tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2709371896977359202024-02-21T05:52:54.230-08:00Journey with Judah and AsterDanni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.comBlogger368125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-88842609184546221342012-01-06T09:33:00.000-08:002012-01-06T11:50:14.375-08:00Melkam GenaEthiopian Christmas was a special day for Aster. It sounds just lovely.<br />
<br />
Early
in the morning, when it was still dark, Aster heard drumming and singing. As the group moved closer to her home, she woke up and joined the group. As they walked through the streets, more and more children came out of their homes and joined the singing/drumming group (and mamas too - if they wanted). Once all the children were collected, they headed to church. <br />
<br />
All of the children sang together in church. It must have been beautiful. When they were finished, the children returned to their homes and had breakfast.<br />
<br />
It was then the adults' turn to go to church. At lunch time, all of her family and friends met at the church and enjoyed injera and wats. Everyone shared food, "a pot luck."<br />
<br />
That tradition she really likes. Sharing food. That's a tradition she would like to continue. <br />
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This weekend we will celebrate Ethiopian Christmas with good friends. As presents, Aster wants to bring her favorite Ethiopian snacks- mangoes, bananas and avocados,<br />
"People like food as presents!" <br />
<br />
Extraordinary, right?<br />
I know.Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-57811061007483679682011-12-29T22:43:00.000-08:002011-12-30T23:17:07.993-08:00Christmas, Earrings and BellyachesWe had a wonderful Christmas. It was more special, calm and comforting than I could have ever anticipated.<br />
<br />
I was filled with anxiety leading up to it. There were moments when I thought that I couldn't do it. I wasn't strong enough for an American Christmas. We weren't strong enough. Not yet. We were in too deep to cancel. <br />
<br />
People were thrilled for us. Our first Christmas. Together. As a family of four. I wanted to scream- DON'T YOU KNOW HOW TERRIBLY WRONG THIS COULD ALL GO?!<br />
<br />
But, they didn't. How could they?<br />
<br />
I felt lost. At times I felt very alone in my panic and deep breaths. A few times I misplaced tears and cried at little things. I was too stressed for words.<br />
<br />
Tears poured as I was watching her first grade holiday performance. I was beyond proud. I kept flashing back to our Christmas one year before. When I had to leave her. The most difficult time in my life. I hope my life is never that painful again, but my heartache was nothing compared to what she experienced. What she had already lost. My worst is nothing. <br />
Loss is not relative. Pain is not relative.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Aster's performance was beautiful. She sang all of the chorus parts perfectly and quickly opened and closed her mouth - the worst lip synching possible - for the wordy parts. She stood tall and happy in her Christmas dress.<br />
In between songs, children shared their letters to Santa. Every letter started the same, "For Christmas I would like to ask you for ___ for people who have less than me. I would like __ (fill in wii or iPod Touch or whatever)..."<br />
I felt like I had been punched in the gut. It took me a few emotion filled moments to figure out why.<br />
My daughter cannot tell the different between a bad tummy ache and being hungry- yet, she was coached to write a letter asking "Santa" to give people clothes. Santa never visited to give her food, yet he gives rich kids iPod Touches. <br />
Pain is not relative. <br />
So much to explain.<br />
<br />
Tonight we discussed the possibility of getting her ears pierced. When I told her she could pick earrings, she absolutely glowed. <br />
My girl's ears were pierced before. Pierced, but she never got earrings. My little girl got her ears pierced and never got the reward of seeing shiny earrings sparkling from her ears- even for a moment,<br />
<br />
"It was sad."<br />
<br />
Looking into my soulful daughter's eyes- the eyes that are so full of love and genuine care for others- just
reconfirms what I already know. Pain is not relative. Hurt is not
relative. Love is not relative. My daughter's experiences have been extreme, too much, heartbreaking - but the result is extraordinary- she's breathtaking.<br />
<br />
I heard you mommy. Who said that about me? Who said I will do amazing things?<br />
I said it, baby.<br />
<br />
<br />
She already has. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-35248345754904587982011-11-28T14:37:00.001-08:002011-11-28T17:20:16.686-08:00FamilyAlmost exactly a year ago, I met my Aster for the very first time. For over two weeks, we visited the care center frequently. Knowing Aster a year later, I can't believe she's the same person. She appeared so strong, but many of her behaviors were simply a mixture of coping and surviving. No child should live in institutionalized care. Ever. The shorter the time, the better. <br />
I fell in love with all of the children during those weeks. But, there was one boy that simply melted me. Perhaps I worried about him the most. He had such a gentle spirit. He was by far the oldest/biggest boy at the care center. I loved his eyes, the way he watched the other children play and his very shy smile. One day, when I walked by the children eating, I grabbed his foot and pretended to take a bite. He covered his mouth and let out a good laugh. It was that moment, hearing his sweet laugh, he had my heart completely. While in Ethiopia, I referred to him as, "my little bunny."<br />
Well, my little bunny was still there when we returned in May. Still without a family. I couldn't look at him without filling with tears. I couldn't stand the fact that we were leaving my little bunny.<br />
When Aster started talking about a boy named "Z" in Gambella, I was intrigued. She would laugh a huge laugh and tell silly stories "One time, poor Z caught his hair on fire! Mommy, he was ok. He laughed about it when he told me!" She told me that "Z" was so nice and such a hard worker. Aster worried about Z in Gambella. <br />
A few weeks later I learned that Aster's Z was my little bunny. Z lived with his uncle in Ethiopia. Z's uncle is Aster's uncle. They share an uncle and lived a few steps from one another in Gambella.<br />
My heart hurts that Aster's sweet Z still needs a family. She teases me, "I love Z, but so do you. I heard you. You call him a little bunny!"<br />
<br />
Beautiful families are holding an auction to raise funds for the three oldest boys at the care center. Two of the boys have families. Z does not. Yet.<br />
<br />
