A letter to Mitike, home for 9 months

And then, like time does, our days and weeks blur, moving too fast. It's been a month and a half since I stopped to write, since I paused to breathe. But don't read these gaps in my recordings as times I didn't think about you, Mitike -- instead, read them as times when I jumped on the "jumpoline" with you or wandered the sidewalk's edge searching for dandelions with you or waded in Twin Lakes "with naked feet" with you or watched you zip down the bright yellow slide or created a new colorful mosaic of chalk on the driveway with you or went on "an adventure" with you through the forest. When it's sunny in southeast Alaska, which it's been for weeks, no one has time to sit at a computer and record life; we're all too busy soaking it in, our faces upturned to the sky.

TK. We walked to a ballet performance downtown tonight -- our family and two other families. You ran most of the way, determined to prove to me that I didn't need to carry you in the backpack. I watched you, amused at your persistent stubbornness, which is also perseverance. You, running your toddler-waddle run in the scuffed pink slip-on shoes you call your "fancy shoes", clutching a handful of green maple leaves you'd decided to give to everyone when we got to the show. At a stop sign, you reached up to pat your new "ponytails" -- your short hair pulled into two tiny puffs -- and then you grinned up at me. "Uppy?" You'd proved your point; now you knew you'd be able to keep up with everyone if you had the speed of Mommy's long legs.

As of this weekend, you've been home with us for exactly nine months. That seems impossible. I'm sure I've known you your whole life. I'm sure I've always known the freckle above the bridge of your nose, the deep expression in your wide eyes, your wonderful overjoyed giggle, the way you stick out your tongue when you're happy. You're sure of all of this, too. You're sure I'm your mommy. You recognize the ways we're similar: both of us leaders (or both of us bossy, depending who you ask), both of us over-cautious (when it comes to high slides, big steps, etc.) but also confident (watch us both welcome the people around us), both of us over-serious rule-followers (the purple scissors go in that box, and it's annoying when we find them on the table) but also silly (witness our shouted rendition of "The Wheels on the Bus" tonight while we zigzagged home). You call for me when you're scared in the middle of the night; you pitter-patter your way to me in the morning.

But we had our first difficult adoption talk last night. You won't remember, so I'll record it here for you. We opened a new book together -- "The Cool Song," which is set in eastern Africa -- and we found a watercolor picture of a cluster of tukuls, the thatched round huts similar to the one in which you were born. You've heard me say "You were born in Ethiopia!" and we've read adoption books together; we've looked at the map of the world and you've heard me explain that I came to Ethiopia to get you and then we came to Juneau in the airplane together. I know you're only two and a half, but I want you to be accustomed to these conversations -- I want you to grow up comfortable with your story, as I grew up comfortable with the story of my mom bringing me home from a hospital. You don't know what "born" means yet, but you know about airplanes and home and Mommy.

Back to the story. I pointed at the tukuls in the book and I said, "TK! You were born in a place like that!"

Your eyes widened and you nodded, and then you looked up at me. "Mommy, you born in a place like that?"

I shook my head. "No, I was born in Iowa. I lived in a white house."

And then, without warning, your eyes welled with tears. "I want born in Iowa!" You hit the picture of tukuls. "I don't like that! I want born where Mommy is!"

Oh. A reminder: someday, we will have these difficult, sad conversations. Someday, your toddler innocence, your 2-year-old total acceptance of the fact that Mommy and TK have different colors of skin, your beautiful embrace of me as Mommy will waver. I know this moment was probably more about being 2 -- you will spit out your gum if I do, you will fall asleep if I pretend to, you will eat your lasagna if I eat mine. I know you don't know what it means to be born, that you just want everything about you to be the same as Mommy. But I also glimpsed what our future conversations hold.

Tonight, you picked that book again at bedtime. When we opened it, you pointed to the picture of the world and said, "Mommy, you come get me?" You remembered what I'd said about traveling to Ethiopia in the airplane to get you, to bring you home. But when I turned the page to the tukuls, you hit them again and told them you didn't like them. Here will be your struggle with adoption: your intelligent, logical acceptance of facts crashing into your deeply-felt emotions, your longings. Mommy's that way, too, TK.

