Remembering It's My Summer, Too

The first few evenings of summer break from school were euphoric -- I didn't have to race kids through a routine and to bed by any certain time.  I could read for hours, stay up late, and sleep until rested.  I actually thought to myself, clearly and precisely, "I can't believe it's summer."  A true and appreciated pleasure.

Then, self-inflicted responsibilities kicked in and we got into a routine of productivity, leaving ample time for the kids to play as they should.  BUT.  Four kids needing some help from two parents for their small snippets of work proved to demand a lot of me and of Chad.  To the point where burn-out was building for two teacher types who need a legit dose of recuperating and rejuvenating to be prepared to start up the intense 9-month academic year come August.  And bonding with new kids (and "old" kids) doesn't happen well when there's a lack of fun and smiling  .  .  .  For the sake of all, I am recapturing the sense of joy over summer that I'd lost for myself; letting go of some of the "getting done" to indulge in the luxury of time.  Sometimes I forget that it is I who made the list -- not another person will care, really, if some things go undone.

Starting with a bang, going really crazy, I stayed in bed until 10, and then savored a bit of self-care:  long, hot shower, floofa (household lexicon for loofah) with a gift-set of world's best-smelling shower gel, highlighted hair (toasted coconut; Walmart); pedicure (feet in hot tub of lavender Aveeno bubbling bath soak) followed by basic scrub, file, sand-cream exfoliate, thick greasy lotion, and citron-green polish.  Kids played nicely and agreeably with Bey blades and Barbies -- pleased that Mom didn't seem to notice they had "checklist items" yet to do.  They stayed calm, happy, and at some distance in hopes their peace wouldn't be interrupted with parental commands.  Yes, a slowdown in daily accomplishments is, indeed, needed by us all -- confirmed.

I finally made my way downstairs around noon for whole-grain English muffins and home-made vanilla latte (strong brew of Duncan Decaf via coffee press with skim and a dash of vanilla extract).  Checking email, opening blinds, assessing which items I WANT to work on today. 

[That's the thing -- I typically actually ENJOY much of what I work on (arranging get-togethers with friends, reading, creative lesson-making for school, showing things to my kids and listening to them, making things around the house prettier and/or more efficient  .  .  .  The PROBLEM is that I am a habitual "shoulder" -- I "should on" myself all  of  the  time.  A performance evaluation at school never surprises me, as I've already "should on" myself multiple areas of improvement, ten-fold that of any potential outside critic.  How my wardrobe needs updated, or what my children have yet to learn, or what I've not yet read or viewed  .  .  .  I already know -- way too much I always see that could be done, and I tell myself should be done.  The creator and artist in me dreams things up, and the pragmatic organizer and do-er in me assigns the tasks for follow-through.  Introvert who likes people.  Intuitive-sensory hybrid.  Thinker.  Judger with healthy dose of perceiver.  I'm a Meyers-Briggs blend of Mastermind, Crafter, Architect, Inspector  .  .  .  and a "Forgetter to give self a rest-er" (the last is not in the book).  And I say this as humble admission of one of my greatest weaknesses.  Thus, today, I slow myself, again.]

All kids have brushed teeth and eaten breakfast and rinsed cereal bowls (whole grain with skim) into the sink -- on their own.  (Typically would take for granted and see what needs to be taught further.)  Today, I see their self-care and respectful helping.

The boys play upstairs.  (Usually I would hear the too-loud, occasional thumping on the floor.)  Today, I realize they've played for four hours without any electronics.

The girls paint together, and Anna asks, "Mom, what music is it that you play on the TV?"  It's jazz.  She wants to paint to jazz music.  And Baylor joins her, as the girls peacefully share supplies and space.  They talk and complement one another's work.  Anna had begun her work before I came down to the main floor; painting happily with a nice, big, paint shirt to protect her clothing.  Yes.

