Pampers and Paklava

National Adoption Month

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Orphanage children's clothesNovember is National Adoption Month. Its origins go back thirty five years to 1976 when the governor of Massachusetts, Michael Dukakis, announced an Adoption Week for his state. Later that year, President Ronald Reagan proclaimed the week-long event would become national.

As the years progressed, adoption advocates realized that more time was needed to raise awareness about the need for adoption and to hold adoption related events. So in 1995, President Clinton made the event a month-long observance.

Each year, the president begins the month with a proclamation and community organizations, nation-wide, arrange and host programs, events, and activities to share positive adoption stories, challenge the myths, and draw attention to the thousands of children who are waiting for permanent families. While adoption of all kinds is celebrated this month, the national focus is on foster care and the 510,000 kids currently in the system — 129,000 of whom are waiting for families.

A few organizations provide a calendar with ideas for promoting adoption in the home as well as in one’s community. You can imagine the smile on my face when I looked at this year’s calendar and saw the idea for November 1, 2011: Start an adoption blog.

Many people start adoption blogs to keep friends and family updated on the progress of their adoption. But there are many other facets to adoption that reach beyond “here’s what’s happening next.” Posts that seem to resonate most with readers are those that speak to the kinds of human stories everyone can all relate to: hope, longing for connection, creating family, even loss.

Blogging also helps connect fellow travelers on the same journey. I’ve heard several people say their first steps toward adoptive parenthood were informed by, or even inspired by, blogs they’d read: blogs written by adoptive parents, adoptees and birth mothers.

Blogs are also one way a family can write–and keep–the story of how their own family was created and, one day, adopted children can weave this story into their own story. Life stories, with all their imperfections, disappointments, trials, successes, beauty and growth tell the tale of who we are.

Five reasons why I [heart] international adoption

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Orphanage laundry

1. Thousands and thousands of children in the world are homeless

Every country has orphans. Some countries have hundreds of thousands of orphans. Under the best of circumstances, children would be cared for by their extended biological family or adopted within the country of their birth. But that’s not how things play out for most children who are orphaned.

I believe every child deserves a home, a home where they are loved and cared for. Being able to provide that for a child, even if we’re only able to adopt one child, means there will be one less child who will grow up in an orphanage.

2. Our world is increasingly multi-cultural

Many of my friends are in marriages and partnerships that blend cultures and race. Their children will grow up knowing that they, and many of their friends and classmates, come from similarly diverse backgrounds.

Even in Seattle, a relatively homogenous city, there is increasingly more diversity. Within a few blocks of our house, we have neighbors who are: Indian, Caucasian, African-American, African born, Asian, Eastern European, and Middle Eastern.

My own marriage spans two somewhat disparate cultural backgrounds. We learn from each other and have a much richer life because of it.

3. Opportunities to grow and learn

I see the world painting, Children's Art Gallery, Yerevan, Armenia

For me one of the coolest things about adopting internationally is that my world has expanded exponentially. I have been given the opportunity (and the motivation) to learn about another culture: the history, food, religion, social mores, art, music, customs, holidays and so much more!

I am a better person for having traveled this path. The years ahead will undoubtedly continue to offer challenges and even deeper rewards.

4. International (and domestic) adoption is an integral part of my extended family

My niece was adopted from China. My husband’s sister was adopted from Germany and his brother was adopted domestically. It’s one of the reasons—for us—that adoption, particularly international adoption, feels right. I am proud of our extended family, created both by birth and adoption.

5. Travel!

I LOVE to travel (and always wish I could do more of it). And, I write on a travel website. So the fact that travel goes hand-in-hand with international adoption is the icing on the cupcake for me. In fact travel has turned out to be one element of the adoption process that’s been the most fun and adventure-filled.

For better, for worse…and everything in between

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Love boat, wedding, marriage

My first date with Big Papa was a ferry ride to Bainbridge Island, our second date was dinner at a Cajun restaurant, and our third date was an afternoon of yard work. It was mid-January and I remember spending a few hours outdoors in the brisk air raking up the leaves that covered his small backyard like a wet brown blanket. It felt so comfortable, the two of us working side by side, and I thought to myself: I could be happy with a lifetime of days just like this, with him.

When I look back over the six years we’ve been a couple, four now as husband and wife, my fondest memories are often the simplest of moments. While I love romance as much as the next girl—dinners out, vacations to exotic and interesting locales, I’m continually reminded it’s the day-to-day living, rather than grand gestures, that truly cement a relationship. For one, it’s not possible to exist indefinitely in a heightened state of passionate escape. Laundry needs to be done, groceries have to be purchased, and that little thing called life manages to jolt even the most starry-eyed lovers back to reality.

