This past New Year’s eve we went to Morristown NJ for first night and had a great time. There were street vendors galore and one of them was selling noisemakers in the form of 2 foot long plastic trumpet-horns. Of course we had to get two, but they proved too difficult to actually do – you had to really do it like a trumpet. Owen had a little luck, but not a lot.

The next week, Owen really got a handle on how to do it and has been trumpeting along as loud as possible. Kyle gave it a one shot, but dropped it and stuck to his other trumpet (the one where you just blow into it and press the keys).

But tonight – Kyle picked it up and nailed it. He was so thrilled and proud of him self – it was a beautiful thing to see. Maybe not hear, but see. And he loved to see him self playing and marching in the reflection in the window (since it’s dark out).

He does things a bit different that Owen. Either, he works at it and works at it and works at it and masters it – and then has to challenge himself by trying tricky things to make it more difficult. Or, he waits and waits and waits, and then just does it on the first try.

Now, knowing him, since he can “play” this trumpet, he’ll try to figure out how to make is play a tune (it only plays one note). Or he’ll do it while standing upside down, or jumping off the bed, or something.

Today after I picked the boys up at daycare we went to the grocery store. Braydon and I spent years perfecting our division of labor, and at this point it is pretty much set-in-stone. I do all things food related (planning, shopping, prepping, cooking, etc.), and he does all things cleaning related (managing all house cleaning, doing all laundry, kitty litter, etc.). Given my realm of responsibility, I do about 99.9% of the grocery shopping. And the vast majority of the time I have one or both of the boys with me when I’m doing it (usually both). Our grocery store experiences are always interesting… to say the least. You wouldn’t think that something as mundane as grocery shopping would be as downright interesting as it is. But seriously, every single grocery shopping experience produces some story to tell Braydon at dinner later that night.

Sometimes the stories center on how really really bad the boys were — like the time I gave them a package of goldfish to keep them quiet in the cart and in a split second, when I turned to reach for a package of chicken on the shelf, they poured the goldfish all over the meat section floor, on purpose. Sometimes the stories center on how magnetically, arrestingly, captivatingly adorable the boys were — like the time they were entranced in their own little world, completely unaware of the attention they were garnering, as they were singing their hearts out “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine” throughout every isle of the entire store. Sometimes the stories center on some hard-to-handle question some other shopper asked — like the time a lady asked me (quite loudly in front of the boys and several other shoppers), “So, was their real mother on drugs?” Sometimes the stories center on the stares we got, or the smiles we get, or the weird comments, or the nice comments. Sometimes, in fact, the stories tell of some of the deeply profound things that occur when I’m out in public with my special bambinos. Sometimes the stories are probably quite the same as many other parents’ stories of their grocery store escapades with their toddlers in tow. Today’s story is this:

The boys were so good in the grocery store today. It was actually — believe it or not! — downright delightful to go grocery shopping with the two of them. The store was busy with the after-work-crowd, and the lines at the registers were long, and everybody seemed frazzled except for Kyle and Owen. For whatever reason, today they just took it all in stride and were good-as-could-be and cute-as-buttons the entire time. To be honest, I was shocked. I had checked out, had everything in bags, had paid, and I was about to push the cart away from the register. The grocery store clerk — a mid-20s looking woman — stopped me. She said, pretty loudly, “Ma’am?!” I thought I had forgotten something and I abruptly stopped my cart and turned back toward her. She said, “I’m sorry, I know it is busy, but I just have to tell you something.” Everyone all around was looking at me. I felt myself flush, in nervous anticipation of whatever she was about to say to me. I said, “O.k.?” And she said: “I just have to tell you that I work here all the time, and whenever I see you here I just want to tell you that I think your kids are the absolute cutest kids that come in here — of everyone I see, I think they are the cutest.” Many eyes were on me, just waiting to see how I’d react. I didn’t quite know how to react. I said, “Wow?! Thank you. Especially because I know you must see a lot of kids.” “I do,” she said, “I see a lot of kids.” “Wow, thank you,” I said. And I sincerely meant it. And then we made our way to the parking lot.

