Meaning Something

As much as I enjoyed the holidays before Petros came home, (okay, except for last year-they were pretty miserable!) they've taken on a new meaning now! I'm so thankful for having him with us this year.

Black Kids in a White House.

If you haven't read this article yet, you should. I read it quite awhile ago, and have wanted to post my thoughts ever since, but wasn't sure if I could get through a post without going into a rant or even thinking coherently, much less writing coherently.

We knew that adopting a child with a different color skin than us would be challenging at times. We knew that perfect strangers would ask us questions I'd hesitate to ask my best friend. We knew we'd get stares from the general public. What I didn't know was that it would affect me the way it does.

It seems as though everyone has an opinion. "He's an American now, treat him like one"; "There's no need to bring him to a barber shop specializing in African-American hair, bring him to any old place"; "Just try to be color blind-you're probably noticing his differences more than he is."; "What does it matter if I make a racially-insensitive joke? It wasn't about black people."

I'm trying very hard not to be some overly-sensitive adoptive mother who gives her kid a complex about his race. Really, I am. It is very difficult to do so, however, when we're confronted with it a lot more than I expected. It isn't always as blatant as someone using the "n" word right to my face. (Yes, this really happened!) It also isn't always as in-your-face as looking at my neighbors myspace page to find out that she has a confederate flag as her default picture. (And we live in the North!) Sometimes it's the innocent old man at the grocery store who tugs on my son's jacket, gives him a high-5, then asks me, "Did you adopt him?"; sometimes it's the sweet lady who says, "Well, God bless you for all that you've done. He doesn't even know how lucky he is. You could have just adopted a white baby from right here."; sometimes it's the barber who says, "So is he half-black, or African or something?", then goes on to say, "Didn't Angelina get one from over there?"; sometimes it's a close friend telling me that I'm over-sensitive because I hesitate to allow my son to watch a movie where reindeer are making fun of a fellow reindeer because of the color of his nose. You see, these things wouldn't necessarily be a big deal, if my son didn't tell us frequently that he wishes his skin were white, or ask me when his skin will be white like his daddy's. It also may not bother me as much if these comments weren't taking place right in front of my son. It's almost like people honestly believe that he doesn't understand the general idea of what they're saying. I do not want my son to ever believe, even for a minute, that we have to explain or defend our family. I also don't want him to think that he ever has to thank us for what we've done. He's not the lucky one.

We knew that bringing home a child from Ethiopia would present some unique opportunities for growth as human beings, and as a family. I guess I could look at all of these comments and stares as opportunity for growth. If wanting to expose my son to people of color on a more frequent basis, ensure that I'm sending him to the right schools, engross him in not only his American culture, but also expose him to his Ethiopian roots, and not have to constantly explain our family to the general public makes me over-sensitive, then I guess it's a label that I'll take. With pride.

TOMS

Go here. Buy shoes. Seriously. When we were in Ethiopia, we were amazed at the lack of shoes. Children in the city didn't have shoes. Children living rurally didn't have shoes. It sticks out in my mind whenever I think about our travel. Especially when I look at the bottom of my son's feet. This is such a great opportunity to do some Christmas shopping and to help out a child in Ethiopia!