Tearing Down the House

We are in the midst of renovations. Anyone who has been through renovations will understand how this all unfolded after losing several shingles in a storm. Anyone who has been through renovations with a spouse will also understand how renovations bring to the forefront marital and familial conflicts -- and accords -- over what a home should look like.

Tim and I bought our house 17 years ago – at which time the home inspector told us we had 10 more years left on the roof. So we knew we were on borrowed time. Then, a few shingles began to break away with each storm. They were brittle to the touch and broke easily when retrieved from the front lawn, or worse, the neighbor’s front lawn. Our roof problem was becoming hard to hide or ignore.

Then came the severe spring storms that struck hard in Westchester County generally – and on our roof in particular -- recently. We could no longer delay getting a new roof. Why had we waited so long? There are several answers. Fear may have been one of the main reasons. Fear of the mess and upheaval that a new roof would entail. Fear of how much it would cost. Fear that there would be conflict over how best to do it. (Tim and I both have very strong design opinions.) There were other related reasons: the house had three layers of roof: the first cedar shake roof from 1921 (the underside of which one could see in the un-insulated attic), the second dark green asphalt roof; and the last speckled green and gray asphalt roof, probably dating from the late 60s. This meant that we had to shovel off all three layers and start over again according to the City Building Code. (Indeed, I believe the new code only allows two layers of roofing before it has to be ripped off – good for roofers; not so good for homeowners.) Tim has always wanted a very light colored roof – like those seen in Florida – to deflect the heat. I always thought they were inappropriate in the Northeast. I have always wanted a slate roof -- but I knew that would be out of our budget.

Another reason we waited so long is that we had always hoped to raise the dormer to the attic, along with insulating, so that we might use all of that untapped real estate – used now only for storing projects we had hoped to complete but long since abandoned; college and high school memorabilia; and “valuable” things set aside for prosperity. (Having spent time up there recently, I realize that my idea of “value” has changed over the years. I also realize that I don’t have as much time for “projects” as I once thought I did.) So, re-roofing meant not only putting on a new roof, but making other improvements at the same time.

And, once we have the carpenters coming. . . .

Closets are so scarce in our home. People just didn’t own many things, it seems, in the 1920s. As a family in the third millennium A.D., we have always needed more closet space. Or, at least I have. My clothes have been spread throughout all three bedrooms in the house: dresses in Trent's room; suits in Michela's room; and casual clothes in our room. I dreamed of a large walk-in closet where I could keep all my clothes together. I thought one would fit nicely where our upstairs terrace stood. I rationalized: we rarely use the terrace. (The terrace is accessed from Michela and Maya’s room and Michela has never been keen on my plan to “steal” her terrace.) We had also talked about taking Trent’s closet, which backed our room, in order to have another large closet along one wall of the master bedroom. (We are equal opportunity thiefs; Trent is equally unhappy about our stealing his closet and making his room smaller by building one in the corner.)

And, we need to knock a hole in the wall and put in French doors to the deck that Tim has been building for years now. Why not do that at the same time we put on the new roof as well?

And so, here we are. Thick in the middle of renovations. No room has been spared. To start, we had to go all through the house and take down the paintings so that plaster and saw dust didn’t wind up coating the surfaces. In our house, that was a day’s work in and of itself. Maybe because my mother didn’t like us to hang things on her walls because she wanted to keep the plaster intact. Or maybe because I can’t stand the idea of empty space. Or maybe we just enjoy a lot of artwork on our walls. For whatever the reason, in our house, we have numerous paintings on every horizontal surface. Bedrooms, hallways, living room, dining room, office, bathrooms, staircases. They all had paintings that had to be removed and bagged for protection during renovations. Then they all had to be placed somewhere where the contractors wouldn’t put a hammer through the canvasses and where Maya wouldn’t ride her toy train. After that, contractors’ paper had to be taped down on the floors to protect the wooden floors from damage. (The guys Tim works with are VERY careful. But still, damage to floors is hard to avoid during construction.) Lastly, plastic had to be draped over everything to protect it from plaster and saw dust. In fact, we never did put plastic over our bed and I swear that I have woken with plaster dust between my teeth and on my tongue many mornings now.

Choosing and purchasing materials is one aspect of renovations that I hope not to go through again for a long time. Tim and I finally did settle on a 50 year architectural roofing tile that reflects the sun to keep heating costs down. (I didn’t know why we chose 50 year shingles when we will be dead by then. Maybe Tim is optimistic about our longevity? I figured we could get the 30 year shingles and leave the kids with the problem.) I chose the color from among the colors that Tim approved: a light gray with green specks. It has turned out very nicely, even if some portions remain to be completed.

