Kryptonite

Today is my 14th white wedding anniversary, and for some godforsaken reason my husband saw fit to infuriate me over the weekend thus putting a damper on our festivities.

Disclaimer: my husband rarely makes me angry. Oh I get annoyed and all that, but totally “WTF?” mad... hardly ever.

When he does make me really, really angry, I hate it because there is not a thing I can do about it. Ok, well yeah, I can give him the cold shoulder for a while... but that only lasts a day or so. I just cannot live without talking to him, and when I talk to him, I like him again.

Yesterday I spent some time thinking about how we fight. It is hard to have good battles with kids around, and since he came with one as a package deal, we have always fought incognito. A fight will brew under the radar for a while, and then bang a few minutes of yelling, and then ice for a day or so. As we get older, our fights are even less dramatic... Hell, I can’t even pretend to kick him out or threaten him with a break up. Me alone with five kids while he is out nursing his pain in a bar full of snacks and football? Um, no.

But because of that, nothing ever really gets resolved. When we fight, the underlying cause is never anything new. In fact, you can probably trace it back all of our nearly 17 years together. While on one hand I think that sucks, on the other it is clear we really have nothing major to fight about. Just the usual he is him and I am me and we-don’t-do-things-the-same-way kind of piddly stuff. Or maybe we are simply super tolerant people.

Either way, I can never stay mad at him for long. When I do get angry, I have all sorts of visions of this being THE time I ice him for weeks and he suffers terribly and grovels at my feet, and never ever makes me mad again. 24 hours later I am dying to tell him about something that happened, or I am desperately needing to talk something over with him. I want to keep up the madness but when it comes down to it, I have no staying power for anger. And truly, if he starts to grovel I have to stop him because it just isn’t sexy. A simple “I am sorry for being an (insert colorful expletive here)” accompanied by my favorite latte from that little coffee shop downtown is good enough for me.

Because I have come to realize that he is my kryptonite, and that’s why I married him.


(January 10, 1999, taken a couple minutes after we each said, “I do” for the first time.)

Candy Kisses

When was the last time you felt this way?

 

The Wrong Idea

With every pregnancy comes a preconceived idea of the child that will be. We may not even realize how powerful and ingrained that idea is, unless it is challenged. The idea is firmly grounded in the perfected combination of the mother and father. A wanted pregnancy is a pregnancy of hope.



A prenatal diagnosis of Down syndrome changes all that. Though nothing inside me was different than the day before I heard the news, everything in my mind was altered. The possibility of perfection was shattered, and I was left contemplating that even the best outcome would be subpar to a “normal” child. I hesitantly opened the yellow folder filled with xeroxed faded sheets describing what the future might look like.



Anal atresia, a flat face, heart defects, small low set ears... the flush of shame rushed through me. How could I have created this anomaly? I read a little more... and was clobbered with the worst of it, intellectual disability. My child would not be smart like me. In fact, according to the fact sheet, my baby would likely be a standard deviation or so down from the lowest point of normal human cognition.



I stuffed the papers back into the folder and closed it up. Then I put it high up on a shelf far away from me. I would not look at it again. I could not look at it again. “Que sera, sera,” I said to myself through my tears. And for the rest of my pregnancy I lived in fear of this ugly imperfect child growing inside of me.



What if I had been delivered this news early in my pregnancy, long before I could feel the baby fluttering, and long before the world could see that I was carrying? What if I had been told that my other children and my marriage would suffer because of this coming child? What if the doctor I trusted with my most womanly self had suggested that I could end this and do it over again with the odds stacked in my favor? What if the wrong idea had convinced me to take my daughter’s life?



I wish that every single woman facing this difficult decision could have a glimpse of her future. Not just of her child but of who she will become because of that child. It is a terrible thing to have knowledge without experience, fear without hope, vision without clarity. It is a terrible thing to have to make a life altering decision based on an idea, maybe even the wrong idea.

Heartbreak #4829

The school psychologist has a voice like a child. She sounds much too young to be telling me that the classroom teacher has asked her to do an assessment of Kimani’s mouthing behaviors so that a formal plan of action can be created to discourage such things as eating the wood chips on the playground.