Mostly right now, though, you are beautifully, fully two and a half -- chanting the ABCs ("A, B, C, D, G!!!"), counting your fingers ("1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 20!"), singing ("The wheels on the bus go all around the TOWN!"), asking questions ("But why?" "Why not?"), crying one moment because I told you you needed to finish your dinner before you have gum and then laughing the next moment because I've made a silly face at you. But you are more than just a toddler. You understand each of us: you read with me, color with me, sing silly songs with me; you laugh hard with Aye-Ay, share treats with her, plant in the garden with her, let her push you beyond your many comfort zones; you go on adventures with Tim -- hide-and-seek, jump-o-line tag, bubble-blowing; you cuddle up to Katie when she reads to you, you let her show you how to button your coat, teach you how to push your dolly in the stroller. None of us can imagine our lives without you. Look: you're in the backpack now, waving at Aye-Ay, Tim, and Katie, who have all turned around to wait for you. They're smiling. "Hi, guys!" you shout, and being born in tukuls or hospitals, Ethiopia or Iowa, doesn't matter -- not right now -- as much as catching up to your family, as much as diving into the fast-flowing stream of this beautiful together time.

Moving on to popsicles

The low point of today (April 19) would definitely be the moment I dropped my 2-year-old daughter into the toilet. No, the moment right after, when -- responding to her terror and sadness -- I scolded her for struggling so much when I was just trying to teach her how to use the potty and not need diapers, which were not only expensive, but had horrendous environmental impact, and that if she hadn't struggled at all, if she had just used the potty like she was supposed to, then she wouldn't have fallen in.

Or the moment right after THAT one, when I started crying, too -- about my sometime lack of patience, about my propensity to get very frustrated about inconsequential things, about the details: her little soaking wet bum, Bunny watching impassively from the step stool.

Most of the day was beautiful
-- breakfast together
-- the playground and the walk along the lake
-- lunch together
-- the folk fest (dancing)
-- walking back, TK dragging the bag with the popsicle box (okay, but then the tantrum about the popsicles when we got inside)
-- shrimp talk over dinner
-- popsicles outisde
-- sweet reading time

Okay, so motherhood is about forgiveness, and popsicles -- and all the sweet and sour in between.

10 Lessons Mitike's Taught Me About How to Be a Mommy

Mitike the Reader

What makes someone a reader? I watch the struggling readers in my 7th/8th grade English classes, and I wonder what earlier interventions would have helped them become lovers of books. More books surrounding them when they were young? More patient parent voices in their ears, sounding out words, connecting picture to letter? Less access to video game and television, iPhone and internet?

Or -- and I think my 93-year-old grandmother, who reads the New Yorker weekly, and the newspaper and a wide variety of books daily, would agree wholeheartedly with this -- is a love of reading innate, flowing in certain people's bloodstreams, regardless?

Whatever the answer, my daughter's a reader. At home, she mimicks her brother's immersion in a book at lunchtime, trying to hold her "ABC" board book open with one little hand while she holds her spoon with the other. At Gram's house in Iowa last week, she settled herself in the tiny rocking chair and "read" books to the rest of us in front of the kitchen fire. This morning, when I sleepily told her 6:30 was too early to wake up, she nodded solemnly and asked, "Read books, Mommy?" and then proceeded to quietly flip through books while I dozed for a half hour more. In my half-sleep, I heard her pretend to read "Goodnight Moon": "Goodnight, goodnight," she said at every page.

It's true that TK's two mamas are lovers of words, that her brother would rather read than eat, that her nana makes sense of the world for others with words, that her great-grandmother (Gram) holds writers in the highest esteem. And maybe, since TK's early life in Ethiopia contained no books at all, she appreciates them as treasure even more. But I also think she LOVES books -- though she's only 2, she claps her hands to discover a new wonderful story, to hear a silly turn of phrase in Dr. Suess, to discover a character she likes (her favorite is Peter in Ezra Jack Keats' "Whistle for Willie" right now).

I'm not sure this kind of love can be taught -- but, like a mother who recognizes her child loves art and so puts paintbrushes in her hands, I'll keep introducing TK's wide-open eyes to new books. Nothing is sweeter than the sound of her little voice "reading", than the way she claps her hands at the last page and decrees, "The End! New book, Mommy!"

Re-defining "Break": a Letter to TK

Dear Mitike,

In my past life -- which was still happening just last year -- "spring break" meant, as Oxford's second definition for the noun "break" explains, "a short rest or pause from work". I traveled -- Colorado, San Francisco, Minnesota. I read, widely. I cooked. I journaled. I napped. I took long walks; I trekked into the woods on snowshoes; I skied.

