Step 33: The not quite Hallmark Mother's Day

If you had asked me five months ago when we arrived home with Pearl how I envisioned spending our first Mother's Day, a ten minute conversation via Face Time would not have been my response. Yet, that was how I saw Pearl and how Pearl saw me today: on the screen of an iPhone.

Pearl is currently in Ohio with Angry Driver, who I am sure had plenty of apoplectic moments during the eight hour drive to get there. She has a rather specific medical need and is preparing to undergo a complex operative repair or, rather, a revision of the repair that was attempted in China two years ago. They will be away for about two weeks if all goes well.

On the bright side, my Pearl spent what looked to be a beautiful day in the company of her doting father and she is in the capable hands of a team of doctors, nurses, and other healthcare professionals who know more about her disorder than just about anyone else in the world. Her doctor quite literally writes the books on her condition.

And I had a great day with my now seven year old Bean, who was charming, courteous, and helpful. He even crafted a clay model of his hand cradling a small clay heart as a gift for me. Precious.

I have much to be thankful for and there is certainly joy in my heart, but it still pains me to think of Pearl missing out on a full day of "Mommy Time" after spending so much of her young life without knowing the love of a mother. And after waiting so long for my daughter to come home, I am sad that she isn't home on this particular day.

The miracles of modern technology did allow our family of four to be together in the form of a video chat, though, so it's better than nothing.

Bean and I enjoyed a leisurely morning and then we went on a "date" to the movie theater. Regrettably, movie studios must not think of mothers and their young sons when they arrange cinematic releases, as our only viable Mother's Day viewing choices were Cinderella or The Avengers: Age of Ultron. I decided to let Bean select the film. He chose Ultron.

His selection concerned me a bit since Bean is a sensitive child who loves the Looney Tunes version of violence but doesn't have an appetite for real conflict. Perhaps this is uncommon in this day and age, but Bean has never watched a live action movie of any kind. It is only recently that he has started to express a desire to watch that pinnacle of Boydom known as Star Wars. What ultimately swayed me was his confident declaration of "I'm in the mood for some drama" coupled with his insistence that several of his classmates have seen Ultron, liked it, and suffered no lasting ill effects.

I countered with, "Oh, yeah? Who in your class has seen this movie?"

He responded by rattling off a list of names. Of course, we all know that there are parents out there who will let their kids watch just about anything, but the names he gave me were of good kids with what appear to be involved and responsible parents. OK, I said. Let's go see Age of Ultron. It's PG-13. Everyone watches PG-13 movies these days, right? Heck, when I was his age, my mom let my best friend and me rent Chopping Mall and Children of the Corn. I don't think she even read the titles when she paid for them. I'm a good mom, right? It will be fine.

Just so we are perfectly clear, the aforementioned version of events is exactly how I plan to relate my side of the story to Bean's therapist someday.

Things did not go very well. Let's just say that after an hour of sitting with Bean in his bedroom trying to convince him to go to sleep and reassuring him that he will not have nightmares all night, he is now tucked into my bed, happily snoring away while I type this.

Where do I register for the Mother of the Year Award?

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. James Spader has that effect on everyone.

Many people have asked me why Bean and I are not with Pearl and Angry Driver right now. The answers are many, but a brief summary is as follows:

1) Bean missed a lot of school when we traveled to China and really shouldn't miss more. He would also be a handful in a hospital environment (see previous post detailing the jealousy-fueled tantrum he had when Pearl was vaccinated).

2) Since we do not have any family in the Blahtown area, there is nobody who could stay with Bean if I went to Ohio with Angry Driver and Pearl.

3) All of my paid time off went toward the FMLA leave I took during the adoption so any time I take off from work between now and September is unpaid.  For those of you out there who identify as math nerds, the equation looks like this:
Medical Bills + Household Expenses + No income = Not good.

4) No one in his right mind would be interested in watching our dog, hamster, five cats (our sixth cat, Sparky, died a few months ago), our hamster, and our two foster cats (yes, because we apparently didn't have enough of a menagerie, we now are fostering cats for a local animal rescue group) for two weeks. Cleaning litter boxes has become my second full time job.

And there you have it. Bean and I are on day five of our two week intense bonding session and Pearl told me she loves me via Face Time.

We'll get through this, though. I know we will. Keep Pearl in your prayers as she undergoes surgery on Tuesday. And, please, keep me in your thoughts as I try to survive the after effects of Age of Ultron.

That and the carpool.

Oh, and did I mention the litter boxes?

Step 32: My knapsack on my back

Out of the blue, I was contacted recently about a really amazing job opportunity. It truly is the chance of a lifetime, but it would mean a move across the country. If I only had myself to think about, I would accept in a heartbeat. With a family to consider, though, things are a bit more...complicated.

Nevertheless, Angry Driver and I have been seriously discussing our options.

On the one hand, much to our mutual surprise, we both actually enjoy living in Blahtown. It is a great city in which to raise a family: good schools, friendly people, low crime rates, enough to do without the nightmare traffic of major metropolitan areas, fun parks, etc. Our neighborhood is great. We love our home. My daily commute is less than 10 minutes by car. My current position has the advantages of very decent work hours, great coworkers, and a very manageable call schedule. I am one of the few practicing physicians in the United States who actually gets to spend enough time with her patients. I even get to make house calls, black leather doctor's bag in hand. So what's not to love?

