Seems like the email I sent out to my peeps about this new site got shuffled straight into some people’s spam filters. So if you’re here, can you give me a wave so I know who I should stalk email again?
Archive for February, 2008
Last weekend Bubba and I flew 1,500 miles so I could introduce him to my grandmother.
Back in 2005, when I told her we were planning to adopt transracially, she responded this way: You’re doing WHAT? You’re adopting a WHAT?” And then it was downhill from there. When I called her a few weeks before Bubba was born to tell her that he was coming and he might be our son, her reaction was so strong I thought it might really be the end of our relationship.
But it wasn’t. When he was born we got a big check with no card. Eventually she started asking about him when we talked. And at some point she proposed that we all meet at my parent’s house. But travelling is hard for her – she’s 91 – and she kept talking about how hard it would be to babyproof her apartment. Her house is 3 rooms: I think babyproofing was a red herring. She was scared to death to meet her biracial great-grandson.
Ultimately my parents and I decided that we would all go together. My parents would show up early to babyproof and, more importantly, we would just make our reservations and not tell her until the last minute that we were coming. We were nervous about telling her, but when we did she was thrilled.
And she was a CHAMPION this weekend. She told my dad before we got there that she knew how she wanted to react but wasn’t sure if she could do it. But when she met Bubba she was beside herself. She could. not. stop. gushing about him. He’s so cute! He’s so smart! He understands you so well! He sings! He dances! He eats with a fork! At the end of the first day she kissed him goodnight and told him she loved him.
She lives in a senior independent living facility, so on Sunday we had to talk around and meet all of her friends in the dining room, at the pool, in the card room, and so on. I can’t count on two hands the number of people who pulled out photos of their white grandsons at their weddings to black women, or who told me about their lesbian granddaughters who were pregnant through artificial insemination. What a trip.
She told me two interesting things over the weekend: She felt she was able to move on this and be open to having Bubba in her family because our family gave her space and didn’t judge her. I’m glad she felt that way because in all honesty I thought we were all judging her at every step. I thought my parents and my uncles might stop speaking to her at various points. But she didn’t feel judged, so okay.
She also told me that “as horrible as it sounds,” it helped that his skin is pretty light. Huh. It makes me cringe to hear it, but I think she just may be the most honest of the bunch. I can’t imagine that no one else in either of our families has ever thought that, but all of them are too politically left-leaning (and sensitive to our feelings) to actually say it. She never has pulled her punches, so I think I’m okay that she said it because she owned it and she really has already exceeded all my expectations.
I’m not done pushing her but I’m still feeling pretty jaw-on-the-floor awed by how well it went.
You’re here. I’m glad.
Writing feels really good. This past blog-less month was nice in some ways, letting the mundane things go unremarked. But there’s so much to be said for writing it down, even if I don’t go back to read it for years.
I know that if it’s on the screen, on the internet, someone can read this even if I’ve asked them not to. So I need to find the line between not sharing so much I risk falling into the same hole I fell into before and sharing enough that it’s even worth writing it down.
If you know me in person and somehow you found your way here on your own, well, I’m sorry. I didn’t leave you out because you’re you, I just left you out because I need to be able to write and not censor myself.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Thanks for following me here.
I am the mother of The Kid Who Bites.
When I was about 3, I remember looking at the window, seeing another little girl on the sidewalk, and informing my mother: “There’s Nicole.” She asked me which Nicole, since there were two in the neighborhood, and I told her: “the one that bites.” That was 1978 or 79, and I still remember that Nicole was The Biter. Now my child is The Biter.
Crap.
When he’s sick, he gets angry. He’s been sick since, um, October. First winter in daycare. Fucking brutal. He made it a year and a half without an ear infection, then we called the doctor about pink eye, they insisted we come in (despite our cursing the new pediatrician who was going to make us schlep him to the doc for stupid pink eye), and then diagnosed him with a double ear infection. First time on antibiotics too, which made us v. sad. The homeopath predicted that the antibiotics wouldn’t work, and would probably make him angrier. Right and right.
And it turns out he’s allergic to amoxicillin. It’s a regular carnival around here.
Last Thursday Baby Mama stopped counting how many times he bit when he got to 20. I raced home from work unsure of which of them would be dead on the floor when I got there. We called the homeopath in a panic, begging for help. He told us what to give him and we fell over ourselves trying to stuff it in his mouth.
Friday we were down to 10 bites. Saturday and Sunday, no day care, huge effort on the part of both moms to make sure Bubba had a really fun weekend and got lots of attention. No biting. Monday 3 bites. Tuesday 2 bites. And so on. This is serious improvement, and it definitely seems to run parallel to how he’s feeling. Apparently the solution is: Don’t Let Him Get Sick.
Argh.
I am voting today – very proudly – for Barack Obama. I feel confident that he is the best person for this job.
By definition, a person who gets to this point in the game has made some compromises that I do not appreciate. The more power you want, the more you have to compromise. So I never really, really like anyone who has the potential to win a presidential race. But he’s inspiring all the same. Hopeful. Pragmatic. Skilled. Brilliant. And whatever the outcome, someday I will be proud to tell my son that I voted for the country’s first-ever viable Black candidate for president.
Here’s the but: as someone who has been a feminist since I could define the word, as someone whose life has been built around feminist values and beliefs, I can’t believe that I’m going to walk into a voting booth today and vote against the first viable woman candidate we’ve ever had.
Who ever thought it would come down to this?
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