Pampers and Paklava

Statistics

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Me and Marshall near Coit Tower 2006 bwMe and Marshall near Coit Tower in San Francisco, 2006

My friend Marshall died yesterday morning. He was the first close friend I made when I moved to Seattle in 1985. We had been friends for 27 years.

I will never forget the day we met, leaning against the wall in the basement of Savery Hall at the University of Washington, where we were both first year Sociology Ph.D. graduate students.

“Who wants to pair up and be in a statistics study group?” someone asked.

“Me, me,” I moaned. “I hate statistics.”

“Me too,” said a soft voice beside me. I really need help.”

There stood Marshall, barely my height (and I’m only 5’5”), neatly dressed in his pressed shirt and jeans, petite but perfectly proportioned, like you took the classic hunk and just shrunk him.

It turned out we lived nearby each other, so we teamed up, especially after I told him my live-in boyfriend was an electrical engineer, a quantitative sort of guy who would probably be willing to help us.

Let’s just say that where that statistics course was concerned, neither of us did very well. But our friendship scored top marks.

I enjoyed Marshall’s laugh and his dry wit which belied his soft-spoken voice. I respected his integrity. He was exceedingly generous with his time and energy where his friends were concerned. We both shared a love of gardening, art and our beloved cats. He was always the consummate host and a gentleman, in every sense of the word.

Marshall could also be a perfectionist, fussy about details and life. I remember each of the places where he lived, never a speck of dust, always decorated to a tee, yet never over-the-top, just like Marshall.

Later, during our first year of grad school, I learned that Marshall—who was gay—had HIV. In those days, the early-mid 1980s, HIV was a death sentence. Few survived. But Marshall was one of them.

We both left grad school with a master’s degree but without a Ph.D., and went on to do other things, many other things.  And our friendship continued, stronger than ever.

A few years later Marshall started to lose weight (and he never had much to lose to begin with) and his health began to falter, so he decided to leave rainy Seattle and move to Hawaii. I wanted him to have the best chance he could at being well, but I was sad that he would no longer live five minutes away.

Marshall stayed in Hawaii a few years, then he moved to San Diego and finally to San Francisco.  His health seemed to stabilize. We kept in touch, and no matter how much time passed, whenever we spoke on the phone, it always felt comfortable, like we picked up wherever we left off.

As time went by, I think I took it for granted that he would overcome whatever challenges life threw his way because he always did. So when I found out he had another disease, one where the outcomes were bad, especially when matched with HIV, I don’t think I gave it the credence it deserved. Marshall had gone back to school, had started a new career as a therapist and, recently, got a dog.

When he called and told me he was really struggling and was going to move again, this time to southern California, to be closer to where his sister lived, that he might need a liver transplant, that medications taken over the course of many years, had taken their toll, it was hard to hear. I don’t think I really wanted to accept what it meant, that my friend might not be around “forever.” In fact, he might not be around long at all.

I didn’t want to acknowledge the odds–which had never been in his favor–from the time we became friends and he first got sick, until now. He wasn’t a statistic; he was my friend. Our friendship had survived moves, the death of partners, family and friends, jobs that disappeared, new careers, relationships that tanked, illness, surgery…you name it.

The world is a little emptier for me today. I will miss him.

Friends come and go and friendships, like the friendship I had with Marshall, are rare. In that regard, we defied the odds.

Home sweet home

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This fall marks twenty-five years of Seattle living for Big Papa and I. I moved here after a three-year stint in the San Francisco Bay area, hitting the dusty trail to head north for a Ph.D. program at the University of Washington. Big Papa, a few years younger than me, was heading across country, from Pittsburgh also to attend the University of Washington, though as an undergraduate.

1965 26th AveIt still amazes me that the studio apartment I lived in, on the corner of University Parkway and Brooklyn Avenue was literally across the street from the dorm where Big Papa resided. It is certainly possible we passed each other on the street as we hoofed it over to campus. Oh the irony.

