good Frankenstein creator. You hope that any mistakes you made or any gliches in Frankenstein's character are forgivable flaws. You hope Frankenstein doesn't embarrass
himself.

The above picture is me (notice how I'm wearing what looks like 'prison blues'? that's how I felt the last several days of working on the show, then realized that I'd been dressing to look the part.)

. I've mentioned before a certain set of canvases that were threatening to
kick
my
ass.
Well, the above picture shows them. I call them my fuc#ing diptych (they have a real title, but that's been the working title.) I naively started these paintings earlier in the summer. I thought it would be fun to paint on such a gigantic scale. Boy, was I wrong.

The fuc#ing diptych is done. I finished it. But it was not easy. The whole time working on it was like perpetually painting myself into a virtual corner, then trying to claw my way back out. It got so bad I was yelling at poor Babba things I wouldn't repeat. I scowled and furrowed new lines into my face. I'd wake up and each day knowing I had to face these canvases and I would invent other things to do. Lots of laundry got done, and the flower garden is finally weeded.

I don't know when I'll feel at peace with these. They will be in the show, but I have a hunch that after they come back home I will probably work on them many more times. (because realistically, who is going to buy these? you'd need a gigantic house with big big walls. not likely)

And those collaborations we've been working on? I think they're my favorite part of the show. I'm kind of proud of them. And I'm proud of me and Babba for still being married after making them together.

Blisterds are what Dew Drop calls blisters. I think I have blisterds on my brain from all of this.

Love Planet: Our Make It Work Moment

2011-08-13T19:01:00.005-04:00

We've got a deadline looming. Only a few more days to make things.
Just a little peep show of what we're working on.

We've been working really, really hard. (Don't worry: if you see the show you won't know how hard we worked. Or why we worked so hard. Or what the point of making art is. Most of the time we're just spinning our wheels. We're going for that effortless, sloppy, brilliant thang. I've got a whole notebook filled with indecipherable scrawlings that could each become a masterpiece if given the time/opportunity/childcare/wherewithal. I'm the stenographer of the couple and it's my duty to document each genius thought and idea that spews forth at breakneck speed .)

We do take breaks though. We get all civilized and bring out a tea set. No matter that the tea set is sitting next to a turtle shell filled with bones and Elmer's glue.

Our studio is trashed beyond belief. You can't even walk in there. We've reached what I call the "Tokyo Airport Point" which is a place of ridiculous laughter and silliness. It happens when you're very tired and over stimulated. The first time we flew to Asia we laughed ourselves silly in the Tokyo airport. I almost peed my pants. I remember sitting at a table eating soba, and laughing until I was crying. We laughed our entire layover there.
I've laughed to the point of tears today countless times working with Babba in the studio. It's stupid humor, and it's smarty pants humor. We crack ourselves up.
Sometimes I think I can't breathe I'm laughing so hard.

Love Planet: Clean Spoons First.

2011-08-06T12:48:00.006-04:00

We're working on our show. Our show is called The Love Planet. We have a lot more work to do.

We're a bit stressed out.

I find myself doing anything at all to avoid doing my work that needs to be done in the studio. I've had artists' block once before so I know the telltale warning signs to look for. When I started scouring our spoons with Comet the other day I was mindful of what I was doing (or rather, not doing).
I get a little hocus pocus-y about making art. I try as hard as I can to sense the day's atmosphere and overall vibe. I get absolutely superstitious. If the sky and weather aren't just right then just forget it. And, too, will I be a strong enough person emotionally that day to survive having a sucky day in the studio? One must be of strong mind to venture out there- especially with a bunch of unfinished and possibly mediocre canvases staring you down
ready to kick ass and take names.

So rather than work on my solo stuff I hung out with Babba. We're doing a few collaborations together. That can be a blessing and a curse. We have very different ideas about making art. We're either riffing off of ideas together like two maniac beat poets who drank too much coffee and chicory or we're bickering like an old married couple . We've worked together on some sculptures several years ago and it was really fun (see top tab of our collaborations) so we know it can be done.
And of course, our home is our ultimate collaboration.

Sizzle Sizzle Sizzle Pop!

2011-08-05T13:50:00.001-04:00

Self Portrait With Too Many Thoughts.

