Years and years ago, like really years and years ago, I was an overweight teen. I looked like Robert Smith in his coke bloat days. I had bad hair (thanks to the 80's) and went to a high school where hats were part of the school uniform. Oh, and did I mention I was overweight? How overweight was I you ask? I was so overweight I had to be a 'goth' so I could wear the over-sized black clothes in the hope they would slim me down - they didn't. Not for me. Not for Alison Moyet.
Not only was I fat, I was also mathematically challenged and so I found myself at Star Schools one night a week with 100 other idiots. Perhaps if the teachers had used examples like - Two loaves when cut into slices make 20 sandwiches. How many loaves of bread would Melinda have to buy in order to make 100 sandwiches - I would have grasped the basic principles much easier.
Anyway, Thursday nights were extra maths lessons and they were the bane of my existence. All of us would wait outside the lecture room for the last varsity class to finish and then we would walk in one by one and get our card tagged so our parents knew that their hard-earned money was indeed being used correctly. Our lecturer, Mr Levy, complete with his King David accent would try and keep us entertained for 1 and a half hours with equations, algebra and applied maths. "Cummon geyes, it's easy. Don't give up, fart it!" he would enthuse us we all sat dumbstruck, pencils in ear, drool down the sides of our mouths. "Ah know it seems hard, but just keep trahing."
One particular night we are outside waiting for class to start and I needed to go to the loo. There was no way I could wait this one out. So off i went. It was Winter, I remember it clearly. I had my school uniform on, which included a white shirt, a tunic, a tie, stockings and enormous scuba diving broeks...did I mention I was overweight? By the time I got back everyone had already gone in and Mr Levy was waxing lyrical about 2 pies or something (I know realize it was Pi and not pie). I skulked in and took a seat way at the back so I wouldn't draw attention to myself. "Ahem, Malinda ah need to tag your card." So off I skulked again to the front, down a lot of stairs, across the lecture room, all the way to the teeny tiny desk. People started giggling, there might have even been a guffaw or two but I ignored it - they were probably laughing at my hair or my weight - and eventually made it to the Mr Levy. He clipped my card and sent me on my way. As I walked away from him I heard what I thought was "Oi Vey"...it could have been "Okay". I turned to see if he was talking to me, once again with my back to the class. And once again the class erupted.
Why you ask...what could be that funny? In my rush to get back to class, I had accidentally tucked the back of my dress into my 'broeks' and extra-large stockings. Instead of a maths revision class, students were witnessing uranus (my anus) and to add insult to injury there was a cute little tail of toilet paper half way down my leg....
Needless to say I never went back. I never passed Maths. And that's how I got into PR!
Thursday, 28 July 2011
Wednesday, 27 July 2011
Vagina Dialogues
This is not for the squeamish or trypophobics - you have been warned
When starting this blog I mentioned that it would be about this and that...so far I've covered this, now I'm chatting about that - that awkward moment when you wish you could fall into a large hole (no, trypophobics this is not the hole you need to look away from just yet)
Since this gynae-incident I never go to the same one twice - it's like seeing a one-night stand in the harsh reality of broad daylight and I'm nervous that my experience has become somewhat of an urban legend amongst this particular fraternity.
Back to that awkward moment...it was my very first appointment with one of these docs and I had no idea what to expect. Overhearing my mom's friends vagina dialogues I thought it wouldn't be too bad. They joked about how an old gynae's hand shakes making the 'service' worthwhile, etc.
I walked in and low and behold he was old. With a little giggle to myself I remembered the shaking hands joke and sat down to go through the Q&A session. After that he asked me to go to the examination area, cover myself with the sheet, raise my knees and keep them apart. He would be in shortly.
Always trying to do things the proper way I took off my clothes, lay on the bed, put the sheet over my chest (didn't want him to see my chest area), lifted my legs and then dropped them apart. Just as I realized that I might have been a little too enthusiastic with the lifting of legs he walked in. I apologized immensely in case he was trypophobic and he responded with a wry smile and remarked "I see you've had your tonsils removed."