I’ve heard people say the true test of a relationship is to take a trip together, see how compatible you really are by putting yourselves in unfamiliar territory while having random unexpected situations thrown your way. I think there’s some truth to this, but also believe you can just as easily find out what your relationship is made of by facing the mundane negotiations of everyday existence, with a few extraordinary catastrophes thrown in for good measure. In my experience, it’s a lot easier to like someone while suffering from jet lag and sipping espresso at a café in Paris, than after a long, stressful week at the office.

That being said, we’ve had ample opportunity to see how our relationship will fare when faced with the trials of life on the road…or in a boat. Big Papa still reminds me that he suggested a ferry ride for our first date, because he figured if we didn’t like each other one of us could head to the bow and the other to the stern, and never the twain shall meet again. Fortunately, that’s not how our date ended.

We’ve traveled together to Canada, France, Armenia, China, Tibet, Hawaii, California, the east coast, and all over the Pacific Northwest. But the one trip that stands out as a testament to our relationship is the trip we took barely two months before we were married, when we flew to Tampa, Florida and then drove to Ocala, to move my elderly disabled father out to Seattle. He had just been released from a rehabilitation facility where he’d been off and on the past few years due to a series of falls. “Operation spring-the-Pop” is what we called it. Fly out on a Friday, pick him up from the rehab facility on Saturday, pack what we could into the four empty suitcases we’d brought with us, and fly back to Seattle with him on Sunday.

On the first leg of the journey from Tampa to Charlotte, North Carolina, dad did just fine. Then, soon after take-off on the second six-hour leg of the journey, he started complaining of pain in his chest and abdomen. Worst case scenarios played through my head and I chastised myself for underestimating the enormity of this undertaking. Soon my father was in considerable pain and asked to be taken to the toilet. Big Papa had bought us first-class tickets, so that in the event of a bathroom jaunt, we wouldn’t have to wrestle my paralyzed father past scores of other passengers only to wait in a long line for the loo. Unfortunately, dad had the runs for the remainder of our trip. I stood holding a blue airplane blanket between my outspread arms to block the view from the other first-class passengers because my father, with his paralyzed leg in a brace, couldn’t fit in the bathroom and close the door. Right beside him stood Big Papa. He cleaned and changed my father, and then cleaned and changed him again for the duration of the flight.

First class passengers who needed to use the facilities were diverted to the back of the plane. Thankfully, no one made a fuss and most of those sitting with us in the small first class cabin seemed sympathetic to our plight. It was a tough journey, the first of several we’ve experienced together.

If there had been someone available to marry us on that plane, I would have said “I do” on the spot, at 30,000 feet. There is nothing anyone has ever done for me that speaks such volumes about the content of their character. If Big Papa could do this for my dad, I knew he would stand by me—for better or for worse.

Of course, as some of you might remember from reading my blog, our wedding was one unbelievable fiasco after another. The first wedding site canceled six months before our ceremony, then the B&B where we were going to stay for our wedding night went out of business a month prior and finally, our officiate canceled merely three hours before we were going to exchange our vows.

When we managed to find someone to pronounce us man and wife, with barely an hour to spare, and I walked toward the man I would marry, tears rolled down my cheeks, tears of joy. Sure, I wish the road to matrimony had been smoother. Who wouldn’t have? And, yes, there have been many days since, when I’ve desperately hoped for a break from all the crises and heartache we’ve experienced. The thing is, no one gets through this life, or a marriage, without loss, without disappointment. Some are hit with more than others, but none of us escape entirely. In the midst of what sometimes feels like unrelenting challenges, I remind myself how lucky I am in so many ways. Finding Big Papa is one of them.

For much of the year here in the Pacific Northwest, clouds roll in and the rain comes down. Sometimes it lasts for days on end, this year right through summer. And then, from time to time, there are glorious days when the sun appears and Big Papa and I head together into the yard, now our yard. Side by side we tend to our garden and care for our plants. They continue to grow, despite the hardships they encounter, and so does our relationship.

A marriage is for better and for worse. But mostly it’s for everything in between.

Love boat, wedding, marriage, champagne

 

Happy Anniversary, Big Papa!

Whether we’re on the high slopes of Everest or at the top of the hill in the Central District, I’m so glad you’re traveling beside me.

Now serving ticket H-16: Spending the day at the Office of Immigration

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Office of Immigration Tukwila, Washington “Now serving ticket H-5 at counter number 11” says the electronic voice over the loudspeaker. Then we hear a ringing ping, like a finger tapping on a crystal goblet.

“Now serving ticket H-6 at counter number 11.”

Big Papa and I are at the Office of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, USCIS. We are trying to expedite our fingerprints in an effort to extend our approval to adopt, both here and in Armenia. Both countries’ approvals will expire. Soon.

