Gecko Scores

My 9 year old son Gecko plays on a premier soccer club team. He is one of the youngest and most developing kids on the U10 (boys born in ’02 & ‘03) team. He is also one of the smaller kids, though surprisingly not the smallest. But he is built for soccer. He is fast, agile, and aggressive and for the most part he holds his own.



For some reason though, he doesn’t shoot for goals. He plays forward or midfielder and he does great getting the ball and moving it, but when he gets close he just doesn’t take the shot. I chalk this up to focus (too focused on controlling the ball to plan for a strike and not focused enough on where exactly he is and what the goal opportunities look like ahead of him) and perhaps even a bit of uncoordinated motor planning (the switch from controlling it to actually shooting it).



I am not some crazed soccer mom who lives and dies for her kid to be the best, to be the star but I know that for his sake he needs to take that next step and start taking goal shots. I have been subtly mentioning it to him and when it comes up he tells me he prefers defense. And so I leave it alone hoping that by the end of this first year he develops to the point where he wants it.



Last Sunday when I did a little birthday shopping for myself at the Pandora store, he was with me. He goes there often with his dad to pick out my special occasion gifts and he enjoys looking at and picking out the beads he thinks I might like. As we were eying the lovely baubles in the glass cases, he said, "Mom, don’t you have a football? Maybe they have a soccer ball."

The sales lady was quick to tell us there is a soccer ball bead and to pull out the tray that it sits on. I smiled at Gecko, "I do have a football bead. And when you score your first goal, I will buy that beautiful soccer ball bead to celebrate it." He smiled right back at me and said, "Ok mom."

On Wednesday (the very next practice) the boys played against themselves, and lo and behold, Gecko scored not one but two goals. The minute he got home he yelled to me, "Guess what mom? We can go back to Pandora now." I was very excited for him and proud of him.

But later that night I wondered about it. When your children are really little, you know them so well. You know what each of their cries means, you know everywhere they go, everyone they see, all the things they care about... but then they begin to grow up and away from you. They have crushes you don’t know about, thoughts they don’t share, friends and enemies at school you don’t know. They have fears and desires that you are not privy to. Was it a coincidence that he scored those goals the very next time he was on the field? Or is he that motivated to please me/make me proud? Is that a good thing? Was it to show that he loves me or does it mean he feels like he needs to measure up?

Today he came home late from his game. He walked into the kitchen with a little Pandora bag in his hand and a wide grin. As he handed it to me he excitedly told me that he took a goal shot during the game but "the goalie just barely got it!"

That little silver and enamel soccer ball charm on my bracelet means a lot to me. While it won’t give up the secret of why he wanted it so bad, it reminds me that my boy is superstar to me.

Open Season

My childhood was filled with killing. There was no real season for it. The guns stayed in the truck window hanging on the rack all year long. Depending on the time of year, the dead deer were either strung up proudly in a tree at the end of our driveway, or hung secretly down in the dirt cellar. We butchered them on the kitchen table. Bones sawed and cracked through rang in my ears. The blood got on everything, and it smelled...sweet and heavy on the edge of decay.

And it wasn’t just deer. There were bloody headless chickens who ran even after they were doomed. There were turkeys soaked in pails of stinking brine whose feathers needed to be plucked out. Pluck, pluck, pluck... the perfect word for how it sounds and feels to pull a feather from a soaking wet bird carcass. There was the rabbit I saw getting skinned. My young eyes were fascinated by how his coat peeled from his body, leaving a thin layer of film to hold in his red, purple, and grey guts. “Looks like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” My grown step brother said staring down at his catch. The next time I opened my lunch to find the white bread faintly seeping up with grape jelly trails, I knew he was right.

And it wasn’t just things we ate. There were troublesome dogs, unwanted litters of kittens, and foxes who did not belong in our coop. There were floating bull fish after the quarter stick went ka-boom in the pond. There were unrecognizable piles of skin and bones littered throughout our woods. The deer skulls were obvious... the others I wondered about.

And it wasn’t just animals. There were two little girls who came to believe Him when he said he would tie cement blocks around their necks and throw them in the pond. Those girls grew up and got away. But I know if you go back and look into that dark and murky water you will see reflections of them lying there at the bottom.