There were architectural materials we did agree needed to date to the 1920s in order to be in keeping with the rest of the house. We had purchased vintage French exterior doors at auction many years ago to put in the dining room, so they waited in the garage to be installed. We agreed that the walk-in closet needed a vintage French door to allow the light to come into the bedroom from the closet. Accordingly, I drove to Harlem to Demolition Depot and paid $325 (bargained down) for a used French door from the 1920s to fit the space. (I’m sure I had seen many on street corners being thrown out in the past years that I never picked up because I never knew I would need one.) We used the tall, vintage, double cabinet doors that I had scavenged from my friend’s apartment renovations for Trent’s closet doors. And we took the windows from the dining room to put in the raised dormer. We would use the vintage outdoor light fixtures from Fort Dix that we purchased at a tag sale to light the terrace and the deck. The terrace would get terra cotta tiles, like my grandmother’s terrace in Italy. And the old copper gutters would be replaced with new copper ones, which would age to a nice green patina over time. We agreed to hire a man to skim plaster over the sheetrock inside so that the new walls would match the old plaster ones and wouldn’t look so straight and naked. And we would have men skim stucco on the new outside walls to match the original tudor stucco.

Suffice to say, we have survived most of the decisions and much of the destruction. I now know more about construction and renovating than any woman should. (I won’t even get into the finer details of insulation: fiber glass versus shredded jeans?) I will just be glad when this is all over.

And we finally have the new roof that we have needed for so long. . . .

The Substitute Teacher

Trent came home from school recently. Said he had a frustrating day. When I asked why, he said, “I had that substitute teacher that thinks I can’t eat candy.” I already knew what this meant. Ever since Trent was 4 years old and in pre-k, there has been one substitute that gives candy to the entire class at the end of class. The entire class except Trent. Because he has diabetes and she doesn’t think he should have candy. Many times over the 10 years he has been in the school, he has tried to explain to her that he can have candy and that he merely needs to give himself insulin to “cover” the carbohydrates in the candy. She hasn’t budged over the years. Instead, she brings him a pencil. (He has a sizable collection of the pencils she has given him.)

Every year when Trent was younger, we went into school and had a little Diabetes 101 session with the class. We explained what diabetes is. We explained that Trent did not do anything wrong to get it. We explained that it was not contagious. We explained that he could eat anything as long as he had insulin to convert the glucose to energy. We answered questions. (“No, it is not at all related to AIDS.”) We talked about how Trent might look if his blood sugar was too low or too high. (“When little, the kids were always very protective of Trent and would inform the teacher if he looked funny.) And sometimes we had a little demonstration of how he checked his blood sugar by pricking his finger for blood and putting the blood on a strip in a glucose meter. (“If you think it’s gross, you don’t have to look. But Trent has to do this many times each day just to stay healthy and alive.”) Mostly, the kids were in awe that he was so brave and could check his own blood. They also thought his pump was “way cool.” The teachers were sometimes nervous and never real happy to see a needle or lancet in their classroom. But they were always impressed that Trent could calculate insulin doses for his H-tron or D-tron pump (pumps that Trent had before the new technology that calculates doses for the person with diabetes).

Sometimes teachers would make comments or do things that weren’t in keeping with our philosophy of diabetes. Our philosophy is that it is better to allow sweets and dose insulin than to deny them and risk Trent sneaking sweets without insulin. (Indeed, I once told Trent that if he asked I would give him ice cream for breakfast – and the insulin to cover – so that he needn’t ever sneak sweets. Would I really have done that? He never put me to the test. But he also never snuck sweets without bolusing insulin.) We tried to explain to the teachers that if cake and ice cream were healthy for the other children, it was also healthy for Trent. And that only foods that were unhealthy for other children were unhealthy for Trent. Too often, they didn’t get it. They often couldn’t get past the fact that they knew that their aunt Frannie or grandfather had diabetes and couldn’t eat sweets. Instead, they just assumed we were too permissive as parents. No matter how hard we tried to distinguish Type 1 from Type 2 diabetes, in some minds, it would not stick. Amazingly, even one of the school nurses didn’t get it and would give sugar free candy to Trent, assuming that he did not need insulin because it was “sugar-free." She did not understand that the sugar was not what we counted; that it was the carbohydrates that mattered.

We tried to talk to the teacher or the principal or someone at school whenever these misunderstandings arose and made Trent feel left out or segregated. But no matter who we spoke with, there remained the one substitute teacher that refused to believe that Trent could eat candy. She thought she was being protective and nice by bringing in pencils for him. But she didn’t seem to understand the issue from the kid’s point of view. A kid wants to be treated, usually, like the other kids in class. Especially when they are getting candy. So, when Trent came home again announcing that The Substitute With the Special Pencil for him had been at school, I sighed and asked to see his pencil. Instead of showing me, he went on to describe how he finally convinced her to give him candy, by showing his pump and how it connected to his stomach. Success! I thought. Finally, after 10 years. Given that Trent is leaving this school at the end of the year, to go on to high school, I thought this was a fitting end to his time at the school. Trent wasn’t so sure. It had been frustrating for him to endure yet another time. And, in the end, she would only give him one piece of candy. Even though she gave the other kids more than one piece. However, he didn’t miss the pencil.

