It's Almost Naptime!

Mothers' Day

2013-05-11T23:20:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow is my first Mother's Day raising another woman's child.

I thought about her today when I was kissing the Bethie's cheeks, repeatedly, until, annoyed, she pushed me away. But I can't help myself. Her cheeks are so perfectly soft and irresistible that I kiss them fifty? a hundred? times a day. Then I swooped her down and she giggled loudly and I hoped that her mother was able to watch us from heaven. I hoped she could see see how much she is loved. I hoped she could see how I can't stop kissing her.

I've been told that we don't actually look down from heaven on those left behind. That this is a myth we placate ourselves with, comforting, but theologically inaccurate. I've been told that when we do actually go to heaven that the vision of Christ will be so wondrous to behold that any earthly cares will instantly be forgotten and we won't have any desire whatsoever to look back in on the world we left behind.

My limited, human mind can in no way grasp the glory of an encounter with the living Christ. But neither can my mother's heart conceive of no longer caring about how my children are doing, ever.

I think I believe she sees.

Her name was Selam, which means peace.

They said she was compassionate, the one people came to with their troubles. When our daughter points to the bandaid on my finger, furrows her brow, and asks, nodding, and with great concern, "Booboo?" I think I see Selam in her.

They also said she was joyful and loved to laugh. When our daughter dances around the living room, jumping on and off of couch pillows, twirling, laughing, I think I see Selam in her.

As time goes by I will begin to see more of myself in Bethie. The lines of nature and nurture will blur so that we will not know which traits come from her, which came from me, which are uniquely her own. This is the legacy of a daughter with two mothers.

Our family was created from her tragedy. Our joy was birthed from her pain. And this is not right. It's a sign of a fallen world, a world where mothers die and babies are orphaned and cheeks sometimes go unkissed forever.

I've never understood how God orchestrates the universe and I don't expect to figure it out now. I will never know how it came to be that Selam had to die in order for her daughter to call me Mama. Someday this child whose cheeks she never got to kiss will ask me these questions and I will not have the answers.

But tomorrow, on Mother's Day, we will dress our child in traditional Ethiopian clothing and on the altar of a church in Texas, we will dedicate her to the Lord, the Lord we often do not understand. We will promise to raise her to seek his peace when the mysteries of this world elude her. To seek his wisdom in a world so confusing. To seek his joy in a world so filled with pain. To seek his life in a world so filled with death.

And I pray that Selam can see this. And I pray that it brings her peace.

Children born to another woman call me "Mom".

The depth of that tragedy and the magnitude of that privilege are not lost on me.

- Jody Landers

Daddy's girls

2013-05-10T20:13:00.003-05:00

Then + Love = Now

2013-05-09T20:22:00.001-05:00

September 2012 May 2013

So refreshing

2013-04-23T23:17:00.001-05:00

I love telling Siri to wake me up at In the morning. She doesn't argue. She doesn't whine. She doesn't say its not her's. She doesn't stomp her foot. She just sweetly obeys.

She's the child I never had.

Go Ikey Day

2013-04-22T01:19:00.003-05:00

Ike's birthday is April 4.

He is the only child I 'planned'. As in, truly orchestrated the moment of his conception.

His immediately preceding sibling was born in December, conceived in March after we attended a wedding where the only beverages offered were ice water and margaritas. We chose the latter. Which means she has Jose Cuervo to thank for her very existence.

The day, well, night, little Maggie tipsily came into being, Shepherd was 18 months old and Eva Rose was six months old.

It was rather shocking news.

In our discombobulated state, we decided to put our house on the market. Which means the summer of 2005 I was pregnant with two infants who were two young for any day camps or even a trip to the pool and a house that was constantly being showed.

In other words, it was pure unadulterated hell.

The following year, before she was walking, I decided that I wanted another baby, and I wanted said baby to be a boy, since Maggie was not. And I wanted this baby boy to be conceived in August and born in May, so that my pregnancy would perfectly coincide with the Mother's Day Out calendar, because I knew that three toddlers and a newborn would be nowhere near as difficult as three toddlers while pregnant.