Today Jessica informed me of a new study being released that shows that “adoptive parents invest as much in raising children as biological parents do.” (Click here for report from the American Sociological Association.) While of course many of us already knew this, the study is important because it “proves” this conclusively via empirical research. I do have to at least mention that I have quite a substantial gripe with their use of the word “natural” to describe biological parents [ummmm… as though adoptive parents are not “natural”?????], but despite that, this study is worth taking a look at!

Dear Boys,

Who knows if you’ll ever actually read this someday. You may have no interest. You may be too busy to be bothered. You may reject everything about your crazy parents. You may be insanely curious about your childhood and be reading every word of this old blog in a desperate attempt to figure some stuff out. You may be showing this to your therapist. I just don’t know what the future will bring. However, just in case you are reading this someday, I wanted to make note that today I turned in my Tenure Portfolio.

Right now you have absolutely no idea of the significance of this. That is as it should be. I don’t want you to even think about this kind of thing for a very long time. But someday you will understand what it all means (or meant)… and I want you to know some things:

• Every single day that I drive you to daycare I have the lump in my throat about leaving you.
• Not a day goes by that I don’t question everything I’m doing as a mother.
• I was working toward tenure long before you were even born. This has been in the works for a very, very long time. I feel passionate about my work, and in my heart I feel that I am supposed to be doing this work in the world. Yet still — now that I have you — I wonder if it is all really worth it.

I also want you to know these things:

• Every single day that I get to live with you I am full of joy for what you are in this world.
• Not a day goes by that your zest for life, your enthusiastic gusto for all of living, and your genuine intense happiness tell me loud and clear that I must be doing a good enough job as a mother.
• Long before you were even born I knew in my heart that I needed to do my work for me, and for the greater good, and for the sake of you. I mean “you” literally and figuratively. Now that I have you, deep deep deep down inside — in my heart and in my soul — I feel that importance more than ever.

Boys, hopefully someday we can talk about all this. And hopefully someday — if you are as blessed as I hope for you to be — we can talk about this with your partners too. Whoever the lucky women or men are to whom you are married someday (I sure hope that by that point gay marriage will be universally legal in this country), I will be anxious to explain my deeper philsophical underpinnings for how and why we did what we did when you boys were little. I will also be there as much as humanly possible to do your laundry and entertain my grandchildren and cook you dinners while you and your spouses/partners/co-parents work… just like my mom has been doing for me and your father whenever she can these past couple of years. And boys, just remember this: Although tonight you’re eating macaroni and cheese heated up from the freezer… then you’ll be eating incredible extravagant sophisticated dinners of your choice!

*** And FYI boys, importantly: right now, at the age of two, your dinner of choice is macaroni and cheese heated up from the freezer. 😉

Love, Your Mommy

Today after Little Gym we drove into Philadelphia for the 18TH ANNUAL CELEBRATION OF AFRICAN CULTURES at the Penn Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology (click here). Wow. What a great day we had. There is nothing — just nothing — like plopping our little Haitian-Americans right down in the middle of a crowd like the one there today. It felt to me like the best example of the African diaspora that I’ve ever witnessed. People from all over the region coming together to celebrate — truly celebrate — African Cultures in the most genuine, dynamic, energized, inspired way. First and foremost, I have to just say: we have never been together in one place with so many people with beautiful dreadlocks. How awesome is it to be somewhere where other children (multiple children! even a couple children as young as ours!) are sporting locs?! So awesome! Owen couldn’t get enough of that. He just couldn’t stop touching and caressing (and at one point even laying his entire head upon) other children’s locs. It was a beautiful — let me say that again: BEAUTIFUL — sight to behold. And Ky Ky, well, let’s just say that the photo below does not even come close to doing justice to how enthralled this child was with the African Drumming we heard/saw. At one point I put my hand over his chest and could literally feel his heart pounding as if it were about to jump right out of his little body.

As the four of us walked along the sidewalk to the parking garage Braydon and I agreed that this just has to become a family tradition for us. So, today was officially our First Annual trip to Philly for the CELEBRATION OF AFRICAN CULTURES.