This spring break -- my first as a mother -- the two of us were suddenly in Iowa, at Nana's house, and a "short rest" was re-defined: I did the dishes as you and Nana searched for a blanket downstairs; I stole a walk along the field edges as you napped; I typed rushed words at 11:30 at night when everyone was sleeping; I gingerly turned pages of the New Yorker on the airplane, hoping you'd continue to sleep on my lap.

You are two, which means I need to be somewhere near you at all times -- to watch your somersault, to guide you down the long slide in the park, to wipe your bum or your nose, to help you reach a doorknob, to dry your tears, to listen to Bunny sing Abba's "Mama Mia". This is everything I miss, now, working, and it's beautiful to be immersed in you again every day, every hour. But this spring break is no break -- or at least this is no "short rest or pause from work". Your English major mommy needs to turn back to Oxford for other definitions.

The first alternative definition to "short rest" is "an interruption, pause, or gap". Much better. In Iowa for a week, we interrupt Alaskan rain and cold to play barefoot in a sandy playground, to pick purple Glory-in-the-Snow in Gram's backyard, to throw sticks into the river with Nana. We put our frenetic lives of Mama's work and TK's school on pause; we escape to those halcyon days when the two of us got to spend every minute together.

Or Oxford offers this other definition: "a sudden rush or dash", as in "a break for it". Here we are in the Seattle airport on a six-hour layover, sprinting full-speed through the atrium -- not because we are late for a plane, but because we are running away from the terrifying eight-foot-tall stuffed killer whale that stands outside the outdoor gear store. Or we are pretending to be airplanes ourselves, zooming along the edge of the enormous windows where the real airplanes wait for their passengers. We dash from table to table, our arms outspread, both of us laughing. I thought I would miss the long hours of reading magazines and writing in my journal that I had once, before you -- but I will choose the rush and dash of your break-for-it joy over and over and over.

Or -- my always moving little daughter -- let's examine the verb form of "break". As in "to separate into pieces" -- the way you eat your fruit roll-ups on the airplane, picking tiny pieces off and then naming the shapes: "Little triangle, Mommy!" -- the way you like you use your knife and fork all by yourself to cut up the lasagna Nana made you -- the way you love to use little scissors now (you turn the comics section of Gram's Des Moines register into tens of tiny colorful pieces). Or "to break" as in "to change suddenly", which you are doing too fast -- your face becoming less babyish, your body lengthening, your language developing into more and more "real" words and constructions. Or "to break" as in "to surpass" -- the truth of you surpassing every dream of you I had. Did I imagine I would enjoy your company so much that 20 hours of flying, through four airports, would feel like a gift?

I will give up the "short rest" spring break used to offer. Now I will love the interruption, the pause, the dash, the rush, the little pieces, the change, the surpassing of all understanding -- laughing, tumbling on every soft carpet square we find, our arms outspread. Now, on these breaks from work, I will drink in every minute with you, simply and fully glad to be your mama, to watch you re-define my entire world with your beautiful self.

love,
Mommy

Duh DUH duh duh DUH!

TK [as she watches Katie skip down the sidewalk toward Rosie's house]: Mommy, where's Katie going?

ME: She's going iceskating with 'osie.

TK: Duh DUH duh duh DUH?

ME: What?

TK [grabbing my hand and imitating our usual silly ballroom dance when we pretend to ice skate on frozen puddles]: Duh DUH duh duh DUH!

ME: Oh! [And we sing together -- what's that song called, anyway? -- dancing around the living room, laughing.]

The Flawed Mommy

I am a flawed mommy, and I need a confessor today. Listen for a moment -- I'll only list 11.

Confession #1: It is the middle of the night, and I have just laid down next to Mitike to comfort her because she has woken up crying. She tosses and turns, then rolls over and whacks me in the face, then asks to use the potty, then tosses and turns after we come back, which makes me lose my patience, grab her firmly by the shoulders, and say -- through clenched teeth -- "Time -- to -- sleep -- now!", which makes her cry harder.

