Paddle faster -- I hear banjo music

My family just returned from a three-day trip to Pigeon Forge, Tenn., also known as the Redneck Vacation Capital of the South. This was our first family outing since my dad got out of prison last year (that's a story for another day), so as you can imagine, we fit right in.

I don't really have a narrative to relate about our trip, but I do want to share some random observations after spending three days with my family in the midst of bears, mountains, and people who are missing a significant number of teeth:

• Although my part of Ohio is hardly a hotbed of diversity, I have apparently grown spoiled while living here. My Asian daughter rarely gets a second glance around here, and when she does, it tends to be from someone who just wants to tell me how cute she is, or ask where she's from, or tell me about their granddaughter from China or wherever. Not so in Tennessee. We got some pretty uncomfortable stares, and although no one said anything or asked any rude questions, I felt we were much more conspicuous there than at home.


• We stayed in a very nice chalet/cabin sort of place, complete with hot tub, sauna, home theater, and bears who broke into our garbage cans in the night and made off with a trash bag the size of a small child. The house was called "It's Five O'Clock Somewhere" and was located on -- I kid you not -- Boogertown Road. I know that every little lane and alley has to have a name now, because of 911 service. But BOOGERTOWN ROAD?! Really?! Was this the best they could do? Can you imagine giving your address to the UPS man? "Yes, if you could deliver that to 1454 Boogertown Road . . . yes, that's what I said. No, I'm not kidding. Look, could you just deliver the damn package?!"


• My baby is very rapidly becoming a little girl. We went to a kids' mini-amusement park thingy, and she rode a bunch of stuff BY HERSELF. I was not happy about it. But she was awfully cute pointing to the swings and asking if she could ride the "wheeee!


• I have become the sort of person who can stand around discussing this year's marijuana crop with the local rednecks. This became apparent on Wednesday night, when we saw a friend we met during my dad's, um . . . unfortunate incarceration. The friend's husband had been in for a pot conviction, and was released shortly after Dad was. So we're chatting with her, and she's making the requisite jokes about how the only thing they're growing this year is tomatoes, yadda yadda. Then she mentions that the local authorities have been flying planes over their area, looking for evidence of marijuana growth. But, as she pointed out, even if they were growing anything, it's way too early in the year to spot it -- the crop isn't yet tall enough to be visible above the corn stalks. And I realize I'm nodding and smiling and agreeing, as if this isn't the MOST BIZARRE conversation in which a former preacher's kid could ever find herself. GAAAH! When did I turn into someone who could discuss the finer points of weed cultivation?! Oh, right -- when my dad went to prison and became friends with some of the biggest pot dealers in the southeastern United States. But that's a topic for another day.
• My child calls my brother-in-law Papa. This weirds me out on many levels. I know it's just because she hears his daughters calling him that -- eventually she'll figure out that he's not HER papa. But right now, when I'm sitting there next to my sister, and her two kids are calling her husband Papa, and MY kid is calling him Papa, I feel like a bad episode of Big Love. Maybe THAT'S why people were staring at us.


• I am 39 years old and have a child of my own. But when I'm on a trip with my parents, I revert to being 14. It's not pretty.


• Who are the people who go on vacation and eat at Arby's? My favorite thing to do on vacation is eat -- I'm all for saving money, but if I'm going to the trouble of leaving town, I sure as hell ain't gonna eat at Arby's.


• If my dad makes me stop at Smoky Mountain Knife World one more time, I'm going to buy the best Swiss Army Knife I can find, and I'm going to use it to slit my wrists.

Mama’s Boo-Boo

Okay, some background: Ellie, like most two-year-olds, is obsessed with boo-boos. Major, minor, non-existent – it matters not. If it’s a potential boo-boo, it calls for approximately 14,000 kisses and at least one Band-Aid. Or masking tape, if you happen to be out of Band-Aids and the boo-boo is a figment of Ellie’s imagination.

Secondly, Ellie loves bath time, and she loves for me to get in the bathtub with her. She always scoots to one end of the tub, points to the water in the other end, and says, quite authoritatively, “MAMA.” It’s not a request. It’s an order. Sometimes I oblige, and sometimes I don’t.

And lastly, Ellie is the proud owner of these foam rubber bath toys that stick to the wall when they’re wet. Under the right circumstances, they also stick to your skin, which she finds highly entertaining.

So, now that you know all the relevant details, lemme tell you what the kid did the other day. I got in the bathtub with her, and it happened to be a day when she had fallen and scraped her knee. We fussed over the boo-boo, washed it with Johnson’s baby soap, kissed it, and covered it with a Band-Aid/foam rubber bath toy, which of course proved to be the cure.

Then my daughter looks at me and cocks her little head to one side. She reaches out a tiny finger, points to my left nipple, and says “Mama boo-boo.” And firmly clamps a sticky bath toy over it.

I try explaining that this is not, in fact, a boo-boo, but Ellie is oblivious. She is intent on making sure the bath toy sticks. Then she completes her doctoring by removing the Band-Aid/bath toy and leaning forward to kiss the boo-boo. That’s where I drew the line.