This:
My job is not just a job to me. It is my career and my calling.

As it turns out, the very stability that should be so attractive to me as a mother of two young children actually feels a bit stifling to me as a physician and adult learner. I'm beginning to suspect that the scope of my practice has become too limited. Opportunities for true intellectual growth are rare. Challenges at this point are mainly bureaucratic. I see many possibilities for building a stronger, more dynamic program, but I don't think the system shares my vision of the future.

Also, it is horribly cold here in the winter. I mean it. It's cold. Right now it is 5 degrees. Last night, it was -19 degrees. That's Fahrenheit and, no, that is not with the wind chill. I'm telling you, human beings are not meant to dwell in such inhospitable terrain. I can't even fathom what this place was like before the use of Tyvek house wrap and central forced-air heating. If I had rolled through this state in a Conestoga wagon 120 years ago, I would've immediately turned to Angry Wagon Driver and said, "Keep it moving, pal. Oregon or bust." Even if we had arrived in spring (which is, admittedly, gorgeous here), I would've hit the dirt road come November and the first blast of frigid wind and icy rain.

And let's not forget the snow.

It's become so bad, there are times I even look forward to the arctic chill because it means that it is too cold to snow. And that's just messed up.

Two days ago, there was so much snow that I couldn't even get my car up the hill into our subdivision. After multiple attempts, I finally had to admit defeat and abandon my sweet powder blue Mini Cooper to the elements until the city deigned to plow the roads. Which they eventually did. The next day.

This new job would bring with it a broad scope of practice, close interactions with colleagues, and daily opportunities to teach medical students and resident physicians. And while I have a passion for improving the quality of end-of-life care in America, I also have a passion for teaching. In my experience, nothing forces me to innovate and improve more than being around learners. Also, while I would like to think that I improve end-of-life care for each of my current patients, I know that my impact would be exponentially greater if I can teach a few generations of young doctors to provide such care in their future practices.

As an added bonus, the new job is located in a wonderfully warm and sunny climate.

The cherry on top? Angry Driver's best friend and bromantic life partner lives there.

So what's a physician mother to do?

Perhaps I am putting the proverbial cart before the equally proverbial horse since the job has not even officially been offered to me. Still, Angry Driver and I have been weighing the pros and cons of a move. As parents, we try to hold adult discussions out of earshot of our kids (even Pearl, who doesn't understand most of what we are saying anyway), but there is a well-documented parenting phenomenon known as The Child Who Can't Hear You Repeatedly Asking Him To Pick Up His Toys Develops Super-Sonic Hearing When The Conversation Is Not Meant For His Ears.

I'm speaking, of course, of Bean. Not only has he managed to piece together that we are considering relocation, he is already lobbying for a swimming pool at the new house.

Bean has probably overheard more of our conversations than he should, but I suspect even Pearl has picked up on the emotional undercurrents of the discussions. She has taken to wearing a blue and yellow backpack from sunup to sundown. Inside, she keeps the usual toddler necessities: a random charging cord for an electronic device, a small jar of Play-Doh, a doll's shoe, and a roll of stickers. She removes it while sleeping and bathing, but aside from those irritating rituals, the backpack is both her faithful companion and oddly unfashionable wardrobe accessory.

 Photographic evidence to support my claim 

of the backpack's ubiquity in my child's life.

It's possible that she's already packing for the big move, but I think the more likely explanation is that she enjoys the comfort of the backpack's weighty embrace and the stability that comes with knowing that one's personal treasures are always within easy reach.

To a certain extent, I find the backpack-wearing adorable. However, when I was a child, my mother used to derive great pleasure from publicly embarrassing me by loudly and repeatedly singing a horrid song from her own childhood. The only words I ever heard (and, quite likely, the only lyrics my mother knew) were the following:

Val-deri,Val-dera,
Val-deri,
Val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha
Val-deri,Val-dera.
My knapsack on my back.

Here's a link to the song which, I have just learned courtesy of that modern miracle known as Google, is called The Happy Wanderer. If you really want to torture yourself, try listening to the actual tune. And when it becomes stuck in a perpetual loop through your auditory cortex, don't say I didn't warn you. After all, I did describe this song using words like "horrid" and "torture".

Courtesy of The Happy Wanderer, all I can think of when I see this adorable tiny tot shlepping her ugly blue and yellow backpack is the chorus of this song. Thanks, Mom. I owe you one.

Even Bean, who talks big talk about wanting to live near the beach and have a swimming pool, seems to be subconsciously giving voice to his insecurities. About a week ago, he suddenly and inexplicably began constructing small beds for his stuffed animal friends. At first it was a bed on the floor for a small stuffed black cat; the "mattress" was his own white cotton blanket, the "comforter" was a dishrag, and the "pillow" was a wad of folded Kleenex. Cute, certainly. Harmless? So I believed.

