Ten years ago today, in a medical clinic on the streets of Cite Soleil, in the city of Port au Prince, in the country of Haiti, on the island of Hispaniola, amongst the Greater Antilles, of the West Indies, deep in the Caribbean — two boys were born.

Their birthmother was a strong and courageous woman. She was beautiful in the most true sense of the word. Her face was full and round and there was gorgeous strength to be seen in it. And she overcame all odds and obstacles to deliver healthy twin babies. The fact that she did this within circumstances which make it an absolutely extraordinary, almost unexplainable, feat, is an enormous accomplishment.

And then, according to trustworthy sources, Yolene Badio did what she was determined to do: despite the gravity of everything that everyone knows about motherhood and pain, she let those babies go — an act of pure love and bravery. She knew she could not take care of them, and she wanted for them a better life. This isn’t a fairy tale line made up for the sake of protecting precious little hearts. This is the true story; the facts as we know them. She really did it, and she did it fully, and she did it selflessly. And we will, forevermore, be profoundly grateful for her acts of love and her brave commitment to the future of her boys.

Within 48 hours the two babies — beautiful brown-skinned boys, with big huge dark brown eyes, heads full of jet-black hair, hungry as can be, with miraculously strong and healthy bodies and minds — newborn infants with twenty fingers and twenty toes between them — these perfect beings with nothing, nothing, in the world but each other — these twin baby boys were in the care of a passionate Haitian man, the director of a Haitian orphanage, an orphanage scraping together every bit of a thing they could find and muster in order to keep young souls alive.

And then, according to trustworthy sources, Rock Cayo did what he was determined to do: despite desperate circumstances of profound deprivation, he made sure that those babies were kept alive, and he kept them as well as could be, and he made sure that they would be placed in what he believed would be the best family for them. He loved them like sons, and he was convinced, deep in his heart, that they were something very special. He was sure of himself, he was sure that these boys would become great Haitians, and he was sure that they would go on to do great things in this world. On those points he had clarity. And we will, forevermore, be profoundly grateful for his acts of love and his brave commitment to the future of his boys.

Within 9 months, after much waiting and too much missing, after too many near-misses and close-calls, after not enough food and not enough holding, after too little stimulation and too much yearning, those boys met their mama and papi. And that mama and papi already knew what was most important for that moment: the axis of their world had shifted, the center of their universe was now clear, and their whole lives had led up to that union.

And then, they did the most powerful thing they’d ever used their lives to do: despite the enormity and complexity of the situation, they took those babies on forevermore. Despite the heat rising from the pavement of Port au Prince, despite the endless bureaucracy of international adoption potholes and loopholes, despite the pain of loss and grief, and the debilitating guilt of privilege and power, they took those 8-month-old twin baby boys on an airplane and flew them to Miami. And we will, forevermore, be profoundly grateful to the country of Haiti, its people, its roots, trees, and branches, its resilience, and its many individuals who, in large and small ways, acted out of a sheer commitment to the future of our boys.

Almost ten years later I’m at a Little League game. I find myself holding a six-week-old baby of a poor, Dominican-American mama. And for some unknown reason she decides to tell me her fresh story. A story she hasn’t yet told, at all, to anyone. And she tells me of how she had planned to relinquish her baby, and she tells me of who she had picked to adopt him, and she tells me many details of her thoughts, feelings, worries, beliefs, hopes, and fears. And she talks for a very long time. And she tells me that six weeks ago, when her baby was born, she changed her mind, and she couldn’t go through with it, and she kept him and she devastated the dreams of the couple she had chosen. Her words are like a waterfall of a story, pouring down, and I feel like the steady rocks along the cliff, flooded by the cool crisp rushing water. I am there to hear her. And in her face I see the round full gorgeous beauty of Yolene. In her eyes I see the dark brown passionate clarity of Rock. In her body I see the whole of Hispaniola. I hug her and I thank her.

And it is only now that I am dizzy from the whole experience. Light headed, no longer the rocks under the waterfall, but now — instead — feeling weightless and airy and overcome by the enormous complexity of it all.

I know now, in ways I didn’t ten years ago, how intricate and arduous and fragile and precarious the web of adoption is. I know now what I could not have known then.

May 8th, 2014. We are at home in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. It is 5:50am and I am too excited to sleep. It feels like relief and pressure all swirled up together: they are ten. Double digits. A whole decade. The period of young childhood is over. A new era begins. We are here. I whisper to Braydon, “They are ten.” He whispers back: “Yes, they are ten.” We both know what this all means.

We hear them, and we know them inside-and-out so we know that what we hear is pure happy giddy joyfulness. They are the birthday boys and they come bounding in holding a large and expensive remote control airplane above their heads — it is their end-of-the-bed present; their birthday gift from their mama and papi. It is what they wanted. They are beyond delighted.

