Thursday, July 29, 2010

Best Reason Ever to wear a silly hat

On Tuesday we received Gracie’s Final Order of Adoption decree. She is legally ours.

I thought it would feel different; that the legality of it all would sink in and in some sense she would feel “more” my daughter. But I’m not quite certain it feels any more “real” than it did when I first held her in my arms at UVA hospital. Perhaps if we’d had to go to court, but I doubt it. How can something that is true become more true?

By definition, it can’t.

We’d been waiting awhile for the order to come in the mail. On Monday I received an email from a Bethany case worker asking about an article I was writing for their newsletter and also congratulating me on the adoption being finalized. Perplexed, I called and simply told them that they must know something I didn’t. I called our lawyer, and sure enough, the adoption was finalized and entered into law on July 19th.

July 19th. Last Monday. Sloan went to Orlando for the week and I took Henry to surf camp. I spent the afternoon on the phone with Dell computers. I changed poopy diapers and had no idea that suddenly, officially, Gracie was now legally named Grace and that she was ours.

Or…to put it in more legal terms…

ADJUDGE, ORDER, and DECREE that henceforth this child shall be, to all intents and purposes, the child of the Petitioners, Charles Sloan Phillips and Elizabeth Johnson Phillips and shall be entitle to all the rights and privileges (there are few), and subject to all the obligations (there are many) of a child of these Petitioners born in lawful wedlock.


And it further appearing to the court that the petition filed in this cause includes a prayer (how nice, it includes a prayer!) that the child’s name be changed to Margaret Grace Phillips the Court does further ADJUDGE, ORDER, and DECREE that henceforth this child’s name shall be Margaret Grace Phillips…

If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a thousand times, my feelings are not a barometer for truth. And yet here, I think I may have actually got it right. Yes, it was not entered into law in the Commonwealth of Virginia until July 19th, 2010, but she has been my daughter since the dawn of time. In the beginning, when the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters, God loved me and Sloan and Henry and Grace and He knew we belonged to each other and to Him.

And THAT is worth celebrating!! So we pulled out some pink champagne sent to us by friends for the occasion, and ate a celebratory meal…of cereal. Because me celebrating does not include cooking. That’s right, Robin Leach, here in the Midlo, we folks live on Champagne and Miniwheat dreams—we call it Lifestyles of the Middle-classed and lazy. It works for us.

But we WILL be celebrating big time for Super G’s birthday. Yes, we will be those folks who have a ridiculous bash for their one year old. There probably won’t be pony rides, but I’m wearing Sloan down on the bounce house idea.

SO PUT IT ON YOUR CALENDARS FOLKS. OCTOBER 23, 2010. AND YES, YOU ARE INVITED. COME ONE, COME ALL. We will be putting a robe on our daughter (it’s a costume party, of course!) and killing the fatted calf (okay, BBQ from the Q) and celebrating God’s faithfulness to us, that we are a family, and that our little G is turning one. In lieu of gifts, (ok, if you are related to her, I still expect you to get her a gift!!!), we will be receiving donations to Bethany Christian Services off of their baby registry at Wal-Mart. These items, baby clothes, diapers, formula, etc., go to new adoptive parents and also to interim foster parents caring for infants.

I’m not kidding. You are invited. Even if you live in North Carolina, Pennsylvania, Florida, or Texas or will be 8 months pregnant or both (seriously, I have 8 friends who are due with babies from October to December). Because let’s face it, can you think of a better reason to stick your pants on your head and party?

Friday, July 23, 2010

Better Out Than In

Yesterday was Gracie's 9 month birthday.  And though I've been her Mommy since time began, she has now been under my care longer than she was her biological mom.  So it was a sweet day for us.  She celebrated by cutting her 2nd tooth and pooping a lot. 
Basically this is her standard face.  She is either giggling and chatting, or she is asleep.  When she cut her most recent tooth, the only way I knew was from the extra poops and bloody drool. 
If you can't tell, her hair is getting longer.  Her hair is very soft and curly.  Henry loves to comment that the boys in our family have straight hair and the girls have curly hair.  Also, please notice in this picture that Gracie now has a neck.
In as much as Henry is toughening her up, she is softening him.  Now that she is crawling and pulling up, they are actually able to play together.  He was distressed that she was playing with his trains, so he quickly built her a "Cwistmas" tree for her to tear apart. 
She also has pretty much taken over Henry's collection of Pez dispensers.  They are her favorite teething toy. Many times she'll have one in her mouth, another in her hand, and one stuffed in her outfit. 
While she does love to play with trains, trucks, and Legos, we've also pulled out her dollies which are a huge hit.  Henry likes to put them in his cart and push them around and often tells Grace she needs to be careful when she drops them or bangs their head on the ground.
And this is pretty much how she rides in grocery carts.  No matter how many times I try to sit her up straight, she likes to be laaaaaid back.  And yes, she has her mind on her money and her money on her mind.  She's also been known to sit sideways in high chairs and put her feet up on the table. 