Lunch, then swim lessons, and swing by to pick up Hunter's play pal on the way home.  Poolside I discovered another watching mom had been through the adoption journey -- her daughter adopted in infancy, from Guatemala.  We shared stories back and forth -- there were some things we both understood that comes with the trainings, the waiting, processes, worries  .  .  .  the complicated roller coaster.  She shared her moment -- one I'd anticipated, but our coarse has taken a different route -- when she landed on U.S. soil with her new infant daughter in her arms.  The immigration gentleman at the airport congratulated her on their arrival to the U.S. and her daughter's finalized adoption and IR3 VISA, "Congratulations, she's a U.S. citizen."  Chills.  She said she sobbed.  I would have.  I mourn the loss of having that moment.  I know we'll have our own moments, unexpected and unplanned and different.  For now, we wait 2 years and then will fill out applications.

Dinner delivered by Papa Johns (XL 1/2 mushroom, 1/2 cheese; small sausage) with "home food" (grapes and bananas) on the side. 

The tropical-looking plant I bought for the whiskey barrel on our concrete patio -- picked it up because it was supposed to grow large and it was cheap -- blossomed.  Large, gorgeous orange flowers!  And many, many more buds.  Hm.  Don't even know what this plant is called.  Anyone? Soon the six hibiscus plants will burst with color -- bought deliberately with thoughts of Haiti, and the small bamboo-looking foliage (reminiscent of tropical Hotel Karibe landscaping) grew back in robust fashion.  The herb pots are doing well, stevia, basil, lavender, mint, and dill; although the dill seeded before I gathered the leaves for dill weed.  The kids continue to be amazed that stevia is a sugar-free, chemical-free sweetener.  Really, really sweet!

Inside play, outside play, ice cream sundaes.  Time to take the friend home.  Then, showers and bedtime for my four.  And quiet time for me  .  .  .  after I take my tour of the house to do as promised -- pick up whatever they fail to put away during their final sweep of the house.  With their level of confidence, I figure it will be a quick tour and futile activity; unfortunately, I could not have been more wrong. 

Note:  These items were not in containers.  This is actually a collection of stuff that I found at random in toy rooms, bedrooms, and the like.  Sigh.  BUT -- the kids have the "natural consequence" of earning these things back by paying me in time and effort for the work I had to do to collect the mess  .  .  .  looks like I'll have quite a bit of help in the morning with wiping floors and dusting!  Tee hee hee  .  .  .  NOW, it's time for Special K with chocolate pieces  .  .  .

And then a retiring to my cozy bed for more reading of Edwidge Danticat, and visit within yet another of her books the reality faced by the average Haitian.  Unfathomable.  Reminding me, yet again, how soft I am -- spoiled, ridiculous.  I can't believe it's summer, and I have food, and clean water, and medical care, and a safe home, and air conditioning, and a soft bed with thick covers and soft pillows, and  .  .  .

Disjointed

Ordering pink eyeglasses at Wal-Mart that took awhile, and a preteen feeling uncertain about the new change in her routine, her appearance; even if they're pink.  Lots of produce and paper products bought, too.  Lots.  Inviting a few of the kids' school friends over -- one each, times four.  Two come to play, and two messages are left.  One calls -- penciled in for Wednesday.  Another for tomorrow at the park.  Dropping off, picking up.  More friends they wish to call, to invite, to see; another day, I tell them.  Bay and her pal play at the "old grade school" across the fence from our backyard; nostalgic.  It's where they attended until two years ago, when the new building was complete a mile or so away.  The former place is still a school, just inhabited by different kids; and the playground is exactly as it has always been.  Pretending it is still theirs.

An all-fruits-and-veggies dinner with sliced, sauteed-in-real-butter red beats as the anchor.  Sprinkled with sea salt.  Baylor eats heavily.  The others do just fine.  English work page and sight words for one, reading and journal writing for another, and math for all four.  Bay inquires about "lesson from Mom or Dad," which is a filler so Anna and Jameson don't feel like they've got more work than the others, but I often dismiss it for the sake of my own time and exhaustion.  But Bay persists.  She is a sponge and wants to know things; new things.  I toss out the idea of going to the map in her toyroom and reading the names of the Caribbean Islands.  She does, happily, as I tend to the language work of the others at the counter, and my headache.