They stop for just a minute: “What time were we born?” Kyle asks, with Owen right there too — as curious for the answer as if he had himself asked it. “We’ll never know,” I say, as calmly and confidently as I can muster. Owen says, “But we know for sure that it was today, right? For sure, May 8th, right?” I say, “For sure. We know that for sure.” “Phew!” they say in unison. “Jinx!” they say in unison. “Double jinx!” they say in unison. And they crack up laughing, and they are now elbowing each other and jabbing at each other, and off and running they are, still with the plane gliding carefully over their heads.

They are boundless energy, all noise, big boys, Haitian through-and-through, dreadlocks bouncing, brown eyes beaming, sharp minds, strong bodies, resilient to their roots. They are gorgeous faces and passionate eyes and the whole of their story. They are Kyle and Owen. And they are their birthmother’s sons, their orphanage director’s pride, their root country’s hope, and ours forevermore.

We are grateful.

We surprise them with a trip to Dunkin’ Donuts before school. It is special because we’ve never, ever done this before: donuts before school. Their little sister wants to stand between them and the three of them are about as happy and joyous as anyone could ever imagine three kids to be. I only notice later, when I look at the picture, that you can see the “North Face” logo on the boys’ jackets. And somehow that changes the picture for me. Now I see in it more clearly what I know is the truth: the privilege we’ve given them, the power they can ride, the incredible opportunities we’re propelling them with. Despite the challenges they face and will, the layered foundation of power and privilege is there too. It is always there, but in the photo I see it more pronounced. It is a gift we are giving to everyone in their web and everyone in their story. It is a very small gift in comparison to what we’ve been given.

Theirs is a unique and complicated story. It is multi-faceted and multi-dimensional. It is hard to try to tell it because it is so rich. It can only be told in pieces and thin chapters. But on their tenth birthday, it seems, some of the story should be told. It is a story of loss and gain, and it a story of so much more.

Happy 10th birthday to the most incredible and inspiring two humans I’ve ever known. You are a shining light. And you make us all proud.

Love, mama

The past few days have been bittersweet as we say goodbye to so many of our friends/neighbors/students who are, slowly but surely, finishing their exams and moving out of their Sayre apartments at a steady pace. Some of them are particularly hard to let go. Before moving onto campus, never would I have thought we’d get so attached, nor could I have predicted how heart-wrenching it would be to have to say goodbye each spring. Some of them will return to campus in the fall (including, luckily, all four of these awesome young women; four of our favorites from this year). Others will graduate and go on, out into the great big world. They are all fond farewells.

Shelli had a stroke of brilliance and decided we should all go go kart racing together. The big day was Sunday. Holy heck this was such a riot! The J-Ms and the Petschs had a blast at the racetrack! Meera was too young (in exchange for being a good sport, and cheering the rest of us on, she got compensated with the special honor of being the only kid who got to have ice cream). The rest of us — Zoe, Lori, Shelli, and Kyle, Owen, Braydon, and me — all got to try our hand at go kart racing. Crazy fun!

On Friday we discovered that a mama bird had laid her nest in an outside window sill of the UC (“UC” = University Center, a building at the center of Lehigh’s campus). If we held the bambinos up, they could see through the window to the nest — giving a clear view of the mama and her baby. Saturday afternoon we returned to check in on the nest. Mama was away, and we could clearly see her two baby birds. Such a spectacular and rare sight to see!

Lehigh peeps: this is the window in the stairwell between the 2nd & 3rd floors, on the far right corner (right side if you are looking up at the UC from the UC Lawn) — go check it out before these birds fly away!

I’ve often joked that Dash is “The Resident Sayre Therapy Dog”… but the truth is, it is only a tiny bit joke, and it is mostly 100% serious.

This puppy is not a trained or certified Therapy Dog. But I can’t imagine better training than full immersion socialization — he’s been in pseudo-training from the minute we brought him home as a baby pup — Dash knows no other life than living on campus, in the dorm, with students. He knows their rhythms, their moods, their coming-and-going. He knows which ones want to run around outside and play with him, which ones have treats in their apartments for him, and which ones just want to sit on the floor and cuddle with him. And, honest-to-God, I’m pretty sure he knows when it is Final Exam Period.

Dash has been working hard this week — providing therapy/emotional-support/stress-reduction for the students he knows and loves. The 200 or-so Sayre-residents-and-their-friends/boyfriends/girlfriends/study-partners often seek him out for comfort. He spends much of his day being petted by students who come to him shaky and stressed out, and leave a little bit less so.

I’ve watched this week as students come looking for him. I’ve watched as students text their roommates to let them know “Dash is outside!” I’ve watched students pull out their cell phones and call their friends, saying, “Hurry! Come quick! Dash is here!” One student came to me this week, to tell me that she’s concerned about her roommate — “She’s so stressed out, I’m really worried about her, do you think she could spend some time with Dash today?”