When I related this little incident to my friend, Beth, her comment was “At least SOMEONE wants to kiss them.” Which brings me to the topic of dating as a single mom. But that’s a subject for another day.

Carry on.

Housekeeping

A small administrative detail: Beginning tomorrow, I'm going to a Monday/Wednesday/Friday posting schedule, so look for new posts on those days. I'm doing this for two reasons -- first, it's hard to come up with the time and the energy to post every day. This blogging stuff is hard work. And second, I doubt you're reading my stuff every day anyway. Three times a week should be plenty for both of us.

And here's one other detail: a picture of Ellie that I think is the cutest thing ever. It showed up on my friend Dana's blog with this caption:

That's the prettiest girl in the door. I think I'll just lick her.

Missing my grandmas

We spent part of this weekend visiting the cemeteries where my grandparents are buried. Like many people of redneck descent, my family is big on decorating graves on Memorial Day weekend. It seems to be some sort of contest – if we cough up more money for tacky flowers than you do, we obviously love our dead relatives more.

I am not a big fan of this custom. The way I figure it, my grandparents and various and sundry other ancestors don’t know or care if I show up with flowers in hand, and they sure as heck don’t care what weekend it is. The important thing is that they knew how much I loved them when they were still with us. But a trip to the cemetery does provide an annual opportunity to introduce my daughter to the memories of some people she never had the chance to meet.

Both my grandmothers died young. My dad’s mom was 49 when she died of ovarian cancer, and my mom’s mom was 55 when she suffered a brain aneurysm. I barely had a chance to know them myself, and my daughter will never know how crazy they would have been about her.

Over the years I’ve missed my grandmas a lot at various times in my life. When my family was gathered around taking pictures on prom night. When my sister got married. When I graduated from college. When I finished grad school. When I bought my first house. But never more than when I became a mom.

I was just nine years old when my dad’s mom died, so I don’t have too many vivid memories of her. But I do know she was nuts about her grandchildren, and that she thought we could do no wrong, no matter how rotten we were. I can’t help but believe she would be equally as nuts about her great-granddaughter, and that she would be proud of me for adopting on my own. My grandma worked outside the home at a time when that wasn’t the accepted thing for women to do. She colored her hair and was one of the first people I knew who wore contacts. She was a pretty hip chick. I think she would have gotten a kick out of watching me become a single mom, and that she might have seen a little of herself in me when I got on a plane to go halfway around the world to do it.

Although I didn’t understand it at the time, I know now that my mom’s mom could be a bit difficult. But she was no less nuts about her grandkids. She suffered from some pretty severe depression in a time when Valium was just about the only accepted treatment outside of a psych ward. I sometimes think about how different things might have been for her if she was alive today -- the myriad drugs out there would have gone such a long way toward making her life better. But I have to hand it to her – even though there were times she was driving my mom very slowly and painfully crazy, I never knew it. She never showed anything but love to my sister and me. I spent a great deal of time with her and never saw anything but a fun grandma who loved me very much. And I think that, in spite of her troubles, she would have been delighted to be a great-grandma.

I’m sorry that my daughter will never have the chance to know my grandmothers, or my Papa Dan, who died just a few years ago. I’m sorry she won’t meet my Aunt Prudie, who died in March at the age of 104. I wish she had known my cousin Jim, who died at age 38 of heart disease. I hope we can make the most of her relationships with the extended family she does have, and that we can create our own extended family, made up of dear friends and Village People. And I hope that, as Ellie gets older, I can help her understand who those people in the cemetery were, and how much they would have loved getting to know her.

Princess Syndrome

I’ve been a parent for nearly two years now, and I’ve already done a lot of things I vowed I’d never do. Like tell my daughter “because I said so” when she asks “why?” for the brazillionth time. Or tune out a screaming banshee toddler fit in the dairy aisle at Meijer and finish my shopping as if I’m deaf. None of this really surprises me – I’ve heard other moms say many times that you find yourself doing things as a parent that you didn’t expect, or sounding like your own parents when you swore you never would.

One thing that DOES surprise me, however, is that I’ve welcomed Cinderella into my home with open arms. Or “Wewa,” as Ellie calls her. Yes, that’s right, my two-year-old is on a first-name basis with the High Priestess of Princesses. And I can’t believe I’ve let it happen.

Don’t get me wrong -- I’m the biggest Disney fan you’ll ever meet. I’ve been accused of having some sort of bizarre Disney fetish, in fact. But I’m also a single, never-been-married woman. I’m accustomed to doing things by myself and for myself. I learned a long time ago not to depend on a man to take care of me. Paying the bills, mowing the grass, adopting a kid – I pretty much fend for myself. I’m not a fan of the whole Cinderella mentality of sitting around waiting for the handsome prince to rescue me, cuz a) I don’t particularly need him and b) believe me, girls, I’ve waited a long time, and he ain’t coming.

So, with that attitude, you can imagine that I always saw myself raising a strong, independent daughter who would grow up to be a self-sufficient, take-charge kind of girl. And part of that, for me, was vetoing the whole princess thing. My sister, who is the mother of two girls, and I have talked about this many times – no princess worship allowed in our homes! Disney is fine – bring on Pooh and Tigger, and feed us a diet of Pixar films til we’re quoting Toy Story in our sleep. But deliver us from the evils of Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, et al.