She loves to eat those fruit air puffs.  Thankfully they have about 25 calories per 1000 puffs.  She also loves the Earth's Best Vanilla Biter Biscuits.  She gums them and rubs the gooo all over her face, hands, arms, hair and me too if I am not careful. 

She is a quick crawler and has begun to pull up on everything.  Her mobil has been taken out of her crib and most mornings when I go to get her out of her crib, she is holding onto the side rail and jumping up and down. 

She laughs with her whole body.  Her laughter is infectious.  She and Henry will start giggling and tickling one another, and each time, I end up on the floor laughing with them.

Her stats--
Weight:  21 lbs 13.5 oz (90th percentile) 
She wears size 5 diapers because baby carries her weight in her belly.
Height:  26.5 inches (25th percentile)
Head circumference: 44.5 cm (about 60th percentile--for those of you planning to make her a crown)

And she has one and a half teeth. 

My sweet darling Grace, your brother is right.  You ARE beautiful.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Pithy comment: The Trouble with titles

Senior year of high school, my English teacher was Dr. Gutsell.  Although she had some serious oddities, she is easily one of the best teachers I've ever had.  At Christmastime, we decorated a Yule tree.  She was adamant it was not a Christmas tree, despite the fact that  it was a giant Frasier fir and we spent a class time armed with glue sticks and glitter creating ornaments about our favorite scenes from Beowulf, Dickens, or Graham Greene.  In the corner of her room, she'd fashioned a sitting room complete with vinyl orange sofa and other furniture the 1970's left behind. This was so, on occasion, we could all relax and wax philosophical about the literature we'd read. Very bohemian.  It could have only been more hip if we'd traded that Yule tree in for an Espresso machine all the girls donned berets and the boys, goatees. 

My two favorite oddities were in regards to writing--all papers had to be HANDWRITTEN on UNLINED paper with a FOUNTAIN PEN complete with a title page that did NOT have our name on it.  The anonymity of the title page was so that we could, on the days papers were due, sit in the hipster corner and listen to her read each title aloud.  She would read the title aloud and then as though she was Johnny Carson doing his Amazing Kreskin sketch, she would predict whether or not the paper was any good, would be enjoyable to read, or perhaps (egads?!) a total snoozefest.  (Okay, she probably didn't use that term.  She probably said something like "That sounds rather insipid..." or sigh and say, "How banal".)

Many parents complained--particularly about their children having to write in their papers longhand when we all had mighty fine Apple IIGS's at home.  But I loved the writing everything out.  It required being deliberate.  And I found the constant smear of ink on my hand made me feel like a very serious writer. And the titles?  Dude, I was all over it!!!  I would usually select some obscure yet pithy quote from the book followed by a colon followed by yet another profound statement that better explains the thesis of the paper.  I only remember one title.  I'd written about Graham Greene's crime novel, Brighton Rock.  My paper's title--"This were a fine reign: How to get away with murder".  It was deemed a title that peaked the interest of the reader.  She was looking forward to reading the paper. 

Since then, I have loved the challenge of coming up with witty titles.  You may have noticed that about this blog.  The trouble with this is, out of context, I have no idea what these titles mean.  I have complained about this before.  And I'm putting another draft of my book together and looking to see if there are any chapters of things I've left out and am searching old computer files. And apparently, when writing thesis papers, I tend to title the documents with whatever I am feeling at the time.