When starting this blog I mentioned that it would be about this and that...so far I've covered this, now I'm chatting about that - that awkward moment when you wish you could fall into a large hole (no, trypophobics this is not the hole you need to look away from just yet)
Since this gynae-incident I never go to the same one twice - it's like seeing a one-night stand in the harsh reality of broad daylight and I'm nervous that my experience has become somewhat of an urban legend amongst this particular fraternity.
Back to that awkward moment...it was my very first appointment with one of these docs and I had no idea what to expect. Overhearing my mom's friends vagina dialogues I thought it wouldn't be too bad. They joked about how an old gynae's hand shakes making the 'service' worthwhile, etc.
I walked in and low and behold he was old. With a little giggle to myself I remembered the shaking hands joke and sat down to go through the Q&A session. After that he asked me to go to the examination area, cover myself with the sheet, raise my knees and keep them apart. He would be in shortly.
Always trying to do things the proper way I took off my clothes, lay on the bed, put the sheet over my chest (didn't want him to see my chest area), lifted my legs and then dropped them apart. Just as I realized that I might have been a little too enthusiastic with the lifting of legs he walked in. I apologized immensely in case he was trypophobic and he responded with a wry smile and remarked "I see you've had your tonsils removed."
Did I ever tell you about the time I met Sir Bob...
Yes, way back when I was still a yout' I did PR for some of the great (and not so great) artists and bands. My working career started off at EMI where I was the Marketing Coordinator for Virgin Records. And throughout my time I had the pleasure of working with some all-time greats, including Smashing Pumpkins, Skunk Anansie, Lenny Kravitz, Placebo, Basement Jaxx and Faithless, to name a few. On other occasions I would mumble to friends that I was touring with The Vengaboys, Steps, Spice Girls and Steve Hofmeyr.
A moment that still brings fond memories (and a stirring in my loins) was having dinner with Lenny Kravitz. In amongst all the record folk he asked me if I was Australian (because if you're not American you're obviously from down-under). "Nope, born and bred in Johannesburg" was my creative response. "You remind me of someone I know from there" is what he said. I of course heard, "you remind me of Natalie [Imbruglia]." Back then it could have been possible - I was younger and considered myself cool enough to pass off as the gorgeous Ms I.
A few years later, as a freelance PR person I had the very real pleasure of meeting Sir Bob Geldof. One morning, as we were waiting for our driver outside his hotel Bob and I chatted about world hunger, world peace and the weather in JHB, he too said I reminded him of someone. "Natalie Imbruglia maybe?" I answered hopefully. "Nah, not Natalie Imbruglia!"....a few minutes of silence and then "Noodle! Noodle from Gorillaz!"
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
Adopting Black Babies #101
There are a few things no-one tells you when adopting a black baby as a white couple.
*Do not put anything with velcro any where near aforementioned baby's hair. It WILL stick
*If you adopt a girl, pierce her ears as soon as possible. With Emma dressed in pink
from top to tail I still get asked "how old is he?"
*Change your foundation colour as soon as possible. She will be left with patches of
Maybelline's Golden Ivory all over her face
*When walking with the nanny or the gardener people will immediately assume she's theirs
*Do not let aforementioned gardener go with baby and husband to a restaurant. Yes,
people assume that the bi-racial gay couple have adopted the little boy who is dressed in pink
from head to toe with velcro balls stuck to 'his' head
*Do not put anything with velcro any where near aforementioned baby's hair. It WILL stick
*If you adopt a girl, pierce her ears as soon as possible. With Emma dressed in pink
from top to tail I still get asked "how old is he?"
*Change your foundation colour as soon as possible. She will be left with patches of
Maybelline's Golden Ivory all over her face
*When walking with the nanny or the gardener people will immediately assume she's theirs
*Do not let aforementioned gardener go with baby and husband to a restaurant. Yes,
people assume that the bi-racial gay couple have adopted the little boy who is dressed in pink
from head to toe with velcro balls stuck to 'his' head
and then there was Fog
The Lighthouse Baby Shelter is run by Eleanor, a devout born again Christian. The babies and toddlers are raised knowing Jesus loves them and that they are all very special. This seems an odd way to open a post, but it goes a long way putting things into perspective.