Do some holiday shopping. Go bid on some of the wonderful items. For my Aster's Z, for my little bunny. For all the boys that deserve to be home yesterday. <br />
<br />
Go here. Now. Thank you. Please. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.tlcfortlz.blogspot.com/">http://www.tlcfortlz.blogspot.com/</a><br />
<br />
UPDATE! Z has a family. It happened today! TODAY! Can you believe it? I know. Good stuff. YAY!<br />
<br />
<br />Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-32802883413826975972011-11-27T12:38:00.001-08:002011-11-27T13:13:38.050-08:00The PresentWith the holidays quickly approaching, my mind is swirling with thoughts about presents. I obviously haven't started shopping. I've just starting thinking.<br />
As a child, present getting was the best. I'd love nothing more than for my girl to love it like I did. And she will. In time. <br />
<br />
You may assume that if you've never received a present before, your introduction to present getting would be a joyous and fabulous event.<br />
Nope.<br />
Not so much.<br />
After 6 months, some of my Aster's thoughts, "I love presents mommy. I like getting things. I think it's so nice of people to get me things...but, I just get sooo nervous." <br />
<br />
By the time you are at the age where you are trying to please others - by the time you actually can think about what other people may be thinking - most American kids have opened an uncountable number of presents. They are experts. They've had years of gentle couching on what to say, rate of opening, how to respond, etc. They also are usually familiar with the items they are getting, know how to ask if they are unsure, speak the same language of the gift giver fluently and know the appropriate gift getting language. <br />
<br />
If you think about the pragmatics needed to successfully open a gift, it's a bit mind blowing. You need to know how to look and what to say during each of the numerous steps: When you get handed the package, while opening the package, after opening the package and later when someone wants to talk about it again. <br />
<br />
Everyone stares at you (making you nervous, so you may hurry?), evaluates your facial expression.<br />
What do they want me to say?<br />
What do they want my face to say?<br />
What if I don't like it? What do I do then? What do I say?<br />
What if it's something I already have?<br />
What if I don't know what to do with it?<br />
What if I do like it? What do I do then? What do I say?<br />
What do I do with this paper?<br />
How does it open?<br />
Do I shake it?<br />
What do they want me to do with it after I open it?<br />
Why are they STILL staring at me?<br />
Why is my mom talking the whole time? "Slow down, relax, say thank you, don't shake it, don't throw it, look at it, look what it does, let me help you, say 'Thank you'..."<br />
<br />
Remember the slight anxiety as a child when you opened up that gift from your great-grandfather? What could it possibly be? How should I react to THIS?<br />
It's a billion times worse for our babies. We were possibly a little anxious, yet we KNEW what we were supposed to do. <br />
<br />
Point? My baby girls LOVES presents and she should get them. Slowly. Without a lot of people. With support. With front loading.<br />
<br />
She remembers who gave her each and every single thing she owns. Things that were here when she arrived, she has asked. She also treats all of her things respectfully and thoughtfully. Aster is amazing, but watching her open gifts is the most painfully awkward event. When she first came home, we thought that videoing her opening a present would be fun. Nope. Within 10 seconds we stopped. It was horrifying.<br />
<br />
Even Christmas gift getting. It's just hard. <br />
<br />
<br />Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-37947198315093517172011-11-24T20:49:00.001-08:002011-11-24T22:02:15.895-08:00ThanksgivingOur Thanksgiving was wonderful. Parts of today were the first time I felt completely relaxed during the past 6 months.<br />
It was just the four of us. We sauteed, baked and roasted it all. With no time constraints, we just cooked, cuddled, ate, slept, ate again, watched a movie and cuddled more. It was perfect. Although we missed our extended family, I knew the four of us couldn't handle any more.<br />
<br />
Today, something fabulous happened. <br />
<br />
6 months ago, the first morning we woke up in Ethiopia with Aster, she was mad. The anger seemed to happen during the dressing process. It lasted a long time. Breakfast was an Ethiopian shrug fest sprinkled with dirty looks and tears. No jokes or tickles could break it. <br />
I recently asked Aster (she has the best memory and recalls all details), why she was mad that morning,<br />
"Did I put the wrong shoes on you? What did I do?"<br />
She laughed so loudly and said, "I was mad because I wanted the other shoes. It was the shoes, but it really wasn't the shoes mommy. I was just so scared. So, it was the shoes, but it really wasn't the shoes."<br />
<br />
I know. Brilliant. <br />
<br />
When Aster came home, our biggest tension was getting dressed. If I asked her to pick something, she got big watery eyes and looked overwhelmed. If I gave her two choices, she'd still get watery eyes and look overwhelmed. She'd want to please me. I'd want her to be happy. I'd be unhappy because I couldn't figure out how to please her. She'd be overwhelmed and unhappy because I was unhappy. Usually there were tears. Most days I had to take a break during the process and take big, deep breaths. It was a big mess. We were a mess. Finally, I just started picking for her and dressing became a nice time to chat - just not about clothes. Recently, I've been asking her for some input, "Do you feel like wearing pants or a skirt?" It's gone well. Baby steps.<br />
<br />
Today, I made a promise to her. We weren't going anywhere. We were going to stay home, eat, cuddle and watch TV. All day. Nothing else. No one else. That was all.<br />
<br />
I saw her relax. In that relaxed state I knew she could do it. Even do it happily.<br />
"You can pick anything in your closet to wear. I don't care what."<br />
<br />
Her face lit up and she smiled. She whispered that she knew exactly what she wanted. She went to her closet and picked out a beautiful hand-me-down Christmas dress,<br />
"I saw it in a movie. I want the Christmas dress."<br />
I took it down. I put it on her. She smiled. I smiled. We were dressed.<br />
<br />
It was a Thanksgiving Day miracle. <br />
<br />
<br />
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Since Aster was "fancy" - Judah wanted to be fancy too. </div>Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-63209914380474936802011-11-21T21:56:00.001-08:002011-11-23T20:43:35.003-08:00CelebratingI often find myself having more thoughts than I could ever process.
