Ten: Part one

Ten more things about me

1. The remains of Judge, our dog, sit on a shelf in our closet – he was cremated almost four years ago.

2. I grind my teeth and should be wearing my night guard. And also, but possibly not related, I experience several moments of sheer terror every few days about the fact that I’m telling the internet my business on this blog...in case you were wondering. I get over it rather quickly though.

3. The song Bobbyjean by Bruce Springsteen makes me want to cry and I don’t even know why. I was in grade ten the first time I heard it.

4. When I get a compliment on something I’m wearing – I blurt out the price. Because I only shop clearance. And I’m usually pretty impressed with my bargain-hunting skills.

5. I’m most productive in the morning, in the springtime and when I have a deadline.

6. I can’t stand avoiding an issue. If something is upsetting, if I’ve hurt someone, if they’ve wronged me, I need to talk about it so it’s not bubbling inside me.

7. Our sponsored child’s name is Sabina and she lives in Bangladesh. I wish I could sponsor ten more kids.

8. I love kijiji, garage sales and flea markets. I feel certain that my days of buying new are almost over. Incidentally, I begged Shaune to stop at the side of the road last week and pick up a coffee table someone was throwing out. It’s now the footboard for our bed. My plan is to sand and paint it. I’m not sure how Shaune feels about it; he’s hit his shin on it every night since.

9. I read to my boys every single night. Even when I don’t want to. And I take a page from Dora and ask Deaglan what his favourite part of the day was. I’m pretty proud of this.

10. I say small prayers all throughout the day. It helps me stay conscious and present. And not related but just because I wanted to fit it in, I’ve been really grossed out by red meat lately. But likely related, I’ve been scheming of ways to stay healthier so I can be nimble and spry when my boys give me grandchildren. I’m an older mom you know.

Please come back for Ten:Part two on Sunday.

 

My kids are biracial

My friend Sue saw this picture of Deaglan in our front hall and said

“Oh look how cute you were when you were little!”

I had to hold back my urge to kiss her. On the mouth. It would have complicated things between us. And I’m not sure she’d want to visit again.
And I’m embarrassed to tell you that my heart leapt in delight. It took a great deal of self-control to refrain from sitting her down to obtain a feature-by-feature comparison, demanding she outline in detail, exactly where she felt the similarities lay.

I don’t have any pictures of myself before the age of seven. I’ve written about all that before: being adopted from Bangladesh, the orphanage, my birth mother. But the thing is, when you have no point of reference like a baby photo or more importantly, someone who knew you as a baby to say, yes, your children do in fact resemble you, well having someone suggest this, is nothing short of finding a fifty dollar bill in an old jacket pocket.

This not having my birth parents around to affirm my likeness to my kids isn’t the only part of being adopted that weighs on me as a parent. I wonder all the time how and when to tell my boys about the other half of their ancestry. Shaune brings with him a clan of beautiful family to make his birthright come alive for our boys. Gramma and Grampa are a steady part of Deaglan and Naveen’s lives so that they will naturally learn about their paternal roots. I’m so grateful for that. And of course my parents, Mimi and Papa, can fill them in on my life after the age of seven.

But I lived in Bangladesh for long enough that it’s more than the place I was born. I knew my biological parents, spent the most formative years of my childhood being influenced by severe poverty, a deeply entrenched Muslim faith, and even a completely different language. I want the kids to appreciate that, learn from it, and as a result, become conscious of the rest of the world. I hope they someday realize how lucky they were, being born into abundance, hope it enriches them in a way that will see them grow up to become kind, humble and tolerant men.

I don’t have the right answer. I certainly don't want to see the day when I hear them say “yeah, yeah, yeah, we get it; you walked five miles to school, in the snow with no shoes.”

I’m pouring my heart out with Shell.

Harvest

The first year is demanding.
Hormones. Sleep deprivation. Uncharted shift from how things were.
Labour intensive and hands-on.

There's crying, crying, crying. From both of you. And because it’s all in your hands, you watch every minute, to prevent. Choking, falling, hungering, rashing.
Crazymaking.