Ike came six weeks early. While incredibly traumatic, this was also a bonus, because by the time Mother's Day Out let out he was just that much closer to sleeping through the night. And we all know that three toddlers and a newborn who sleeps through the night is a veritable piece of cake. Right? Right.

Bless my heart. I look a bit spent.

The other bonus about planning Ike is that I finally, by kid four, got a kid with a decent birth month. The others have horrible birth months. When I taught school I always said: you should never have a kid in August or September, because they will either be the youngest kid in the class and you have to grapple with holding them back, or the oldest kid, and you have to deal with them being bored.

Shepherd was born August 26.
Evangeline, September 5.

And growing up I always felt sorry for my friends who were poor Christmas babies, who got slammed with presents in one month, and then had to wait a whole year before they got anything else.

Magdalene was born December 14.

But finally, finally, with Ike, I got it right. Because he was induced I even got to choose his birthday, April 4, chosen because by this time I had commenced to pausing awkwardly and thinking real hard when people asked my kids' birthdays. It was embarrassing. So I planned to bring my 4th kid into the world on 4-4. A gift to my previously intelligent, now exhausted brain-damaged self.

I had not considered this when I was so brilliantly scheming his birth, but April 4 is not only a convenient, easy to remember date, but it just happens to also fall during the four or so months where being outside in Texas not just an option but a pleasure.

So when I asked Ike what he wanted to do for his sixth birthday, and he said, "Cowboy party!" I knew I could throw that together in our backyard and it would actually be bearable.

My super talented sister-in-law Laurel whipped up this donkey for us to play Pin the Tail

One of the kids said, "Oh, I've never heard of that game." Isn't that crazy? I think I played Pin the Tail at just about every party I went to as a kid, didn't you?

Guess what? The kids still peek and then say they didn't. I harbor some serious suspicions about the little girl who "won". Cheater cheater donkey eater.

Before the party started we decided we needed to take a family photo. My children and my husband always act like I'm torturing them to make them pose for family photos - and always have. Get over it and SMILE DANGIT!

These were the best of the lot, even though the birthday boy looks miserable. As he did in just about all of them.

And can I just say that I would like to string up whoever invented the "make a crazy face!" trend that happens now when taking pictures?! As if it's not hard enough to get my brood to all look at the camera at the same time without looking deranged, now you gotta encourage them to look deranged?

Of course the only picture of Ike looking happy on his birthday would be the one where his sister looks like a nutjob.

And then, even after you say "STOP WITH THE CRAZY FACES" they can't let it go, so whatever pictures are taken from that point on will have at least one kid looking like a freak.

It's not cute.

Our newest Texan got to wear pink cowboy boots, which she loved, because all girls love pink cowboy boots. Here she is with her cousin Linc.

Y'all are wondering if I always just happen to have so many cowboy clothes around for my kids to wear. The answer is yes, as a matter of fact, I do.

In Houston, every February, every school has Go Texan Day. On this day all the kids dress up like cowboys and go to school and usually do a square dance and have a cowboy come in to tell them legends or something. It is a Very Big Deal.

It also always makes for Very Cute Photo Ops, such as these:

For years I have kept a bin of Go Texan accoutrements on the shelf in a closet. This year, after Christmas, I kept waiting for something to come home from the kids' school announcing when Go Texan Day would be. I waited, and waited, and waited...until I came to the very, very sad realization that Go Texan is not a state-wide thing, it is a Houston thing.

Austin doesn't celebrate Go Texan Day.

(I just caused all my Houston readers to gasp aloud.)
I KNOW, y'all!! CAN YOU BELIEVE?!?
It is so very, very sad.

Sigh. Thus far, that's about the only thing about Austin that has broken my heart.

But thank the Lord, and my amazing baby planning skilz, I'll always have an April baby who will let me pull down the bin and Go Texan on his birthday.

I hope.

