Our Model Child

Faven came home from school keen to practice something with Yohannes and Lauren.  Lauren has been sick all week, so Yohannes eagerly stepped up to the plate.  From what I could gather, Faven and her friends are having a ‘talent show’ of sorts at school and she needed Yohannes to be the other ‘friend’ in the skit.  She showed him what to do, and then asked him to do it.  It looked pretty much like a model walking down the runway, complete with sass and attitude. 

Yohannes is not a stranger to being turned into a girl; nor is he a stranger to sass and attitude.  Honestly, he wears it well.   So when it came time to pour it on and head down the catwalk, he was all over it.  Faven was his performance coach, and Lauren and I simply sat back on the couch to watch.

After a couple of runs with only minor modifications Yohannes said, “I’ll be right back.”

I had a feeling that I knew what he was up to.  While he was gone, I asked Faven, “Where do you think he’s gone?”

She had no idea.  “I think he is gone to put on a dress” I offered.

“He better not be in my room! Or he is going to get it” she said.

“Settle down” I told her, “You asked him to pretend to be a girl in the first place.”

Just then Yohannes sashayed back in.  It would seem that he had gone for implants in the brief time that he was gone.  We howled.  He spun around and revealed his new B cup.  But that is not all!

He lined up for his walk down the runway, with a look of cat-like femininity.  He strutted towards us, and he paused before his pirouette and gave his mock-breast a little squeeze (while winking in our direction).  It produced a big squeak, and our dog Abby came barreling in – turning in circles, somewhat confused.  We all peeled with laughter as we realized that Yohannes’ implants were a dumbbell shaped squeaky dog toy.  The dumbbell was just the right length to give him two identical bumps right across his chest.

No one enjoyed this little prank more than Yohannes, in fact he was laughing so hard he fell right off the imaginary catwalk, his breasts squeaking all the way down!

Traction

I was very smart, intuitive really, to have booked my vehicle in a few days ago to have the winter tires put on.  This morning we are experiencing our first snowfall of the season; the roads are extremely slippery and everyone is driving as slow as if this phenomenon never happens here in Calgary.  I would be feeling smug, except that the tires for our (now gone) 2002 Odyssey did not fit our 2006 Odyssey.  They would fit the rims, I was told, but the slight difference in tire size would affect the speedometer by 5%.  So what? - I gestured.  Anything greater than 3% was unacceptable.  Ugh!

I could not have known it was going to snow this year on November 4^th – not really.  But I am still discouraged to be alternately spinning my tires and sliding through intersections while (ironically) there are four snow tires in the back!  It feels unjust.  In my life, I take the extra step to be adequately prepared – and when that doesn’t pay off, it is disheartening.

Perhaps I spend too much time preparing for the eventualities of life. However, it makes me feel more ready: emotionally, mentally, and physically, for the changing of the seasons within my life.  But so much of our lives are unknown, beyond our control or ability to prepare. Though I have learned that I can’t get ready for every situation, event, or season, I think that by attuning my priorities each season I naturally shift the flow of energy to what I can manage. It is however, a moving target!

At this time of year, when the sun tucks in earlier and earlier, I find I need a larger circle of support with frequent points of contact, yet less interaction and stimulation.  This is the hardest time of year for me to get some traction, maybe for most people. 

The truth is, it doesn’t really matter if I have snow tires, or not; I do have fuel and if I didn’t have fuel, well, I would still have money – or I would stay home! My priorities remain consistent throughout the year (or so I think), but my capacity to move beyond the top three: self-care, marriage and parenting, is hampered.  And so I will start the season without snow tires; fully equipped in other ways that will compensate for the loss of traction on certain days.  And when I find myself low on fuel or energy I will stay home, or if needed call (you) for a boost.

A Child's Responsibility

We were walking in the inner city hills, meandering towards the magic tree, when Yohannes stammered repeatedly.

“I want to…,” he started and stopped, “I want to …”  “I want to… OHH, I can’t remember!”

“Have many children?” I playfully asked.

“No, that’s not what I was thinking,” he said impatiently, “But of course I will have lots of kids,” he continued.

“Oh?” I said.

“Of course!” he enthused. “Imagine if you didn’t have any kids.”

Okay, I am imagining it.

“Who would entertain you?” he implored.

I turned to him and laughed, getting another glimpse into the workings of my child’s brain.

Food for fodder

In celebration of Faven’s second year in our family, and in Canada, I opted for Ethiopian food instead of traditional Thanksgiving fare.  I made the chicken stew, or Doro Wet a day ahead, as it takes an unfathomable period of time for onions to turn to paste and to get the deep and spicy taste that is characteristic of this dish.  To add to the menu, I made a traditional Mesir Wet, lentils, thick with onions, garlic and ginger; two kinds of potatoes and (for my more picky daughter), teriyaki chicken.  By now I had a degree of experience with Ethiopian cooking, so I didn’t stress too much about making it just right.  In fact, I couldn’t get to the specialty store to buy Injera, so I had my husband pick up Na’an bread instead.  Unheard of!

Our family had arrived, and I placed the dishes on the table, calling out the name of each one.  Faven was very pleased.  All was well in the world.  Moments later, Faven got up from her seat at the head of the table and went to mix up some olive oil and berbere spice – clearly signifying that I had not made the chicken spicy enough for her.  Not surprising.  However, when she sat back down, I watched with concealed agitation as she doused her whole plate in homemade hot sauce.  I was devastated. 

I tried to bite my tongue. Alas, it didn’t taste good. 

As I have done for two years, I made her action, to spread hot sauce all over her food, about me.  Clearly, I thought, she didn’t appreciate my efforts or for that matter, me!  I gently reminded her that not all dishes in Ethiopia are soaked in hot sauce; some have other distinct flavors RUINED by hot sauce.  My sarcasm and disappointment were lost on her.  She had a great evening with family, and I too, lightened up and enjoyed the family around me. 

The truth is that since Faven’s arrival to Canada in October of 2009, food has been one of the greatest challenges in our quest to assimilate.  That has come as a great surprise to me.  Two years in and I am still amazed, offended and angry when Faven shrieks, “You want me to eat this!”  It happens weekly, despite the efforts we have made to cater to her.  On a good day, I would stare at her with bulging eyes, while thinking, you have got to be kidding me – where were you born?  On a bad day, there would be a long and lengthy tirade about how much work went into preparing this food, how much the food cost, how thankful we should be for this food, and that I did it because I love her!  (Pause to ponder:  How could anyone, lest a pubescent Ethiopian-born adopted child, feel loved with their mother screaming frenetically at them?)  So each and every time I went into a tirade, so did Faven; and hers started with some form of, “YOU DON’T LOVE ME!” 