It never ends... the things that don’t happen for her as they are supposed to. These things, they jump out like a springing puppet in an old-fashioned jack-in-the-box. The twisted metal handle with the wooden knob is always turning, the song of simple notes is always playing... always, always, always... and then BOING! Heartbreak #4829. (But really, who's counting?)



She is not delayed. She is detoured. She will not be coming back around this way. She tromps on delicate feet into uncharted territory. Her tiny fists are balled up. If you were to pry them open, you would find the hearts of her parents, crushed, one in each hand.

She Kissed Me

The first kiss... an unusual milestone to record. I don’t see a sticker for it in the baby calendar and yet I have faint memories of all my other babies kissing me sometime in that first year. Looking back I see that I never wrote it down in their baby books. I suppose that without prompting, I took it for granted.

I have been kissing Kimani since the day she was born. I can’t help myself. She is silky-skinned and delicious. For the most part she does not tolerate my advances. She turns her head, pushes me away, squeals “Nooo, noooo.” I have stopped taking it personally, maybe even stopped yearning for her to let me. But I have not stopped doing it... pressing my lips into her bare skin.

I haven’t stopped asking for kisses either. It is not like I beg everyday or anything but I do make it a point to request a kiss from her now and again. The answer is always no. That refusal hurts worse than most anything else in my world right now.

What is a kiss anyway? An expression, a communication, a message... a simple act that represents something else. The gesture is lost on her as are most things that come in disguise.

Autumn kisses me everyday, whenever she can, all day long. When I lift her out of her crib, smackeroo... she plants one on me. While she is sitting on the potty she leans in and “Muah” gets me. When I enter a room, whoosh... she blows one to me. I remember when they handed Autumn to me in that little office space of baby house 1 in Vorzel... I pulled her close and kissed the side of her face. Though she did not kiss me back, she has been making up for it ever since she figured out what kisses are for.

Truth be told though, a thousand baby kisses cannot make up for one Kimani kiss, one simple kiss that would mean so much.



On Friday, March 30th, in the late afternoon, I stood next to the kitchen table with my husband. We were looking at something I can’t even recall when I felt a tug from behind on my shirt. Kimani was in her highchair and she was pulling at me, with both hands. I turned toward her and leaned down a little to see what she wanted. She reached up and grabbed a fistful of my hair and then yanked me down close to her. Then she opened her mouth and tipped her face up to me. She kissed me... not once but twice.

She kissed me. She kissed me. She kissed me. She kissed me. Like a teenager swept away by love’s first touch, I hooted and hollered it, “She kissed me, did you see that? She kissed me!”

My God, I am so thankful... she kissed me.

Loving My Girl

I told you she is beautiful :-)

Lifesavers

My seventeen year old stepdaughter walked into the kitchen to where I was sitting at the table working on the computer and said, “I hope I’m not pregnant.”

Open mouth to answer, stop, think... reply, “Um, why?”

(Y’all are impressed with my amazing mothering skills demonstrated by that well thought out response, aren’t you?)

She went on to explain that if she was pregnant everyone would forever think she married her boyfriend because of that reason and not because they really wanted to be married. Did I understand that, she wanted to know.

Yup, I did. “It’s like me and Kimani,” I said. She is here and nobody really knows if I wanted her to be here.

TK was stunned at the possibility that I may have not wanted Kimani to be here, “Well you didn’t abort her and you had the choice, so that shows you wanted her.”

“Is an abortion at 22 weeks pregnant really an option?” I asked her playing the devil's advocate.

She wasn’t looking too good. “Well, you adopted two more just like her, so obviously you wanted her.” She insisted.

Ahhh, there it is, voiced by an unworldly inexperienced teenager. The proof of my love for Kimani, evident for all to see.

I knew this thought was germinating. I’d been feeling the tiniest twinge of reckoning every time I announced to someone that Masha and Peach are adopted. I see it in your faces, your reactions... so different from when you heard my daughter was born with Down syndrome. There is no more pity, just awe and compliments.

TK had stuck her pointing finger right into a murky spot in my heart. Did I adopt Masha and Peach as a way to show the world that Kimani is good and valuable, and worth the air she breathes?