On "Orphan Fever" in the Church

2013-04-16T14:06:00.002-05:00

There is a new book coming out that is receiving lots of attention. A synopsis of it can be found here and the author was interviewed on NPR's Fresh Air, which will be aired today (I have not had a chance to hear it yet).

It's very easy to get emotional and defensive as a Christian adoptive parent. It's also not very helpful in discussing such a complicated, complex issue as adoption, especially international adoption, especially Christian international adoption.

I do believe that as Christians, we need to read the above Mother Jones article. I am sure it has much bias and some inaccuracies. You may consider it anti-Christian. Perhaps it is. But it will help to explain how the Church's response to orphan care is being perceived by some outsiders, and how many who are uninformed on both the topic and the Church are unable to distinguish between them and us. Like it or not, we're all being grouped together. Myself, I find it helpful to understand the origins of their perceptions.

A friend and fellow adoptive dad asked me what my thoughts were on this topic. He had heard the NPR interview and considered it very biased. Here was my response:

Actually, this is something that all Christians need to be aware of so that we can be sure to fight for ethical adoptions so that we can be above reproach. If you read the above article, you can see how a beautiful thing such as adoption and God's mandate to care for the orphan can be and was handled very, very wrongly and only hurt the children they intended to help.

The couples in this article went through a spurious process. I cannot imagine any reputable agency approving their adoption. Most countries and agencies require an age gap between parents and child for just this reason (in the majority of cases, a 30 year old has no business adopting an 18 year old.) All parents adopting older children especially should be required to become educated on attachment issues and made fully aware of the difficulties they may (will) encounter when adopting a child from a hard place. Unfortunately there are plenty of disreputable agencies and individuals who have cashed in on the intentions of parents, be they noble or uninformed or both or neither.

There are supposed to be safety nets within agencies and governments in order to prevent disastrous placements but it still happens frequently.

There has also been widespread corruption in the adoption industry and flat out child trafficking and lying to birthparents in cultures with no comprehension of adoption. The majority of Christians who adopt are appalled at this. Some are simply ignorant of the factors (Walker and I certainly were when we began the process to adopt our daughter from Ethiopia). But there is a very small percentage who use God's sovereignty as an excuse to justify an adoption that is unethical in many ways, which is blasphemous.

Of course a secular examination of Christian adoption is going to be critical. That's fine, we're used to being scoffed at, and I have come to believe that if I am not offending a good portion of non-believers while also making fellow believers squirm I am probably not in God's will. So I'm fine with that. The gospel is folly to the wise.

However, as followers of Christ we can NOT stick our heads in the sand and pretend that this injustice is not happening or it negates all we stand for and shames the Savior we worship.

Vultures always encircle the orphan. It is our duty to protect them, but to do so righteously.

That's the kind of mother I am

2013-04-05T01:15:00.001-05:00

This baby boy

went to bed last night and he was five and he woke up this morning and he was SIX!!

Which means I had to wake up and make breakfast that involved more than pushing the lever on a toaster (pancakes) and then bake cookies to deliver to his kindergarten class because I remembered that moms do that at, oh, about 8:30 this morning.

It also means that he was supposed to get presents, being that it was his birthday and all.

I am incredibly skilled at hiding presents. So skilled, in fact, that last night when I went to wrap his main present of Lego car/garage/thingy I couldn't find it. Anywhere. At 11pm. The eve of his birthday.

Fortunately while frantically searching I found some other presents at the top of my closet that I had bought at some point and then hid them and forgot all about them so he got those instead. Disorganization saves the day! Which only needed saving because of disorganization...whatever. Kid got some gifts.

Today was also the day for the social worker to visit. Once your child has been home about a month, the adoption agency schedules a follow-up visit to see how the child is doing. To make sure you are still reasonably sane. To see what kind of parents they agreed to give a kid to.

The housekeeper came today as well. And if you think scheduling those two ladies on the same day was a coincidence, then you just don't know me at all.