When Faven joined our family, I was well established as the chief cook and bottle-washer and had done it without criticism.  I cooked a variety of things to appeal to the different tastes and desires within our family.  However, we were all, basically, choosing from the same palette – some wanted more color, some wanted less.  Even when Yohannes joined our family, he ate all the things that I prepared for him, with the exception of potatoes.  In hindsight, I realize that Yohannes had a huge inner drive to become a Flemons, whereas Faven was well on her way to simply being Faven.  That is what I didn’t initially get; I made the great error of assuming that Faven would be thrilled to join our family (and therefore would be overjoyed to conform).  Ironically, I was equally confounded (in 2006) by the fact that Yohannes was delighted to join our family.  Go figure.

Food can be a tremendous source of comfort.  Within weeks of Faven’s arrival, we had hired a part time Ethiopian woman to come and help with the cooking.  On those days, one could see Faven unwind a little bit.  She joyfully hung her head over the edge of the steaming pots as her favorite smells filled the room.  I was grateful.  Whenever I travel to another country, my suitcase is packed with a few favorites, just in case they don’t have anything that I like.  So, why was I having such difficulty accepting Faven’s refusal to eat what I cooked?

I needed more information; I needed to find a way to accept that Faven did not like the same foods as me. I headed into cyberspace to read about taste and taste buds. There was no absolute answer, but it is known that we each experience taste differently.  Our own personal tastes are possibly something we are born with, like a personality trait.  Taste is affected by our sense of smell, the temperature of the food, age and quite likely, ethnicity.  So it makes perfect sense that Faven and I do not like the same foods.   But that is not the whole picture.

Part of my care-taking role is to feed my children; therefore, cooking was integral to my becoming her mother… wasn’t it? My emotions were steamed into the food that contacted her senses.  Food became a tangible thing by which I could measure our relationship.  I had inadvertently created the following ‘formula’:

(Food + Appreciation) Intention = LOVE.

In my baffled brain, it seemed simple and completely rational; food would bring us together.  From the get-go, it was not so.

Through agonizing hours of battle over food, and with significant supportive therapy, I came to realize that the battle was not about food.  That fact, and truly, it is a fact, did not seem to initially lessen my personal reaction to her outbursts.  Her tantrums occasionally bordered on ridiculous. One day, my husband had made rice for supper; this was one of Faven’s favorites.  He went around the table and put a dollop on everyone’s plate.  When he got to Faven, she covered her plate with her hands and shrieked like a pre-school child who didn’t want to take her clothes off at bath-time.  My husband, presuming that she was being silly, dropped the sticky, hot rice on top of her spread out hands.  She reacted without restraint– she thrashed, she railed, she cried and finally she fled.  We were speechless and utterly bewildered. Later, she revealed that she was upset because her Dad did not stop to ask her if she wanted rice.  All of our best logic was lost on her.  She wanted to be asked; she wanted some control. 

Ward and I attended a parenting workshop on the “Circle of Security” and how it pertains to our children and ourselves.  It is a complex set of skills to learn, and is not necessarily intuitive. A basic tenant of the “Circle” is that our key role as parent is to support our children and to follow their need.  That is easy to do only if we completely remove emotion from all situations.  Not realistic.  So, the greatest work comes when dealing with our children’s misbehavior, or rather a behavior that makes us uncomfortable and elicits big emotional reactions (either by them, or by us).  The seminar taught us that our children are not simply misbehaving; the greater purpose of our their behavior is to tell us something important is going on, and that they need our help.  Realistically, we are not always able to understand, accept or handle our kid’s big emotions. But we strive to ensure our kids know that all feelings are accepted.

Faven’s needs are complicated.  She clearly has needs that we do not understand, do not make sense and therefore frustrate us.  However, we undermine the message if we continue to shoot the messenger.  Food is essential to survival –so is love. For love to occur, there must be a secure attachment.  For Faven and I, it is safer and perhaps easier to make food about love, as it is less vulnerable.  If I feed her and she doesn’t like the food, she will be hungry, but continue to yearn.  But if I love her, and she doesn’t accept it, she starves. 

The Race

It’s Friday, and I am tired.

I’ve made fifteen bagged lunches, sorted, washed and folded seven loads of laundry – a rough estimate tells me that is over 400 articles of clothing, especially because a lot of those are children’s’.  The dog is fed; I know that because she woke me up at 2:30 and 3:30 am to let me know that I had forgotten her (again!).  At least the dog doesn’t lay blame.

It’s Friday and I am tired.

Up before dawn: yoga, tea, lite-brite and journaling.  Kids awaken with their dreams or demons hanging on, spreading their demands all over me like salve on a burn.  Calm kitchen, chaotic kitchen.  To school and home again, reading, spelling, agendas, schoolwork (that we never quite get to – gulp!).  I don’t know how to fit it in.  NO, it is not that – I don’t want to fit it in.  I have my kids for such a short time – can’t the school figure out how to help my kids get their work done during the six hours and twenty-nine minutes that they have them?  I have other plans, thank you very much.  Ahhh…I miss the endless days of summer.

It’s Friday and I am tired. 

I feel plagued by obligation.  (Either that, or I am coming down with something.)  The pull of it and simultaneous resistance to it is defeating.  I am certain that there is a Buddhist saying alleging the futility of resistance.  And yet, I am pulled and stretched by duty and jostled by expectation.  But whose?  A Mother’s life remains a To-Do List not ever a To-Done List.  It is simply a race towards --- towards --- towards nothing or something, death, I suppose.  There’s no ribbon to crash through, arms raised high, sweat dripping glamorlessly from your chin, yelling at the top of your lungs, “I did it.”  No applause.

It’s Friday and I am tired.

These five days, I drove 486 kilometers.  I wonder about the mileage for Stephen Harper’s chauffeur– maybe it’s more, but not by much.  How much time does it take to drive that far, both in and out of the city?  Now with the new distracted driving law in effect, I am out of touch with and unable to organize my life while I am on the go.  Surprisingly refreshing.  Drive. Breathe. Listen. Ohm…

It’s Friday and I am tired.