Although we received notice from our government with a fingerprint appointment for later this month, we decide to take our chances as “walk-ins” in an attempt to shave a few weeks off the process. It is 8:00 a.m. in the morning. We arrive, promptly at 7:45 a.m., in time to park in the pay lot (cash only and a $1 more since we were here last year), and walked the surprisingly long walk from the parking lot to the nondescript government building located in the middle of nowhere land south of Boeing Field in Seattle.

I tell Big Papa “Let’s wait a couple hours. Maybe until 10:00 and then, if we don’t get in for the fingerprints, I’ll take you back to work.” I know he has several meetings today that he’d like to make. Frankly the thought of sitting inside these four walls for the remainder of the day is pretty unappealing to me too.

After passing through airport-like security, our bags and bodies scanned, we move to the second check point where we tell the man behind the counter: “Our appointment isn’t until later this month. We’d like to walk-in.” He hands us two numbers–H-16 and H-17–and directs us to the next room to wait until our number is called so we can put our names on the “walk-in list.”

Once our numbers are called by the electronic voice, we queue up behind H-15 and in front of H-18. When we reach the window, we plead our case to the young clerk behind the glass window. She asks us, in a very quiet voice, to take a seat and tells us she’ll alert a supervisor. We sit and wait. An hour passes. Have they forgotten about us, I wonder aloud to Big Papa?

Finally, a smiling-faced man, a supervisor, approaches and asks us to come to his office. He tells us that Seattle’s immigration office is one of the busiest in the county, “Next to L.A.” he says in a matter-of-fact sort of way. We are welcome to wait but there is no guarantee we will be called. He lets us know there are two others ahead of us.

“Sometimes we see a bit of a lull, at 11:00 and then again around 3:00 or 4:00.” I can see Big Papa squirm in his seat.

We head back into the big waiting room, now filled with dozens of people. The sounds of languages from all around the world surround us as we sit and wait some more. And hope. Hope that we will be one of the lucky few (and I do mean few, as we’d just been told by the supervisor that roughly 3-5 walk-in appointments are taken each day) who will be called, before the office closes at 5:00 p.m.

This morning, as we bolted from our house, we did not consider that we might be waiting at the USCIS office all day long. I am grateful that Big Papa has two protein bars and his sandwich, the sandwich that is supposed to be his lunch sandwich. There is no cafeteria, no convenience store within walking distance and the selection in the fast food machine is slim pickings.

I am also pleased that, in my hurry, I’d remembered to bring a book, <a href=”http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000CDG8EW/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=pampeandpakhl-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399369&creativeASIN=B000CDG8EW”>Almost French: Love And A New Life In Paris</a><img src=”http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=pampeandpakhl-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B000CDG8EW&camp=217145&creative=399369″ width=”1″ height=”1″ border=”0″ alt=”” style=”border:none !important; margin:0px !important;” />.

At least, for the duration of the time we spend holed up inside the dreary USCIS office, I can be an armchair traveler and let the author’s words take me to Paris. Ah, croissants, French espresso. What I wouldn’t do, right this very moment, for a double, served with a piece of dark chocolate.

At various points during the day, Big Papa and I explore our options: leave and come back another day, bribe someone else in the waiting room to trade places with us, or continue to wait. As it turns out, we continue to wait in this very room, in these very seats, until the clock strikes 2:30. By this time, the electronic bell has chimed many, many times, and the electronic voice has reached number H-162.

When I finally hear a real voice, albeit ushered in a whisper, say “Beth,” I resist the urge to jump and scream “We made it,” and hug the soft-voiced woman behind the glass window who just said the two words I’ve longed to hear a live person say all day: our names. Instead, Big Papa and I high-five each other and stand up. My butt is sore and my patience has worn thin, yet I feel as elated as I felt the first time we came here to get our fingerprints…over three years ago. It’s been a long journey since that day, in every sense.

We walk into the next, and thankfully last, waiting room of the day and another fifteen minutes passes before we hear our names called once again, this time to have our inkless prints scanned. I walk over to where the three fingerprint technicians stand by their fingerprint machines, capable of scanning and then emailing our prints to the Hague unit of the Big Immigration Office in Missouri. Then it’s Big Papa’s turn.

“Is this your first time here?” I hear the fingerprint technician ask Big Papa.

“Nope” he tells her, “Third.”

My technician asks a few questions too. I give her the elevator story on our adoption. Just the bare bones, but still she is intrigued. And sympathetic which, right now, feels pretty good.

And then, it’s over. 6-1/2 hours, one sandwich, a Diet Coke and two protein bars later, we have our fingerprints.