Today was also the day we bought a house. Yes. A HOUSE.

You keeping up?

So about an hour after our realtor called to say we were new homeowners and I was still flusteredly (new word) digesting the news, Social Worker Jenny sat on our couch in our cleanish living room and asked us questions like, how is Bethie eating? Carboholic, haven't gotten a green veggie or fruit in her in yet. How is she sleeping? Walker shared a touching story about how she woke him up last night by literally farting in his face. How is she behaving? Like a narcissistic, bipolar sociopath, ie, a normal two-year-old.

Eva Rose was sitting next to me on the couch when Jenny asked what Bethie likes to do. I told her how she wasn't really into books, so I tried to remember what was the other kids' favorite book when they were her age, and remembered it was Five Little Monkeys, so I bought that for her for Easter and it worked, she loves it.

To which Eva Rose replied, "WAITAMINUTE. The EASTER BUNNY brought her that book. ARE YOU THE EASTER BUNNY?!?!"

And I stared, smiling, blinking, wondering, how does one dash childhood dreams under the watchful gaze of a licensed social worker?

Fortunately Jenny changed the subject by asking to question the children as to how they were adjusting to having a new baby sister. First she talked to the birthday boy, who has the most difficult time being usurped as the spoiled baby of the family. Who has acted out daily, if not hourly. Who has an insatiable need to snatch anything she has, wants, or was ever considering desiring. Whose feet seem to instinctively protrude forcefully outward whenever she passes by him. Who frequently 'hugs' her with all the tenderness of Lennie Small of Of Mice and Men.

"How do you like having a baby sister?" she asked.

"I wove her," Ike squirmed shyly, looking at her out of the corners of his big green eyes.

Jenny continued, "What do you like to do with her?"

"I wike to pway Barbies with her," he answered.

And I stared, smiling, blinking, thinking, what a boldfaced little LIAR I have produced!!

Right about the time Jenny was leaving, Shepherd appeared and overheard me say something about moving soon. "WHAT?!?!" he cried, his lip quivering. "WE'RE MOVING?!?! HOW CAN YOU DO THIS TO ME?!?" Then he burst into tears. And ran out of the room. And slammed his door. And wailed and gnashed his teeth.

As I walked Jenny to the front door and thanked her for coming by, my son screamed from behind his slammed bedroom door, "JUST WHAT KIND OF MOTHER ARE YOU?!?!"

And I stared, smiling, blinking, and then I burst into giggles.

Because that's the kind of mother I am.

The full force of the storm

2013-03-29T20:31:00.001-05:00

The full force of the storm

of God's fierce anger at sin was coming down.

On his own Son. Instead of his people.

It was the only way God could destroy sin

and not destroy his children

whose hearts will filled with sin.

Then Jesus shouted out in a loud voice, 'It is finished!'

And it was. He had done it.

Jesus had rescued the whole world.

Sally Lloyd Jones
The Jesus Storybook Bible, Read-Aloud Edition: Every Story Whispers His Name

That terrible, horrible good Friday

2013-03-29T02:15:00.000-05:00

Many years ago my girlfriends and I started a tradition of getting together for a potluck brunch on Good Friday. We changed things up over the years: one year we did a book exchange, another year we invited all of our moms. But the constant was that after chatting over breakfast casseroles and coffee we sat in a circle, passed around our bibles, and read the story of the Passion.

I remember the first year that we did this. It was Tracy Jo's turn to read and when she got to John 18:22, "When Jesus said this, one of the officials nearby slapped him in the face. 'Is this the way you answer the high priest?' he demanded" she had to stop several times because she started sobbing.
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And that's exactly why we did it. Because sitting around in our comfortable living room in our cute shoes with good friends made it easy to forget that they slapped him in the face.

Among other things they did to him.

Using our voices, stating out loud, in detail what they did to Jesus - what I did to Jesus - makes it more real.

Eventually most of my Good Friday girlfriends got married and had babies who greatly interfered with our social lives and the tradition died away. We hadn't met in a good five years when I moved from Houston.