Through the Window

As I stand at my dresser rummaging through the top drawer for a pair of socks, I see you walking up our long driveway, unaware of me. You have on jeans, a black tee-shirt, and a cap facing backward. Well beyond a 5 o’clock shadow is creeping toward your goatee, and your long hair is tied back in a waving ponytail.

In this moment I see you the way some stranger, some other woman might see you... strong and sexy, competent and wild. The fifty yards and window panes that separate us have the power to suspend fifteen years of my life, and I begin to ache for you... a you I barely remember.

Without thinking, I put my hand up flat against the window as if it were possible to reach through it and touch the past. I am surprised at how cool the glass feels against my palm, cold like my heart.

If I left you now, I do believe I would spend the rest of my life searching for that man in the driveway.

What's It to Ya?

Many people find this blog by searching for a mentally retarded baby. If you google that term in images, Kimani comes up near the top of the list. The post you land on is “It Wasn’t Meant that Way.”



I am such a curious woman. I wonder about all the reasons a person might be searching for an image of someone like Kimani. Maybe you are a pregnant mom who just got some scary news. Maybe you are a college student doing a research paper. Maybe you are someone searching for nefarious reasons.

Whatever brought you here, I hope you gain something positive about mentally challenged people.

My daughter Kimani has Down syndrome. She is three years old now. As an infant in the NICU she contracted meningitis and suffered brain damage resulting in cortical sensory impairment. What that means is that while her senses (sight, hearing, feeling, etc.) all work correctly, the cortex in her brain does not always properly process the information it receives. At times she is legally blind, or deaf, or unable to feel things. It also means she processes information quite slowly when she is stressed or tired.



As you can imagine being sometimes blind and deaf and running on less neurons can make learning difficult. It can also make day-to-day living kinda frustrating for her and for us.

There is a huge difference between a person with Down syndrome and a person who has suffered brain damage. Apart from my Kimani’s unique and gorgeous face, which gives a hint of that extra 21st chromosome, she does not represent a typical child with Down syndrome. I have two adopted daughters who both also have Down syndrome and they are similar to each other in development and very much like my two typical children who have just 46 chromosomes.

Although Kimani has difficultly with learning and retaining new things, she can walk and climb. She can say a few words and can sign a few more. She is cooperative with getting dressed and other similar activities. She transitions well from one thing to another, sleeps like an angel, and is doing well with potty training. She loves the pool, her iPad, and dancing around in my arms to 70’s disco music.



If you take some time to read around this blog you will encounter the power Kimani has wielded in my life, and how that power has infused me with renewed creativity, brought me emotionally to my knees, taught me new ways to value individuals, and whispered love secrets into my heart. You will also find lots of other beautiful pictures of Kimani.

I invite you to share with me what it was you were looking for and if you found it. I accept anonymous comments if you wish to remain private.

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.

What Can't I Do Online?

I can shop, read the news, make friends, pay a bill, support a cause, take a class, pick out a new daughter, defend my beliefs, earn a living, advocate for people with Down syndrome, spill my guts...

Wait... not that last one. Not so much anymore. I have written about this before and it has only gotten worse for me since then. My silence is choking me.

I can’t tell you how I feel about my step-daughter yanking my heart out and stomping on it, again.

I can’t tell you how I feel about my boss giving away my job.

I can’t tell you how I feel about the hard parts of adoption.

I can’t tell you how I lost my faith, or if I have for sure found it again.

And even if I could tell you about these things... there isn’t the time. The reality of it is that I spend most of my day filling mouths and wiping butts. I don’t even have time to tell you all the things I can’t tell you. It is probably better that way for now.

Maybe I can’t find the time because I am not ready to deal with the repercussions of honest writing. But then I ask myself, what is the sense of having a personal blog if I can’t talk about what is on my mind and staining my heart?

All right, all right then... I’ll tell you about one thing that has been bothering me. People tell me all the time that if only they had more room in their house, or more money in their bank account, that they would adopt.

That isn’t why you aren’t doing it. You aren’t doing it because it is a sacrifice of time, a huge forever commitment of your emotional, mental, and bodily resources. And you are scared... scared that the child might turn out to be full of problems, medical issues, or low functioning.