“It’s like a flight to Paris,” Big Papa jokes.

“Oui. Deux cafés s’il vous plait.” I reply, though truthfully I’m feeling like I need something stronger, and boozier, than a double espresso at the moment.

I put down my book, now three-quarters of the way finished. We head to our car which is parked outside the Office of Immigration, in the $7 cash only parking lot, in Tukwila, Washington. It’s been a long day. And, Toto, we are definitely not in Paris.

What are the odds?

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Math bookMath has never been my forte. When I was in grade school, I was fair to middling at math. Unfortunately, in tenth grade I suffered through “SMSG geometry” and a teacher—amazingly enough, a woman—who did nothing to inspire or motivate me. So by the time I was a senior in high school, I was doubling up on art classes, enrolled in college-level English and Sociology, but taking remedial math.

In graduate school my statistics skills were abysmal which, as a budding sociologist at a school known for its statistical prowess, did not bode well for my future as an academician. I left the program ABD (all but dissertation). The thought of cranking out all the statistics I’d need to support my thesis, froze me in my tracks.

Ironically, I married a math major. Or maybe not so ironic, since there are many ways Big Papa and I balance each other in our relationship.

It’s funny, this math-phobia of mine, because I am deeply fascinated with “the odds.” “What are the odds?” I frequently question, generally when the odds aren’t in my favor, which has been a greater percentage of the time these past few years. Or so it feels.

Remember: Big Papa and I were the couple who first lost the site where we were supposed to be married. Then we lost the B&B where we were going to spend our wedding night. But the kicker was when we lost our officiate, the person slated to marry us, just three hours before the ceremony.

Then, there’s the spate of “you’ve got to be joking” tales of woe related to our adoption. Two trips to try to register a child, plane flight to parenthood canceled at the last minute and botched paperwork. If I hear: “You’re the first family to…” or “Our form doesn’t cover your unusual circumstances” one more time, I’m contacting the Guinness World Book of Records.

Yet despite the sorry stats that have haunted my life over the past few years, the truth is I can recite an equal number of amazing percentage-defying outcomes too. Like the date Big Papa and I met for the first time: January 9, 2005 or 1-9-0-5. This significant date in our relationship matches our house number—1-9-0-5– the house I drove up to on 1-9-05. What are the odds?

And while we were nearly stood up at the altar by the person who was supposed to marry us, we managed to find an (even better) replacement, via an online Yahoo chat group (all hail ‘IslandMoms’) barely an hour before we said, “I do.” What was the chance of that happening?

There are more stories…

A few days ago, I want to a ‘Mamas with Cameras’ meeting. At the end of the session, when everyone else gathered around to share their best shots of the month, I wandered into the kitchen to chat with the guest speaker and her neighbor, a friend whom she’d brought to the meeting.

“I’m probably the only mom in here without a kid,” I told them. As I recounted the five-cent version of my adoption story, the speaker’s friend turned to me with an understanding smile. It turns out she is also an adoptive mom, with an adoption horror story that rivals my own. She told me how she ending up spending seven months in the country of her son’s birth before being able to bring him home. I felt like I’d found a kindred soul. What were the odds? If I hadn’t gone into the kitchen, we’d never have met. I told her I’d love to chat more, but by the time we left, we hadn’t exchanged any contact information.

The next day I saw an ad for an item I was interested in on ‘MadronaMoms,’ a listserv I receive. I exchanged a few emails with the mom who posted the ad and got her address. Guess who answered the door when I got to her house (a mere mile from my own)? The adoptive mom I’d met just the night before!

Then, there’s the recent celebration of my birthday. For my last two birthdays, Big Papa and I have gone camping at Salt Creek County Park on the Olympic peninsula. Each year, two years in a row, we’ve also stopped into Harbinger Winery for a few bottles of their delicious wine. This year, we were chatting with the gal in the tasting room and asked her about the owner and winemaker, because we’ve never been able to meet her. “Oh, she’s not at the winery today. She’s celebrating her birthday.” She’s never been at the winery when we’ve visited, because she shares the same birthday as me. Go figure.

I guess the moral of this story comes down to what my college professors told me: you can always find statistics to support your thesis, no matter what it is. And maybe there’s some truth to that.

There are days when I feel like I’ve got a target for bad luck plastered on my head, that if I was a betting girl, I’d be heading home empty-handed.  Yet on days when my cup runneth over, I can just as easily “prove” the world is a small, friendly place filled with good karma and it-was-meant-to-be destiny. So after going through a long stint where I’ve felt like the world is set against me, I’ve decided I’d like to start spending a greater percentage of my time looking at life through rose-colored glasses. A world where the odds are squarely in my favor sounds pretty sweet to me.