I have always believed in something bigger than me. When I'm behaving myself I believe in a heaven. When i fall off the road less travelled i pray that there's no hell. But this particular day I became a believer and that's when things changed.
It was a Saturday, in 2009. It was Nelson Mandela's 67 minutes of kindness and I was off to visit Emma at the shelter. Been on a main road and close to Northgate, there are always people popping in to drop off food, nappies, formula, toys or just spend some time. And this day was no different, except that there would be a whole lot of people doing their 67 minutes. I was sitting in the lounge with Emma on my lap while the other kiddies and babies were outside enjoying the sun.
While I sat chatting to her the room filled with a fog, like condensation. Like when the washing machine is running and the windows are closed. I walked into the kitchen to see if something was burning or if any of the appliances were running. Nothing. No one was around to ask. I went back and sat with Emma on the couch. As soon as Eleanor walked into the room I immediately asked what the fog was and her response "God's visiting today". She then explained that this mist fills the room when they're expecting a lot of people through the doors or a baby's ill. Almost like God's laying a protective blanket over his special ones, keeping them safe.
I went home that day and explained the mist to Mark. As a reborn Christian he found it difficult to understand, and looked at me like I was slightly insane. He immediately called his best buddy and asked him what form can the Holy Spirit take. Clint's first answer was...a mist!
I've only ever seen that mist one other time. The day Mark and I went for our final meeting with Eleanor and Wanita to let them know that as a couple we had decided that Emma would join our somewhat insane family - as we walked into her room, where she lay sleeping in her cot, that very same mist was above her bed...the Lord was keeping her safe until she was safe with us
to BEE or not to BEE
Last night I got home to a glass of champagne and Mark in good spirits (bad pun...I know). I thought this was his idea of foreplay for later on in the evening, but then he presented me with papers. It was Emma's final adoption papers - we were now officially Emma's mom and dad. As i read 'your adopted child is now regarded as if born to you' I was overwhelmed with a feeling of absolute satisfaction and relief. Emma has been with us for over 2 years but I suppose there's always that niggly feeling that until the deal has been signed, sealed and delivered there's a chance she could be taken away.
In 2009 on 10th May a little angel dropped from the sky and landed ever so elegantly at the Lighthouse Baby Shelter. I had called there once previously on the off-chance of them having a baby available to adopt...hold on, I guess you're asking why adoption?
Mark and I had been trying for six years to fall pregnant on our own, with no luck at all. I tried homeopaths, magical medicines claiming to make me as fertile as a manure heap, reflexology, introspection, therapy - if it was available I had tried. Eventually a friend recommended a fertility specialist and off Mark I went. What a time that was! Come my period I would have to count the days, on the correct day go in for an injection, on another day go for another injection, then count the days until we could have sex, have sex, and then start counting the days. Pregnancy tests were bought, pregnancy tests were thrown away. Still nothing. Then it was time for the laporoscopy and they found that I had endemitriosis, which was scraped away and all was good to go ahead and hump like rabbits once again. And hump we did...injection, injection, jab, wait...injection, injection, jab, wait! Until one day the pregnancy test showed a slight blue line - the slightest blue line ever but it was there and we were pregnant.
I told everyone - everyone rejoiced for us. My mom cried when I told her. Mark had mixed emotions. He was over the moon but also nervous. We weren't any where near three months and he was nervous that something might go wrong. And boy did it!
I was due for a scan on a Monday, but moved it to Wednesday that week as Mark was leaving for the States for work and I needed to take him to the airport. We said our goodbyes and off he went to the land of the freak and the home of brash. I went off and had my hair coloured, which with all the hormones surging trough my body wasn't the best thing to do. I looked like Garfield, but hey I was pregnant and so resembling a feline was not a big deal.
Off I went on Wednesday morning for my scan, to see how the baby was growing and hear a heart beat. I had made arrangements to meet with my dear friend Annie afterwards...all was good in my world. And then everything went black.