Imagine my delight when I stumble upon the following titles and paper subjects that I wrote for graduate school.  Funnier still when you remember that my degree is from a SEMINARY.  HA!!! You will be happy to see that my "quote:explanation" form is still in tact.
  • This damn paper is worth 50% of my grade.doc-- For a Christian Education class, actually titled  Hope Deferred: The Effects of Rape on Emotional and Spiritual Development. 
  • Draft 2 of mother-effing paper.doc--For my Old Testament class, actually called For in this hope we were saved: Romans 16:20 as the Fulfillment of Genesis 3:15
  • Prof. W can suck it.doc--For a New Testament class, actually called You Foolish Galatians: A Writer looks at Paul's use of Sarcasm.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Real Txt Conversation

Upon learning my 15 year old nephew's new cell number and that he recently purchased a texting plan, I decided to do a little texting.  Particularly when my sister told me that earlier in the day he texted her that he refused to pay for the texting overages caused by her texting him all the time.  Below, is my favorite texting conversation ever.  With my most favorite 15 year old boy. 

Me:  So are you willing to pay for the texts when I text you all the time.  And I mean all the time. (2:48 pm)

C: Who is this?  (2:50 pm)

Me: Don't you wish you knew... (2:51 pm)

C:  Um, yeah, i kinda do.  So who is this?   (2:52 pm)

Me:  Someone awesome.  Really awesome.  (2:52 pm) (At this point, my sister and I are giggling as we look at my phone, willing it to vibrate and show a new text. Seriously, I almost peed my pants.)

C: Who?  (2:54 pm)  (And I must confess I was a little offended he didn't know it was me.  I'd pretty much given away my identity as someone awesome, right?)

Me:  Your coolest relative.  (2:54 pm) (Another dead give away.)

C: Casey?  Gracen?  (3:12 pm)

Me: You are dead to me.  (3:12 pm)

C: Aunt ej? (3:13 pm)

Me:  Booyah.  (3:15 pm) 

So then later I posted on his facebook page--"I cannot believe when thinking of your coolest relatives I came in third. You will no longer receive cash and cheese puffs for presents. I will return to knitting your gifts. Hope you like scarves and beanies."

About ten minutes later, I received another text.

C:  Hey, i was kidding about the other names.  i had your name in my phone.  (8:57 pm) (Yeah, right.  What 15 year old puts his aunt's cell # in his phone as soon as he gets it?)

Me: Uh huh.  You are still getting scarves and beanies. (9:01 pm)

C: Okay, see if i ever babysit for you again.  : p  (9:02 pm)

Me: A. Let's not talk crazy now.  B. Let me know when you are done with masters camp so we can go shoe shopping.  Henry is rockin' a pair of navy and white leather Pumas.  (9:07 pm)  (C owns pretty much every shoe by Vans ever produced.)

C:  Alright, I love shoe shopping with my aunt and henry. (9:09 pm) 

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Hip Hop Flop

I got to the gym too early.  Unaccustomed to not having that 10 minutes of time spent dropping the littles off in childcare, I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself.  Studio A was empty and I wasn't about to just go in there in wait.  So I chose to walk laps around the indoor track which circles the perimeter of my entire gym-- passing by the basketball court, weight machines, spin room, and enabling 360 degree views of the glass walled Studio A in which I was about to take my first hip hop class.

Upon my first lap, I noticed a chalk clapboard sign telling me the teacher of the new hip hop class was named Jordan.  Great, I thought, that tells me nothing.  Could be a man or a woman.  With each lap,my anxiety grew.  Would I be the oldest person in the class?  The least coordinated?  The fattest?  Would everyone be wearing red and black ninja costumes, knee pads, and a silver pair of Puma high tops?  I recognize that these questions are stupid, given the make-up of my gym.  ACAC is one of 12 clubs in the country that is a certified Medical Fitness Facility as it has physical therapists, nurses, and doctors on staff.  My post bed rest physical therapy is what got me in there to begin with.  So there are all types at my gym--very large people, very young people, very old people who rock out on the arm bike and stepper machines, the skinny mommies whose spine I can see through their stretched out belly button (that I want to feed bacon to), and just regular people.  I choose to believe I fall into the regular people category.  If you disagree with me, please keep your mouth shut.  My favorite group of people are THE MEN.  By THE MEN, I am referring to a group of about 5 men in their sixties who work out together everyday.  They own the place.  All of them are relatively fit, pretty good looking, and know everybody. My buddy Jack is in this group and is a stud.  (Don't worry, Sloan thinks he is a stud too.  My friend Ann used to make fun of us because it seemed like Sloan and I were trying to "couple date" Jack and his wife.  We were--but they are out of our league.)  THE MEN are not here in the afternoon during hip hop class time; they hold court between 9 and 11am.  So I just circled the main floor and by my fourth lap my imagination had me wearing tap shoes and a bee costume amidst a sea of multi-ethnic breakdancers.