Some of the Disney heroines are okay with me – Mulan, for instance, kicks the Huns’ butts almost single-handedly. And, outside the Disney realm, I’m a fan of the Shrek films and Princess Fiona. The girl goes all Crouching-Tiger-Hidden-Dragon on Robin Hood and his Merry Men, and in Shrek the Third, she pretty much saves the day while the men sit around scratching themselves. But Cinderella was not in the plan for me as a parent. You’re talking to someone who reads the story to her daughter and does her own little ad-lib at the end: “And they lived happily ever after. And then Cinderella went back to school, got her master’s degree, and became an anthropologist.”

So how did I end up with this kid who loves all things princess and frilly and dress-up, and why am I okay with that? Whose kid is this who will sit enraptured no matter how many times she sees the prince kiss Snow White’s dead frozen lips? And who plugs in the damn DVD for her over and over? Ellie clomps around the house in a tutu, a tiara and plastic high heels, and I find it not distressing, but cute and hilarious. What happened to my ideals?

I guess I’ve realized that you can grow up to be a strong, independent woman who thinks for herself and still have a little bit of princess in you. I grew up on a steady diet of Disney fluff, and I went to college at a time when the overarching goal for many of the girls I knew was to catch a husband, not complete a degree. But in the end, I turned out okay, I think. So did my sister, who is married but is still very much her own person. So did many of my friends, who have husbands, fiancés, partners and boyfriends, but still manage to be smart, funny, independent women with minds of their own. So maybe a little Cinderella won’t hurt my daughter, especially when it’s tempered by Mulan and Fiona, and most of all by a mom who establishes very early in life that fairy tales are just that.

Someday maybe Ellie’s prince WILL come. If and when he does, she deserves the full princess treatment. But I still want her to be able to mow her own grass.

I Heart the Undead

I have a confession to make. I am addicted to vampire books. Not the Twilight series – I haven’t tried those yet, and can’t imagine how I would manage not to snicker at vampires who sparkle. Not Anne Rice novels – I can’t read one of her books, because I can’t stop picturing Tom Cruise with fangs. No, I’m hooked on the Southern Vampire Series by Charlaine Harris – perhaps the only books in the world that can make vampires funny. No, not just funny – freakin’ hilarious.

If you have HBO, which I don’t , you may have seen True Blood, the series based on Harris’ books. I had never heard of True Blood until some of my Facebook friends started talking about it. I couldn’t watch it for myself, because vampires are not part of the basic cable package. But it sounded pretty good. So when I found out the show was based on a book called Dead Until Dark, I decided I’d check it out – literally, at the library.

Having never read anything about vampires, I wasn’t sure what to expect. But whatever I was expecting, it was NOT Elvis as a vampire. I don’t want to ruin the joke for you, but suffice it to say that Elvis is not a very good vampire – too many drugs in his system the night he died (or was bitten, or whatever). But it DOES explain all those “Elvis is alive” sightings over the years, doesn’t it? I was not expecting werewolves who have to get naked before they transform at the full moon (cuz wolves don’t wear pants, you know). I was not expecting a telepathic barmaid, a gay fairy (no, that’s actually NOT redundant in this context), a right-wing nutcase church intent on ridding the world of vampires, or an incompetent witch who turns her boyfriend into a cat. I actually find myself laughing out loud at these books, which can be a bit embarrassing when you’re having lunch all by yourself at the local Subway.

There are nine Southern Vampire books out there right now, with number 10 on its way this fall. They’re not the most well-written things I’ve ever read, and the characters are not as fully developed as they might be, and sometimes the plot is a bit silly. But there’s something so endearing about a vampire book that doesn’t take itself too seriously that it makes up for some of the flaws. If Stephanie Meyer had a sense of humor, this is what she would have written.

So next time you’re in the mood for something campy, yet totally addictive, check out Dead Until Dark and its many sequels. You’ll heart the undead, too.

Village People

Long before Ellie came along, I had heard my friends who were moms talk about how it takes a village to raise a child. I had no idea how true that would be for me as a single mom. Ellie’s Village People, as I like to call them, are as active in her life as I am, and some of them see her a lot more than I do. They have been responsible for teaching her the ABCs, taking her on her first visit to the zoo, teaching her to love animals, and feeding her home-cooked meals. They’ve bathed her, put her to bed, changed her britches and wiped her snotty nose in my absence. I truly could not raise this kid without them, and if she turns out to be a fairly sane, functional, employed adult, they will be at least as responsible for that as I am. I thought I’d give them a shout-out here so that you’ll know who they are when they pop up in future posts, and so they’ll know how grateful I am for all their help.