The complete cessation of hormones in the last day creates an imbalance I’m not ready to manage, again.  Cyclical, like a Ferris wheel and equally as nauseating, but much less predictable.  Cycles spin and overlap in a woman’s life, in my life. Flush and flurry, rushed and ready, calm and controlled, wet and sticky, tired and touchy, loving and likeable.

It is Saturday and the radio, which awakens me, promises a warm and sunny day.  What have I got to lose? 

Apology accepted

I was up for two and a half hours during the night with Lauren, who had had a nightmare. I was slow to start in the morning.

I was making coffee when Faven joined me at the counter.   “Mom”, she said with a thoughtful expression, “why don’t you lose some weight?” She said it with the same tone and expression she might use if she had said, Mom, why don’t we walk the dog, or, Mom, do you want me to paint your nails? 

I knew that the meaning for the words she just uttered was lost on her.  I also knew that she was not aware of my interrupted sleep, nor did she know that on this cool and rainy day (the first in weeks) none of my jeans fit.  No, she didn’t know - how could she?  I ought to have let the question go, or (at the least) adopted a playful spirit of inquiry.  But, I didn’t.  Would you have?  (Oh, you ARE a better woman than I.)

I launched into a tirade that would have gotten the dander up on a stuffed wolf.  “Do you have any idea what you are saying?  You don’t say something like that to someone!  That is so hurtful!  Instead you should be proud to have a mom who looks after herself and exercises regularly!  How many of your friends’ mothers play soccer!?”

Now she was beginning to realize that she had said something wrong.  She stammered, “Mom, I didn’t mean it.”

Don’t you love second chances? 

It blew by me. I continued, “What about the cardinal rule – if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all!!”

“Okay, okay” she said, and backed away without taking her eyes off me – lest I pitch the coffee machine in her general direction.

Not one to let someone else have the last word, I yelled, “And don’t ever say that to me again.”  Okay, I felt a bit foolish after that.

The rest of our morning together was not great.  Faven was sullen, and I was self-righteous.  We had to head out to an appointment to get Faven’s eyes checked.  Faven was completely miserable at her appointment.  She was the moody teenager that you see in the movies.  She wouldn’t answer any questions, she shrugged and looked away, she was uncooperative with the testing, and she took her glasses off every thirty seconds and then wouldn’t put them back on.  The optician (and I) did our best, but it was clear that we were not going to get the best out of Faven that day.  I realize now, I should have left the room.

As we were driving out of the parking lot, Faven quietly spoke from the back seat and said, “Mom, I’m sorry.”

Wanting to be clear on what she was sorry for, I asked, “For what?”

“For what I said this morning,” she offered.

“Thank you for your apology,” I said,  “I am sorry too, for over-reacting.”

There are a couple of things that I took away from this event.  One, she was the better person than I; she acted like the adult.  One could wallow in self-loathing over something like this, and I did have my moment of I should haves.  But eventually, and after debriefing with a friend, I saw an upside.  This was the first time, in our two years together, that Faven had apologized; the first time that she had taken responsibility for her part in an upsetting event; the first time she was able to take the perspective of another.  Inside, I celebrated that, not just for the action that she took, but also for the example I have been over our first two years together.  I have modeled responsibility taking and apologizing many times, and she was starting to understand (or at least see the value of it in a moment of disharmony). 

It was a proud parenting moment.  My mistake had turned into something of value, a moment for her practice a new behavior.  My feelings of stupidity, over my childish behavior, vanished like water on hot pavement; all that was left was the pavement and a new opportunity to put one foot in front of the other, while holding hands with one whom I love. 

Complaints Department?

Uuummmm……Hello…….. Excuse me……… Are you there?   I’m sorry to interrupt, but I am having some problems with the job that you assigned me.

Ohhhh? The job I assigned you?  What is the nature of your problem?

Well, that’s just it; the nature of my problems keeps shifting.  (Can you say puberty?)  One minute I am the captain of the ship, and the next I have slipped and fallen overboard, and am barely able to stay afloat. 

My dear, what are you talking about?!  I don’t recall giving you a job on a ship.  And if I did, surely I would have given you a life jacket.

A life-jacket – a jacket to protect me from life, what a good idea; do they work on land?  Oh, never mind.  The problem is, I think I am under-qualified for the job.

Under-qualified?  I don’t think there were any qualifications listed for your particular assignment.

Exactly.  You completely underestimated what it would take to do this job.  If I might speak frankly, I think you called me to this job without really looking at my particular skill-set.

So you are saying that I made a mistake?

Oh, I am so glad you brought that up.

I didn’t.

Oh.  Well, maybe you’d had a bad night, I don’t know!  This is harder than anything I have done so far!

You must realize that I have never made a mistake.

Sure, but hey…. it happens. Right?

Not to me. 

(Sensitive.)

Furthermore, if I remember correctly…… let’s see here…….. ah, yes…….. this particular assignment WAS an answer to a prayer.

A prayer? Yes, I suppose it was.  Hmmm, this is awkward. Okay, so let’s not focus on the past, you did your best right?

One can only hope.  So, tell me what’s going on?

(Like you don’t know already.)  Well, my 9-year-old daughter seems to have jitterbugs coursing through her body.  I don’t really know how to manage them.

I’ve never heard of a jitter bug – and I did create the world after all.  What are you talking about?

It’s just an expression.  Practically speaking, it looks like this: when she is nervous or stressed, she can climb on to the top of my head faster than an angel can save a life; she uses her limbs to strike out faster than a frog catches prey on it’s tongue; she sticks to an idea with such tenacity, that even Superman could not pry her off of it!! And that is not all; sleep eludes her wired body until we are both exhausted to tears.

Yes, this I have seen.  Be mindful: It is more than what you can see.

Well, Duh!

With this particular child, in these moments, you simply need to listen.

You’re kidding right?

Has anyone ever described me as a kidder?

Well, no – but ….

There are no buts,

simply listen,

be present without reacting,

and affirm without teaching. 

Your teacher is before you… listen.

My . . . tu-tu-tu-teacher?

Yes, of course.  Why do you think this child was gifted to you?  You need someone who will help you develop your skill of listening. 

MY. SKILL. OF. LISTENING.  I am a good listener!

Eh hem.