Putting Your Money Where Your Mouth Is

This week, open adoption bloggers are blogging about how money plays a role in their open adoption. For families who have adopted through foster care, money is an added element that colors the relationships. Here are the dirty financial details behind our open adoption from foster care:

Money is a topic rarely discussed when it comes to adoption. It feels too crass to even mention. But, the raw fact is that children are often moved from home to home like commodities traded on an exchange. There are websites with pictures of beautiful children available, providing an experience akin to purchasing books on Amazon.com (albeit with a lot more red tape and bureaucracy). It was this aspect of “shopping” for a child that led my husband to feel that he did not want to try to expand our family through adoption. When I pushed him, however, he always agreed that if we heard of a child in need, he would be happy to adopt a child.

It was in that context that we found Maya. Whenever I heard of an unwanted pregnancy, I offered our family as a resource to raise that child. Nothing ever came through. Until one day, a colleague and friend mentioned the beautiful baby in foster care that she had come across in her work as a diabetes educator. Apparently, even families waiting to adopt infants felt unable to adopt a baby with Type 1 diabetes. Catholic Charities was having a hard time placing the baby with an adoptive family. I immediately moved on the chance to adopt a baby. The diabetes did not scare us. We have a son with Type 1 diabetes. Indeed, because we had become old hands at managing “the beast” of Type 1 diabetes by then, we felt that we would be an ideal set of parents for this baby. We informed the social worker at Catholic Charities that we would love to adopt the baby in their care. No photo listing in hand. Sight unseen, we committed. That decision has proven to be one of the greatest leaps of faith we ever made. Maya has been a joyous addition to our family.

It seemed that we had found the perfect chance to adopt a baby and escape the commercial aspects of adoption that Tim (and I, if the truth be told) were uncomfortable with. Alas, we came to learn that even adoptions from foster care sometimes involve an exchange of money. Apparently, in an effort to get children from foster care into permanent homes, the federal government has made available financial subsidies to cover the care of raising these children. Harder to place children – racial minorities and children with medical conditions – actually “command” a higher price than white, healthy children. This means that families receive monthly checks for adopting children from foster care.

My husband was immediately opposed to the idea of accepting any subsidy to adopt a baby we wanted and had come to love. I wasn’t so sure. I didn’t see it as money for us as much as money Maya was entitled to. A government benefit. Like unemployment benefits. Who would turn those checks down when they lost a job? My reasoning was that we could put the check away for her every month and have a sizable nest egg for her college fund. My husband felt that Maya would share in our family wealth (or poverty) in the same way as our other two children did. She would be treated the same and wouldn’t have monies set aside that they didn’t have. “Fine,” I responded, “We can divide the monthly check in three” and make college funds for the three of them. The fact that this would be a significant amount of money – some parents in New York receive more than $1,000 per month per child – did not change his mind.

Later, in our journey of adoption, we had occasion to meet Maya’s biological mother and, if we wished, develop a relationship with her. Again I pushed my husband to accept the subsidy once we completed all of our foster care requirements and adopted Maya. He was adamant. Even for the time that she was in foster care and not “legally” ours, he would not accept foster care payments. I argued that we could use the money to help Maya’s mother and her mother’s other son. Tim told me we could do that with our own money, if I wanted, but that we were not taking money for the privilege of adopting Maya. For families that need the extra income to adopt a child, he didn’t have a large problem with the subsidies. But he felt that we were not in that situation. He did agree to accept the medical insurance that is provided for foster children who are adopted. There were a few reasons for this: she had a medical condition and might need expensive care in the future; her insurance was better than the insurance that we purchase as self-employed individuals for the rest of our family; and the state insurance coverage would guarantee that she got the medical care she needed even if we became unable to provide for it. My financially savvy side vehemently disagreed with Tim. I could come up with a number of valid reasons to accept the subsidy. But somewhere in my heart, on another side, I knew that taking the subsidy wasn’t right for us. We weren’t providing a service to the state by raising Maya. We wanted to expand our family. We had come to love her.

Our decision not to accept any subsidy to adopt Maya is one that I am glad we made. We have developed a fully open adoption. Maya’s mother Nikki has turned out to be an extended member of our family, as has the rest of Nikki’s large and extended family. Our family has grown exponentially with the adoption of Maya. And I feel good about that. I feel good about having been able to tell Nikki and her family that, while we could have received a subsidy to adopt Maya, we turned it down. (They must think we are crazy or secretly wealthy.) We adopted her because we love her as much as they do. Had we accepted the subsidy, I would have felt guilty in Nikki’s presence. It would have weighed upon me that I was receiving money that Nikki so desperately needed to raise the daughter that the government callously took away from her. I am glad for my husband’s insistence. And I know that I want as little government involvement in our lives as necessary. We have no ties to the government. In that way, our adoption now feels like a private open adoption, with no government involvement.

Still, as I imagine exists in private open adoptions, money – or the disparity of financial resources between our family and Nikki’s – is something that makes its presence felt at times. In little ways. Like the fact that I know that I will pay for Nikki’s entrance fee to a museum or skating rink. Or that I will pay for her meal at a diner or McDonald’s too. And, at holidays, I give her the standard Italian-American “envelope” with cash in it for her gift. I try to encourage her to save her money and not buy me or Tim anything for holidays. Sometimes she still does. And I always appreciate the effort. I also appreciate that her family doesn’t forget my children at holidays. So, to the extent that money plays a role in our lives these days, it is much like how money plays a role in the lives of me and my brothers and sisters. Because my brothers and sisters have greater financial resources than Tim and I, they will often pay for our meals at a restaurant or not ask us to chip in for a gift to our parents, but still say the gift is from us, too. In the end, in our open adoption, money plays a role in the same way it does in any family.

