Miles comes home

Home

We are home.

Man, it feels good to write that!

Yesterday went very, very well. I have lots of stories to write and photos to post. Last night I first fell asleep putting Miles to bed, then woke up and fell asleep putting Paloma to bed, and then Hattie (the Mister fell asleep with Atticus.) I was a tired Mama!

This morning, I'm cuddling with my boy. Today, we are focusing on fun as a family and building attachment. At naptime I will put up those photos and share a story or two.

Home.

Touchdown

My little boy is on U.S. soil.

I heard his little voice say, "Allo, Mommy."

I heard the joy and pride in my husband's voice.

The same joy and pride I heard in his voice in the hospital

after the birth of our other children.

My heart is full tonight.

I am overwhelmed with Joy.

Gratitude.

Relief.

Hope.

Excitement.

Tomorrow my arms will be full,

wrapped around four precious children.

The journey now truly begins.

Safe and Sound

I'm happy to report that the Mister and his suitcase full of donations made it safely to Port au Prince. We had some doubts about the luggage, as this was the same suitcase full of donation that never made it past St. Louis on his 2008 trip to Port au Prince.

The Mister is now relaxing at the Visa Lodge with our son. At 2 pm, they will be driven back to the airport, and God willing, by 8 pm tonight I'll hear on the telephone that little voice I've been dreaming of for so very long.

The children and I are having a wonderful time in Chicago with dear Anne Marie. Anne Marie is spoiling the children with yummy take out, and they, in turn, are teaching her some smoking dance moves. And Atticus limited himself to asking Anne Marie"Can I tell/ask you something?" only 30 times an hour instead of his usual 60.

Yesterday we shopped, and an incredibly kind owner of a local toy shop, upon hearing our story on why we are in Chicago, gifted Miles with a very precious, super cuddly and soft stuffed giraffe, which turns into a pillow and a blankie. I don't care what their reputation may be, we always meet the Nicest people in Chicago.

This morning we spent 4 hours at the fabulous Kohl Children's Museum (WOW! is all I have to say), and now we are headed down the block to a deli for lunch. Less than 24 hours until I'm holding that little guy. I'm trying to limit myself to just counting hours, and not minutes.

Trying, but not necessarily succeeding :)

Bon Voyage

It's true.
This is really happening.

We are packed and ready to go.
The little owl backpack is full of treats,
goodies and Matchbox cars.
Clean, new jammies and
a blanket lovingly made by Jimmy.
Bath toys and baby powder.
And a homecoming outfit identical to
Atticus' "Welcome Home, Miles!" outfit.

I have butterflies in my stomach.
In just 48 hours, the son I've long awaited will be in my arms.
Forever.

I cannot believe I'm about to post this, but

This Little Boy

has a Visa.

I can barely find words for this moment.
After 28 months, you would think
that I'd have
perhaps thought of some.
Kind of like preparing for an Oscar speech.
Because I feel like we just won
an Academy Award.

The Mister will be leaving the states Wednesday afternoon,
and will be bringing our son HOME to us
on Friday morning.

PRAISE, PRAISE, PRAISE
BE TO OUR DEAR GOD.

MILES
HOME.
FAMILY.

I will update more tomorrow.
For now, the Mister and I are popping
the cork on a celebratory bottle of champagne.

Our baby boy is coming HOME.

In defense of a 'traditional' marriage

At my uncle's funeral, my aunt spoke about her relationship with Gary and her love for him. It was always very evident that my Uncle loved my aunt deeply. I think it was wonderful for my aunt to openly share her love for him. Listening to her made me realize that I need to make sure that the people I love know just how much I love them. You can never say it enough.

At the beginning of her talk, my aunt made it very clear that she is a classic type A personality, to nearly a magnified degree. Her husband was very laid back and easy going.

Hmmmm, sounds vaguely similar to another married couple I know.

The Mister and I have a very "traditional" marriage by societal definitions. I'm proud of our marriage and not ashamed. The Mister works outside the home in the "public sphere" (a term I remember from a feminism course in college), and we're very fortunate that he has a great job and provides a very comfortable life for us. He is as every bit driven in his job as he is laid back at home. I think when people see the Mister at work, in action, they are always a bit surprised by his intensity and focus. At home, he is "Island Time, All the Time." But his work role is on a completely different intensity spectrum.

My role is in the "private sphere." I believe that children and a spouse are a gift, and so I gladly care for our children and home. I do have a job/business, but even that exists largely in the private sphere due to the nature of the business. And I set it aside when my family duties need to take precedence. When I was a single mom, I was head of both the private and public spheres in my life, which was fine. But I gladly handed the reins over to the Mister once we were married. I love being a homemaker and wife, and the private sphere is where I will gladly reside.

The Mister does his job very well. I like to think that most days, I do my job pretty well too. I don't tell the Mister how to do his job; he doesn't tell me how to do mine. We trust that each is the expert in their own job.

But, we work well as a team and have a tremendous amount of respect for each other. He often asks me for opinions about work situations, and I do the same. Of course, there are things I am bossy about, like furniture placement or wall color, but in the end, he trusts that I know what I'm doing and acquiesces. And really, I don't think he truly cares if I paint the walls white, black or neon elephant peanut candy orange (a color he liked, by the way, which contributes to my unwillingness to allow his opinion on wall color.)