Statistics can be made to prove anything – even the truth.  ~Author Unknown

Cultivating privacy

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backyard privacyWhen I first moved into our house, pre-addition, the back deck jutted out mere feet from the rental house next door. To say that their house was something of a “party house,” at the time, would be an enormous understatement. I stopped counting how many times Big Papa knocked on their door, bleary-eyed late at night (or in the wee hours of the morning). Part way through the summer, they pulled an old ratty couch out into the yard, where it stayed for the remainder of the summer and well into a rainy fall.

Then there were the neighbors who lived kitty corner and whose back porch we had a clear view of from our deck. First there was the morning when the fire department was called to douse the burning mattress they’d tossed into the yard. On another afternoon they smashed a bunch of chairs in their backyard yard before starting a bonfire and throwing them in.

So it goes without saying that the notion of a quiet, relaxing, and private dinner on our back deck, was unattainable much of the time, particularly when warm days were ours. One of our goals for our remodel was to bump out the corner of the house that cozies up to the neighbors, and build the new deck on the other side of the house. That way we couldn’t see them, or they us, if we chose to dine al fresco. Of course, there were many other reasons we needed to add 150 square feet to our tiny 980 square foot house, namely to make room for a child, but creating a bit more privacy was pretty high on our list.

It’s one thing to put up a fence around your house, close your blinds, slap on the head phones and crank up the volume on your iPod, all in an effort to achieve privacy at home. It’s quite another to cultivate virtual privacy.

As a blogger I’ve put a lot of my life out on the internet: stories, photos, and milestones, particularly as they relate to our adoption journey. Up to now, no one would likely refer to me as a private person. I tend to be more of an open book than a closed door when it comes to sharing the goings on in my life, be it with close friends or the woman behind the counter at the dry cleaners.

Recently, I’ve been reconsidering the level of detail I want to share publicly, and online. The big question I’ve been wrestling with is this: How do I blog about our adoption while keeping some measure of privacy around things that now seem too sensitive to be public?

This doesn’t mean all adoption talk is off the table for me. There will be blog posts about my thoughts on adoptive parenthood and adoption in a more general sense, just less about exactly where things are at for us. I’ll still write about the specifics, but for now it will be saved in a folder labeled “memoir” rather than published in a blog post. Of course, I’ll continue to write publicly about our travels, cooking and gardening.

We need a breather from airing our laundry. And truth be told, it feels good to allow a bit more personal space where we might collect our thoughts and ourselves—and cultivate privacy in our own backyard.

Why I want to be a mom

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Sweet Mama YerevanMother’s Day, these past few years, has been bittersweet for me. I’ll celebrate the day by honoring my mother, Big Papa’s mother, my sister and close friends who are moms, yet mourn that I am not amongst them.  This year the sting is especially keen because I was absolutely certain I would finally be a mother myself.

I’ve thought about motherhood for a long time: whether I wanted it or didn’t, and why. For many years, I just didn’t feel the proverbial ache. Maybe it was decades spent single, where I either couldn’t envision or couldn’t afford to be a single parent. Or, possibly, it was the tense and somewhat distant relationship I had with my own parents. Whatever the reason, my urge to be a mother didn’t kick in solidly until my early 30s.

Unfortunately by that point, and then for the next fifteen years, during a time when I probably should have been working  on making a baby, I struggled with boyfriends who didn’t want a baby, already had children and weren’t up for more, or weren’t able to sustain a commitment to me, much less to me and a child. Motherhood was in my sights, yet remained out of reach.

Then I met Big Papa. While he wasn’t driven to be a dad, I saw the way he interacted with my niece and children of our friends. He was stable, reliable, and he loved me. He had good sensibilities and, maybe more importantly, a good sense of humor. We are a great team. I could envision a chick in our nest. And, thankfully, so could he.

I knew the road to adoption would be filled with twists and turns, but never- in-a-million-years did I imagine what lay ahead for the two of us as we embarked on this journey. Who does, I suppose, when it comes to parenthood?

My friends sometimes try to soothe my angst and the heartache I’ve encountered by reminding me that being a mom is no picnic. On occasion, they’ll even offer to loan me their children. I’m regaled with stories of meltdowns in the supermarket, attempting to function after weeks with only four hours a night of sleep, or trying to take a private moment to poop and being followed into the bathroom by a wee observer. I get it, and I’m sure there will be days when I wonder “What the heck was I thinking?” Call me crazy, but I still want to experience motherhood.

Like any relationship, motherhood won’t be perfect.  And truthfully, I wouldn’t want it to be. Some of the most rewarding moments in my life and my relationships, have been those that were hard to come by, where I waited and struggled and cried and questioned and learned.