Children are freedom thieves. They enslave us with their needs. Our own darlings are worth the forbearances because they are so beautiful and talented, not to mention we know they come from good stock. But other children? Children whose mothers may have smoked crack while they were forming? Children with congenital birth defects? Children who may not know how to love you back?

Hell no, there just isn’t the space in your house for that.

Anyway, being bitchy about it isn’t going to change your mind. So I will tell you a secret, adopted kids are fascinating. And they teach you that love equals action.

And I will tell you another secret. It is ok with me if you don’t want one. You don’t need to explain.

The Child I Like Best

Parents are not supposed to love one child more than another, or so I have been told. At least they shouldn’t admit to it anyway.

But I can’t help it. There’s love and then there’s love. I have five children now and I love them all. I mother them all equally. I discipline them fairly and consistently. I treat them all the same. But one of them is more endearing than the others.

In truth, I think this happens quite often in families (though most parents are smart enough to follow the “don’t ask, don’t tell” rule on this topic). Maybe for you it is your oldest, the one who has been around the longest and had that early time as the only child. Or perhaps it is your baby, who will always be your sweet baby. Maybe it is your only boy, or your only girl.

When the French say “I love you”, they say “Je t’aime” and when they say “I like you”, they say Je t’aime bien”. Their word for love is the same as their word for like, and when they emphasize love by adding the word “well” to it, it becomes like. So maybe what I really meant to say up above is that there is love and then there is like.

One of my children is very very likeable. This child has a great unintended sense of humor. This child is thoughtful and sweet. This child is bright and engaging. This child is beautiful and smells delicious. This child is very able to express love and affection. On the flip side, this child is rarely annoying, contrary, or miserable. Lacking difficult-to-deal-with characteristics goes a long way.

It doesn’t really matter if it is ok or not for me to like this child more than the others... it doesn’t matter if it makes me an imperfect mother. It is what it is.

Whose Blog Is This?

Earlier this month I wrote a post about honesty and writing, trying to decide for myself if it matters that the blogger’s truth is usually blurry. I left off thinking it probably doesn’t matter.

But what about when the blogger’s truth is silenced, subjugated by the fact that readers might be hurt, or pissed. When a blog is anonymous, the you isn’t you reader, and so the author can talk about you all she wants.

But this blog isn’t really anonymous anymore, so if I use your marriage, my job, or something you said, did, or didn’t do as fodder, well then reader, I might actually be talking about you, and you would know that, and you would probably not like it.

And then I would be in trouble.

Over the last week I have written posts, and then not posted them. I’ve written about things that I am struggling with, things that are hurting me... For the first time since I started blogging I have written in blood and then decided that I cannot publish my words.

My blog is not my own anymore. In a way it belongs to its readers... it is held captive by their feelings, their judgements, their sensibilities... You stranger are not a stranger anymore, and now I just can’t talk to you the way I used to.

D.O.A.

When I was 15 years old, I killed myself. One could say it was accidental but then one might be lying. Looking back, it must have been a very upsetting and even humiliating experience for my mother. Sorry mom.

Why did I do it? Oh, what a complicated question to which there is no simple answer.

The door was open. It has always been open for as long as I can remember. And one day, I just stepped through it.

I have been asked what I saw on the other side and the answer is nothing. Perhaps an overdose of drugs and alcohol blots out the shining light...

I saw nothing, but I learned something... Death answers to God.

(God was kind enough to remind me of this yesterday at our staff picnic. A friend mentioned that he had once died... and suddenly I recalled a day long ago, a day I had almost forgotten, a day that taught me that God calls the shots, not me.)

The B-Side of Summer

I used to love my flowers. They reminded me of summertime, carefree days and warmth. But now my brain has tangled them with imagery of my baby suffering. I can no longer disassociate this blooming flower...



from these bruised flowers.





And when the hot sun, that I used to love, beats down on me I think of how her mouth and nose looked when I would come back in the mornings. No mercy from the imaginary sun that dried her lips into rock candy and caused her nose to bleed.





The smell of fresh cut grass tells me that today there may be some skin missing or an infection brewing.





As I watch the ants coming and going, all over their little hills,



I see the needle pricks. Once, after her surgery, I counted 47 holes in her wrists and upper inner thighs... and then I stopped counting. With nothing left to hit on the outsides, it went in under her armpit.