The next night, Bean proudly showed me how "Mousie" nestles into a "sleeping bag" (child's slipper) next to his pillow.

A few afternoons later, I discovered that "Hottie" (his name for his lovey - don't ask) enjoys camping beneath the chair in Bean's room.

Within days, his bedroom morphed from a standard boy's sleeping space into a veritable barracks for plush boarders. This is what I came home to tonight:

 The nice thing about a Kleenex pillow
is you don't even have to get up to blow your nose.
Frankly, I'm surprised the Kleenex people
don't market this already.

 I think the cat toy "puff" is meant to entertain the stuffed guinea pig

The mouse in the middle appears to have scored the bigger bed.

What's up with that?

Is there a parenting lesson buried in all this madness? I suspect there is. What is that lesson? I'm not too sure.

Maybe the lesson here is that Angry Driver and I should only speak to each other between the hours of midnight and 4 AM, when we can be reasonably certain that Bean is asleep.

Or perhaps the lesson is that children express their feelings and insecurities through play, and we as parents need advanced degrees in psychology to uncover the hidden meanings behind what appears on the surface to be innocuous recreation.

Or maybe - just maybe - the lesson is that kids are weird. And because they are weird, they do things that are bizarre and amusing to adults.

I think I'm going to go with that last one.

Step 31: Is there a translator in the house?

One of the most disconcerting aspects of parenting my internationally adopted child has been the notion that my child - my child - speaks a language that is completely foreign to the one I speak.

Big deal, you might be thinking. Babies speak a foreign language that consists entirely of wailing, strange guttural mumblings, and odd orificial emanations, and yet, parent and child eventually arrive at a sort of mutual understanding. How can parenting a foreign 3 year old really be that different?

It is different. Much different.

I parented Bean from the time he was a zygote onward, and I will be the first person to tell you that I didn't understand anything about that child until he was at least six months old. He screamed, arched his back away from me, and caterwauled like a cat on ecstasy, and I had no idea how to appease him or respond. The difference between Baby Bean and Newly Adopted Pearl, though, is that in the case of Bean, no one knew what he wanted. Angry Driver was mystified. Our friends and family were at a loss. Even the lactation consultant declared that she had never heard/seen anything like him and she excused herself from my room on the maternity ward so fast I assumed I had just delivered Rosemary's Baby and no one had the courage to tell me to my face.

The difference was that with Bean, at least I had an ace in the hole. I could always make something up and everyone would assume I was right because I was his mother and, after all, who could possibly know him better than me?

I took full advantage of this. "He's just over-tired," I would confidently declare to wide-eyed strangers as I hauled my screaming infant-seat bound boy out of Target. "He just doesn't feel well," I shared in my best Expert Mom voice as I yanked a stroller full of yowling baby across the waiting room of the doctor's office. In truth, I had no idea what this bizarre side-burned living football in a sleeper thought or felt, but who was going to contradict me?

Eventually, Bean learned my language (English) and I learned his language (Klingon? Tuvan throat singing?) and parent-child harmony ensued.

With Pearl, she speaks a real, actual, exists-on-this-planet language (Mandarin) and I ... don't. 

Don't get me wrong. I've picked up a few Pearl-words here and there, such as the three variations of "ba ba" (Daddy, poop, and hold me, which when you think about it are really more similar than one might initially assume), "shuǐ" (water), "coolah" (drink), "shay la" (put me down, or let me do it), "shah lay" (lie down, or go night-night), and "nuey nuey" (kiddie version of urinate). Unfortunately, anything more complex than that appears to be lost in translation. Various attempts on my part to produce Mandarin speech have all evoked the same response in Pearl: polite indifference, as though by pretending I didn't speak at all, we can both avoid the embarrassment of acknowledging my linguistic inadequacies. 

During our first week or so together, Pearl primarily limited her verbal communiqués to a few words here and there, mainly uttered in either a dissatisfied scream or a soft little whisper.

 Just imagine Nicolas Cage doing a film in Mandarin

 and you will have the perfect mental image

 to accompany that description. 

Over the ensuing weeks, she gradually expanded her communication outreach attempts to include a fascinating ritual in which she repeatedly pats my arm, points insistently at some ambiguous object in the distance, and utters a stream of sounds that I can only assume represent real Mandarin words. Usually, these proclamations are accompanied by rapid establishment of eye contact, a quick smile, and a cunning nod of her sage little head. My usual response to these wise declarations consist of something along the lines of, "Oh, yes. Of course. Um, I know that car is really noisy," or some other idiotic non sequitur. Amazingly enough, Pearl seems satisfied with my ridiculous responses about 90% of the time which, in my mind, means one of three things:

1) She assumes I understand her language but that for some mysterious reason, I elect to only respond to her in gibberish. She further assumes my bizarre answers are contextually appropriate.

2) She knows I don't speak Mandarin but in order to keep from going crazy in captivity, she's determined to keep talking anyway. I know why the caged bird sings, indeed.

3) She's messing with me. She ain't saying $h)&.