I've missed it terribly.

This past Sunday in church our services was scripture reading, song, scripture reading song. Jen had the hard part about what they did to Jesus. And when she too burst into tears, I instantly remembered Tracy Jo and thought, I've got to revive the Good Friday brunch.

Except Good Friday is a school holiday so Maundy Thursday worked better. A few emails and some beautifully likewise spontaneous friends later, I had bacon cheese grits, banana chocolate chip flaxseed muffins, Ethiopian coffee, three toddlers and six new Austin friends in my living room.

When we read there were definitely tears, especially from the pregnant guest. And I admit that I deliberately read first because I knew I would not be able to get through the last part intact. I still choked over "Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?”

But that's okay. It's a story worth crying over.

In our brunch tradition one of us would be chosen give a little lesson. I've been a bit distracted lately and didn't prepare anything, but after we read, I chose to share what I do know about the day we ironically call Good Friday.

So if you'd like, please read John 18-19 - aloud, if you're able, because using our voices makes it more real - then grab a cup of coffee, and pretend you're in my living room.

I'm warning you, one of my favorite hobbies is shattering false biblical perceptions. (I can completely and gleefully annihilate your porcelain Nativity scene.)

Drink up. You may need it.

Most of our images of Good Friday do not come from the bible but from Western European art, not from Scripture.

The Jesus at the top of this post painted by Diego Valazquez in 1623. It currently hangs in the Museo del Prado in Madrid. I have seen it. It is absolutely beautiful. It is also rather laughable in its historical inaccuracy.

Not only do we envision a medieval Spanish or French Jesus, but we also envision a very sanitized, G rated Christ: Jesus in a white diaper, one little trickle of blood trickling down his beautiful face as he endures the sins of the world with a peaceful, resigned sigh.

This sanitized image of the crucifixion is not only false, it is dangerous. As a child, I silently wondered what the big deal was about Jesus dying for me. He knew he was going to rise again, right? The images I saw in my children's bible reinforced my understanding that it just wasn't that big a deal. Therefore, my sin wasn't that big a deal. Therefore, his grace wasn't that big a deal. Right?

Wrong.

The crucifixion was bad. Really bad. Ex-cruciatingly bad. The physical suffering that the Lord underwent for my sin is beyond my imagination, not to mention the psychological and spiritual suffering of being separated from his Father and scorned by his friends.

These are some things I've learned over the years about the crucifixion that changed the way I used to view that terrible, horrible, Good Friday.

Jesus was probably pushing 40 when He died.

Both Matthew and Luke, who was a stickler for details, tells us that Jesus was born during the reign of Herod the Great, and Mary and Joseph had to go to Bethlehem for the census. There was a major census in 6 BC which may have been the one they went down for. Scholars are typically in agreement that Herod died in 4 BC, so Jesus had to be born before then. Also, Matthew tells us that Herod commanded the slaughter of all baby boys ages 2 and under, and assuming he did this shortly before his death, it would make sense that he thought Jesus had been born during that 6 BC census. At the earliest, Jesus was born in 4 BC.

It is widely accepted that Jesus died in 33 AD. Luke 3 says that Jesus began his ministry when he was about 30, during the 15th year of Tiberius Ceasar's reign, which is documented as AD 26-27. So by 33 AD, Jesus would be 37 at the youngest. If we believe the 6 BC date, he was 39 when he died.

So why do we think he was 33? Because he died in 33 and we think he was born in the year zero. Problem is, there was no year zero. Let it go.

Jesus had short hair and wasn't that cute.

There is nothing in the bible to suggest that Jesus had long hair, and there is plenty to suggest that he - and all Jews except Nazerites - had short hair. (For a detailed rationale on this, go here.)

Isaiah 52 makes it clear that "He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him."