I lay on the bed waiting for the doctor to come through, legs splayed open ever so ungracefully. In he walked and we made small talk (difficult to do when your vagina and a strange man are face to face). In went the sonar, we saw the little bean, but there was no sound. I asked him to turn up the volume. I might have even asked him to 'pump it up'. His response was 'the volume is up...Melinda there's no heart beat'. My world had just ended. I had lost our baby. I smsed Annie to say that I would be unable to meet and we made arrangements for the DNC the next day. I called my mom to ask if she could take me to the hospital but she wasn't home. My dad answered the phone and the moment he heard my voice he immediately knew something was wrong. When I told him the sad news, my father, always known for calm facade and seemingly unemotional ways broke down in tears.
Of course I went and had my hair redone - there was no way I was dying on the operating table looking like this...
With the time difference in the States I had to wait until 4pm SA time before I could call Mark and let him know what had happened. Mark cried and with all the distance between us I could feel his pain. Little did we know the worst was still to come.
The following day my mom and dad came to fetch me and off we went. It was the longest drive, but the time flew.In no time at all I had been admitted and was now waiting for the moment that the doctor would remove the tiny little baby. This little thing that a few days ago had meant hope and now meant nothing, that now meant failure on my part.
The road to recovery on an emotional level was a long one, The hurt would come in waves, leaving me feeling empty and exhausted. Of course any episodes of Grey's Anatomy would leave me a crumpled mess for hours at a time. It was a partial-molar pregnancy and we would have to wait six months before we could start trying again.
Six months passed and we started with the injections again until our doc called us in one day and explained that we probably wasting time and money going this route. Our only other option was IVF but given my health (weight issues), my health (a smoker) and my age (let's not even discuss this one) the chances of it being successful would be slim (slimmer than me). Mark and I discussed whether I could handle it emotionally and the answer was no. Financially it would also be a strain. So we started discussing adoption.
I remember growing up, as a teen, telling my parents that one day I would adopt a black baby and it seemed that this had become a self fulfilled prophecy. I was excited about it, nervous and sad. As a woman the most natural thing in the world is to be able to fall pregnant and be a mom...I couldn't even get that right. I was angry with nameless young girls who fell pregnant JUST standing near a boy. I hated anyone I saw with a baby. Why them? Why not me?
We never wanted to be trendy with our affirmative accessory on our arm but the cards had been dealt and we were working with what we had. We visited one private social worker who sat with us for about an hour and explained the process, what would need to be done, how it would be done and then finished off with "Thanks, that's R750!" Mark and I looked at each other - was this was how it was going to be moving forward. Paying money for...nothing really.
And then a friend of mine called and said that there was a little girl at the shelter, available for adoption. I called on a Saturday afternoon and asked them yet again if there were any babies that I could make mine. The voice on the other side asked "What exactly are you looking for?" "A little girl, newborn up to six months old", i said hopefully. I figured if we were going to do this, we were going to do it properly. We would experience the three hour feeds, the sleepless nights, the nappy rashes and vaccinations. "Well, there's a baby here, Ruth, who is six weeks old and her mom has already signed the papers. Why don't you come meet her?"
Tuesday evening off Mark and I went. And we met Ruth. Eleanor, who runs the shelter, had dressed up perfectly for the big introduction but they could have put her in a burlap sack and I would have been in love. She was beautiful. She was asleep as they passed her to me, and stayed asleep for the duration of our visit. I walked away that night, leaving a little piece of my heart behind. I knew that was my baby. Mark, as a man, and a responsible one at that looked at the situation realistically - financially it wasn't a good time; work wise he was unstable; timing wise it wasn't great - he needed time to get his head around this.
I would leave work most days a little earlier to go visit Ruth. I would just sit holding her as she slept. Or give her her bottle when she was hungry. I knew this was my baby when one of the volunteers asked if she could hold her. As a non-confrontational, always eager to please, just say yes kind of person I said No! It was then I knew I had the strength to take care of this precious baby with every part of me...
