For me, adopting a child has always been something I assumed I would do in the future. There was no dismal prediction of infertility. I didn't think pregnancy was gross. For some unknown reason, it seemed to a natural thing to do, and something that I was going to do. As I was talking to my sister the other night, she said that she can even remember me playing "adoption" with my dolls. I didn't think anything about it was odd - until now.

I had a roommate who was adopted as a baby. She was/is realistic about it, as she was/is realistic about everything. She told me that although it was weird to know that some of her siblings were adopted and some were born from her parents, she wasn't traumatized. In fact, out of it all, she recommended that anyone, adopted or not, should go through some sort of therapy. "It's just good for you", she said, "It was good for me". Of course now, in retrospect, I think she may have been trying to tell me something...

I've had another roommate who gave her baby up for adoption privately. It was heart wrenching and incredibly brave. I had no idea of the magnitude of courage her act required until I gave birth to my own son. I wish I had known. I wish I had hugged her more. In fact, when I read a blog about a birthmother's quest for the perfect adoptive parents (because there seems to be a blog about everything - Thank God), I wish I could hug her right now. (So, consider this a big internet hug)

I've also been reading other blogs who have gone, or are going, through adoptions - both international and domestic. Blogs such as Mimi Smartypants and Greener Pastures have been great. Mimi for the sarcasm, Greener Pastures for those yelling at the computer, "You Tell 'Em!", moments.

The other day I mentioned here that I've been thinking about orphanages in the Ukraine quite a bit. Specifically, Kramatorsk, Ukraine. I've been perusing a number of adoption sites and reading as much as I can about international adoption. Typical sites such as Adoption.com and Canada Adopts. I still feel like we have a lot more research to do before we can make a decision to do this. Hell, it took me three years to decide to get pregnant.

What has struck me the most are the reactions I have been getting from the small, select amount of people I have told.

I have yet to get a true, positive response. I don't mean to say I am getting aggressive questions from everyone, but I have certainly not got the same reaction as if I were to say, "I'm pregnant!"
I suppose, since I've already been a birth mother to Franklin, people don't quite understand the rational? It all makes me a little defensive and I immediately start to get into explanations, which I don't think should be required. No one asked for my reasons for getting pregnant.
Man, I even start to pull up photo adoption sites and have been accused of "shopping for babies". I suppose those sites can make it seem that way. However, to answer a couple of the questions:

Yes, you're right, we won't know the medical history. It'll be okay.

No, it's not that I don't want to have another child of my own. Breast-feeding was hard, but I'm not traumatized.

Yes, you're right, there could be all sorts of things "wrong" with "it". Yes, Franklin does seem to have good genes - um... thanks, we worked hard at that.

No, I don't think I'll be putting Franklin's childhood at risk. I suppose it's a bit of a nature versus nurture debate, but I don't believe that children from orphanages are doomed to be damaged.

Yes, this baby could have a different nationality. No, I don't think this is a problem.

Cultural imperialism? Yes, well, what would you suggest then? Tell me what are the alternatives. Please.

There are horror stories everywhere with terrible experiences of non-bonding and fetal alcohol syndrome. However, unfortunate things happen to birth parents too. We can't control everything.

I understand that most people have our best interests at heart. At least, I think they honestly believe they do. I appreciate about 80% of what has been pointed out to me simply because it has come from the heart, and I should know how people close to me feel about adoption.
Nevertheless, I don't think this is such as extreme decision. There are children who need families. It's really that simple. My parents have always taught me to work from the inside, not fight from the outside. How much further inside can I get than my own family? It's a lazy excuse to think that individuals don't make a difference. All the differences in the world are made by individual people doing individual things. If we start thinking we don't count as individuals, then we are dooming ourselves before we begin. I'm not saying we should all go out there and adopt a malnutritioned child from the Ukraine. I don't even know if we will be able to afford it ourselves. However, these individuals; D, Franklin and myself, are going to give it a good shot.

I'll let you know how it goes.

I'm feeling rather blah. There are many many things to write about but I just don't feel like it. I actually want to clean the house, make crab cakes, read a bit of a book and then just go to bed early.