Listening is like the ointment for a wound, the hand that heals, and the backbone in a relationship.   Surely you have learned something from reading that Stephen Covey book: Seek first to understand. Much of what is truly heard requires no response, only a loving nod, an affirmation or a gentle touch.  To listen requires far more of you than talking.  The gap between people widens when only talking occurs. With the focus on talking, one hears mostly his or her words and thoughts.  But when the focus is on listening, one learns about the desires of another; the space between the two shortens.

It sounds good, but what about my other responsibilities? Everyone has high needs!  I can’t cope with it all!

You may have heard the saying, God never gives you more than you can handle, well I started that saying, so that you would know that you do have everything you need within you , and around you, to cope – and even thrive!

Really?

Really.

Everything?

Everything.

But, I have taken all the “Club Mom” parenting seminars TWICE and still, there are times when I feel overwhelmed.  Everybody (in our family) has special needs, and there are times when I just want ordinary – easy street, ya know?

Humans are wonderfully made and therefore each and every one of you is special.  There are no two alike.   That is why it feels overwhelming; each individual in your family has unique wishes, wants and needs.  There is no shoe made that will fit each and every one of you.  You will need to step out of your comfortable Birkenstocks in order to understand where your child, or husband is standing and how they are feeling in that moment.

But it is so hard.  I don’t think I can do it.  What if I fail?

Fail!  What if you don’t fail?  You must make mistakes to see disharmony is part of harmony.  They do not exist without each other.  Just as the earth’s rotation gives us sunlight and darkness, warm and cool, awake and asleep – your mistakes and your achievements are the journey, one providing balance for the other.

I see.  . . . . . .

You know, there are times when I am so tired from the barrage of wishes, wants and needs, not to mention tasks and chores, that I feel like I can’t put my shoes on and take another step. 

Of course, my child, you are human, made with limitations. Accept it.

In those moments sit down, take a breath, light a candle and know that I am right there holding you up. 

What message can I send you every day, so that you will know that in every moment, despite all circumstances, you are enough?

I think…….. I think …….. gosh, well, I think you’ve pretty much nailed it.  When I wake up and open my eyes send me the message that whatever the day has in store, I am equipped to handle it, and I am good enough.

You got it.  And I’ll ask you to do one thing for Me, for yourself.

Sure.

Take your right hand and put it on your left shoulder, take your left hand and put it on your right shoulder, take your eyes and turn them to the heavens – give yourself a squeeze because you are loved.

Nearly killed 'em - but not on purpose!

We found the trailhead; my Internet research from the previous day had paid off.  We had dropped Lauren at Horse Camp for the day, and Faven, Yohannes and I went off to explore.  Drawn in by the pictures on-line, we were excited about doing something out of the ordinary, hiking to the Ice Caves. 

Unfortunately, the trail wasn’t marked and the Internet hadn’t given all the distances. It seemed, in two-dimension, as if it should be a short trip.  I had packed accordingly. We unloaded our bikes and packs to start the first leg of the journey, a seven-kilometer bike ride on the service road.  My first mistake was thinking like an adult (seven kilometers should not be hard).  Within the first fifteen minutes I had pulled out my tow rope (a.k.a. – the dog’s extendable leash) and was towing first Yohannes and then Faven up a small hill. 

Following that we had our first pep talk, “Come on guys, you can do this!  Slow and steady.  Remember the turtle and the hare?”

“You know the turtle and the hare?” Yohannes queried.

“Yup, sure do! And right now we are turtles – slow and steady”, I answered, with hare-like enthusiasm.

Some seventy minutes later, we made it to the hiking trail after a stop in Marmot-valley.  As we rounded a corner, we came into an open U-shaped rock face, with many jagged out-croppings; a loud high-pitched whistle assaulted our ears and we stopped to explore.  We saw some very cute and chubby sandy and black furred Marmots carrying on a conversation (in stereo).

Schreeeech – Check out this crew.

Schreech – I don’t think they will make it, do you?

Schreech – Not a chance.  Look at that kids’ bike, it’s so small I could ride it!

Schreech – Ba ha ha.

Schreech - Here comes a big furry beast...... HIDE!

Shortly after we started hiking the five-kilometer trail, Yohannes announced that he had to go pee.  It seemed like a no-brainer to me, and moreover, I had already done a demonstration, but he was stumped. 

“Find a tree” I encouraged him. 

So he hiked up a bit more and stood by a tall fir tree, “I found a tree Mom”, he said. 

He stood there, with a now what expression on his face – almost as if he expected the tree to open up and have a toilet inside. 

“Go ahead, water the tree”, I said, smirking.

“Huh?” he responded.

“Up here, you can pee on the tree, on the rock, on the moss, on the plants – anywhere but on the trail”, I informed him.

“Really?” he asked, somewhat excitedly.

“Really”, I said.  How did my kids become so urban?

So Yohannes cozied up to the tree, and then as he so often does in his daily living, he gave a play-by-play – out loud.

“Mom, the pee is not coming out.  Do you think I was working my muscles too hard, and now they can’t pee?” he asked.

“Um, maybe”, was all I could think of to say.

“I can feel it, but it won’t come out” he said, “Does that ever happen to you Mom?”

“Uh, sure, it happens to everyone,” I offered, lamely.

“Oh, there it goes.  Okay, that’s all done! Let’s go,” he said.

We walked on.

 “Actually, I’m a pretty fast pee-er aren’t I Mom?”

“Yup, you sure are” one of the fasted I’ve ever seen, I answered.

“Hey Mom, I just thought of something”, he enthusiastically chirped.

“What?” I wondered.

“Well, I think I am going to be able to go faster now.  Do you know why?” he said.

“No, I don’t…..” I said.

“Because I just got rid of a bunch of liquid, so now I’m lighter”, he answered with glee.

Onward ho!

We got lost once on our way up.  It had been so long since I had hiked that I momentarily forgot to look for the orange plastic ribbon that previous trail masters use to mark an obscure trail.  As we perched on the steep side of the mountain, the trail lost in a sea of loose white and sandstone rocks, a phrase from the Internet popped into my head, “Several accidents in 1998 almost brought about the closure of the access road [to the Ice Caves]. The greatest danger lies in the scree slopes of broken jagged rock - the debris of crumbling mountains”.  As we sat, I knew I had gotten us in over our heads.