2011-08-01T10:33:00.001-04:00

Adoption Freaky Scale- Oh Boy!

2011-07-23T06:57:00.006-04:00

Last week we made a decision to move from only the girls' list at our agency to also being on the boys' list. We'd originally been open to either gender, but somewhere during the wait things seemed to be moving very quickly. We got nervous. We weren't ready. We wanted to slow things down a bit. So as a means of "controlling" our adoption we moved to only being on the girl's list which is a much longer list than the boys' list. We don't like the idea of choosing gender at all, but on our agency's lists there is such a disparity between who would like a son and who would like a daughter that even if you're not choosing gender you are (you're choosing a boy!) All of this means that this week we've also changed our perception of what our family looks like. It took a few days to get our minds around that. And a few sleepless nights. It is so interesting to think of this new family with a daughter...and a son!

Moving onto the boys' list puts us squarely in the single digits on the list. Single digits! Gulp.

This wait has been so strange, and so much different than last time. There is not a day that goes by that we aren't involved in really lengthy and philosophical discussions involving ethics in international adoption, world economic disparities, human rights, the roles of women in society, famines, ect. This isn't easy stuff- but it's necessary to try to get a grip on it all if you're adopting from Ethiopia right now. It's heart wrenching and it is exhausting. Long story short: it's taking a lot of my time and a lot of my energy.

In some ways, I've guarded my heart with my brain. I've intellectualized this adoption from every angle, but I haven't necessarily let my heart begin to open for our next child. That changed this week though. Just the excitement of thinking about our family in a new way- with a son!- put me over the edge. I can honestly say that I am now ranking myself in the "Yikes!" category of The Adoption Freaky Scale....and I like being that far gone.

Pause To Smell The Lotus

2011-07-20T17:30:00.004-04:00

In case you've never experienced the smell of a lotus blossom
in the morning sun
it smells like hot licorice.
Even if you think you don't like licorice
you would like this smell.
Promise.

One Red Balloon=Total Mayhem.

2011-07-16T19:35:00.005-04:00

It was an unseasonably chilly, mountain day.
It was drizzling.
It wasn't July-like.
Oh bother!
It seemed like a good idea to get out of the house- out of the Lotus Planet for a spell.
But what to do?

Hey, let's take Dew Drop to her first movie!
But what movie? There are two choices: Cars 2 or Winnie The Pooh.
After careful deliberation we choose Pooh.
Can't go wrong with Pooh.
Unlikely to be any bullies or any wrecks in a Pooh movie.
Pooh also offered the added bonus of allowing me to psychoanalyze everyone I know according to one of literature's all time greatest books The Tao of Pooh.
And there was the lure of popcorn! (pronounced 'pocorn' by Dew Drop)

Turning your kid onto cinema- onto the movies- what a quintessential modern delight!
And through most of the movie that was the case.
Dew Drop danced along to the songs.
Her mouth was agape watching the animation.
She laughed.
Until....

A red balloon graced the silver screen.
A red balloon kept gracing the silver screen.
"Uh-oh" Mama thought while remembering tear inducing, episodic helium flyaways in the not too distant past from balloons (pronounced baboons).
Damn that red balloon!
Mama and Babba looked at each other with the "let's hope we can hold steady through this," glance.

But it was too late. Within moments Dew Drop lost her cool.
Dew Drop let loose a fierce howl that quickly turned into hyperventilation.
"Where did that baboon go?!" she wailed.
Other parents turned in their seats to stare- glad it wasn't their kid this time.

This time it was our kid.
We deserved it.
We were due.
Our kid can't even watch Sesame Street at someone else's house without a hissy.
We carried her out of the theater.
Into the the parking lot we went.
Dew Drop turning heads with her relentless sobbing.

I tried to decipher those sobs.
I applied all that I know about how transitions are hard for Dew Drop.
About how in her life she's seen one too many people go bye-bye and she can't stand it again
especially from a damn balloon.
I thought about how adopted kids have high cortisol levels.
Their stress is physiological- you can gauge it.

Then at dinner
green beans, cucumbers, freshly dug potatoes
we asked her to explain her upset.
It wasn't what we thought.
It wasn't that she was sad that the balloon left.
It was that the balloon didn't take her along.