I think I may have been possessed by a Stepford wife zombie. I do feel like a bit of a zombie. I feel like I'm just wandering around aimlessly, going through the motions to get things done.

Hell, maybe I'll get lucky and be able to read in bed. Man, I think this may be the best thing in the entire world - reading in bed. I love reading in bed. There is nothing better than reading in bed - other than sex of course - but I tell you, it's a really close second, the reading in bed thing.

However, to get myself out of such a funk is hard. I've just spent the last hour msn-ing (how do you write that?) with my sister and even though she has sent me gorgeous pictures of herself in what I would call fetish wear from a recent shopping trip in Toronto, I'm still feeling crappy. I feel better than before, but crappy.

I want a day to relax. I want a day to myself. I want a day where I don't have to think about the things I think about all. day. long.

I think about orphanages in the Ukraine a lot. When I say a lot, I mean, more than a sane person probably should.

I think about Franklin graduating to a toddler bed. Thankfully, not as much as I was thinking about it.

I think about my family and how I don't see them enough.

I think about how normal I have become.

I think about how defensive I feel inside. When did I become this defensive? Why do I care? Why do I care that I care? Why do I care that I... forget it.

Man. I want to lay in bed until noon, reading. No music. No TV. No talking. I want to float into the shower, shave things that haven't been shaved in awhile, and give myself a facial. I want to wander down to some random 7-11 and pour myself a rootbeer slurpie. I want to continue downtown, winding through neighbourhoods I've never been through before. I want to sit in a coffee-shop with a good book. I want to sit on the beach, watching the waves and listening to the surf on the rocks.

I can't think of exactly what I'm tired of, but I know I feel tired and worn out. I want a day where I don't talk to anyone but myself, because I tell you, myself is getting lonely.

Of all the memories of my childhood, the one that I remember as the most safe and comforting is the one when I would wrap my little hand around my Father's pinky finger and hold tight.

My Father comes from a family with big hands. As the story goes, his Grand-father could crack open four walnuts at once by placing each one between a finger and closing his hand in a fist. My Dad is also a surgeon so his hands are amazing to watch doing just about anything.

When Franklin was born his most amazing quality (aside from the fact that he had just leaped out of my vagina) was the size of his hands. We all declared that he had my Father's hands, Jido's hands.

Through a certain course of events, we have been seeing D's side of the family more often lately. It seems like it's been too long since we've visited with my parents. Nevertheless, my Mom sends sticker care packages, which Franklin likes to decorate himself with and my Dad keeps appearing behind every nook and cranny.

You see, besides having incredible hands, my Dad is also bald, bald, bald - yes, smooth and shiny like a cue ball. We used to call it Captain Picard hair but now he has taken to shaving it all off. This is an entertaining quality to most kids, and Franklin is not immune to the charm. Every time we walk through a bookstore (which is one of my favorite things to do with him - go figure), Franklin will point out different reincarnations of my Father.

There's the Dali Lama:

and Michel Foucault:

not to mention Pablo:

and now, in his favorite bedtime reading material, various bald-headed cartoon characters:

It might be safe to say that we miss you Jido.

So I've been reading up on conflict mediation lately. This is not a career change, or a new development in my job. This is actually something that has to do with Franklin (surprised?). I just had no idea how much mediation was expected of a parent once their child arrived in toddler-hood. As a book (with an incredibly corny title, I know) I've just read states, how fair is it that parents who haven't had advanced classes in conflict resolution are called upon to mediate high-level human interactions with people of limited language ability and experience, under serious scrutiny of their peers? Add that to the fact that one is never an objective observer in the situation and the stressful event of toddler relationship strife is very, well... stressful, for lack of a better word.

I think I've come to Franklin's run-in's with prepared scripts and expectations that I was handed down by babysitters and my parents. I have noticed that if I come across something I haven't dealt with myself, I'm at a loss. For example, how do I handle a conflict when Franklin is arguing with another child and the other parent is right there, watching? And what if I know that this parent would not handle it the same way I would handle it? And what if this parent is just an acquaintance, and not really a friend I can be open with about it all?