Introducing Thorn

"Production, Not Reproduction" is a blog written by Heather about her life as a mother of two children through domestic, open adoptions. Heather also organized a group of Open Adoption Bloggers, of which I am a member. In order to commemorate the first anniversary of the Open Adoption Bloggers, members were voluntarily paired with others and asked to interview their partner. (To read those interviews and Heathr's blog, go to http://www.productionnotreproduction.com.) I had the pleasure of being paired with Thorn who, with her partner Lee, has been a foster parent to children in respite care. They have also hoped to become adoptive parents of a child in foster care, as Tim and I are.

Thorn writes her blog "Mother Issues" at http://motherissues.wordpress.com. Her blog is very well written and evidences the thought processes of a contemplative person. In it, we read about the frustrations of wanting to be a parent to a child in need and being pressed upon by the very bureaucracy that is supposed to find adoptive homes for children. We are introduced to Thorn's partner, Lee, who also wants very much to have a child but feels beaten down by the system. Thorn tells their compelling story, including tales about the trials of an inter-racial lesbian couple. But Thorn doesn't complain about their life. Instead, she ponders and tries to think her way out of the problems they face. Her thinking is so clearly set forth that the reader can relate. Thorn is full of thoughts and thoughtful about everyone: Lee, the children they have cared for, and even me. (She interviewed me, showing effort with her questions and genuine caring. The interview is posted on her blog.) So, without further adieu, below is the interview between Thorn and me:

> 1. Tell me about your family growing up. What were their attitudes on
> race, religion, adoption?

My parents are politically conservative Catholics, but they've always
had friends of many different races and backgrounds. While there's no
adoption in my immediate family, my parents and especially my mother
are strongly pro-adoption as part of their anti-abortion views. Only
the youngest of their children has remained Catholic (and he's only
18) but they seem to be okay with that and just hope that like them we
eventually come back to the fold, which I don't see happening. As I
get older, we get along better.

> 2. Are there some aspects of your family of origin that you would like to
> continue with a child? Are there some that you would like to leave
> behind?

We always had family dinners and a lot of lively conversation, which I
think is an important way for kids to learn. We didn't have a tv while
I was growing up and while that won't be an option in our house (Lee
would DIE!) I hope we'll be able to foster an interest in books and
the outdoors and other things besides being passive consumers.

I don't think my parents did a good job handling the mental health
problems one brother and I had, though they eventually got better
about it. My mother has a lot of behaviors and attitudes that I really
don't want to perpetuate, because I know how they've messed me up and
left me feeling insufficient. I hope to be more open and less rigid
than my parents were, but I do appreciate a lot of what they did.

> 3. How do you think your (you and Lee) being gay will affect your roles
> as parents, if at all?

I worry about this more than Lee does, I think, and I'm very
conflicted about how I'll play a lot of the more stereotypically "mom"
roles, cleaning and having the emotional conversations and checking
homework and so on, while she's the one who's into sports and joking
around and grilling and watching tv. I hate that it breaks down that
way (though there are other ways to read the relationship that aren't
so gendered and I just get hung up on this because it's a hangup of
mine!) and yet it's important for us both to play to our strengths
while simultaneously learning to stretch. I'm sure we'll be able to
find a good balance.

I do think that our being gay and an interracial couple affects how
self-conscious or self-aware we are when we're out in the community as
a family. When we've had respite teens staying with us for the
weekend, that's been something I've noticed, that I'm very carefully
gauging their reactions to make sure they're comfortable with how we
present as a group. It's really hard to guess ahead of time how this
will work out.

> 4. What would you say to people who might say to you that you shouldn't
> raise children in a same sex couple? Or that a child should have a
> father?

The good thing about the kind of adoption we're trying to do is that
it's very hard for people to say, "You know, I don't think gays should
be parents. I think kids should have to wait longer in foster care so
that they don't have to have gay parents." That's just not an argument
most people make. The one child we got close to adopting (Rowan) is
probably gay himself and is not comfortable having a father figure
because at this point that's a role that causes him too much stress.
So I think we have specific benefits we can give as a family without a
father, though we do have many men in our lives who will be actively
involved if we parent.

> 5. What would you say to people who might say to you that you shouldn't
> have an open adoption?

A lot of people do have a preconception that open adoption isn't
healthy, especially in the situation of a child who's been in the
foster care system. I think, though, that children who have actually
known and lived with their first families may have more need to
maintain contact. That might not be contact with parents (though it
might!) but certainly could involve siblings, grandparents, and so
on. These kids have lost a lot in their lives and I hope even people
who are skeptical about open adoption can see that any healthy and
supportive connections can be a major plus.