A month passed, with me visiting weekends and weekdays. It got to the point where Eleanor had to ask me to change the times I visited or to cut down until we had made a decision. Mark was still undecided and scared. Emma and I had already built such a bond that she would know the time I was arriving and start getting fidgety and when I left it would take them a while to get her settled. It wasn't fair on Emma so I cut down the visits, to three times a week!
One day, out of the blue, Mark said YES!!!!!!!!! And Emma was ours
In 2009 on 10th May a little angel dropped from the sky and landed ever so elegantly at the Lighthouse Baby Shelter. I had called there once previously on the off-chance of them having a baby available to adopt...hold on, I guess you're asking why adoption?
Mark and I had been trying for six years to fall pregnant on our own, with no luck at all. I tried homeopaths, magical medicines claiming to make me as fertile as a manure heap, reflexology, introspection, therapy - if it was available I had tried. Eventually a friend recommended a fertility specialist and off Mark I went. What a time that was! Come my period I would have to count the days, on the correct day go in for an injection, on another day go for another injection, then count the days until we could have sex, have sex, and then start counting the days. Pregnancy tests were bought, pregnancy tests were thrown away. Still nothing. Then it was time for the laporoscopy and they found that I had endemitriosis, which was scraped away and all was good to go ahead and hump like rabbits once again. And hump we did...injection, injection, jab, wait...injection, injection, jab, wait! Until one day the pregnancy test showed a slight blue line - the slightest blue line ever but it was there and we were pregnant.
I told everyone - everyone rejoiced for us. My mom cried when I told her. Mark had mixed emotions. He was over the moon but also nervous. We weren't any where near three months and he was nervous that something might go wrong. And boy did it!
I was due for a scan on a Monday, but moved it to Wednesday that week as Mark was leaving for the States for work and I needed to take him to the airport. We said our goodbyes and off he went to the land of the freak and the home of brash. I went off and had my hair coloured, which with all the hormones surging trough my body wasn't the best thing to do. I looked like Garfield, but hey I was pregnant and so resembling a feline was not a big deal.
Off I went on Wednesday morning for my scan, to see how the baby was growing and hear a heart beat. I had made arrangements to meet with my dear friend Annie afterwards...all was good in my world. And then everything went black.
I lay on the bed waiting for the doctor to come through, legs splayed open ever so ungracefully. In he walked and we made small talk (difficult to do when your vagina and a strange man are face to face). In went the sonar, we saw the little bean, but there was no sound. I asked him to turn up the volume. I might have even asked him to 'pump it up'. His response was 'the volume is up...Melinda there's no heart beat'. My world had just ended. I had lost our baby. I smsed Annie to say that I would be unable to meet and we made arrangements for the DNC the next day. I called my mom to ask if she could take me to the hospital but she wasn't home. My dad answered the phone and the moment he heard my voice he immediately knew something was wrong. When I told him the sad news, my father, always known for calm facade and seemingly unemotional ways broke down in tears.
Of course I went and had my hair redone - there was no way I was dying on the operating table looking like this...
With the time difference in the States I had to wait until 4pm SA time before I could call Mark and let him know what had happened. Mark cried and with all the distance between us I could feel his pain. Little did we know the worst was still to come.
The following day my mom and dad came to fetch me and off we went. It was the longest drive, but the time flew.In no time at all I had been admitted and was now waiting for the moment that the doctor would remove the tiny little baby. This little thing that a few days ago had meant hope and now meant nothing, that now meant failure on my part.
The road to recovery on an emotional level was a long one, The hurt would come in waves, leaving me feeling empty and exhausted. Of course any episodes of Grey's Anatomy would leave me a crumpled mess for hours at a time. It was a partial-molar pregnancy and we would have to wait six months before we could start trying again.
Six months passed and we started with the injections again until our doc called us in one day and explained that we probably wasting time and money going this route. Our only other option was IVF but given my health (weight issues), my health (a smoker) and my age (let's not even discuss this one) the chances of it being successful would be slim (slimmer than me). Mark and I discussed whether I could handle it emotionally and the answer was no. Financially it would also be a strain. So we started discussing adoption.