It does not help matters when I notice there are now people in Studio A.  And by people, I mean three men, in their early twenties, busting out a breakdance routine.  And literally, my fears are coming true--I will be in a class with a mutli-ethnic hip hop crew.  I can discern by the Madonna styled-head microphone that the black guy in front is Jordan, although I've decided to call him Twitch.  Oddly enough, convincing myself that the instructor is a So You Think You Can Dance all-star does not reduce my anxiety. The other two gentlemen I dub "Legacy" (because he is a Latino B-boy, duh) and "Asian B-Boy".  Great, I think, it's a veritable SYTYCD who's who in there.  Alex didn't really get injured, he's just  moonlighting as a ringer in my hip hop class.  Oh yippee, he is going from a worm to a helicopter move.  Booya.

So I stopped by the info desk and ask one of my favorite trainers, "So, Kelly, do you think I'm going to be the oldest, fattest, and whitest person in the hip hop class?"  She assured me that no, she loves the class and were she not literally having a baby tomorrow she'd be in there with me. (Sidebar--she is so fit that just days before I asked her if her baby was due in September or October.  False. She was 40 weeks.)
 
At this point, a gaggle of people have begun to congregate around the doorway of Studio A.  My shoulders begin to relax.  It seems I am not the only person to be a bit apprehensive about entering Twitch's Jordan's class.  When I recognize a girl who was in Peter Pan with my nieces, I begin to breathe.  I mean, she can't be more than 11 and her Mom appears less ready for hip hop than I am.  There are several Mommy and me kiddie combos.   And there is Napoleon Dynamite--a gangly teenage boy in glasses, black sweatpants, a wife-beater style tank that shows off his collar bones and ribcage.  He has thick glasses. He's the type of teenage boy whose largest parts of this boys' body are his knees and nose.  And he is wearing these super-weird shoes that have thick soles and then nothing in the arch.  (I've just spent an hour online trying to link up a pick, but seriously cannot find them.  But let me be clear, they were odd shoes.  Crazier than those running socks.)  I imagine a Mom convincing her awkward son to take a few hip hop classes in the hopes of him either building some muscle or becoming less dorky.  And just as I'm about to chuckle at my classmates, and think I've got this one in the bag, I remember that at least in the movie, Napoleon Dynamite has got the moves.  Big time. 

I position myself in the back right corner of the classroom.  In fact, I am almost in the closet with the bodypump stuff.  The fact that I didn't have to fight anyone for this spot shocks me.  And so, with a little Justin Timberlake cranked up, we begin to warm up.  It's your standard step to the left and punch your arm Billy Blanks stuff.  Just a lot of it, really fast.  I notice that the Asian B-boy's shirt, which looks very Ed Hardy-esque, says things like "Saved by Grace" and "The truth will set you free."  I want to fist pump him and say, "Hey, you know Jesus?  I know him too!"  So I quickly rename him Bboy for Jesus. 

Unfortunately, also during the warm up, I realize that I have chosen the completely WRONG thing to wear.  I was wearing this black Old Navy V-neck tshirt.  I forgot it was one of those super comfy shirts that seem to stretch as the day wears on.  They stretch even quicker when drenched in sweat.  Seriously, the neckline was growing every minute to the point that it might as well been called Flashdance class.  And you can see that, well, um, I have to wear two bras.  One blue sports bra over a regular one.  To lift the uniboob, you know?  The double bra means that basically my cleavage goes straight up to my neck.  Which is awesome.  Also, as my shirt begins to stretch, it starts sort of lifting away from my body.  I have to decide which to show--the bubbies or the belly.  I tried hiking up my shorts, but then I got a camel toe.  (Meanwhile, I'm still rocking out to JT while trying to avoid a wardrobe malfunction.  Ironic, no?)  In the end, I decided to pretend it was totally cool to show off your sports bra when it is blue.  My little nod to US Women's Soccer. 