Of course, it took us twenty years cavorting around the same streets to find each other. At that time, Big Papa had bought the Urban Cabin in central Seattle and, wouldn’t you know it, my apartment happened to be barely a mile down the road.

1303 Campus ParkwayThat we both hailed from the east coast, me from central New York State and Big Papa from western Pennsylvania just one state to the south and both from small towns just outside former “rust belt” cities (me: Syracuse; Big Papa: Pittsburgh) is another small world coincidence of our history and long journey which finally landed us in the in the same city, in the same house and married to each other.

On a clear day, when I leave our house, I can see mountains to the west and mountains to the east. Mountains! For a girl raised in low rolling hills and expansive meadows dotted with dairy farms, the landscape here is as dramatic as the 3,000 miles I traveled to start my life as an independent adult.

Madison ParkLike a salmon who returns to the stream where it was born, there will always be a bit of the east coast nestled solidly in my soul. In the fall, when the maple trees on our street turn brilliant hues of red, my mind always wanders to memories of upstate New York hillsides covered in color. I do miss the abundance of old 18th century homes, painted white with black shutters and red doors, gentle pastoral views, thunderstorms, small towns steeped in history and the great deals that could be found in some out of the way antique store in the tiny hamlets and villages that are so common where I grew up.

But after twenty-five years, the smell of salt air wafting up from Puget 103 30th AveSound, the looming presence of Mt. Rainier, the mountain-filled vistas, the salmon and the orcas call my name too, and I find it hard to imagine not living here. A part of who I am will always be from where I grew up, and it will rest side-by-side with the part of me that evolved here. Though I may not travel back and forth between two coasts, my heart is decidedly bi-coastal.

A few evenings ago, Big Papa and I sat on our bench in the garden, talking about all that has transpired for each of us in the quarter century we’ve called the Pacific Northwest ‘home.’ For both of us, our time here now exceeds the amount of time we each lived in our birth state.

The urban cabinWe reflected on decisions made, roads taken and roads we each could have taken, but didn’t. We shared feelings of fear and regret, accomplishment and pride as we charted our milestones from the past two and a half decades. The two of us have experienced many changes, taken leaps of faith, suffered disappointments and made new discoveries about ourselves.

We talked and talked, until all the light left the sky and a few stars sparkled in darkness. Then we picked ourselves up and, with a kiss, walked up the stairs and into our home.  Home sweet home, Seattle.

Smart cookie

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Paperwork, official documents, a home study and a dossier are just a few hurdles we have to clear on our path to adoption. Our adoption to-do list also includes 35 educational credits.

smart-cookie

In 2007, when the U.S. signed the Hague Convention Treaty on International Adoption a minimum of ten hours of parent education was required. Most adoption agencies increased the number of required hours to twenty.  Hopscotch Adoptions, our agency, bumped their standard up to 35 educational credits. “The more you know, the more successful you will be,” is a quote from our agency.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m pro-education. My Bachelor’s degree is from Cornell University and I have a Master’s degree from Stanford University and the University of Washington. I spent over twenty years in the field of training and development. I worked at a community college for five years and taught a class at the UW for over a decade. And, I love to learn.

Study hall
That said, when I took a look at what was required of us, in addition to everything else we needed to do or collect, I felt a bit faint. First, Children’s Home Society, our home study agency required a two-day, ten hour class, ‘Adoption Orientation.’ Then, before we would be able to receive a referral and travel abroad, for Hague and Hopscotch, we needed to do the following:

  • Choose a pediatrician familiar with the care of internationally adopted children (1 credit)
  • Locate an early childhood intervention program or other services (1 credit)
  • Arrange appropriate child care, if applicable (1 credit)
  • Complete an infant/child CPR course (1 credit)
  • Join a local international adoptive family support group and/or an internet international adoptive family support group and/or meet with a family who adopted internationally (1 credit)
  • Complete the these online courses through Adoption Learning Partners:
  1. Conspicuous Families (1.5 credits)
  2. Let’s Talk Adoption (2 credits)
  3. The Journey of Attachment (2 credits)
  4. Finding the Missing Pieces (2 credits)
  5. Cope with Grief and Loss (2 credits)
  6. Adopting the Older Child (2 credits)
  7. Medical Issues in International Adoption (2.5 credits)
  8. Eyes Wide Open (4.0)
  • Read ‘Raising the Adopted Child’ by L. Melina (2 credits)
  • Read ‘Adoption is a Family Affair’ by P. Johnson (2 credits)
  • Read ‘I Love You Like Crazy Cakes’ by R. Lewis (1 credit)
  • Read ‘A Blessing from Above’ by P. Henderson (1 credit)
  • Read ‘Boyra and the Burps’ by J. McNamara (1 credit)
  • Read ‘Through the Stars and Moon and Night Sky’ by A. Turner (1 credit)
  • Complete culture and heritage education (3 credits) by doing any combination of the following:
  1. Watch a videotape or movie about the country, history, culture (1 credit)
  2. Read a book or take an online course on the country, culture (2 credits)
  3. Study a language tape (1 credit) or take language lessons (2 credits)
  4. Attend a class or workshop on the some aspect of your child’s heritage (2 credits)
  5. If you have not before, attend a service of the primary religion of that country or your child’s religious heritage and talk with members of that group (2 credits)
  6. If you have not before, attend a cultural or artistic event in your community related to the cultural heritage of your child (2 credits)
  7. Make a visit to your child’s country (3 credits)

Dear reader, I’m willing to bet you skimmed through that full-page educational summary list, didn’t you? Completely understandable. As for us, skimming was not an option.

Teacher’s pet
We attended Children’s Home Society ‘Adoption Orientation’ in August of 2007. The training was held in Tacoma, about an hour south of where we live, so we turned the two day class into a mini-getaway and booked a room at the Hotel Murano. Hotel Murano had lovely glass art exhibits housed on each and every oh-so-sleek-and-hip floor. Big Papa and I took turns calling out a floor number on which to stop and explore.

There were four other couples at the class and we were the only couple not adopting from China. We did our best to be good students, listen closely and throw ourselves enthusiastically into the role play activities. The highlight for us was the one thing not stipulated as required on the course agenda, a visit from Julie and Patrick with their adorable two-year old daughter in tow. They’d adopted Devi a year ago from India. I tried to imagine, wistfully, that one day this would be us, sharing our trials and tribulations with other hopeful adoptive parents-to-be.

too-cool-for-school

By the book
As far as completing Hague and Hopscotch requirements was concerned, locating a pediatrician and intervention services was a snap. Adoption support groups are in abundance these days. There is a Washington State chapter of FRUA-Inc (Friends of Russian and Ukrainian Adoption including neighboring countries) and our agency offers an invitation only Yahoo chat group. Reading the kid books was a fun pre-snooze activity for Big Papa and I, and while the adult books took a bit longer to read through, we managed to find our way from cover to cover.

The online classes were another story. While I want to believe we’ve finally entered the age of effective and interesting online learning, the reality is that many of these courses are a snooze. We did enjoy the personal stories from adoptive kids or their parents that were occasionally included, but for the most part, the material was anything but riveting. We let months elapse between the eight courses until finally we decided to power through the remaining few classes. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that ‘Eyes Wide Open,’ the last online class, was twenty chapters long…twenty nifty little courses rolled into one! Our eyes were indeed wide open and rolling up in our heads. After we finished that course, we broke open a bottle of champagne.

A+
I can finally say that the end is in sight and ‘graduation day’ is just around the corner. We’re signed up to take an Infant/Child CPR and First Aid class. By October 2009 we’ll be able to bandage an owie and pop a chunk of cookie out of a choking child, all important skills to be sure.

That leaves one last element to our educational journey, completing three credits of cultural education. We’re excited as all get out to check that off, since we picked the last option on the list, “make a visit to your child’s country.” Armenia, here we come!

XY

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Pink was the color of my childhood bedroom. In the morning, when the light was soft, the walls were the color of our Magnolia blossoms in spring. Later in the day, the color would deepen to a rosy hue. As a little girl, I loved pink.