I make return calls to my sister; her boy's checkup with the specialists in Indy went well.  And Mom -- her cancer prescription isn't causing too much grief.  Energy is pretty good, and she's quilting like crazy.  We'll all be together on The Fourth. 

We cover our religion lesson, and the kids work at it nicely.  Anna and Jameson want to become Catholic and receive communion like the rest of us do already, and the religious education director at church offered materials so that the quantity of material didn't have to be overwhelmingly packed into 8 months (fall through Easter).  I teach, adjusting the work pages to the kids' ages and academic abilities, including Hunter and Bay for a family feel.  The review won't hurt them, that's for sure.  The kids listen, write brief answers, and share in turns.  This is Anna's favorite of all her study areas.  They show a sense of respect, and yet, it is still apparent that the beet-induced pink pee they've witnessed during breaks to the powder room is more captivating than the water-to-wine transformation at Cana.

Showers, clean up, into bed.  My head is throbbing; please, ibuprofen, work!  I rub Anna's back; Bay is already asleep after her heartburn.  I explain that with school work there are three ways:  1. Look at the work, see that you know it and it's easy, and you just do it.  2.  See that it's not quick and easy and think you can't do it, and don't.  And that most learning in American schools is in the middle, #3 -- Look at it, read it, think about it, reread it, think some more, and then solve the challege or ask the teacher something specific that you've narrowed down as your particular sticking point.  She asked for me to explain how to ask the right kinds of questions.  She is getting it -- what we mean when we expect her to "work at it," "to think."  I float into the dimly lit boys' room to quiet their talking.  They've taken to slumbering in Hunter's single bottom bunk; it's summer, and it's sweet.  They look up at me as if they are cojoined twins and grin.  I remember the late eves in childhood of talking with my sister; rubbing each other's backs when we had to share a bed at Grandma's.

The throbbing in my head has ceased and only a tolerable discomfort remains.  Trying to do too much yesterday and distressing about so little checked off the list today -- thinking, planning, orchestrating.  the pain reminds me that "THIS IS SUMMER!" 

Slow down you, crazy fool.  And I do.

Goin' Normal

Made our semi-regular trip to Portrait Innovations at the Shops (Shoppes?) at College Hills 45 minutes north of home in Normal (yes, that's the actual name of the city) -- for the annual quick, inexpensive, fun, prop-filled "birthday" picture-taking.  It was supposed to be to get caught up with Jameson and with Bay (belated; bdays were in Feb. and March!), and then I realized that Anna's bday is just over a week away, and, so, we gotta get hers, too.  THEN, it was brought to my attention by the nice lady on the phone that I can use the $9.95 promotional package deal only once every 3 months, and I got to thinkin' that I'd better do all four kiddos together in a group shot for the package deal (Hunter's NEXT birthday is just 2 months away) and do one cheap add-on sheet of each kids' individual pose.  (Anna -- pinky-purply dress and new favorite doll in matching colors; Hunter -- GIJoes shirt and khaki/camo attire topped with Pap Cluver's Marines' hat from Vietnam; Jameson -- red/blue/white plaid shorts and red top surrounded by his four favorite plush animals; Bay -- denim skirt, cowgirl boots, and tropical scarf (?) with Toy Story's "Jesse" doll and other Disney critters.)  I'm too, um, frugal (shall we say) to buy expensive enough packages that include the photo CD; so, this 'scription is what I gots for ya.  That's lots o' outfits and props, but we got it done -- pose-to-print -- in 40 minutes.  Great pictures, kids well-behaved, prompt service.  Check.

Two orders of dough nuggets with marinara dipping sauce at Firehouse Pizza something-or-other also at College Hills.  Can't remember the exact name of the restaurant, but boy have I remembered for a year and a half the name of that delectable "appetizer" that I've made a meal on more than one visit.  Freshly deep-fried yeast dough nuggets sprinkled with garlic salt and served up with a perfectly balanced sweet-tangy tomato sauce  .  .  .  refined carb Heav-en!   Four lidded kids' cups with bendy straws and a totally nice waitress made for family snacking perfection. Yum.