After warming up, Twitch Jordan showed us the routine with the disclaimer that it would be perfect for all of the new people in the class as it had a slower R & B feel.  And I'll just say, the dance was pretty easy.  I actually was a bit disappointed in that.  I wanted to discover I had secret helicopter and head spin skillz.  But then I remembered that a gym hip hop class would not have difficult choreography or people wouldn't show up.  Which made me feel like a superior dancer to my classmates.  Which.  I.   Loved.

The only real difficult thing about the class was that after taking a decades worth of dance classes, I am accustomed to learning steps while counting 8.  I keep tabs on what step goes with what count, so that at some point, my body begins to associate the steps with the rhythm of the song and I can just sort of let the rhythm get me, a la Gloria Estefan.  Twitch taught us the moves according to the lyrics (which, admittedly would have been more helpful had he remembered all of the lyrics as most of the moves were just a sort of urban pantomime). 

I am eager to continue my hip hop classes, even if it does mean that I won't be learning how to helicopter or walk on my head.  I am, however, thinking that some silver Pumas may be in order.  'Cause nothing makes a grapevine look more hip hop than the right pair of kicks.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Back in the Saddle

You know it has been a long time since you've been a regular at the gym when they've thrown away your weights file.  (Our gym has sheets you fill out with all of the info and settings on the machine, you just pick them up, hand them to the attendant and they set all the weight machines for you and you can fly through the circuit.)  Sooooo....I had to start over.  Which was good anyhow as there was no way I could've lifted the weights that I used to.  In fact, I am taking today off from the gym (after going 4 days in a row) because I'm pretty certain that my right arm is injured rather than just sore.  And for my facebook friends that are looking for a post about my recent foray into Hip Hop classes, don't worry--there is a post in the works.  I just want to attend more than one class to see if Napolean Dynamite and B-boy for Jesus always show up.  (How'd ya like THAT teaser?!?)

But going back to the gym is almost more difficult than going to the gym in the first place.  First of all, we had to add Gracie to the membership.  And wouldn't you know that she flirted her way into being free and, oh yeah, they extended our membership 6 months for free.  (Yes. I'm concerned that she is already flirting her way to get free things from men.  So concerned that I don't have to renew my membership until November rather than June.) We did that in May so we could use the pool and get swim lessons, but it has taken awhile for me to get back into the habit of working out most days.

And the second reason it is difficult to go back to the gym is those looks from the trainers.  I hate the "Wow! It's been awhile" comments.  As I was  jogging  walking on the treadmill, my old trainer asked me where I'd been for so long and I actually told her I had a baby.  Which is not at all sort of true, right?  All that said, my favorite trainer is the only one who reacted to my return correctly saying, "Yeah! You're back.  It's awesome to see you."  And so I told her how we adopted Gracie and then Henry went through a not playing well with others phase that made dropping him off in childcare difficult, you know, your basic blame it on the kids excuse diatribe. (The honest truth is that I just got out of the habit after G came along and preferred sitting on the couch and eating Henry's potty reward M&Ms to working out.)  The lovely trainer cut me off saying, "Oh who cares why you weren't here.  What matters is that you're here now!  Let me know how I can help you get back into the swing of things, and please, bring a picture of those kids with you tomorrow."

I also cannot get over how one of my old work out buddies has become a tool and completely refuses to acknowledge my return.  I've taken to calling him Stay at Home Brad, because he is a stay at home dad, actually NOT named Brad, but since he's turned into a chooch, I feel totally cool with changing his name.  It is not like we were besties, but seriously, we have kids the same age, took spin classes together, often chatted while on the ellipticals at least 4 times a week for two years, and now he refuses to even acknowledge that I'm there.  Lest you think he just hasn't seen me, I have made certain that is not the case and have even spoken to him.   I think he may be too cool for me (which is actually an impossibility in case he doesn't know) because he has sort of accumulated an entourage.  Seriously, there were a flock of Mommies surrounding him and following him from machine to machine.  Add to this the fact that he was wearing those hip new running socks and has grown a beard and I kind of want to throw up a bit in my mouth.  Seriously--I'm all for getting new shoes and everything and I'm pretty sure that I've got close friends with those toe sock show thingys, but they look even stupider on men than Crocs.  I mean it is a pair of toe socks fashioned into Mary Janes.  Stay at home Brad, did you grow a beard just to convince yourself you are still a man? 