First, there’s Grandma. When I started thinking about adopting, I talked to my mom first, because I knew I would need her help. I travel quite a bit for my job, and I knew I would need her to be the Ellie Hotel when I was out of town. Without hesitation, Mom offered her support and has been there every time I’ve needed her and more. She feeds us about once a week (and often sends us home with leftovers), and keeps Ellie for three or four nights at a time whenever I have to be on the road. This is a woman who works full-time and has her own house to take care of, as well as two other grandchildren, but she never hesitates when I ask if she’s available to help out. She also got on a plane and flew to the other side of the planet with me when I went to Hanoi to meet Ellie. Mom is not a big traveler, and she’s not known for having an adventurous streak. She hates Asian food – she doesn’t even like rice. And she hates hot weather. Yet she spent three weeks in a Communist country, in weather that was approximately 215 degrees, just hanging out, watching bad English-language TV, providing moral support, helping with Ellie, sweating, dealing with difficult people, and eating weird food, just because I needed her. I could NOT have made that trip without her.

Also at Grandma’s house is PawPaw – he’s probably Ellie’s favorite person. She thinks every man she sees is PawPaw, and often points to strange men in public (including Santa Claus) and yells “PAWPAW!” to my intense embarrassment. Dad is the primary male influence in Ellie’s life, and I love that he takes that role seriously, but is still the fun grandpa every kid needs. I love that he’s made such an impression on Ellie that she sees him in every man she meets. Including the very kind African-American man we met the other day at Lowe’s.

My sister and brother-in-law have been incredibly supportive and a huge help (especially with painting my new house!). My sister is the aunt who spoils the kid rotten, and Unka Tim treats her like one of the gang when Ellie is together with his two girls. I figure my nieces are the closest thing Ellie will ever have to siblings, and I SO appreciate my sister and her family including her (and me) in everything they do. In an effort to prove to me that I am NOT the world’s worst mother, my sister has been painfully honest about her own motherhood mistakes, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate her candor, especially when I’m having one of those days where I think CHOOSING to be a single mom is perhaps the dumbest thing I could have ever done.

Then there are the people who have given their days (and sometimes their evenings) to taking care of my daughter. Miss Heather, Miss Dee-Dee, Mr. Bob, and Miss Dana all play a hugely important role in caring for my kid.

Miss Heather is the wife of a co-worker, and watched Ellie daily for the first 15 months after my maternity leave ended. She stepped up at the last minute when another child-care situation had gone south, and kept me from having to place Ellie with a total stranger, or in a day-care center (I know day-care works great for a lot of people, but I haven’t been ready to go there yet). She managed to help out while raising her own kids and working a part-time job, and was responsible for giving my kid a lot of love and a lot of great cooking. I could not have survived my first foray into child-care issues without her.

Miss Dee-Dee, who now watches Ellie five days a week, is going to start working on potty-training next week, God bless her. This is something I am NOT ready to tackle yet, and I feel pretty guilty handing it off to someone else. But I just can’t say no to someone who’s willing to help with a task that I have NO IDEA how to accomplish. Bob, who is Dee-Dee’s husband, told me the other day that Ellie, for whatever reason, comes to him when she has a diaper full of poop. Who knows what’s going on in her little brain, but she seems to believe Bob can handle this situation. I knew I was talking to a guy who loves my kid when I realized he isn’t bothered by this. He just shook his head and said, “For such a little girl, there’s a lot of poop in that baby.”

My friend Dana is Bob and Dee-Dee’s daughter, and is also the single mother of a little girl adopted from Vietnam. Her daughter was in the same orphanage as Ellie, and came home a week after we did. Even though she has her own kid to raise, and her own single-mom issues to deal with, Dana is right there pitching in and helping with my kid when I arrive to pick Ellie up at the end of the day. How could I raise this child without the help of all these people? And where would Ellie be without the extra love and attention they give her? I get teary-eyed just thinking about it.

I’m a pretty independent person, and a pretty private one (at least until I started this blogging business). I fend for myself for the most part, and while I’m okay with asking my mom or my sister for help, I don’t often ask anyone else. It’s not easy for me, and I’m not very comfortable doing it. I can’t tell you what a pleasant surprise it’s been to find that there are people out there who are ready and willing not just to help, but to take an active part in loving my child, all while making me feel that THEY’RE the ones who are receiving a blessing from the whole arrangement. Sometimes I start thinking that the world sucks and that people are just mean. And then I remember Ellie’s Village People.

Waking up Naked

Anyway, you get the idea. We sat around Hanoi waiting for three weeks, and eventually I came home with my daughter. The rest of our time in Hanoi involved a visit to Uncle Ho's house (that's what they call Ho Chi Minh -- really), the opportunity to purchase a gold-painted bust of Uncle Ho (we declined), and the realization that the American Embassy really does not want to be bothered with actual Americans. I found myself looking longingly at the Dutch embassy, wondering if THEY would give me a visa, since my own embassy was studiously ignoring me.

We finally made it home at the end of September 2007. Since then, it seems to me, I've had very much the experience you would expect for the mother of a toddler. It really doesn't cross my mind day-to-day that Ellie is adopted. It's certainly a part of our lives, and I know there will be questions to answer and issues to deal with as she gets older. But the fact of her adoption in no way defines us as a family. I know this sounds weird, but when I look at Ellie, I don't even see an Asian girl. I just see my daughter.