Dash is a good puppy. He soaks it all up (I don’t know who’s benefiting more: Dash or the students), and he takes it in stride. He knows no other life. And he’s very good at what he does. Every dorm should have a Dash.

These two are about to turn 10. Double digits. Doubled.

Each year I get really emotional in the days leading up to their birthday. Each year I think it will wear off as they get older and the distance between their birth and present-day grows further. It seems that the profound grief and the profound joy should wear off somehow. But no. Not at all. It is not happening that way… Instead, it seems, I feel it even more deeply as the complexity of who they are reveals itself more and more clearly by the year.

These two. They made me a mother. But I owe it all to their mother. She did right by them. She did right by me. And the honor and the privilege is all mine.

I feel the gravity of it more profoundly as each year I watch these boys grow into the most amazing people imaginable. Beyond imaginable actually. It is all beyond imaginable.

Classes ended Friday. We’re now in the study period; exams begin tomorrow morning. On a 1-to-10 scale, the stress level around here is about a 10. On a 1-to-10 scale, the need for some TLC and homey-comfort-food is about a 10.

These students-friends-neighbors of ours have captured our hearts this year. And we will miss them so much when they go… which is… fast approaching. The rule is that they must move out within 24 hours of the completion of their last exam; and everyone must be gone by May 9th. I get a little bit weepy thinking about it (seriously, I do), and I know the bambinos struggle greatly with the Move Out. The sentimental end-of-year emotions have begun to ramp up.

So, tonight, we hosted an End of Year Dinner for Sayre residents.

They came. And they came hungry. About 60 of these beautiful-people-that-we-have-the-privilege-of-knowing showed up with huge smiles on their faces and so many ‘Thank You’s’ — if nothing else, these students appreciate good food. And they appreciate too a little oasis — a little homey home, a big hug, some comfort food, some kids to make them laugh, a puppy to pet — these things allow them to escape the stress, if even for a brief hour in their week. And the fact that we live with them makes it so easy in so many ways.

My gosh do we ever love these people.

They overflowed our tiny apartment and started bringing their plates of food into the lounge.

Our family of five has come to love these Sayre gatherings. Over the past two years we’ve hosted many of them. We’re learning more and more all the time about how to do these things; how to make them easy for us and for the students. We’re getting better at it as we go. At this point, they don’t feel like a hassle for us at all — but instead, they feel truly enjoyable.

Of course, I have to acknowledge the fact that Lehigh Catering makes it so darn easy for us. The food tonight was so good. And so plentiful: green beans with mushrooms, real mac-n-cheese, meatloaf with tomato gravy, buttermilk fried chicken with sage gravy… two sets of all of it (there were two pans of everything you see below)… and everything went.

Plus salad, bread, apple pie (5 oversized pies!), ice cream… gone. If there is one thing I’ve learned in the past two years it is this: college students can eat, and they don’t want cheap pizza and pasta— they want real, good food. And you know what? These amazing kids who ate it up?… they deserve it… and they appreciate it. I love feeding them.

It was a bittersweet ending to a great 2nd year in Sayre. The next 10 days will be a bit emotional for the J-Ms as we watch our neighbors move out. Some of them will graduate, some will go off for Study Abroad, some will live elsewhere on-or-off-campus next year, and some will return to Sayre. But we know that, no matter what, the end of the academic year is the end of a definitive chapter for us.

We’re learning to turn the pages, and anticipate the next chapter, and remember so fondly the previous chapters — but we’re also pretty good at enjoying the chapter that we’re in. So, we celebrate the end of the year, but I know I speak for all of us when I say that I have a little lump in my throat choking back tears as I think about all that we’ve come to love this year, and all that we will miss.

~ ~ ~

A big thank you to Lehigh Catering for another year of fabulous food in Sayre.

And a big thank you to Lehigh’s Office of Residence Life for funding another year of excellent events in Sayre.

2 dozen eggs + only 1 big egg-dye-spilling-disaster = our best Easter Egg Decorating experience ever!

Happy Easter!

Kyle and Owen are in their glory!

Today Meera had a special Mystery Reader – her brothers!

As we stood outside the door the kindergarteners asked their questions and attempted to figure out these mysterious two.

“Is is a parent?”   ~No

“Is it a girl?” ~No

“Is it a boy?” ~Yes

In there somewhere there was a hint it was more than one. 

“Is their hair black?”  ~Yes

“Are they boys?” ~Yes

“Do they have dreadlocks?!?” ~Yes (that would be Meera who asked)

Meera’s class loved Please, Puppy, Please, by Spike Lee; one of Kyle and Owen’s (and Meera’s favorites).

They had lots of positive things to say:

“I liked how they showed the pictures while reading.”

“I liked how they took turns reading pages.”