A couple of sale items from Children's Place (best kids' clothes store ever; okay, a tie with Target). 

Two donuts each from Krispy Kreme  .  .  .  yes, sugar coma is underway.  Totally.  After twenty minutes into the kids' intrigue of the chocolate cake donut production line (through store-length window for customer viewing), I finally managed to bribe them out of the store with the promise of a library trip.  Movin' on.

Books and movies returned.  Reading program cards checked in and prizes got.  New books and movies checked-out and zipped into backpacks before the dash in the rain to the van.  "Day out" done.

Just as Anna received her "Our Generation" doll as a random "love you" and "catching up on missed childhood" gift, Jameson was interested in having a "big guy" (like the 10" GIJoe guy Hunter has), but "brown."  As GIJoe doesn't have any movies on the immediate horizon, the merchandise is really, really scarce.  Yesterday I picked up a large-sized "Goliath" figure (from the "Thor" story), and figured if it wasn't right enough, I could return it and keep on the search.  Late this afternoon, upon pulling it out from under my desk and pulling off the bag, Jameson's face lit up -- big -- "OH, COOL!" (smile, smile, smile), and tight, long, thank-you hug.  Mommy mission accomplished.

And now, as we move into the evening, the kids munch on leftover dough nuggets and donuts (great dinner, huh?), Anna has painted her large wooden "A" and added sprinkles, water-colored a gorgeous sunset painting, and done her yoga.   The boys and Bay are watching the "boy library movies" in the girls' playroom.  And I'm tying up loose ends while chillin' in my favorite sweats before Chad and I watch (finally!) "Slumdog Millionaire." 

Lots of little somethings for everyone.

[Disclaimer:  My kinfolk (and kids!) can attest that my children are often strong-armed into eating fruits, vegetables, proteins, fiber -- in the form of "sticks and twigs" (kidding!); actually, lots of Kashi granola, yogurt, nuts, seeds, berries, poultry, bananas, mixed greens  .  .  .  And my high school and college friends and coworkers and adult friends and, okay, lots of people, know I also like carbs and sugar.  Ya gotta live a little.  Or a lot.]

Random Pics

After returning from swim lessons, three o' the kiddos waged a water war.  Miss Anna preferred to dry off and warm up inside with her Hannah Montana DVD from the library  .  .  .

Once back inside, the three youngest of the younglings opened up shop; two shoppes, actually -- "Baylor's Herb Farm and Super Market" (our pantry), and the boys' comic book store (no sign, no official name).  The guys' low-key marketing ploy seemed to draw in the dough (home-made money) from each other and from Bay, while the gal complained that she wasn't getting enough business  .  .  .

Ya know, Uncle Ben's Ready Rice, plastic vials of oregano, sage, and dill, and Mom's bottles of

salmon oil pills and probiotics just aren't what the young crowd is shoppin' for these days  .  .  .



Some wittle crafties Mom is proud of  .  .  . sparkle-centered fleur hair clippies for the girlies  .  .  .

"British" hats in prep for Anna's birthday high tea with sibs  .  .  . proud because I made this up while roaming Target and Walmart -- a plastic bowl, pink tulle, artificial pink peony, and white feathers (only ~$3 per hat!); all that viewing of the royal wedding paid off!

And Daddy's contribution to the landscape aesthetics  .  .  .

Gettin' things done, havin' some fun!

Perfect Storm

In case I've got my phraseology and symbology backasswords, as I sometimes do, this is a positive moment created by a number of factors converging as a collective causative force  .  .  .  The.  Girls.  Were.  Friends.  Today.  Like, really friends.  Not just general politeness, but unselfconsicous, interactive, vulnerable play -- for hours and hours and hours -- the kind of talk and frivolity one has with someone when you are interested in how much fun they are having, when you want them to like you, when you care.  Dolls in the morning; dolls to church (in van, not into mass); dolls to soccer; and then -- a full-blown birthday tea party for Anna's doll in the toyroom complete with singing, chatting, sharing of plastic birthday cake on tiny porcelin plates.  And this evolved into lights-out, strobe light dance party of all four sibs in the playroom.  Needless to say, Daddy and I did not shuffle them off to showers and bed at regular time, but let the magic roll on.