So now that you know our background, and you know that, although my path to parenthood may have been different from yours, it led me to much the same place, let me tell you a little tidbit we've been dealing with at my house lately. This is one of those parenting things I have no idea what to do about (about which I have no idea what to do?).

Several times lately, when I’ve gone in to get Ellie out of her bed in the morning, she’s buck naked. No PJs. No diaper. And sometimes the mattress is wet. She greets me with a grin, points to the bed, and says “pee pee.” Really? You don’t say.

HOW do I get the kid to leave her clothes on?! Are there pajamas out there that would give Harry Houdini a run for his money? Should I wrap the diaper in duct tape? Staple it to her skin? (JUST KIDDING – do not, I repeat, DO NOT call Children’s Services on me). If you have suggestions, I’m listening.

This is not something I ever did as a kid. My sister didn’t either, and believe me, she tried EVERYTHING. My sister’s kids don’t strip down and pee on their pillows. None of my friends has had this problem. Why does my child feel this is a good idea? So far it’s happened in the morning (usually on a weekend, since I have to wake her up during the week), at naptime, and once while she was just sitting on the couch in her playroom, reading a book. I left her for a minute and when I came back, there she sat, naked and calmly paging through Angelina Ballerina.

Am I raising a future nudist? (Evidently not – she’s naked NOW, in the PRESENT). Should I look for a preschool that features Nude Fridays? I don’t want to raise a prude, but this is ridiculous.

File this under “things you never thought you’d hear yourself say” –

“If you take off your diaper again, you’ll have to sit in time-out.”

Your tax dollars at work

The following was originally posted in September 2007, while we were in Hanoi waiting for our illustrious government to issue Ellie a visa. We did a lot of shopping, a lot of sweating, and a lot of playing with my new daughter, but mostly we just waited. And waited. And waited. The Vietnamese government was a delight to work with -- their part of the adoption was done in less than a day. Our government, not so much. And while we waited, this was one of the weirder things that happened:

Cherie, my adoption agency representative, called at 10 a.m. today -- she said the U.S. Embassy had some questions about my homestudy. It seems they needed to know the full name and date of birth of my boyfriend. I asked why -- since we don't live together, Doug is barely mentioned in my home study. Were they trying to catch me lying to them about having a live-in boyfriend? It made no sense to me at all. But I dutifully coughed up Doug's name and birthdate and hung up the phone.

Cherie called back a few minutes later and said Doug was not the person in question -- they were asking about someone named Christian with whom I had apparently lived in the recent past. I told Cherie that I didn't know anyone named Christian, and that I had never lived with anyone except my family and a couple of female roommates shortly after college. Again, I hung up the phone, wondering where on earth the embassy had turned up information that would show me living with someone named Christian -- did they have my Social Security number wrong? Did they think I was lying to them? They just asked me on Monday who lived in my household and I told them just me -- I assumed they didn't want to know about the bunnies. :) What could the problem be?

THEN Cherie called me back to say it wasn't me they were questioning -- it was another family, whose embassy interview was also on Monday. Apparently their questions were for them, not me -- someone had gotten confused. Once again I hung up the phone, convinced the matter was closed.

An hour or so later, Cherie called me back -- you are NOT gonna believe what the embassy wanted to know.

In my homestudy, there is a line that says "Emilie is Christian and is not currently attending church." The embassy wanted Christian's full name and date of birth, and would not proceed with my paperwork until they got what they wanted.

I am not making this up.

How many times have they seen that same line? "Jane Doe is Muslim/Catholic/Jewish/Rastafarian, but does not currently attend mosque/church/temple/whatever Rastafarians attend." It's really not that difficult to decipher, especially considering that the embassy in question is run by -- HELLO -- Americans!! They speak English, don't they?! I've read the line that baffled them a dozen times and I cannot understand what the problem was. Did they recently ask some other woman for the full name and birth date of her boyfriend Jewish? Or her fiance Catholic? Should I have told them that his full name is Jesus Christ and he was born about 4 B.C.?

Cherie actually had to respond to this ridiculous request IN WRITING. The woman actually had to write a letter explaining what the sentence means, and that I don't know anyone named Christian, and that Christian is not, in fact, a person. She emailed me this afternoon to say that the issue is taken care of, as far as she knows.

I asked if my religion, or lack thereof, is an issue -- Cherie assured me it isn't, as the U.S. still had freedom of religion laws the last time she checked.

I anxiously await the embassy's next question: who's buried in Grant's tomb? Do you have Prince Albert in a can? Is your refrigerator running?

More news as it happens . . .

Adventures in the Vietnam Countryside

This is a post I originally wrote in September 2007 about the day I met Ellie. We had traveled to her orphanage in rural Vietnam, and it had been quite an adventure. Some moms have harrowing stories to tell about their experience with labor and delivery -- this is my version of that, I guess. By the way, the shoes I was wearing when this little excursion took place ended up in a Hanoi dumpster.

