I Am In No Hurry!!!

“I am in no hurry,” said the older lady at the doctors office today!  The moment she said it, I felt like saying, “Really?! I wish!!!”  Sadly, I feel like I am ALWAYS in a hurry.  I feel like I am always late.  I feel like I am always a dervish.  I am jealous of this woman who clearly had time for small talk.  I am jealous of her story time with the receptionist about her travels to China, when she was “your age” (the receptionist can’t be more than 23 years young).  I don’t know that I have always been this person—miss tardy pants.  I don’t think that I have always been in the “you are 5 minutes late” crowd. 

Since I have been blessed with the chance to be responsible for another human being, I have tried to find that balance of getting to work on time—and honestly, I am pretty close now, but it’s been over 2 years.  I have really tried to be on time to birthday parties and events where my son will have fun, but that isn’t always the case.  I have tried to make sure that we have all the “checks” as we head out the door—medicine, inhaler, shoes, jacket, snacks, water, race car, worm, truck, underwear (yes, K left the house once without underwear on—one of the first times he dressed himself and I didn’t check him), etc.   However, inevitably, there is always something that is forgotten and I have to rush back into the house, deactivate the alarm, find it, reactivate the alarm and make sure that K has locked and loaded himself into his car seat. This usually makes us probably somewhere between 3-7 minutes later than we would have been.

Then there’s work—meeting after meeting that I am rushing to.  Phone calls to return, emails to respond to (Lately, I have been getting, on average, 75-90 emails a day).  I give myself 24 hours to respond, but sometimes, I don’t hit that target.  Sometimes, I don’t respond at all, but such is life, right?  NOOOOO!  I don’t like being the person who lets things slip thought the cracks.  Don’t you know that I am Type A personality?  It irks me to no end to not be “perfect” (one of my many admitted flaws/quirks).

Yet, as we all know—there is no perfection when it comes to parenting.  It’s all about doing the best with what you got.  Sometimes it’s just enough to be stoked that they (the kids we are blessed to raise) made it through the week with no major injuries and no heartbreak.  Sometimes it’s a big sigh of relief to realize that we both made it through the week alive and well!  When it comes to being a working parent, aren’t we all just happy to make it to work without smelling like crap, pee, moldy milk, re-kisses of my own lipstick on my shirt, or his pizza that spilled down my leg onto my just back from the cleaners work pants!  So I will quietly envy this woman’s declaration of free time to chat it up and have the receptionist take her sweet time looking up if she had a next appointment already booked.  Yes, I will envy that she had time to burn and talk about how 75 is the new 50.  I will covet the fact that she is in no hurry whatsoever!

Band-Aid, Shmand-Aid

Parents of toddlers get it!  I know you do!  My kid seems to be in constant pining for a band-aid.  Please tell me that yours is (or was or you know will be) the same way?  Please confirm that this isn’t a fetish for only my child (*and I know that there are worse things he could be begging for.)!  One of the things that I wish people had warned/educated me about when I was thinking about adopting was to buy stock in Band Aids!  Why not!  I would have made myself a LOT of money by just letting my son be who he is—a love of the band-aid!  Every random bump or bruise or scrape or scratch needs a band-aid.  Every “injury” (and I use that term loosely) needs immediate consideration and attention!  Bust out the triage center for Mr. Williams! 

While I habitually oblige him, I am almost mad at myself for doing so.  Does he need at least, no really, one band-aid day for some insignificant thing that happened to him while he was sitting on our soft couch?  Why, yes Mama, he does!  Does he need the Buzz Lightyear band-aid and the Lightning McQueen one after scraping himself with his own fingernail?  Oh yes he most certainly does.  Does he need to only keep the band-aid on for about 87 seconds before taking it off and claiming a full healing and restoration to the effected area?  Oh, why not.  Who wants to be restricted by a darn band-aid!?

While my kisses for these owies and whatnot are also part of the gig—it’s the band-aid that he is really after.  Yes, I have tried the “Band-aids are only for blood!” routine and that worked—NOT!  Yes, once when he had a stomach ache, I put band-aids all over his belly.  Yes, I have put band-aids on his head (by request) when his head has hurt!  No, it’s not causing me any harm. No, he probably won’t be psychologically jacked up if I do or don’t give him band-aid for his “wounds”.  Will this lead to not just a band-aid obsession but a “wound” obsession?  Oh sweet Jesus—might be time for an intervention!

Who woulda thought that that woulda happened at IHOP!?

I am blessed to work at a place that gives me the week between Christmas and New Years off, and that it’s paid!  Not only that, my dad’s birthday falls during this week, so it’s been our tradition for me to take him to lunch (just the two of us) on his birthday!  Since I have become a mama, obviously, K has joined us and my dad loves it even more now, I think.