Of course.
Our girl the skylarker.
Our girl who asks why we don't have wings.
Our girl who wonders why we walk down the stairs instead of flying.
The balloon flying away without offering her an invitation was a personal affront.

It makes sense.
And Babba swears she'll be ten before we take her to another movie.

In the meantime, we analyze each other for Pooh traits.
The consensus is that Babba is 40% Owl, 40% Rabbit, 10%Eeyore, and 10% Pooh respectively.
It's been decided that I'm 50% Kanga, 20%Piglet, 20%Eeyore, and %10 Rabbit.
Dew Drop is pretty much all Tigger and Eeyore and Piglet-
all at once.

Dew Drop Is Three. For Real?

2011-07-15T12:43:00.004-04:00

Dew Drop's first birthday. The one where she showed obvious contempt for her cupcakes. She'd yet to develop her sweet tooth. This picture cracks me up. Dew Drop was such a little
chunk-a-lunk.

Turning two on Nannee's lap.

On the morning of her third birthday she asked me, "Where did two go?" I ask myself that same question.

How do you explain what a wish is to a three year old- or why we make one and keep it secret while we blow out our candles?

Snakes. Adoption. Birthdays.

2011-07-08T10:18:00.005-04:00

I hate my birthday. Luckily this past birthday was spent dealing with a bed bug infestation and attending a memorial service for a murdered uncle. It was perfect. There was nothing celebratory about it. One of my best birthdays ever.

We all know that birthdays are hard for adoptees, but I'm here to explain a little bit about why.

I'm adopted. Adopted Lite is what it's called (though I've yet to see what's so 'lite' about it). That means that I wasn't adopted when I was a little baby. I think I was 15 or 16 when I was adopted (I always block out what year it was. I could check my adoption papers to verify what year it was but I'm too lazy.) Take a serious dose of listening to The Cure, wearing all black, covering one of my eyes with my hair, obsessively drawing dead people hanging from tree branches, and add to that being given up for adoption by my father and you had the perfect mix to create someone who questions reality. That was me.

Birthdays are a celebration of life. The problem is that when you're adopted your entry into the world wasn't necessarily a happy occasion. Thinking about your birthday is hard to do without thinking of your parents. Let's face it: if you were adopted your existence was the epicenter of some pretty serious shit. Maybe you were "relinquished" (that's the adoption language we're all supposed to call it now, by the way) because your family was starving to death. Maybe you were relinquished because your mother died in childbirth. Maybe you were relinquished because your mother was raped. Maybe you were relinquished because your mother wanted to finish graduate school. Maybe you were relinquished because one parent wanted to get the child dependency credit on their taxes. Maybe you were relinquished because one parent didn't think it was fair to have to pay child support on you.

When I became adopted it cast a grim cloud my existence. It's weird because if I look at my life I can remember exactly what my birthday felt like before I was adopted. And I know what it's like now as an adoptee. So I've known both ways. After my adoption my birthday became this tremendously phoney affair. It's like a whole veil was lifted off of reality and I could finally see life for what it is. I don't think I've ever once made it through a birthday since then without crying. When I wake up in the morning of my birthday I give myself a pep talk first thing. I can't explain it. Everything becomes so raw. Everything becomes so hard to believe in on my birthday.

I admit that I'm someone who flirts with existential angst anyway. I'm an artist for crying out loud. But still.

I don't want to put this feeling onto my children. I don't want to, yet I won't be surprised if they don't feel it too. The adoption text books describe it so it must be a real thing, right? I had no idea that there was a reason for me to hate my birthday until our first homestudy classes about adoption. I thought it was just me being crazy.

We have a lot of black snakes in our garden this time of year. They come to eat the eggs in the chicken house. Babba physically removes them- they're often longer than 6 feet! I have a serious phobia of snakes. I've tried to hide this from Dew Drop. I try to discreetly run into the house until the snake has been taken away. But she's on to me. She's created a song for me telling me not to be afraid of snakes. The other day Babba encouraged her to touch a snake that he'd caught. She was fearless- maybe too fearless (must teach her how to identify who's poisonous and who's not) I want to protect her fearlessness. I don't want her to be preoccupied about snakes like me. I don't want her to hate her birthday like I hate mine. As an adoptee, though, I think it's kind of unavoidable. We'll commiserate.