You would not BELIEVE the day we had yesterday. I would have posted sooner -- I knew people were waiting for photos and news that Ellie was officially mine. But by the time we got back last night, all I wanted was to go to bed. Luckily, Ellie wanted to go to bed, too. :)

We left the hotel at 8:15 a.m. for what was supposed to be a two-and-a-half-hour trip out to the rural province where the orphanage is located. We figured we'd be at the orphanage by 11 at the latest, spend a couple of hours there, and then head into Viet Tri (the province capital) for the giving and receiving ceremony. We were supposed to be there at 2, do our thing, and then be back in Hanoi in time for dinner. Riiiiiiight.

We got stuck in traffic in Hanoi and didn't even get out of town til nearly 9:30. As I've said, there are no traffic laws here, so when there's a back-up, there's nothing to bring an end to it. The drivers here know this, of course, so they do everything they can to get around the traffic jam, rather than just waiting patiently for it to work itself out. Our bus driver decided the best way around the mess was to do a U-turn in the middle of a four-lane street, manuever his way the wrong direction through traffic, backtrack over all the ground we had covered, pass the hotel AGAIN, and take a different route out of town. By the time we left Hanoi, we had been in the bus more than an hour and had covered about a mile.

We headed out into the countryside, and passed Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum on the way out of town. The locals call him Uncle Ho. There's a joke in there somewhere, but I'm going to stay away from it.

You don't have to get very far out of Hanoi to see the poverty get exponentially worse. At first we were glued to the view out the bus windows -- we couldn't believe people lived this way. But after several hours of it, I hate to say it, but we were sort of immune to it. You can only take in so much.I lost count of all the cows we saw in the road, all the ox carts we passed, and all the motorcyclists we nearly killed. We also saw several water buffalo and some cebu -- if you're a Veggie Tales fan, you'll know why that's funny.

We drove and drove and drove. And drove and drove and drove. And drove. And drove and drove. And drove. The two-and-a-half-hour trip was going on four hours by this time. We finally arrived around 1 p.m., only to find that the road to the orphanage had been washed out by a rain storm the night before.

But have I mentioned that we had to go to the bathroom on the way? Needless to say there are no rest areas or truck stops in rural Vietnam -- there aren't even any real roads once you get outside the city. So we stopped at what I think was a gas station, which had what I think were supposed to be restrooms. Only the restrooms provided neither rest nor rooms -- they just provided holes in the ground, over which one squats and . . . well, you get the picture. It was an experience I'm not eager to repeat anytime soon.

But I digress. We arrived at the entrance to the orphanage, and instead of the gravel road we were expecting, we found a washed-out mud hole. Our bus couldn't begin to navigate such a mess, so our agency representative called the orphanage (yes, we had cell phone service in the absolute middle of Southeast Asian Nowhere. I have no idea how or why) and asked them to send their jeep down to get us. They informed us that the jeep could not navigate the mess, either. So we were stuck. Our only choices were to have the orphanage workers bring the babies out to us on the ever-present motorbikes, or walk up the road in ankle-deep mud for a half-mile or so.

We opted for the ankle-deep mud. We wanted to see where our kids had been living, we wanted to meet the caregivers, and we wanted to give the other kids the gifts we had brought. Oh, yeah, did I mention we were delivering four TVs? Our group had chipped in to buy something for the orphanage, and the gift consisted of four flat-screen TVs -- one each for the older boys' room and the older girls' room, and two for the common areas. The TVs were stacked in the back of the bus, and they had to get up the orphanage somehow. We also had two full suitcases, numerous bags and packages, and all our diaper bags, etc.

So off we went up the road and through the mud. It sounds happy, like "over the river and through the woods." Believe me when I say it was NOT happy. But I'd do it again 100 times if that's what it took to get to Ellie. We got part of the way up the road and were met by orphanage staff on motorbikes -- they loaded us up and took us the rest of the way up to the orphanage. I and several others were wearing dresses -- riding a motorcycle was not on our agenda for the day. Some of the other riders took our bags and packages -- you'd be surprised what they can balance on the back of a bike -- and some workers actually walked all the way out to the bus and carried the TVs back. We were quite a parade.

We arrived at the orphanage, hosed our feet off out in the courtyard, and went in to meet our children. We didn't know it when we arrived, but our children were the first ever to be adopted from this particular orphanage. The workers were new to the whole process -- they had never before seen a bunch of foreigners come in and walk off with their kids. They clearly didn't understand what was going on, and were quite upset by the whole thing. On top of it, the facility also holds several elderly people, who understood even less about what was going on than the workers did. When we approached the building, the older folks just started handing us babies -- they didn't understand that we were there to pick up specific babies that had been assigned to us. They just thought we were there to pick out the cutest ones for ourselves, and they all wanted us to take the ones they were holding.

We finally made it to the room where our kids were, and I finally got to meet Ellie! She's beautiful, and has done amazingly well so far, considering that I'm a total stranger. She slept through the night last night -- 9:30 p.m. to 5 a.m. -- and went to bed tonight at 6:30. I thought she was just going to take a short nap, but she's been out for nearly three hours now. Of course, we may be up in the middle of the night playing for a few hours, but that's okay. :)

We hiked back out through the mud, and were again taken part of the way on motorbikes. Ellie seemed to enjoy her first ride, but I was less sure of myself, trying to balance a baby on the back of a bike.