Because Lee was adopted by her biological grandparents, her adoption
was always open and she knew who her biological parents were and was
involved in their lives although they didn't raise her. Even though
her biodad went through some rough times, seeing his experiences and
recognizing his addiction (for instance) as what it was let her deal
with that in a healthy way as a child, while some of his other
children have had to deal with it as adults after growing up with a
fantasy of what their dad must have been like.

> 6. What if your child doesn't want to see their biological/first parent(s)?

That's fine! There are many factors at play in adoption from foster
care. Especially in the case of a child who's been neglected or
abused, contact may not be welcome or healthy. I think openness is to
some degree the job of the parents. I'd want to make sure we knew
where first family was so that if the child was interested in contact
we could facilitate that in a safe manner, but I certainly wouldn't
want to push a child to spend time with his abuser or anything like
that. And yet we're always going to be open in the sense of
acknowledging that a child has other families (by birth and perhaps
through foster care or as in Rowan's case a previous adoption) and
that those are part of the story of who this child is. We can and
should keep that story alive (in therapeutic contexts for the
bad/hard/sad parts and in positive ways for the good stuff) as part
of creating our own story and life as a family.

> 7. What would a child of your dreams be like?

Ooh, this is a tough one! I do sometimes dream of babies, little
girls. And yet it's very unlikely that we'll end up in a situation
where I'll actually parent a young child. I think going through the
process of being trained and then looking at hundreds (thousands?) of
child profiles has pretty much robbed me of any dreams I might have,
but I also think that's a good thing. I hope that I'll have a spark
with a child, that I'll get to see a personality grow and flourish.
I'm really excited about what the reality of a child would be, but not
so invested in dreams.

> 8. Anything else that you want to tell people?

It was actually very hard for me to answer a lot of these questions
because Lee and I have been having a lot of difficult conversations
and I'm starting to have less faith that we will in fact end up
parenting. It's hard to talk about what I'd like us to do when I'm no
longer all that sure we'll actually get to do it, so I think you'd
have gotten a more lively interview if we'd done this a month ago. I
love my partner and I love the life we have. I think we'd make great
parents and I hope we'll get to find that out, but even if it doesn't
work out I'm glad we're trying to adopt (and now, I guess, become a
foster home). This process has been harder -- mostly bureaucratically
and emotionally, but also in other ways -- than I had expected, but
the real reason I'm sad and frustrated and annoyed by that is not that
we can't get a kid but that there are so many kids who need homes and
permanency and stability and aren't finding them. I hope we'll be able
to push hard enough to end up being one of those homes, but I also
know that's not enough.

Even though it may sound weird given that we've had so much
frustration Lee is ready to quit, I would really recommend this
process to others who are hoping to build families. My life has been
enriched by what I've learned and from the children I've met and I
absolutely think it's been worthwhile. Lee and I are a stronger couple
now and I hope we'll be able to be good parents. I'm glad we've been
able to have some impact, but I'll go ahead and acknowledge the cliché
that the biggest positive changes have probably been in us. I'm so
grateful for that.

And thanks, Michelle, for these great questions!

Two Heads of Cabbage

Two heads of cabbage. That was all it took for me to start feeling better today. I had spent the morning in the middle school discussing issues with the principal, vice principal, guidance counselor, and psychologist relating to my children. This made me feel helpless and hopeless. I try so hard with my children and, still, I can’t seem to produce the respectful, confident, hardworking, happy kids that I strive for.

So it was no surprise that I was feeling blue this morning. I always feel down when I am called into school about my children. I feel like a bad parent. And I wish that I had those perfect children that I see all around me in the school: children that are involved in all the right school activities; children that are always on the honor roll; children that are happy to be at school and enjoy the privilege of their education. (Well, OK. Maybe I imagine the other children to be more than they really are. But who doesn’t want their fantasies to be possible?)

I left the school and went home to pick up the baby to bring her to my friend and babysitter, Shanikqua. (Maya is already 3 years old and no longer a baby. But in my heart and mind, she will be my baby for a long time to come.) At home, it took forever to get Maya to cooperate long enough to get her dressed. This is one of the most frustrating things about having a 3 year old. I can’t control her the way I would like to. She actually has a mind and will of her own! When I want to get her dressed, she would rather jump on my bed and sing about the three little monkeys jumping on the bed. “Mama called the doctor and the doctor said, ‘NO MORE MONKEYS JUMPING ON THE BED.’” And when I go around my bed to the other side to get her, she slips from my grip, jumps down off the bed and runs away calling out, “Naked baby on the run!” Or “naked booty!” It’s all very cute and she is having a wonderful time of it. But when I want to pick up and go, I don’t want to play. Sometimes I am not in the mood for her ever-present smile and playfulness. Sometimes I just want her to come to me, stand still, let me dress her and go downstairs so I can brush her hair, test her blood sugar, and put her shoes, coat and hat on. But Maya? Maya always has a different plan about how things should occur.

After finally getting Maya’s coat and hat and shoes on, I strapped her in the car seat and left for Shanikqua’s house. -- That’s the other disadvantage of a three year old: you can’t just tell her to hop in the car so we can go. You have to coax her into the car when she would rather inspect the snow and touch and taste and smell it. (Maya is all about how things smell.) Then you have to strap her in before walking around to the driver’s side door. I had forgotten all those things in the years since Michela has grown up.