Often times, some friend or family member, typically male, will ask Cliff to do something and then make a wise ass crack like "Oh, if your boss lets you" or something of that nature, because they know that inevitably, the Mister will not schedule anything without checking with me first. They'll make cracks about who wears the pants in the family and so forth. The Mister, with his ever present laid back nature, lets it roll of his back, which I think leads people to further think it's true.

I often wonder though if people think I'm some sort of bossy, overbearing wife. The Mister can do as he wishes, and he knows that. But, our family is important to him, and family events are important to him, and he has always been the type to defer his own activities to family activities (which is how he grew up--Chamorro homes always put family first. Always.)

At the end of the day, the Mister is the head of our household. It's a Biblical principle I strongly believe in, although it's certainly not en vogue or highly regarded by today's standards. Being head of the household doesn't mean that he's a dictator or he has to lord over every decision and standard in our home. He doesn't.

But just because he leaves the private sphere to me, doesn't mean that he isn't the head of household. I've struggled for some time now, trying to figure out how to best explain it to people.

The best way to describe it is this: when the moment the Mister came home from work yesterday and his vacation began, I felt instant relief. He's here to help where needed, to step in and direct the children, to be the strong one when I began to crumble from the stress of the adoption nigthmare. The relief stems from the fact I have someone holding me up, being my safety net if I fall. And fortunately for me, he's always so close that I never fall far before he catches me.

I don't mean for this to be a saccharine sweet post. Our marriage is certainly far from perfect, and we have had problems that I wouldn't dream of blogging about on a blog read by people in our real life. But I do blog for my family. This blog is a journal for my children and grandchildren to read long after we are gone.

My grandparents' marriage is a love affair that is legendary in our family, even while they are still alive. Everyone knows and can see just how in love they are with each other. It doesn't mean that they haven't had their share of trails and tribulations. It's just that they made the decision to share and celebrate their love for each other, above everything else. I would never, never want any of my descendants to doubt for one second just how much I love my Mister.

Thank you, Mister, for all that you are to us. I love you.

Nothing like a postive affirmation from a 3-year old

I love nothing more than snuggling with my children each evening after their bedtime bath. I bury my nose into their hair and inhale in their Johnson Baby shampooed heads and baby powdered bodies. They smell delicious.

Miss Paloma is at a point in time where she "want(s) to do it myself." Including the post-bath application of baby powder. Inevitably, more baby powder graces the walls and floors of the bathroom than her own little self, but that is part of the charm of being 3, is it not?

Last night Paloma snuck the powder into her bedroom while I was busy attending to Atticus' shower. I walked into a large cloud of baby powder fluff which used to be her bedroom.

"Mmmmm," I said, inhaling. "Your room smells like delicious baby powder."

My comment was met with Paloma's patented cold-as-ice glare. Those of you who have seen it know what I mean.

"Mom, don't say baby powder!" she began, each word escalating in intensity. "I'm not a baby!"

I gave it another try: "Mmmm, your room smells like delicious powder."

The cold-as-ice glare turned to sheer frustration. "Mom, call it Daughter Powder!!" Really, it came out as "dot-er pow-da," but her intent was crystal clear.

"Oh, okay," I backed down.

The sheer frustration turned to a look of combined pity and disgust. "You're not very smart, Mom."

No one can build one up the way a 3-year old can.

Doing what comes next

The other day, I read a devotional about a woman who was widowed at a young age. When asked how she got through those painful days in the months to follow her loss, she said that she just did "whatever came next." Whether it was washing dishes, doing laundry, reading to a child, she would just do it, and soon she would find that she worked her way through the tough moment or day.

I've been struggling here. The pain, anger, frustration and exhaustion from this entire adoption fiasco feels like a huge leech that has attached itself to my neck and is slllooowwwwly sucking the life out of me. So I've made "Do what comes next" my motto for now. I'm trying to throw myself into my kids and home, stay off the computer (except for blogging) and stop obsessing with what is happening in Haiti at the moment.

When we woke up and left Camp, I purposely did not feed us breakfast beforehand. Instead "what came next" was that we went to a local strawberry farm and went a-picking. We stuffed ourselves with the most plump, juicy, exquisitely red strawberries we could find, enjoying every bit of this rare and wonderful breakfast.

Both Hatfield and Atticus were extended invitations to join the dance studio's Competition Troupe. Atticus is now a proud member of the Petite Troupe, and Hatfield joined the Rising Star Troupe. As a result, "what comes next" very often translates to "go to dance practice."

"What comes next" fortunately does not have to be all mundane. In the past week, we've had a grand time celebrating Hatfield's 11th birthday and my Grandma's 88th birthday We spent the weekend at Camp and swam in the lake for the first time this season. "What comes next later today will be downloading the bulk of photos on my camera from these good times, and taking some time to prepare for future good times with the upcoming holiday weekend.

At the moment, little Miss Paloma is requesting some bacon. Gag. But, I guess that is what comes next. I also spy an unloaded dishwasher, a stinky dog and a basket of laundry needing attention. Those things will take me through until later this morning, when it's time to load up the crew for dance lessons. And after all of that is said and done, 15 pounds of strawberries await my cleaning, freezing, jam-making, pie-baking powers.

Life goes on. Step by step. Even if it's only focusing on the smallest of things that come next.