More concerns, more guilt, more questions than I can comprehend.
Clinging to the people that understand. Being unsure how to interact
with those that don't. Thinking I need to explain, when words aren't
necessary. Thinking I don't need to explain, then quickly (or not so
quickly) realizing I do.
A state that obsesses over death, trauma, loss, parenting, race, hair,
discipline, language development, neurology, pragmatics, culture, family
and so much more.
Sometimes it feels good to let all of it go and just look at us. When I
take away all of those thoughts, all of our real struggles, something
very important emerges clearly. Despite all (that word is not nearly
long enough) of it, we are unbelievably filled with joy. Each of us. We
have ridiculous amounts of fun. We trust and love each other. We are
silly. We are thriving.
From their struggles, my children have skills, strength and beauty
beyond their years. Despite it all, they are happy. There are not enough
words to express how proud of them I am. So we dance.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/WZaLgtlNJWI" width="560"></iframe><br />
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I am so thankful for my babies - such funny, smart and strong souls. <br />Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-41020455992034441912011-11-03T09:25:00.000-07:002011-11-03T09:27:33.357-07:00I wouldn't...I could write a very long novel explaining in detail all of the reasons why I would never put hair extensions on my daughter.
Not that I judge people who do. You know your children best. I'm too busy trying to tread water. Judging? Wow. I don't even know how to do anything yet. It seems way too big of a job to judge.
6 months ago, I would have laughed just thinking about ME putting hair extensions on a CHILD. Really. I would have thought and thought and analyzed until I was sure that hair extensions + barbie would have been the equivalent of just handing a girl no self esteem and a couple dozen eating disorders.
Then I met my grounded girl. The most mature person I know. The girl that has such real struggles and real thoughts, that any sort of temporary happiness- real or imagined, anything that makes her feel like she fits in a little bit more, anything that makes her feel lighter and less serious, anything. She knows more "real" than any person should.
I looked at her last Saturday morning and impulsively decided.
Really. At this point, some fake hair on her head is the last thing that's going to hurt her.
I spent over 10 hours last weekend putting hair extensions on my daughter.
It sucks to lose everyone you know. It sucks to worry about and miss your family. It sucks to be a girl and to have your head shaved. A few times.
It's a tiny part, but it's the only part I can sort of, not really, almost, a little bit, fix. <strike></strike>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXEdDXA5uN2LyeIr30kVPV6cMphhr0EudBfNKsJAJxmJtr_V0pOXUVf1DFxHAetjrRrTXIztaQdWN74wOTn1ZaTDZRPTjpR0HG-HLEuZtsY0yoYWVKemO6qfn0JPkt657FZWRxY_CCC8/s1600/IMG_7237.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXEdDXA5uN2LyeIr30kVPV6cMphhr0EudBfNKsJAJxmJtr_V0pOXUVf1DFxHAetjrRrTXIztaQdWN74wOTn1ZaTDZRPTjpR0HG-HLEuZtsY0yoYWVKemO6qfn0JPkt657FZWRxY_CCC8/s320/IMG_7237.JPG" /></a></div>Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-18833099281045899922011-10-29T08:56:00.000-07:002011-10-29T08:56:35.132-07:00FeetI've learned to look at feet much differently.
Aster and I have spent a lot of time recently, talking about feet. Her feet. Her beautiful feet.
A few weeks ago, after her bath, I painted her toe nails. You mommies know. Carefully placing the chosen blue polish where the nail should be. Filling in the bits where the scared toe nail curves. Adding, sculpting, loving. She was thrilled with the result. Adorable.
There was something in her eyes while I was working. Something that told me- she didn't love her own feet. Those perfect feet.
I took some time to kiss all of those scars and lines and places that hurt her at one time.
She told me, <i>"sometimes, maybe carrying water for my family or something and feet hurt."</i>
"What did you do when your foot got hurt?"
Shrugging,<i>"I keep walking. I don't say anything."</i>
"Because that's who you are. You are someone that will work so hard for people you love and not stop even when you get hurt. You are so strong. So beautiful. So good. Your feet tell stories about how good, strong and beautiful you are."
I look at my own characterless feet. Feet seem so symbolic of our lives right now. Those with characterless feet learning from those with beautiful feet.
No one, no thing, could have prepared me for this- for how inexperienced I feel.
I am just starting to learn about real loss, fear and pain.