I suggested that it was getting too difficult and that we needed to go back.  However, at this point we could see the large vertical eye-shaped opening that we knew was the Ice Cave.  I couldn’t get the kids to turn back – and truthfully, I didn’t want to go back when we were so close.  We picked our way back down the rock face, Yohannes bum-scooted his way down, and we reached the dirt path.  It was at that moment that I gazed towards the other side, and saw an orange tie on one of the trees.  It infused me with confidence and we surged on. 

We traversed and scrambled across the loose rock, inching ever closer to the huge opening in the mountainside.  Finally we were there.  We pulled out our flashlights and scuttled inside.  The air was suddenly cool and we were engulfed in an eerie darkness.  It was then that the kids asked me if any animals might be living inside the cave.  Ummm, no, I hoped.

The floor of the cave consisted of large boulders that we had to climb and scramble over, making it very difficult to make any headway.  My clock was ticking, as we had to be back at the parking lot by 3:00 pm to be on time to pick Lauren up.  We had left the parking lot at 11:00, and we entered the cave at 1:25 – do the math.  We were way behind schedule; but now we had to see the ice, so we carried on.  The darkness was full, once you were out of the mouth of the cave, you could not see anything in front of you.  I had only brought two flashlights – and had not considered the dog at all.  Yohannes and I finally worked out a system where we each had a hand on the flashlight, so that we could see where to put our feet.

Finally we came to it, a thick wall of ice seeming to close off one cave from another.  I approached with caution.  It was neat, the kids touched it, shone their lights on it; I took a picture – and we turned on a heel and headed back out.  We slid out the mouth of the cave just minutes before 2 o’clock.  OMG! 

Pep talk number two, “Guys, we don’t have much time before we have to be in the van driving the hour to pick up Lauren, so I even though I know you are tired (and we have run out of food and water), I want you to dig deep inside yourself and get down this mountain.  We can take it slow and steady, but we can’t stop.  Okay?”

They simply stared at me.  I think in their hypoglycemic and exhausted state they were asking themselves, Who is this woman again?  How did we get here?

Though Yohannes is normally filled with exuberance, he has a very high degree of caution when climbing.  It is good, but I knew that it was not going to serve us well in that moment.  I took him into my shadow.  I got him to follow me and showed him every hand hold and foot stop on our way down. All of my energy and attention was directed at him.  Periodically, however, I called out to Faven, “You doin’ okay?” She would simply say yes, and carry on. 

After I had asked her several times, she finally said (with all the confidence of an Ethiopian born child on her first mountain hike),  “Muum, you don’t have to worry about me!”  I looked up and smiled at her.  Not ten minutes later, with Yohannes now bum-scooting down the rock face directly behind me, I heard in front of me the sound of sliding rocks.  I jerked my head around to see Faven sliding down the mountainside, headfirst, on all fours – with a look of utter astonishment on her face.  She slid ten to twelve feet in mere seconds, and came to rest in the well of a tree.  She appeared to be fine.  In my tense and harried state – I started laughing and couldn’t stop.  Faven looked at me (like I was crazy), I tried to talk to her, but looking at her only triggered more laughter.  I felt horrible as I giggled like a schoolgirl.  Faven started to cry.  Not like she was hurt, but tears of exhaustion, frustration and fear-turned-relief.  I apologized, and attempted to console her, through fits of giggles.  She was not impressed.  At that exact moment, Yohannes had caught up and said, “Can I try that?”  Faven turned to him and grunted, “AUUGGGH!”

We carried on.  Faven eventually picked herself up and followed.  Abby (our dog) became our leader, picking out a trail on this trail-less sea of stone.  We eventually came back to the dirt path.  Relief.

I didn’t even want to speak.  My legs were tired, I was thirsty, and I couldn’t imagine how we were going to get back to the van.  That was when God intervened.  There was a group of three hikers that had gotten to the ice cave just before us, and were still there when we started our descent.  Eventually they caught up to us; one of them said to the kids, “You guys are the best hikers I have ever seen!”  Both kids puffed up and sailed down the rest of the trail.  We got to the bikes with dried tears on our faces, and trails of dried blood on both of Yohannes’ legs.  We were all hungry, tired and thirsty.  We had 32 minutes to ride out the seven kilometers.  Just breathe.

Leaving the trees and the trail behind, we had to climb a hill to start.  Faven made it to the top and kept going.  I waited at the top for Yohannes, and then he stopped his small bike and started to walk.  I parked my bike and walked down to help him.  He was deflated.  With tears hanging on the edge of his voice, he said, “I am so tired I feel like crying.”  I knew exactly how that felt, so I took his bike and with one hand on the bike and one on his back, I guided him up the hill.  After that we came to a creek where I stopped to give Abby a drink.  I told the kids to go on ahead of me.  That was the smartest thing I could have done.  When they rely on each other, a force comes between them that is not there, if I am directing.  It took me a long time to catch up to them.

We did the ride out in 30 minutes!  We loaded up the bikes.  I had snacks and water in the cooler (I am not so ill-prepared after all), and we headed down the highway to get Lauren.  We were only minutes late.

The Ice Caves were underwhelming.  Maybe not the best experience that my kids have ever had.  They will, if you ask them, say that it was horrible.  And yet, there were the musical Marmots, the babbling creek, some fun bum-scoot sliding and the magic of hidden ice in the midst of a hot summer day. It is what stories are made of.  Moreover, a seed has been planted that will grow into something other than what it started out as.  I have full confidence that my kids will at some time embrace an unlikely challenge.

 From the past will come the future; what it holds, a mystery,


Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.

~Hymn of Promise

One Hundred (and one) Uses for Duct Tape

Plastic ties and duct tape are literally holding my 2002 Honda Odyssey van together.  In the last year, I have had a string of fender benders, making my van look like a grown up bumper car!  Today I had a run in with a light post, backing out of a parking lot.  Completely preventable right?  Fully my fault.  Ugh!  Thankfully each ‘accident’ has involved only me, my vehicle and an inanimate object.

I have been driving for over thirty years and had not experienced the grating and tearing sound of metal being crushed, pulled and torn against a solid object; it is somewhat jarring.  And today, since I was backing out of a community centre, I had an audience.  They stared at me, I said a few expletives in my head and then waved to them and smiled, as if to say, “It’s okay, I totally meant to do that – I am undergoing vehicle durability tests for Honda.”  I backed out again, briefly stopped to look at the light post, and then sped off, as if I had an important date with another pole just down the street. 