If you asked me that before I adopted them, while we were still thinking of adopting, still pushing papers, I would have told you “No, we are simply saving two lives.” But now, I don’t know. Maybe there was a part of me that knew that bringing the girls home would answer all those unasked questions. In a way, saving their lives is the statement that saves Kimani’s.

Enigma

I love puzzles, hidden meanings, and riddles. I have a strong desire to figure things out, to uncover reasons and investigate results. I like secrets, and I can keep them safe.

And so perhaps Kimani is the perfect child for me.

She sees, but she doesn’t. She is beautiful, but she is a deviation. She is simple, yet a conundrum. Her skin still smells like it did on the day she was born. She mystifies me, stupefies me, and terrifies me.

Everything between us takes place on her terms. She shifts the lines on a whim. Any despotism on my part is matched with wild resistance. Her love for me is intense, and when she wants to express it, nothing can stand in its way. A hard earned smile from her enchants me.

I study her, memorize her, deconstruct her, analyze her... I try desperately to read her mind. Training her is like walking a tightrope, it exhausts my sense of balance. She makes me wonder. She makes me cry. She delights and inspires me.

She is my enigma.

Dear Imaginary Santa,

Remember when I was a little girl and I still believed in you? I wanted things like a Geronimo doll and plastic horses for him to ride. I wanted a Hess truck with lights that really worked. I wanted Legos so I could build my own house with many staircases and secret rooms. I wanted a Magic 8 ball so that I could know the answers to all the important questions in my childish mind.

You gave it all to me, and despite the ugliness that lived with us, Christmas morning always turned out ok. But then I found out the truth... that you are not real. Christmas lists and letters are useless now.

It doesn’t matter anyway, Santa, because the things I want now cannot be bought. Like wisdom. I want perfect wisdom, to always know the right thing to do and say. I want to be filled with patience and gentleness. I want to be a great wife and mother, and a great writer.

But if only one wish of mine could be granted this Christmas, I’d ask for a mama and papa for Anya. She is a little girl with Down syndrome who lives in the orphanage where my daughters came from. Anya turns four this coming Tuesday the 14th. Anya’s time in the baby house is up.



Anya is not your typical child with Ds. Her need for support is higher than that. She is desperate for love, attention, and intervention. Anya is a child that will die young in a mental institution.

When I was there, I stole a few minutes with Anya. I held her in my arms. Anya took my hands and clapped them together over and over, making up her own game. Anya stared into my eyes as if no one had ever looked lovingly at her before. From then on, Anya would try to come to me when she saw me, but they would never let me hold her again.

I wished I could tell Anya that someone was coming for her, that a mama and papa would come to save her from her fate. I wished I could tell her that somebody loves her, and that I could promise her she will not die an orphan in a lonely box crib.

I wished you were real Santa so that you could give Anya a family for Christmas this year.

The Angel Sleeps

There are times when I just want to eat her up. I mean really, doesn’t she just look delicious?

Say It

I remember when I couldn’t say it without choking up. I couldn’t get it out without the heat rising inside of me... I couldn’t say it without feeling like I might crack wide open and my guts would fall out on the floor.

Maybe if she had been born with no heart complications, maybe if she had nursed from the start like a champ, maybe if I had been able to take her straight home to her beautiful nursery.

Maybe if someone had captured gorgeous pictures of her in fancy baby girl lace, instead of decked out in wounds, wires, and tubes...

Maybe if I could have convinced myself that she was a Rockstar, that she would be the One to break the mold, that she was going to be different... that she was more special than special. Maybe if all my friends and family had played along...

Maybe then I could have said it without shaking,

"My baby has Down syndrome."

But none of that matters anymore, because I can say it now. I can say it with ferocity. I can say it with dignity. I can say it with love.

But most importantly, I can say it with indifference.

In Today's Mail

Dear Mrs. Easter Bunny,

You’re so beautiful and sweet and smart. Your tail is the fluffiest tail I’ve ever seen, and I can tell looking at you that you really do love me, even when we fight. Your hair looks fantastic, even when you’ve just gotten out of bed. You don’t need makeup, you’re covering the most beautiful face under it.

And of course, your amazing cooking. You’re so creative with your food, your scrapbooking, it’s great. And I really do appreciate all the time you spend with and for me. Thank you, Easter bunny. You have given me more than candy could ever give me (but candy would still be nice).