Adoption Freaky Scale. Witness My Demise!

2011-07-05T07:28:00.004-04:00

You're just in time for another installment of The Adoption Freaky Scale. That means you're here to witness my demise into the realm of "Yikes!" This is the first time during this wait that I'll admit to residing full time in Yikesville.

Think of yourself as a person in a traffic jam. When you finally get to the scene of the accident you have to rubber neck. You just have to. You have to know what's going on. By seeing the mess you hope to avoid it yourself.

So if you, my readers, are the rubber neckers that makes me the accident. I'll give you some gory details:

-In the last week I've probably spent at least 5 hours searching for and compiling baby names. Each name must be cross referenced for meaning and popularity. If the name appears on the Top 100 Baby Names of the year list then it's a no-go. Furthermore, the name must be no longer than one or two syllables in order to create a compound name with her already existing Ethiopian name (Like how Mary Jo or Billy Jean are two part names. Like that but way more groovy). We call Dew Drop her first name that we gave her and her Ethiopian name. I want a name like that for Baby Sister. But it's easier said than done.

-Dew Drop has been telling random people that she's getting a Baby Sister. Of course, I wonder if she's a little oracle and has some secret telepathic communications with the universe or Baby Sister herself. See? I told you I'm getting my freak on.

-If someone innocently asks me "So, how's it going?" I answer about the adoption whether that's what they're asking or not. Usually people are asking this- they try to be respectful and use code words so not to seem rude.

-I blushingly admit to feeling sort of like I should be getting mulligans all over the place. If I were 11 months pregnant I would have free reign to be a total bitch, moody, tired, lazy, whatever. People would pity me. People would adore me. With adoption you never get that. I blush to admit this fact because I fully know and respect the fact that I'm not my child's Ethiopian mother who is or who will be suffering the greatest loss of all- her child. I don't deserve any mulligans when you think about it in its entirety.

-I have this overall panic about having 2 children. I still can't believe I have 1 child. It still floors me. Everything is pretty damn perfect around here lately. Dew Drop is a total joy. She's funny as hell and can do so many things herself. We have a really nice balance. With another child we'll have to find another balance. Don't even get me started on attachment stuff, and how far I've come with Dew Drop, but how if I look back through time I can't believe how much work I had to do in order to gain her trust. I'm getting myself freaked out just writing about it.

-I find myself vowing all sorts of Good Mothering vows. I vow to wear this baby twenty four hours per day. I vow to be patient. I vow to not make Baby Sister feel competition towards Dew Drop. I vow to handle sibling rivalry with grace. I vow to have a happy family. I vow to co-sleep even if Baby Sister doesn't want to. I vow I vow I vow I vow I vow I vow I vow I vow I vow I vow I vow I vow I vow I vow I vow I vow I vow I vow I vow......you get the idea.

I can see now that I'll have to amend this Adoption Freaky Scale at some point. We have at least another few months to go before we get The Call. At this rate I'll need to make it more intricate and more colorful ...and more crazy.

The Lotus and Lucifer.

2011-07-02T08:12:00.004-04:00

The lotuses are blooming! The lotuses are blooming!

Lucifer is blooming! Lucifer is blooming! (Crocosmia Lucifer, that is)

The Lost Planet shall henceforth be called The Lotus Planet. Until further notice. While the lotuses are doing their thing. While we love and adore Lucifer's flowers, calling this place
The Lucifer Planet just seems creepy.

I Tell My Girl She's Beautiful All The Time. So Sue Me.

2011-06-26T12:16:00.007-04:00

I read this article this morning. I can't believe that I'm disagreeing with it. What kind of feminist am I that I'm taking issue with this? What's there to disagree with?

We all want our daughters to feel like they're not just pretty, right? We want them to feel smart and empowered and ready to conquer the world. We don't want our daughters parading around with their asses sticking out of shorts with the word "slut" printed across them. We don't want our daughters starving themselves or hating their bodies.

If I were a white mom raising a white daughter it's very likely that I would subscribe completely to the idea that we shouldn't be telling girls they're beautiful. It would fit into the way I see the world. It would make sense to me.