We make preventable mistakes all the time.  But some cost more than others.  As a soccer coach and long-time player, I am constantly aware of the times and places on the field where mistakes are either costly or forgivable.  For example, if you duff the ball in front of the net you are attacking, it is no big deal.  You have the luxury of putting your hands on your head and crumpling into a heap on the ground in disbelief.  Conversely, if you do exactly the same thing in front of the net you are defending, the potential cost is greater, and there is no time for a woe-is-me moment.  You have to attempt to right the wrong – and NOW. 

And so it is with Faven, I make preventable mistakes quite regularly.  I put tomato on her sandwich, I speak sternly to get her attention, I make demands that may not be reasonable, I use sarcasm and idioms to insult her, knowing that she won’t get it, and there are times when I discount her irrational emotions and feelings without inquiry.  I could do better, or at least do (it) differently.  Not all of these mistakes are costly – although with Faven you never know.

God blessed me with this particular child, by matching us with a soccer player.  Faven and I share our love of the field, our passion for the game.  The very first time I watched her play, less than two weeks after she arrived in Calgary, I was shaken by the fact that she played soccer like me – fiery, determined and strong.  It made the fine hairs on my arms stand up, and brought tears to my eyes.  Now, twenty months later, our mutual love of the game is like a moving sea between us.  When we are moving up the field together, supporting one another, the mistakes are forgivable – they even go unnoticed.  And though I may at times feel bad for an infraction, I can easily ‘fix it up’ with a clean pass the next time. 

However, Faven and I, in our weekly living often face off as opponents.  So, eventually and exceedingly often these days, the ball comes between us and we each strike toward it with a determination that is hard to quell.  There is a fire in our eyes and strength in our bodies propelling us blindly towards the other, knowing that only one can win the ball.  Neither of us realizes in that moment that there are other options.  And we each address the ball with a heart full of past hurts and a brain cheering us on loudly with thoughts and ideas created out of past experiences.  The desire to win the moment outstrips our greater desire for a healthy long-term relationship, one with dignity intact.

It is interesting to me that some of what Faven struggles with is the same thing I struggle with (no coincidence, I am sure).  My belief in love was dimmed when my mom and dad separated and then when my dad made the choice to separate from parenting too.  My inner dialogue often goes something like this, How could a father not love his daughter? How is that even possible?  Of course there was so much more going on and we could argue the question (of love) until we are breathless, the fact remains, he left.  I have memories, thoughts and feelings about that critical event in my life that lead me to question whether I am loveable.  Faven too, with her history of adults leaving and disappointing her has questions about love.  She strides toward it like a player on a break-away, and then when it bears down on her, she recoils as if the pain of a loving being is too much to bear.  Love has hurt her and even though she is a team player, she often strikes out on her own, weaving through people and events as if she is being chased.

This past year has been tough.  My van is the embodiment of how I have been beaten and bruised through my many run-ins with Faven.  If I were to be turned inside out, so that my heart and soul were showing, there would be many seeping and weeping wounds; I would be covered in duct tape.  The van is constructed so that the parts essential for continued operation are protected by the hard outer shell, and even though the exterior is beaten up, it is still capable of getting from here to there.  And though no one can see the external shell that protects me, I too am cushioned during turmoil, judgment is suspended and I am forgiven my shameful acts, so that I can steer back into the day, following a course not known, yet guided by an inner strength that leaves me in awe at times.

Living in the mess

Recently, in a rare moment alone with Ward I discouragingly admitted, “[My] life feels like such a mess right now.”  He looked at me knowingly. With the right crowd, I wear my discouragement openly, like a Beverly Hills mom might wear Prada to the playground.  I continued, “I feel like a gerbil on an exercise wheel.  I can’t get off the wheel and even if I stop moving, I have to hang on for dear life because the damn wheel keeps spinning! I have lost control.  I know what to do, I just don’t know how to do it.” 

Yesterday I drove my neighbors two daughters to karate.  For reasons I have not yet explored, their young mom is usually disinclined to accept my offers to drive.  We live two houses away from each other and drive the two kilometers to and from karate twice a week, often in our own cars.  It does not make sense.  Yesterday was in fact the younger daughters’ first time in our van.

The six and seven year old girls, in their crisp white karate ghee, climbed in and buckled up.  I hadn’t even backed out of the driveway when the older girl commented, “Is your car ever dirty!”  I sighed deeply; both the uncensored honesty and sickening truth rendered my lips speechless.  But Yohannes who was sitting right beside her answered, “Yeah, I don’t think my mom has very much time to clean it.”  And then, bless his little heart, he proceeded to point out all the messes and how they happened. “The chocolate milk here was Lauren’s friend, I don’t know how she spilled it so badly,” after each admission the younger daughter “tsk, tsked” in her middle row seat.  Yohannes carried on and pointed out the squished jellybeans from Easter, the single muddy mitt, the pencil crayons, the schoolbooks, someone’s shoe, the crushed french fry container and the water bottles lolling around under the seats. 

The younger daughter, who has the same zest for detail told us about all the rules in their new vehicle. 

“We are not allowed to have food in our car” she boldly stated (as if that was a good thing).

“No food?!” Yohannes queried.

“Nope.  Only water,” she answered.

“Only water,” he repeated emphatically.

“Yup. And no toys,” she continued.

“Huh? Toys are not messy.” Yohannes informed her.

“According to my dad they are” she said.

Yohannes breathed in sharply, shook his head, and let out a “Wow”.

I suspect it will be their last ride in my vermin van!

What I really wanted to say was, “You think this is bad, you should come into our house!”  But alas, she was only seven years old, what did it matter?  Truthfully my workplace often reflects back exactly how I feel on the inside.  When I am facing messy emotions, my house spews debris like a steam locomotive emits steam; it is periodic yet never ending, and I don’t always have what it takes to keep up.  (Right now, it looks like we are preparing for a flea market – or a prospective estate sale).

I have been to other mothers’ houses and been shocked and somewhat appalled that they could ‘live like that’!  Those were my pre-parenting years.  I came home feeling no empathy whatsoever; I had ‘mightier-than-though’ thoughts and wondered, truly, if they were blind.  I shook my head and wandered through my orderly and alphabetized house with a sense of superiority.  The day of reckoning has arrived!

This week, I told my husband that this disorder was driving me crazy and I simply needed to clear the house of its occupants. 

He mused, “Where will we send the kids?” 