Once in the car, Maya still has opinions about what she wants to do and where she wants to go. Immediately, she tells me that she wants me to put music on. And she’s not polite. Rather, she says, “I want music!” For the umpteenth time I respond, “How do you ask nicely for Mommy to put music on?” Sometimes she just says, “Nicely!” And I think she really just does not understand. Other times, right on cue, she says, “May you please play some music?” Then, if I don’t put in the CD that she wants to hear, she cries out, “NO! I want the pink one!” Or, “I want reggae!” Again, I ask, “How do you ask nicely for Mommy to change the CD?”

Once we got the music resolved, I turned the car to the left at the stoplight and headed for Shanikqua’s house. Maya knew exactly where we were going when I made that left turn. (How does a three year old know directions to all of the places that we go?) Again, her plan was different from mine. “I want to go to Starbucks!” she yelled. Thinking that I could use a cup of coffee, I agreed. “We’ll go to the Starbucks near Auntie Shanikqua’s house.” At Starbucks, she wanted to hold my credit card, which I often let her do. This time, she dropped it in the grate on the refrigerated display case. I was in no mood to fish out my credit card from the depths of the cold metal. Still, once the kind barista helped me get it with tongs and long fingers, I asked Maya if she would like juice. “No,” she told me. Turning to the barista, she said, “I would like a cup of water with ice in it please.” “A child who would prefer ice water to juice; that’s a different one,” the barista responded. I shrugged my shoulders.

Needless to say, by the time I got through Shanikqua’s front door, I was ready to pull my hair out. I took off Maya’s coat and told her to go play with her friend. After a little small talk, I asked Shanikqua not to forget to test Maya’s blood sugar and handed her the envelopes she had asked me to bring for her. I was on my way out the door when Shanikqua pointed to a grocery bag tied in a knot sitting near the door. “Take that,” she told me. “What is it?” I asked. “Two heads of cabbage,” she told me. I must have looked a little confused. “I was in The Bronx and I saw a good deal on cabbage,” she explained. “So I bought four. Two for you and two for me. Take them.” I took the cabbage and left.

I was walking along the sidewalk to my car, carrying the cabbage when a nice warm feeling came over me. I was reminded of the many times I saw the old Italian aunts or my mother come into my grandmother’s kitchen through the back door carrying a paper sack with something in it. “Peppers were on sale at the A&P,” they would tell her in Italian as they placed the bag on the kitchen table. Or, “my cousin was in Patterson and bought bushels of tomatoes. You’ll need to cook these right away because they are ripe, but I thought you’d like some for gravy.” Or, “I baked five loaves of bread, so I brought you one.” Shanikqua is not even Italian, I thought with a chuckle.

Then I thought more about it. “That’s what good friends and family do,” I thought. When they see a good deal on cabbage, they pick you up a few. The sharing of bounty – and good deals on produce -- transcends race and ethnicity. Family and friends show their love and support for one another through the small gestures in life. I thought about how lucky I was to have a friend give me cabbage. And I hoped that my children, however they turned out, would be lucky enough to have a friend give them two heads of cabbage one day.

I tossed the plastic bag with the cabbage in it on the front passenger seat and turned the key in the ignition. With that cabbage, my worries melted away.

Boxing Maya

I knew this day would come. One day. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced with Trent and Michela. It was simple with them. With Maya, there are more choices. That’s what makes it harder. I knew one day I would have to put her in a box. It’s bad enough that she is being raised by parents who are, arguably, incapable of raising her properly. But to have to box her in. When we are trying to live up to her rich history. To be forced to box her in. I hated it.

Today I registered Maya for school in Yonkers. She will turn 3 soon and will be eligible to go to pre-k next year. But to send her, I had to fill out the paperwork and register her by going downtown. I had made my appointment weeks ago. But I was running late because Maya had colored herself with orange Crayola marker and I had to take time to scrub her hands and face and toes before leaving. Finally, with Maya in tow, I entered the Board of Education building armed. I had all of my paperwork: I had her official birth certificate stating that Maya Nevaeh Nikol Gardner was born to Tim Gardner and Michelle Rago in Northhampton County PA. (Never mind that the birth certificate is a total fake. And that Tim and I had never set foot in Northampton County until months after she was born. That is a bitch session for another day.) I brought in my Verizon cellphone bill, my internet provider bill, and my ConEdison gas and electric bill (which I NEVER knew was so expensive since Tim pays all the bills). I proved that we were residents of Yonkers. I also brought in Maya’s immunization records and proved that she has been appropriately immunized.