At the foot of the mud pit, we hosed our feet off again in the barnyard of a local family who were kind enough to offer us their limited water supply. Remind me to show you the pictures I took of the pig, who was watching us all with skepticism.

We went back into Viet Tri for the Giving and Receiving ceremony, or the G&R, which some of my traveling companions pointed out stands for Guns 'n' Roses. That took an hour or so -- it's the official end of the Vietnamese adoption process. As far as they're concerned, she's all mine now. None of us looked much like we belonged at an official ceremony -- mud, sweat and jet lag had combined to make us a pretty bedraggled lot. But I've never seen a happier bunch.

The babies did really well on the ride home -- better than the parents, probably, who had had ENOUGH of the bus by then. We made it back to our room around 9 and were in bed by 9:30.

Today we applied for the babies' passports, and with any luck will have our first of two appointments with the U.S. Embassy later this week. Next week includes a medical exam and the second embassy appointment, as well as getting Ellie's visa. Then we're free to come home! Can't wait to see you all and introduce you to my daughter!

Meeting Ellie for the first time

Signing the official paperwork at the Giving and Receiving Ceremony. Or "cernemony," as the sign on the wall said. Their English needs a little work.

Feekin' Out

Just a little glimpse into what I was thinking and feeling when I finally got the news that I would soon be traveling to Vietnam to meet Ellie (originally posted August 2007). And if your kids have not read "Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus," I highly recommend it.

I got my travel dates yesterday -- I leave SEPTEMBER 6!!! When I asked the agency person who called when I would be leaving, she said "How soon can you be packed?" I thought she was kidding, but she really wasn't. September 6 is TWO WEEKS FROM TOMORROW. That means that by September 10, I could be holding my daughter.

One of my two-year-old niece's favorite books is "Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus." If you've read it, you know that near the end, the pigeon has a major meltdown because he's not allowed to drive the bus. When we get to that page, I always ask my niece what that crazy pigeon is doing. Her answer? "He's feekin' out." I have come to think of this as its own verb. Not freakin', not wiggin', not flippin'. Feekin'. Spelled just like that in my head, too. Not feakin'. Feekin'.

Well, suffice it to say that I'm feekin' out a little bit. Not much. But a little. Booking plane tickets and making hotel reservations suddenly made all this seem very real. I'm not second-guessing myself, I'm not wondering what I'm getting into -- I want to be a mom, and I certainly haven't changed my mind about that. But I AM hyperventilating a little for the first time since I began this process. I imagine it's similar to what a biological mom experiences about two weeks before her due date. "Oh. My. God. I'm going to be somebody's MOM." I guess there would be something wrong with me if I DIDN'T feel that way. It usually takes a lot to rattle me, but this has done it.

My dad, helpful soul that he is, pointed out to me last night that I've had nearly twice as long as a biological mother to get myself adjusted to the idea of being a parent. He said I should, in fact, be ready for twins (thanks, Pa). But let me tell you, that extra few months didn't do anything to further prepare me for this. It just lulled me into a false sense of security. When you wait more than a year for a baby, it's easy to start thinking you won't actually ever get one.

Well, I'm getting one. And I can't wait to meet her. This whole experience has been an adventure, and I'm looking forward to the next part, which will no doubt be the best part yet. I'm glad our travel dates came up as quickly and unexpectedly as they did -- now that they've told me I'm going, the sooner the better. And someday I'll get to tell Ellie that on the day I met her, I was filled with joy, and was also feekin' out.

You can't fix stupid

Sometimes I feel like that kid in "The Sixth Sense" -- I see dumb people. Ever since I decided to adopt, I've dealt with a certain amount of stupid. Like the lady at the restaurant the other day who asked if Ellie would be bilingual. I wanted to say "Yes, I intend to teach her Spanish." I need to wear a sign around my neck that says "She came home when she was five months old. I do not speak Vietnamese, so WHY WOULD SHE?!"

The stupid started long before I left for Vietnam to meet Ellie, and it was one of the first things I blogged about. So here's an early take on it, originally posted in August 2007:

Dumb things said recently:

To me, by a co-worker: "So will you be taking a pseudo-maternity leave?"
Me, to co-worker: "No, I'll be taking a REAL maternity leave, as I am not going to be a pseudo-mom with a pseudo-child."
Co-worker: "Uh, yeah, that's what I meant."

To my single-adoptive-mother friend Dana, by the idiot woman at the Babies R Us registry counter: "Are you going to list a father on the registry?"
Dana, to idiot: "No."
Idiot, after further perusal of Dana's form: "Ooooooh, I see why you're not listing a father -- it's an adoption. You don't know who the mother and father are, do you?"
Dana, after looking down to make sure she was still visible: "I'm pretty sure I'm going to be the mother."

To my adoptive-mother friend Leslie, by the moron sitting next to her at the nail salon on the day Leslie received her referral of her gorgeous girl: "That's so sad, that the baby is stuck in an orphanage -- she'll never know who her mom is."
Leslie, to moron: "Why wouldn't she know me? She'll be living with me."
Moron: But it's so sad -- what if she isn't ever able to find her parents?"
Leslie, with fake painted-on smile, trying hard to be patient: "I'M her parent -- she won't have to go looking for me because I'll be RIGHT THERE. This is a HAPPY DAY."