Pink Rose

I was a girly-girl. My favorite pre-school activity was playing dress-up and I had lots of dolls. I still remember ‘Thumbelina,’ one of my very first baby dolls. I fed her and changed her and cared for her as I fantasized about the baby girls I would raise when I grew up and got married. Our home also had the requisite Easy-Bake Oven, which got plenty of use, and I organized my fair share of tea parties.

Girls-only families go back a couple generations on my mother’s side. I have one sister and no brothers. Mom had two sisters, no brothers. My Nana had two sisters, and although she also had a much-loved brother, he died in World War II, so I only knew my great-aunts.

My sister adopted a daughter who loved pink too. She’s starting to move into her blue phase, but ballet, dolls and all things girly are still quite appealing. Our family has been all about girls for as long as I can remember.

Girl names I’ve liked are still lodged in my memory. As many girls (and women) do, I always had a few favorites that I’d knew I’d choose if I had a daughter. When I find myself at a kid’s store, I’m not immune to ooh-ing and ah-ing over the immense selection of adorable dresses and flowery hair do-dads.

I like clothes and confess to owning more pairs of shoes than any one gal really needs. Though I’m a consignment and thrift-shopper from way back, I read ‘Lucky’ magazine, pay attention to what’s in style and smile proudly when compliments on my outfit are sent in my direction.

So the fact that I’m completely over the moon about adopting a little boy, might come as a surprise to many. And, I’m most definitely an on the fringe in the world of international adoption, where upwards of ninety percent of prospective adoptive parents want to adopt girls.

Old toy truck

How I became a crusader for parenting boys is something of a mystery to me. At some point it started to dawn on me that I can share all my passions with a son or a daughter. My love of gardening, cooking and writing are not bound to gender.

In recent years, I noticed that my collection of antique trucks and ferry boats had grown quite large and nary a doll is in our home. Truth be told, I am a bit of a science geek too. Some years ago, I convinced my friend Marshall to stand in line with me for four hours to see Halley’s comet through the telescope at the University of Washington. I have a strong stomach and don’t shrink from blood and gore. I like to hike and camp and can start a campfire with the best of them.

Thinking it would be cool to be a mom to a boy also turned a corner when I saw friends interacting with their sons. Credit is due to some of the amazing moms and dads I know who are raising equally amazing sons.

My friends Eric and Alice were the first to have one and then two boys. While I don’t see a lot of them, I can tell from stories Eric shares, that they are really awesome kids. Our godparents, Julie and Byron are parents to a son as well. On our last visit, as I laughed watching Nate run Big Papa ragged around the yard and felt pride when I managed to discover heretofore unknown abilities in Nate’s Anakin Skywalker action figure.

At the gym, one friend Britta is mom to three boys. I have been inspired hearing her stories about how she’s raising loving sons. In fact boys easily outnumber the girls with the moms I’ve met there. Rayna and her sister have two boys each. One day I watched Rayna stroke her son Jared’s back while he sat in her lap. I felt my heart warm knowing I could hug and snuggle a son as easily as I could a daughter.

Our friends Karen and Tim are parents to Casey, who was one of the first boy kids Big Papa and I got to know together. Granted Casey is a trooper when it comes to hanging with the grown-ups, but spending time with him, gave us a better picture of what it would be like to have a kid around. And, we stocked up on parenting tips from the stories Karen and Tim have shared with us.

My dear friend Sherri is another role model for parenting sons. She has adopted two boys, one from Armenia. She says boys rock and I believe her.

Sure, I quiver a bit when I think about the day when I’ll need to teach him how to pee standing up and I’m fairly certain he won’t want me to be the one to show him how to throw a baseball. That said I’m tickled to trade sugar and spice for snips and snails and puppy dog tails.

Plus, the man I married helped me see just how fantastic boys can be. I couldn’t be happier that Big Papa is in my life. So I’m hopeful that raising a boy means I’ll double my bliss. I’ll be the lucky girl who gets to spend her days with two great guys by my side.