Of course, it wasn't all rainbows and butterflies; one daughter was less than happy

about sitting in the heat to watch the brothers' game.  Removing the sweatshirt

 was too obvious a solution to try  .  .  .

And as for the soccer, competitive little bro played goalie on one end of the shortened rec-league game field while older, mellow bro was stationed on the opposite end. 

Thank you, "8-lb-6-oz Baby Jesus" for summer TIME to have new and different experiences!

Mud & Bugs

Three innings of morning softball for Bay (with the other three kids in tow) under ominous clouds; one in pouring rain.  McDonald's drive-thru for hotcakes, hot cocoa, ice cream (?), hashbrowns, and my favorite -- a McGriddle (bacon); these items split 5 ways -- not all mine, I swear!  A nap -- recooping from last night's insomnia.  Two hours of free carnival rides at a muddy, but finally sunny, Forsyth Family Fest followed by "gourmet" snow cones and live music.  Nine o'clock spraying of deet and settling into lawn chairs on the cool, breezy lawn of Village Hall a 1/2-block from our house for some really great fireworks (after some initial lightening bug catching).  Showers, tucked into beds.

Jameson said it was "A fun day, a really fun day" (flashing million dollar smile). 

Anna is becoming more consistently "redirectable" (while she maintains a light mood), AND we had a fun time today when she was tickled pink (when isn't she "pink?") when I gifted her (just as a catching-up-on-childhood moment) the African American "Our Generation" doll (just like American Girl, but at Target for 1/5 the price).  She trotted upstairs with it to show it to Baylor and discuss the accessories.

Tuckered, happy kids and parents.
 

Sun and Dew

First day of swim lessons -- all listened and put forth effort, and enjoyed being in the pool at Miss Carol's.  After typical math, phonics, reading, English, etc. etc. etc. that are sprinkled throughout the day in small doses, the kids and I trekked to Central Park to listen to some Blues (a violin played to sound just like an electric guitar -- interesting) and some desserts at the Lincoln Lounge  .  .  . I intended to share a gyro and saganaki and baklava as a group, but the attempt at Greek cuisine turned into a shared order of fries, three red velvet cheesecakes, and only two of us savoring the homemade honey-drenched Mediterranean pastry.  We pulled into the garage around 9:00, and they were tempted by prime lightening bug time and trapsed the dewy yard in search of winged, golden buddies.  The difficult behavioral teaching and reinforcement (and waning patience) is interspersed, thankfully, with the joys of showing and teaching one's children.

In Touch

The girls breathing while getting in tune with the natural rythms of the body process.  Anna does yoga almost every day -- all on her own (w/ VHS tape assistance), and on this day Bay joined her.

A toad's new home.  When Chad removed a pile of large branches from the center of the yard, a toad lost his niche and was vulnerable to our lab-mix, Bogey.  After a long time of unsuccessful attempts by the boys to encourage Mr. Toad to hop toward safety, Hunter finally picked him up and deposited him in a large, lush bed of foliage beyond the reach of the dog.

And because I would like more moments like these and far less bickering, mess-leaving-behind-ing, whining, complaining, and other thoughtless behaviors, I've cancelled all electronics (including tv and movies, except the yoga tape) until at least Monday.  In the past, this unplugging has done true wonders for Hunter and Baylor to find their brains as well as the mental energy for thoughtfulness (kindness, awareness, helping, positive attitudes...).  "Oh, Mo-ommmm."

We're Notarized, Translated, Certified, & Authenticated

It's amazing what an abstract world we, humans, have created for ourselves.  We were notified via email from a gracious, generous government official that our Powers of Attorney are "notarized, translated, certified, and authenticated."  Opening the digital copies she attached, I saw the red ribbons affixed by a metallic seal upon the front page, from the "Ambassade D' Haiti; Washington."  Pretty.  Darn.  Fancy.