“I liked how they [the teacher helped out] used expression when reading”

But the happiest was Meera

Well, here we are in the middle of April. Like every year, the angst is fully in place. It comes like a tornado that you can see moving in your direction — you can take shelter, but you cannot truly avoid it, and you just hold out hope that there isn’t too much destruction once you come up for air in the wake of its path. I know this month is coming, I try to gear myself up for it, I try to mentally prepare our whole family for it. But nothing seems to help the absolute overwhelming nature of my life (and thus, my family’s life) in April. It is the end of what is — for me individually, and for all 5 of us J-Ms — a long year. We give the whole of ourselves. And now, living on campus, that is muti-faceted and multi-dimensional, and multi-insanity-producing in so many, many ways — not just for me, but for all 5 of us. By now, I am done. By now, we are done. But the cram and push (while running on fumes) to finish out the year is a major production. It is like the last leg of an Iron Man Triathlon. The kids still have 2 months of school, but I have only 2 weeks of classes left, and the academic year is imploding like a volcano in the weeks that are our April. Right now it feels like a pressure cooker. Wrapping up classes is the least of my concerns. The up-till-midnight-working, burning-the-candle-at-both-ends, 18-hour-work-days, eating-on-the-run, catch-as-catch-can, no-room-to-breath-let-alone-sit-down-for-5-minutes…. all of that right now is the result of things like committee work wrapping up, council reports deadlines looming, numerous events to attend, other events to plan/implement/host, meetings (so many meetings) requiring full attention, lots and lots of people to attend to, academic reviews to be done, work to be completed, a huge stack of grading, etc., etc., etc. Oh, yeah, and there’s the kids’ birthday parties to plan. And Little League; swimming lessons; violin lessons. I sit in a meeting for an hour, and exit the room to see that I’ve received 34 new email in the 1 hour away from the screen. I dread checking it when I wake up in the morning (a ridiculous portion of my emails from students arrive while I’m sleeping). I’m drowning in email. My calendar is packed back-to-back (sometimes, scarily enough, double – or even triple – booked). The To Do lists are long. The days are long. The sleep is short. The chances to get to the grocery store are few (related: I’ve eaten eggs for dinner, after the kids have gone to bed, for the past 3 nights in a row). The blog is always the first thing to go. And thus, …my absence here. I’m not complaining about any of this… just being real. I think it is important to chronicle the joy and the angst. I’m dreaming of the beach, evenings drinking wine, and days in the sun watching my bambinos collect sand dollars and float on their backs and play in the waves with their mom looking on with nothing pressing to do but to watch them.

You know that old saying, “March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb”…? Well, this year, for us, March came in like a lion and out like a lion. There was no lamb, no soft-edges, no cushiony buffer; March was a jam-packed, high-intensity, chock-full month of madness! So much good stuff, hard stuff, mediocre stuff, all crammed into such a little month. And as in so many of my catch-all, catch-up blog posts, I’m going to just put the hard (and bad) stuff — and even the mediocre (and mundane) stuff — purposefully on the margins, to hone in on the good stuff that was packed into our lioness (and lion-esque) month of March.

We went on a big trip to Anguilla with MorMor & MorFar, Stina, Mark, Sadie, and Lukasz. I’ll eventually post about that (huge amazing special) trip another time. That’s when my blog silence began (side note: thanks to ALL who have reached out to me worried about why I’ve been MIA on the blog for so long). There is a lot to say about that trip. But, for now, I’ll just say that the travel for that trip was unbelievably rough and rocky — a great time in Anguilla was book-ended by horrendous travel problems on both sides. But can I just say?… our bambinos would easily win the prize for Best Travelers Ever. Not even one complaint, fuss, or even “when will we get there?” from any of the three of them!

Meera jumps, into the hotel pool, EB Hotel Miami , 2pm (we got stuck in Miami on the way there, for 24 hours) ~

Owen & Kyle, in the Charlotte airport, 5am (we got stuck in Charlotte overnight on the way home, and got only 4 hours of sleep that night) ~

And yeah, like I said, the in-between of those travel nightmares was a travel fantasy; beautiful Anguilla ~

Ironically enough, as we were pulling out of the gym parking lot from that final basketball game (literally), we got a phone call from the baseball coach notifying us of their first Little League practice of the season. Out with the old, and in with the new; new season, new sport. And suddenly, basketball is ancient history and it is all baseball all the time. What a difference a year makes!— our little sluggers are now a little bit bigger sluggers. They are so fun to watch!

As for Braydon, this is what he thought of March (too much, too fast, too packed, too lion-ish) ~

Dash. He’s our saving grace (cute, fluffy, and unconditionally loving no matter how much madness is packed into one month), and he is BFFs with Meera Grace ~

Sometimes you just gotta have a little spa treatment (this crazy thing originated here – click).