OK. I think I know what you are thinking here. You are probably saying to yourself, "Hey, Crazy Lady. Three year old Chinese orphans do not mess with their new parents by engaging in fake conversations. They do not purposely try to make their parents feel stupid by spouting incessant gibberish."

My old self would have agreed with you. Really. But I have evidence to back up my claim.

Here it is:

Despite uttering nonstop streams of sounds aimed at Angry Driver, Bean, and me, Pearl absolutely refuses to speak in front of anyone who knows Mandarin. She wouldn't speak to our guides in China. She won't speak to Chinese teachers at Bean's music academy. If a person even remotely appears as though he/she could possibly know Mandarin, my darling Pearl clams up faster than a North Korean caught with a pen camera at the Pentagon. That's right: Pearl is a racial profiler. And I have yet to locate a single dark-haired individual who is exempt from her policy.

Heaven knows I've tried to provide her with opportunities to impart her wisdom to me via the miracle of translation services. I've tried English-to-Mandarin phrase books, iPad apps, friendly appearing Asian strangers (OK, so I profile people too. Don't you judge me). No luck. While we were grocery shopping two weeks ago, I actually seriously considered approaching an Asian woman at the customer service counter in order to beg her to just tell me what my little girl wants me to know so badly. The only thing that stopped me from making a complete fool out of myself that day was my certainty that Pearl would either refuse to speak at all or perhaps even worse, she would smile endearingly, wave, and say "hello!", thereby causing the woman to think that I don't know simple English when I hear it and cementing my reputation in the community as a loon.

Pearl is crafty so I refuse to discount Theory 3 completely. The rational part of my brain (yes, such a thing does exist) suspects, though, that Pearl is just doing her best to communicate with her strange new family, just as I did my best six years ago to find a language Bean and I could share. Since she is now starting to mix English words in with her stream-of-consciousness version of Mandarin, and Angry Driver and I have been known to ask her things like, "Did you ba ba in your diaper?", I think we are currently enjoying some small measure of success. Pearl probably doesn't want to talk to Chinese people because, at least on some level, she's worried that they will remove her from the land of French fries, light-up shoes, ice cream, adoring hugs, and beds with slides and return her to a bare crib in a Chinese orphanage. That is pure speculation on my part, but if you could see the immediate blank mask that descends over her face when an Asian person tries to speak with her, you might suspect the same thing.

Perhaps I'm just hyper-sensitive because I can't pretend with Pearl the way I could with Baby Bean. Pearl and I look so physically dissimilar, her ramblings are so fluently non-English, and my responses to her entreaties are so patently un-Mandarin, I often presume that it must be obvious to anyone within earshot that I do not speak Pearl's language. And, if I can't even understand my own daughter, what kind of mother does that make me?

That wasn't rhetorical. But being as this is a blog and not a panel discussion, I will attempt to answer my own question. I guess it makes me the mother of a daughter who has her own Origin Story, her own unique history that intersects with my own unique history at this particular point in time and space. In a few years this era in our lives together will be a memory for our family and we will have (best case scenario here) discovered our own harmonious rhythm. My hope is that when that time comes, I will understand both the language of my daughter's spoken words and the more subtle vernacular of her soul. 

In the interim, we continue this hard work of building a family. Or, as I secretly suspect, my children just keep messing with me to make me look incompetent. One or the other.

Step 30: In a world...

I don't consider myself to be a doom and gloom kind of person. I'm not a "prepper" or a conspiracy theorist. Generally, I don't tend to think of the world as a scary place. I have fears and anxieties, to be sure, but I'm doing my best to raise children who feel empowered to go out and live their lives armored with education, curiosity, open-mindedness, and a healthy sense of self-preservation...but not a paralyzing fear of new places or immediate mistrust of people who don't look/think/believe/behave as they do.

I will not become one of those inevitable aging individuals who asks, "What is this world coming to?"

My insurance policy will not be a steel-walled bunker in the backyard.

After all, the Earth has spun on its own axis and whirled around the sun for billions of years now.

More than likely, the planet will keep right on spinning for millennia.

Humanity has existed for quite some time as well. And in all that time, people have done amazing things, inspiring things, cruel things, and indifferent things. From the first tribes brave enough to cross narrow bridges of land to settle new continents, to explorers bold enough to dream of colonizing Mars, humans have shown a capacity for daring. From the first artists to create crude drawings on the walls of caves by the light of dim fires, to engineers who construct wonders that touch the sky, humans have strived to bring permanence to an ever-changing planet. From the first raiders who pillaged tiny villages to armies that seek to eradicate entire populations, people have demonstrated a willingness to harm their own species. From the first dirt road traveler to hurry past as a beggar is beaten and robbed, to urban residents who silently steel themselves against the cries of a woman stabbed to death on the street below, humans have displayed breathtaking indifference.

More than likely, humans will continue to do what humans do for generations to come.

There truly is nothing new under the sun, right? We don't affect the universe nearly as much as we would like to believe, do we?

I get it. There are good people and there are bad people. There are bad people who do good things and good people who do bad things. There are people who only think of themselves, and people who always put the needs of others ahead of their own. Some people alter the world in ways that seem impossible and others appear to leave no mark at all. And on and on and on.