But I'm not a white mom raising a white daughter. My daughter doesn't look like me. She's a black girl adopted into a white family. She's told me before that she wants to look like me (broke my heart, that did.) I feel like we have a different set of circumstances at play here. We have gaps to fill in. We have distances to cross. I won't have my girl wondering whether or not I think she's beautiful. Not going to happen.

I cancelled my subscription to W a few months ago. One day Dew Drop was sitting on the kitchen floor looking through the magazine. I looked at the pages from her eyes. What appalled me wasn't what the models were wearing or how deathly thin they all were. What bothered me was how white they all were. For the next several months I searched through the pages of W as soon as it came to my mailbox- desperately trying to find a model of color. I did this for six months. I never once saw a model who wasn't white. (Suppodely W stands for Warhol. I think it stands for White.)

Black women have been told they were ugly for centuries. They have had their skin tone, their hair, their entire selves, oppressed.

I tell Dew Drop that she's beautiful every day. Probably every hour. I tell her how beautiful her brown skin is. I tell her that she's going to grow up to be a beautiful African woman someday. I tell her how fun it is to dress her because she looks good in every color. I think it's very important to tell black girls that they are beautiful because society tells them that they are not. I'm going to tell her she's beautiful as soon as she wakes up from her nap. Then again when she goes to bed tonight.

How does your garden grow? Like gangbustahs!

2011-06-25T09:27:00.004-04:00

Summertime rocks.

Things are really kicking in. We're having beautiful meals.

Dew Drop likes to sample and graze any chance she gets. This time it's fresh dill.

Everything just seems more...picturesque. I try not to imagine winter.

Bang! Bangs!

2011-06-17T17:36:00.008-04:00

So I cut bangs. I got so jealous after seeing Babba's new short hair, I immediately had to do something with mine. He seemed so invigorated by his new look- I wanted that. When I say that I cut bangs I want you to know how much courage this took. I still suffer trauma remembering how much hairspray I used in junior high school to get that "big bang look." It's nauseating and embarrassing. Cutting bangs now, after staunchly identifying myself as "non-bangs," was a form of eating crow for me.

Here's the deal with bangs- and why I'm on the fence about whether or not I'm keeping them: If you look closely at the picture of me above and then look closely at the picture below- do you see a similarity? Do my bangs look like Moe?! I want the truth. If the answer is yes, then I'm growing them back out immediately.

Even in this picture (above) I'm still seeing the Moe thing.
Really majorly.

Now, may I direct you to the man below. Take a look at his hair. Especially his bangs.

Now look at my hair. Scroll up to review Mr. Jovi's hair if you need to reference it again. Are you seeing a really major similarity between my new bangs and his hair?
It's
freaking
me
out.
Am
I
destined
to
perpetually
re-visit
junior
high
school?
Why
me?

Before I forget: that's my new camera you see in the pictures. I love this camera so much. I could take pictures for a thousand hours everyday and never be bored. It delights me so.

(Sigh.) It's the Adoption Freaky Scale.

2011-06-14T08:35:00.005-04:00

See that spot right after the "Uh-oh!" zone? It goes down then starts to climb higher a little bit? That's where I was last week.

Our specialist predicted that we'd be matched in the early fall. She was careful to explain that, of course, that is just a prediction. There's no crystal ball in adoption. There's no magic 8 ball to know when our daughter needs us.

Still, that was enough to send Babba and me into a bit of a tizzy. We'd look at each other and say "Whoa." Babba even had the travel guides out for Ethiopia, and was planning and scheming how we could orchestrate staying in country between the court and embassy. He was prioritizing places we need to see -places Dew Drop needs to see. I was fantasizing about Dew Drop realizing for the first time what it means to be from Ethiopia. It was exciting and grand to make these plans. Nothing like a little arm chair travel to make my status on the Adoption Freaky Scale soar.

The next day, though, I put the travel guide back on the shelf. It's just too early to get so giddy. There's no reason for it. I know that having these little giddy episodes will only make the wait more exhausting. So I'm trying to hold back.

I'm safely back in the "Mellow" region of The Adoption Freaky Scale. I intend to stay here, firmly rooted to whatever bits and pieces of sanity I can piece together.