This Reminds Me

Archive for July, 2010

Lois’ friend Brooke just returned from a six-week educational program in Japan bearing souvenir shirts for my three eldest:

For Lois – who plans to wear it the first day of school

For Rachel – You may need to read this more than once for understanding.  Or not.

For Hannah – Who’d like to know who, too?

I was chuckling reading these shirts’ messages, remembering some advertising slogans that didn’t translate well.  I ran across them about eight years ago, launching the original SBC Espanol site.

Coors’ “Turn It Loose” in Spanish became “Suffer from Diarrhea.”

The Dairy Association’s “Got Milk?” in Spanish translated to “Are You Lactating?”

Pepsi’s “Come Alive with the Pepsi Generation” morphed into China’s “Bring Your Ancestors Back from the Grave.”

KFC’s “Finger Lickin’ Good” translated to “Eat Your Fingers Off” in Chinese.

“Jolly Green Giant” in Arabic became “Intimidating Green Ogre.”

The chicken slogan, “It takes a strong man to make tender chicken” was translated into Spanish as “It takes an aroused man to make a chicken affectionate.”

Those slogans are every translator’s nightmare.

Maybe even T-shirt slogan translators?!

Lois and Brooke at our church’s “Around the World” Women’s Spring Fling – Who knew she’d be a world traveler so soon?!  Ah, Brookie-san – frank you!

I’ve never been patient.

I’m not proud of being impatient.  I’m not looking for a dozen friends to reassure me, “Oh, now, I saw you be patient when…..”   It’s just the way I am.  Though I usually hide it better than I’ve hidden it the last few hot, cloying weeks of summer.

Is it the really heat that’s sucking the life out of me?  Or the humidity?  Or being 54 years old?  Other than financially, summer is my least-stressed time of year.  I don’t cook much.  I don’t rush to fix breakfasts in the morning, or race to fix dinner in the evening.  There’s no child in after-school care anxiously awaiting my arrival.  I’m not in a frenzy to grab Chick-Fil-A and  to make it to church Wednesday night.  I still do laundry daily, but there’s less of it.  Nobody needs an emergency trip to Wal-mart to finish a project.  Yet I find myself less and less patient when I get home and find a mess in the den, or unwashed dishes, or a dozen pairs of cast-off shoes in the entryway.

I always think – and now too often say – “Why have you left a mess?  Didn’t I tell you what to do?  Didn’t I write it down for you?  You’re my child.  Don’t you have any better sense than this?”

I listen to K-Love on the drive to and from the bus stop (and sometimes on the bus, thanks to the iPhone app) not because I am a “good person.”  I’m not a “good person.”  Believe me, I know.  I listen to contemporary Christian music because it helps center me.   Worshiping the one true God of the universe puts my day in perspective.

The other morning, the DJ was reading from the book of James, which is my favorite.  I don’t need a theology degree to understand James.    “Take note of this.  Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry.” Hmmm.

And then I thought – God is probably looking at me every evening thinking, “Why have you left a mess?  Didn’t I tell you what to do?  Didn’t I write it down for you?  You’re my child.  Don’t you have any better sense than this?”

James also tells me “…to be patient then.. until the Lord’s coming.”

That could be tonight, or tomorrow – when I’m tripping over the pile of flip-flops by the front door.

Sigh.

Okay.  Tomorrow, I’ll give this patience thing one more try.

Let’s hope I learn it quickly.

When we adopted Julia, we completed an agency survey and later a Russian questionnaire of our preferences for a child. Ours were pretty simple.  Girl, aged 4 – 8 with no serious physical, emotional or mental conditions.

We know our family.  With three older girls, we felt another girl had the best chance of attaching.  Aged 4 – 8 we felt was young enough to mold, distanced enough from Hannah and old enough for us to shepherd her into adulthood.  No serious medical, emotional or physical conditions – with both of us working outside the home, we weren’t seeking more of a challenge than we’d already have simply by adopting.  Ours was a faith journey, and while we were trusting God to sort it all out, we weren’t going to be foolish.  We weren’t going to say “any child” and be matched with a three-legged, 15-year-old pyromaniac.  We didn’t specify race because – based on the demographics of St. Pete – we figured our girl would look like some flavor of us.  Not a clone.  But close enough not to attract rude stares.  I grew up with a limbless brother and know how siblings are affected by one-offs.  I wasn’t going to willfully subject my kids to that sly scrutiny – period.

The adoption forums, blogs, etc. are stuffed with families’ preferences, many of which express a desire for a child “as young as possible.”   Most couples want babies.  I understand that.  We didn’t.  But I understand why most do.  Attachment is certainly easier.  Most families – especially if they’d done much research – also want kids that look like them.  More points of commonality = easier to attach, for both parents and children.  If other children are in the family – easier for them, too.  Also easier if the child is added to the family in birth order, if there’s only one adopted at a time (unless bio siblings), etc.