Now that I'm a parent, I don't see the point in the expected line, "Whoever had it first, gets it", or "whoever started it is wrong". I don't think that (and I think I may be the minority here) that "children should always share". I don't really believe that all toddlers are capable of sharing right away. I've been reading about how sharing is something that comes through developmental readiness and the culture of the family. It's pretty interesting.

I've read how children in Columbia don't go through the whole "MINE!!!!!!" period like they do here in North America. Apparently, children in Columbia are taught from a very early age, that individuals survive only when the community pulls together. I think our Canadian society is clearly teaching a different message. In our world built on individualism, competition, personal worth, and ownership, we have admiration for the wrong kinds of people (in my opinion) - those who have the most, are the best, or who stand out in some way. A lot of our focus is on what we can do to protect what's ours. Sharing freely in not the predominant inclination in this society. In fact, I come across people everyday who still have a "MINE!!!!!" attitude.

D and I have been trying our best not to have adult possessions which are off limits to Franklin. We try to remind him everything belongs to our entire family. Yet, I wonder how fruitless this is when he goes outside OUR!!!! little haven to play with a toddler next door who yells "MINE!!!!!" when Franklin touches his garbage truck. In fact, how effective have we been when Franklin has these children over to play and has an utter melt down when another little guy touches his Mavis (haha, that sounds kinky).

Of course, then there's the developmental part of it all. You can't force a kid to share. It has to be freely offered and freely given doesn't it? Perhaps Franklin (and other MINE!!!! toddlers) can't quite yet understand that when a child plays with something, it isn't going to disappear. Apparently, once a child understand the concept of time and gets a sense of "later," "tomorrow," and "after your nap" they can begin to understand that if a toy is let go, it will come back to them "later." A sense of time that stretches beyond the immediate moment leads to the concept of sharing.

Of course, there are a ton of other things such as learning that there will be enough, experiments with social interaction, and empathy development. I won't bore you with it all. I just find the whole concept of time amazing. To be able to watch for signs that Franklin understands it all and therefore will develop a readiness to share is fascinating.

At least, this is what I'm hoping...

These days it feels like Franklin is on the verge of... everything.
He knows when he's pooping and he is very interested in the whole potty/toilet idea. He likes to tell me things about his day and the sentences that he uses makes me forget at times that he's only just learning the language right now. He has been helping his trains talk to each other, giving them emotions and roles to play. It seems like so much is happening and I'm worried that I'm not ready for it.
He's ready for it, I'm not.

He also seems to know something is going on. Of course, this could just be me, projecting - because I do that, a lot. However, for the first time in about 8 months or so, he's upset when we say good night for the evening. He protests and calls out, but it only takes D or I to go into his room for half a minute before he falls asleep. It's like he just wants to make sure we're right there, just outside his door.

I am a little nervous about the toilet training. It seems like such a huge deal, him not wearing diapers. When he first stood up on his own, or took his first steps, it was exciting. His first word was amazing. Why does him using the toilet on his own make me scared?

Of course, this milestone doesn't happen in isolation. Along with toilet training comes the bed, an actual "bed". You see, he will need to get out of this bed to be able to use his newly acquired toilet skills during the night. The very thought of this makes my throat tight and my eyes water. Why does this make me want to cry?

I'm crazy. Who am I to think I don't dwell on self-centred irrelevant stuff anymore? I'm analyzing the impact of my son's independent bowel evacuation as it relates to my closeness to him - or my control. Trust me, I realize how nuts I sound/read/seem. Wow. Perhaps I need to get out more.

So, I won't be changing his diapers. It's nuts how this has actually been causing me stress. It's 12:17 in the morning and I'm typing my blog entry about toilet training (yes, technically this post should be August 24th).
If someone would have told me that I'd be such an over-bearing mother I would have laughed my ass off. There are some who have accused me of being one of the least "over-bearing" girlfriends on the planet. Why would it all change when it has to do with Franklin? I wasn't this possessive with my younger brothers and sister was I?
Why does the thought of Franklin waking up in the night, getting out of bed, going to the bathroom and God-forbid! pouring himself a glass of water... fill me with such panic?

Melodrama.
I should never write posts after watching any episodes of Six Feet Under.

I feel like my life is sort of coming back to it's original position - with an added Franklin factor. I'm working out on a regular basis, I'm taking long walks, I'm reading for fun...