After waiting only a short while (they are pretty organized for such a large city with 30,000 students in the school district), I sat down with a Board of Ed employee, filled out the last paperwork, and was interviewed. “Whoa, Ms. Rago.” The words stretched out slowly before me. “Help me here with this question. What are we putting down for your daughter’s ethnicity?” With a sigh, I began. “I filled it in. I want to put ‘Multi-ethnic.’” Maya has a history that pre-dates Tim and I. I have always wanted to be forthright about that. With her. And with other people. That means, first and foremost, we acknowledge the diverse family background that Maya has inherited. The woman interrupted my thoughts. “I see that you have written here – African American, Asian, Hispanic, Caucasian, and Native American.” I responded, “Yes, she is all of those. She has a Japanese grandmother, a Native American grandmother, and an African American father with Cuban ancestry. So I didn’t know what to write. How do I choose?” The woman responded. “I can’t choose for you. You have to choose.” I thought. “Well I can’t choose. I want to put multi-ethnic. I don’t want to deny any of her heritage by choosing one over another. The U.S. census has finally changed this year. In 2010, people will be able to choose multiple ethnicities as they identify themselves. That’s what I want to do for my daughter.” I could see my interviewer was slightly exasperated. “I understand your frustration. The U.S. census has changed. But this is the Yonkers school district. I have to check one box.” I patiently tried to explain my position, as I knew I would have to do many times in the future in order to advocate for my daughter. “Well, if I had to choose, she has more African ancestry than any other. But I really don’t want to choose. What does a child do when he has a Caucasian parent and an African American parent? Deny that he is as much Caucasian as African American just because there aren’t sufficient boxes?” My interviewer finally came clean. “Look. I have sympathy for your position. When you came in here with Maya, I had to do a double take. She looks exactly like my niece, Brittany, who is half black and half Irish. My sister married an Irish man and feels the same way you do.” She pulled out a photo of her niece who had the same complexion and curly hair as Maya. “I have written letters to the Superintendent. I have tried to explain,” she went on. “But, this is Yonkers. This is not the federal government. Yonkers doesn’t understand that none of us are pure blood. We are all mutts. And it shouldn’t matter.”

I knew that she understood that it did matter. I protested. “It shouldn’t matter. But it does matter. My daughter is being raised by white people. But she has an identity. She is not all white or all black. How do I raise a child with a healthy sense of herself if I have to categorize her as something she isn’t? It shouldn’t matter, but it does.” My new friend was very sympathetic. “Let’s hope that when Maya grows up, it doesn’t matter. But right now, it does. If I were you, I would put Caucasian because that’s what her brother and sister are listed as being here. Then, when she grows up, she can be anything she wants to be. She can just be American.” I thought about it and I chose Caucasian as recommended.

She is an American baby, I thought. Just like my husband. When people ask him where his family is from, he usually answers, “America. Here. And Switzerland.” My husband’s father’s family has been here from the time of the Mayflower. They are descended from Priscilla and John Alden. They are Dutch and English. But, after so many generations, what does it matter? No one speaks Dutch anymore. No one cooks Dutch. The farm that old Abraham Van Nest owned in Greenwich Village has long since been divided up and sold, (in part to New York University). His mother’s family fled Switzerland to avoid religious persecution as Mennonites. But, even that flight was so many years ago that no ties to Switzerland remain -- save a few of Grandma Liechty’s recipes.

I thought about how my life differed from my husband’s life growing up, and what that would mean for our children. I was “pure” Italian, as far as I knew. My father’s mother was from Muro Lucano, Italy, in the region of Basilicata, “provincia di Potenza.” (I had been to my grandmother’s house several times, even bringing my husband and children to meet my remaining relatives there several years ago.) Grandpa Rago was from Salerno, the launching point for the Almalfi coast. My mother’s parents were from Benevento, Italy, which was further north and east – a town famed for its witchcraft. Everyone I knew growing up was Italian. No one came into our home that wasn’t Italian. They sat around at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, and speaking Italian. My father was a shoemaker, working at a shop with his father. Everyone we knew were carpenters, plumbers, tradesmen or employees in the government. It was very insular and we knew our place in society. We were told about when the neighbors came to the door and tried to get my mother to join a group to keep Italians out of the neighborhood. We knew when we brought in eggplant sandwiches that other kids didn’t eat the same. And when we confused English words for Italian words on homework, we knew we were not like most of the kids in class. I never felt American as much as I felt Italian.

Trent and Michela have some sense of being Italian. They eat my food and I only know how to cook as I was taught by my mother and grandmother – start everything with olive oil and garlic and it will turn out. They have been to Italy and have heard Italian spoken. They want to learn Italian. They are also very proud of their father’s heritage. They know that his father is descended from people who came over on the Mayflower. And that his mother has Swiss Mennonite ancestry. They are true American children, but to outsiders, they are Caucasian.

Maya will have a more difficult road to understand her identity. Being raised by me and Tim, she will inevitably feel some kinship to Italian people and Swiss Mennonites and Mayflower descendants. That will be the environment in which she grows up. Still, she has a relationship with the mother who gave birth to her. Her mother Nikki is one quarter black, one quarter Native American, one quarter Caucasian, and one quarter Japanese. She lives amidst people from many different cultures in her town. Unlike the home I grew up in, the home in which Nikki lives frequently has Polish, Puerto Rican, African American, and Cuban visitors. However, while we live in a completely white neighborhood of European descent (overwhelmingly Italian American), our children go to Yonkers public school, which is truly as diverse as the United Nations.

