Good Hair

After the haircut.

Molly got a haircut today. Molly's hair is a subject unto itself. It's a source of admiration, but also, strangely, controversy. Because her hair isn't typical for Ethiopian kids. It's not what most people would think of as "African" or "African American" hair. Ironically, her hair most resembles Emma's at the same age: big fat ringlets, fine and soft and wispy as cotton candy. I can't oil it because it turns into a grease slick. She can't really wear the braids she wants like her friends, or like Keyana in I Love My Hair, which is one of her favorite books. But on the other hand, most days I can throw barrettes in it (which she loves) or put it in a ponytail (which she hates), which makes it easy for me, and for her. I'm in awe of my friends who create beautiful, intricate braids and hairstyles for their little girls. Molly's hair doesn't lend itself to that, and I think that's probably ok because I don't think I have the styling chops to pull that off. Certainly can't do anything with my own hair.

But no matter what, this hair thing is fraught with peril, isn't it? Because hair is bound up in our culture--certainly in African and African American culture, and in European American culture too--"good hair," "difficult hair," "bad hair days." In my family, we've got Jew hair, thick and crazy and wavy, grows like crazy, doesn't respond to blowdryers or product, takes heavy-duty artillery to straighten, gets increasingly wiry and difficult as we grow older. Molly's hair is none of that. It's magical. It's soft as spun silk. Her ringlets are like a fairy princess's. But somehow, I don't think that's going to let her off the hook.

At the salon today, the stylist and I discussed Molly's hair. I was talking about how hard it is when it gets tangled up (that spun sugar turns into mats--fast) because we have to be so careful with the product we put in. Anything heavy or oily turns her head into an oil slick. Many of the products for African American hair don't work at all on her. Well, the stylist said, she doesn't really have African American hair. Her hair is "more like ours." It's "nicer," she said. And so it goes. I flinched, inwardly, and said nothing. Should I have stopped her there? Of course. Should I have told the stylist--with her flimsy stick-straight blonde hair--that of course it wasn't "nicer" than more typical AA hair, just different. And of course her hair is just as African as "typical" AA hair. It's not "white" hair, either--whatever the hell that means anyway. My hair is nothing like the salonista's, either. What did she even mean, "more like ours"? But I said none of that. In fact, I didn't say much at all. Just agreed that yeah, it wasn't typical. And then we left.

So is this what Molly will be saddled with? People telling her how "lucky" she is because her hair is atypical for an African American child? The backhanded compliment that will make her feel crappy--at the same time an outsider and denigrating the other kids she knows? What kind of message is that sending? And what about the message that she doesn't really have "black" hair, either? Will Molly have to defend her hair for not being "black" enough? Will she feel like she can't be proud of her hair, as gorgeous as it is, because it's different? Cuz as far as I know, if Molly's African American, her hair is, too. How bad am I for not calling the stylist out on her thoughtlessness, her casual racism? How crappy a mom does that make me?

Every day, I tell Molly how beautiful she is. I know it's retrograde of me. I know I'm not supposed to do this, as the mother of a girl especially. So I also tell her how smart and kind she is. But the thing is, she is beautiful. Really, really beautiful. And so is her hair. And, as retrograde as it is, I feel like it's important that she never forget that. No matter what messages she's getting.

Three Years

Here's where I get to get sappy and maudlin. Three years ago today we met this amazing little person for the first time. I am in constant awe of her, of her bright spirit, her joyous self, her funny, quick mind, her beauty, her kindness, of the amazing little person she is. And I stand in wonder of the process and series of events that brought us to her. When you have a biological child, there's this weird combination of random events that goes to create this child, and of course, the one you birth is the one you get. But adoption feels so much more, and less, random in its way. Because this little person was on the planet before we ever knew about her. And she has another family that loves her halfway around the world. And yet, it doesn't seem possible that we could be without her in our lives. And the idea that she could have left her home in Ethiopia and gone to live with someone else is inconceivable. If you believe in meant to be, she was meant to be. She is always and forever part of her first family. And she is, and was, always and forever meant to be ours.

Three years ago, this little person entered our lives. I can't imagine our family without her. We are so very very lucky.

July 7, 2007, the first day we met Molly Fanaye

With one of her nannies on the day of the official ceremony when she came home with us.

Back with us at the guest house in Ethiopia.

And here is the girl she is today.

So today is about Princess Molly Fanaye. Her silly, goofy, effervescent, beautiful, sweet, brilliant, luminescent self. About how she gives the best hugs and kisses in the whole world. About the way she completed our family in the most perfect way imaginable. And it's about her first family, and her birth mother who, even though I don't pray, I still pray for every day. I hope she knows the gift she gave us.