Lately, though, I can't help but wonder what type of planet my children - and their children - will inherit.

As years go, 2015 is in its infancy and yet, it is already off to a rocky start.

First, there is this man, an Arizona cardiologist and anti-immunization advocate who recently gave the following interview, as reported by CNN:

"It's not my responsibility to inject my child with chemicals in order for [a child like Maggie] to be supposedly healthy," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, it's very likely that her leukemia is from vaccinations in the first place."

"I'm not going to sacrifice the well-being of my child. My child is pure," he added. "It's not my responsibility to be protecting their child."

CNN asked Wolfson if he could live with himself if his unvaccinated child got another child gravely ill.

"I could live with myself easily," he said. "It's an unfortunate thing that people die, but people die. I'm not going to put my child at risk to save another child."

He blamed the Jacks family for taking Maggie to the clinic for care.

"If a child is so vulnerable like that, they shouldn't be going out into society," he said.

Right. Just when I start to think (hope, really) that education, medical training, certification exams, and licensing boards produce caring, compassionate, and intelligent physicians who promote the very best practice in terms of individual and public health, people like him open their mouths and prove that humans are fundamentally incapable of bringing order and reason to the universe.

And then, there is the story of an extremist group so despicable, they broadcast videos glorifying the executions of aid workers, journalists, photographers, civilians, and soldiers. I refuse to view or perpetuate their propaganda (hence, no links to the reports), but who can read a story of this army burning an "enemy" pilot alive without despairing for the future of this planet and its inhabitants?

Sadly, I'm beginning to suspect that there are many people who can hear about cruelties on a small or grand scale without missing a beat. Not to mention the architects who draft plans for such atrocities. Or the foot soldiers who carry out the acts.

Could not one soldier step forward and say, "This is wrong. Let's not do this"? Nobody was willing to insist, "I will not participate in this, and I will not permit this to happen"?

Who knows? Maybe the published video was the third take, and the first two tries had to be aborted because someone (or multiple someones) refused to perpetrate horror on a fellow human being.

Or, perhaps, these fighters are so blinded by hate or religious fervor or insanity or who-knows-what that they truly believe that they occupy the moral high ground.

And what about those of us who watch the videos (or don't watch) and do nothing? Are we good? Are we bad? Are we indifferent? And, yet, what can be done? Is the answer more violence? More war? More humanitarian aid?

If the old adage is true and there really is nothing new under the sun, then it may be that the Internet just makes the best and worst of humanity more accessible to an international audience. My secret fear, though, is that we have not learned from history and that we will never learn from history.

All too often in recent days, I look at my precious, sweet, curious, loving children and silently worry that they, and their descendants, will become part of a human race that turns away from knowledge, revels in divisiveness, reacts with schadenfreude to the suffering of the vulnerable, and turns an indifferent cheek on injustice.

Are you familiar with action movie previews in which the disembodied voice-over artist (AKA Don La Fontaine) ominously intones, "In a world where..."??

As in, "In a world where gummy bears run out of gummy bear juice..."

Ok, I made that one up, but the voice-over narratives really do exist so just bear with me here while I try to (finally!) make my point.

Well, my inner voice-over artist says things like:

"In a world where communicable diseases can be easily contained or eradicated but ignorant fear mongers refuse to protect themselves and others..."

Or

"In a world where democratic governments unapologetically spy on citizens, persecute whistleblowers, and justify torture..."

Or

"In a world where fanatical armies broadcast videos of horrific murders to promote their vision of the ideal moral society..."

Or

"In a world where people shoot commercial airplanes full of civilians (including 80 children) out of the sky with surface-to-air missiles and no one ever faces prosecution..."

Or

"In a world where a man goes to jail for years for stealing a car but CEOs get bailouts and golden parachutes for cheating millions of customers..."

I could go on and on and on.

I suppose that, at the end of the day, the best I can do is try to do more good, do less bad, and be less indifferent. The best I can do is raise children who do the same.

Nevertheless, I'm thinking of becoming a prepper. I'm contemplating that backyard bunker.

I would like to think that my children are not picking up on my paranoia. Unfortunately, I have to admit the following events occurred under my very own roof yesterday:

I returned home from work to find Bean waiting for me at the door. Squirming with excitement, my six year old Bean asked me if I wanted to see the fort he built. Happily, I allowed myself to be dragged by the arm into our home office. What I found was a blanket draped over the armchair. Beneath the blanket were some snacks, a few stuffed friends, and the tiny plastic safe in which he keeps his treasures. The sign taped to the chair read "Panic Room". Beneath those unsettling words, I read the words "No Pearl" (except he used his sister's real name and not the pseudonym I use for blog purposes).

Trying to maintain a neutral expression, I asked Bean why his sister can't be in the panic room. His response?

"She can - on alternate Mondays".

Um, what? I didn't even know where to begin with this one but since I'm reasonably sure that I've never articulated the words "panic room" or "alternate Mondays" in earshot of any child, much less my own child, I'm choosing to blame Angry Driver.

Perhaps he has his own fears for the future of humanity.

