Talking about my adoption search on NPR

Today I was part of an adoption discussion on KUOW, Seattle’s NPR affiliate. It’s not a long segment; you can have a listen here (my part begins around the 5:30 mark). Most of the host’s questions for me were concerned with the search I wrote about in this essay.

It’s probably indelicate to mention how very much my palms were sweating and how hard my heart was pounding during the interview! Listening to my recorded voice after the fact was also nigh to unbearable. But I think it went okay, overall. And I’m happy to have made my second-ever NPR appearance in the city of my birth — I love Seattle, and have been missing it all my life. Inflicting my voice and opinions on innocent Seattleites during their lunch breaks was kind of like being there, if only for a few brief moments.

“What to expect when you’re…adopted”

 

I have an essay at Slate about pregnancy, adoption, and the very beginning of my search for my birthparents:

I fully expected my life to change when I became pregnant. But the strong desire to find out more about my original family was not something I had anticipated. After a lifetime of trying to convince myself that blood connections were unnecessary, at least to me personally, I was just months away from meeting my first biological family member. I couldn’t deny how closely our lives and our histories were already entwined; as an adoptee, I had almost no way to comprehend it. I could no longer believe that my biological connections weren’t of great importance, responsible in many ways for the person I became. My daughter and I had yet to meet, but I knew that we were connected; that I was a part of her. The deep love her father and I felt for her—had my birthparents felt that way about me? Even if they hadn’t, shouldn’t I know why, and what happened to our family that made my adoption seem necessary?

Disclaimers: I didn’t come up with the title. That pregnant lady isn’t me. I give Slate props for not using a stock photo of a pregnant white woman. Also, adoptees: some of the comments are…strange. Be forewarned.

Thank you to my friends who’ve already read, liked, and shared this piece — it means so much to me!

We have a reader.

My eldest daughter can read now.

It is a new thing, but I can’t say exactly when it happened. Way back in January, a month before she turned four, Abby began spelling short words using the moveable alphabet in her classroom. Then the booklets started coming home – little stapled pages of words she had spelled or read at school. A couple of times, her teacher let her bring home a book from school to read to us. It was very slow going; all the words were three or four letters or less. She didn’t really pay attention to punctuation or sentences at all. She would ask about words in the Ramona books, and got to where she could recognize quite a few of them. She memorized how to write a few favorite words and phrases: Abby, Grace, Mama, Daddy, I love you, hi, see you soon, Happy birthday, Merry Christmas, to, from, love Abby! – that sort of thing. But while she’s got crazy focus, she never seemed to want to sit down and really work on reading one of her own books, even a short book.

I admit that I was feeling a bit impatient about the reading thing a month or so ago. My husband and I knew that Abby was so close to being able to just pick up a book for the first time and read it straight through. But in the end,we knew it was something she would just have to decide to do. When she really wanted to. When she was ready.

A couple of weeks ago, I bought her one of those Elephant & Piggie books by Mo Willems – it was Listen to My Trumpet! Abby had never seen it before (unlike all of her other books, which she pretty much has memorized), and to our surprise she was able to read much of the book without our help. It was still difficult to figure out exactly where the sentences began and ended, and she definitely needed help on some of the more difficult words, but unlike previous book-reading efforts, she didn’t get bored or frustrated or distracted. She just kept going. The book had a lot of silly made-up words – trumpet sounds – and she had fun sounding those out.

A few days ago, she asked my husband to write her a story so she could illustrate it. He wrote a little four-panel story – with space below for pictures – about Abby, her sister, and our cat Eliza. Abby read the whole thing, and only needed help with one word. She drew pictures, complete with a word bubble coming out of her mouth that read HA HA HA. Every day since, they’ve made a new story together. Yesterday she read another new-ish book that she has not memorized, an “I Can Read” easy-reading book called Biscuit’s Day at the Farm.