That doesn’t mean the recent events with our adoption haven’t given me pause to think. It has been a lot to bear, that’s for sure. People frequently ask how we are navigating through all of this and whether we intend to continue.

“Are you sure you still want to keep going down this path?”

“Do you think you’re up for this emotionally?”

“Maybe you were meant to do something else?”

With all we’ve been through, why do we persevere? What is it about being a mother that I want so badly?

As an adoptive-mom-to be, I’ve had to answer the “Why I want to be a mother” question more than once between our home study and all the adoption paperwork we’ve completed. I’ve written and talked about how I plan to raise a child, what I’ll do about discipline, my views on religion, the role of extended family in parenting and how I’ll honor my child’s birth culture. But I don’t think my answers to those academic questions reveals the depth of my emotions and my desire to be a mom: the passion and longing that lie deep in my heart.

For me, the truer reason why I want to be a mom is the yearning I feel when I talk to that little girl at the gym.

“Is that your baby?” I ask her, referring to the dolly she just tucked into a storage cubicle.

She ducks behind her mama, shy.

“Aren’t you going to take her with you to daycare?”

“She’s napping now” is what she tells me as a small smile creeps onto her face.

Soon she’s prattling on with me and then she’s gone. My stomach gets a knot and feels like it does when I need a snack: hungry. I want more.

I want to be a mom when I’m outside doing something I love, like gardening. I wonder what it might be like to show our child the first signs of spring, to discover the world together. I long to share those parts of myself that make me—me—with a child, and to see the world anew through the eyes of my child.

Who is this child? How will the mystery unfold as she grows? This is another fascination I have with motherhood. Nature, nurture and life circumstance: how these forces come together and turn my baby into a child and then into a woman. I look forward to watching her bloom.

I imagine the difficult days too. Long nerve-wracking nights when my baby can’t sleep yet I am able to soothe her and meet her needs, or being there to help my child find her way through some of the sticky moments in life: indecision, love lost, and struggles with identity. Even though there will be times when being a mom is going to challenge me in ways I can’t even begin to imagine, knowing that I might be able to make a difference, give love and security to a child who needs love and security is another reason why I want to be a mom.

Holding baby in pinkAnd perhaps the most potent answer to why I want to be a mom is this: for a short time, I was lucky enough to spend time with a child who might be ours.  During those days, when I held her close, mothering just felt so right.

Keeping the baby alive

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Lately, when people ask us “Are you excited?” we respond, jokingly, “Yes, and scared too. Once she’s home we have to keep her alive.”

bottle feeding babyBig Papa and I are parenting newbies. We are clueless about most things baby-related. When does she sleep or nap and for how long? What does she eat and how much? How do we bathe her? On and on it goes.

I sent an email with a list of questions to our International Adoption doctor and his assistant responded, “Sounds like it’s time for you to buy a baby care book.” Um yeah, you think?

We needed help. So we called in the big guns, a professional—a postpartum doula. Postpartum doulas provide support to the mother and family following the birth and immediate postpartum period for a few days or several weeks, depending on need. Support may include assisting with breastfeeding support and newborn care, cooking, light housekeeping or errands. Doulas also offer education, companionship and nonjudgmental support during for the few weeks following birth.

Granted, I didn’t give birth to our daughter but having someone around, even for a few hours in the first couple weeks, someone who knows what they’re doing, seemed like a brilliant idea to me. Aside from our lack of knowledge and experience, Big Papa and I (and the baby) will be very jet-lagged (12-hour time difference) and don’t have any immediate family who live near enough to pitch in.

At a recent diapering class we took, one of the attendees approached us after class and told us that, in addition to being a doula, she is an adoptive mom. Bingo! We found our doula.

Next came the icing on the cupcake. Big Papa recently sent a letter to our nice neighbors who rent the house next door. I put nice in italics for emphasis–they are really nice. This is an enormous relief for us because the previous renters weren’t nice at all. Let’s just say there were many late nights where Big Papa was knocking on their door because their party was loud enough that we might as well have been hosting it. There were also two potentially vicious dogs who shared the home with them. And then there was the time when “friends” of theirs swore at us, threatened us and threw beer cans in our yard while we were gardening in our own yard.

Big Papa’s letter politely requested access to our driveway come April when we become parents. Parking is a premium where we live and people frequently park blocking our driveway. It didn’t bother us at all, until now.  Once we have our bundle of joy, we felt it would be fantastic (particularly during rainy Seattle weather) to be able to pull right up to our house and not have to walk around the corner if parking is scarce.