Someone said to me the other day that I have "BF" life and "AF" life: "Before Franklin" and "After Franklin". We were having a conversation about what it was like to go to school with a young child however, it got me thinking about it all.
Of course, things are bound to be different "BF" as opposed to "AF". There are pros and cons to the change Franklin has brought to our lives. Nevertheless, I can't honestly think of a con these days which doesn't automatically follow with a pro. For example, I don't get out as much as I used to - things tend to revolve around Franklin's schedule and ability to concentrate. Nevertheless, having my life revolve around someone more than myself has been a good thing for me. I'm less introspective, I analyze the irrelevant less, I see more forest and less trees. It is good to have both perspectives, but trust me, I was a little too far to one side than the other in my "BF" life.

Is anyone still following this anymore? I've lost myself, once again.

Anyway, I'm currently sitting in D's office, typing out this blog entry. It's my day off and... gasp... Franklin is in daycare. To be honest, the car needed a new muffler today and I had to sort out our passports for a future trip to, lets see, Russia?...

ummm, yeah, I'll tell you about that later.

I'm off to hang out in used bookstores and get all excited like geeks in bookstores tend to get. I'm on the hunt for a first edition of Steinbeck's, "The Moon is Down". Wish me luck.

Franklin took a nose dive off a little toddler car last week. He nose was mangled, as well as his upper lip. It was swollen and scraped when I got to the daycare to pick him up and as I had not had a chance to eat lunch, was incredibly hot, over-dressed, and in sleep deprivation paper writing mode, I almost fainted. As soon as I walked up to him and saw his face, my vision closed in and I had to sit down before I keeled over. It is so incredibly hard for me to even think of Franklin hurting himself. I have an even harder time seeing him actually injured.

I'm such a wimp.

However, I call the conditions of my viewing as an excuse. I am usually quite calm in moments of horror. I am not at my best when I have not eaten or slept properly however. I would fail miserably at Survivor. Of course, I would never enter Survivor as it is a horribly, scary game of junior high melodramatics.
One would think, knowing how I am, given these conditions, I would try to eat and sleep properly. Yeah, no. I'm dumb that way.

What was I saying?
Right, Franklin looks pretty mashed these days. Not only is his nose looking like he's dipped it in strawberry jam, but both knees have bruise upon scrape upon bruise. We have different colours of band-aids and tonight he has gone to bed with a rainbow on his legs.

His primary daycare provider suggested this afternoon that Franklin may be going through a bit of a growth spurt. He is not used to the increase in length and therefore, tends to trip and fall over his feet more often.

That could be it. It sounds great because it means that it's just a phase and he won't always be asking Mom and Dad for "vitimin E pueese". On the other hand, Franklin has always seemed like he is on the verge of a major wipe out. Perhaps now he's just able to pick up enough speed to really crash and burn. He's not afraid to run full tilt either so the occasional road rash is bound to happen. Maybe he'll make a great mountain biker someday. That would be cool.

Nevertheless, these days, it's all about the scabs. He's even started to explain to me how James and Bertie have sore noses and that we must "put on the "vitimin E" and "polyspoorin!" To make them feel "better!"

Poor James. Poor Bertie. Poor Franklin.

D plays squash a-lot. He's actually quite good and although I have no idea what the rules of the game are, I can tell when he's kicking some poor player's butt all over the court. I actually like watching the sport, which is rare. I usually don't like watching sports period - unless I'm sitting in snow covered football stands with a strong hot thermos of alcohol.

Friday I took a lesson with a man who runs a squash club here in the city. I was skeptical (and so was he) about my ability to play a racket sport. I'm pretty pathetic when it comes to catching anything and my peripheral vision is pitiful. Nevertheless, I loved it and I felt like I improved quite a bit from the beginning of the lesson. I like how strategic the game is played, how you have to keep your head even though you’re breathing so hard it feels like your brain is about to explode.
My supervisor wished me good luck as I was leaving work Friday afternoon. I told her that this lesson was a test to see if I would continue. I didn't want to get into a sport unless I could play it as it was meant to be played. I didn't want to be "mediocre".

Yes, I actually said that.