What surprised me about the Biscuit book is how much expression she put into some of the phrases. It cracked me up. Sometimes she gets the punctuation/end of a sentence and sometimes she doesn’t, but she has really impressed me with her speed – there’s some hesitation, and she’s not fast, but she doesn’t read the way I would have expected, with lots of pauses to slowly sound out words. There’s a neat kind of rhythm to the way she reads. I’m also impressed with how well she remembers previous words she’s learned, even tougher ones like “excited” – once she sees a word, she seems to store it in her lockbox of a brain, and she doesn’t need help with it again.

Tonight she also read an email her grandmother sent, thanking her for some drawings we mailed earlier this week. Abby just sat and read the note straight through, with almost no stumbling. She even got the word “Thanksgiving” – I think because she’s also learning how to figure out words in the context of what she’s reading. She couldn’t sit down and spell “Thanksgiving” on her own at this point, but in the context of an email that mentions turkey and our upcoming holiday travel plans, she knew, when she saw that big long word, what it was probably about. Just like she knew that the word after “fairy” was probably “costumes,” even though it’s another longish word that she has never really seen before.

I just think that’s so cool.

We are trying not to make A Big Huge Deal about it with her – even though she knows we are pleased and proud – because we would like her to be driven by her own enjoyment of reading, and she really does seem to be right now. She’s not really over the moon about it, because it’s been coming on so gradually for her; it’s just one more way that she is growing, and she can’t keep track of that either. She still doesn’t realize how much this opens up for her. I watch her read and I picture her world getting bigger and bigger; I imagine her traveling everywhere a book can take her; I recognize that this is the beginning of a thousand different adventures – but I know that isn’t how she sees it, at least not yet. She is happy enough to be able to read about a puppy visiting a farm.

I am just so thrilled for and proud of her. Learning to read is one of those near-universal experiences; and yet the things we choose to read, the stories we fall in love with, the books and plays and poems that really touch us and become a part of us, are particular to us as individuals – no two readers are perfectly alike. And now we have a brand-new reader in our house. This is one of those moments you look forward to, as a parent, with so much anticipation and excitement – and it does not disappoint. Not that I ever thought it would.

First family holiday

It was probably stupid of me to start my graduate program this semester, when my youngest is still more of a baby than a toddler and I’m already trying to do way too much between the kids, my job, and no babysitter. (It’s just, we had the perfect babysitter in North Carolina. She was like my daughter’s big sister. And I know that whomever we find here in Maryland…won’t be her. Bah, I hate the hypothetical new babysitter already!) Hence my most recent lapse in blogging. I’ve been writing – sometimes it feels as if that’s all I ever do – just not here. Sorry about that.

I do want to do better. It’s just so hard right now. In general, I find it insulting it when people make comments such as “I don’t know how you get anything done working from home!” – because I feel as if they are assuming that I’m not getting anything done. I mean, you say the word “telecommute” and people conjure up this vision of you chomping down on bon-bons while you troll Pinterest for new recipes and clothes you cannot afford and your kids stare at the TV, drooling. But now, after my first few months as a parent/professional/part-time student (sans babysitter), I finally understand why some people cannot imagine a scenario in which I am actually productive or sane. I can barely imagine such a scenario anymore.

Anyway. Life is good, even if it is also completely crazy. I am about to turn 31. How about that, huh? I’m practically 40. (Not that 40 is all that scary, but that same year that I turn 40, my eldest daughter will turn 13, and that is freaking terrifying.)

My sister, her husband, and their daughter – now 18 months, just two months older than my youngest – were here in April, their first visit since we moved back to Maryland. We were able to celebrate our first holiday together, Korean Easter (you know, much like your Easter, but with lots more bulgogi and kimchi). We went to Mass on Easter morning, though I spent 95% of the liturgy outside with a fussy baby, and then came home and stuffed ourselves full of Korean food. The three cousins had an Easter egg hunt (the eggs were filled with candy for the oldest, and flavored rice puffs for the babies).