In other words, he looked nothing like this:

Diogo Morgado as rock star Jesus in The History Channel's "The Bible"

3. His beard was ripped from his face.

I offered my back to those who beat me, my cheeks to those who pulled out my beard;
I did not hide my face from mocking and spitting. Isaiah 50:6

Jewish men wore beards, as prescribed in Leviticus. It was, and still is in many Middle Eastern cultures (and in my own husband's mind) a symbol of masculinity, wisdom and glory. To shave or pluck the beard in Scripture was always a sign of mourning and great disgrace. The guards would have ripped his beard out of his already beaten face purely to shame him.

4. He was beaten beyond recognition - literally.

As he appeared before the Sanhedrin, they slapped him, beat him with their fists, and spat on him. He was blindfolded him so that he couldn't see when the next blow was coming. Then the Roman guards had their turn beating him.

Next he was stripped of his clothing and scourged using a whip called a flagrum. A flagrum consisted of leather strips to which pieces of metal, bone, and hooks were attached, with the intent to dig in and rip away his skin and muscle. Jesus's back was mutilated. The Roman guard would have called off the beating only when it appeared that Jesus was near death.

They were not done. The crown of thorns was dug into his head and he was beaten about the head some more by a wooden staff. By the time Jesus was sent to be crucified, he had been rendered to such a bloody pulp that "He didn’t even look human—a ruined face, disfigured past recognition." Isaiah 52:4

5. Jesus carried a cross-beam, not a cross.

Wood was far too scarce in Jerusalem for every person crucified to get their own personal cross. A wooden stake (Greek "stauros") would be left in the ground and recycled for subsequent crucifixions. The condemned person was made to carry the crossbeam, or patibulum. This alone could have weighed 100 pounds and as I see it would be much more unwieldy to grab on to than a cross.

(That was a toughie, I know. Still with me?)

6. Jesus's feet were possibly nailed on each side of the staurus

In 1968 workers in Jerusalem uncovered the remains of a first century man who had been crucified, the first and only discovery of its kind. The man, Jehohanan, still had one nail in his ankle bone. The length of the nail and location in his foot implied that he was probably nailed to the cross with the a foot on each side and the beam in the middle, not with his feet crossed as is almost always depicted in crucifix art.

7. Jesus was nude on the cross.

This is the part of the crucifixion story that completely ruined me when I first discovered it. Our Lord was naked on the cross.

Every Jew wore five articles of clothing: shoes, turban, garter, outer robe, and tunic. John tells us in 19:23-24 that four soldiers divied up for the first four items, but they cast lots for the tunic, because it was seamless (which is a sign that Jesus is our great high priest.)

That's all he would have been wearing. Five items. Every gospel mentions them gambling for his clothes, but for years I read that and it didn't sink in that if they had taken all of his clothes, he didn't have on any clothes.

It wasn't enough that he was unjustly accused, convicted in the middle of the night in a kangaroo court, betrayed by his friends, beaten, whipped raw, and had nails driven through his hands and feet. But he was nude as well, in front of his enemies, his friends, and his mother.

I cannot fully imagine myself being beaten like he was. But my mind can go to the idea of being on display, naked, my legs separated by a cross, for everyone I knew, including my father, to see. This I can imagine. This horrifying image my brain can conceive of. Honestly, the humiliation and shame of this image upsets me even more than death.

This, he did for my sin. This, he did for his grace. This, he did for his glory.

This, I take for granted every day.

Five weeks home - Bethie update

2013-03-27T00:38:00.000-05:00

This will be a horrible blog post. Stringing sentences together just seems so draining.

Let's do bullet points. I do so love me some bullet points. They're like the quarters of writing. I love quarters. Bullet points and pictures. I can handle that.

We're doing great. Life after Bethie is starting to seem, not normal, but it's getting sort of normal. Spring Break was hard, very hard. We didn't get to go anywhere so the other kids were very stir crazy and Walker traveled for part of it. Ugh. Bethie loves her siblings but when they are all home, there is a lot of fighting for Mom's attention and she's right in the middle of it.