Happy Famiversary, Baby Girl.

Second Famiversary: July 7, 2009

Not sure when this happened, when this tiny little baby turned into this big grown up funny young person. But on July 7th we marked the second anniversary of our trip to Ethiopia to pick up Molly Fanaye. She likes to tell the story: "Nannies pourin'." "We saw you first minute." And finally, "Handprint on the wall."

Here are the pictures that complete the story she tells:

Courtyard of the CHSFS Care Center, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, July 7, 2007. Fanaye age 7 months

Madison, Wisconsin, July 10, 2009. Molly Fanaye age 2 years, 7 months.

Every day I ask how I got so lucky. We love you so much baby girl.

Opia

Tomorrow is Christmas. And although they don't observe Christmas in Ethiopia til January (I love the Ethiopian calendar--in Ethiopia it's also 2001). But it still seemed like as good a time as any to publicly share our love and thoughts and prayers and wishes for Molly Fanaye's Ethiopian family, who we think about every day.

When we brought Molly home last year, the agency gave us DVDs with video of her family, her time in the care center, and her first days with us. Precious precious video. Lately, these DVDs have been in heavy rotation on our TV. Molly is not ever tired of watching "Baby Molly in 'Opia.'" She jams along to the cool Ethiopian jazz soundtrack, and she's especially excited when her friend's grandpa Larry shows up on screen ("Larry! Larry!"). Now all grandpa-aged men are Larry.

Molly watches these DVDs intently and incessantly. I want to know what she's thinking about, what she's taking away. What does she remember about her first 7 months in Opia? What about her first three months and a half months with her birth family? I don't think it's as simple as "she likes to watch herself on TV," although she most definitely does. I wish I knew what kind of imprints and impressions these images are making on her or calling up for her. I wish I knew how these videos are laying themselves down and gelling in her psyche. I wish I had more answers for the questions she will undoubtedly have for us as she grows.

Now, Molly watches the Baby Molly video and then she snuggles up and attaches her mouth to my boob. Through my clothes, on the side, sucking on my sweater. Does she remember nursing? She hasn't nursed since she was 3 months old, but she sees herself nursing on the DVD. What does that image call up for her? Sam and Emma nursed for a year, and when they were done, they were done. No going back. But Molly didn't get her fair share of boob. And she's kind of obsessed with breasts. She likes to stick her hand down my shirt, and just kind of leave it there. For comfort. It's weird but, whatever. I figure if it's what she needs, it's what she needs. Doesn't bother me.

When Molly first started at her old daycare, before she was even a year old, there was a little boy who was about 3 in the preschool class. He was also adopted, from someplace in Southeast Asia. He had black hair and beautiful caramel skin about the same shade as Molly's. And for some reason, he and Molly were instantly bonded. They weren't in the same classroom, but on the playground and wherever he could, he sought her out. Molly, who wasn't especially friendly or attached to strangers, would go and lie down with her head in this little boy's lap for half an hour or more. We have pictures. And the little boy would sit, still and quiet, while Molly just lay there, content and quiet. Was she missing her brother back in Ethiopia? He would have been close to that age. What does she need that she's missed, that she didn't get because she was separated too early from her first family?

Things in Ethiopia are horrible right now. There is widespread drought and people are starving. I'm looking out the window at the snow falling down and Mudula, Ethiopia, seems very far away. Yet also so close. We're bound to a family there, forever, through this smart, silly. sweet, bossy, beautiful little person sitting here on my lap watching "Sesame Street" with her hand down my shirt. So, even though I am not much for praying in general, today, and every day, I pray for our Ethiopian family. I pray that they have enough to eat, that their lives get easier. I think about when we will be able to go back to Ethiopia and see them again. I wish them peace and grace and happiness. And I wish the same for all of you. Merry Christmas, Happy Eid, Happy Chanukah, Merry Solstice, Happy Kwanzaa and all good things for 2009.

Then and now.

Molly Fanaye at the guest house in Addis Ababa a day or so after we took custody of her, July 2007.

Molly now, July 2008

It's been a year. A whole year since we traveled to Ethiopia to bring Molly home. And a crazy year, with my new job and a whole lot of adjusting--Sammy had to adjust to being a big brother, Emma had to adjust to being a mini-mommy, and we all had to adjust to having a baby-now-toddler in the house again!

I'm writing this as Molly sits in her high chair--an increasingly rare occurrence as she'd much rather be sitting up at a big chair at the table--and eats some peanut butter on bread. She's nodding her head, her crazy/beautiful curls are everywhere, and she's looking at me with a very serious expression, nodding her head, and yelling "No, no, Abe!" Abe is our cat, and he hears "no" a lot.