I bellowed, like a fog horn on a dark night, “Pack your bags, you’re going with them!”  Nobody picks up his or her stuff.  One culprit printed a picture for a school project, cut it out and let the paper fall to the floor – where it rested for two days, until she-who-shall-not-be-named barked out an order to pick it up followed by a tirade on the common impractical topics, “What were you thinking?’ and “Whose job do you think it is to pick up after you?”

In my idealistic fantasy of my own childhood, this kind of thing did not happen; we were a different breed of child - weren’t we?  (Mom, any words of support here?)

Relationships often fall into the ‘what have you done for me’ and ‘I deserve more than this’ categories – both destined for disappointment and disharmony.   Human relationships are messy (let’s be clear, humans are messy!)  Messes cannot be avoided. And yet there are days when I would walk until my feet were bruised and raw in search of easy street, a place where daisies grew in abundance, the sun shone every day and the mouths of the occupants dripped with gratitude. Every so often I become overwhelmed and I yearn for simple; I crave easy with such ferocity that I truly believe having it would change my whole existence.

In family life simple and easy come and go so quickly we don’t even recognize them.  On the other hand, complicated creates emotion, and some emotions suck the energy out of you faster than a mosquito sucks blood at sundown.  How does one move gracefully from complicated and messy to easy and simple?  I don’t know, but when in doubt – clean.

I spent a full day sorting and cleaning just the main floor of our house.  It was a hands and knees kind of clean.  It felt good.  Order begets order – for a moment or two.  It felt so good to me that I was utterly shocked that not one of my housemates even noticed.  Not one!  Six hours of labor and no gold star!  

My husband arrived home and I asked with exuberance, “Do you notice anything different?” 

“Well. . . I just walked in,” he said, “but, no.” 

The very fact that he could walk from the garage to the kitchen without wounding himself was a dead giveaway.  “Look around again…… please,” I beseeched. 

“Wow, it really looks good,” he said.  It was too late.

Why am I so bent on sticking labels on my experiences, my living – and trusting that those labels hold truth. 

Why messy? Why not lived-in, over-abundant, well-used, home-sweet-home? 

Why inadequate?  Why not, still learning, trying my best, not-yet skilled, imperceptibly imperfect? 

Why, struggling?  Why not simply, in need of TLC?

Who would we invite into our messy lives? We women are inclined to clean up before inviting over a friend or family member.  It is no different when the mess exists out of view, inside our head, heart and body.  We want to clean it up on our own before inviting anyone in.  Because of some illogical fear, we stay stuck in our own mess, when what we really need is companionship, community and support.  It is a difficult journey, but one worth risking. 

I did drive the girls to karate again, and still my van was not clean.  They commented on it again, and I simply smiled.  This is where we live, and we are living fully right now.  Halleluiah!

In Pursuit of Magic

Laurèn made chocolate covered carrots with sprinkles for the Easter Bunny and placed them on a plate in the kitchen, the night before Easter.  Earlier that day she had told me that three of her favorite people were Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy; she liked getting candy, presents and money.  All week long Faven had been challenging the younger kids; “Do you think there is an Easter Bunny - really?” or “Who do you think the Easter bunny is?” They simply stared at her, while I instant messaged her with my eyes!  She seemed to be enjoying the fact that she finally knew something that they didn’t.  Or did she?  In private she pleaded with me to tell her the truth – who was the Easter Bunny?

Late that night when Laurèn couldn’t wind down for sleep, as her mind reeled and her mouth spilled out the contents of her day, in a round about way she told me her thoughts about the Easter bunny.

            “Mom, you know what?” she said.

            “What?” I answered.

“According to Hatching Pete the magic is in the mystery, and I still want the magic of Easter, so I don’t want to find out the mystery.”

“That is interesting honey” I offered, relieved that I didn’t yet have to confess.

The magic is in the mystery.

Years ago, in the waiting stages of our first adoption, our minister was speaking one Sunday about callings. Some people truly feel moved by a calling but it isn’t necessarily clear why.  Embedded in the uncertainty, there is mystery.  Take Jonah, God called him to go to Ninevah to cry out against that city’s wickedness.  He was afraid.  Jonah, as a prophet was called to do the work of God, and yet he refused and fled.  We all live the mystery, but the question is, can we overcome the uncertainty or fear and answer the call in order to find the magic.

Our family is a mystery to many. I am regularly asked why we adopted children from Ethiopia. The question comes in one of two forms: with a quizzical expression, hands gesturing in the air and a skeptical tone, or with a soft voice, hand on my shoulder and a look of gentle curiosity and sincere attention. I willingly admit that it is not ‘textbook’ family-planning. Each time I am given an opportunity to answer this question, I pause, not sure what to say.  For me, living a life that is authentic means answering the call, to live, to give, and to be in a certain way – this is a difficult concept to share with another and it is a vulnerable piece of my journey.  Creating our family through adoption was and is a calling, pure and simple.  It was a plan outside of our making.  It was a journey of faith.  (Which in the aftermath has felt more like a leap of faith, across a vast valley somewhat miscalculated, crashing into the side of the gorge and slowly sliding down, then gathering speed, while debris and dust lodge into every orifice, rendering me unbalanced with clouded vision as I tumble into the pit – only to pick myself up, dust myself off and climb up and try again.)

On the days that I am exhausted and exasperated and I bellow out in anguish, from that pit, “Why me God?” there is only a dull echo in response, followed by complete nothingness.  In that gentle space is where the mystery lies – in the still and quietness between God and I, where there are no clear answers, just a map without a route, and a path without footprints, which I am urged forward onto.

How appropriate that in this season Laurèn reminds me of the magic hiding within the mystery.  Every parent knows that there is magic in our children. Heck, we have some pretty magical parenting moments too. I don’t mean the moments that take our breath away.  No, I am referring to the moments when all seems lost; the train of our living is skidding out of control towards an imminent and ugly crash and somehow, as if by magic, we right the train, calm the fire and a crash is averted (this time!).  We are left with the words hanging in the air, “What the….?”