Step 29: The gift horse

As I type this, Pearl is asleep in her own room. For the second night in a row. From the reading I have done about adoption and attachment,  I fully expected that Pearl would be camping out in our bedroom for the foreseeable future. Even our adoption agency social worker recommended that Pearl sleep in our room for the first few months. Pearl, though, seemed to have other ideas.

She is certainly not shy when it comes to communicating her desires. Despite the language barrier, or perhaps because of it, Pearl makes her wishes abundantly clear to me. "No" is expressed by pointing a chubby index finger at me, frowning, and saying "no!" or else by waving her left hand in front of her face, as if to say, "I'll pass".

When she wants something, Pearl taps me repeatedly and yells "Mama!" She then points that same chubby index finger at the desired object and nods or shakes her head as I try to guess what she wants. The pointing and yelling become more or less forceful as my guesses become "colder" or "warmer".

Suffice to say, Pearl is not speaking much English. I suspect that she lambastes me in Mandarin from time to time to articulate her disappointment in my lackluster powers of deduction, but otherwise, she is perfectly content to use wild gesticulation as our preferred means of communication.

I've taken to referring to her as "Tiny Chairman Mao". Bossy doesn't even begin to describe my little angel.

For a few nights, Pearl seemed to appreciate that Angry Driver or I sat next to her while she fell asleep and that we were nearby if she awakened during the night. About a week ago, though, she started having trouble falling and staying asleep. One night, it took her two hours to fall asleep. By 10 PM, I was completely exasperated. Naps became miserable experiences with prolonged crying, angry stares in my direction, and repeated requests for drinks of water (point at Mama, point at glass of water, point at herself, and repeat until Dumb Mama figured it out). Four days ago, I had the bright idea to tuck her into the toddler bed and immediately leave the room.

I'm lying. This was not my bright idea. This was actually my response to being completely frustrated with a lack of nocturnal sleep and daytime napping. Fortunately, my frustrated reaction was exactly what Pearl seemed to want and need.

When I closed the bedroom door behind me, I quickly saw on the video baby monitor that Pearl was able to settle herself down and fall asleep within minutes. Miracle of Miracles!

Yesterday, Angry Driver suggested that we push our luck and move the toddler bed into Pearl's bedroom just in time for bedtime. Pearl's initial reaction was suspicion and incredulity; she tried leave her room and go downstairs a few times. However, after rocking with me in the rocking chair for about 45 seconds, The Chairman pointed to her little bed.

With some trepidation, I laid her in the bed, arranged the blankets, and turned on her timed bedtime music. My next move was to sit on the floor next to her.

Nope. That was not happening.

Chairman Mao pointed at me and then pointed twice at the door.

Message received!

I exited and quickly moved to my command center in the living room, where I could surreptitiously monitor my Pearl on Baby Spy Cam. After rolling around in bed for about five minutes, she boarded the last bus to Dreamland.

Pearl rolled out of bed one time last night, but I heard the "thunk" and rushed to save her. When I threw open her bedroom door, Pearl was sprawled on the floor like a snow angel, a stunned expression on her face. I scooped her up, smothered her in kisses, and deposited her back into bed. Guess what happened next.

She slept until 6:45 AM. When she woke up, she patiently waited in bed for Angry Driver to retrieve her.  She then pointed at her diaper so that he would know in no uncertain terms that the Chairman was requesting a diaper change.

This evening, the bedtime ritual went even more smoothly. After a bath, I read Pearl a book, sang two rounds of "Rock-A-Bye-Baby", and tucked her into bed in response to the pointed finger. She fell asleep in five minutes flat, and as of this typing, she has neither awakened nor rolled out of bed.

Is this success? Perhaps. Two nights of independent sleep is hardly a trend, but I think it bodes well for my prospects of a kid-free bedroom. Unfortunately, I am (surprise!) a tad neurotic, so I can't help but wonder if I am making some kind of huge parenting mistake in moving my adopted child of three weeks into her own room.

What if this is some kind of attachment failure, and here I am celebrating??

What if Pearl is some kind of evil genius and she is testing me to see if I "really love her" enough to ignore her attempts at nocturnal independence and keep her close?

Naturally, I turned to the BTDT (been there, done that) experts on the China Adopt Talk forum for advice. The overwhelming consensus is that I should not look a gift horse in the mouth. Pearl is sleeping, her parents are sleeping, everyone is happy....why worry?

But here's the thing: I'm not sleeping.

 I think I mentioned previously that I am selfish. I like my sleep. I like quiet. I enjoy solitude and freedom from interruptions. Yes, yes. That is all still true. This leopard has not changed her spots. However, I have to confess that I actually miss waking up in the middle of the night to see my sleeping Pearl curled up in her tiny little cherry-wood sleigh bed, two fingers tucked into her mouth. I even miss hearing "Mama!" and responding to the vehement pointed finger demands for a drink of water from the cup on the bedside table.

Maybe I'm cultivating some kind of weird new maternal softness. Perhaps it's Stockholm syndrome. After all, I am being held captive by a tiny Asian toddler dictator. Whatever it is, I'm going to accept that - at least for the time being - Pearl wants to sleep in her own room.