I've been trying to figure out how to write this post without it devolving into triteness and cliché. It's going to be hard.

People ask us about the adoption, and what it was like, how Molly's adjusted, and all that. And I tell them, it was the most wonderful, amazing, and life-changing experience. But it's something that I also feel like I can't adequately explain to people without resorting to words like "wonderful, amazing, and life-changing." It's really a case of "you had to be there."

I can't imagine not having this little girl in our lives. She is gorgeous, smart, funny, and kind. She's a whirl of energy; she never ever ever stops moving. And she's stubborn and strong-willed and she knows what she wants. She is no pushover. She loves bubbles, and Teletubbies, and Elmo, and kitties, and dancing, and music, and splashing in puddles. And cheese. I feel like we're the luckiest family in the world, with the most wonderful children. Sometimes still, a year after she came home, I still look at her and I'm overcome by how much I love her, how incredible she is, how amazing. I still can’t believe I get to be her mother.

Molly turned 19 months old on July 7th, which was the anniversary of the day we first met her. (As Sammy likes to point out, we met Molly on her 7-month birthday: 7-7-07.) The whole family—Matt, me, Sam, Emma, my mom and stepdad, and Molly’s cousins, Belle, and Nicholas—celebrated “gotcha day” with an ice cream cake and a song for Molly. The first day we met Molly she was so scared and passive. She didn't cry, just stayed really still, staring with her big beautiful eyes. She did smile and laugh for her nannies at the care center but she was very wisely wary of us, these strange people who kept talking to her and wanting to pick her up. The first morning we met her I held her for hours but she wouldn't sleep, just sat tensely in my lap. Finally, Emma held her and after a long long while she drifted off. I didn't really see her smile much for us that whole first week in Addis.

What a difference in a year. Today, our Molly Fanaye is a joyful and vivacious little girl. So happy and ready to laugh. She is friendly but wisely wary of new people, although she warms up quickly. She loves her mama and daddy, adores her Emma and Sammy. When we brought Molly home at 7 months, she wasn't crawling or sitting up. But she sat up within a couple of weeks, crawled within a month and a half, and got up and started walking, as if on cue at 13 months. At her first checkup, she didn't even show up on the growth charts. But at her checkup on Wednesday she was 45th percentile for height and 30th for weight--within 2 months she popped right up on the growth-curve parabola and she's grown beautifully ever since. She's hitting all her milestones, she's so smart and funny and so beautiful.

Before we brought Molly home, and in those early days, I don't think we knew what we could expect. Whenever you have a new child, you don't know how they're going to develop, what issues you're going to face. Since Molly's first months were spent away from us, and since her earliest months became so traumatic, leaving her first family, I didn't know what kinds of issues we might face with bonding, attachment, development, lingering effects of nutrition--who knew? But if we could have ordered up a baby, we couldn't have had a more perfect little person to add to our family than Molly Fanaye. I just feel so lucky that I didn't get pregnant back when we were looking to have a third child. I can't imagine not having Molly in our family.

And at the same time, I think about Molly's birth mom every day. Especially now that we're celebrating our one-year famiversary. I have an unbreakable bond with a woman I met only once, and may or may not ever be able to see, talk to, write to, or hear from ever again. An amazing woman, to produce such an amazing girl. I don’t think there’s any way for us to express what a gift she gave to us, and although it’s a gift I would never wish she had to give away, I am beyond words with gratitude, respect, and love for her.

I wish that Molly's birth mom could see her now, and see how smart and beautiful she is. I know she wanted her to be smart and healthy and happy. I hope she would be happy with the job we are doing for her little girl. I know she would be so so very proud of her daughter.

We're not allowed to have direct contact with Molly's birth family. The reports that we send go to an office in Mudula, the town where Molly was born. Her birth mother can look at the reports and photos that we send, but we have no way of knowing if she knows that the reports are there, or has the resources to get to the office to see them. I hope that she does and that she can see what a gorgeous little person her daughter is. I wish I knew for sure.

In the courtyard of the care center on the first day we met Molly Fanaye. L to R: Emma, Molly Fanaye, me, Sam. Mom and Dennis are in the back. Molly was so tense, as you can see in her expression. When Molly was stressed sucked on her tongue--it's a calming reflex, like sucking her thumb. As you can see, she was sucking it hard that day. She still sucks her tongue when she's tired.

Fanaye, still in Addis, a couple of days later at the guest house.

Molly Fanaye now--a big 19 month old girl.

"You have got to be out of your freakin' minds."

Molly and her mama.

Sam, Molly, and Emma. Although Sammy looks like he has the mumps, he's really just eating a tortilla.