I remember growing up, as a teen, telling my parents that one day I would adopt a black baby and it seemed that this had become a self fulfilled prophecy. I was excited about it, nervous and sad. As a woman the most natural thing in the world is to be able to fall pregnant and be a mom...I couldn't even get that right. I was angry with nameless young girls who fell pregnant JUST standing near a boy. I hated anyone I saw with a baby. Why them? Why not me?
We never wanted to be trendy with our affirmative accessory on our arm but the cards had been dealt and we were working with what we had. We visited one private social worker who sat with us for about an hour and explained the process, what would need to be done, how it would be done and then finished off with "Thanks, that's R750!" Mark and I looked at each other - was this was how it was going to be moving forward. Paying money for...nothing really.
And then a friend of mine called and said that there was a little girl at the shelter, available for adoption. I called on a Saturday afternoon and asked them yet again if there were any babies that I could make mine. The voice on the other side asked "What exactly are you looking for?" "A little girl, newborn up to six months old", i said hopefully. I figured if we were going to do this, we were going to do it properly. We would experience the three hour feeds, the sleepless nights, the nappy rashes and vaccinations. "Well, there's a baby here, Ruth, who is six weeks old and her mom has already signed the papers. Why don't you come meet her?"
Tuesday evening off Mark and I went. And we met Ruth. Eleanor, who runs the shelter, had dressed up perfectly for the big introduction but they could have put her in a burlap sack and I would have been in love. She was beautiful. She was asleep as they passed her to me, and stayed asleep for the duration of our visit. I walked away that night, leaving a little piece of my heart behind. I knew that was my baby. Mark, as a man, and a responsible one at that looked at the situation realistically - financially it wasn't a good time; work wise he was unstable; timing wise it wasn't great - he needed time to get his head around this.
I would leave work most days a little earlier to go visit Ruth. I would just sit holding her as she slept. Or give her her bottle when she was hungry. I knew this was my baby when one of the volunteers asked if she could hold her. As a non-confrontational, always eager to please, just say yes kind of person I said No! It was then I knew I had the strength to take care of this precious baby with every part of me...
A month passed, with me visiting weekends and weekdays. It got to the point where Eleanor had to ask me to change the times I visited or to cut down until we had made a decision. Mark was still undecided and scared. Emma and I had already built such a bond that she would know the time I was arriving and start getting fidgety and when I left it would take them a while to get her settled. It wasn't fair on Emma so I cut down the visits, to three times a week!
One day, out of the blue, Mark said YES!!!!!!!!! And Emma was ours
Monday, 25 July 2011
My name's granddad but you can call me...
A few months back Mark's dad popped into SA for some business and he stayed with us. Emma took to granddad straight away. We had told her so much about him and of course, he had had been the bearer of one her favourite toys ever, her waybaloo doll.
On Day 2 of being with us, I asked Emma to please call granddad as supper was ready. She stood in the lounge and yelled "G-Dad, supper's ready!"
After the hysterics had passed we looked at it a little closer. Why 'g-dad'? How did she know that granddad started with a 'g'?
Needless to say the name has stuck and granddad is smitten!
Somethings don't need explanations or answers...somethings are just meant to be enjoyed!
On Day 2 of being with us, I asked Emma to please call granddad as supper was ready. She stood in the lounge and yelled "G-Dad, supper's ready!"
After the hysterics had passed we looked at it a little closer. Why 'g-dad'? How did she know that granddad started with a 'g'?
Needless to say the name has stuck and granddad is smitten!
Somethings don't need explanations or answers...somethings are just meant to be enjoyed!
Emma'isms
ME - Emma, would you like some bread?
EMMA - Hmmmmm, yes!
ME - Here you go
EMMA - Why's it dirty? (pointing at the crust)
ME - I've got such a sore head
EMMA - Why don't you put on a new one?
EMMA - Can I watch Dora the Explorer mama?
ME - Of course!
EMMA - Can I sit on the naughty step and watch?
ME - floored
EMMA - Hmmmmm, yes!
ME - Here you go
EMMA - Why's it dirty? (pointing at the crust)
ME - I've got such a sore head
EMMA - Why don't you put on a new one?