When we first came home, Bethie would go up to strangers and take their hands or try to hug them. She tried to do this with most of my small group when they delivered meals. The beauty of attending a church where adoption is common is that all of them knew not to return the affection, but she would try.

My mother-in-law and sister-in-law Laurel came over for a short visit on Thursday during Spring Break so that Laurel could meet her newest niece. Bethie was very interested in Laurel, and would climb over to her (poor Aunt Lolly knew not to hug her and she was about to die, she was almost sitting on her hands) and go through her purse, then go talk to Mimi, but she always came back to me and climbed on my lap. Check them out, come back to me, like any two year old would. I realized then for the first time, I felt like her mom.

The other kids are adjusting well, except Ike. He is not thrilled about having his Prince Baby of the Family role usurped. He's also not old enough to think she's cute, not one bit. He is acting out in a bad way. Like, you'd think he was living on nothing but red dye, bad. It is honestly my biggest stress right now. I know he's sad and mad and I try to be empathetic to him but when he hits her or kicks her I lose my patience pretty quickly. When they get along, they crack each other up, he just needs to learn that he can get better attention by being a good big brother than by torturing her. Prayers appreciated in this area.

The other three adore her and literally fight over her. She adores them back - usually.
The hardest time of day by far is the hour and a half after the kids get home from school. She gets jealous and clingy, Ike gets jealous and clingy, they are literally fighting over me. I've got four kids with homework and chores to do - it's pretty rough. By dinner time, Daddy's home, she has calmed down, Ike has calmed down, and we have some happy times making her laugh or putting on Amharic music just to watch her dance. But the hours leading up to that are driving me to drink. I mean that quite literally. A fellow adoptive mom told me to stock up on wine before we brought her home. Sage advice.
Bethie's relationship with Walker has dramatically improved. Thank you for her prayers. Last week he held out his arms and she went to him for the first time! Which led to even greater things:
Saturday I went to the chiropractor. Why? Because of this

I left Bethie alone with Walker for the first time....and everyone survived. I came back 30 minutes later and she was happy and happy to see me. Jessica had asked asked if we wanted to come to Central Market that evening to celebrate Amalie's seventh birthday and I said no...but then I thought, well, this would be a good test, right? I took the big girls but made sure to be home by 8 so I could lie down with her to get her to sleep as I have every night since we got her. But as I was pulling into the driveway, Walker texted me "She's asleep." HE. GOT. HER. TO. SLEEP.

So last night, I lay in bed with her for an hour and the child would not sleep. She just kept fighting it. You have to know that this is torture for me.

One time I drove from San Antonio to Houston, a good four hours, with a friend of a friend. She wanted to leave extremely early in the morning and I agreed if I could continue my snooze in the car. I assured her that the radio would not bother me. But - get this - she never turned it on. The whole way home - four hours - she drove in total silence.

I couldn't get over it. I kept telling Walker "We didn't talk! She didn't listen to the radio! It was just SILENT! I don't get that?? How can anyone DO THAT?? Silence! For four hours!! Isn't that BIZARRE??" He kept telling me that no, it wasn't bizarre, in fact it sounded nice, and I continued to be flabbergasted. Still am.

I tell you this so that you will understand that for me to lie silently in bed staring at the ceiling for an extended period with a toddler who won't sleep is HELL. HELL I tell you HELL.

So, after more than an hour of intensely monitoring every yawn and breath and finger suck only to have her repeatedly be a fraction of a second from unconsciousness and then start singing a song to wake herself up !!!!!! I was d-o-n-e. I walked out and told Walker "Your turn." She cried, he lay down with her, and he walked out ten minutes later. Because she had crashed. After ten minutes. So it has been proven. All five of my children know that Momma is a sucker.
My mom came to visit this past week. It's the second time she's met Bethie and they are fans of each other. And because I felt like Bethie was attaching so well to me, and because my mom was staying with us for five days and I could get some stuff done and this is life, she did hold her. Grandmas, what are you gonna do?