Maybe I can convince one of the cats to sleep with me.

Step 28: Attack of the green-eyed monster

Having one child is a lot of work. Before this adoption, I suppose I assumed (and we all know what happens when one assumes...) that having two children would mean twice the work. In my delusional state, I even believed that perhaps - just perhaps - my older child could help with the younger one at times, thereby making life easier for everyone. After all, my younger brother was born when I was nine years old and the next eight years of my life involved much babysitting, bathing, soothing, storytelling, entertaining, etc.

Silly me. What was I thinking?

I love Bean. Really, I do. And I knew that the adoption of Pearl would be an adjustment for him. He is a smart little boy and even a few months ago, he knew enough to say that he didn't want to share the attention and love of his parents with another child. I tried to tell him about the fun parts of having a sibling: a partner for board games, hide and seek, and Mario Kart; an instant playmate when no one else was available; a small disciple who would idolize his every move and laugh at all his jokes. Bean was not swayed. As I said, he is a smart boy and he astutely countered my arguments with his own:

She is too little.

He doesn't want a three year old hanging around him all the time.

She won't even understand his jokes since she only knows Mandarin.

He already has friends and he doesn't want a sister.

He doesn't want any less attention from Mom and Dad.

His life is just fine the way it is.

So, what is a parent to do in the face of these arguments? At six years old, Bean is too young for me to tell him what I know to be true. Siblings mean a shared history, a conspirator, a confidante. A brother or sister is someone who can tell you whether or not your memories are real or fabricated, whether your childhood was idyllic, dysfunctional, or something in between. Siblings are a window and a mirror.

As a physician, I see how siblings come together to support each other and care for ailing parents. Or not. I see how, when parents die, children are the ones who live on. There is nothing wrong with being an only child, but when siblings have good relationships, they can lean on one another and share the burdens of caregiving and grief.

As a sister, I know that siblings are a pain, but they are also blessings. When that same younger brother I referenced previously died nearly one year ago, I realized just how it feels to be unmoored from that shared history, that intertwined family story. I grieve for who he was and who he will never be, but I also grieve because I am now the only one who will carry my mother and stepfather's legacy forward in time. I won't ever be able to call my brother on the telephone and say, "Remember when our mom said...?" or "Remember that time we skipped stones at Schoolhouse Beach and...?". If I am fortunate enough to live a long time, I alone will be the one who has to tell my stepfather that his eyesight is too bad to continue driving, or sit my mother down and break the news that it is time for her to move to an assisted living facility.

These are things that I cannot share with a six year old child, even one as precocious as Bean. He just has to accept that his parents decided that adopting Pearl is what is best for this family, even if he
doesn't understand or agree.

It has been a hard adjustment.

Trouble started from day one, when we met Pearl and our family of 3 upgraded to version 2.0, i.e. - Windows Family IV. Tantrums, jealousy, regression, petty rivalries (that were pretty much imagined on the part of Bean since Pearl has been happily oblivious to his scowls and angry English words). She toddles after him while he tells her to go away. She repeats "No!" and points her tiny finger back at him when he scolds her, believing it to be some delightful game. Bean repeatedly asks us, "Why does she get to (insert innocuous verb here)?"

Examples include:

"Why does she get to eat?" This is usually said when Bean himself is eating.

"Why does she get to sleep in your room?" Um, ok. Never mind that Bean spent his first six months in our lives swaddled in a pack and play next to our bed.

"Why does she get all the attention?" Right... So the hour I just spent painstakingly applying decals on his latest Lego creation was imaginary?

I think that the pinnacle of jealousy was reached yesterday, when Pearl had her first appointment with the pediatrician. Poor Pearl had the good fortune to have her ears irrigated five times in an unsuccessful attempt to dislodge impacted wax. She received three shots in her legs. She had blood drawn from her right arm. Flu Mist was squirted into both nostrils. This was all in addition to the general examination and the poopy diaper that resulted from a Miralax dose given to treat constipation. As the poor girl wailed pitiably, Bean grumbled and yelled, "Why does she get everything?"

If there had been a syringe lying unattended, I would have stabbed him with it myself at that very moment just so he wouldn't feel so left out. That is how much I empathized with my poor, neglected firstborn child.

The thing is, though, that I do empathize with him. His life right now is noisier. His schedule has changed. The routines are disrupted. His parents are distracted. The attention is split. Believe me, I get it. I remember thinking to myself (and sometimes saying aloud), "I never asked for a brother!". I remember wondering why my good life had to be ruined by a screaming baby, a messy toddler, an annoying preschooler, a child who always seemed to get away with everything while I was taken to task for everything.

The green-eyed monster and I were no strangers. It's no surprise that he and my Bean are fast friends.

With time, my hope is that Bean will delight in Pearl the way I used to delight in pushing my baby brother on the swing while he shook with unrestrained laughter, or the way I used to marvel that he could hear the ice cream truck before it even turned onto the road leading to our apartment complex. My hope is that the two of them will build forts, storm castles, and race their bikes. I hope that, eventually, they argue about politics at the dinner table, gently tease each other about their prom dates, and roll their eyes together to convey the sentiment that their parents are old and out of touch. I want them to decide who will be the one to tell Angry Driver that he can no longer see well enough to drive, and I would like for them to sit down with me together to break the news that it is time for me to move to an assisted living facility. Many years from today, I want them to gather with their own families and recall their shared childhoods and their parents with laughter and tenderness.