EMMA - Can I watch Dora the Explorer mama?
ME - Of course!
EMMA - Can I sit on the naughty step and watch?
ME - floored
Emma turns two
What an awesome day it was...when I was not-so-gently convincing Mark that Emma was our baby and we needed to make her a part of our family as quickly as possible, I promised him that I would never need another gift in my life. Having Emma would be my birthday pressie, my stocking filler at Christmas, my most prized possession EVER!
And I think I've stuck to it...
Emma's 2nd birthday in May was a special day - we were celebrating two years of a magnificent life and I was secretly celebrating the fact that i had managed to keep her alive up until now. Friends, family and school pals joined one rather rainy morning. I was in my element baking cupcakes, buying flowers, booking donkey rides and magicians (with a budget that didn't quite exist). But to my surprise the day was made watching Emma amongst people who love her...truly truly love her. And for that I am eternally grateful
Raising Emma
I've been threatening to start up a blog since time immemorial...well maybe for a year and a bit! I've decided the time has now arrived. While Emma was still a bundle of poo it wouldn't really have made sense to diarize her day to day activities as it would have read pretty much along the lines of "Emma cried", "Emma woke up", "Emma ate", "Emma poo'd" and so on...
However the tasty little morsel is developing more of a personality by the day and some of the Emmaisms we get leave us open-mouthed and often on the floor laughing
For anyone who might not know, we adopted little Emma back when she was three months old. Going on two and bit already it has been a journey of discovery for us as her parents. Her journey of discovery will happen when she realizes that a. she's not white or b. we're not black!
Who would have thought in this day and age that adopting a different colour baby would cause so many mixed emotions for family, friends and absolute strangers. We've been accused of 'ripping her away from her biological mother', of 'robbing her of her culture'. We're asked by people whether she's "healthy" or for us "tell her story". A word of advanced warning, should you see us on the street don't ask me whether she's adopted - my response WILL have 'anal sex' somewhere in it...
We were told by so many people about the horrors of adopting, about the problems that come with it; very few told us about the joys of parenting, the little smiles and hugs that will make a miserable day seem so much better. We weren't told about the wit and wisdom that comes from these little people. And to be honest, I'm glad! No-one's descriptions of their magic moments would be anywhere near ours and we have gotten to experience them first-hand.
The amazing thing with Emma is that she truly found us. She has our sense of humour, her dad's big forehead, my oddly shaped toes and like both Mark and I, she already dances to the beat of her own drum.
I look forward to sharing the highs and lows of raising Emma with you and I hope you enjoy the journey too...she's a delightful little thing that will have you in stitches with some of the things she says and does
However the tasty little morsel is developing more of a personality by the day and some of the Emmaisms we get leave us open-mouthed and often on the floor laughing
For anyone who might not know, we adopted little Emma back when she was three months old. Going on two and bit already it has been a journey of discovery for us as her parents. Her journey of discovery will happen when she realizes that a. she's not white or b. we're not black!
Who would have thought in this day and age that adopting a different colour baby would cause so many mixed emotions for family, friends and absolute strangers. We've been accused of 'ripping her away from her biological mother', of 'robbing her of her culture'. We're asked by people whether she's "healthy" or for us "tell her story". A word of advanced warning, should you see us on the street don't ask me whether she's adopted - my response WILL have 'anal sex' somewhere in it...
We were told by so many people about the horrors of adopting, about the problems that come with it; very few told us about the joys of parenting, the little smiles and hugs that will make a miserable day seem so much better. We weren't told about the wit and wisdom that comes from these little people. And to be honest, I'm glad! No-one's descriptions of their magic moments would be anywhere near ours and we have gotten to experience them first-hand.
The amazing thing with Emma is that she truly found us. She has our sense of humour, her dad's big forehead, my oddly shaped toes and like both Mark and I, she already dances to the beat of her own drum.
I look forward to sharing the highs and lows of raising Emma with you and I hope you enjoy the journey too...she's a delightful little thing that will have you in stitches with some of the things she says and does
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