But we're back into the gym.  We're planning on being regulars.  Henry is addicted to Spider Mountain.  And I'm thinking that perhaps in a year or so I could soooooo get a pair of those running socks.  'Cause they wouldn't be douche-like AT ALL on me.  I could so rock those.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

First Racist Encounter (or how this white woman failed her daughter)

I knew from the outset of our adoption of a mixed race child that we would not look like a typical family.  And at my core, I am ever so thankful for this.  Our little family that God has woven together does a better job of reflecting God's glory than were we all the same color.  Even, in fact, than if both of my children were mine biologically.  God delights in diversity.  His passion is reconcilliation through adoption.  Our family is a reflection of the work He began at the cross of making all things new, drawing all peoples to Him, knitting us into one giant blended family that will feast together at the world's largest Church potluck.  A potluck where no one brings nasty jello salad or day old KFC buckets.  I relished in the fact that like most redemption stories in the Bible, ours started with an empty womb but is journeying through blessed bounty.  Does my heart still ache whenever a friend tells me she is pregnant?  Admittedly, yes.  But seconds after, I repent. My  life would be less without Grace.  Sloan's life would be less without Grace.  Henry's life would be less.  We would not be so aware of God' goodness to us, were it not for "The Sweetness".

Our adoption agency had us do transracial training that was moderately helpful.  I say moderately because a large portion of the books in this arena place a higher value on race than they do faith.  As in, they suggest I collect friends and playmates for my child that are of the same racial make-up to the point of moving houses, switching houses of worship, and family traditions.  Well, we're not moving.  And it is more important to me that you love my children well and love God than it is that you are black.  Do I intentionally drive my children to playgrounds outside of my neighborhood so they can play with a more diverse group of kids?  You betcha.  Did I take note of how many non-Caucasian kids were at Henry's preschool?  Yes.  I don't want Gracie to feel like she is a minority everywhere she turns, and I want Henry to have within his circle of friends kids with all sorts of backgrounds. 

People take note of us when we are out.  I don't consider this a bad thing.  Mostly there are just lots of double takes, sort of second glances to try and figure out what is going on. When I am out with just Gracie, I don't get these as often.  I've even been told she has my eyes and one woman asked me if Henry was the adopted one, as she just assumed my husband was African-American.  We also get attention for the simple fact that cute babies get attention.  And Gracie is all kinds of cute.  I mean, she is really, really, ridiculously good looking.  Black women love to come look at her adorable thighs and tell me she has great hair.  I have grown accustomed to people telling me she is beautiful.  I simply say "Thank you, we think so too!"

Occasionally, people will ask me where she is from.  It shocks them when I say, "Charlottesville."  Newsflash people--there are black people and hispanic people here in the States.  Why do I seem to be the only one who knows this?

This past Sunday at church, an older woman (after rubbing Grace's head and arms*), said, "My, she is lovely.  What is her story?"   I was distracted partly because I noticed that Henry had just peed in his pants,  but partly because I had no idea what she was talking about. I simply said, "Huh?"  The woman repeated herself, "I'm sure she has a great story." Still clueless, I said, "I'm sorry, I have no idea what you are talking about." Who are you, lady?  Do I know you?  "Well, I just assumed there was a story because she has such darker skin than you."  Dumbfounded, I simply said, "Oh, that.  Yes, there is a story," and then I proceeded to help Sloan pack up so we could get Henry in some dry pants.** 

Usually I'm all up to tell anyone the wonderful story of how Gracie came to be ours, but I really don't think I'm under any obligation to tell every Tom, Dick and Harry the whole story.  Particularly when my other child is covered with urine.

But my epic fail occurred this morning.  We were waiting in line to ride the train at the children's museum.  It took a particularly long time as Henry was adamant about wanting to ride in the Engine car.  And as we all know, if you are picky, you have to wait.  So here I am, Henry upset about having to wait again, chubby Gracie sitting on my hip, when the usual "Oh my, she is just beautiful" conversation began with the African-American women in front of me.  (And yes, it was her kids that shoved Henry out of the way to climb onto the Engine car, don't think I didn't notice.  Selfishness in children is an equal-opportunity offender.)  She asked me what product I used on Gracie's hair.  "Well, after baths, I use Pinks oil conditioner, but usually I just spray a comb with No More Tangles to brush it out several times a day."   Then she asked where she was from.  Again?  You are black, how can you not know there are black people in the States? 
"Charlottesville," I replied.  "Oh," she said, "so she's just mixed."  Does this really matter to you?  Is this really your business?  "Yes.  Her biological mother is Caucasian and Japanese and her biological father is Hispanic and African-American."  Usually people respond with a comment about Tiger Woods.  Which would be fine were he not such an adulterous dolt.  But this woman caught me unawares.  "Well now, she's a mutt."