Saturday my mom took us all to Aster's, one of Austin's Ethiopian restaurant, which was for the record the best Ethiopian food I have ever had. The waitress was so sweet to Bethie and when she began speaking to her in Amharic, she looked so stunned, and was so glad. She answered all of her questions and was so happy. The trip completely cheered her up - she sang and carseat-danced the entire way home.

The most amazing part, to me, was that the waitress asked her in Amharic "Who is your momma?" and so on with each member of the family, daddy, brother, sister, even grandmother, and Bethie pointed to the proper person each time. How did she know that?? She never had a mother or a father or sister or brother and certainly not a grandmother. And since we got home, we have used the English terms. So how could it be that when the lady asked her who her "set ayat" was she pointed to my mom?? Amazing.

It also made me a little sad to see her communicate with someone else. I want to be able to communicate with her like that too.

Language: She has said very few words in English. She says Mama and M-m-m for milk in English and waha (water) in Amharic. She will sign More and Milk and All done. There are a few words I think I've heard her say. She talks a lot in what may be Amharic but may be baby talk. I know some key phrases in Amharic (Are you hungry, go to sleep, etc) but she understands so much. If I say "take off your shoes" or "go get in the bath" she does it. If I say "Kiss everyone night night" she will walk into the family room and hold out her cheek to each family member so they can kiss her. She follows most commands, including "put the diaper in the trash."

She can point when asked to her nose, eyes, ears, hair, teeth, tongue, fingers, toes, tummy, and booty.

We started trying to entice her by using the other kids. I'll say "Say Daddy, Maggie" and Maggie says "Daddy!" and gets a high five, and so on around the table. Every time it is her turn, regardless of what the word is, she answers "A mama!" then holds up her hand for a high five and then everyone laughs and it's not really helping to teach her but it sure is cute.

We went to church Sunday morning for the first time. Bethie did great. We didn't have a traditional service for Palm Sunday, they read Scripture then sang, read Scripture then sang, so it was dark in there most of the time, so she slept a lot. They also sang How He Loves Us which makes me embarrass Shepherd every time because I get the ugly cry. If His grace is an ocean then we're all sinking....SOB

She's holding a play fork that she took from Sunday School when we dropped off Ike. It's currently in my car somewhere. Yes, we steal from church.

Bethie wore this, which used to be Maggie's. Our church (Austin New Church) is about the un-smockiest place ever, but I still reserve the right to dress my babies like Presbyterians.
Our pastor Brandon, dad to two from Ethiopia, came up to Bethie and said "God bless you" in Amharic and she answered him "Amen." Yes, she did.
She is eating pretty well. She loves anything spicy. I am having a really hard time getting fruits and green veggies in her, but I'm Scarletting it for now. I'll worry about that tomorrow.

The hair. Oh my gosh, y'all. Was there a special segment of y'all praying that the Lord would grace me with a child with good hair? Because her hair is FABULOUS.

I wondered what it would look like if I did absolutely nothing to it: no conditioner, didn't even put it up at night. And this is the result after two days of complete neglect:

Adorable, right?
Thank you, Jesus.
Sleep: She sleeps fine. About 12 hours at night and a 1-2 hour nap, but will only go to sleep if I (and now Walker! Yea!) lies down with her, including at naptime, and then I can sneak out (or, nap, which I usually end up doing.) She often wakes up about midnight but goes back to sleep. The time change threw us, I forgot how much I hate Daylight Savings. She is in our bed, which has led to really good bonding but I do dream of lying her down in a crib and just walking away. We did try the crib for a couple of nights and even though I had it right next to my bed so that I was holding her hand, it did not go well. She's just not ready. Some day... But I know a lot of adopted kids have really hard sleep issues so I am just going to be thankful.
I'm in love with her. Officially. I adore her, I think she's the prettiest baby girl, I'm so proud of her when others see her, I stare at her when she's sleeping. I think she's beautiful and funny and brilliant. I can't believe that she's finally here. I'm so, so thankful that God put this precious child in our family and chose me to be her mommy.

She was so worth the wait.