A day or so after the letter was dropped off there was a knock at our door. I went to open it and there were two of the smiling tenants from next door carrying a lovely miniature rose potted plant. I let them in and we chatted about our impending parenthood, our houses and the neighborhood until one of the gals said, “We’re all nannies and babysitters. If you ever need any help, we left our phone numbers and email addresses in the card that’s tucked beside the plant.”

Honestly, I wasn’t sure whether I should hug the living daylights out of them or fall to my knees in adoration. Nannies! Nice nannies. Right next door!

After they left, I called Big Papa and told him: “We just won the lottery! Our nice neighbors are nannies.”

Then I gave thanks to the patron saint of motherhood. Life is good.

Does this baby make my hips look big?

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fitting room

Today I brought in a few loads of clothes to a consignment shop and while I was looking around, thought about something that’s been on my mind much more lately: in a couple months, when I do this, I’ll be lugging a baby. I had a similar thought at my last dentist’s appointment when the receptionist asked, “So, should we schedule your semi-annual teeth cleaning for April?”

I started to say yes but paused. “How about if I get back to you on that once we’re parents?” “I’ll need to find a sitter so I can come in.”

Stroller, Ergo or arms. In two months, wherever I go goest the baby. And if she’s not attached to me, then arrangements need to be made so she can be attached to someone else.

Motherhood is definitely going to require a major mind-shift. As a late comer to this role, for Big Papa and me, it’s going to be one of the more challenging adjustments. I laughed when a friend told me about unloading all her groceries and then, a few minutes later, a neighbor knocked on their door and wanted to know if that was their baby, in the carrier, on the front steps. I know this could soon be us.

Me: “Hey Big Papa, do you have the bottle?”

Big Papa: “Yep.”

Me: “How about the diaper bag?”

Big Papa: “Uh-huh.”

Me: “And the snacks?”

Big Papa: “You betcha.”

Me: “Okay then. We’re ready to roll.”

Big Papa: “Uh. What about the baby?”

As a fifty-something, who didn’t get married until the ripe old age of 48, I have spent the majority of my life zipping from this activity to that one. I haven’t needed to think about all the things I will need to think about when we become parents.

Now I will need to make sure I allow for extra time to get the baby dressed and have her travel supplies packed and stowed along. When I do my grocery shopping (or anything else), it will take longer to haul out the stroller, get the baby into or out of her cars seat. And, I’m sure I’ll start using both arms, hips and whatever body parts are necessary to balance our baby, my cup of java, market veggies or whatever else I’m towing home.

If I want to take an hour to shop for clothes, my pint-sized personal assistant is going to be slung over one hip while I carry hangars with garments on the other arm. She’ll be in the fitting room cooing (or – heaven help me – screaming) while I look at her and say, “How does mama look in these pants?”

Still, no matter the life-altering changes that will soon befall my days or the extra hassles and time involved with shepherding a baby wherever you go, Big Papa and I will figure it out. And our little girl is one accessory I can’t wait to try on.

consignment clothes

The full Manti

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Armenian mantiThe last time I was in Armenia, I ate Manti with Maribeth. We were dining at The Club, a lovely subterranean restaurant with delicious food, located in the center of Yerevan, Armenia’s capitol.

Maribeth and I were there to celebrate. We’d each just registered our adoption (formally accepted our referral). We were in the same room at the same time (Big Papa didn’t make this trip – a story for another post) and a bond was formed between us after sharing this life-changing, emotional experience.

Amazingly, Maribeth is also originally from Seattle (though she now resides on the east coast). The irony isn’t lost on me: Beth and Maribeth, both from Seattle.

Here we were, breaking bread together – and toasting with a shot of Armenian brandy –  to honor this momentous occasion, in a restaurant half-way around the world from the place we call home. How crazy is that?

The meal was stupendous. We ordered a sampler platter filled with dolma, hummus, baba-ganoush, and a host of amazing Armenian dishes.

Then the Manti was served. Honestly, for the next few minutes, the only sound you could hear was Maribeth and I swooning over our Manti.

“Mmmm,” she murmured.

“Wow,” I concurred.

If there is a mantra for Manti, Maribeth and I have been meditating on it ever since. We both dream about Manti.

Manti are dumplings. Divine dumplings. Slightly crisped on the outside, melt-in-your-mouth incredible on the inside, and bathed in a savory yogurt sauce. It was so good. I wanted to dive right into that bowl. Of course, first I would have had to arm-wrestle Maribeth.

When it comes to Manti, there are actually two kinds:  baked manti and also a version cooked in broth as a soup. They are each prepared the same general way, but are shaped differently. Baked Manti are baked in the oven whereas soup manti are cooked in broth. Although Manti is not exclusive to Armenia, and I’ve seen a few variations on a theme, they are typically served topped with a yogurt-garlic sauce and sumac, that interesting, sour, Middle-Eastern spice.

