Baby Bathrobe

Well, we are approaching the end of yet another year, and here I am, writing only my second post of 2016.  I'd like to tell you that I will do better in 2017 (hell, I'd like to believe that myself!) but I probably won't.  Why, you ask?  (OK, just pretend that you asked.)  Because I became a mama...again!!!

YES!  On October 16, 2016, we welcomed our son Bathrobe into the family!  While Bathrobe isn't his Christian name, that is the name that his big sister chose for him, long before he joined the peanut factory.  So, like the rest of us (Anouchka, Habibi, Chicky), he will have a "stage name".  Bathrobe it is!

But how about a little Bathrobe backstory...

As both of you know, Habibi and I have been planning to adopt for some time.  After about five months of "official" waiting (read: all paperwork/home studies completed), we received correspondence from our adoption agency that a young college couple in the neighboring state was looking to place their unborn son.  We met with this young couple -two darling international students from Africa- and left wanting to adopt them as well.  About a day or two later, we received word that they wanted to move forward with us.  One month later, we were at the hospital, meeting our son.  I cannot even begin to describe the whirlwind it has been ever since.

Due to interstate adoption laws, we were stuck in Bathrobe's birthstate for just over a week after he was born.  Fortunately, we were able to stay in the hospital for a few days while Chicky's grandmas stayed with her at a nearby hotel.  Upon Bathrobe's discharge, we headed about an hour or so west of town to a charitable guest apartment, where we were able to stay free of charge.  So there we were, a little family of four, living in a tiny studio apartment.  Ack.

Glory be, Chicky's grandmas stayed with us (in another nearby motel) for most of our time across the river.  This was unbelievably helpful as they were able to get her out of the apartment for a few hours at a time, taking her to parks, to get ice cream, and to various activities around town.  Jiddi (the kids' grandpa/my dad) also made a couple of trips up to see us and share our joy.  Finally, after about nine days, we packed up our little car and made our way home.

Having an adopted baby is so very different (for me) than a biological one.  Of course, there are logistical pros and cons with each, but there is something innately different: not better or worse, just different.  Some of this may be that Bathrobe is our second child and we are more laid back.  Some of it may be that he is a boy, and boys have different needs than girls.  Some of it may be that he is adopted, and adopted children have different needs than biological children.  So much has changed both in the way that Habibi and I view parenting, and in the actual dynamic of our family.  We are all in love with him, but perhaps no one more so than Chicky.  (*Sigh*)  Cutest.Thing.Ever.

Before any of us even knew that Bathrobe existed (in his birthmama's tummy), I used to talk to Chicky about having a baby brother or sister in hypotheticals.  For instance:  Would you like to have a baby brother or sister? (Yes.)  If you did, what would you want to call him/her? (Some names she suggested prior to settling on "Bathrobe" were: Balloon, Manga, Elephant, Mailbox, Baby House House.)  How would you help Ummi and Daddy take care of the baby?  What would you do if he/she cried?  (I would [feed/rock/play with/sing to/etc.] him/her and I would give him/her his/her paci.)  You get the idea.  Chicky was VERY excited about the notion of becoming a big sister, even if it wasn't in her realm of understanding just yet.  She knew her friends had baby brothers and sisters, and she loves babies in general, so I had no fear of her reacting poorly to a little sibling.

One thing that wasn't on our radar was the issue of race.  Of course, we knew that we might be adopting transracially, but never really had a discussion on race with our daughter.  She is only two years old and, while I'm sure there are exceptions somewhere, I have yet to meet a toddler who is deeply concerned with race, ethnicity, or culture.  Sure, she might notice that someone looks different than she does, but it isn't something to be dwelt upon or thoughtfully considered in her mind.  So, you can imagine my surprise when one day, as we were playing Barbies with my sister B, Chicky turned to me out of the blue and said (very seriously), "I want my baby brother to be black."  Completely random, and almost eerily prophetic.  You see, at that time, I knew our profile was being considered by an African couple expecting a baby.  I'd had a good vibe about this potential match so, when Chicky made this statement, it not only caught me off-guard, it excited me.  Now, before you think I'm crazy, I do not believe that my daughter is in any way clairvoyant or that she possesses psychic powers.  I think she is a child who, having interacted with people of various backgrounds, observed that some people have darker skin than others.  That is all.  However, I was impressed that she had made these observations and apparently felt that a "black baby brother" belonged in our family.  How right she was!  The only real downside to this is that now, she may believe that she has the power to request any baby siblings of any color, and her request will be granted....

At any rate, Habibi and I are now charged with (read: blessed with) the responsibility of raising strong, well-adjusted children:  a brown-white daughter and a black man.  While I can certainly relate to the challenges my daughter will face growing up as a brown-white woman in a society where white male dominance is still the norm, ivy-league-athlete-rapists get a mere slap on the wrist, and our president-elect is a mysoginist, I know nothing about what it is like to grow up as a black man in America.  (PS - I didn't vote for Hillary either.  Yarf!)  Add to that the layer of being culturally and ethnically African (truly "African-American"), and I am even further out of my wheelhouse.  But I welcome this exciting new challenge with open arms.  As I kiss my sweet baby boy's face, I have a new concern for the racial tensions our country is experiencing.  Of course, as a human being, I always felt sadness and confusion over the unnecessary deaths flooding the headlines, but this was never an issue that was close to home.  Sure, as an Arabic woman, I sometimes feel intimidated and frustrated by racism and stereotypes in my country against people who share my background because of what some assholes are doing in the Middle East, but I can't say that I ever felt fear for my life from those who are supposed to protect me.  

I don't want to get political.  I wasn't there when any of these terrible events occurred and most of us will never know the whole story.  On the other hand, something is wrong when these sorts of things happen more than once.  I don't know what the statistics are for the number of brown or white individuals killed by police officers each year, but how disturbing that it is so high in the black community.  I think we all want our police officers to feel safe too, so it is a subject that I am committed to exploring even further, especially as it pertains to my children.  How do I teach my son to "not appear threatening" when he is walking down the street by himself, when he just walked down the same street with his family yesterday and people smiled at him?  If it's cold outside, can he put up his hood, or will he look like a thug and be stopped by the cops?  If he gets pulled over for speeding, how should he reach for his license and registration without making the officer think he is going to pull a gun?  These are the questions I have to ask myself that I otherwise might never have even considered.

Will we screw up somehow?  Yes.  What parent doesn't somehow eff up their kids?  ("No parent" is the answer to that question.)  Will I embarrass him in front of his friends?  I certainly hope so.  Despite my best efforts, will I unintentionally do something to his hair and make him look goofy?  I don't know.  Probably.  But dammit, he is my son and I will go to the grave to raise both of my children to be kind, loving, strong, independent adults who respect others and themselves, and who take care of one another after I am dead and gone.  Yes, they annoy the hell out of me and, sometimes, I want to run away and join the circus.  But they are mine.  Both of them.  And their lives matter.  And anyone who thinks otherwise will have me to contend with.