In order for a fellow adoptive parent to sign documents in Haiti on our behalf, we needed to prepare Powers of Attorney documents deemed acceptible both by the U.S. government and the Haitian authorities.  One for each child.  Times 11 children; 7 families. 

The aforementioned adoptive father will meet at the Embassy with the birth parents of all of the children, and sign our paperwork in the presence of a Haitian judge and IBESR (the Haitian government agency that oversees adoptions, among other things).  When he returns to the States, he will have with him the consentment documents needed to complete full and final adoptions in the courts of our home states. Until two months ago, this was a process we were utterly uncertain how to get accomplished.  

And so, Chad and I signed our Power of Attorney in front of one of our beloved high school secretaries, Miss Tina, who is a notary public.  Chad took those forms (Anna's and Jameson's) to Springfield to get them certified -- whereby the Secretary of State's Office verifies that the notary public we used was legit.

Then, we emailed a digitial copy to dear friend, Robin, who orchestrated the services for French translations, for which the translator had to sign in front of his/her own local notary public that the translation was valid and true.

English version (notarized and certified) along with the French translation (w/ validity statement notarized) were taken through the US Office of the Secretary of State by our contact at ORR (Office of Refugee Resettlement; see "gracious, generous government official" noted above) to be further certified  .  .  .  indication that the State of Illinois certification is legit.

Finally, all of that was taken to the Haitian Embassy in Washington DC for authentication -- the red ribbon and shiny metal sticker seal.  Beneath that fancy page 1 entitled "Certificat de Legalisation" is a page stamped or digitized with Hillary Rodham Clinton's signature, same on the following page by Jesse White (IL Sec. of State), and then the completely pedestrian pages with Chad and my scrawl.

To receive that email proclaiming this phase of documents complete, I felt a sense of accomplishment, a feeling of progress.  Something official.  And done. 

Then, my own feelings struck me as humorous -- this is all for the purpose of allowing a chosen person to sign papers for us.  A Power of Attorney.  A fancy trail of pages and computers and emails and mailings and fees so that we can .  .  .  do more papers.

It's like when Anna asked me how there is "money in the card" (credit card), and I explained that the card sends a message to the computer that "Sherry Cluver" is the one buying the stuff and that the computer then sends a message to the "card company" so they know how much money I've spent.   I continued to tell her that one time a month the "card company" sends a bill to me in the mail and that I have to pay them, and that it's always really smart to pay the whole amount or else you waste a lot of money (mini econ lesson).  She asked, "Do you put money in an envelope?"  Easy enough to answer, right?  So, I started with "No, I write a check and that tells their computer  .  .  .  " 

Did the Sumerians know what they'd begun when they took stylus to clay?

Lost

The plane-traveler-sized (small) teddy bears gifted from family friend, Colleen, that were to be hugged and snuggled to combat fear of take off, or landing, or any other part in between will not be delivered to their intended recipients. 

When we learned that their birth parents decided to parent Josianna and Wendy permanently, we had what you can imagine as a swirling flood of emotions -- relief they were okay (immediately post-quake), at peace they would not suffer relinquishment by birth parents, satisfied they could remain in their mother culture, and heartache for our loss of them from our immediate family.  I relabeled Josianna's tubs of size 8 clothes for Baylor and handed down to young nephews the size 5 clothes intended for Wendy.  The little swim suits they wore for the endless hours of splashing around with us at the Karibe Hotel, however, I tucked into my private keepsake trunk.  I removed from pictures frames their photographs and prepared one large, special frame with black and white prints of them with Hunter and Baylor and all of us, Cluvers, with the four of them, Eldors -- taken on our August 2009 trip into Port-au-Prince.  Floating between the glass panels with those images the words, "Love bears all things." 

I bought matching necklaces for their birth mom and me -- "Hope" typed into a white rectangle and bordered with rough silver-colored metal, hung on a black cord.  I placed her piece of jewelry into a small brown box atop a perfectly-fitted square of cotton with a snapshot of me wearing the same item.  A black satin ribbon secured the box and a white tag bearing her name.