When you love your child, you feel and hold their pain. My daughter is a shining, thriving, beautiful girl that happily squeals things like, "I know how to spell HALLOWEEN! H-A-L-L-O-W-E-E-N! I DID IT!"
I am just breathing. I don't know what to do. I'm just new.Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-73657216342199908032011-10-06T18:31:00.000-07:002011-10-06T18:31:17.906-07:00Aster Riding a Bull<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/j_zoKxlKUmU" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-66970325336643953932011-09-11T10:10:00.000-07:002011-09-11T10:10:07.710-07:00Time13 months ago. The first picture we ever saw of our girl. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnh9esbpxCivqlZz3GSOch4ADo_BQ8JSMWJnu01s75_aDAP0o5b0k_RJumpfX3Kh2E-pgECumMWCSrgyLY1pmP1HBfr_Pay3KWb1CYbK0WnsA8dBd-_3aupwN9nougVRI0-QiZz466Bwo/s1600/Aster+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnh9esbpxCivqlZz3GSOch4ADo_BQ8JSMWJnu01s75_aDAP0o5b0k_RJumpfX3Kh2E-pgECumMWCSrgyLY1pmP1HBfr_Pay3KWb1CYbK0WnsA8dBd-_3aupwN9nougVRI0-QiZz466Bwo/s320/Aster+1.jpg" /></a></div>4 months ago. When I first held her and knew I'd never have to let go. Ever again. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2RWEc0Nb7i3E1vfxi8p_r9X_fwN7V_q6JgG6bsRRt7cHtKvTi2baV9FPWRyEORlML9KH5g2AQVEWkNTqQ4RevNJeThQ_jWkAawqKREKMivFLULqxlaz6d1M6XxqmCWQ7dLGK37jf1t28/s1600/DSC_0356.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2RWEc0Nb7i3E1vfxi8p_r9X_fwN7V_q6JgG6bsRRt7cHtKvTi2baV9FPWRyEORlML9KH5g2AQVEWkNTqQ4RevNJeThQ_jWkAawqKREKMivFLULqxlaz6d1M6XxqmCWQ7dLGK37jf1t28/s320/DSC_0356.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqa8UPstnlCOjKjS-v9ijdcsruc8iOPIMXkAcxcECz54327bNDvfHJ-69qsx9zhz_RAL4g657ZfIQIsrhbGluR3sGsukFCP9og9zMmihurojrilR_afZor8N2niIHdCNhAN6x2reUThx8/s1600/DSC_0353.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqa8UPstnlCOjKjS-v9ijdcsruc8iOPIMXkAcxcECz54327bNDvfHJ-69qsx9zhz_RAL4g657ZfIQIsrhbGluR3sGsukFCP9og9zMmihurojrilR_afZor8N2niIHdCNhAN6x2reUThx8/s320/DSC_0353.JPG" /></a></div>One month ago. On our first family vacation. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyUwjCO8kI3dBb64mWmOxFtMx1doBJMYLDT01KtCwKr-9oZ3xU9NcD-WUb8te-YAtPzf55jC7E_wflPEak6QQbyyim92o1QiJNVY2P_KTt2Va6Kc1lNX6dRak0zaR_qiOgGStGh4kerX4/s1600/DSC_0869.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyUwjCO8kI3dBb64mWmOxFtMx1doBJMYLDT01KtCwKr-9oZ3xU9NcD-WUb8te-YAtPzf55jC7E_wflPEak6QQbyyim92o1QiJNVY2P_KTt2Va6Kc1lNX6dRak0zaR_qiOgGStGh4kerX4/s320/DSC_0869.JPG" /></a></div>One week ago. Celebrating Ethiopian New Year. With friends. Real, beautiful friends. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjruT_-EO6nIy1frwmUvL3lzRAojpFXvMvz_qpvnEqCPVr2IlC78wBzdxNYVF_mZVAvauDG4_l6atO9pc68-YO3dxbU3QoeNPo31LcpRbsa4cqREb5rXrXZ6QWb-g5LDnwGaDSmYuIWyYw/s1600/IMG_1174.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjruT_-EO6nIy1frwmUvL3lzRAojpFXvMvz_qpvnEqCPVr2IlC78wBzdxNYVF_mZVAvauDG4_l6atO9pc68-YO3dxbU3QoeNPo31LcpRbsa4cqREb5rXrXZ6QWb-g5LDnwGaDSmYuIWyYw/s320/IMG_1174.JPG" /></a></div>Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-88652751645197042292011-09-08T17:48:00.000-07:002011-09-08T17:48:02.948-07:00Taken AwayDuring the past year, I've heard many versions of "well all people go through things" and "all children have special circumstances."<br />
Yes. People do.<br />
<br />
But.<br />
<br />
But, just imagine.<br />
<br />
Imagine not having a primary language*.<br />
Imagine not being able to express your thoughts into words- even to yourself.<br />
<br />
Imagine if all the food you really like was taken away. Even familiar foods are different. Not in great ways.<br />
I often imagine it to be similar to the time a restaurant in Barcelona put honey in my burrito. Inedible. To me.<br />
<br />
Imagine if people laughed and you didn't know why. You bellowed out a good one to join in and people looked at you strange.<br />
<br />
People walked at an impossibly fast pace. Spoke at an impossibly fast rate. Ate at an impossibly fast pace. Hurried you along constantly.<br />
<br />
Imagine if you were scared. More scared than you've ever been. People wanted from you. Hugs, smiles, laughs. Usually you were unsure of what or how.<br />
<br />
All games were different. You got yelled at for things like simply getting in line.<br />
<br />
Imagine if this came after you were hurt. A few times. Abandoned. Left. Given away. Stressed.<br />
Imagine if this affected you, your brain**, so severely that intense emotions were triggered quickly.<br />
Sometimes the emotions were so intense they shut you down. Completely.<br />
<br />
Imagine if you didn't know where you were going next or when. To the store, to a new school, to a new mom, to a new home or to a new country.<br />
<br />
Maybe it would be easier, if you weren't trapped in your brain without words. In any language. Because the language of the family, friends and strangers around you kept changing as the family, friends and strangers kept changing. As soon as you've started to get a loose grasp of one language, the people and the language change. So do the rules. Maybe it would be easier if you had the same mommy to hold and cuddle you during it. Maybe it would be easier if you could just eat your favorite food, prepared the way you like it. Maybe it would be easier if...everything and everyone you ever knew wasn't taken away from you including many of your thoughts. Maybe it would be easier if you weren't so scared. So emotional. So lost. <br />