I debate whether I should destroy the pictures and burn her accoutrements. Will summertime return to me anew if I do?



Maybe you should talk to someone my husband says. That is why I write, I say.

Rescue Me

I’ve been feeling uncomfortable disconnected disappointed disconcerted with my church for some time now. It started during my pregnancy for Kimani and it has grown into a nagging feeling that I cannot shake.

I probably could have managed to ignore it if not for the picture, titled Rescue Me, that appeared in the upstairs hallway. I have to look right at it each time I exit the stairwell to go down the hall to my office. It is under copyright so if you want to see it, go look.

It is a picture of part of a child’s face, an obviously non-American child, and on it are the words,

“As the body of Christ our greatest crime against humanity is our indifference and indecision towards the cultural problems we are faced with. This tolerance lulls us into a state of limbo that kills action. Without action there is no rescue. For some, without rescue there is no hope. You can be that hope, you can be that rescue."

It immediately makes me think of orphans that need to be rescued. You might think it is wonderful that our church feels so strongly about this sort of “cultural problem” that such a lovely reminder was chosen to hang on the wall, but...

When God called us to adopt an orphan who without rescue would have no hope in this world, we were shocked to find out the cost of an international adoption. I felt ill as I read the sheet of impending expenses... document fees, required donations, court costs, facilitation fees, translation costs, attorney fees, travel expenses... It was overwhelming and insurmountable.

Then an amazingly generous donor appeared and offered to cover two-thirds of the cost but only if other donors could be found to raise the remaining funds. We were thrilled. We knew we could raise the rest. After all, we are part of a huge church and we have zillions of friends and family and acquaintances who all love God and care about orphans.

Our first stop was the church. My husband met with the appropriate leader and explained our mission to him. He asked for any financial support our church might be able to give. He was told that our church doesn’t assist with adoptions, that the elders have not approved that sort of benevolence.

I admit, I was stunned. We are not an infertile couple seeking help to adopt the perfect Russian doll. We are just an average family seeking to do God’s will to rescue two children facing life in cold hard hopeless institutions. My heart was hurt that our church of all these years showed “indifference” toward this very real “cultural problem”.

And then the fine art print appeared in the hallway and now I can’t ignore my feelings anymore but the problem is... I don’t know what to do with them.

Man Feet

My son the Gecko is my first born child. I tend to baby the Gecko a bit... on school mornings I dress him either while he is still half asleep snuggled in his bed, or while he is at the kitchen table enjoying his breakfast. It is a ballet dance between us as he automatically presents an arm or foot just as I am slipping on a sleeve or pant leg.

Yesterday morning, a morning that pretended to be like any other, he swung his foot up to hook the oncoming sock... and I saw it. I caught his foot in one hand and left the sock dangling in the other as I gawked at it. It was a man foot. There were strong tendons fanning out with little dips between them. The toes were individually shaped with the first and middle ones grown longer than the big one. There were indents in the sides of them where they lay tightly against each other when he walks or runs. And there was a faint hint of stinky.

Before I could stop it, out flew an astonished, “Oh my goodness your toes!” Peanut butter and honey toast froze midway to his mouth and he looked down at me with concern. I recovered quickly and made up a little myth about how having your first and middle toes be longer than your big toe meant you are brilliant. I showed him the evidence of his genius and then tugged the sock over it and moved along to the other foot.

It too showed no trace of my baby boy’s scrumptious feet. No longer was it plumped up and covered in silky soft skin, topped off with perfect piggies... one the size of a small grape, the others like tiny treats in a row from biggest to smallest.

Those infant boy feet that I had sung to, feigned eating, massaged with lotion, and squashed against my nose to sniff up the sweetness of babyhood were gone, replaced by man feet. I had made it just fine through his first crew cut, his first day of kindergarten, and the loss of his first tooth but this... this was different.

I knew the second I saw that man foot it was a harbinger. It gave me a vision of something I was not ready to see. One day those man feet will walk out my front door and the boy will not return.

There’s a Monster In the Pantry

One day I opened the kitchen pantry door and found a Lego troll, armed and dangerous, guarding the peanut butter.



I picked him up by his ugly green head and tossed him back in the toybox. Then I heard him yell out, “I’m not the only monster in your closet!”