There's mastitis, no time for showers; bickering, tight waists, and swollen breasts. Frumpy dumpy days.
And those days you believe you're doing it all wrong because nothing is on schedule. Not the smiling, not the rolling over, not the crawling, teething, walking or talking. And guilt about food, TV and how-to-play. Comparing. Isolation.

Nobody could have told you the truth of it. They offer their experience, you read what to expect. But always, your baby is the exception.

And yet it’s seamless too.
The incessant kissing and hugging. Pet names. Possession. The final brush strokes on your family portrait, a complete knowing of what you will do from now on. Unwavering affection. An aim and true purpose. Every moment counts but if you don’t stray too far you can begin again.

You look at this seedling and remember that even last spring he was not here. And now he is almost walking, almost sleeping through the night, almost one. You revel in this. The fruits of your labour.

Shaune took these pictures a few hours ago in our backyard. Gramma is responsible for this hat. Can you even stand how adorable he is?

Universal truths

Michelle walked down the stairs with the baby on her hip. Jake was sitting on the couch flipping channels while the twins played on the living room floor.

No coffee.

“Do you want to hold the baby so I can make the coffee or do you want to make it?” she asked.

“Here, I’ll take her.” Jake reached for the baby, ogled the bra strap peeking out from under his wife’s blue tank and raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t even think about it.” She snapped and headed into the kitchen.

“It’s been like six months, you know.”

“It’s been two, exaggerator.”

“Well it feels like six.” There was an edge in his voice.

“Listen” she turned the grinder off, “when I get some sleep, when I’m not exhausted, then I’ll think about that.”

“Whatever.” He muttered to himself.

“I can hear you.” Michelle called out.

The tension between them had been escalating all week. The baby had an ear infection and she was teething again. The boys wrestling on the floor, fighting over who was going to use Gordon, suddenly felt unbearable.

“Cut it out or I’ll take the train away and neither of you will use it!” She yelled, a wave of fatigue diminishing any bit of patience she had.

Jake put the baby in the excersaucer and walked to the kitchen. He put an arm around his wife, squeezing her shoulder. “Calm down, they’re just playing.”

Michelle pushed him away. “Fine, sorry. I just need coffee. I don’t know how much longer I can function on no sleep. I don’t think you understand what I’m going through here.”

Jake tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I know, I know. Tell me what to do. What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, you need to get sleep for work.” She was sobbing now and collapsed onto one of the wooden chairs. “I feel like you think I sound like a broken record, Jay, but this is so hard. Why won’t this baby sleep?”

“I don’t know, but I think there’s something wrong with her.” He wished he could take it back as soon as it was out of his mouth.

“Something wrong with her? What a thing to say! There’s nothing wrong with our baby!”
Michelle stood up, and walked to the coffee maker.

“You know that’s not what I meant. I mean, why’s Simon’s kid sleeping six hours already and he’s three months younger than Janey? And didn’t you say Courtney’s baby was doing ten hours straight?”

“So? That doesn’t mean Janey is abnormal. There’s nothing wrong with her!” Michelle set her steaming mug on the side table, grabbed the baby and sat down to nurse.

Jake grabbed his coffee and headed upstairs to get ready for work.

This is a piece of fiction based on the Red Writing Hood prompt someone has stolen something from you of tremendous value.

Who do I want to advertise?

 A few months ago I put up a "sponsor" button. My intention was to sell ad space here at The Child. And although I haven't been overwhelmed with responses, I have received several solicitations that made me really wonder what I wanted for this blog. If you take a look at my prices, you'll see that, obviously, I'm not trying to make a boatload of cash. But I thought, well, since my blog is steadily growing, I might as well use the space to advertise for some retailers I believe in. Then when the only offers coming in were companies that didn't fit the profile, voice or content of my blog, I let those people know I wasn't interested.

Last week my vision became clearer. My friend Erin who is getting married next month (ahhh!!!!) was ecstatic about some online shopping she's been doing for her wedding and asked me if I'd heard of Etsy. Yes!! She said she couldn't believe the beautiful custom products she'd been finding (wedding veil, jewelry, hair accessories) at amazing prices, all unique and handcrafted. Erin's been stunned by the personal service and caring that these retailers put into her orders - some from as faraway as California.