<br />
But,<br />
<br />
All people go through things. All children have different challenges.<br />
<br />
*Older adopted children spoke more English than L1 within 6 months of adoption (Masters, 2000). Expressive L1 is mostly gone after 3-6 months, comprehension by 1 year (Gindis, 1999), yet after only 3-6 months a new language is very basic. Aster is a genius and is quite creative in expressing herself in English- but, her thoughts are WAY more sophisticated than her words are in any language. She is very frustrated that she can't translate because she can't "hear" her old languages. She also dreams in English, a language she's been exposed to for only 4 months. <br />
**Hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal (HPA) Stress Axis, abnormal HPA regulation = poor cognitive abilities, emotional functioning, memory (specifically targeting hippocampus- short to long term storage), growth stunting (Mason & Narad, 2005). A difficult time regulating hyper responsive stress hormone system is similar to post traumatic stress (Glennen, 2009). Length of time spent in orphanages correlated with abnormal HPA response 6 years after adoption (Gunnar, et al 2001).Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-15866439337916172122011-08-23T12:52:00.000-07:002011-08-23T12:52:58.579-07:00First Day Photos<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyAPhFIa1bQRcSqcFPsJMOWoTu86as1y_PzcH5xwVLb37q2_ZDVZoT96Z0vMCFnBiBxYrGD1WtzkwI-GppmL-iU0XYV0mXpxKlHwDRChQ_XJDy1p_8Zm1r-zsQCSIqJXegMSa0YZgZ-dE/s1600/DSC_0036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyAPhFIa1bQRcSqcFPsJMOWoTu86as1y_PzcH5xwVLb37q2_ZDVZoT96Z0vMCFnBiBxYrGD1WtzkwI-GppmL-iU0XYV0mXpxKlHwDRChQ_XJDy1p_8Zm1r-zsQCSIqJXegMSa0YZgZ-dE/s320/DSC_0036.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXaeQRDzhF9peSat7DXC9ZaNpqzljV5RwlsQ0mTdJJ0q9eiQCN2eCf6w7JzpCsk7NM3yGqc53tN6n4VKA4liJLOmP09E9mv4o2WG4KNbrl8-Ca886SAzGinKpdlSofmZ9TO3BJrq8pXUI/s1600/DSC_0052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXaeQRDzhF9peSat7DXC9ZaNpqzljV5RwlsQ0mTdJJ0q9eiQCN2eCf6w7JzpCsk7NM3yGqc53tN6n4VKA4liJLOmP09E9mv4o2WG4KNbrl8-Ca886SAzGinKpdlSofmZ9TO3BJrq8pXUI/s320/DSC_0052.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqLWkF4OIven9Til0eu8hgvV72hzOnXeGUmTIQYydgGozlO8GJKFqoiwKRrOhHsb8PASrlNYdUyjfbLFO8cj4MWCnfMPi3EAAUfSYEv344DEDcrvPhfG8KnbzFKTW0YV2oxL_sptsaS0U/s1600/DSC_0044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqLWkF4OIven9Til0eu8hgvV72hzOnXeGUmTIQYydgGozlO8GJKFqoiwKRrOhHsb8PASrlNYdUyjfbLFO8cj4MWCnfMPi3EAAUfSYEv344DEDcrvPhfG8KnbzFKTW0YV2oxL_sptsaS0U/s320/DSC_0044.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-71990054429113724842011-08-22T18:00:00.000-07:002011-08-26T08:33:15.229-07:00First Day of SchoolHighs:<br />
Catching Aster take an extra peek of herself in the mirror; seeing her eyes twinkle with happiness at how she looked in her uniform. <br />
Seeing my eyes fill with tears during the drive to school and discussing how they were going to make me feel better, <br />
"I'm going to draw you a beautiful picture to make you feel better mommy" and <br />
"I'm going to tell you about all the good food I eat for lunch to make you happy" (Yes, I do realize that them comforting ME is a pathetic parenting low- but, I'm still proud of how sweet they are). <br />
Aster's prideful posture as she walked into her classroom. <br />
Aster's eyes when she saw her name on her desk. <br />
Aster telling me "Mommy, I have to tell you something" followed by a whispered, "I'm going to miss you today"<br />
Judah running to hug his sister one last time and following it up with a big, exaggerated kiss on her cheek (not a high of the day for Aster). <br />
Catching Aster doing an over her shoulder last look, followed by a recommitment to the proud posture. <br />
Judah telling his teacher, "I've already given my parents hugs and kisses. I'm ready to play." <br />
In response to my, "Have fun today!" Judah shrugging with confidence and saying matter-of-factly, "Of course I will."<br />
Spying Judah run full speed onto the playground and hearing his bigger than life laugh/cheer/hoot boom.<br />
Knowing that Judah would be ok. <br />
Low:<br />
My sweet girl getting her heart hurt, "I KNEW how to play mom. I knew the game. They didn't want to <strike><strike></strike></strike>high five me. They were being bad. So sad I tell teacher, 'I don't feel better' so I can stop playing and just look."<br />
<br />
Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-1676763882773814942011-08-09T20:44:00.000-07:002011-08-09T21:08:04.563-07:00MammothWe go to Mammoth every summer. It was Aster's first vacation. Judah and Aster loved fishing and hiking and playing. I feel so lucky to have both of my babies. Home. Safe. Happy.<br />
Looking back at our transition (knowing very well that we're just at the beginning of it), I realize that Judah has had a much tougher time than I ever anticipated. My sparkling boy, the one that can entertain any room with his laugh. That one. Had a very, very hard time. He's so sensitive. I should have known. <br />
<br />
Watching their relationship with each other evolve and change and mature, has been so beautiful. Although it's been tough stuff, I'm very grateful that they have each other. <br />