Maya is a smart cookie. She will have no problem understanding the heritage into which she was born and the heritage into which she was adopted. But that is an intellectual undertaking. My job as a parent is also to raise an emotionally healthy and happy child. I believe that, in order to do so, Maya needs to feel proud of who she is: she is a multi-ethnic child being raised by European descended parents, amidst their families, and amidst her Mama Nikki’s diverse family. I have a hard time teaching her to be proud if the Yonkers public school district makes me box her into one category.

I think it is time to write my own letter to the superintendent of schools.

Flying Too Close to the Flame

We had just sat down to a late dinner in early August when we heard the lightening and the thunder strike. Suddenly the lights went out and it was dark. Each of us immediately had a private thought. Trent wondered if the computers were zapped. I wondered if we’d have no power for a week, like two summers ago. Michela said she wondered if there was anything on her fork. She said she couldn’t see it; that she had tried to spear some salad just as the power went out. She said that she didn’t hear any crunch that would tell her that she had caught something. She explained how hungry she was and how she hoped, as she brought her fork to her mouth in the dark, that there would be lettuce or tomato on it. (There wasn’t.)

We had become old hands at what to do when we lost power. Trent opened his cellphone for light to guide me to the candle drawer in the kitchen. Tim felt his way to the cupboard where the matches were kept. As soon as we had enough candles lit, I suggested that someone should call Tim’s aunt Fran down the block while I went to check in on our elderly neighbor Theresa.

Later in the evening, as we finished our meal, a moth flew too close to the candle flame and burned a wing, falling to the top of the china closet where the candle was situated. Michela pointed it out and Trent went to verify that, indeed, a moth had fallen dead on the oak cabinet. “The plight of many moths throughout history,” said my father-in-law Merritt to everyone and no one in particular. “Flying too close to the hot flame.”

Maya was very upset. “The moth flew too close to the fire and burned himself Mommy?” “Yes, Maya,” I replied. “Why?” she asked in her two year old way of dissecting all events. “It was an accident,” I told her. “Just like when you accidentally got too close to the pot on the stove this evening and burned your pinkie finger.” “Where did he go Mommy?” she asked. I wasn’t prepared for this. I decided I didn’t need to tell her that the bug had died. “He flew home crying to his Mommy so she would make it better,” I told her. I told myself that this wasn’t exactly lying. That maybe bug heaven was like going home to your Mommy.

“He flew home to his Mommy?” she repeated. “Yes,” I responded. “Wouldn’t you come crying to your Mommy if you were burned?” I asked her. “I would go crying to my Real Mommy,” she said. I couldn’t believe my ears. Her Real Mommy? Where did she hear that phrase? I ventured another question. “Who is that?” Hoping the answer wasn’t what I thought it might be. It was. “My Mama Nikki,” she said. I thought I heard my mother-in-law Ruth Ann audibly gasp. “Michelle is a good Mommy,” she blurted. She was trying to fix things, as she always did. But since when did we refer to me as Michelle in front of my daughter? I’m Mommy.

“Did someone say to you that I’m not your Real Mommy?” I asked. “No,” she answered. “Well, where did you hear that Mama Nikki was your Real Mommy?” I continued. She shrugged, “I don’t know.” I thought about how to approach the subject. “Mama Nikki is just a different kind of Mommy,” I told her. “She carried you in her belly and gave birth to you,” I explained, as I had on other occasions. “But I take care of you. I’m a Real Mommy, too.” I was rambling. “Do I look like a pretend Mommy to you? Do I look pretend? I look real to me. I’m real.” I turned towards my husband, “Daddy, do I look pretend to you?” He assuaged me, “You look real to me.” Merritt and Ruth Ann were on the front porch now, talking in low voices. Maya ran off to go play.

I asked Tim where he thought she learned that. I told him that I never use that language. He suggested that she learned it at our friend’s house. Our friend has had two foster children for three years and it is possible that one of the children there told Maya that I am not her real mother. Tim suggested that I drop the matter and not give electricity to the word and it would pass.

Later that night in bed, I asked Tim how I can make it clear to Maya that we don’t use that language. Just as we teach our children that there are certain other offensive terms that we don’t use. He said he expected that if we never used that terminology, she wouldn’t use it anymore either. “But then how do we teach that certain words hurt? That certain words are offensive?” I asked him. “It’s offensive to me. I mean, I know I’m her mother, but still. . . .” I protested. It did hurt a little. He reiterated that if we didn’t use that term, she wouldn’t either. And that she would understand that it was inappropriate. He said if I made a big deal out of it, she would use those words to push my buttons. “I still think there must be a way to gently, casually mention it, but not make a big deal out of it,” I told him. He said that the best way to teach was by example and that I should drop it.

My husband’s approach was always to avoid and deny, in my view. That was so not my approach. I am more in your face. An emotional, screaming Italian mess. With gestures to accompany the words. And, yet, I knew that Tim was right on so many things I didn’t know how to approach. I hoped he was right this time. . . . .