As my mom says, you can't fix stupid.
_____________________________________________________

Okay, back to 2009: Now that I have a few months' experience, I can say that, in general, people who ask about Ellie's background aren't stupid -- they're very nice and I'm usually pleasantly surprised at how kind they are. But there's a lot of dumb out there.

Thanks to my friend Elaine at Looking for George, I have my second follower -- Kelli!! Woo hoo!!

The Road to Motherhood

Sort of like The Road to the Final Four, only not. See, here's the thing: I didn't get into this motherhood gig the way most people have. It was a long and winding road involving a non-committal boyfriend, a realization in my late 30s that marriage and kids were apparently not in my future, and a head-over-heels love of my niece, which led me to decide that I HAD to find a way to be a mom, husband or no.

I've known since high school that I wanted to adopt, and that it would most likely be an international adoption (more on the reasons for that at a later date). I've long planned to create my family through whatever combination of birth and adoption God gave me -- I just didn't know I'd be doing it by myself, or that biological kids wouldn't play any role at all. But I'm nothing if not flexible. So down the yellow brick adoption road I skipped.

The route that led me to Vietnam, and to Ellie, was long and somewhat complicated (think Wicked Witch and flying monkeys), and I'm not going to get into the details of it here and now. Stay tuned for more info as it's relevant. However, I do want to replay here some excerpts from the little family-and-friends blog I kept while I was in Vietnam. I think it will help you understand what our three weeks in Hanoi were like, what my thought process was as I became a mom, and how I came to the point in my life where I'm chasing a two-year-old Asian girl around and worrying about what I'm going to feed her for dinner.

So here it is, my first appearance as my own guest blogger:
(Originally posted August 2007)

Some of my family members (and you KNOW who you are) have been bugging, I mean gently encouraging, me to create a blog so that the folks at home can follow my trip to Vietnam to meet Ellie. So here it is -- are you happy now?!

I received my referral for a baby girl from north Vietnam on Aug. 2. She was born April 12, and as of July 4, weighed about 13 pounds. My pediatrician at Children's Hospital tells me she appears to be healthy, and I can't wait to meet her! Her Vietnamese name is Nyugen Thi Hoa -- I'll be naming her Eleanor and calling her Ellie. In fact, my family has been calling her Ellie for months already -- it was just a matter of meeting the girl who fit the name. My niece now thinks every baby's name is Ellie -- just ask her.

I'm expecting to be able to go to Hanoi to pick her up in mid-September, but I'm still waiting for official word from the Vietnamese government. I'll post my travel dates as soon as I know them.
Traveling with me and my mom will be three other families who have become good friends throughout this process -- their daughters are in the same orphanage as Ellie, they all live in this area, and all four girls were born in April. (These families are also responsible for helping me escape from the Evil Empire, aka my previous agency, which I left in April). I'm grateful that our daughters will grow up in the same area and have each other to turn to as they grow up.

That's all the news for now -- I'll post travel dates soon, and then you'll be able to follow my Vietnam adventure!


Ellie's referral photo -- this was my first glimpse of her little face

Doritos for Dinner

Long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I had a life that did not involve snotty noses, wet diapers, sticky fingers and a naked baby streaking through the house after a bath. I did not have fingerprints on my TV screen. I did not have juice stains on my sofa. My decor did not include a Little Tikes miniature plastic kitchen and a rocking horse. I had a boyfriend. I could read a book in peace. I could take a nap, or watch a movie, or go on vacation. I could eat out at a nice restaurant -- somewhere that didn't have chicken fingers and grilled cheese on the menu. It wasn't a bad life -- I was pretty happy with it, actually. And I wouldn't go back to it for any amount of money.

This previous existence, you see, was pre-baby. I became a mother in September 2007, and while I had some idea what to expect, I could never have anticipated the joy, the laughter, the frustration and the mass chaos that have come as part of the package. It's been a wild ride so far, and it promises to keep getting wilder.

As someone who's still pretty new to the whole mom thing, I've been very lucky to have a wonderful group of fellow-mom-friends who have the grace, courage, humor and honesty to be straight with me about the perils and joys of their own journeys through motherhood. Over the last 18+ months, they've kept me sane, made me laugh, and given me a shoulder or three to cry on. As I've reflected on what a blessing it's been to share this long, strange trip with them, I've decided that I want to share it with you, too. If a small group of friends is good, a larger group is better, I figure.

So, with that in mind, welcome to Doritos for Dinner -- a place where I'll share with you my travels through the land of parenthood, the rewards and challenges of single motherhood, and the laughter that comes with having a child in my life. And also the amount of therapy my daughter will someday need, due to my parenting skills or lack thereof.

I also plan to use my electronic soapbox as a place to indulge my writing fetish, air my random thoughts, embarrass my daughter and generally speak my mind. I hope you're okay with that.

And just for the record, I have not fed my daughter Doritos for dinner. Yet.