Chad had engraved a small, round, wooden medallion with "Espwa" (hope) on one side and "Fanmi" (family) on the reverse.  It, too, was wrapped with black ribbon around a small brown box and topped with a name tag for the kids' dad.

Secured in a clear, plastic bag along with the small, rainy day painting Josianna had insisted I buy during our December outing to the Baptist Mission area, the matching ribboned boxes were sent to Haiti.  Shipped out to express acceptance of their parents' change in plans, reassuring love to the children and their parents, and above all, hope for their family's future together.

The jewelry the children picked out during that winter shopping trip just outside Port-au-Prince was sealed into two separate bags -- one for each child -- along with the teddy bears that would no longer be needed for airline travel and a few other toy items.  I kept for myself, however, the tiny wooden bowl Josianna picked from the vendor -- the one with layers of shiny colored images.  She liked the painted items.  I preferred the ones with simple carvings, more earthen in appearance. 

It was a piece of our healing process.  Our hearts, laid bare, were in those packages.

The staff was unable to deliver the items. 

The three bags sat in the orphanage office.

I reconciled that I would need to request they simply be returned to me so I may find a different mode of delivery, or, at minimum, have the items for ourselves to gaze upon and to remember.

I waited.

I learned indirectly that the potential courier from Haiti to home had indeed traveled and had been back in the States for a length of time already.

I inquired.

The items were lost, somehow; perhaps accidentally distributed alongside donations to villagers in the kids' location,but not to the children, specifically, nor to their family.

And the typed messages intended for the family and the items marked and created specifically for the children's mother and father?  The two things of negligible monetary value, but designed for them and tagged with their names?  The message prepared for an English-reading Kreyol speaker to deliver?

Gone.

And the news reports indicate flooding and deaths near Port-au-Prince.  And hurricanes will come.  And mudslides.  And cholera continues to claim her victims.  Tarps and wind.  Starvation and injury.  Rapes and murders.  And no way to know if those two babes and their mama and their papa are alive, healthy, okay.  "Oke?"  "Grangou?" (hungry?)  "Fatige?" (tired?) 

"Mwen renmen ou." (I love you.)

It didn't have to happen this way.  We could have helped put them back together rather than be upended by shocking truths unleashed from the depths of a shaking, rupturing earth, when it was too late to say "goodbye," too late to understand with them, too late to knit a way of trust for communication between a Haitian manman and a northern friend.  I asked the right questions, but truth must be admitted by the teller before it can be given forthright in answers.  I asked the hard questions, but was given soft answers that turned to cut like glass.  But naivete no more; my heart has the scars to prove it.

And even now, I get no assistance with making things right -- with extending healing, in humility and in a new-found, hard-won knowing.

Stars above and the heavens around us, the God who invites and the angels who whisper, the earth that both springs forth life and buries death, wash over Tadeline and Josue with a slower than usual breeze, oddly bright but gentle rays of sunshine warmth, or an unshakable dream of a pale-skinned, awkward, American gal laughing tenderly around their fire  .  .  .  let them know.  Let them know.



 

Transition and "Any Big Plans?"

Well, "week 1" of summer was really Memorial Day (nice!) before a full day of work (for teachers) on the Tuesday, and then 20 minutes of work on Wednesday ("Report Card Day"), followed by a few days of at-home organizing and resting (and reading!). 

Then, this "week 2" of summer is Chad's basketball camp -- all morning for the youngin's (ours included, along with nephews Nathan, Ethan, and Brooks) for Monday through Wednesday, and then all evening for the HS guys through Friday.  SO, our "summer routine" has been planned to begin next week -- Monday the 13th -- wherein the kids have daily checklists of things to accomplish, customized to their academic needs for either review and/or instruction and personality and hobbies.  It's really just a structure on paper to make sure a handful of things get done everyday with lots and lots of free time left for what summer should be -- sleeping, lounging, running around in the sun, eating popsicles  .  .  .