Aside from its heavenly flavor, Manti is notable for being a time consuming dish to prepare. I have seen a few recipes that call themselves “short-cuts” and use wonton wrappers for the dough, but come on people, that’s cheating. Yes, it takes a long time to make them, but as Maribeth and I will tell you: when it comes to Manti (and adoption) the wait and the effort is worth it!

This weekend, Manti is on the menu (and it’s a safe bet that our bottle of Armenian brandy won’t be far away). Another celebration is in order. In three weeks, Maribeth is going to Armenia to become a mom! And hopefully, it won’t be long before I’m once again following in her footsteps.

Congratulations, dear friend: this one’s for you!

pre-cooked mantiManti

Makes About 100: Serves 4 to 5

Each of these tiny dumplings is about the size of your fingertip, so you can easily serve 20 to 25 to each person.  It’s traditional to invite friends to help fill and seal the Manti; after all, many hands make light work.  They can be frozen for up to 1 month.

For the Dough:

  • 1 cup all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
  • 1/2 teaspoon course salt
  • 1 large egg, lightly beaten
  • 3 tablespoons cold water

For the filling:

  • 8 ounces ground lamb
  • 1 medium yellow onion, grated on the large holes of a box grater (1/2 cup)
  • 2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
  • 1 teaspoon course salt
  • 1 teaspoon freshly ground pepper

For Cooking and Serving:

  • 8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter
  • 3 cups homemade or low-sodium store-bought chicken stock
  • 1 cinnamon stick
  • 2 bay leaves
  • Course salt
  • 1 1/2 cups plain Greek yogurt or labneh
  • 2 garlic cloves, minced and mashed to a paste with a pinch of salt
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons dried mint
  • 3/4 teaspoon red pepper (or papikra)
  • a sprinkle of Sumac (found in grocery stores or spice shops that specialize in Middle Eastern foods)
  1. Make the dough: Sift together flour and salt in a large bowl.  Make a well in the center and add egg. Using your hands, gently draw flour mixture into egg.  Gradually add the cold water, and continue to work dough with your hands or a spoon until it forms a smooth paste.
  2. Turn dough onto a lightly floured surface. Kneed until dough is smooth and springs back when pressed, 5 to 8 minutes.  Divide dough into 2 balls, cover with a damp kitchen towel and let rest at room temperature for 30 minutes.
  3. Make the filling: Gently combine lamb, onion, parsley, salt and pepper.  (Filling can be refrigerated in an airtight container for up to 2 days.)
  4. On a lightly floured work surface, roll out 1 portion of dough into a 16-by-10 inch oblong about 1/16 inch think.  Using a ruler, cut dough into 1 1/4 inch squares with a pizza wheel or a paring knife.  Keep remaining dough covered with a damp kitchen towel while you work.
  5. Spoon 1/4 teaspoon filing in center of 1 dough square.  Gently pull 2 opposite corners outward to stretch dough slightly, then pull up to meet in center, and pinch to seal.  Repeat with remaining 2 corners, making sure all air has been pressed out.  Pinch together all 4 corners to form a point, then pinch along all 4 seams to seal.  Place on a parchment lined baking sheet, and cover with a damp kitchen towel.  repeat.  Remove towel, and cover with a piece of parchment. (Dumplings can be refrigerated on baking sheets, wrapped in plastic, for up to 1 day.  Alternatively, freeze on baking sheets, uncovered, for 2 hours, then transfer to an airtight container and freeze for up to 1 month.)
  6. For cooking and serving: Preheat oven to 400 degrees.  Coat a 13-by-9-inch baking dish with 1 tablespoon butter.  Arrange Manti in a single snug layer in the dish.  Bake until fragrant and tops and corners are golden brown, about 25 minutes.
  7. Meanwhile, bring stock, cinnamon, bay leaves and 1 teaspoon salt to a boil in a saucepan.  Remove baking dish from oven, and add enough stock to dish so that all but the tops of the Manti are submerged.  Cover tightly with parchment and then foil, and bake until soft, about 2 minutes more.
  8. Meanwhile, stir together yogurt or labneh and garlic paste in a medium bowl.  When Manti have finished cooking, tile baking dish, collect about 1/4 cup liquid with a ladle, and stir into yogurt sauce (sauce should be spoonable).
  9. Melt remaining 7 tablespoons butter in a small saucepan over medium-high heat.  Reduce heat to medium, and cook until amber, about 7 minutes.
  10. Divide Manti among shallow serving bowls.  Spoon yogurt sauce over top, drizzle with browned butter, and sprinkle with mint, red pepper and sumac.

manti close upDying for more dumplings? Check out Wanderfood Wednesday!