The rest of the week was pretty low-key, though we did visit the National Zoo and the botanical gardens and Great Falls. My brother-in-law did a lot of geocaching; messed-up east coast geography allowed him to seek out caches in several different states. The four of us adults stayed up until midnight or later every night, even though we were increasingly sleep-deprived as the week went on and morning comes quickly when you have small children. Somehow we never ran out of things to talk about (would that the same could be said about our Easter candy).

It was a wonderful week, but as always it was so difficult to say good-bye to Cindy at the end of it. The time we get to spend together means so much to both of us, and when we’re apart – as we are, most of the time, with a country between us – it just feels too uncomfortably like all those years when we weren’t a part of each other’s lives at all. It’s not that I doubt she’s in my life to stay – in truth, I am more sure of her than I am of many people I’ve known all my life. The connection we’ve forged, for all its newness, is not a fragile thing. But we’ve had so much less time together than I’ve had with other family members, and just as I’m still not entirely used to being a sister – having a sister, realizing what that means – I’m also not used to living so far away from her. I’m not used to missing her.

I’m not used to missing anyone in my family, really. Nor am I used to relying on any of them. I don’t mean that to sound cold, although I know it does. It’s just that my relationships with members of my adoptive family are too complicated and stressful for something as simple as “I miss you.” Cindy is much more of a friend to me than anyone else in my family (excepting my husband, of course), and a source of support and  empathy and unconditional love. I try to provide the same to her, and I truly hope that I never fail her, because I know she won’t fail me. What we have, as her husband pointed out on this recent visit of theirs, is something wholly positive and surprisingly uncomplicated in the midst of an extremely complicated situation. It’s not something I ever would have expected, but given what my other family relationships are like – and what Cindy’s are like – I realize it is partly because we need each other. Before, there was no one like Cindy in my life, and despite being very annoying I know that I am something new to her as well. We each fill a hole in the other’s life.

My husband and I are used to having family members come and visit, but it’s always his family, never mine. Now that Cindy and her husband and daughter have been here, in this ridiculous townhouse we’re renting in suburban Maryland, it feels more like home. I’m so glad my sister and I had the chance to spend another week together. It was a thrill to meet my niece for the first time, and have Cindy meet my youngest. We all loved seeing the cousins play together, spotting the differences as well as the little similarities between them. A few years ago Cindy and I didn’t even know each other, and neither of us had children. Now, we’re family, and our family is growing.

Please don’t make fun of my voice.

So this is me, being interviewed by Ontario Today host Rita Celli. Ms. Celli talked with me about my story in Somebody’s Child, and then took questions and calls with Bruce Gillespie, one of the editors of the book.

My interview takes up the first 11 minutes of the program. The rest is much more interesting and well worth a listen, if you have an interest in adoption stories.

“I know you’re in Washington, DC…so, have you heard of the CBC? It’s like your National Public Radio. Our show airs throughout Ontario, which is one of Canada’s largest provinces.” –the show’s producer (a really lovely woman), during our pre-interview — I guess Americans do have a reputation for ignorance, but this made me feel kind of bad!

A book in the hand

Today I received my first copies of Somebody’s Child: Stories about Adoption. I opened it up, and there was my name, on the inside dust jacket, alongside the other 24 contributors! I’ve read the book twice through, and remain so impressed by so many of the essays. I’m honored that my story, and Cindy’s story, is among them.

The book is available in stores on September 15.

If you can’t take the heat, step away from the kiln

You know, I signed up for pottery class because I thought it would be a nice break.  Four hours (including transportation), every week, when I am not with my toddler.  The first week, it felt strange to be away from her for such a big chunk of the day, but the second week I don’t know if I thought about her at all.  (Why yes, I am a candidate for Mother of the Year, thank you for asking!)

It’s definitely a break from my usual daily routine of extreme parenting, but I don’t know how nice of a break it is. The truth is, pottery class stresses me out.  I feel horrible about this – I took a chance, signing up for something completely new and outside my comfort zone (of spending what little free time I have with my ass in a chair, either reading or writing snappy emails and wordy blog entries); I spent what was, for me and my husband, a lot of money on this class; I was really, really looking forward to the entire experience.  And while there are parts of it I honestly do like, my teacher stresses me out so much the experience has been sapped of much of its enjoyment.