"So, any big plans for the summer, Sherry?"  I always fumble with random nonsense when acquaintences engage me in this small talk, because there is nothing grand in our seasonal plans that makes for a simple, short, cheerful answer, but we've got so much in the works that I don't even know where to begin.  I don't know that any person happening casually by really wants to hear, "Reading improvement and math instruction, soccer or softball or dance or running, watering and harvesting garden vegetables and watching sunflowers grow, visiting towns in Illinois where grandparents live, scrap-booking (or at least better organizing the years of things deemed album-worthy), talk with my sister and my sister-friends, read books and watch movies and add a greater number of interesting media pieces to my teaching repertoire, continue to follow the minutia of the Haitian consentment process in anticipation of a summertime adoption finale, hope for a longshot of another sighting and update regarding the two children we still love who remain in Haiti, allow time to progress on the journey of healing from the trauma our family experienced January 2010 through January 2011, do as all teachers do -- catch up on some items put off during the 9 intense months of the school year, teach the kids some new chores, visit with friends, talk with our two soon-to-be-middle-schoolers about some topics we need to revisit in more detail, fix stuff around the house, finish details from the home addition of two years ago, teach kids some more "adult" table manners, try out the Indian Restaurant up the block, swim lessons, Zoo Crew, park programs, library sesssions, piano  .  .  .  " 

See, nobody wants to hear that for an answer.  So, I usually just say "Oh, you know, kids' stuff and catching up, and we're going to Chicago for three days in July."

Ahhhh . . .

Warm, dry, summer-type day in this late spring on the first day of vacation from school.  Breezy.  Blinds open to let in the golden happiness.  AC on just a tad to keep it comfortable for people coming in from yard work or playing. 

Everyone stretching out in their own space:  Anna in the girls' play room (reading, playing on her dsi, writing things, listening to music), Hunter in the family room watching TV, arranging some set of figures and flapping his arms (his excited-focused habit), Jameson in the boys' playroom watching a movie while lounging on two bean bags, and Bay in the living room watching teen Disney something-or-other.

Chad tilling the small space in the neighbor's yard they offered us to use for a vegetable garden, as it's right next to our home and they'd rather not plant it this year.  Denny, the neighbor, offers bags and canisters of his remaining bean seeds, rabbits-be-gone, garden insect killer, and the like.  I contemplate silently that I'd like to do the growing as chem-free as possible, but know that may be overly idealistic and accept appreciatively the kindness of his offerings.

Anna was on the porch swing reading earlier this morning, and now that she is breaking from her upstairs preteen quiet time, she comes to me for help with filling in her time on the library program log card.  And this involves math -- clock math.  It was a good, 15-minute, cooperative time of working a teacher-supplies plastic and cardboard analogue clock model Bay is lending us from her play area "classroom."

Bay will go with me to pick out the seeds for the garden.  Hunter's put in an order for carrots.  Bay wants corn.  Anna rattled off the thing that were already on my own list -- tomatoes, beans, cucumbers.  We're adding jalapenos for Chad and potatoes for Jameson.

Bike-riding, tag, war, more reading  .  .  .  kids in and out at a relaxed pace and plenty of open space for everyone.

To Baylor's softball game this evening, during which Anna shifted position impatiently while holding back from any verbal complaints and Hunter and Jameson imagined the arm of the lawn chair somehow as a spaceship.  Bi-zarre story-telling on the ride home.

Tucked into beds, they rest -- to be ready for the planting of the garden tomorrow and lots of "Get outside" from Chad and I.  Hit a whiffle ball.  Kick some soccer goals.  Chase leaves. 

Next week is basketball camp with Daddy (for Hunt, Jameson, and Bay), and the next week is full "summer routine" with reading skills for two and math review for all  .  .  .  just a wee bit each day  .  .  .  and learning some new household helping chores  .  .  .  But even in this week -- the transition -- some healthy movement and reading will be expected.  Thank goodness for this pleasant, slower pace with room to breathe, deeply.

Ahhhh  .  .  .