So, as per our usual, we went to a late breakfast/early lunch and it was his choice of where to go. My dad, being the decadent guy that he is, chose IHOP!  When I asked him why, he simply said, “I think K will like it because you can see the train tracks from the window, and I like the food, why?”  I wasn’t’ berating his choice, I just didn’t think that this would be his choice since I was footing the bill!!!

But as I have learned, everything happens for a reason.  K does love the view from IHOP.  He can see all the cars on the 6 lane road and the railroad crossing—it’s like a little bit of heaven for him!  Yet, this time was different. As we were walking out, this woman approached me and asked me where my son was born!  I could tell by looking at her that she was from the Motherland, but wasn’t sure if she was Ethiopian, Eritrean or Somalian (not saying they all look alike, so don’t send me hate mail, I just didn’t want to assume anything!!!).  After I told her he was born in Ethiopia, she said, “I am from Ethiopia too!  Can I ask his name?” 

Fast forward 15 minutes.  It was an amazing conversation in the parking lot of IHOP.  Come to find out, her son shares K’s birth name and she lives locally.  She was stoked to discover that there was a little Ethiopian community right here in Orange County.  I shared with her about all of our friends and that we were celebrating Timket in January and that we had just recently eaten at Tana Restaurant in Anaheim and that many of us have gone to culture class in LA. 

We exchanged numbers and she hugged both K and me.  As with most of my encounters with Ethiopians, it was beautiful!  But, it was not only a wonderful encounter; it was fantastic for my dad to see it as well.  Since my dad didn’t travel with me to pick up K in Ethiopia, he hasn’t seen much native, adult Ethiopian reaction to my adoption.  He has asked me, on several occasions, how Ethiopians feel about Westerners adopting “their” kids, so I know it’s a concern of his.  He is very aware of my feelings about making sure that not only K, but others KNOW that he is ETHIOPIAN-American! He was so happy to have had the chance to talk with her and hear her thoughts.

As we pulled out of the parking lot at IHOP, we were all grins and basically shared the same sentence over and over—wow!  Who woulda thought that that woulda happened at IHOP!?

K’s First World Problems—Things that, in his mind, really SUCK!!!

*In no particular order

When the pink computer (AKA the iPad 2) battery is low

When his light saber batteries are dead

When the batteries in his RC truck are dead.

Wailing and gnashing of teeth occur if I don’t let him push the “start” button on the microwave.

When he isn’t allowed to push the garage door button to watch the door close

When I let him choose which shoes he wants to wear to T-ball—he can choose between 4 pairs.

When all 4 of his Buzz Lightyear shirts are dirty and that’s the shirt he REAALLLLY wanted to wear to school.

Having to choose between his two sets of rain boots

Only getting to go on the Casey Jr. train at Disneyland 2 times instead of 3 (or any ride since we go at least once a week).

When I only let him play at the park after school for 30 minutes because, um, it’s DARK OUT!!!

Only going to 4 pumpkin patches instead of as many as he wanted.

And the list goes on and on and on!!!

PumpkinStein

K’s school always participates in the annual “Treats in the Streets” in Old Towne Orange.  Each year that class goes as a theme—this year was “Peter Pan and Friends”.  His teachers put it all together and they do an amazing job!  And the kids always look so cute!!!

Afterwards, we go back to school and do a pizza party, but this year, we did a new thing—a pumpkin derby!  When I got the flyer about it, I thought, “Cool, stab some sticks through a pumpkin and strap on some wheels and let’s do this thing!”  However, when I showed the flyer to my dad (AKA Grandpa), he told me, “I will take care of this!” I left this task in his capable hands!

Four days of brainstorming and measuring and researching and painting wheels and stabbing the pumpkin, and looking for the perfectly sized pumpkin and FINALLY, it was ready for us to “decorate”.  I had some leftover “potato head” pumpkin things from a party last year, but asked K how he wanted to decorate it.  He wanted to do the Frankenstein potato head stuff!  I was all for it—not having to whip out paint and brushes (and painting shirts and plastic for the table and…well you get the idea) was a dream come true!

Now once we got to see the competition, I admit, I was a BIT intimidated, but hey, it’s just all in fun, right?  Hmmmmm.  Even if ours sucked, no one would care, would they?  Well, I thought, at least our pumpkin had a cool name—PumpkinStein!