When I was in junior and senior highschool, I was absolutely sure of one thing for my future. It wasn't that I would have a beautiful child or an amazing husband. I wasn't even set on a certain career. All my entire hopes and dreams were contingent on making the Olympic Games in downhill ski racing. I knew that after my twenties I could do "whatever", but before that I was going to compete in the Olympics. I idolized skiers like and Laurie Graham and Pirmin Zurbriggen. I wanted to ski like them, act like them, wear their downhill suits, ski on their skis - basically have their life. There was no other option.

Imagine my horror as I came to the realization that this wasn’t going to happen. All those early morning weekends, all those classes missed and all that extra homework with grumpy teachers who thought I was just skipping class to smoke pot and hang out on the hill.
I don’t think I have ever wanted something in my life with that much drive and determination. At a time when my only worry was whether the Fisher rep. thought enough of me to hand over a new pair of skis, my life felt like it was on the brink of certain victory or complete disaster.

You would think that I could have gained more perspective since then. I still have a little of that attitude inside. I quit the university rowing team when I was told I’d be too small to get to the Olympics. Even now, I haven’t learned the concept of "sport for fun". I don’t want to bother if I can’t do it well.

I don’t think I’ll expect this from Franklin as he enters sports but I’m sure he’ll notice his mother's lack of sportsmanship. I think those little things, such as the fact that I can't seem to cut myself any slack, can become very obvious. D has certainly noticed my attitude towards sports. In fact, the other night we were talking about a young girl who has earned a scholarship to Harvard through squash. I told him about the stress I put on myself while ski racing. He mentioned that this outlook of mine hasn’t really changed all that much – I’m just not racing to the Olympics.

You'd think I'd be glued to the television these days, but I’m not the least bit interested in watching what's going on in Athens. In fact, I haven't watched the Olympics since I stopped skiing. I suppose if I can’t join them, I’m no longer interested.

What a bad attitude. Yuk.

Yesterday was a little too much for me. By the end of the day I was in tears, hunched over my paper (yes, it was late) and trying to rephrase a sentence that was perfectly fine and in no need to be re-worked.

It was one of those times where D knows he can really do nothing for me but rub my back and leave me alone to work it out for myself. It wasn't the paper that was causing all the stress but it was just one more thing on my over-loaded plate that I felt I wasn't ever able to give my full attention to. I really envy those people who have more than two hours of their day to write a paper or read a book. As much as I love my life and everything I have accomplished so far, I need more than two hours to concentrate. I suppose I take a little while to get into full swing. My thoughts need to get warmed up before anything useful can be expressed. I need complete silence to do this as well.

Argh, I was frustrated and over tired. I tried to do too much and it all came out last night. Crap, I still feel overwhelmed and yet, the paper has been handed in with suitable apologies to my professor.

... and am I going to give myself a break for the next semester?
Nope. I am enrolling in another class. I might even start to get funding from work for this too. I was just reading the course description and I'm getting excited.

You see, I'm not actually torturing myself. When it's all said and done, I love learning about all this stuff. Public administration, public sector management, labour relations, human resources, administrative law. The new theories, the old solutions, the practical and innovative ideas that are coming out of local government... as I complete each course, the news on the radio becomes more and more interesting. It's not just Pierre Pettigrew getting his hand slapped for suggesting private health care. It's Pierre Petigrew introducing a new concept of innovative public management that has some big resistance in government. It's Pierre giving the general public a little more credit to understand policy decisions than most politicians feel we can handle.

I love it all. Seriously.

I just don't love it when my paper is late and when I don't have the time to spend contemplating the implications of community organization partnerships and non-profit global networks.
When I'm with Franklin, I am with Franklin. I hardly think about my courses. I like listening to him in the sandbox telling Bob the Builder to put sand in Muck and Elizabeth. He's very good at playing independently, but I enjoy sitting next to him and listening to what he's saying. I love to watch what interests him, even though many times it's a repetition of sand in, sand out, sand in, sand out, sand all over the rosemary, sand all over the spearmint, sand in the sock, sand in the box. Children and fires, I could stare at them for hours (as long as the children aren't in the fire, of course...um..).

I just wish I had about the same amount of time to stare at a computer screen with an acceptable amount of sleep.