We all want so much for our children. The green-eyed monster only sees the loss and the inconvenience, the noise and the hassle. The parent, though, sees the possibilities.

Step 27: Parenting after midnight

Right now I am sitting next to Pearl, who is screaming her displeasure with me because I had the nerve to try to put her to bed.  I have tried holding her, rocking her, sternly telling her to lie down, but nothing is working. She is too tired to be consoled and too upset to give in to fatigue. If the jet lag was bad on Christmas Day, it was worse yesterday, and today? Well, I'm not even entirely sure what day it is anymore. That is how bad it's become.

I was awakened at one o'clock this morning by this strange, soft, keening wail. At first, I wasn't sure what the sound was, but when I rolled over in bed, I caught sight of Pearl, staring at me from her little toddler bed (cherry-stained wood to match our own queen-sized bed because, if you are forced to share a room with a tiny screaming hurricane, you might as well have coordinating furniture). She was the one emitting this weird cry.

Interestingly, my first coherent emotion wasn't irritation at being awakened in the middle of the night. My first emotion was happiness that Pearl felt safe enough in our home and in me as her parent to give voice to her fears in the darkness. Prior to last night, Pearl may have woken up during the night, but she never woke me up. Whatever bad dreams she dreamed, scary shapes she glimpsed in the shadows, hunger or thirst she felt...she never did a thing to make me aware of any of it. Sure, I woke up a few times and found her awake, and I attended to her in those instances, but she was always silent and stoic.

Last night, she emitted this little monotone, like a homing beacon. It wasn't a cry, really. I didn't see any tears either. It was more like the sound of a frightened baby animal waiting in the burrow, wondering when Mom was coming back to offer comfort with food and warm fur.

I stretched out my arms to her and she reached up for me. At first, I held her hands and she seemed to settle down briefly, but the sound started back up as soon as I let her go. I pulled her into my lap and - just like that - the wail ceased. Pearl smiled and gazed at me, allowing me to stroke her hair, rub her back, gently rock her side to side. When her eyelids started to droop and her body felt soft and heavy in my arms, I moved to put her back in her little bed.

Instantly, the wail picked up where it had left off. With a sigh, I picked her back up and the radiant smile appeared again. More rocking. More stroking of her hair. More gentle murmurings. 1:45 am.

Again, I moved to put her back into her toddler bed. This time, no wailing, but she tossed restlessly on the bed, a ship unmoored in the storm.

Sit up. Toss head over feet. Lie down. Roll side to side. Sit up. Toss. Lie down. Roll.

Finally, I crawled into the little bed next to her and she grabbed ahold of my arm and pulled it around to encircle her body. Her body softened. Her breathing settled. 2:10 am.

Nearly asleep myself at this point, I rolled out of her bed and into my own. Pearl's response was to toss restlessly for the next 45 minutes. Every so often, she sat up and peered over at me, likely to make sure that I hadn't disappeared into the night. Fortunately, she did not keen or cry. Eventually, she fell asleep and so did I. 2:55 am.

Parenting is a privilege, but it is also a pain.

I am a selfish person. I like my sleep. I enjoy reading real books with chapters and plots and without interruptions. I like long, hot baths - alone. I appreciate eating my own food without having to share, and by "share", I mean relinquish the tastiest bite of shrimp in my nachos or the only maraschino cherry in my sundae under threat of relentless pleading from children. When Bean was an infant, I loved the way his snuggly little body fit into my arms, but I did not like nursing and I did not like screaming. I hated sleep deprivation. At times, I resented it. After all, I was a resident; hadn't I suffered enough from broken sleep and endless work hours? I loved being a parent then and I love it now, but the privilege is also a pain.

Yes, I am overjoyed that Pearl trusts in me enough to let me know what she needs and wants, that her soul feels safe enough to look to me to hold her and soothe her in the darkness. After nearly two hours of love and soothing in the middle of the night, though, all I wanted last night was to sleep. Preferably for at least 8 straight hours. After ten minutes of crying and caterwauling and babbling in Mandarin and/or baby gibberish tonight, all I can think of is taking up alcoholism as a hobby. I tell myself that this is all temporary. Temporary. A short road stop on the long path of our lives together. Pearl won't always wake up in the middle of the night, but this is her infancy in our family and I need to look at this situation the way I would view any mother / infant dyad. Pearl won't always scream and cry "ba ba", or "hold me" at the sight of the dog or cats (and with six cats and a dog in one house, the screaming, crying, and "ba ba"ing are pretty much hourly occurrences right now). Eventually, she and I will find our rhythm together. For the time being, though, she is experimenting with her own sound and finding her own voice. She is calling out to see who answers in the darkness and testing to see if I will keep my promise to be her solace in the night.

I can give up a few nights of sleep for that, can't I?