"Vivian has a few new posts up about her trip to Haiti to see the work of Jamie and Ali McMutrie!"

Blogger Virginia Montanez of "That's Church" shared a link to this blog post by writer "Vivian"  .  .  .

Posted by: mytriptohaiti | September 23, 2011

Roosters and Cows and Goats, Oh My!

Day 2  09/22/2011 7am

A big, bellowing “cock-a-doodle-doo” at sunrise is just about the best way to wake up. Even better, a ‘moo’ from one of a few cows along the hillside just beside the house. “There’s no hot water,” I’m told when I open it after a soft knock. I stand still, looking bewildered at Jamie before I finally blurt out, “does that mean it’s my turn?” I turn to my computer to check the time and the power has gone out, as well. Luckily for me, I can manage. Camping has prepared me for this.

An hour later we set off for Junia’s house to visit her and her two daughters, Daphcar and Schneidine.

Junia’s sister-in-law, Jeta, and her son, Kervens will be greeting us there, as well.

Our visit to the school the children will begin in October was as exciting for me as it was for them and their mothers. I walked away from the tour proud to have made this trip and honored to be able to share what two caring women have done and will continue to do for these beautiful children and their loving parents. And this is my first morning with Jamie and Ali.

It’s the day to register for school and I was lucky enough to be along for a tour of the cinder block building. Walls were scant, probably better for ventilation, and the rooms were not much bigger than a typical Pittsburgh dining room – 12×12, maybe a few feet larger. Although the building is simple and relatively small, it is not unreliable. The local water pump is in the courtyard and while we were there, women and children streamed in to fill ten gallon buckets and out with the water atop their heads.

Haitians are proud, artistic, clever, and hard working. This is a wonderful combination. Nothing goes to waste, everything is salvaged and reused if at all possible. A school worker repainted chairs for the children – the very same type of chairs used in my kindergarten class a few years ago.

School workers were sorting books and cleaning floors preparing for the 600 or so children who will fill the six rooms this year. Cedric read to the registering children while I took photographs.

One child’s tuition, including uniforms, books, and supplies for a year is equivalent to about four month’s salary for the parent. And no school is free. Some schools offer a snack program for an additional cost. For the children I met, a half day of school will last from 7am to 1pm. Unless children can walk to school, which Junia and Jeta’s can, they’d have to take a Haitian taxi service, a Tap Tap. With other costs for living in Haiti, most parents simply cannot afford a good school, much less a school at all.

This is why we visited with the families and toured the school today. These are just two families that Jamie and Ali help. Two thankful mothers can send their children to a good school and three Haitian children have a world of opportunity in front of them.

Good Not-So-Clean Fun

Chad and some of our friends participated together in the three-mile, mud-filled obstacle course orchestrated by dear friend, Jill Applebee, as a fundraiser for Junior Achievement.

I asked Chad if he was cold, but he said that is the face of exhausted relief that he finished.  He said it was great fun, and their whole group had an awesome time together.

Dad's Hair

All three Cluver boys got haircuts this afternoon, and Jameson was guy #2 under Mom's hair clippers.  Looking down so that I could get a good angle at the bottom on the back of his head, he saw the mess from Chad's trim upon the bathroom floor.  Jameson's black curls fell onto Chad's clumps of straight brown and gray hairs, and the child observed aloud, "Dad's hair looks like fur, like Bogey." 

Mom

"We said a prayer for less stress for you," said the calm, friendly, sincere mother of a former student  .  .  .   a dear lady who reads my blog, who has donated to Jamie and Ali's Haitian Orphan Rescue on our behalf, and who made (along with her eldest son) a large batch of the most amazing tortilla soup when our two newest kids first came home.  She obviously had read my "Twitch" post.  Late this afternoon she happened to be up at the high school (after hours), and upon passing by my room, she popped her head in momentarily to relay simply the aforementioned statement.  And then, she went graciously on her way so as to leave me to my work tasks.  I stopped in the silence, however, humbled by her offering of time and heart to me.  Whether you are a prayer or not, there is something universal about one human soul offering a bit of herself to another that is beautiful and healing.  My present stressors are derived from many sources, several of which come from being "Mom," and my surprise support today came from a woman who is also "Mom" to four children.

My pop-in guest punctuated gently a difficult day, as I learned upon arrival to school this morning that an active mother of our school community passed away the evening prior.  My thoughts were on her and with her children (all of whom I know), imagining in abstract pieces over minutes and class periods, in between teaching about latitude and over musical notes of Ancient Greek music, and I was left with nothing of which to grab ahold except heartache and disbelief.  And more heartache.  I felt it as a mother of children, and as a child of a mother.