<br />
My babies are such magical, sweet-hearted people. I know I've said it a billion times, but I'm lucky. During most of our vacation, I was just in awe. Here's a little look at some random moments during our vacation. <br />
<br />
<iframe width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/BHtLVA62-ak" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe> <br />
<br />
Such a different little girl than what the pictures showed almost exactly a year ago. It's been a year since we first saw that face...Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-85238270031174182932011-08-09T15:01:00.000-07:002011-08-09T15:01:10.250-07:00Arnold/Yosemite/Mammoth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqnohSvg5ZXEg1w1EOOd-MoIcTXUfRzhyZZJLRgHw03XAgnfQD_LwkU_TGNhXmCZZDfCx0dheESn-lzTj5smdDYo0B_QNPPnWi3ZzZcHjqjIb7QOnbgrYqPHMVyJ6T2gXaYS7pQIpmQVI/s1600/IMG_1063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqnohSvg5ZXEg1w1EOOd-MoIcTXUfRzhyZZJLRgHw03XAgnfQD_LwkU_TGNhXmCZZDfCx0dheESn-lzTj5smdDYo0B_QNPPnWi3ZzZcHjqjIb7QOnbgrYqPHMVyJ6T2gXaYS7pQIpmQVI/s320/IMG_1063.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-35154060512742853002011-07-25T10:04:00.000-07:002011-07-25T10:04:01.936-07:00My brave girlPeople often ask how my girl is doing. In my opinion, what she has gone through, is so extraordinary, that unless you've experienced something similar, it's impossible to comprehend. I know I can't, and in many ways, I feel closer to her than anyone else on earth. <br />
<br />
I know that there is a very playful, happy, generous and brave soul- that was/is scared. Very, very scared. Parenting a scared child is hard. Fear manifests in all different ways. Sometimes it tries to control. Sometimes it freezes. Sometimes it cries. Sometimes it hugs. Sometimes it's angry. Sometimes it's sad, but too scared to admit it for fear of rejection. Sometimes it fakes being happy. Two months ago, in Ethiopia, the fear was so thick, so completely overwhelming, that it completely paralyzed her at times. For hours. <br />
<br />
I recently watched the video of when she first walked through the doors of her new home. When I experienced it, I thought it was a relatively good moment. It was. For me. <br />
Now I look at the terrified little girl and my heart breaks. It just breaks as I watch the high-pitched-little-fear-squeal that was meant to fool us into believing she was happy. My heart breaks as I watch her eyes shift quickly and fearfully around. It just breaks as I watch her stiff body posture. Her fearful jump when the stuffed elephant trumpeted followed by the high pitched squeal. <br />
<br />
Aster loves people and is quite social. More than anything she wants lots and lots of friends. Balancing the fear with her social wants is a daily game. <br />
<br />
Now that she's been home for over two months, I am starting to see the layers of the girl I love. The fear, still strong, seems to be starting to break away in small chunks (not melting, because there is nothing even about the process), I get to see that my giggly girl is also a comedian. Similar to how one may learn about an infant, I've learned the smiles, which mean very different things. I've learned the cries, which mean very different things. <br />
I've learned whether the look straight into my eyes is going to be followed with a crossing of her arms and a huff or a secretly lipped "I love you mama." Whether the huff is a plea for playful attention or a broken heart because I somehow made her feel badly. <br />
It was hard to not know. To not even have a small clue. <br />
<br />
It's been so important these last few months to have some friends that know. That know my Aster's heart. Friends that have helped to chip away a little bit of that fear. More about our friends, the friends that know, later...Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-58315259264651489932011-07-22T08:56:00.000-07:002011-07-22T08:56:42.405-07:00Conversation, Highs and LowsJudah, "I like red trucks. Red is my favorite color."<br />
<i><br />
Aster, do you have a favorite color?</i> <br />
<br />
Aster, "Yes. The color of Bob Marley. Bob Marley is chocolate like me. Chocolate my favorite."<br />
<br />
Judah, "Hey! I'm chocolate too. Aster's chocolate, I'm chocolate. Mommy's vanilla. Daddy's vanilla. Everyone else is vanilla."Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-22268959483892133262011-07-08T17:47:00.000-07:002011-07-08T17:47:00.752-07:00ShovelI love watching Aster play. <br />
She is slow, gentle and strong. She goes across the monkey bars so gracefully. She moves carefully. So thin you can see every muscle in her back. She's beautiful. Aster likes the slide. She slowly climbs up and carefully sits as she's told. Feet first. I think the best is watching her swing. It's when she just seems free. No rules to follow. <br />
<br />
There was only one other family at the park. A mom and three kids. And a billion sand toys. All huddled together. <br />
<br />
Aster walked slowly over, careful as always. She sat down next to one of the kids. Barely louder than a whisper she said, "I'm going to make injera" and picked up one of the many shovels laying about. <br />
<br />
Before I could even start to tell her about asking to borrow, the mother screamed, "Tell her to put it down or give it back!" <br />