Easter wish list
Gift card to the artist store, mp3 player, JellyBelly Jelly Beans, fancy leggings, Bic mechanical pencil, G2 07 pen, rubber bands, orange Cadbury eggs, and paper.

Love, TK.

(Lol, I love my teenager.)

Yes, Kimani, I am

100 Reasons Why

When you first fall in love, it seems so easy to list the reasons why. It took me maybe a half hour to come up with a hundred of them, printed out on textured grey paper, rolled into a scroll, tied off with red ribbon.

A decade, four kids, and many trials later, it gets a little tougher.

Oh, I know I love him... I just can’t always remember why as I move through this endless pile of laundry and glance at that sink full of dishes. And I am vaguely distracted by a distant memory of life before him, when freedom meant being able to wake up a world away with no return ticket.

So I sat there staring at a blank screen wondering if it was at all possible to conjure up a new list without peeking at the old list.

I love you because...
Panic sets in. Do I even really love you still?

My fingers type... 1. Those beautiful blue eyes. 2. You never complain. 3. You root for my Giants. ♥

Before I know it, I am on number 15. You can find anything I lost. Then zing... 23. You let me sleep late... often. 39. You make a lot of sacrifices to get things for me. And 48. Any roller coaster, anywhere.

63. You’ll eat almost anything.
64. You take the dirty jobs.
66. “Honey can you get me a...” Always a yes.
67. That little dance you do.
70. You are kind to living things.

Oh, I am on a roll now. Elizabeth Barrett Browning ain’t got nothing on me.

74. You are generous.
75. You drove through the heart of Chicago during rush hour without getting us killed.
79. You like to make up and don’t stay mad for long.
88. You always remember my birthday and our anniversaries and every other special day. ♥

Huh, this isn’t nearly as hard as I thought it would be. Did I really think I hated you just yesterday?

93. You agreed to more children.
95. You let me warm up my cold parts on you.
96. You forgive my imperfections.

And finally, 100. For thirteen years you have loved me completely and unconditionally and I hope you will continue to do so forever more. ♥

Done. Another list tied with another red ribbon. Happy Valentine’s Day love.


(Oh, my dear blog reader, you want the unabridged version? Look me up on EBay... I’ll sell you a copy, cheap ;-)

My Three Little Words

Back in my Triassic period, one of the fastest ways to get a pink slip from me was to pop out with three little words... “I love you.” Yup, premature enunciations of love would get a guy’s boyfriend status revoked. I had two golden rules... don’t tell me you love me and don’t ask me to marry you.

I love you, I love you, I love you... I’d heard it uttered in the dark by a frightened mother. I’d read it in ink-stained poetry. I’d heard those words professed by lovers, drunken men, and snakes... at times, all one and the same. I'd heard it threatened through clenched teeth and seen it hanging from a noose. I’d heard it in English, French, Italian, and even Albanian.

I’d heard it enough to know that it did not mean what it was supposed to mean. And therefore, those words did not trigger in me requited sentiments, no, no, instead they brought cold anger and contempt.

For I had already learned that love is a verb, not a capricious noun made up of pheromones, hormones, and other such sweet aphrodisiacs. So the rule was don’t tell me, show me. Because if I can’t tell by your actions that you love me, then let’s just stick with like.

My husband was a quick study and he took my warning seriously. He soon figured out that to get into my heart he needed to demonstrate my three little words... blood, sweat, and tears.

After all, those actions of love were given for me by a King and I would expect no less from a husband. He gave willingly all that was needed, and eventually I proposed to him.

These words were read at our wedding, “Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death;” Sgs 8:6. And while we sport no visible branding, no colorful appellation tattoos, no vials of blood worn ‘round the neck... they are there in spirit.

Now when I hear the words “I love you”, I am at peace because he has earned the right to say them.

Picture credit: Armor for Man and Horse: The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Are You Really Prolife, Really?

I think most Christians would be quick to say that they are prolife, and to their credit for what that label is worth, they most likely are. But in our culture isn’t that label just a more positive way of saying anti-abortion, or perhaps pro-birth?

I am not writing today to argue the issue of choice. Nope, today I am thinking about what it means to be prolife. To me, being prolife means you “do things to give a person all the life to which he or she is entitled (C. Everette Koop)."