So although I was waffling a bit on whether or not to just take the tab down, feeling a bit defeated that no quality merchants were approaching me, my friend clarified things for me. I want to sell ad space to the hardworking artisans who may or may not have an Etsy shop. I want to support industrious stay-at-home moms (and dads!) like Valerie and T Rex Mom who lovingly and passionately create beautiful things because - well it brings them joy.

Also and completely unrelated - it never gets easier cutting this kid's hair. Clearly he gets his hair-growing genes from me (sorry Shaune - but he does!); at three, he's had it chopped at least seven times. But it's this refusal to let go that comes with motherhood which brings me to tears every time. And then when he walks in the door, and I see all of his beautiful face, my heart swoons and I could just cry again.

Email me if you or someone you know wants to buy some very reasonably priced ad space here. My contact info can be found in the tabs up top.

The journey to the orphanage

"It's all they had." Shaune handed me the bottle.

"Not even diet?"

"Nope and it's not cold."

I took a sip out of necessity. We'd been walking for an hour, looking at the mundane artefacts meant to represent the pioneer days of Canada. The dust in the desert-like July air had absorbed the moisture in my mouth, so that the sweet syrupy liquid had no thirst quenching properties except to cover my tongue in its slimy coat. And its prickly descent down my throat took me back to that first time it was the only beverage available.

The taller man with the onion breath and brown shoes walked over to where we stood at the railing, watching the green blue torrent. 

"Cola?" he curled his fingers around a make-believe object.

"Is he saying kala?" I looked over to my sister to see if she understood.

The man nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes, cola" His face was red again, a strange thing that happened to both the men when they became excited.

"Yayss" We both said, nodding our heads for good measure, in case he misunderstood. We'd heard the White Woman at the NGO use that word, when speaking to Ma. Her Bengali was broken and had made us laugh.  Our mother shushed us, apologized to the woman, and continued discussing, what I now realize was, our future. 

The man walked back into the cabin of the ferry boat; came back a few minutes later holding a slim glass bottle.

"Where's the kala?" I asked my sister. She shrugged.

"Here." He handed me the bottle. I was confused. It was cold to the touch. What was I supposed to do with this?

As if reading my thoughts, the man gestured, again curling his fingers around a make-believe object then lifted his hand to his mouth.

"He means for us to drink it," My older sister, always the wiser of us, muttered.

"And then we'll get the kala?" She shrugged again. The other man, the one with the beard and light eyes, walked out of the cabin holding a bottle like the one I'd been given. The man in the brown shoes gestured to him excitedly. They exchanged some words and the bearded one stepped into the centre of us, took a long swig of the dark liquid, patted his belly and smiled.

I handed the bottle to my sister. She was the brave one. Let her try it first I thought. She took a quick small sip and handed it back to me. I did the same but sputtered and coughed. The prickle hit my throat and nostrils simultaneously so that I was forced to spit the awful concoction out.

Both men burst into laughter. They laughed for several minutes before one of them grabbed the bottle from me and dumped it over the railing into the Bay of Bengal.

Embarrassed, I began to cry. The sobs choked me, not only because I thought the men were laughing at us, or that I was overly sad about not getting my kala or banana as I would know it ever after, but because it was sinking in that my mother was not going to be waiting for us at the end of this journey: that these tall white men were taking us far, far away from the life we’d known. A life that would one day find me Googling the Bengali word for banana because English had become my only language.

I'm joining the Red Dress Club in writing about a sound or scent that takes me back to my past. Constructive criticism is welcome, I'm learning so much from your helpful feedback.

Blogher is syndicating me today

Two things:

My kids won't stop projectile vomitting on me and I'm being syndicated on Blogher.

Today!!!!






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So will you please go here and leave me a comment? I'm willing to do odd jobs around your house. Feed your cat. Pick up dog poop. Entertain your kids - all the things you've been putting off. Warning - I have the power to make kids puke in the blink of an eye.

I've turned the comments off here. Thank you, thank you, thank you.