We were in the last heat, and I had witnessed some pretty serious contenders wipe out big time—like all the wheels disintegrating before it even hit the pavement!!!  So I wasn’t wholly hopeful that ours would kick butt—but WE DID!!!  In our first round, our pumpkin beat everyone for distance!  It was AWESOME!  And K (and my dad) were beyond stoked!  K chased it down the street but couldn’t keep up!  He was beside himself!

In the championship round, we completely kicked butt!  Not only did K win a prize for longest run, he also won the overall race!  It was so great—not only for K, but for my dad!  They are best friends, and I was so glad that they got to share this moment! 

*And not only that, the other dad’s were trying to pimp the winning info outta my dad as to how he built that mutha of a machine!  He certainly DIDN’T share any trade secrets!!!*

Just call me proud Mama (and daughter!).  Go PumpkinStein!!!  Go Team Williams!!!

36 hours…

A couple of weekends ago, I had a bad one.  No matter what I did, it didn’t seem like I could get it together, as a mom.  K was in a mood—and granted, everyone is allowed to have a bad day, but we were jam-packed with activities with friends, so public meltdowns and attitude is NEVER fun.  It seemed like no matter what I did or how I corrected him, he was contrary. 

Well, within a 36-hour period, I cried at least 10 times.  Not just tears welling up in my eyes, but serious tears.  After about the third cry, I started keeping track.  Why not capture each moment where I had mini-meltdowns.  *Coach Gray was very supportive, just want y’all to know that!*

Sometimes, I feel really confident about this “being a mom” thing and on weekends like this, I feel like I suck worse than a moldy piece of bread! 

So here you go:

Some random commercial about a show on Lifetime Movie Network

K telling me “You my favorite Mommy!”

Tarzan—conversation with his mom about how they are different, but the same, “See we’re exactly the same!”

Tarzan—conversation with his mom when he is about to leave and he says, “No matter where I go, you will always be my mother.”

K refusing to say, “I love you” to me when he went to bed after a day of discipline and punishments.

K telling me he loved me, first words out of his mouth when he woke up in the morning.

Ending of Toy Story 3 (gets me every time!!!).

When K got dressed all by himself—head to toe (even socks and shoes—and on the right feet).

K telling me, “Our life is super big awesome Mommy!”

After trying to utilize different discipline techniques with K for being rude and sassy and not listening and _______________, and nothing seemed to work—I just sat down on the floor and cried!

Tuesday Truth-day! September 27, 2011

*I will use each Tuesday to rat myself out about something!  It’s all in good fun and I am sure that these “truth-day” revelations won’t be things people don’t already know about me!

Thank you lady in the Honolulu airport for your “kind” comments to me.  It would have been nice if you had just stepped to me like a grown up to share your thoughts about my raising a black child, but I guess not.  Sadly, you are clearly not a mature woman who can ask questions about our family, but make assumptions and then speak them loudly enough so that I can hear you.  And I know you were talking about us because, let’s face it, how many black kids with white Mamas were there at the Honolulu airport.  Jus sayin’!

I pity you, but at the same time, I have compassion for you, so that’s why I stepped to you and “confronted” you.  I know it caught you off guard, but oh well.  I know you weren’t prepared for me to want to sit next to you in the crowded gate area to ask you why you felt it necessary to make such comments about me or my child.  I know you were caught off guard when I asked you if you really wanted to know how we became a family and what I teach my son about his Ethiopian-American heritage.  I know it caught you off guard that I speak his native language and know how many countries make up the continent of Africa (not that this takes rocket science to know, but you didn’t know how many there were, so…).  I know you weren’t ready for me to tell you that I have taken my son to culture class, that we hang out with other Ethiopian-American kids, and that I take pride in and love his culture.  I know you weren’t prepared for my kindness towards you. Actually, you probably didn’t think that I would even say anything to you. Well, you were wrong.  And now you know that you were wrong on so many levels. 

So, thank you fellow traveler who lives in LA, but couldn’t tell me where “Little Ethiopia” was.  Thank you for making me even more determined to educate ignorant folks and to make sure that my son isn’t one of them!

PS—beware of the Mama Bear lady, and you best be thankful that I love God!  Believe that!

Conversation of the day in Hawaii—three times a charm

Scene:  Beach

60-something married couple (60SMC):  Is that your son?

Me:  Yes he is.

60SMC:  Would you mind if we asked you some questions about him?  It’s obvious that he wasn’t born in the US.  He is breathtaking and such a happy kid!!!

Me:  Thank you!  And you are correct—he was born in Ethiopia.  I agree—he is pretty amazing!  We became a family a little over a year and a half ago.

60SMC:  How wonderful!  We have some friends of friends who just adopted from Haiti right before the earthquake.  Since we don’t know them very well, I would love to use the correct verbiage when talking to them about their son.  We haven’t met anyone else who has ever adopted.  Is that weird to ask you?