But the question is, who am I responsible to do this for? Certainly not just my own children... surely orphans are “entitled” to live as well... aren’t they? “Rescue those being led away to death; hold back those staggering toward slaughter.” Prov 24:11.

So here is my big question... why are so few Christian families adopting orphans? Is it just that they are blissfully unaware that there are languishing children out there desperate for a loving home? If so, news flash friends... there is a child waiting for you.

No, not a cute white American made newborn... other children await you. Children who are facing life in mental institutions... children with repairable medical issues who will eventually die if they are left untreated.

“Once our eyes are opened, we can't pretend we don't know what to do. God, who weighs our hearts and keeps our souls, knows what we know, and holds us responsible to act." Prov. 24:12

These are real people, real children living in orphanages, real children just like Kimani... waiting, waiting. How can you look at them and then turn away? Their pictures haunt me. I dream of going to get them.

Here are two very good reasons why you might not want to go rescue them; You do not have enough money or space for a(nother) child and You couldn’t handle a (special needs) child. Did you know those are the two biggest abortion reasons? Not enough resources and can’t handle a child. You don’t accept those excuses from pregnant women...

I attend a large church. I am part of a large Christian circle. There are very few families who have adopted orphans. I see so many perfect families around me. Happily married, middle-class parents with two or three darling home-made children. They say they are prolife and when it comes to voting against abortion rights, they are.

But what about when it comes to Anna?

Sold Out

Don’t you just hate it when you go to buy it, whatever it is that you really really wanted (like U2 tickets, or half-price Bobux leather baby shoes) and dang, there it is... the big SOLD OUT message. You can’t get one. Other people got theirs and you missed out.

Well, lately that is how I’ve been feeling about Kimani. She’s rare, she’s precious, and she’s beautiful. She’s practically a one-of-a-kind. She’s funny, and unique, and thought-provoking. She’s wild, and she’s mine. Mine all mine.

You may think you don’t want one but you’ve no idea what you’re missing out on. And if you did realize it, and did decide you wanted one, well na na... good luck. Unless you win the baby lottery you’d have to have about 750 kids before you get one like her.

Or you could head over to Reece’s Rainbow and snag one up before they’re all gone.

The Betrothal

Before Kimani was born, I stressed about such things as whether she might go to college, or get married, or drive a car. My husband, who is the more relaxed of the two of us, was convinced she would do all those things. I let him rest in his denial...

Fast forward a year and a half. Did you know that lots of people with Down syndrome get married, mostly to each other? How fitting that such trusting and guileless people should find love in each other.

There are a lot of boys out there that could end up the lucky man... There’s Finnian, Sheridan, and Charlie just to name a few... but one little guy has already captured this potential MIL’s heart... and his name is Ozzie.

(Those who really know me well are singing... “Oh no, oh no, here we go now....”)

No, not that Ozzie... this Ozzie.

Oh wait... that was before she kissed him. Here he is in his princely form.

I met his dad out in blogland a while ago. We became friends and since then our families have had the good fortune to be able to meet up in NYC at the Museum of Natural History. It was Kimani and Ozzie’s first date ♥ ♥ ♥ Aren’t they cute together? Don’t you just love how they are checking each other out?



Ok, so she looks a little wary of the situation but we have plenty of time for him to grow on her.

I’m Not Special

It wasn’t a religious thing, nor was it a moral thing. And, I am not special.

I didn’t want a baby with Down syndrome. Really, I didn’t. But more than that, I didn’t want to face an abortion.

She was a wanted baby. We made her on purpose. We were thrilled and excited to be pregnant again. It is not like this was some college accident.

I am lucky... I can get pregnant at the drop of a... well, you know how it works. We could have very easily done a do-over. Two, three months later I would have been pregnant again. Most likely it would have been a perfectly typical baby.

But to get there, I would have had to choose death for the zygote, fetus, baby that was already on the way. I, me personally, would have had to say definitively that this person should not live. Then I would have had to get up on the table to prove it.

I just couldn’t do it to her.

And everyday, as I bask in the light that shines mysteriously around her, I am so thankful that her story didn’t end that way.

Photo credit: Artist Anaa

10 Years Ago Today