You're Invited To My Clink Party

Thank you so much for coming! Here, let me take your coat. Feel free to warm up by the fire. Help yourself to some coffee and hot cocoa in the kitchen. Do grab a plate of yummy cake and cookies on your way by. 

Now that your body is warm and your belly is happy, let's get this party started!

Let's raise our mugs of deliciousness, and toast to the interwebs!

Clink*

Hey! Speaking of interwebs and clinks, I'm starting a trend. Instead of wasting valuable time and energy saying "Click the link", I'm coining the phrase "Clink". So, welcome to my very first Clink Party! I'm so glad you came. Refill anyone?

This Clink Party is held in honor of National Orphan Awareness Month, which just so happens to be going on right now. Last November, I wrote several posts on this topic, and instead of reinventing the wheel, I'm linking my posts below (along with a few other posts dedicated to adoption).

So...

Clink.

Our Journey to Sophia (Part One and Part Two)
Two Year Ruminations
Good Arms Are Still Wrong Arms

Grab a warmer from the coffee pot.

Perspective Shift
The Day My Heart Broke

Those ones are tough. Stop for now. The links aren't going anywhere. Digest. Pray. Weep. Seek.

Loving Whales and Orphans
A World Without Orphans: A Picture of Hope

We are the hope. May it spur us to action beyond ourselves.

Obstacles
What Can You Do?

And for a little silliness: Oh The Things People Say and Oh The Things I Want To Say**

I'm so glad you stayed! Before I walk you to the door, will you please accept a small party favor?

Blessings,

Cynthia




*Although...I have a feeling that filled mugs make more of a clank sound when used for a toast. 
**Alright, fine! I've said some of them. Most of them. 

Hair-Raising Conversations

Usually when I leave the house with the girls, we resemble a three-ring circus. By the time I get to our destination, sometimes I don't feel like answering nosy questions from strangers. Selfish, I know. I try to be courteous and assume people truly want to be more knowledgeable of the ins and outs of adoption. Sometimes people begin by assuming all those children are mine. That's good. That way we get to skip a slew of awkward questions:

Are you a nanny?
No.
Babysitting?
No.
How many times have you been married?
What?!? I don- Oh forget it. She's adopted.

If you assume she's mine we can advance to the second set of awkward questions:

So is adoption expensive?
Yes.
*crickets chirping*

How do you manage her hair?
Well, mostly trained monkeys, but sometimes I actually give it a whirl. 

And that's where I'm camping today, folks. Hair. Pitch a tent, and get a fire blazing, because this is going to be a doozy of a camping trip.

First of all, I am aware that I'm white. I am also under no grand delusions that at the moment of adoption my fingers were infused with a special afro intuition. Any knowledge and skills I possess are the culmination of years of research, months of practice and a good dose of trial and error vigorously stirred together with persistence.

Unfortunately, there are times that I am judged based on my daughter's less-than-perfect hair style. There are sidelong glances, critical stares, obnoxious glares and even opinions voiced. I can handle the glances. Really, I can. I don't pretend to know the motive behind furtive appraisals from black women. I imagine any number of thoughts run through their minds: How does she know how to do that? I bet she had someone else do it. That looks terrible! That is downright impressive given her stick-straight hair. Whatever. I don't care. What truly bugs me are the not-so-subtle critical eyes and tongues. Partially I want to protect my own pride. I don't like feeling defensive around someone who happens to have more melanin than me. But, mostly I want to protect my daughter's confidence. God created her with tiny coils all over her head, and I'm in love with every single strand. One day soon she will begin noticing the disapproving eyes and taking notice of the negative comments. My response will play a large part in molding a tenacious love of her natural locks.

So, to the black woman in the grocery store, I know sometimes I don't strike the right moisturizing balance in my daughter's hair, or have the neatest, tightest cornrows. But out of love, I will continue to unpack this mysterious world (along with its bazillion products on the market, thank you very much). I realize I do strike a defensive posture and I'm sorry. I'm sure I come across haughty. Perhaps a warmer response on my part will encourage kinder words on your part?

And, to the black mama at the library, encouragement goes such a long way and I could have smothered you in hugs until we looked for all the world like a soft-served swirl ice-cream cone. Your sweet words were (and continue to be) a precious balm to my confidence as a vanilla mama to a chocolate daughter. I loved commiserating about the woes of misplaced silk caps, new hair growth that sticks out no matter what and the effects of dry winter weather on kinky hair. You offered a rare and far-reaching gift to my daughter and I: A soft place to land and grace to welcome us there.

Finally, to white folks near and far, my skills are rudimentary and I'm winging it 95% of the time. I am not an impressive white woman who has cracked the sacred hair code. I know we are used to running a brush through our hair and calling it good, so anything beyond fifteen minutes seems criminal. I do not feel that Sophia's hair is a burden. No, I don't enjoy every moment of detangling. Yes, it is wildly beneficial for attachment. Every style is an adventure and every product an experiment.* I am a mad scientist and loving it! There's no need to feel sorry for me.

To end on a high note, I'll share the latest hair lesson I have learned: Baubles at the end of the hair provide the perfect activity center on the go for a certain baby who-shall-remain-nameless. Also, a laundry basket + hair clips = a picture-worthy kerfuffle.**

Yes, her hair beads got caught in the laundry basket, and yes, I took pictures.

Learning As I Go,
Cynthia



*Eat your heart out, Indiana Jones.
**I wasn't fast enough on my feet to catch a photo of my oldest, who (somehow) managed to get her hair wedged fast between the seat and back of her dinner chair. Never. A. Dull. Moment.

If You Can't Say Something Nice...

...Don't say anything at all.

Humor is practically a requirement in the world of adoption.

Things People Say:

She's so lucky.
We're both blessed to have each other.

Where is her real mom?
I'm not imaginary. 

Does she speak English?
Nope. We're closet Amharic speakers.

Why didn't you adopt from the U.S.?
They were fresh out of orphans.*

Now that you've adopted, I bet you'll get pregnant!
It's not a fertility treatment.**

I always wanted to adopt.
Crickets chirping
What a nice story.

She's so cute. I don't know how someone could give her away.
Because all major life decisions are based on appearances.

Your birth mom loved you so much. That's why she gave you away.
Thanks for giving my kid a complex about parental love.

She's going to be a track star!***
Yesterday she ran into a wall.

Does she get along with your other kids?
Snort
Like sisters.

I think it's great that you adopted when you could just have your own.
They are all my own. I promise none of them are loaners.

Where did you get her?
Three words: Blue Light Special.

Now you, at least, know what not to say to adoptive families.

Laugh a Little,
Cynthia



*I jest. Every family arrives at this decision for different and personal reasons.
**For the record, we were trying to conceive our latest peanut. However, if you're saying this to someone who struggles with infertility, don't be surprised if you get punched in the face.
***The stereotypes vary depending on what country your child is from. Because everyone knows that all Africans are fast runners, all Asians are mathematical geniuses and all Russians are alcoholics.