Me:  Not at all.  I wish more people would ask.  Go ahead and ask away…

Twenty minute conversation that turned into an appropriate adoption terminology.

60SMC:  Your son is so lucky to have you for a mom.  We can’t tell you how much this means to us.  We know how precious family is and to be able to become a family—no matter how it happens, is a miracle.

Me:  Thank you!  But I have to tell you.  I am the one who is blessed.  He has changed my whole life for the better.

60SMC:  Well, it shows on both of your faces.

*We parted ways!  This conversation left me smiling!

Bakers Dozen

Well, within 9 days I have been recognized 13 times on this island.  I wasn’t going to count when the first few happened.  I actually don’t expect people to remember my story from my 4 minutes of fame (if you can call it that) on LA INK, honestly.  Yet, the reason I started counting was because people haven’t just been coming up to me to ask me if I was on the show, but have been sharing with me how inspiring my story was—and that is what has blessed me the most.  That is the reason I really wanted to do the show! Well, and I knew I’d get an amazing tattoo too!

I got to talk to 2 young couples who are here on vacation who have struggled with fertility issues.  One of the women told me that she didn’t know that adoption was really something for them, but once she saw me on the show, they have been doing research on adoption and trying to find what might be the best fit for them.   

An older couple from Tennessee said they recognized me from the show because they are raising their granddaughter and she loves the show—they watch it with her to have something “cool” to talk to her about.  Not only that, one of their granddaughter’s friends was recently pregnant and gave her baby up for adoption and, for them, I was the only “face” of adoption they had seen, so they felt great about this young girl giving her baby to a family who desired to have kids!  They thanked me!

A 40-something couple didn’t recognize me, but they recognized K and asked if I was his mom.  When I turned around and said yes, they saw the tattoo and both screamed at each other, “I told you it was them!” 

A few people haven’t recognized me or K, but they recognized the tattoo and approached me to ask about Kat, the shop, and the overall experience. 

I have had a couple of teenagers come up to me and K and just wanna hug him and that’s been sweet.  It’s after they comment on him and how cute he is that they ask about my adoption and the experience of getting a tattoo by Kat. 

One response I seem to get from a lot of people is how happy K looks—and that makes me proud.  I love that he’s happy and that others can tell!  He really is a happy kid.

I have been honored that people have shared their stories with me and that I have been able to share a bit of my story with others through this tattoo! That’s what it’s all about, right?

“Did your husband leave you because you didn’t lose your baby weight fast enough?”

While on vacation for 2 weeks in Hawaii, this was part of a conversation that went awry very quickly.  What started off as a pleasant exchange about my son’s phenomenal swimming skills quickly turned into fightin’ words.

Within the first 2 days of being here, K became sort of an urban legend around the resort.  People who hadn’t met him had “heard” about his swimming dexterity.  Once they met the kid “with the name I can’t quite remember”, they were “oooh-ing” and “ahhhh-ing” about what a strong swimmer he is.  All seemed to be amazed that he could dive down to the deep end and use big pullers and kickers while kids two and three years older than him were using floaties or were deathly afraid of the water.  But this isn’t a post about his awesomeness—it’s about a rude lady.

This woman, whose name I clearly don’t know, so I will refer to her as Baby Boomer Sun Bather (BBSB) had to be in her mid to late 60s.  She kind of cornered me to talk to me about K.  She was going on and on about how she would love to have her grandkids swim as well as he does and how she is just so impressed by him.  Not only that, she kept saying how much she loved his confidence.  Then it happened—she added, “You and your husband must be so proud.  What a cutie and a he’s a great swimmer…”  When I told her that I was indeed proud of him but that I wasn’t married, she snorted and said, “Oh, did your husband leave you because you didn’t lose your baby weight fast enough?”  I really didn’t have any words for her at first.  Sadly, what I initially wanted to do was stand up and cuss her out and be like “Heffa can’t you tell he’s adopted? And ok, yeah, I could lose some weight, but for the love of everything holy, is that ok to say to someone?!  Anyone?” 

But I didn’t—she wasn’t worth it.  All I said was that I haven’t ever been married and that he was adopted.  She really didn’t want to continue the conversation after that, and I was ok with that.  What’s more disheartening is that I think her comments were a reflection of her own life.  Where would someone ever come up with something like that unless they were wounded so deeply to their core by that exact experience (or something very close to it). Part of me wanted to slap the crap out of her for calling me fat and the other part of me wanted to hug and tell her that it was ok and she could cry it out!!!

Eh, but such is life. I will continue living my amazingly wonderful life and she will continue living her miserable existence.