Ummm....

I had nothing to come back with.  Nothing.  I just dropped my jaw and stared at the lady like a codfish.  Praise God it was suddenly our turn to board the train.  As we rode around on the train, Gracie bobbing on my knee, I started to cry.  I cried because I knew that this wouldn't be the last time someone said something hurtful.  I also knew that the woman had said it endearingly, as in, "My aren't you a pretty little mutt."  And I cried because I did nothing to be an advocate for my daughter, nor to make sure that my son knew this wasn't how you talked about people. 

I've been prepared to handle overt racism.  But this subtle racism, I don't know what to do with.  The racism that good people every day participate in when they say things like "Taye Diggs is good looking for a black guy."  Thereby inferring that as a whole, black men are unnatractive.  Umm, folks, Taye Diggs is a thing of beauty for all of mankind to enjoy.  Or when teenage boys lovingly call one another the 'N' word.  You may not mean anything negative by it, but you are are foolish to think it has no negative meaning.  And you and your friends should think better of yourselves.  The fact that you don't, simply means you've listened to the wrong people all of your lives.

As we exited the train, I was still a bit dumbstruck.  I wanted to have some witty zinger to shout back at the woman, but a) couldn't come up with one, and b) have been so convicted by last Sunday's sermon on not repaying evil for evil, that I basically can't talk to anyone.  Half of my time is thinking up hurtful things to say to people who hurt me.  Apparently, this is delighting in a broken relationship, and even if I keep my mouth shut, I'm still guilty.  But this time, I knew I should have said something. 

Thankfully, I was with my bestie Ann, who, in addition to being a wonderful fairy Godmother to my kiddos, is a very Godly woman.  When I told her what happened, she was livid.  "What is wrong with people?" she asked.  "You should have told her, I'm sorry, but that was very disrepectful.  She is my daughter and she is a child of God made in His image.  She is not a mutt."  I thanked her for the right words.  I intend to teach them to my children.

I don't want Gracie and Henry to always feel like they are in a fight.  I don't want them constantly on edge, feeling as though they need to be the Racism Rangers, out to pummel any offenders.  And yet, I want them to speak truth.  And here is what is true about both of my children...

They are loved.  By both of their parents, and more importantly, by their Maker.
They are not in our family by mistake, but by God's incredible plan. 
The way they have been made--tall, skinny, white, and with straight hair, and short, chunky, brown and with curly hair--is lovely. 
Both of them need Jesus equally, just as Mommy and Daddy do.  Just as the woman in the children's musuem does.  We have this, our deepest need, in common with all people. 
And this is why God has given Himself to all people--to rescue us from ourselves, the wrong things we believe, and the stupid things we say to each other.





*Why must strangers insist on touching babies?  Unless you are blind, this really isn't standard operating procedure upon meeting someone.  Can I rub up on you?  I don't even let my son touch people's dogs without asking their owners permission.  Could you kindly afford my child at least the same courtesy you would a pet?  Geez, people. 

**Note to self--when bringing activities to church for Henry to do quietly, remember that he is male.  And can be singularly focused.  The new Lego catelog is far too engrossing while he is strapped in his stroller to remember to be bothered with something as trivial as asking to be taken to the potty.

Saturday, July 3, 2010

A Real Conversation

Me:  Okay, Henry.  That's 3 books.  It's time for bed.
Henry:  Mommy?
Me:  Yes?
Henry:  Jesus wuvs me.
Me:  Yes.  Yes he does.
Henry:  Jesus wuvs you.
Me:  Yes, Jesus loves me too.  Thank you, Henry.
Henry:  Mommy?
Me:  Yes, Henry.  It is time for bed.
Henry:  Henwe give you kisses.  Henwe gives great kisses.  GREAT!
Me:  (laughing while being smothered with kisses) Yes, you give great kisses.
Henry:  Henwe is great!  Go away now, Mommy.

I like to think his self-confidence comes from the assurance that Jesus loves him.