In shock from the urgency and horrid delivery, I paused. <br />
She repeated her request. <br />
I told Aster to please give the shovel to a child (not even knowing which one, because all of them had their hands full of toys and none seemed interested in what Aster had). <br />
The mom instructed one of the children to take the shovel as my daughter sadly reached her arm out offering the shovel to whoever would take it. <br />
Her children ignored her. <br />
Again, she instructed and one of the children finally looked up and took the shovel. <br />
<br />
Aster slowly walked back to the slide. I met her and tried my best to make the park fun as the strange lady and her kids stared at us. <br />
<br />
My children felt it. <br />
Judah whispered, "I want to go home."<br />
Aster heard Judah and quickly joined in, "Me, too." <br />
<br />
Once we were in the car Aster had an idea, "Tomorrow let's bring my sand toys I got from birthday party. I will share with any kids. I'm nice."<br />
<br />
Yes, you are baby. Yes. You. Are. <br />
<br />
It can easily be argued that the mother could have screamed over my child touching her children's toys if my child was white. That's the thing about racism, it's never completely clear. It's a feeling deep down in the gut. It's in the eyes. It's too easily dismissed. If you ask my children what happened today, they'd tell you they met "a mommy that was not good at sharing."<br />
If they could express it, I think they may also tell you there was something way worse about it than just being shovel-selfish.Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-88923383035641560412011-07-03T10:26:00.000-07:002011-07-03T10:33:04.035-07:00BobWe knew Aster loved Bob Marley. <br />
<br />
She says, "I want Bob Marley" (and "I like fish") at least 39584 times a day. <br />
<br />
Every single time she gets in the car her Bob Marley music request is heard. <br />
She asks to look at his picture on the computer. <br />
She says she wants hair like Bob Marley.<br />
She sings versus to his songs constantly.<br />
<br />
<i>buufloooo solder<br />
stand up stand up, stand up for your righ<br />
I sho the sheeeri</i><br />
<br />
She told us that her bad dreams would stop if she had a picture of Bob Marley in her room. He would help her. <br />
<br />
Yesterday she found out that he was no longer living. <br />
<br />
We didn't expect for her reaction to be, well, just SO sad. <br />
We were all heart broken for her. She said she just wanted to go home and cry. She silent cried during the hour drive home. <br />
<br />
She had her first crush. On Bob Marley. Now he's dead. My poor girl. Why can't even that just be easy.<br />
<br />
Aster still wants the poster in her room. <br />
She says she still wants to kiss his picture. He's still her boyfriend. <br />
I hope she's right. I hope he takes away those dreams. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXGkW1f0XLxY9Imc7anJj-wRbd17NHQvXoaC-voSw_TBW0t9YWVZpqVck_ygX51vNVXrcjhnPD1pQyi3smbJVXJUPhUIoghLr9PKFnRoC1RPqjRVxANT3HjmbvqduqGnn6EbsgPcxsbSs/s1600/images-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="204" width="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXGkW1f0XLxY9Imc7anJj-wRbd17NHQvXoaC-voSw_TBW0t9YWVZpqVck_ygX51vNVXrcjhnPD1pQyi3smbJVXJUPhUIoghLr9PKFnRoC1RPqjRVxANT3HjmbvqduqGnn6EbsgPcxsbSs/s320/images-1.jpg" /></a></div>Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-59350684201383442162011-07-03T09:02:00.000-07:002011-07-03T09:02:13.002-07:00SharingAster shares with me about her life in Ethiopia. In carefully planned spurts. When she is finished; she is finished. Aster knows it's ok to say, "all done talking" because it is impossibly hard stuff. She needs time to be free, to be a little girl, although I doubt that's ever truly her reality. <br />
<br />
I expected it. I hoped for it. I felt so impatient to hear her side. Loving her as completely as I do, I wanted to know every single thing about her past. Even the hard parts. There's so much I'll probably never know. So much she likely doesn't know. <br />
<br />
It doesn't make it easier. It shakes me and rattles me and I am never the strong mother for her that I envisioned. I fight with all of my soul and still, my eyes instantly fill. <br />
<br />
She notices. As she notices everything. <br />
<br />
Sternly she instructs, "Mommy, don't cry. Please. Aster's ok. I'm ok, mommy." <br />
I know she feels like she is the one making me sad. So she stops. <br />
<br />
Even in Ethiopia. Before we left, my eyes filled. While looking deep into my eyes, as if to say she cares that I'm crying- but it's obviously unacceptable- she took her thumb and firmly rubbed from the inner to outer corner of each of my eyes. As if to turn off my tears. It worked. Then her eyes said, "I'll be ok."<br />
But she wasn't. <br />
I know she wasn't. <br />
After we left, I've been told my sweet daughter appeared to be, of all the girls, "the most in need" at the care center. <br />
<br />
She still isn't ok. <br />
<br />