And strangely, it reminded me of the vintage JCPenney care label my mom and I discovered when rummaging through a box of fabrics she plans to use for doll clothes for my girls.  It (the fabric and the tag) is from 1970, and I mentioned about it months ago in a different post, but it continues to sit on my desk.  I blogged it; so, move on.  But I couldn't toss the tiny square of papery, plastic-y, fabric to the trash.  After awhile it dawned on me why that was so, and today seems a fitting time to comment.  "Grandma Finch," the doll-clothes-sewer, has created more than just a few homemade outfits for me over my youth, and in the 70's (when I was wee little, and when JCPenney apparently sold fabrics) she sewed professionally for a local store, particularly to serve bridal parties.  Watching Mom sort through an endless box of fabric scraps with Anna and Baylor -- she and the girls plotting little styles from the striped strips and pink pieces, took me back to the quiet, creative hours I spent with her when I was a young girl.  Times forgotten amid the bolder memories of lessons taught and learned about being assertive, and the Halloween grounding for being unkind, and proud smiles when I graduated with honors.  Also, because we get caught up in looking forward, and well, in doing all the big and small things that we do, now, as the mothers.

I like looking at that little fabric tag, because it's good to connect with the quiet warmth of being with Mom.  My mom. 

And my fellow moms. 

And for the children who long for theirs. 

Twelve

Twelve.  That's more than just one past 10.  That's as preteen as one can get.  The first child to enter our family arrived September 17th with a squawl in the evening; so tiny with scrawny arms and legs furled up alongside his barrel of  a torso.  Dark hair.  Smack-back front-right cowlick that continues to this day to dominate his 'do. 

Haitian Spaghetti was his choice for dinner, and that was punctuated with his

selection of brownies with ice cream and fresh raspberries.

The used video game store was a big hit with the brother and sisters when shopping for Monkey's birthday gifts  .  .  .  "Plants -vs- Zombies," though?  Really?  Notice his first love --

Jelly Bellies!  (2 lbs. of sweet confection there, folks.)

Apparently, pea shooters, sunflowers, and even some fungi help you defend your house from, you guessed it -- zombies.  What are kids using for entertainment these days?  I mean, I watched good ol' "Dukes of Hazard" as a kid wherein  .  .  .  um, oh, yeah a fat white guy in a white suit eating fried chicken sent his minions to car-chase curly-haired Luke and tossled blonde Bo across the county line.  Every show.  Okay, "Go pea shooters!"  Fair enough.

Twitch

My left eye is twitching.  Right now.  Been happenin' for days.  There are only two times in my life that I recall having an eyelid spasm -- during the MFHS boys' basketball run to the State Championship of '07 (hubbie's the coach, and life became a psychotic, blessed chaos), and immediately following the 2010 earthquake in Haiti  .  .  .  Of course, the quake also brought severe insomnia, weight loss, excessive irritability, and countless other trauma markers shared by hundreds of adoptive parents across the U.S.  The months (year) following brought a transition to migraines, which have since subsided, thankfully. 

The spastic flap of skin in front of my sight is presently sign of "too much."  There are times that one's "normal" tasks and undertakings overwhelm, and presently, several areas of my life (while going well) have somewhat unexpectedly demanded more -- a lot more -- and simultaneously so.  Too much is too much. 

An overpriced, steaming hot, sweet and creamy, venti (decaf) cinnamon dolce latte at lunch on Wednesday and another that evening -- yes, two in one day -- presented as secondary symptom that I am in need of some time for self. 

Skim. 

Regular syrup. 

With whip. 

And reality is clearly relative.  Babes "lost" in Haiti post-quake versus over-extended daily life.  Seriously?  And yet, the nervous system has it's limits.  Living a trauma doesn't expand one's capacity to live at an unhealthy pace.  It has, however, made it a slight bit easier to let go. 

Having gone to a hell and back has lent to me some grit and courage to decide, to speak, to breathe. 

And on a brisk, dark night, overcome by a fog of exhaustion, I choose myself.  The piles of scrap papers and post-its remain in a stack, untouched.  My tote of ungraded tests, and list of not-yet-contacted guest speakers waits.  Receipts and bills stay piled in their respective labeled boxes upon the shelf while popcorn scraps and dog hair have won at least another night of stay on the carpet.  Dumping my brain onto my blog and savoring some more (decaf) java will do. 

WILL do.

Think about those men and women in Port-au-Prince who lost every single tangible thing from shelter to possessions, from sense of place to people.  Family lost.  And friends.  Neighbors.  Ministers. They were left with only their souls.  Only their souls.  If they can carry on with nearly nothing of the external world as support, how foolish for someone as fortunate as I not to nourish my spirit. 