That’s not to say that transracial, out-of-birth-order, multiply-adopted children can’t attach.   Not at all.  We all know families for whom these adoptions have worked.  But every stray card you’re dealt decreases your chances of attachment.  Harsh – but true.

I’m not criticizing how families choose to adopt.  I wouldn’t presume to.  I just know that for us – we wanted to increase our chances for success every way we could.

The adoption blogs and boards are ablaze now with news from Italy.  Its government has decided to outlaw race as a criteria for adoption.  So Italian PAPs (Prospective Adoptive Parents) can no longer specify a child’s desired race.

This sounds so brave, so wonderful, so egalitarian.  Who could argue with a decree so noble?

I notice – perhaps unfairly – that those who support this type of Big Brother edict have never adopted, or are past the age where it matters.

I notice – perhaps unfairly – that those who have never adopted are quick to tell those of us who have what they think they would do if they did adopt.  “Well, I’d never look at race.  A child is just a child.”  “I’d take a whole houseful, not just one.”  “I’d never change a child’s name.”  And on and on.

I notice – perhaps unfairly – that those who are past the age where it matters cast a golden glow on their parenting experiences.  “When we got Sally, we never asked about race.”  No, you didn’t have to.  It was assumed.

When I’ve spoken to families adopting who already have children, their #1 concern is ensuring the kids they have aren’t hurt by the experience.   Adoption begins with loss, and it’s always a gamble.  How many risks are you going to layer on the children you already have?

If Italy is going to declare race off limits to adoptive families, how about the child’s age?  Teens aren’t “as young as possible” though, are they?  How about physical or mental challenges?  Surely everyone has the resources to handle those?  Gender – my gosh, surely that shouldn’t matter?   The child’s friends – can’t leave them behind, now can we?

Where does government dictating to PAPs end?

I think Italians will likely choose alternative paths.  The less wealthy won’t adopt if they can’t have the most basic control over the first and most fundamental, God-given unit of society:  The Family.  The more wealthy will go black market, or live elsewhere long enough to adopt.  Or they’ll adopt only from countries – like Russia – that are likely to offer children similar in appearance to them, bypassing Italian children languishing in foster care.

Adoption is – contrary to much politically-correct babble – not just “about the child.”  It’s about the whole family – its desires, its goals, its limitations.

That may not be fair.

But it’s true.

And I notice it.

This is my youngest child with her three older sisters.

She was asleep when she became an American citizen – as the wheels of this homeward-bound plane touched down in Dallas.   We had already paid about $1,500 in immigration fees, plus completed a mountain of paperwork including highly-scrutinized documents attesting to our ability to support her and provide her health care.  We did not stuff her in a suitcase to sneak her through Customs, or attempt to brand her a “co-citizen” and therefore claim no rules – or fees – applied.

Went to sleep Russian and awoke American

We patiently navigated DFW Immigration to have that all-important IR-4 stamp affixed to her Russian passport.

Her Certificate of Citizenship arrived in the mail a few weeks later.  I’d never seen one before.  Wish I could show you this large, impressive document, but copying it is against the law.  Fingering her Certificate of Citizenship both weakens and inspires me, much like I felt as a senior in high school when I gaped at the real Constitution and Declaration of Independence.  I’d won an essay contest with a prize being a trip to Washington, D.C.   I don’t cry easily.  But I cried in the National Archives as I peered down through the thick walls of protective glass at the two most important documents in our nation’s history.

With her certificate in hand, Keith waited in interminable lines to secure  Julia’s Social Security card.  Her future earnings will be taxed.

Once we had the Social Security card, we braved the Post Office to secure the final “say” in all items authentication – her American passport.   We had to send off the original Certificate of Citizenship to do so.  I sweat bullets the 14 weeks before her passport arrived, fearing some harm would come to that certificate.  None did.  It’s in our safety deposit box now – with other important papers – to be given to her later.  We also invested $350 to have her Russian birth certificate recorded in Texas – a “Recognition of Foreign Decree” – so she can get birth certificates from the state when she needs them.  Julia is anything but an “undocumented immigrant.”

Today my youngest child has all the rights and privileges her American-born sisters enjoy, save one.  She can’t be President.

She also has all the responsibilities of her American-born sisters.  She’ll pay taxes.  She’ll vote.  She’ll obey the laws.  When she starts driving, she’ll have a license.  And proof of insurance.

Because she is an American.

And today especially – I thank God for that.