Confession #2: We're reading Harold and the Purple Crayon and we get to the page where Harold draws a moose and a porcupine so someone can eat all the leftover pie. TK insists that the moose is called a porcupine and that the porcupine is called a moose. I should think this is cute, and I mostly do, but I also don't want TK to be 25 years old, hiking somewhere in Alaska, telling everyone that the moose are climbing trees and the porcupines are munching willow branches on the edge of the lakes, so I calmly explain she's wrong. Then she argues, "No, Mommy! Porcupine. Moose." I argue back. We both get upset. Harold stares at us, waiting for us to enjoy his purple crayon drawings again.

Confession #3: In the grocery store, I firmly remind TK that we do not eat any of our food until we've paid money for it. Then I turn away from her and snitch a bite of the muffin in my hand.

Confession #4: At the end of a day in which I try to quell and channel the energy of middle school students, more noise sometimes seems unbearable. One night, TK decides to experiment with how loudly she can yell. "TK!" I finally say sternly. Her eyes widen, and I feel horrible. "Okay, we can only be loud in the bathroom." She nods solemnly and toddles off to the bathroom, where she continues to yell. Days later, we are walking together outside, singing, "If you're happy and you know it, shout 'hooray!'" and TK puts a finger to her lips. "Shh, Mommy. Only loud in the bathroom."

Confession #5: TK is throwing a small tantrum because she wants Bunny under the pink blanket, and I mistakenly put Bunny under the red quilt AND the pink blanket. I pick up Bunny and hurl him across the room, and then -- yep, it gets worse -- I say, "Then Bunny can just sleep over there!" TK starts crying, and Bunny looks at me reproachfully with his embroidered eyes.

Confession #6: Ali and I are playing with TK, when she holds up her right hand with her index finger extended and raises one eyebrow: "Hold on. Just wait." Ali looks at me pointedly. I am bossy -- can we say I "exhibit good leadership skills"? -- in exactly the same way. TK is definitely my daughter.

Confession #7: It's 6 a.m. on a Saturday, and TK has just called, "Mommy!" When I stumble groggily into her room, she cheerfully announces, "All done sleeping!" I shake my head and say, "Shh! Everyone's sleeping. The house is sleeping. The books are sleeping. Bunny's still sleeping." In the dim light, she peers at me. "Mommy still sleeping?" I nod and stretch out in her bed. I close my eyes. Sometimes, she lies down next to me and we sleep until 7 or so. Not this morning. She shakes me: "Mommy! Up! Time play with 'itike!" But all I want is more sleep.

Confession #8: On a special Mommy-TK date at a Mexican restaurant, TK abruptly decides she does not want to sit down anymore; she wants to stand on top of her booster seat. I frown and shake my head. "TK, Obama wants you to sit down." She sits down immediately, upset at the suggestion that anything she is doing would offend her beloved Obama. "Mama," she whispers, craning her neck to look around the restaurant, "where Obama is?"

Confession #9: TK shouts at Katie, "Stop it! Go away!" for no apparent reason. I swoop in and pick up TK, and we face the wall together. Like a textbook mama, I murmur in a calm voice, "That made Katie sad. As soon as you're ready to say 'sorry' to Katie, tell me. Are you ready?" TK shakes her head stubbornly. "What about now?" I ask. She shakes her head again. I turn her to face me, and my words escape me to disobey all textbook recommendations: "Say 'sorry' to Katie, or she'll be sad forever!" She goes to Katie and apologizes. I feel like a liar.

Confession #10: "You don't need Skittles. Vitamins are much yummier!"

Confession #11: To be silly, Ali draws a face on a large spaghetti squash with a black Sharpie marker. We set the squash on the counter and talk to it to make TK giggle. Later, TK pulls the squash toward her when she's sitting on the counter and hits it repeatedly, laughing. For some reason, it's abruptly important to me that we treat squash faces with kindness. I grab the squash, give TK a reproachful look, and proceed to rock the squash in my arms while I hum Brahm's "Lullaby". TK's eyes well up with tears. An hour later, when I decide to cook the squash for dinner, I let Tim throw it on the floor several times to break it open. TK watches me, her brow furrowed. I know. I know. I've betrayed squash face. I'm a hypocrite.

I could tell you more. These are just the major ones. There are also the little transgressions -- the cookie I offer her if she'll just eat two more bites of chili; the five minutes of movie I let her watch if she'll just agree to put her pajamas on; the way I scratched her chin a little with my fingernail on her birthday because I scooped her up with too much gusto. I know she knows I love her; I know she'll never doubt I wanted to be her mommy. But will she survive my mothering?

Maybe I should ask Obama -- or a moose named Porcupine.