Maybe we can't stop the carousel, but if brave enough, bold enough, we can jump off to stand firmly upon the ground.  To be still.  If even for a few moments.  

And, I'm not wanting to jinx things, here, but I just realized that my eye has stopped moving.  For now.  Wish me luck. 

And peace to you.

Why Are You Typing Everything?

Jameson asks this question as he waits for me to finish an email so that I can then quiz him over his science note cards.  I explain that's how I get things ready -- for school, for soccer, for babysitters  .  .  .  to which he adds inquisitively "adoption?" 

"Yes, for adoption stuff sometimes," I share.

"You?  Why not Dad do that, too?"

"Because he cleans up the dog poop."  (Among other jobs, of course, but I thought that demonstrated the point adequately.)

Apparently not so, because Jameson forgot about Dad's laundry expertise, board-game playing, Sunday evening Haitian food cooking, mowing the yard, rolling the garbage and recycling to the curb, and, and, and  .  .  .  Jameson considered too quickly the yard scooping job, raised his eyebrows and assessed, "That's easier." 

To LIGHT, to Guard, to Rule, to Guide, Amen.

Cold watermelon and mango soup flavored with fresh ginger juice, chopped mint leaves, honey, and lime juice.  All kids tried it at dinner tonight; one asked for thirds.

Starbucks bags of ground coffee (my new love is decaf Verona bold roast) are on sale at Target in the grocery aisle -- buy two, get a $5 Target gift card (to use on next Target trip), AND when each bag is empty, you can bring it into the Target Starbucks and get a free tall-size hot beverage  .  .  .  that comes out to an excellent bag of coffee for a little over 2 bucks.  And y'all know how I am about my decaf Starbucks.

Chad's second go at Haitian pate (seasoned ground meat baked in puff pastry), and this time he made each piece larger and used ground chicken, which showed off nicely the fresh green onion and "ground spices."

Hm.  I think we may have eaten our way through this weekend  .  .  .

Except that I ALSO had some fab calls with four wonderful gal-friends.

And I pushed Anna and Bay to try to put the clean sheets onto their beds themselves, and not only did they give it a valiant effort (bunk beds are tough!), but when the task was seeming to defeat them, they accepted my advice to work together on it.  Job done -- without me touching those beds once in the process, and without a single pout (from the girls either).

I think the Lysine, Wild Mediterranean Oregano, probiotic capsules, wild Alaskan salmon oil pills, ibuprofen, and Mucinex might possibly keep the raging innards of my head and neck from turning to something too serious.

OH, and we got rain.

And a thermometer reading lower than the temperature of Hades.

I Should Clarify

A dear old classmate from high school contacted me tonight via Face book, and in providing lovely support of our adoption journey, she felt the need most graciously to caveat her affirmation with a hope that she wasn't saying anything insensitive  .  .  .  she had seen my blog.  And so, I realized that I should probably clarify a bit further the 8/17 "Things Not to Ask..." post, as it's never been my intention to put anyone off nor to make any well-intentioned folks feel nervous or "on the outside." 

So, if you are an old friend and you wish to email or Face book message me, have at it! 
[Thanks M/M : )  ]

If you wish to talk with me on the phone or in person, that's fab, too.

If you are a stranger and you wish to introduce yourself and wade slowly and respectfully into the conversation, I'm game.

For me, personally, the "No-No's," really, are just two-fold:

#1.  The comfort of the children is top priority, and so, if they are present, then we shall not discuss anything that points to them as different, foreign, or in need of adjusting, healing  .  .  .

#2.  Basic rules of typical etiquette in relation to any person regarding any topic of conversation -- if the person approached indicates that the time or place is not ideal for the proposed discussion, pay them the courtesy of waiting for a better time and/or place.

Otherwise, I'm good to chat. 

For example, a number of friends and acquaintances when clearly out of earshot of the kids have inquired about their progress in adjusting to their new lives.  In the absence of the children, this question is actually quite validating and supportive, as it communicates an understanding of the complexity of the situation -- the hard work being done both by us and by the children. 

[When this question has, on occasion, been asked in front of the children, however, it makes them feel like objects of inspection who are only in the process of becoming "normal."]

As I've made deliberate efforts to help those around us feel comfortable with the changes taking place within our family, it is a sincere hope that my 8/17 post didn't alienate anyone. 

Whether you've been on this journey from the start or if you're new to our blog or a new acquaintance, please be assured that I am happy to entertain dialogue .  .  .  at the right time.   : )