I feel like a wuss admitting this.  Really, it’s unlike me to be offended by anyone else’s brusqueness.  I am a fairly straightforward person myself.  I’m not easily overwhelmed.  I don’t like being coddled, and I don’t want or expect false praise.  But when you’re a beginner at anything – and I am a beginning potter in the true sense of the word, never having touched raw clay before this class – it is really not helpful to have someone standing over you, saying things such as “What do you think you’re doing?” and “You know I cannot do this for you.” Oh, and my personal favorite: “You may feel like a retard now, but you’ll get it eventually” (yes! Direct quote! I know, it’s almost impossible to believe that someone hasn’t given this woman her own children’s show on PBS).

As in any abusive relationship, there are apologies afterwards (“I know I can be kind of cranky or bitchy sometimes, I hope you understand that I really do think you’re doing well, and that’s why I’m pushing you”), but overall it’s just way more anxiety than I care to admit into my life for what was supposed to be a nice break.  When I know the instructor is watching me, I feel jumpy and nervous, and inevitably make more mistakes than I would otherwise.  I feel like one of those kids who has trouble reading aloud in class, whose teacher berates her so much that even after she learns to read satisfactorily, she probably has a lifelong stutter and paranoia about reading anything out loud.

If you’re still with me, and haven’t ditched this entry after four solid paragraphs of whining, let me just add that our instructor also answers and talks on her cell phone at least twice during our three-hour class sessions.  I know we all lead very busy lives and all, and she has a job apart from teaching pottery classes (probably a good thing, in her case), but really – unprofessional, right?

We’ve also had a few rather bizarre conversations about my ethnicity, of all things.  We’re three for three so far.  In our first class, she asked me where I like to go for authentic Chinese food.  I replied that I’m not Chinese, but named the restaurant where we usually go – which I figured she wouldn’t like, since she said she preferred this gross pan-Asian place that has since closed (good thing; it made me sick the one time I went there).

In our second class, I happened to be wearing this shirt, and she asked, “Are you Korean?” I answered in the affirmative.  “Oh!” she said. “My doctor is Korean.” Uh-huh. Bringing your Korean acquaintance count up to…two, apparently.

In our third class, she showed us the stencils we would be using to carve our initials into the bottom of our pieces, so we knew which were ours.  She saw me writing “NC” on the bottom of one of my bowls, and suddenly exclaimed, “You know, you should write your name in Korean!”

I think I just gaped at her for a second or two, because, you know, my name is “Nicole” – and she knows it.  Nicole.  Greek, French, definitely Western; there’s no direct Korean translation.  Then she said, hilariously, “I could ask my doctor how to write it if you don’t know how.” I was just like, oh, yes! Please do that! That would not be awkward at all (for you)!

(Actually, because all Koreans do, in fact, know each other, I happen to be acquainted with her doctor. I think she speaks a little Korean; I’m not sure if she writes it.  Either way, wow.  Just wow.)

So, pottery class stresses me out.  I do not come home feeling refreshed and relaxed and stimulated; I come home feeling exhausted, a little bit stiff, and annoyed as hell.  And do I really need more stress in my life, from something that was meant to be my fun, lighthearted break from toddler-chasing?  I don’t think of myself as a quitter, but right now I’m of two minds about the whole thing.  I like the bowls I’ve made thus far, and I want to glaze them next week and actually see a finished product the week after.  I want to spend more time at the wheel and also try some hand-building.  I still love pottery, and I’d like to learn more about it, irritating teacher notwithstanding.  But honestly, when I think about going back next week, I don’t feel any real anticipation, just dread.

It’s a tug-of-war between my curiosity and my impatience, my stubbornness, and my “to hell with you” impulse.  At this point I’m really not sure which will win out.