Yet, she continually gives. Gives strength. Care takes. Loves. My only hope now is that slowly, each day, I to learn to become the mother she needs. The mother she deserves.Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-73308349669307399392011-06-12T19:45:00.000-07:002011-06-13T14:17:45.128-07:00From my babies...Judah<br />He may or may not have any idea what he's doing, but he hits on my friends. Tommy's friends. His friends. Judah explained the situation to me, "I need my girls." <br />Yes. I'm afraid for our future. Very afraid. <br />Yesterday's example: <br /><br />to a very pretty friend (who happens to be in her thirties), "I want to comb your hair in the bath."<br /><br />Judah says incredibly sweet things also:<br /><br />Last night before bed, "Daddy, lie on my pillow because I want it to smell like you."<br /><br />Aster<br />I feel like a broken record, but she really is the most generous person on earth. <br />Friday was her birthday. <br /><br />while insisting I take her last bite of birthday cookie/ice cream, <br />"mama PLEASE try"<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Aster, it's YOUR birthday. You already gave me lots of bites. I want you to eat it. We are celebrating you. I want you to be happy. </span><br />"but mama, I'm already sooo happy!"<br /><br />She's also very funny. Both intentionally and not. <br /><br />With a very disgusted look on her face, "I don't want to eat frog" (after thinking we said "froggies" instead of "pierogies").Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-88399770789934078812011-06-11T10:21:00.001-07:002011-06-11T10:22:05.736-07:00If she's so easy, why is it so hard?I'm not positive. <br /><br />It may be because, as a parent, you feel all of your children's problems. If Judah skins his knee, I have to suck air through my teeth and feel it in my stomach. I'd much rather have the skinned knee. Every mama would. <br /><br />Mamas worry about their children's problems. Even the little ones. <br /><br />There are at least 10 major life events that very easily could have destroyed my daughter. Yet, she is not destroyed. She is beautiful and strong. I am clearly not as strong. I don't know how to feel these hurts. Hurts my brain can't even comprehend. Not individually. Not all at once. When I let myself think about any single one, even for a minute, I feel destroyed. <br /><br />It's the litte/huge things. Aster hand feeds me like I'm a queen. She is a little bit obssessed with me eating and is stern if I decline. Yes, she has noticed my curves-a-plenty- which is another story completely. <br /><br />She loves me. I am her mama. Therefore she needs to keep me. Alive.Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-56509455646538990972011-06-11T10:20:00.001-07:002011-06-11T10:20:51.782-07:00Deep breaths.Aster is very generous and kind. I love her. Completely. She has no extreme behaviors. Not even medium sized ones. I believe our attachment is going very well. Despite her huge dose of pure fabulousness, <br /><br />adopting an older child is hard. <br /><br />I'm grateful and just feel extremely lucky. I don't think I've ever laughed as hard as I do these days. One day in the future, when I look back at my life, I believe these will have to be the best days, because life just doesn't get any better than this. But, <br /><br />this is very hard stuff. <br /><br />I often think that I'm just unworthy. I read the books and still, I just don't get what to say or what to do. Ever. All I know is that even though I'm clueless in general, I love my babies so much I'm in a constant state of feeling as though I could burst. I hope that makes it a tiny bit better for them, because<br /><br />well, this is hard, damn it.Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-55534780119332502972011-06-11T10:18:00.001-07:002011-06-11T10:19:02.447-07:00Jump Rope.Aster is very giving. <br /><br />In December, she put part of a broken sparkly jump rope handle in our backpack. It was clearly a gift. It was all she owned. All that was just hers. She gave it to us. <br />She's amazing that way. <br /><br />I was just watching her. Jumping with her brand new jump rope. I just realized it's the same one. The same handle. I'm positive she has noticed that it's the same one too. <br />She's amazing that way.Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270937189697735920.post-21626542928909046272011-06-11T10:17:00.001-07:002011-06-11T10:18:50.779-07:00My daughter is a princessAster is the most beautiful girl in the world. A very wise woman said so and she knows stuff. At this point it's no longer subjective. <br /><br />Aster is a 6 year old girl. She doesn't know how good and beautiful she is. In every way possible. It's heartbreaking. <br /><br />Whenever someone referred to Aster as "beautiful" or a "princess" she would vehemently deny it. Then it got worse. She'd get angry and watery eyes. <br /><br />Yes. We tried to refrain from talking about "beautiful" or "princess" crap. <br /><br />Aster told me that I was a princess because I have "big hair"<br />and she told me that she was not. <br /><br />Then she cried for an hour. <br /><br />I made a hair appointment for the next day, cut off about a foot of hair (I have it in a bag to send away for donation- win!win!) and got an asymmetrical purple bob. <br /><br />It's short hair for both of us. "Big" hair is definitely overrated. <br /><br />I feel like I'm placing mini-sized useless bandaids on gaping wounds, just hoping for one to stick.Danni and Tommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16913598658012982425noreply@blogger.com0