Hi

No, I haven't decided to quit the internet.
- although thanks for those emails of understanding for those who thought that I had. Sillies.

We were out of town. I didn't get a chance to sign off here before we went. We were in a location with no internet capabilities.

There was no computer.

No computer.

I have a large paper due at midnight tonight.

I wrote most of it out long hand while we were away.

Wrote... Long hand.

I have a lot of work to do right now.

I hope you had a good weekend.

Oh yes, and I have also turned 31.

Mon Dieu, I wish I spoke French fluently.

To tell you the truth, I actually wish I was able to speak English somewhat coherently, but I'm willing to settle for my semi-conscious babble that got me through an English degree and about 30 years worth of irrelevant conversation.

Nevertheless, my job requires me to call French publishing companies every once and awhile. I used to think this was an excellent opportunity to practice what little, preschool French I possess. However, more often than not, they will very politely ask me to wait while they get the sole English speaking employee in their company to translate what I think is perfectly understandable French. This person will usually answer everything I say in English - with that cute, yet patronizing, Quebecois accent.

Why don't people think French with a English-Canadian accent is cute? Today I tried to pronounce "pavillon" and apparently it came out "papillon". We discussed completely different books and I hung up wondering why I had just written down the publication info on an entomological dissection guide instead of Sergio Kokis' autobiographical novel, "Les Pavillon des Miroirs".

It's hard to practice your French in western Canada. Sure, there are small pockets of communities but I can either start attending the St. Jean Baptiste Paroisse Francaise in Fairfield, or I'll have to pay for a French conversation tutor. Of course, there is always the Societe francophone de Victoria but, do they want to speak to a beginner like me?

My family is going to email me now, I know it. My Father speaks beautiful Parisan French. I have a brother who is also fluent in French - mostly due to grade school immersion and an admirable stubbornness to speak to anyone French, in French. Perhaps I wimp out too easily. I know I can practice with them. I know.

I know

Fiche moi la paix.

Earlier this summer, Franklin and I planted basil seeds in a pot on the patio. We watered them together, turned the pot to let all the sprouts receive the sun and thinned out the plants when everything got too crowded. Yesterday, Franklin watched as I harvested a bunch of the basil and told him about how yummy the pesto was going to be after his nap. I actually saved the preparation until he woke up and he was so interested that for the first time, he wasn’t scared of the food processor. He even pushed the little “chop” button and giggled as D and I jumped up and down to congratulate him on his bravery. Later that evening, D made us all pesto pizza for dinner. Although both D and Franklin have terrible colds, I can attest to how delicious they were.

I get an immense amount of pride when I grow something myself, harvest it and either give it away or eat it. Growing our own food was such a normal occurrence when I was a kid. I remember the rows and rows of vegetables, the raspberries and blueberries that I ate until I was sick to my stomach, and the smell of my Father’s greenhouse full of tomatoes. I hope that we are able to give Franklin the same kinds of experiences one day. In fact, when I get an optimistic streak and venture into mls.ca, I tend to look for three things, the number of bedrooms, the location of the house, and the backyard. Lately, I have been seeing a lot of houses with yards consisting of glacier rock. Although these rock gardens are wonderfully inventive, unless I get a little inventive with dynamite, I’ll have a hard time finding much growing space.

Nevertheless, there are people all over the world who grow their own vegetables and don’t have a garden of their own. The rooftop gardening trend is fascinating and has given me incentive to start growing a variety of things other than herbs and flowers. As we wait patiently for our own community garden plot, Franklin and I have now planted carrots and beans. The great thing about Victoria is that there isn’t a specific time to plant anything (unless you want a pumpkin for Hallowe’en). We can grow and harvest and grow again, all year round. As well, if things do get a little cold outside, I can easily bring everything in for a couple of days.

So I’m excited. Soon we’ll have baby carrots and lima beans to eat with our basil, rosemary, cilantro and parsley. If anyone else wants to know more about rooftop gardening, here are a few links:

City Farmer
Food Share
Gardeners.com
Alternatives.ca
International Development and Research Centre of Canada

I could go on and on, but I have a paper to write…

hmmmm, maybe I’ll go water the pots…