Truth is, every day is a mystery; we only think we know what is going to happen.  Our calendars are filled with work, appointments and ‘to-do’ lists.  In the book “the Seven Whispers”, there is a section about Surrendering to Surprise.  Christina Baldwin writes, “Life’s surprises introduce unexpected elements and experiences we might not have the courage to choose”.  Remember Jonah, he ran away because he was afraid, he neither had the courage to ask questions nor step into the unknown.  Also, Baldwin says,  “surprise is […] the practice of leaving enough space in the day for something to happen that isn’t on the list.”  Whenever I am on holidays I leave space for sunsets, the call of the loon, sticky messes and breathing in nature; but at home, there simply is no space in my day-timer.  In my day-to-day life, I can’t hear the calling because there is so much noise and clutter.

Now we have a running joke in our house.  When the phone rings, my husband quips, Check who is calling…….. if is God, don’t answer!  Yes, there are many days when we feel that this particular calling has been too much to bear, and the sacrifices have been great.  But the magic of being audience to a child who cooks corn on the cob directly over the flame on the gas stove, or widens their eyes in wonder when their curly hair get pressed straight, or makes their first joke, in English, or blossoms before your eyes in ways you never imagined, for reasons you can’t articulate, is worthy.

So I wish for you some magic in this season of your life.  Just as my kids continue to suppress their suspicions about Easter for another year, so they can run with pure excitement from clue to clue on their egg hunt delighting in the palpable magic of possibility, may you explore the events of your life with cautious curiosity while marveling at the magical moments.

Beyond Breakfast

This morning the kids wanted to help me make breakfast.  Uh-huh, that would be great.  We got some tunes going, and broke into stations.  Yohannes was making the fruit salad, Faven was keen to run the espresso machine and Lauren and I were in charge of the pancakes.  Simple.

Yohannes cut up the pear into perfect bite-size pieces, complete with the seeds and stickers.  I stopped to admire his handi-work and thought it best to demonstrate what I wanted him to do with the orange.  Meanwhile Faven exuded the confidence of a Barista, so I let her at it – just until she called out “Oh no!”  I stepped in just as the froth was oozing over the side of the pitcher and down Faven’s fingers; the hot lava caused her to let go of the pitcher, which I caught just as it was about to hit the counter top.  As I eased the hot container onto the counter, I glanced over at Lauren, and she was alternately licking the spoon and then mixing the pancake batter.  “Lauren”, I called, she paused, oblivious and with the spoon in her mouth, “What?” she questioned.  My chin hit my chest as I let out an exasperated sigh.

I scurried back over to help Lauren, which Faven took as a green light to carry on. 

Lauren questioned, “ Is it okay to lick the spoon and then keep using it?”

“Well, not really”, I responded.

“But Mom, the heat will kill the germs, right?” she pressed.

“Hmm….. I don’t know.  But let’s just say, if you did that in a restaurant you would be fired.”

“Well, I’m not in a restaurant am I?” she finished.

I gave up, gently taking the spoon and replacing it with another to give the batter a fierce stirring.

My gaze took in Yohannes’ technique with the mango; there are no words to adequately describe it.  Imagine the skinning and gutting process after catching a prize fish, only the ‘meat’ was smooshed between keen and clumsy fingers and then scraped into the bowl.  Okay, moving on.

Lauren actually managed to get some batter onto the grill, and I felt like we were on our way!  Just at that moment, I heard the espresso machine sputtering and wheezing as if it was about to explode.  I am not sure what Faven had been doing, but there was a fine layer of coffee grounds covering the counter, floor and machine.  I looked at her, with the utter love of a mother who is amazed by their child’s deeds.  Then I calmly, but with an edge, informed her that it would be great if she stopped and waited for me to guide her through – she (haughtily) reported that she knows what to do!  Then I merely grunted and turned off the machine; I am not sure who was ‘steaming’ more, the machine or me.  Faven stood off in the background, quietly observing, just out of my reach (smart kid!).  I disassembled it to see what the problem was, cleaned out everything and started over. 

By now, there were some pancakes ready to come off the griddle, so Lauren held them out to me with the patience of an elite runner at the starting gate, ‘Mawm” she beseeched.  Kinda busy here, I thought, but scooped a plate from the drawer and got there just as she dropped them.  I didn’t quite make the catch.  I stared at the pancakes on the floor and with only a moment hesitation picked them up and put them on the plate with six eyes staring at me.  Into the warming drawer they went. 

Yohannes, inclined to interrupt at the least appropriate times – asked me, “How many strawberries should I cut up?”  I told him eight; he counted all eight, out loud.  I slid back over to Faven and asked her if she was ready to try again.  It took everything in me not to banish her to the back forty and just do it myself. “Okay mom” she quietly said, she took one reticent step towards me, waiting to see how I would handle her in my space.  I welcomed her in.  This time the espresso went into the shot glasses; she pulled the glass out (with the coffee/water still flowing) and quickly dumped it into the coffee mug before sliding it back underneath for more.  I asked her what she was doing?  She responded, “making coffee”.  After some dialogue I found out that she was going to continue running the water through the espresso until she got enough shots to fill the whole mug.  Hmmm…….I was completely surprised by this and stumped at how to re-direct her. 

Meanwhile, from the pancake maker, I heard another insistent cry for the pancake plate.  With a surge of speed, I retrieved the plate and she piled more onto it.  Then she queried, “When can I learn to make the coffee like Faven?”  I paused, “I don’t think we are quite ready for that, but I can show you how to make hot chocolate if you want.”  “You can make hot chocolate with that?” she asked with surprise.  “Uh-huh.  Finish up the pancakes and we’ll get to it.”

I got the milk and chocolate sauce ready, set the table and said a silent prayer.  I showed Lauren how to steam the milk and what temperature she was aiming for.  She finished that, and I directed her to pour the hot chocolate into her waiting mug.  I had made her wear oven mitts while preparing her drink, as I didn’t want her to get burned.  Now, as she poured the hot chocolate, it so happened that our foster cat Carlton was sauntering by.  Lauren completely missed the cup; the hot liquid hit the counter top and sprayed all over Lauren, the counter, the cabinets and the cat.  Thankfully I was there to grab it and save just enough for her to have a taste.  I looked at the mess and said, “Let’s eat!”  Just after that the dog walked through the chocolate milk and spread her milky paw prints throughout the kitchen.  Laugh or cry?  I decided to laugh.

It had been almost two hours since we had started.  On my own, I think I could have had breakfast on the table inside a half an hour.  The kids were a mess, the kitchen was a disaster (it took me another two hours to clean up), but we had made it together and we enjoyed it together.  Now, I think I’ll take a nap – so I have the energy to handle lunch.